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G abriel had saved few reminders of his decades-long career in the secret world, only a pair of false German passports, a Beretta pistol, and a copy of the world’s most formidable cell phone hacking malware.

The passports and the gun were locked in the safe in his dressing room.

The malware, which was known as Proteus, was hidden beneath a deceptive icon on his laptop computer.

Its most insidious feature was that it required no blunder on the part of the target, no unwise software update or click of an innocent-looking photograph or advertisement.

All Gabriel had to do was enter the target’s phone number into the application, and within minutes the device would be under his complete control.

He could read the target’s emails and text messages, review the target’s browsing history and telephone metadata, and monitor the target’s physical movements with the GPS location services.

Perhaps most important, he could activate the phone’s microphone and camera and thus turn the device into a full-time instrument of surveillance.

He unleashed Proteus on Peter van de Velde’s mobile phone when he returned to the apartment, and at nine o’clock that evening, after a pleasant dinner with Chiara and the children, he settled onto the loggia with his laptop to review the art dealer’s digital debris.

He began with the emails. There were more than thirty thousand, divided equally between incoming and outgoing.

Most were in English, the semiofficial language of the international art trade, and the rest were in Dutch, German, or French.

Gabriel spotted the names of a few noteworthy dealers and collectors but found no correspondence with one Giorgio Montefiore or any reference to a lost portrait by Leonardo da Vinci.

The only direct air link between Venice and Amsterdam was a KLM flight that departed Marco Polo at the dreadful hour of seven.

Gabriel and Julian traveled to the airport in separate water taxis and boarded the plane as though they were strangers.

Their seats were on opposite sides of the first-class cabin.

Gabriel spent the nearly two-hour flight working his way through the remaining data on Peter van de Velde’s phone.

Julian sipped champagne and flirted with his neighbor, an attractive Dutch woman of perhaps forty who seemed to find him utterly charming.

Upon arrival in Amsterdam, Gabriel’s travel document received additional scrutiny at passport control, delaying his admission to the Netherlands by several minutes.

He hastened to ground transportation in time to see a dark-suited man helping Julian into the back of a luxurious Mercedes sedan.

Gabriel had a car waiting as well, though it was an economical Renault hatchback.

The woman behind the wheel had shoulder-length blond hair, skin the color of alabaster, and eyes like a cloudless summer sky.

They regarded Gabriel coolly as he dropped into the passenger seat.

“Long time no see,” she said, smothering a yawn. “Now, please tell me why we’re back in Amsterdam.”

***

It was Gabriel, not the Central Intelligence Agency, who had schooled Sarah Bancroft in the basics of tradecraft.

He had taught her how to lie, how to steal, how to fight, and how to use a gun—a skill she put to good use one cold winter’s afternoon in Zurich when she fired two bullets into a Moscow Center assassin.

She had received no training, however, in vehicular surveillance, an oversight Gabriel always regretted, never more so than at that moment.

“You’re too damn close. We might as well be sitting in the back seat next to Julian.”

“I don’t want to lose him.”

“We know where he’s going. Therefore, we cannot possibly lose him.”

Sarah reduced her speed and allowed a gap to open between the Renault and the black Mercedes.

They were hurtling northward along the A10, Amsterdam’s circular motorway.

Their destination, Galerie Van de Velde, was located in the historic Canal District.

The gallery’s owner and namesake was sipping coffee at the café next door, scrolling through the morning headlines on his compromised phone.

Gabriel was monitoring the feed from the device on his laptop computer, which was connected to the Internet via a mobile hot spot.

“I assume you had a look at the photos stored on his phone,” said Sarah.

“Only the ones he’s taken since the painting was stolen from the Vatican. ”

“And?”

“There were no photos of the Leonardo.”

“And nothing in his texts or emails either?”

“No.”

Sarah followed the Mercedes off the motorway. “And what, pray tell, do you deduce from this?”

“That Van de Velde and his associates are careful.”

“The other possibility is that Van de Velde intends to show Julian a worthless Dutch or Flemish portrait that he found in an Amsterdam flea market. Which would mean that you’ve dragged me here for no good reason.”

“You had big plans today?”

“I was thinking about taking my luncheon at the Wolseley. And then, of course, there’s my usual après-work Belvedere martini at Wiltons. Three olives, Saharan dry, painfully cold.”

Sarah had a voice and manner from a different age. As always, Gabriel felt as though he were conversing with a character from a Fitzgerald novel. “I’m sure we can find you a decent martini in Amsterdam,” he said.

“I wish we could say the same for your perhaps Leonardo. But the chances that the painting is in the hands of Peter van de Velde are slim to none.”

“I happen to think the odds are a bit more favorable.”

“And if it is your Leonardo?”

“I shall make entry into the gallery and reclaim it. And then I will ask Van de Velde to provide me with the names of his associates.”

“What happens if Van de Velde decides to ring the authorities?”

“You don’t know much about criminals, do you?”

“Thanks to you, I know a great deal about criminals. And Peter van de Velde never struck me as one.”

“You don’t seem to know much about art dealers either.”

“We’re not all corrupt, you know. Some of us actually have standards.”

“You’ll get over that, I’m sure.” They were headed east along the Overtoom, one of Amsterdam’s busiest boulevards. The black Mercedes sedan was nowhere in sight. “It appears as though you’ve managed to lose him.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

They crossed the Singelgracht and entered the Canal District.

