21 Geneva Freeport

21 Geneva Freeport

The ancient city of commerce and Calvinism known as Geneva lay at the western end of Lac Léman, three hours by motorcar from

Zurich. Its most recognizable landmark was not its medieval cathedral or elegant Old Town but the Jet d'Eau, which burst suddenly

to life as Anna's Mercedes sped across the Pont du Mont-Blanc. She was seated behind her driver, with Ingrid at her side.

Her art adviser had been relegated to the passenger seat. Having spent most of the drive on the phone to clients, he now extolled

the geyser-like fountain's virtues as though he were reading from a tourist guidebook.

"It's quite an engineering marvel, if you think about it. The water leaves the nozzle at two hundred kilometers per hour and

rises up to a hundred forty meters. At any given moment, more than seven thousand liters are airborne."

Ingrid was unable to restrain herself. "And do you know how much electricity that ridiculous fountain uses each year? A megawatt.

All of it wasted."

"You're concerned about global warming, I take it."

"Aren't you?"

"Oh, I suppose so. But what can we do about it at this point besides hope for the best?" Lovegrove checked the time. It was already two fifteen. "Perhaps I should ring Ricard and let him know we're running late."

"You will do no such thing," declared Anna. Then she looked at Ingrid and said, "Unless our friend believes otherwise."

Ingrid consulted her messages before answering. "He doesn't, Madame Rolfe."

"Great minds think alike."

Ingrid returned the phone to her handbag as the H?tel Métropole slid past her window. The elegant lobby bar, with its wealthy

clientele, had once been one of her favorite hunting grounds. Her last visit had yielded an attaché case stuffed with more

than a million dollars in cash. Ingrid, as was her custom, had given half of the money to charity. The rest she had entrusted

to her account manager at Banca Privada d'Andorra.

She had experienced similar success at the Grand Hotel Kempinski, much beloved by grotesquely rich Gulf Arabs, and along the

private bank–lined pavements of the rue du Rh?ne, a pickpocket's paradise. She had never, however, had occasion to visit the

infamous Geneva Freeport. The very thought of being inside the facility—repository of untold billions' worth of paintings,

gold bars, and other assorted treasures—had set her ablaze with the familiar craving. It had been building all day. Now she

felt feverish with anticipation.

Anna's voice was a welcome diversion. "Are you feeling all right, Ingrid?"

"I'm sorry, Madame Rolfe?"

"You look unwell."

"I'm just a touch carsick, that's all. But not to worry." Ingrid pointed toward a row of featureless gray-and-red buildings

looming before them. "We have arrived at our destination."

The enormous facility was several hundred meters in length and surrounded by a screened fence topped with razor wire and security cameras. A stubby gray annex, home to numerous small firms doing business within the boundaries of the Freeport, jutted from the southernmost end. Edmond Ricard's gallery was located on the third floor. Immaculately groomed and attired, he waited in the ill-lit corridor, visibly annoyed that Lovegrove and his mystery client had committed the unpardonable offense of arriving late for a business appointment in Switzerland. The dealer's countenance changed the instant he recognized the client's famous face. He nevertheless greeted her with Freeport discretion.

"Madame Rolfe," he said quietly. "It is an honor to have you in my gallery."

Anna nodded once but declined Ricard's outstretched hand. Unnerved, he turned to Ingrid.

"And you are?"

"Madame Rolfe's assistant."

"A pleasure to meet you," said Ricard, and led them into the gallery's small foyer. Ingrid scarcely noticed the vibrant painting

by Frank Stella hanging on the wall; she was far more interested in the lock on the outer door. It was Swiss-made, mechanical,

and purportedly unpickable, which was not the case.

The next room they entered was windowless and white-carpeted and furnished with matching Barcelona chairs. A single painting

hung on each wall—a Matisse, a Pollock, a Lichtenstein, and an enormous canvas by Willem de Kooning.

"Good heavens," breathed Ingrid. "Isn't that the painting that fetched—"

"Yes, it is," said Ricard, cutting her off. "The owner has placed it on consignment with me. It can be yours for two hundred

and fifty million, if you're interested."

He led them through a second exhibition room and into his office. The desk was black and spotless save for a modern lamp and a laptop computer. Two bottles of mineral water, one sparkling, one still, stood in the center of a small conference table. Anna, after taking her seat, declined Ricard's offer of refreshment and likewise fended off several attempts by the dealer to engage her in small talk.

