The Fallen Angel

said. “The rest of the year it’s unoccupied except for the caretaker. He has a small cottage on the property.”
    “What about security?”
    “Surely a man such as yourself realizes there’s no such thing as security. As long as there are no surprises, my men will be in and out of the house within a few minutes. And you will have your Greek pot in short order.”
    “I think I’d like a Cézanne, too.”
    “Verisimilitude?”
    “It’s all in the details, Maurice.”
    Durand smiled. He was a detail man himself.
     
     
    He made but one request, that they resist the temptation to monitor his movements as he went about the business of fulfilling their contract. They readily agreed, despite the fact they had absolutely no intention of living up to their end of the bargain. Maurice Durand had once stolen several hundred million dollars’ worth of paintings in the span of a single summer. One could utilize the services of a criminal like Durand, but only a fool would ever turn his back on him.
    For three days, he kept to his beau quartier at the northern end of the eighth arrondissement. His schedule, like his shop, was filled with pleasant oddities from another time. He drank two café crèmes each morning at the same table of the same brasserie with no company other than a stack of newspapers, which he purchased from the same tabac . After that, he would cross the narrow street and, at the stroke of ten, disappear into his gilded little cage. Occasionally, he was obliged to open its doors to a client or a deliveryman, but for the most part Durand’s confinement remained solitary. Lunch was taken at one and lasted until half past two, when he would return to the shop for the remainder of the afternoon. At five, he would pay a brief visit to Madame Brossard. Then it was back to his table at the brasserie for a glass of Côtes du Rhône, which he drank always with an air of supreme contentment.
    For those unlucky souls who were forced to keep watch over this seemingly charmed life, Maurice Durand was the subject of both endless fascination and passionate resentment. Not surprisingly, there were a few members of the team, most notably Yaakov, who believed that Gabriel had erred by placing the opening stage of the operation in the hands of such a man. “Look at the watch reports,” Yaakov demanded over dinner at the team’s primary safe flat near the Bois de Boulogne. “It’s obvious that Maurice has salted away our million euros and has no intention of ever delivering the goods.” Gabriel, however, was unconcerned. Durand had shown himself in the past to be a man of some principle. “He’s also a natural thief,” said Gabriel. “And there’s nothing a thief enjoys more than stealing from the very rich.”
    Gabriel’s faith was rewarded the following morning, when Unit 8200 overheard Durand booking first-class accommodations on the midday TGV train to Marseille. Yaakov and Oded made the trip with him, and at five that evening, they observed their quarry make a mildly clandestine meeting in the Old Port with a local fisherman. Later, they would identify the “fisherman” as Pascal Rameau, leader of one of Marseille’s many criminal organizations.
    It was at this point that the operation appeared to gather its first momentum, for within twenty-four hours of Durand’s visit, members of Rameau’s crew were casing the Belgian’s lavish villa. Gabriel knew this because two members of his own crew, Yossi and Rimona, had taken a short-term lease on a villa in the hills above the property and were watching it constantly with the help of long-lens cameras and video recorders. They never saw Rameau’s men again. But two nights later, as a violent storm laid siege to the entire length of the Côte d’Azur, they were awakened by the wail of sirens along the coast road. For the next several hours, they watched blue lights flashing despondently in the drive of the Belgian’s seaside palace. The police scanner told them everything they needed to know. One Cézanne, one Greek vase, no arrests. C’est la vie .
     
     
    It was in all the papers, which is exactly what they had hoped for. The Cézanne was the main attraction; the Greek vase, a lovely hydria by the Amykos Painter, a mere afterthought. The distraught Belgian owner offered a substantial reward for information leading to the recovery of his goods, while his insurers, the great Lloyd’s of London, quietly let it be known that they would consider