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T he children insisted that Ingrid walk them to school the following morning.

She held their hands tightly, fearful she might lose them in the labyrinthine streets, and breathed a small sigh of relief when they reached their destination safely.

She grew disoriented herself during the short walk back to the San Tomà vaporetto stop.

Gabriel waited on the platform, a manila envelope beneath one arm.

“I demand to know where you’re taking me,” she said.

“The Hotel Danieli.”

“Why?”

“To have breakfast with the commander of the Art Squad.”

“This might come as a surprise, Mr. Allon, but I do my best to avoid police officers.”

“You have nothing to fear. Besides, it’s time the two of you became better acquainted.”

They boarded a Number 1 and rode down the gentle sweep of the Grand Canal to San Zaccaria. A good-looking man in a dark suit met them outside the Danieli. Gabriel made the introductions.

“Capitano Luca Rossetti, meet Ingrid Johansen.”

Ingrid reluctantly grasped the outstretched hand.

Then Rossetti spoke a few words in Italian to Gabriel, and they all three entered the hotel.

General Cesare Ferrari, the legendary commander of the Art Squad, was seated upstairs in the terrace restaurant.

Unlike the young captain, he was dressed in a blue uniform with gold trim.

His smile was brief. “If it isn’t the sticky-fingered Signorina Johansen. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” said Ingrid, and sat down.

A waiter brought them four cappuccinos and a basket of warm Italian pastries.

The view of the Venetian Lagoon looked as though it had been painted by the hand of Turner.

General Ferrari, however, had eyes only for Ingrid.

His right, she realized suddenly, was a prosthetic.

His left shone with unexpected kindness.

“Please try to relax, Signorina Johansen. I am well aware of the dangerous mission you undertook in Moscow and have no interest in your previous work.” He turned to Gabriel.

“Or yours, for that matter. I am, however, quite eager to hear all about your more recent endeavors. Especially your visit to Amsterdam with your old friend Julian Isherwood.”

“An art dealer named Peter van de Velde asked Julian to have a look at a painting he supposedly found in an Amsterdam flea market. A portrait of a young woman, oil on walnut panel. The viewing took place aboard a private aircraft.”

“How novel.”

“Julian thought so too.”

“And what did he think of the painting?”

“He’s convinced it’s an autograph work by Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Is it the painting that was stolen from the Vatican?”

“Without question.”

“And where is it now?”

“A bank in Lugano.”

“Not SBL PrivatBank? ”

“How did you know?”

The general shrugged. “Because SBL is the Banca di Camorra.”

***

Not surprisingly, General Ferrari was eager to know how Gabriel had determined the painting’s whereabouts—and why he had renewed his partnership with the beautiful Danish thief who had once stolen a priceless painting by Johannes Vermeer.

Gabriel’s answer included an admission that a crime had occurred, a data breach from a Swiss financial services firm.

Because no aspect of this crime had taken place on Italian soil, the general felt free to review some of the illicitly acquired material, including a $500 million insurance policy and documents related to the forgiveness of a troubled $400 million loan made by SBL PrivatBank to a real estate holding company known as the Mayfair Group.

“Your friend Martin Landesmann has put forward an intriguing theory,” the general admitted. “But it’s entirely speculative.”

“He speaks with considerable authority where the Camorra is concerned.”

General Ferrari displayed his ruined right hand. “As do I. But are you telling me that Saint Martin, he of the glittering international reputation, has laundered the Camorra’s money?”

“Hard to believe, I know. But they went their separate ways after the Camorra secretly acquired SBL.”

“Thus solving their money laundering problems once and for all. My colleagues in the Guardia di Finanza alerted Swiss regulators about the source of the investment capital that saved SBL from collapse, but they refused to listen.” The general indicated the stack of documents. “Perhaps they’ll listen now.”

“Our first priority,” said Gabriel, “is the painting.”

General Ferrari nodded thoughtfully. “If we were to play it strictly by the book, I would approach the Swiss Federal Police and ask them to intervene.”

“With evidence gathered in an illicit hack? I wish you luck, Cesare. Besides, even if the Swiss agree to look into the matter, it will take years to get that painting back.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“We put the painting in play. And then, when the opportunity presents itself, we acquire it.”

“Steal it, you mean?”

“Think of it as an extrajudicial seizure.”

“The Art Squad cannot be party to a theft,” Ferrari protested.

“After all, we are in the business of investigating art crime and prosecuting the perpetrators.” He looked at Ingrid and added, “Present company excluded, of course. And then there is the issue of the insurance policy. If you were to acquire the painting, ZIG would be on the hook for a half billion dollars.”

“But only if the painting is stolen from the vault. And only if SBL PrivatBank of Lugano were to submit a claim.”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because SBL won’t realize its Leonardo is missing.”

“Impossible,” scoffed the general.

Gabriel looked at Ingrid, who returned Luca Rossetti’s wristwatch. “Difficult,” she said with a beguiling smile. “But by no means impossible.”