“The place has changed since we were here,” Bittel said. “The last straw was that scandal involving the Modigliani, the one that had been stolen by the Nazis. A lot of the collectors pulled out after that and moved their holdings to places like Delaware and London. The cantonal authorities have brought in a new man to run the place. He’s a former Swiss finance minister, a real stickler for the letter of the law.”

“Perhaps there’s hope for your country after all.”

“Let’s skip this part,” said Bittel. “I like it better when we’re on the same side.”

A row of featureless white structures appeared on their right, surrounded by an opaque green fence topped with concertina wire and security cameras. It might have been mistaken for a prison were it not for the red-and-white sign that read ports francs. Bittel turned into the entrance and waited for the security gate to open. Then he pulled forward a few feet and slipped the car into park.

“Building Three, Corridor Eight, Vault Nineteen.”

“Very good,” said Gabriel.

“We’re not going to find drugs in there, are we?”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because drug dealers don’t lock away their product in secure tax-free storage facilities. They sell it to idiots who smoke it, snort it, and inject it into their veins. That’s how they make their money.”

Bittel entered the security office. Through the half-open blinds of the window, Gabriel could see him in close conversation with an attractive brunette. It was obvious they were speaking in French rather than Swiss German. Finally, there were a few nods and assurances, and then a key changed hands. Bittel carried it back to the car and slid behind the wheel again.

“You’re sure there’s nothing between you two?” asked Gabriel.

“Don’t start with that again.”

“Maybe you can introduce me. It would save you the trouble of having to make the drive down from Bern every time I need to look inside some criminal’s vault.”

“I prefer our current system.”

Bittel parked outside Building 3 and led Gabriel inside. From the entrance stretched a seemingly endless hall of doors. They climbed a flight of stairs to the second level and made their way to Corridor 8. The door to Vault 19 was gray metal. Bittel inserted the key into the lock and, entering, switched on the light. The vault contained two chambers. Both were filled with flat rectangular wooden crates of the sort used to transport valuable art. All were identical in size, about six feet by four.

“Not again,” said Bittel.

“No,” said Gabriel. “Not again.”

He examined one of the crates. Attached to it was a shipping waybill bearing the name Galerie Olivia Watson of Saint-Tropez. He pulled at the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. It was nailed tightly into place.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a claw hammer in your back pocket, would you?”

“Sorry.”

“How about a tire tool?”

“I might have one in the trunk.”

Gabriel scrutinized the remaining crates while Bittel went downstairs. There were forty-eight. All had come from Galerie Olivia Watson. TXM Capital was the recipient of record for twenty-seven of the crates. The rest bore equally vague names—the kind of names, thought Gabriel, invented by clever lawyers and private bankers.

Bittel returned with the tire tool. Gabriel used it to pry open the first crate. He worked slowly, gently, so as to leave as few marks in the wood as possible. Inside he found a canvas wrapped in glassine paper, resting in a protective frame of polyurethane. It was all very professional looking, with the exception of the canvas itself.

“How contemporary,” said Bittel.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” replied Gabriel.

He opened another crate. The contents were identical to the first. The same was true of the third crate. And the fourth. A canvas wrapped in glassine paper, a protective frame of polyurethane. All very professional, except for the canvases themselves.

They were blank.

“Mind telling me what this means?” asked Bittel.

“It means that Jean-Luc Martel’s real business is drugs, and he’s using his girlfriend’s art gallery to launder some of the profits.”

“Just what the Freeport needs. Another scandal.”

“Don’t worry, Christoph. It will be our little secret.”

26

Tel Aviv—Saint-Tropez

Which left only the money. The money necessary to take Gabriel’s operation from development to the stage. The two or three hundred million to acquire a flashy art collection. The twelve million for a lavish villa on France’s C?te d’Azur, and the five million, give or take, to make it presentable. And then there was the money for all of life’s little extras. The cars, the clothes, the jewelry, the restaurants, the trips by private plane, the lavish parties. Gabriel had a figure in mind, to which he added another twenty million, just in case. Operations, like life itself, were uncertain.

“That’s a lot of cash,” said the prime minister.

“A half billion doesn’t go as far as it used to.”

“Where’s the bank?”

“We have several to choose from, but the National Bank of Panama is our best option. One-stop shopping,” explained Gabriel, “and little threat of retaliation, not after the Panama Papers scandal. Even so, we’ll plant a few false flags to cover our tracks.”