Morgan had hired a private detective from Bonn with certain heartfelt beliefs that solidified important connections to the past. After considerable effort, the detective produced two letters mentioning the paintings. A historical consultant had found hints in other documentary evidence, including two unpublished photos that seemed to show portions of them at the sides of Guernica as it was being completed. The consultant had also supplied certain hints that could be used to authenticate them, including the letter found in the Musée Picasso in Paris. But even if this sketchy evidence, taken together, convinced him that the paintings had indeed been done, nothing he had found so far meant that the works in the Italian’s possession were the paintings. Even if the Italian was not known to deal in forgeries, even he could be fooled.

Two art historians had been retained for their opinion. They would examine the works before any deal was consummated. Elata would be the pièce de résistance—the master forger’s eye looking for signs of his craft.

But first, a price had to be settled on. Morgan reached into his pocket and took out his reading glasses, fitting them deliberately around his ears as a sign that he was now negotiating.

“The price,” he told the Italian gently.

“The figure fifty million has been suggested.”

Morgan folded his arms and sat back in his seat. The Swiss waiter, as discreet as any in the breed, caught his eye across the tables and ducked back into the restaurant for another bottle of mineral water.

“But of course, thirty might be more realistic,” said the Italian.

At an open auction, with documentation proving they were real, it was conceivable that bidding on each work alone would begin at ten million and quickly escalate; as a set their worth was simply incalculable. But there would be no open auction, at least not in Morgan’s lifetime.

He almost didn’t want to buy them, for if he did he would inevitably have to part with them; he was a businessman, after all.

He could indulge himself. He might indulge himself. If he sold them off individually, he could keep one or two.

The bull?

Perhaps the infant. The light blue streak underlying the eyes—pure innocence.

Did it exist anywhere in the world outside of art?

The waiter appeared. There was no one else outside on this cold day, and he walked quickly to his customers. As the man poured the water into the glass, Morgan glanced toward his bodyguard at the edge of the railing in front of the lake. He looked a little bored, which Morgan took as a good sign.

“The works will be impossible to sell,” said Morgan after the waiter had gone.

“Not for a man of great reach.”

He must make a bid, and yet he did not wish to. It was sacrilege, an insult.