Ricard finally turned to Lovegrove. "You mentioned something about six paintings."

Lovegrove opened his attaché case and removed a manila folder. Inside were six large photographs, which he laid on the table

before Ricard. The dealer examined each image at length, then looked up at Anna without expression.

"I take it these paintings belonged to your father."

"They did, Monsieur Ricard."

"It is my understanding that his estate relinquished all the Impressionist and Postimpressionist paintings that he acquired

during the war."

"That is true. But my father purchased these paintings several years after the war."

Lovegrove laid the six provenances on the table, and Ricard turned deliberately through the pages. "They are far from pristine,"

he said at the conclusion of his review. "But I've seen worse."

"I ran them through the relevant Holocaust databases," said Lovegrove. "There are no claims against any of the six paintings."

"I'm relieved to hear that. But it doesn't change the fact that they were in the hands of a rather notorious collector." Ricard

turned to Anna. "Forgive my candor, Madame Rolfe, but your father's connection to the paintings will significantly reduce

their value on the open market."

"Not if you conceal my identity from the buyers, Monsieur Ricard."

The art dealer did not dispute the point. "Where are the paintings now?"

"Not in Switzerland," replied Anna.

"Does the Swiss government know you have them?"

"It does not."

"May I ask why not?"

"I didn't know about the existence of the paintings until several years after my father's death. As you might imagine, I had

no wish to relive the drama of the Rolfe affair."

"Still, the fact that you have failed to declare the paintings is a complicating factor. You see, Madame Rolfe, if I sell

them on your behalf, you will have to explain the windfall profit to the cantonal tax authorities in Zurich, which will alert

them to your previous misconduct." Ricard lowered his voice. "Unless, of course, we were to conceal the sale as well."

"How?"

"By structuring the transaction in a way that it takes place offshore and anonymously. Here in the Geneva Freeport, such sales

are, as the Americans like to say, par for the course." Ricard smiled at Lovegrove. "But then your art adviser already knows

this. Which is why you both are here today."

Lovegrove interceded on his client's behalf. "And what if Madame Rolfe were interested in a transaction that didn't involve

an overseas bank account or shell company?"

"What sort of transaction?"

"A trade of her father's paintings for something a bit more, how shall I say, pristine in provenance."

"A trade will not solve your client's tax problems."

"It will if the new paintings remain here at the Freeport."

"Also par for the course," said Ricard. "Many of my clients leave their paintings here for years in order to avoid taxation and duty. And oftentimes when they elect to sell a painting, the shipping process involves nothing more than moving a crate from one storage vault to another. The Freeport contains the greatest art collection in the world, much of which is for sale. I'm sure we can find something of interest to Madame Rolfe."

"She prefers contemporary works," said Lovegrove.

"Does she like de Kooning?"

"Madame Rolfe would like to carefully consider her options before making a decision."

"Of course," said Ricard. "In the meantime, however, there is the small question of the gallery's commission."

"Because Madame Rolfe cannot write you a check to cover the cost of your fee, you will have to structure the deal in such

a way that takes your own interests into consideration."

It was an invitation to weight the transaction in the gallery's favor. Ricard quite obviously found the suggestion to his

liking. "That leaves the six paintings," he said, glancing down at the photographs. "We need to move them from their current

location here to the Freeport. And we have to do it in a way that involves a transaction. After all, the Freeport is not a

public storage facility. All of the paintings and other valuables locked away here are technically in transit."

"It has to be done in a way that protects Madame Rolfe's identity."

"Not a problem," said Ricard with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I do it all the time. Galerie Ricard will be the buyer of

record. Once the paintings are admitted into the Freeport, I will place them in a vault controlled solely by Madame Rolfe.

Her name, however, will appear nowhere in my files, and the Freeport authorities will know nothing of our connection."

"It all sounds a bit like my father's bank," said Anna.

"With one important exception, Madame Rolfe. The Freeport never gives up its secrets." Ricard's pen was hovering over his notebook. "You were about to tell me where to send the shippers to collect the six paintings."

Anna recited the address of her villa on the Costa de Prata.

"How does Tuesday sound?"

It was Ingrid, keeper of the schedule, who answered. She did so while looking down at her phone. "Tuesday would be fine, Monsieur

Ricard."