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“I applaud your decision to go green,” he declared as the vehicle slid silently away from the terminal.

“Says the man who just stepped off one of his two private jets.”

“The Gulfstream is far more fuel-efficient than my Boeing Business Jet,” said Martin without a trace of irony.

“I suppose we all have to make sacrifices.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Feel free to use it at Davos.”

“I just might.”

Gabriel made his way to the E39 and headed north. Martin gazed at the tabletop-flat landscape beyond his window.

“Why Denmark?” he asked.

“My associate is Danish.”

“Your hacker, you mean?”

“She has other skills as well.”

“Such as?”

“I’d remove that Patek Philippe Perpetual from your wrist, if I were you. And hide your billfold as well.”

“A pickpocket, is she?”

“The best I’ve ever seen.”

“How did you meet her?”

“She stole a Vermeer from a villa on the Amalfi Coast. And then she stole your wife’s jewelry.”

“Well,” said Martin. “That explains everything.”

***

The woman who admitted Martin Landesmann into her beachfront home in Kandestederne one hour later did not live up to advance billing.

Indeed, in dress and aspect she was by all appearances a model citizen who had never once put a foot wrong.

Martin was so taken by her that he failed to notice the admiring glance she cast toward his costly Swiss timepiece—or the subtle brush of her hand that located the billfold in the breast pocket of his gray sport jacket.

Perhaps he recognized in her a kindred spirit.

They were, thought Gabriel, two sides of the same coin.

The pleasantries complete, they filed into the sitting room, where a printed copy of SBL’s most recent balance sheet waited on the coffee table.

It was a detailed version, some three hundred pages in length.

Martin reviewed the document line by line, pausing occasionally to circle an entry with his fat Montblanc pen or to make a margin note.

His survey complete, he looked up from the document and announced his preliminary findings.

“It won’t surprise you to learn that SBL PrivatBank SA of Lugano has emerged from its recent period of turbulence with flying colors. Its turnaround is nothing short of miraculous. It is the very picture of financial and moral health.”

“Do you believe it?” asked Gabriel.

“Not for a minute. It is a wholly owned subsidiary of Camorra Incorporated. And it’s being propped up by dirty Camorra money.”

To prove his thesis, Martin required real-time access to SBL’s most sensitive internal data—its deposits, its trading book, its portfolio of loans, the compensation paid to senior executives, even the bank’s insurance records.

He was granted that access by Ingrid, who was logged into SBL’s internal network.

He spent an hour in the private banking division, perusing the accounts of high-net-worth individuals at will, and another hour rummaging through the files in the asset management division.

With the exception of the occasional raised eyebrow, he offered no commentary on the nature of his findings.

He reviewed the bank’s trading book next and then conducted a loan-by-loan survey of the lending division.

His last stop was the email inbox of Franco Tedeschi, the Camorra’s man on SBL’s senior management team.

Tedeschi’s correspondence included a lengthy exchange with an executive vice president from the Zurich Insurance Group, Switzerland’s largest insurer.

“I found it,” Martin announced.

“Found what?” asked Gabriel.

“Your Leonardo.”

“Where is it?”

“Locked in an underground vault at SBL headquarters. But the more important question is, how did it get there and why?”

“And the answer?”

“Someone lost a great deal of the Camorra’s money. And someone had to pay. ”

“Who?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

***

But there were important clues, added Martin, scattered throughout the bank’s records, especially in the asset management division.

The firm’s clients included individuals, institutions, and businesses, many of which were anonymous shell corporations or holding companies.

It bought, sold, and managed investments on behalf of those clients with the goal of increasing their wealth over time.

It also lent the clients’ money, in some cases extremely large sums of money.

To manage its risk, the bank then sold portions of those loans to other investors, oftentimes to its own clients—sometimes, even, to the client who had taken the loan in the first place.

“Why would it do a thing like that?” asked Gabriel.

“Because much of the bank’s lending isn’t actual lending. And many of its clients aren’t actual clients. They’re merely fronts for our friends from Naples.”

“How does it work?”

“You did a bit of mischievous banking in your past life. You tell me.”

“A company called Mafia Limitato opens an account at SBL.”

“We should probably do something about the name. But please continue.”

“Mafia Limitato then retains the services of the bank’s asset management division to invest its money wisely. The asset manager plows some of the money into bonds and equities and uses the rest to purchase real estate.”

“Incorrect.”

“Where did I go wrong?”

“Mafia Limitato actually borrows the money from SBL to purchase the real estate.”

“Why?”

“The tax advantages, of course. Mobsters hate to pay taxes.”

“So Mafia Limitato takes a loan it doesn’t need and then buys the loan from the bank?”

Martin nodded. “Which launders still more dirty money and removes nonexistent risk from the bank’s balance sheet.”

“Why is the risk nonexistent?”

“Because there is absolutely no chance Mafia Limitato will default on a loan it took from a bank it controls.” Martin sighed. “Do I have to explain everything?”

“It’s a shell game? Is that what you’re saying?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But it also provides SBL with additional capital to lend to other clients. One of those clients borrowed four hundred million dollars from SBL to purchase a piece of commercial real estate in London. And SBL, of course, immediately sold the loan to Mafia Limitato.”

“Who was the unlucky client?”

“Something called the Mayfair Group. It looks as though it might be a real estate holding company. It was represented in the deal by a Milanese financial adviser, a certain Nico Ambrosi. His firm is called Piedmont Global Capital.”

“And the property?”

“A retail-and-office block on New Bond Street. Which is the interesting part.”

“How so?”

“I know the property well. In fact, my firm took a hard look at it when it came on the market.”

“And?”

“I wouldn’t have paid more than two hundred million for it. But the Mayfair Group, whatever it is, paid twice that. Not surprisingly, it defaulted on the loan two years after it was issued.”

“And Mafia Limitato was left holding the bag?”

Martin nodded slowly. “As you can imagine, they were molto angry.”

“What does any of this have to do with my Leonardo?”

“Your Leonardo was used to repay the loan. At least that is my strong suspicion.”

“Based on what?”

“The timing of certain moves by one Franco Tedeschi, chief of SBL’s asset management division, beginning with his purchase of a small portrait of a woman, artist unknown, from Galerie Van de Velde in Amsterdam for the sum of five thousand euros.

Signore Tedeschi then contacted his man at Zurich Insurance Group and requested a policy on his new acquisition.

The man from ZIG insisted on seeing the painting for himself and brought along an expert from the Kunsthaus museum.

The expert had a look at the painting in SBL’s vault. And guess what he had to say?”

“That my Leonardo is a Leonardo.”

Martin nodded. “ZIG issued a half-billion-dollar policy. And just two days later, SBL PrivatBank of Lugano magically forgave the four-hundred-million-dollar loan it had given to the Mayfair Group for the building on New Bond Street.”

“The painting was used as collateral after the fact?”

“It certainly looks that way. If nothing else, we can now say with some degree of certainty that your Leonardo is in that bank vault. And it must remain there until it is sold.”

“Says who?”

“The Zurich Insurance Group spelled out the provision in granular detail in the policy. ”

“I don’t suppose there are photographs.”

“Yes, of course. Front and back.” Martin handed over Ingrid’s laptop. “See for yourself.”

There were eight images in all. The high resolution suggested they had been taken by a professional art photographer. “So the only scenario that would require ZIG to pay out the policy is a theft from the bank vault?”

“That’s correct.”

“And if the painting was stolen, say, while it was in transit?”

“Mafia Limitato would be left holding the bag.” Martin sighed. “Good heavens, Gabriel. Do I have to explain every thing?”