Bonn

"Sir, there's an officer from Interpol here to see you, an Inspector Alain Fournier."

The words were no sooner out of Agent A's mouth than the Interpol officer shouldered past him into Klaus's office. Annoyed at the man's presumption, Klaus presented a less than welcoming face to the newcomer.

"Inspector Fournier. To what to I owe the pleasure?" Klaus glanced at A, still standing in the doorway. "That will be all, thank you, Herr A."

Grateful to escape, A closed the door quietly and went back to his desk. Klaus signalled to Fournier to take a seat. "So, Inspector, what do you want?"

"Major, I'm here about a matter that's being investigated by Interpol, but I'd like to emphasise that this visit doesn't form an official part of the investigation. I'm hoping that you and I might be able to assist each other unofficially. It would be in the interests of both our organisations if we kept our collaboration on an informal basis."

"Oh?"

"Major, Interpol has been called in by the local police to aid in the investigation into the sale of a stolen painting - a significant cultural treasure taken from a museum in the United States something like twenty years ago."

"Stolen painting? What's that got to do with NATO?"

"Normally, nothing. In this particular instance, quite a lot. It was stolen by the thief known as Eroica."

Klaus gave no sign that he recognised the name.

"Major, you're in a position to help us here."

"What makes you say that?"

"I believe that you know who Eroica is. You've hired him on occasion to work for you."

Perhaps Fournier had hoped to shock him into cooperating, but Klaus did not react. He'd wondered, sometimes, whether Interpol had known that. How long had they known? How did they first find out? He could see Fournier watching him keenly, trying to gauge his response, but Klaus's expression gave nothing away.

Fournier started to become irritated. "Major, I had hoped that your sense of right and wrong would prevail here. Eroica's a criminal. The man has caused financial loss to public and private owners that runs into millions."

Klaus glared stonily at the officer. "Inspector Fournier, you're wasting your time. Stolen paintings are of no interest to NATO; they're of no interest to me. Don't presume to lecture me about my sense of right and wrong. I'm unable to assist you. Good day, Inspector."

Klaus stood up, expecting Fournier to do the same. He didn't.

"Look, Eberbach - "

"Von dem Eberbach," Klaus corrected him frostily. "Major von dem Eberbach."

"Major von dem Eberbach," Fournier ground out, resenting every syllable, "Interpol is aware that you deal with the art thief Eroica. You've hired him to assist NATO more than once. You know the man's identity."

Klaus shrugged. "I can neither confirm nor deny that. The identity of NATO's operatives is classified. A matter of international security."

Fournier glowered sullenly at Klaus. "They said you were an uncooperative bastard."

"They?"

Fournier didn't bother to elaborate on who ‘They' were, but Klaus didn't really care.

Stalemate. Klaus had information Interpol wanted, but without ignoring the rules of professional cooperation Fournier could not force him to disclose it.

The Inspector stood up and glared at Klaus. "You know the man's identity, and if I had any legal means of bringing pressure to bear on you, I'd demand that you divulge that information to me. As it is, just be aware: we're watching."

Displeasure written all over his face, Fournier stomped out of Klaus's office, leaving the door swinging open.

Empty threats, thought Klaus. You haven't found out who Eroica is in all these years, and you're not going to find out now. Not from me.

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Not far from North Downs

Dorian had never visited the Honourable Hugh Rainsford before, but he'd been intrigued by a telephone call he'd received the evening before.

"Gloria," Rainsford had crowed, "I have something that I think you will be interested to see. I've acquired a painting."

And so, keen to find a distraction from the matter of the stolen Vermeer in Bonn, he'd accepted Rainsford's invitation.

The two didn't know each other well. Dorian had vague memories of Rainsford as a pale-faced child in the Junior School during his own last years at Eton. In more recent years they had met at social events, where Rainsford had made an unfavourable impression on Dorian with his over-familiar manner and his lack of wit and flair: the man was dull, and he tried too hard to impress.

Rainsford lived with his vapid, fashionable wife and their three picture-perfect children in a prosperous part of Surrey. His career in banking brought in a salary generous enough to support his family's showy lifestyle and to allow Hugh himself to indulge some of his whims. Hugh Rainsford had pretentions to being an art collector.

A glass of gin and tonic in hand, Dorian sat in Rainsford's drawing room.

"Now, Gloria," began Rainsford, "you have a fearsome reputation as someone who knows about art. I know that you will appreciate what I am going to show you. But I have to ask for your discretion." His voice dropped, although there was no-one else in the house to listen. "This painting has not been seen for a while; it's been in hiding, you might say."

Dorian raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Rainsford could barely suppress his own excitement as he replied to the unspoken question. "This painting ... disappeared, shall we say ... some few years ago. I was very lucky to get the offer to buy it, and I can assure you, Gloria, that I snapped it up without hesitation. But I do have to be ... circumspect ... about who can see it."

"What's the point of having a painting you can't let everyone see?" asked Dorian disingenuously. The Earl of Gloria knew all about having a secret collection, of course, but Hugh Rainsford didn't know anything about the Earl's less public activities and took the question at face value.

