“What’s the story?” Elata said.

“We’re not allowed on the island. Just you. They’re watching.”

“I can’t have my bag?”

“They’re very nervous, and they’re calling the shots.”

“Well, I need something from it.”

“So take it.”

Elata reached into the knapsack and took out the letter he had been given at the Musée Picasso. He palmed his alphanumeric pager as well, putting both into the inside pocket of his wool suit coat.

“We’ll be here, painter,” said Peter. “Just don’t do anything stupid. They’re not very forgiving.”

Elata threw his shoes and socks to shore and got out of the boat. The water was deeper and the rocks more slippery than he’d thought; he slid backward, stopped only by the side of the craft. His pants were wet well up to his thighs.

If the letter got wet, the daub of paint it contained would be useless. He took off his jacket and held it high above his head, not even daring to throw it ashore for fear he might miss. He walked forward slowly, waddling more than walking. Finally, he reached the dry rocks and could put on his shoes and walk up the ramp.

Elata expected to hear the motorboat rev back up behind him. He expected bullets to glance off the rocks. He expected to die any second, the victim of an elaborate setup.

“Signor Elata?” asked a voice from behind the rock wall on the left.

“Yes.”

“Buon giorno, signore. Come sta.”

“Sto bene,” he said, trying to take a breath.

“I much admire your work. You are a genius,” said a short, thin man with close-cropped hair who stepped out from behind the rock. A small sapphire earring sat in his left lobe. He reached out eagerly and shook Elata’s hand. “I have long wanted to meet you.”

“Okay.”

“You are the third expert Signor Morgan has sent, you understand. But the others—they were clerks. Academics. Schoolteachers.” The small man practically spat as he spoke. “You will understand this. You—it is a pleasure to meet you. Truly.”

Elata started forward. The man caught him.

“I must warn you, my associates, they are very, very suspicious. There are video cameras. One right there, you see?” He pointed toward the yellow wall of the castle where there was, indeed, a video camera. “They hover nearby in a helicopter. Anything bad that you do, anything even suspicious—I’m afraid that it will not go well for you.”

Elata nodded.

“I would not like you hurt. That would be a terrible thing. You have much more to accomplish, eh? The world should not lose you.” The Italian could not have been more sincere. “You may leave when your inspection is done, but the others must stay,” added the man.

“Why?”