“But I’m just curious about how you found it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I love a good detective story.”

“I would love to indulge you, Mr. al-Bakari, but I’m afraid I can’t. All I can tell you is that it took me two years of searching in Paris and Auvers to find the painting and another year to convince the owner to give it up.”

“Perhaps someday, when sufficient time has elapsed, you’ll be gracious enough to share more of this fascinating story with me.”

“Perhaps, sir,” she said. “As for the authentication, we have determined the work is unquestionably Vincent’s and, of course, we are prepared to stand behind that authentication.”

“I’d be happy to examine the reports of your authenticators, Miss Bancroft, but quite frankly I don’t need to see them. You see, it’s quite obvious to me that this painting is truly the work of van Gogh.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Come here,” he said paternally. “Let me show you something.”

Sarah took a step closer to the canvas. Zizi pointed to the upper right corner.

“Do you see that slight mark on the surface? If I’m not mistaken, that’s Vincent’s thumbprint. You see, Vincent was notoriously cavalier in the way he handled his work. When he finished this one, he probably picked it up by the corner and carried it through the streets of Auvers to his room above Café Ravoux. At any given time there were dozens of paintings in his room there. He used to lean them against the wall, one atop the next. He was working so quickly that the previous paintings were never quite dry when he laid the new ones on top. If you look carefully at this one, you can see the crosshatched impression of canvas on the surface of the paint.”

His hand was still resting on her shoulder. “Very impressive, Mr. al-Bakari. But I’m not surprised, sir. Your reputation precedes you.”

“I learned a long time ago that a man in my position cannot rely on the promises of others. He must be constantly on guard against deceptive schemes and clever forgeries. I’m quite confident no one could ever slip a forgery past me, in business or in art.”

“One would be foolish even to try, Mr. al-Bakari.”

Zizi looked at Isherwood. “You have quite a knack for finding undiscovered work. Didn’t I read something the other day about a Rubens of yours?”

“You did, sir.”

“And now a van Gogh.” Zizi’s gaze moved back to the painting. “Andrew tells me you have a price in mind.”

“We do, Mr. al-Bakari. We think it’s quite reasonable.”

“So do I.” He looked over his shoulder at Herr Wehrli, the banker. “Do you think you can find eighty-five million somewhere in the accounts, Manfred?”

“I think it’s quite possible, Zizi.”