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with her shoulder.
    “He would have more likely ignored it,” Marco said. “He was, you know, indifferent to anything he himself did not design or construct. His eye would always be on the next thing . If it already existed and he had no part in making it, it bored him.”
    “With an attitude like that,” she said with a smile, “he could have passed for an American.”
    They walked past the Ponte Vecchio, the jewelry stores on both sides of the street still doing a brisk business as the work day neared an end, and onto Via Girolami toward Santa Croce and the final resting place of Michelangelo.

CHAPTER
4
    T HE BALD MAN WITH THE FOUR-INCH SCAR RUNNING DOWN THE right side of his face opened an aluminum-lined briefcase and took two steps back. He looked over his shoulder at the man behind him and smiled. “On time and as promised,” he said.
    “It’s what you were paid to do,” the thin man said, brushing past him to gaze down at the contents of the briefcase. “Little reason to gloat.”
    “It was riskier than either of us anticipated,” the bald man said.
    “That might be due to the fact that the police were tipped off within minutes of the lift,” his client said. “And that tip came from the people you brought in to help with the operation. That end of the job was not well handled.”
    The bald man pulled out a crumpled white handkerchief and wiped at his neck and forehead. He was breathing through an open mouth, and his long-sleeve blue T-shirt was marred by circles of sweat. He had been an art thief and a forger going on fifteen years, mostly small-time lifts amounting to nothing more than a few thousand euros, the majority involving apartment break-ins of old-line Florentine families known to have paintings and sculptures that could easily be moved out of the city and country. “We were gone by the time they arrived,” he said, his voice still steady, his upper lip twitching slightly. “And we left nothing behind that could be traced back to us.”
    The thin man turned away from the briefcase and glared at the thief. “There is no ‘us,’” he said. “And as long as we conduct business together, I suggest you remember that.”
    “Listen, I didn’t mean to imply we were partners,” the bald man said. “Hell, I don’t even know your name, which makes it impossible for me to tell anyone anything. I just meant I was doing this job for you.”
    “Roberto Mangini,” the thin man said, leaning against the side of the wooden table on which the briefcase rested. “Is that your real name or the one you want me to believe is real?”
    “The first name is real,” the bald man said, “and that still puts you one up on me.”
    “How much would you say the art in the briefcase is worth?” the thin man asked.
    “Depending on the buyer and how eager you are to move it, I’d say two hundred, maybe even 300,000 euros,” Roberto said. “Minus any cuts that have to be paid out along the way.”
    They were standing in the center of the large kitchen of a shuttered restaurant on a small side street near the Pitti Palace. An overhead bulb shrouded by a thin shade swung above them. It was past midnight now, and the occasional footsteps of a late diner or a couple heading home after an evening walk could be heard.
    “And how much of your time would that amount buy me?” the thin man asked.
    “Depends on the job you want done,” Roberto said. “If it’s another break-in that turned out to be as easy as this one, then it would hold me for a week, maybe a few days more. Something more complicated always gets to be more expensive. But until I know what you have in mind, I can’t say.”
    “Then I’ll answer for you,” the thin man said. “I give you this painting, allow you to sell it to the highest bidder and pocket all the proceeds. I’ll even pay any commissions or cuts that are required along the way. Fair enough so far?”
    Roberto nodded. “I like what I hear,” he said.
    “You can bank