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T he pilot informed Ingrid that the flight time to Nice would be fifty-two minutes.

The caterers had nevertheless provisioned the aircraft with a full lunch service, with a choice between boeuf bourguignon and seafood risotto.

For those looking for lighter fare, there was a fruit plate with an assortment of gourmet French and Swiss cheeses.

There was also a selection of freshly baked artisan breads and savory snacks of every sort.

The liquor was premium. The wines were vintage and grand cru.

The four hulking bodyguards were sprawled on the opposing couches at the back of the cabin.

According to the manifest, two of the men were Swiss Italians and the other two were the real thing.

Franco Tedeschi was reclining on the starboard side of the cabin, eyes on his phone, which was attached to the plane’s Wi-Fi network.

Peter van de Velde sat at the table on the port side of the cabin.

The world’s most expensive painting lay before him, safe inside its sarcophagus.

He appraised Ingrid with an art dealer’s eye as she delivered his coffee.

“You’re not the usual girl.”

“I’m new to the company.”

“How fortunate for us.” He looked her up and down. “Dutch? ”

“Danish, actually.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rikke.”

“Like the song?”

“Almost,” she said, and smiled. It implied that she was there to see to his every need and desire save one. “Would you care for the risotto or the boeuf bourguignon?”

The Dutch art dealer laid a hand protectively on the case. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

Ingrid expressed no interest in the contents of the case, for such questions were a violation of company policy. Instead she turned to Franco Tedeschi, who was staring at her over his half-moon reading glasses.

“Where’s Erika?”

“Another flight, I’m afraid.”

“I should have been told.”

“I’ll notify Herr Vogel about your concerns.”

“Please do.” He looked down at his phone. “Risotto.”

Ingrid retreated to the cramped galley. The oven, when opened, exhaled the foul odor of cuisine industrielle .

She delivered four portions of the boeuf bourguignon to the security men and presented Franco Tedeschi with his seafood risotto.

Receiving no expression of gratitude or even acknowledgment, she turned to Peter van de Velde.

“Are you sure I can’t bring you something?”

“I’m quite fine, thank you.”

Doubtless because a moment earlier he had treated himself to a prolonged examination of Ingrid’s ass. “At least let me bring you some more coffee.”

“If you insist.”

She fetched the pot from the galley and poured. Van de Velde added the cream himself. “Not even a little curious? ”

“About what, Mr. Van de Velde?”

He looked down at the transport case. “The contents of that box.”

“Not the least bit.”

“Your colleague never mentioned it?”

“Erika? Never.”

Ingrid started toward the rear of the cabin, but Van de Velde placed a hand on her forearm. “Do you like art?” he blurted.

“Who doesn’t?”

“You’d be surprised.” Another smile. “And what sort of art do you like, Rikke?”

“Twentieth century, mainly.”

“The Impressionists?”

“Sure.”

“Van Gogh?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And what about the Old Masters?” he wondered.

“I’m quite fond of Vermeer. Girl with a Pearl Earring is one of my favorites.”

Van de Velde tapped the case lightly with the tip of his forefinger. “This painting is quite similar. But it’s much better. And much more valuable as well.”

“What have you got in there? The Mona Lisa ?”

“Not quite, but close.”

“What does that mean?”

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Impossible.”

“Would you care to have a look? This is your one and only chance. Because shortly after two o’clock this afternoon, it will disappear forever.”

It was Franco Tedeschi, from the opposite side of the cabin, who answered on Ingrid’s behalf. “No, Peter. She does not wish to see the painting.”

“Actually,” said Ingrid, “I’d love nothing more.”

Van de Velde popped the latches and opened the case.

***

The text message landed on Gabriel’s phone at 12:52 p.m. It was vaguely worded but clear in its meaning. He showed the message to Jacques Ménard, who consulted an open notebook computer.

“They’re on final approach. They should be on the ground in less than five minutes.” Ménard closed the laptop. “Wait here.”

“Where else would I go, Jacques? Duty-free?”

The French art sleuth frowned on his way out the door.

Alone, Gabriel pictured the encounter that would soon take place on the tarmac of Cote d’Azur Airport.

A check of the passports, an inspection of the cargo, a request for further information.

Nothing serious, messieurs. It won’t take but a moment.