Breitwieser and Anne-Catherine realize police are closing in, gleaning clues from news reports that mention eyewitnesses and even a misaged male suspect. Breitwieser, amused and emboldened, begins abandoning frames in conspicuous places as a mocking “calling card.” A passing police car near their home jolts them, but when it moves on, Breitwieser reaffirms his belief that predictable police logic can be exploited.

The narrative outlines that investigators expect thieves to pursue one of three routes: fencing items at a fraction of market value; seeking ransom through “art-napping” intermediaries; or using art as underworld currency. Because all three require exchanges, police focus on those touchpoints, cultivating informants, scanning databases, and staging stings, as recovery—more than arrests—is the prime goal.

Statistics and infrastructure are sketched: less than 10 percent of stolen art overall is recovered, though museum items fare better; the Art Loss Register tracks hundreds of thousands of losses. Undercover work is highlighted through Charley Hill’s 1994 recovery of Munch’s The Scream in Norway, achieved by posing as a corrupt dealer and luring the thieves into a handover.

The chapter contrasts fiction with reality: Von der Mühll playfully invokes James Bond, while the real Goya Duke of Wellington theft shows a hapless burglar who ultimately surrendered the painting. Experts and inspectors insist there is “no Dr. No”; most thieves neither know nor care about art, reinforcing the assumption that a trade will surface.

That assumption fails with Breitwieser. He steals for pleasure and keeps everything, producing no exchange for police to intercept. He and Anne-Catherine intensify their unpredictability, hopscotching across European venues and mediums, convinced that this erratic pattern will keep them beyond the authorities’ reach.