"This painting is something very, very special. Buying it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. As time goes on, it'll become a family heirloom; after a few generations, nobody will care about where it spent the last few years and how it came into the family."

Dorian shifted impatiently in his seat. Obviously, Rainsford had bought something on the black market and the excitement he was deriving from his flirtation with the dark side was giving him as much pleasure as owning the painting itself.

"So are you going to tell me what it is?" Dorian sipped his gin and tonic.

"Rembrandt." Rainsford looked smug. "Storm on the Sea of Galilee."

Dorian's eyes went wide. "Good Lord," he said. "The Isabella Stewart Gardner Collection."

"Oh, yes," chortled Rainsford. "The great unsolved art theft of the 1990s. Well, it's been twenty years, but whoever's had the paintings seems to be letting them go. They approached me two months ago. Knew all about my collection; knew all about my tastes. At the price they named, I couldn't refuse. Gloria, I don't mind telling you: I made a killing." He put down his empty glass and stood with a commanding flourish. "Let me show you the greatest treasure I own."

The men crossed the spacious room to a solid mahogany door leading to Rainsford's private study. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocked it, and led Dorian in.

The painting hung on the wall next to his ostentatious antique-reproduction desk. In self-congratulatory tones, Rainsford said, "There it is. If I never buy another painting in my life, I'll still die happy. Owning a Rembrandt has to be the absolute pinnacle of delight for me."

Dorian's expression grew serious as he gazed at the painting. He moved closer, raking his eyes across the canvas. Closer again, closer still, until he stood only a pace away from the picture, homing in on the brush strokes, the blending and layering of colours, the texture of the paint.

"What do you think, Gloria?"

Dorian turned to face his host. "Well, somebody made a killing - but I'm afraid it wasn't you, Rainsford. It's a forgery."

The colour drained from Rainsford's face. His mouth sagged open. "Forgery? Are you certain?"

"Of course I am. It's good, but not quite good enough. It's a forgery, beyond doubt."

Rainsford flopped into the nearest armchair and rubbed a trembling hand over his face. "So it's worthless? I've spent more than two years' salary, and it's not worth a penny?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Rainsford; it's a very good reproduction." Dorian gazed around the room, taking in the faux Regency furniture, the imitation Tiffany glasswork, the replica duelling pistols mounted on the wall.

"Reproduction! That's not what I paid for!" Rainsford spluttered angrily. "The fellow I dealt with represented this as being a genuine Rembrandt! A painting with a history!" Colour flushed back into his face, daubing two angry red blotches on his cheeks. "And now-! I've been cheated! It's reprehensible!"

"Not much you can do about it, though, is there?" Dorian drawled. "Caveat emptor, and all that. You can't very well go to the police. It's a criminal offence to knowingly buy stolen goods. Of course, since the painting isn't what you thought it was, that might not apply, but it's rather a sticky situation all the same, don't you think? If I were you, I'd just keep quiet about it. Look on the bright side: you can display it now. You can tell everyone you had it hand painted by one of those copyist chaps."

Once he'd been informed that his costly purchase was not the real thing, Rainsford lost his relish for entertaining, and Dorian's visit was cut short. On the way home, Dorian thought through the implications of what he had seen. If more than one painting from the same heist had been sold recently, there had to be a connection between the two sales. And, if one of them had proved to be a fake, the likelihood was that the other one would be too.

As soon as he arrived home, he phoned Klaus.

"I've just come back from seeing a man who wanted to show me a painting he's acquired. Klaus, the painting was another one from the Isabella Stewart Gardner heist - but it was a forgery."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. It was good enough to take in an uninformed buffoon like Rainsford, but not good enough to withstand expert scrutiny."

"Who is this man? A collector? Surely he would have checked the painting's provenance."

"The man's a fool," Dorian said contemptuously. "He'd like to build a reputation as an art collector but he has no taste. He's a pretentious no-talent who earns more money than is good for him and spends it trying to impress people. He's a laughing stock, really. But never mind Rainsford. Klaus, this is too big a coincidence. The Vermeer in Bonn, now this Rembrandt - both of these paintings are supposed to be from the Gardner heist. The two incidents have to be linked. If the painting Rainsford bought was a forgery, this other one probably is, too. Has its authenticity been checked?"

"I don't know - possibly not. Unless it's routinely done, I'd say not."

"Then get them to check it - now! I'll bet London to a brick that it's a fake."

"I'll get it looked at - but I'll have to tread carefully. I had Interpol here this afternoon - a mannerless bastard by the name of Inspector Alain Fournier. Said he knew that you'd done work for NATO and tried to push me into revealing your identity."

A shadowy shiver of fear passed through Dorian. "Do you think you've seen the last of him?"

"Can't say."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Klaus - get them to check that painting. If it's a forgery, then that makes it an entirely different case. It's not about Eroica robbing the Gardner museum any more: it's about someone passing off fake paintings. Eroica's not a forger. It'll change the direction of their enquiries."

"Leave it with me. I'll get someone to look at the Vermeer." Klaus rang off, and leafed through his phone book for Gerd Scherer's number.

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