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  “And don’t forget,” he said, “only Anna and I are to leave the van when we arrive.”

  Forty minutes later they drove through the front gates and up the driveway, and came to a halt outside a magnificent villa. Anna would have loved to stroll through the colorful, well-tended gardens, but not today.

  She and Duval walked up to the front door hand in hand. Duval pressed the bell, and moments later the maid appeared. She smiled when she recognized the van.

  “One package to be delivered to Mrs. Lowell,” said Duval. “If you’ll just sign here, Maria, I’ll fetch the crate from the van.”

  Maria smiled, but her expression turned to anxiety when Anna collapsed on the ground at her feet, clutching her stomach.

  “Ah, ma pauvre femme,” said Duval. “My wife is pregnant, Maria. Do you have somewhere where she could lie down for a few minutes?”

  “Of course, monsieur. Come with me.”

  Duval helped Anna to her feet and they followed the maid into the house and up the wide staircase to a guest bedroom on the first floor, while he studied the pictures on the way.

  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” said Anna, as Duval helped her onto the bed.

  “It’s not a problem, madame,” said Maria. “Should I call for a doctor?”

  “No, I’m sure I’ll be all right if I can just rest for a few minutes. But, darling,” she said to Duval, “would you fetch my bag from the van, there are some pills I ought to take.”

  “Of course, darling, I won’t be a moment,” he said, taking a closer look at the picture above the bed.

  “You’re so kind,” said Anna, clinging on to Maria’s hand.

  “No, no, madame, I have four children of my own. And men are so useless in these situations,” she added as Duval slipped out of the room.

  He ran down the stairs to find his team were already in full swing, with Rosenthal acting as ringmaster, while Pierre cracked the whip. One by one the masterpieces were removed from the walls, to be replaced moments later with copies.

  “You’ll find the Matisse above the fireplace in the drawing room,” Rosenthal said to one of the couriers. “The Picasso belongs in the master bedroom,” to another, “and the Rauschenberg goes right there,” he said, pointing to a large empty space on the wall in front of him.

  “I’m looking for a Dalí,” said Duval. “It goes in the guest bedroom,” he added as a de Kooning disappeared out of the front door.

  “There are three Dalís,” said Pierre after checking the inventory. “What’s the subject?”

  “A yellow clock melting over a table.”

  “Oil or watercolor?” asked Pierre.

  “Oil,” said Duval as he headed back up the staircase.

  “Got it. And don’t forget your wife’s handbag,” said Rosenthal.

  “Merde!” said Duval, who dashed out of the house, nearly colliding with two couriers coming the other way.

  He opened the passenger door of the van, grabbed Anna’s handbag, and ran back into the house and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pierre was just a pace behind, clutching the Dalí. Duval caught his breath, opened the door, and walked in, assuming a look of concern, while Pierre waited outside in the corridor.

  “And the problem with Béatrice,” the maid was saying, “is that she’s fourteen, going on twenty-three.”

  Anna laughed as Duval handed her the bag. “Thank you, darling,” she said, as she undid the clasp and took out a bottle of pills. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, Maria, but could I have a glass of water?”

  “Of course,” said the maid, bustling into the bathroom.

  Anna leaped up, stood on the bed, and quickly lifted the Dalí off its hook. She handed it to Duval, who ran to the door and exchanged it with Pierre for the copy, which he passed to Anna seconds later. Their second risk. She just had time to hang it on the hook and fall back down on the bed before Maria reappeared, carrying a glass of water. She found the two of them holding hands.

  Anna took her time swallowing two pills, then said, “I’m so sorry to be holding you up.” Her well-trained husband came in bang on cue.

  “Maria, where should I put the package for Mrs. Lowell?”

  “Leave it in the hall, and the butler can deal with it when he gets back tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” said Duval, “and by the time I return, darling, perhaps you’ll have sufficiently recovered for me to take you home.”

  “I hope so,” said Anna.

  “Don’t worry,” said Maria, “I’ll stay with madame until you get back.”

  “How kind of you,” said Duval as he left the room. He was running down the stairs when he spotted Pierre handing the Dalí to a courier. “How much longer?” he asked as he joined Rosenthal in the hall.

  “Five minutes, ten at the most,” said Rosenthal, as a courier showed him a Pollock. “Far side of the drawing room,” he said without hesitation.

  Duval’s eyes never left the bedroom door. He said, “Any problems?”

  “I can’t find the blue Warhol of Jackie. It’s too important not to be in one of the main rooms. But you’d better get back upstairs before the maid becomes suspicious.”

  Duval walked back upstairs and returned to the bedroom, where the maid was still regaling Anna with tales about her children. He held up five fingers, and as she nodded, he noticed that the Dalí was hanging lopsided.

  “Maria was just telling me, darling, about the trouble she’s been having with her daughter Béatrice.”

  “She can’t be worse than Marcel,” said Duval, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “But I thought you told me this would be your first child?” said Maria, looking puzzled.

  “Dominic has a son by his first wife,” said Anna quickly, “who tragically died of cancer, which I think is one of the reasons for Marcel’s problems.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Maria.

  “I think I’m feeling a little better now,” said Anna, slowly sitting up and lowering her feet onto the carpet. “You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how to thank you.” She rose unsteadily and, with Maria’s support, began walking slowly toward the door, while Duval knelt on the bed and straightened the Dalí. His third risk. He caught up with them just in time to open the door.

  “I’ll go ahead and make sure the van door is open,” he said—not part of the well-rehearsed script—and he was only halfway down the stairs when he saw Rosenthal and Pierre still in the hallway.

  “Where’s the Warhol?” Pierre demanded.

  “To hell with the Warhol,” said Duval. “We’re out of here.”

  Pierre left quickly, followed by Rosenthal, cursing under his breath.

  When Anna and Maria reached the hallway a few moments later, they found Duval standing by the front door, one hand resting on a crate.

  “Thank you for being so kind to my wife,” he said. “Here’s the package I was asked to deliver, along with a letter for Mrs. Lowell.”

  “I’ll see madame gets them both as soon as she returns,” said Maria.

  Duval took Anna gently by the arm and led her out of the house to find the passenger door of the van already open. It was the little details that Rosenthal was so good at.

  As the van moved slowly down the drive, Duval wondered if Maria would find it strange that they had used such a large van to deliver one picture.

  “Any problems, Anna?” said Rosenthal from the back of the van.

  “Other than being pregnant, having two husbands, neither of whom I’m married to, and a stepson I’ve never even met, nothing in particular.”

  “Remember to drive slowly, Dominic,” said Rosenthal. “We mustn’t forget that we have precious cargo on board.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” said Anna, touching her stomach.

  Rosenthal had the grace to smile, as Anna leaned out of the window and waved good-bye to Maria. She waved back, a puzzled look on her face.

  35

  ALEX

  Boston