He had not thought that when he put a number on the Renoir ink. A ridiculously low number—ten thousand American dollars. He had ended buying it from the Russian mafya official for fifteen, then selling it for half a million three months later.

But the child’s innocence could not be bought. The bull’s fear—what price?

A dollar, a billion.

“One million per painting, the usual method, upon verification,” said Morgan.

“An insult,” said the Italian. “Pazzo. Pazzo.”

Pazzo meant “crazy” and was among the mildest epithets available. They were very close.

Morgan resisted the temptation to pull the photocopies from his pocket. Instead, he turned back toward the lake. The white swan had been joined by a black one. He watched for quite a while before the Italian spoke.

“Twenty for all.”

“Fifteen,” said Morgan, deciding on his price. He rose, removing his glasses and placing them back in his breast pocket. “Make the arrangements. A single word in the usual manner when you are ready; use ‘innocent.’ It has a nice ring.”

He rose swiftly, giving his companion no chance to protest.

Paris, France

Nessa studied the carrot stick before biting into it. Since joining Interpol, she had gained nearly five pounds. She couldn’t be called overweight, but if this pace continued her body would soon resemble one of those delightful rum cakes that seemed to lie in wait at every corner. At least the food was contributing to her language skills; “Châteaubriand” fairly rolled off her tongue.

She turned her attention back to the transcript of the interrogation of Mme. Diles, the low-level research assistant at the Musée Picasso who had passed the letter to Elata. The woman claimed she did not know why she had been offered ten thousand dollars for that particular document, nor by whom, nor why only the original would do.

Because his works were so well known, Picasso was not a good candidate for high-level forgery. Stolen pieces of his were somewhat common on the black market, but Elata could probably do far better mimicking other artists.

Jairdain pressed his forefinger to his lips, holding the tip against his nose.

“Most likely he’s still in Paris,” said the French investigator.

“Yes,” she said.

“Perhaps he wants to forge letters now.”

“It’s the daub of paint, I think,” said Nessa, glancing at the photocopy on her desk. “It’s the only thing unique about the letter.”

“The ink.”

“Could have asked for any letter. They wanted this one specifically. June 3, 1937. He wrote it while he was working on Guernica.”