Page 90 of An Inside Job

“Can’t say I have. You?”

“In a past life,” she replied, and helped herself to one of her husband’s Marlboros.

“You really need to stop that, you know. It’s a dreadful habit.”

“But I do look devastating with a cigarette.” She coaxed his gold Dunhill lighter into flame. “Drive faster, darling. I want to see them get on the plane.”

Christopher pointedly maintained his current rate of speed as he shadowed the three-vehicle convoy toward Lugano’s small airport. It was located on the western edge of the city, hard against a mountainside, which required an unusually steep approach. There was a single small terminal building and a car park adjacent to the flightline. Christopher slid into an empty space and killed the engine. The three Mercedes saloon cars were now parked on the apron next to a Dassault Falcon 900LX. Ingrid stood in the open cabin door, a plastic smile on her flawless face.

“Look familiar?” asked Christopher.

“The pretty Danish thief, or the luxurious private business jet?”

Several car doors opened at once, and six men spilled onto the tarmac. Peter van de Velde was still in possession of the painting. He hurried up the airstair, followed by Franco Tedeschi and two of the bodyguards. The other two remained on the tarmac, scanning their surroundings. They failed to notice the handsome couple sitting in a rented Audi in the car park.

“Tell me something,” said Christopher. “What exactly did you and your old boyfriend do while Julian was flying around Europe with the painting?”

“We checked into a hotel near the airport, and I had my way with him.”

“Funny, he didn’t mention it.”

“You know Gabriel, darling. He was always very discreet.” Sarah watched the two bodyguards heading up the airstair. “Think she can handle them?”

“Ingrid? Without question.”

“That good, is she?”

“If SIS had ten more just like her, Britain would rule the world again.”

They glimpsed her one last time as she closed the cabin door. Then the plane taxied to the end of the runway. It passed directly above them at 12:05 p.m., a few minutes behind schedule. Sarah shot a text to Gabriel, informing him that the most expensive painting in the world was headed his way.

“What shall we do now?” she asked.

“Why don’t we go back to the Splendide so I can have my way with you?”

“You’ve already had your way with me once this morning. Besides, you checked out of our room.”

“In that case, I suppose we’ll have to settle for a nice lunch.”

“How about the Grand Café Al Porto? The Divers are meeting up with Rosemary and Abe North there. They asked if we would like to join them.”

“Who?” asked Christopher.

Sarah sighed and stole another cigarette. It was good to be back in the game.

36

Lugano–Nice

The pilot informed Ingrid that the flight time to Nice would be fifty-two minutes. The caterers had nevertheless provisioned the aircraft with a full lunch service, with a choice between boeuf bourguignon and seafood risotto. For those looking for lighter fare, there was a fruit plate with an assortment of gourmet French and Swiss cheeses. There was also a selection of freshly baked artisan breads and savory snacks of every sort. The liquor was premium. The wines were vintage and grand cru.

The four hulking bodyguards were sprawled on the opposing couches at the back of the cabin. According to the manifest, two of the men were Swiss Italians and the other two were the real thing. Franco Tedeschi was reclining on the starboard side of the cabin, eyes on his phone, which was attached to the plane’s Wi-Fi network. Peter van de Velde sat at the table on the port side of the cabin. The world’s most expensive painting lay before him, safe inside its sarcophagus. He appraised Ingrid with an art dealer’s eye as she delivered his coffee.

“You’re not the usual girl.”

“I’m new to the company.”

“How fortunate for us.” He looked her up and down. “Dutch?”