The journal pages continued to echo in my mind as I made my way back to the library—why my great-grandfather had made the decision to contact Valfiero again, the answer to why he had gone ahead with the theft after Simone’s death. It was simple: he needed the money to persuade Simone’s mother that he could be a father to his son. And I knew something else: had he not been in the depths of despair, he would never have done it. The last pages I’d read were not only filled with Vincent’s anguish over his decision but his plans—the tools he would need, which day would be best.

I took the stairs to the upper level of the cloister two at a time. I had to get to the library to see if I was right, to see if the next pages would tell me more about the theft itself.

34

Smith typed in his code, the email encrypted, as usual. The INTERPOL insignia filled the top half of his screen, the message from his supervisor, Andersen, below it.

Interesting assignment for you. Suspicion of art theft ring based in Bahrain. Need analyst to coordinate with the National Central Bureaus. On-site. 12–18 months. Great opportunity. Full file and TBD when you return. Hope you are feeling better.

Bahrain? And for twelve to eighteen months on-site? No fucking way. This was no “great opportunity.” It was punishment. Banishment. And for what? Taking sick leave? No, Andersen was trying to make him quit so he would not have to fire him, basically impossible after all the years he had put in. But Bahrain? He might as well have said Siberia.

Smith typed BAHRAIN into Google, scanned the data—island in the Persian Gulf…gained independence from the UK in 1971…government protests and human rights violations—then slammed the laptop cover shut. The nerve of that guy, who had been at INTERPOL what—three years? Smith knew about the latest INTERPOL directive too: pare down and cut waste. Was that what he’d become, waste?

Smith raised the window with such force it shook in its frame. He would show them. He was onto something a lot bigger than Andersen or any other art analyst had done, doing things none of them would dare to do.

He stared across the plaza at Perrone’s hotel, decided that next time, he would throw a scare into him. In real life, Perrone had been quite different from the man Smith had known only from his file: cagier, smarter, perhaps not so easily duped or scared. But there were ways to frighten the toughest, smartest men; Smith knew that.

He nodded at the thought and felt calmer, pleased with himself, thinking how scared men made bad choices, mistakes. He straightened up and shivered, not just from the cold but from the notion that he too might be making bad choices.

35

Steam was rising off the Seine in the first light of dawn. I concentrated on slowing my pace and taking deep breaths. I passed early-morning fishermen and vendors setting up to sell souvenirs to the tourists. I kept my head down. The painting was under my jacket and I pressed it tightly to my chest. Tears burned my cheeks. But I had done it. Stolen the world’s most famous painting for my son.