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This much about SBL’s history Gabriel was able to glean from nothing more painstaking than a simple search of the Internet.

But having tangled with Swiss banks in the past, he was confident there was more to the story.

Fortunately he had a trusted source at the pinnacle of the Swiss financial services industry, an ethically challenged billionaire venture capitalist named Martin Landesmann.

Some years earlier they had worked together on an operation to smuggle dozens of explosive-filled centrifuges into Iran’s secret nuclear facilities.

Martin’s participation in the affair, while pivotal, had not been voluntary.

Though he was a Züricher by birth, Martin dwelled in a palatial villa on the leafy northern shore of Lake Geneva.

Gabriel arrived there in a taxi and was admitted by Martin’s beautiful French-born wife, Monique.

Her greeting was formal but decidedly cool.

Given the complexity of their history, it was the best Gabriel could have hoped for.

Her husband was outside on the villa’s terrace, a phone to his ear.

He was dressed, as was his custom, like the lower half of a gray scale: slate-gray cashmere pullover, charcoal-gray trousers, black loafers.

The attire paired nicely with his glossy silver hair and trendy silver spectacles.

Spotting Gabriel, he raised a marble-white hand toward a circular table upon which a porcelain coffee service had been placed.

Gabriel sat down and admired the view of the Mont Blanc massif, which had received a dusting of snow overnight.

A passing motorboat opened a wound in the flat waters of the blue lake.

Several more minutes elapsed before Martin was finally able to extract himself from the phone call. “You must forgive me,” he said as he sat down. “But I’m afraid we have a rather serious crisis on our hands at One World.”

One World was Martin’s charitable foundation.

It funneled billions in aid to developing nations, promoted democracy, protected the rights of journalists and political activists, and warned of the dangers posed by a warming climate.

Mainly it provided Martin with a shimmering patina of corporate conscientiousness that blinded the press and Swiss regulators to the true nature of his business.

Still, one had to hand it to Martin. He was one of the most fascinating criminals that Gabriel had ever met.

“And the nature of this crisis?”

“It involves our efforts to care for those displaced by the fighting in Sudan. Needless to say, it’s a dangerous place to operate.”

“Almost as dangerous as Geneva,” remarked Gabriel.

“Have you been causing trouble in our fair city again?”

“A minor incident at the Freeport not long ago.”

Martin poured coffee. “Not l’affaire Edmond Ricard ?”

“ Oui .”

“And what about the so-called Picasso Papers scandal? Were you involved in that as well?”

“It’s possible.”

“Those documents caused quite a sensation. A number of my less scrupulous colleagues lost a great deal of sleep.”

“But not you?”

“Global Vision Investments is entirely legitimate now. Which is to say I’m only mildly corrupt. Indeed, by Swiss standards, I am a paragon of virtue.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

He smiled over the rim of his coffee cup. “Believe what you will, Gabriel.”

“I think I liked the old Martin better. The one who tried his very best to have me killed.”

“I thought we’d put that behind us.”

“It rankles from time to time.”

“Did we not steal several billion dollars from the Russian president together?”

“It was great fun, wasn’t it?”

“And do I not allow you to use my airplanes and my apartment in Paris whenever you need them?”

“You’ve been very generous.”

“And what about all that cash and jewelry I lent you? Monique is still miffed about that one.”

“She’s not terribly fond of me either.”

Martin laughed. The ice was well and truly broken. “What brings you back to Geneva this time?” he asked. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business, I’m afraid.”

Martin sighed. “How much do you need now?”

“I don’t need your money. Only some information.”

“How refreshing. And the topic?”

“SBL PrivatBank of Lugano.”

Martin’s expression turned serious. “I know it well.”

“And?”

“Definitely not a paragon of virtue. Quite the other thing, in fact.”

***

Among the far-flung constellation of enterprises controlled by Martin Landesmann was a small but wildly profitable financial services company located in the principality of Liechtenstein.

This unethical house of finance, which was known as Meisner PrivatBank, had once served as the portal of a sophisticated laundromat that turned dirty money into clean cash and then buried it in the legitimate economy.

His clientele was a rogues’ gallery of tax evaders, kleptocrats, and criminals of every stripe—including a sprawling organization based in the southern Italian region of Campania that derived most of its income through the sale and distribution of narcotics, especially South American cocaine.

“The Camorra,” said Gabriel.

“They generally refer to themselves as the Sistema . Still, a rose by any other name...”

“Stinks to high heaven, Martin.”

He made no reply.

“How much do you suppose you made looking after their money?”

“If the truth be told, I made much more from the Colombians. But they were ill-mannered hotheads. The Camorra were all business.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I made a great deal,” said Martin. “And so has every other banker or financier in this country who handles hot Italian money. Do you know how much the three main Italian criminal organizations earn each year?”

“More than Deutsche Bank and McDonald’s combined.”

“Correct. That amount of money can’t be hidden beneath a mattress. It has to go somewhere. And the truth is, it’s every where.”

“What’s the current state of your relationship?”

“With the Camorra? Nonexistent.”

“Who ended it?”

“They did.”

“Were they unhappy with you?”

“If that were the case, I would be dead. They simply decided to take their business elsewhere.”

“SBL PrivatBank of Lugano?”

Martin nodded. “But they’re not ordinary clients. The Camorra was the source of the investment capital that saved SBL from collapse. The current chairman is nothing but a figurehead. The bank’s board of directors reside in Naples.”

“Surely they must have someone on the senior management team.”

“His name is Franco Tedeschi. He’s the head of SBL’s asset management division. But the assets he manages belong to the Camorra.”

Gabriel awakened his phone and found a photograph of Tedeschi on the bank’s website. Late fifties, angular features, thinning hair—the man Julian had seen on the Dassault Falcon.

“That’s Franco, all right,” said Martin. “The CFO of Camorra Incorporated. But why the sudden interest in a dirty bank from Lugano?”

“The dirty bank has something of great value that belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“The supreme pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church.”

“Is there anyone you don’t know?”

“I don’t know anyone from the Camorra.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” said Martin. “And the object of great value?”

“A lost portrait by Leonardo da Vinci.”

Martin, an astute collector himself, raised an eyebrow. “You have my full attention. Please continue.”

Gabriel delivered an abbreviated but accurate account of the case thus far. Martin sat spellbound throughout, a forefinger pressed thoughtfully to his lips.

“Those two murders reek of the Camorra,” he said.

“They’re very good at what they do, and that includes killing those who threaten their business interests.

Which is why I would advise you to end your investigation as quickly as possible and forget about that painting.

Otherwise the next dead body that turns up in the Venetian Lagoon is likely to be yours. ”

“I can look after myself, Martin.”

He placed a hand on Gabriel’s arm. “Listen carefully, my friend. The Camorra can kill anyone, anywhere, at any time. And that includes the likes of you.”

“I find your sudden concern about my safety touching. But I have no intention of leaving that painting in the hands of your former clients from Naples.”

“I thought that would be your answer. Therefore, you leave me no choice but to help you recover it.”

“What sort of assistance are you offering?”

“Financial advice, of course. The first thing I’ll need is access to SBL’s balance sheet, along with all its underlying assets, liabilities, loans, and the accounts of its major clients.”

“Why?”

“Art is money, Gabriel. Never forget that.”