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A handsome promenade, shaded by plane trees and lined with small marinas, stretched along the gentle curve of the blue bay.

Luxury motorcars moved at a stately pace along the lakefront boulevard, but much of the town’s ancient center was closed to traffic, including the Via Nassa, a cobbled arcade lined with exclusive retailers.

Ingrid slowed to a stop outside a Bulgari boutique and scrutinized the costly gold-and-diamond trinkets displayed in the window.

“Nothing?” asked Gabriel.

“Not yet, I’m afraid.” She paused again outside the Hermès boutique, then wandered across the street to Cartier. “But I’m definitely getting warmer.”

They continued along the Via Nassa to the Piazza della Riforma. In the northwest corner of the square was the Lugano office of Credit Suisse. UBS, Switzerland’s largest financial services company, was on the eastern flank. In the building next door was the global headquarters of SBL PrivatBank SA.

“It looks so respectable,” said Ingrid.

“So do you,” replied Gabriel. “But looks can be deceiving.”

There was a restaurant a few paces from the bank’s main entrance. Gabriel and Ingrid requested a table in the square and were seated at once. Their waiter spoke the Swiss dialect of Italian. Ingrid plucked the corkscrew from the pocket of his apron as he was taking their order.

“If only it were that easy to steal your Leonardo,” she said, and slid the corkscrew into her handbag.

“What happens when he delivers our bottle of pinot grigio and discovers his corkscrew is missing?”

“He will assume he misplaced it.”

“And why is that?”

“Because never in a million years would he think that I was skilled or brazen enough to steal it. That is the secret of my success, Mr. Allon.”

“Your charm and demure looks?”

“And the best pair of hands in the business,” she added.

“But what if the corkscrew was worth a half billion dollars? And what if our waiter was a member of the Campanian criminal organization known as the Camorra?”

“He still wouldn’t suspect me.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Just then the waiter stepped from the doorway of the restaurant, bottle in hand.

He displayed the label to Gabriel, then reached into the pocket of his apron.

“Forgive me, Signore,” he said with a frown, and went in search of the missing corkscrew, leaving the bottle behind on the table. Ingrid raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t even think about it,” warned Gabriel.

“You’re afraid he might notice?”

“I’m certain he would. Especially if the bottle of wine was worth a half billion dollars.”

The waiter reappeared with a new corkscrew. Gabriel forwent the usual approval process and instructed him to pour two glasses. When he was gone, Ingrid added a second corkscrew to her handbag. Then she directed her gaze toward the exterior of SBL’s headquarters.

“And what if we were trying to steal a painting hidden in a vault beneath that building? How would we pull it off without the bank managers knowing?”

“You’re the professional. You tell me.”

“I would steal the painting the same way they stole it.”

“An inside job?”

“Of course.”

“And where are we supposed to find this helpful insider?”

“At SBL PrivatBank, Mr. Allon. Where else? It would have to be someone quite senior. Someone who has access to the vault at any time, day or night.”

“It would be easier to tunnel into that vault than to find someone who would be willing to help us. But that’s not the only problem with your plan.”

“What’s the other?”

“The ZIG insurance policy. I refuse to allow Camorra Incorporated to profit from their crime.”

“In that case,” said Ingrid, “we have to steal the painting while it’s out of the vault.”

She turned her head to watch a Mercedes-Maybach sedan drawing up at the side entrance of the bank. A fit-looking specimen emerged from the passenger seat and opened the rear door. Franco Tedeschi, head of SBL’s asset management division, climbed out of the car and went swiftly inside.

“Is it my imagination,” asked Ingrid, “or are the windows of that lovely Mercedes limousine bulletproof?”

“They are,” replied Gabriel. “And the armor could stop a rocket-propelled grenade. ”

“Why does a mere asset manager need a car like that?”

“Lugano is a dangerous town.”

“I never realized.” Ingrid slipped on a pair of sunglasses and smiled. “But then looks can be deceiving.”

***

Of their father’s beautiful young friend from Denmark, Irene and Raphael knew little but suspected much.

They knew, for example, that she had worked with their father on two of his secret projects—the ones they were never to discuss with their friends from school—and that she was good with computers.

They also knew that she could perform card and magic tricks, that she was unusually strong for someone so small in stature, and that she was lethal with a pool cue in her hands.

This they had witnessed firsthand one afternoon at an Irish pub in Cannaregio, where she won a thousand euros shooting billiards against four Englishmen from Manchester.

She shared Irene’s passion about the dangers of climate change and Raphael’s facility with numbers.

After dinner that evening she helped the boy untangle a complex advanced geometry concept while Gabriel and his daughter saw to the dishes.

Chiara was perched atop a stool at the kitchen island, scrutinizing the photographs of the Leonardo panel attached to the $500 million policy issued by the Zurich Insurance Group.

“Do you know how many crimes you’ve already committed, darling?”

“None, actually.”

“Did you or did you not steal a copy of an insurance policy from SBL PrivatBank of Lugano?”

“And thousands of other confidential documents as well. But it was all Ingrid’s doing. ”

“She’s incorrigible,” chirped Irene.

“A hopeless reprobate,” agreed Gabriel, and handed the child a pot to dry.

Her mother was not amused. “And what were you doing while Ingrid was hacking a Swiss bank?”

“I was painting, if you must know.”

“Anything good?”

“A couple of seascapes that are now in the possession of the Br?ndums Hotel in Skagen.”

Chiara seemed not to hear his answer. “The photographs are extremely high resolution. If you look carefully, you can see the work of the conservator.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel dryly.

“You disapprove of the job he did?”

“I hate to admit it, but he gave a rather good accounting of himself.”

“Did you happen to take a look at the back of the panel?” Chiara turned the computer screen in Gabriel’s direction. “He’s adhered a supporting panel to the original.”

“As I predicted he would. Thus making it next to impossible to prove that the painting was the one stolen from the Vatican.”

“The provenance is a joke,” observed Chiara.

“But the attribution to Leonardo by the Kunsthaus is worth at least a hundred million dollars. Julian is certain it’s an autograph Leonardo as well, which means others will follow. It’s only a matter of time before they find a buyer.”

“What do you intend to do about it?”

Gabriel smiled. “I’m going to help them.”