I took a bite, told her it was great, and it was.

She thanked me and asked what had brought me to Florence. I told her I was doing some research and checked my watch.

“You in a hurry?”

I told her no, I had a half hour till the library reopened, though I was anxious to see what came next in the journal.

“Research,” she asked, “in this part of town?”

“A bookstore,” I said.

She nodded and asked which one.

“Libreria Antiquaria,” I said, and her smile disappeared.

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

“Me? No—why?”

“We had a lot of them when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

“The owner of Libreria Antiquaria, hell of a sweet guy, Carlo Bianchi. He came in here all the time. Murdered in his shop.”

“Jesus. When?”

“About two months ago.”

“Robbery?”

“Unlikely. It’s a little store filled with dusty old books. Who would kill an old man for a handful of euros? It made no sense then and still doesn’t.”

43

I should have known it would end badly. That those two scoundrels would betray me.

I hid outside Chaudron’s building. Saw couriers come and go. Followed several of them and made notes as to where they went. But I had no idea what to do with this information.

I still had no money and no way to get it. Weeks passed and I was soon desperate. What would I do to survive?

Then I devised a plan. I would ransom the Mona Lisa!

I recalled the thought that had come to me at the Louvre on that August morning when I stood in front of the painting of Napoleon. I would offer the stolen painting to the Italian government. I would say that I was returning it to its country of origin. For a price.

I made plans to leave Paris and take the painting to Italy. I did not tell Valfiero or Chaudron what I planned to do. Or that I was leaving. But there was something they had not told me. Something I did not realize until I was in the Hotel Tripoli. With the two men I had contacted to sell the painting—the antique dealer Alfredo Geri and Giovanni Poggi the director of the Uffizi Gallery. I had just unveiled the painting. Both men stood before me with astonished looks on their faces.

It was then the first telltale sign made an appearance. The slightest smell of oil. Something I had not detected before. I thought it must be a residual odor from hanging around in Chaudron’s studio for so many months. But it was too strong. I was certain the men would smell it too. But they did not. They stood awestruck while I looked for some proof that the painting in front of me had been made by Chaudron’s hand and not Leonardo’s. Something I should have looked for when the painting was returned to me. Something Chaudron had pointed out to me months earlier. Something I had forgotten.