“What’s in it for the oligarch?” Saj asked, clicking keys on his keyboard. “Curry favor?
“Loopholes, if you know where, exist in the regulations,” René said. “Money laundering and kickbacks become donations and a perfect conduit for bribes. Financial compliance on minimal security for non-profits. Too many big fish to catch—why pursue minnows in the arts?”
“How does Rasputin know?” Aimée asked.
“It’s all done through backdoor operations of hired hackers,” Saj said.
René nodded. “True. He’s Estonian. The best.”
René caught her look.
“I didn’t ask any more, Aimée. Disrespect him once and he’ll never answer another email. Hired hackers set up the system to evade security nets and skirt financial compliance via loopholes. Nothing new. Done it myself.”
“I don’t want to know, René,” she said.
“Rasputin’s info checks out. Give it another eight months until an idiot talks, gets caught, and tumbles it,” he said. “The exchanges of art and culture translate to a Neuilly flat for a ministry official who accepts the bid from—”
“A Russian metal cockpit aerospace firm,” she interrupted. “Like Bereskova?”
René clicked and dragged a screen. “Such an easy way to move money, no questions asked. Bereskova gets the party to agree to the agenda and transfers the money to the official who happens to sit on the museum board.”
“But he needs art credibility.” Rays of morning light caught and illumined the blue glass vase of daffodils on the fireplace mantel.
“True. They didn’t think this through or have a long-term game plan. It’s all about now, while international cultural organizations go through minimal regulatory hoops. The Ministry of Culture is anxious for foreign cultural investment, so they ’spread their legs’—Rasputin’s words—to facilitate a Russian cultural center, museum, whatever.”
“Sounds too easy,” Saj said. “Then why doesn’t everyone do it?”
“The regulations are brand-new. Went into effect this year. Few know. But one glitch.”
Of course. Aimée had been waiting for this. Worried, she tapped her heels.
“The time factor,” René said. “The ministry’s co-funding arm dries up tomorrow. But institutions who’ve applied are grandfathered in.”
“Meaning Bereskova’s paper museum’s in?” she said. Maxence was listening, eyes wide with excitement. Aimée had almost forgotten he was there, he was so quiet. For once. “Then what will the Modigliani give him?”
“Credibility.”
“He needs the Modigliani.”
Saj nodded. “Rasputin puts the info up and promises that it will go viral in three continents within, say, three to four hours. He’s dying to—”
“Put a collar on him for now,” she said. “We need the timing right. I’m not sure.”
“No muzzling the wild man,” Saj said. “If we try, he’ll take the reins and run.”
René sat up. “I see the problem. If we delay the funds transaction, where’s the proof? That’s what you mean, Aimée?”
“Exactement. I need to get my hands on the painting first.”
“Even if the sham museum’s a front?” Saj said. “And Marina’s deposit slip proves it?”
“Exposing layers like this takes time,” René said.
“Time we don’t have,” Aimée said. She set down her bag, poured herself a warm espresso from the still-dripping machine. “If we screw up the timing.…”
“I’ve got an idea,” René said.
“Like what?” Saj readjusted his amber beads.
“If it could scam Wall Street, it could scam a Swiss bank.” René padded over to his desk. “But give me two hours.”
“I haven’t found the Modigliani,” she said, feeling off her game. Was it the water torture, or those drugs? She’d felt so tired, sad, and confused after Melac left this morning. “I think I’m anemic.”
“Take care of yourself for once.” The skin around René’s green eyes creased in concern. “Get a blood test. Iron supplements.” He opened a screen on his computer. “But our girl wonder falls off the job? We’ll forgive you once—but to give up?”
“Did I say that, René?”
“We’re covered here.”
“You mean you’re staying, René?”
“If you’ll have me, Aimée,” he said. Then he looked down, got off his ergonomic chair. Reached for his briefcase. “But I understand if you feel otherwise. I let you down.”
Three pairs of eyes stared at her.
“Not at all,” she said. “I need your help, René.”
He grinned, climbed back on his chair.
“What are you waiting for?”
SHE NEEDED TO go back over everything. From the beginning. In the office, while everyone worked, she propped the dry erase board against the massage table. Studied the timeline of events from the Serb’s accident on Monday night, Yuri’s murder on Tuesday, then Luebet. Pored over the notes she’d made at Madame Figuer’s kitchen table, the details from her to-do list on Oleg and Tatyana, Damien, the concierge at rue Marie Rose.
What cracks in their stories had she missed? What wasn’t she seeing? Her eye caught on her grand-père’s commendation from the Louvre on recovering the Degas—she could see the framed certificate just above the dry erase board.
She searched the old file cabinet for all his files. The ones she’d planned to digitize but never got around to.
Then she found it. The old investigative report on the stolen Degas. She’d been ten at the time. After her ballet lesson, he’d taken her to the art recovery unit in the complex at the préfecture. She remembered how huge the place felt, how musty it smelled. In a vault, he’d picked up a small bronze statue. Smiled at her. “This could be you, Aimée.”
A small bronze ballerina, no taller than an uncut rose stem, her tutu suspended in midair like fluff, caught in the act of a twirl. Mesmerizing. So lifelike.