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T wo uniformed French border policemen were waiting on the tarmac when the Dassault rolled to a stop near Signature Flight Support, the airport’s fixed-base operator.

They were accompanied by a tall man in a dark business suit who might have been mistaken for a French movie idol.

Ingrid knew the handsome man to be Jacques Ménard, director of the Police Nationale’s art crime unit.

She opened the forward door, and the three men filed up the airstair and into the cabin.

The radios of the border policemen crackled with crosstalk.

Jacques Ménard, with nothing more than a glance, instructed the officers to lower the volume.

One of the border policemen carried a clipboard, the other a handheld passport scanner.

They started at the back of the cabin with the four security men and worked their way forward, concluding with Ingrid and the two members of the cockpit crew.

Jacques Ménard observed the proceedings with only mild interest.

“And the purpose of the visit?” asked one of the officers.

“Business,” replied Franco Tedeschi tersely.

Jacques Ménard spoke for the first time. “What sort of business, messieurs?”

“My colleague and I are showing a painting to a potential buyer.”

Ménard looked at the transport case, which was still lying on the table. “What sort of painting, please?”

“A portrait of a woman,” replied Peter van de Velde.

“Date?” asked Ménard.

“Late fifteenth or early sixteenth century.”

“Support?”

“Wood panel.”

“What type of wood, please?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might, yes.”

“Walnut.”

“The painting is Northern European in origin?”

“Milan.”

“I see. And the artist?”

Van de Velde exchanged a look with Franco Tedeschi before answering. “Leonardo da Vinci.”

Ménard gave a skeptical smile. “I’m no expert, but I’m quite certain there are no pictures by Leonardo currently on the market.”

“This is a newly discovered work.”

“Is that so? And where was it discovered, please?”

“In Amsterdam.”

“That’s a long way from Milan.”

“So is Paris, monsieur. But that’s where the Mona Lisa ended up.”

“ Touché .” Ménard looked down at the transport case. “Open it, please.”

Van de Velde, after a moment’s hesitation, flipped the latches and lifted the cover. Ménard contemplated the painting without expression. At length he said, “It’s extraordinary. But I rather doubt it’s genuine. After all, there are only nineteen known works by Leonardo in existence.”

“There are now twenty,” said the Dutch art dealer.

“You are no doubt aware, Monsieur Van de Velde, that we had a rather serious forgery scandal here in France a few years ago involving Old Master paintings. They were of such high quality that they fooled even the experts at the Louvre. To be honest, we’re still cleaning up the mess.”

“Rest assured, monsieur, this painting is no forgery.”

“Are you the owner?”

It was Franco Tedeschi who answered. “The painting is owned by my bank.”

“SBL PrivatBank of Lugano?”

“That’s correct.”

“And the potential buyer?”

“He wishes to remain anonymous.”

“Is he French?”

“Yes.”

“Does he intend to purchase the painting today?”

“That is our hope.”

“For how much?”

“The sale is private.”

“The buyer will nevertheless have to pay VAT taxes. And you and your bank, of course, will have to pay an import duty. For the full amount of the purchase price,” added Ménard. “Otherwise I’m going to fall on you from a very great height.” He turned to Van de Velde. “Close the case, please.”

The Dutch art dealer complied with the request. Ménard grasped the handle and lifted the case from the table. Franco Tedeschi reddened with anger.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to make some photographs of this painting for our records. And then you can be on your way.”

“In that case, I’m coming with you.”

“You will wait here on your beautiful private jet. Otherwise you can change your departure slot and return to Switzerland without completing the sale of the painting.” Ménard shrugged. “The choice is yours, messieurs.”

***

The two border policemen waited at the foot of the airstair while Ménard headed across the tarmac and into the terminal.

Every square meter of the building was covered by CCTV cameras, especially the area around passport control and customs, but the windowless interior room where Gabriel waited was free of visual surveillance.

Ménard removed the Leonardo from the transport case and laid it on the table next to Gabriel’s version.

The two men stared at the paintings in silence for nearly a minute.

“I can’t tell the difference,” said Ménard at last.

“I can,” answered Gabriel gloomily.

“That’s because you painted it. No one else will be able to tell them apart.”

“It’s glaringly obvious.”

“Let’s have a look at the back of the paintings, shall we?”

Ménard lifted the Leonardo from the table as though he feared it might explode and gently turned it over. Gabriel handled his copy with far less care. Another moment passed while they examined the backs of the two paintings, side by side.

“Extraordinary,” whispered Ménard.

“A disaster waiting to happen.”

“It’s your call.”

“Actually it’s yours, Jacques. You’re the one who’s going to lose his head if this goes off the rails.”

Ménard placed the Leonardo in Gabriel’s solander case and closed the lid. “ Au revoir, mon ami. ”

***

Gabriel carried the world’s most expensive painting through the terminal to ground transportation, where an unmarked Renault sedan idled curbside in the brilliant Provencal sunlight.

Inside were three Police Nationale officers in plainclothes.

He slid into the back seat, and the Renault rolled forward at once.

Five minutes later they were speeding eastward on the A8 Autoroute toward the Italian border.

Gabriel pressed the case against his thighs to dampen the vibration.

One last journey, he thought. Then she would be home.

***

Ingrid was tidying up the galley when Jacques Ménard came up the airstair with the art transport case.

He moved past her without a word or glance and placed it with exaggerated care on the table in the cabin.

Franco Tedeschi nodded toward Peter van de Velde, who popped the latches and lifted the lid.

His examination was painstaking and included a check of the supporting panel.

“What exactly are you looking for?” asked Ménard .

“Damage.”

“You won’t find any. Here in France we know how to handle paintings.”

“But this is no ordinary painting.”

“I must say, it was an honor to spend a moment or two alone with it. Imagine, a newly discovered Leonardo. As a Frenchman, I only wish you had sold it to the Musée du Louvre.”

Franco Tedeschi smiled coldly. “The Louvre couldn’t afford it.”

“A sad state of affairs, if you ask me,” said Ménard, and walked off the aircraft.

Peter van de Velde was still staring at the painting.

“Are you sure there’s no damage?” asked Tedeschi.

“None at all.” Van de Velde closed the transport case. “Shall we?”

Tedeschi looked at Ingrid. “Yes, I think we shall.”