Smith slipped off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache between his eyes. The result of too many hours staring at the pulsing light of the computer screens arranged in a wide U that filled most of his desk, a white Formica slab balanced on thin metal legs, jointed in such a way as to remind him of ET. The wireless keyboard and mouse were also white, as were the boxy file cabinets that formed the other end of the unit. White ceiling. White walls. Pale-gray tiles on the floor in a “nubby” pattern to give the illusion of being a rug. The tiles were slightly springy too, and Smith often wondered if that was for the benefit of the INTERPOL workers’ feet or to create a virtually soundless space, though it hardly mattered since all the researchers wore some form of sneaker or walking shoe. Smith’s were thick-soled white Nikes, which he kept clean with a soapy toothbrush.

Smith read the emails again, tamping down his excitement while taking stock of his options. He could notify the local authorities and have them watch Perrone and this Italian professor or issue one of the eight color notices INTERPOL used to designate the degree of a suspected crime—a red notice being the highest—but there was no evidence of a crime, not even any wrongdoing, not yet. No way could he get the general secretariat to issue such a notice.

Smith glanced at the computer screen on his left, the one reserved for data on international art objects currently missing or stolen and the date they had disappeared. Art theft and forgery were serious crimes, and the people involved—collectors, thieves, and middlemen—were not only unscrupulous but often dangerous. According to INTERPOL’s statistics, art theft alternated between the agency’s number three and four spots in priority and importance, just below drug dealing, arms smuggling, and money laundering. Smith took it seriously, the way he did everything, like the daily calisthenics and weight lifting, which had added considerable muscle mass to his almost six-foot frame. The idea of being weak or perceived as such, something a black kid from Manhattan’s Baruch Houses project had learned early he could not afford. Smith had never known his father, though he had taken the man’s last name as his middle, a way to make the ordinary-sounding name more memorable.

He checked the time, nearly noon. Along with the headache, his back had started to ache after four hours of sitting since the drive from his one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Lyon, then fighting the city’s traffic to get to the steel-and-glass monolith of INTERPOL’s international headquarters, something he did every day, twice a day.

He needed a break, time to think, and a cigarette.

The cylindrical elevator took him down to the octagonally shaped courtyard in the center of the building. There were a few people here, though the cool minimal space made them appear unreal, like androids. Smith wondered if he looked robotic too, though he doubted robots smoked Marlboro Lights. He inhaled deeply while debating the pros and cons of what he was considering, knowing it was strictly against INTERPOL policy.