Bicycles lined the bridges and leaned against the brickwork of the gabled houses.

Galerie Van de Velde occupied two floors of a commercial building on the Prinsengracht.

They arrived there in time to see Julian teetering through the front door.

“The eagle has landed,” said Gabriel.

“In all his glory,” added Sarah.

She rolled slowly past the gallery and guided the Renault into a parking space along the embankment of the canal.

Gabriel increased the volume on the feed from Van de Velde’s compromised mobile phone.

“Julie!” the art dealer exclaimed. “Tell me all about Venice. Is the Titian as glorious as they say?”

“Is it?” inquired Sarah.

“Julian seems to think I’m the greatest restorer who ever lived.”

“I might have something for you, if you can spare the time.”

“I have a feeling I’ll soon be working on a lost portrait of a young woman.”

Sarah smothered another yawn. “Slim to none, darling.”

***

The paintings hanging in the gallery’s quaint exhibition rooms were mainly nineteenth-century Dutch landscapes, still lifes, and floral arrangements, the kind of pictures that high-end London dealers like Julian referred to derisively as “chocolate box.” Peter van de Velde was a touch chocolate box himself.

The formfitting suit, the too-long leather loafers, the gelled and coiffed head of gray-blond hair, the pricey Swiss timepiece—everything was just so.

Seated in Van de Velde’s comfortable office, they engaged in the polite conversational foreplay that precedes any art world transaction.

The current slump in the market, the bleak outlook for the global economy, the dreadful state of Europe’s politics.

Van de Velde was looking forward to the upcoming Fine Art Fair in Maastricht.

Julian, who had grown weary of the annual gathering, indicated that his partner would be attending on his behalf.

“American, is she?”

“Not so you’d know it.” Frowning, Julian shot a glance at his wristwatch. “Do you think we might have a look at your painting now, Peter. I’d love to be on the two o’clock flight back to London.”

Van de Velde slid a single-page document across the desk and laid a pen atop it.

“A nondisclosure agreement?” Julian shook his head. “I’ve never signed one and never will.”

“This situation is different.”

Julian thrust on his reading glasses and reviewed the document with exaggerated care. Then, after a final expression of righteous indignation, all of it counterfeit, he added his illegible signature where indicated. Van de Velde slipped the document into a desk drawer. Julian pocketed the pen.

“The painting,” he said with genuine impatience.

“As I told you, it was discovered here in Amsterdam.”

Julian took note of Van de Velde’s use of the passive voice. “You led me to believe that you were the one who found it, Peter.”

“The truth is, the painting was brought to me by another individual. It was in terrible condition, but I agreed there was something special about it. You know the feeling, Julian. The funny feeling at the back of your neck.”

He knew it all too well. “How much did you pay for it?”

“Five thousand euros. The money was given to me by one of my investors, a connoisseur and collector with an extraordinary eye. He, too, is convinced the painting is a sleeper.”

“He’s your partner, this connoisseur and collector?”

“More or less.”

“In that case, what do you want from me?”

“Your opinion.”

“I’m a dealer, Peter. I only authenticate paintings that I’m interested in acquiring for myself or a client.”

“My partner and I would be more than happy to sell it to you. But I’m afraid it’s going to cost you.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“If I’m right about this painting, it will sell for several hundred million.”

“What did you find, Peter? A lost Vermeer?”

“Something better than a Vermeer.”

“There’s only one other Old Master painter who could fetch that kind of money.”

Van de Velde smiled. “Shall we have a look now?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

Van de Velde stood and reached for his overcoat. “Right this way.”

***

“The best laid plans of mice and men,” said Sarah.

“And crooked Dutch art dealers,” replied Gabriel.

“So it would appear.” Sarah started the engine of the Renault. “Can you ever forgive me for doubting you?”

“That depends on your performance behind the wheel during the next few minutes.” Gabriel watched the Mercedes sedan roll past his window. In the back seat were Julian and Peter van de Velde. “This is the part where you follow them.”

Sarah waited a few seconds before easing away from the curb. The Mercedes made a quick left turn and headed out of the Canal District. A moment later it was speeding in the opposite direction along the Overtoom.

Sarah settled in fifty meters behind it. “Where do you suppose they’re going?”

“I’m sure Julian is wondering the same thing.”

“Perhaps I should ring him. Just checking in, that sort of thing.”

“Perhaps you should concentrate on your driving. Otherwise you’re going to lose them at the next light.”

Sarah put her foot to the floor and followed the Mercedes across the busy intersection. It continued west on the Overtoom, then headed south on the A10 toward Schiphol Airport.

“You don’t think . . .”

“It’s beginning to look that way,” replied Gabriel.

“But why the airport?”

“What better way to view a stolen Leonardo?”

Schiphol’s general aviation terminal was located in a remote corner of the airfield.

From a car park along the edge of the tarmac, Gabriel watched helplessly as Julian followed Peter van de Velde up the forward airstair of a Dassault Falcon 900LX.

The feed from the Dutch art dealer’s phone died a few seconds after the cabin door closed.

Sarah snapped a photograph of the Dassault as it rolled slowly across the tarmac toward the runway. “Who do you suppose is on that plane?”

“A member of the Camorra,” replied Gabriel. “Or at least a reasonable facsimile.”

“Is Julian in any danger?”

“A little.”

“Let’s hope they don’t kill him,” said Sarah. “We’ll never hear the end of it.”