“In 1998, a thief walked into Room Sixty-seven of the Louvre, sliced Corot’s Le Chemin de Sèvres from its frame, and walked out again. An hour elapsed before anyone even realized the painting was missing. And why was that? Because Room Sixty-seven had no security camera. The official postmortem proved more embarrassing. Louvre officials couldn’t produce a complete list of employees or even an accurate accounting of the museum’s inventory. The official review concluded that it would be harder for a thief to rob the average Paris department store than the most famous museum on earth.”

Chiara shook her head in amazement. “What happens to the art after it’s stolen?”

“That depends on the motive. Some thieves are just out to make a quick score. And the quickest way to convert a painting into cash is by handing it over in exchange for a reward. In reality, it’s ransom. But since it’s almost always a small fraction of the painting’s true value, the museums and the insurance companies are only too happy to play the game. And the thieves know it.”

“And if it’s not a ransom job?”

“There’s a debate within the art world and law enforcement over that. Some paintings end up being used as a sort of underworld currency. A Vermeer stolen from a museum in Amsterdam, for example, might fall into the hands of a drug gang in Belgium or France, which in turn might use it as collateral or a down payment on a shipment of heroin from Turkey. A single painting might circulate for years in this manner, passing from one criminal to the next, until someone decides to cash in. Meanwhile, the painting itself suffers terribly. Four-hundred-year-old Vermeers are delicate objects. They don’t like being stuffed into suitcases or buried in holes.”

“Do you accept that theory?”

“In some cases, it’s indisputable. In others…” Gabriel shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve never met a drug dealer who preferred a painting to cold hard cash.”

“So what’s the other theory?”

“That stolen paintings end up hanging on the walls of very rich men.”

“Do they?”

Gabriel peered thoughtfully into his wineglass. “About ten years ago, Julian was putting the finishing touches on a deal with a Japanese billionaire at his mansion outside Tokyo. At one point during the meeting, the collector excused himself to take a call. Julian being Julian, he got out of his seat and had a look around. At the far end of a hallway he saw a painting that looked shockingly familiar. To this day, he swears it was Chez Tortoni.”

“The Manet stolen in the Gardner heist? Why would a billionaire take such a risk?”