It's August 21st, 1911. Six o'clock on a Monday morning in Paris. In his apartment in

the 10th arrondissement, two miles from the Louvre Museum, Vincenzo Parugia is performing

his morning ablutions. A slightly built Italian, not quite into his thirties, he works here

as a painter and decorator. But recently he's had a different task on his mind. Once he's

finished waxing the curled ends of his moustache, he nods into the mirror, satisfied that today

will be the day. He dresses and makes the familiar journey to the Louvre. Monday is the day

when the museum is closed to visitors, so there's no one to see him in his white workers'

coat as he slips in through the heavy wooden doors. He swiftly makes his way to the salon

chare, a huge gallery with a richly-gilded ceiling. Faces stare out at him from the Renaissance

masterpiece all around on the walls. Parugia keeps his head down as he walks, but he's

noting everything around him. On a typical day in 1911, there are 166 guards on duty in

the museum. Today, there are just 12. It is the best chance for a plan he has been

formulating for a while. But the final decision has yet to be made. An enormous painting

by Paolo Veronesa dominates the wall opposite him. It tells the gospel story of the woman

who washes the feet of Christ at the house of Simon the Pharisee. It is immense, almost

10 meters wide and 4.5 meters high. It suits his purpose as a painting by an Italian master,

but it is far too big. His gaze folds below to a small portrait of a veiled woman dwarfed

by the giant above it. At just 77 centimeters high and 53 centimeters wide, it is the perfect

size. Parugia lifts the painting carefully from the wall without making a sound. Carrying

it under his arm, he walks slowly across the wooden floor and out of the salon chare.

Then he slips through a door into a small service staircase. There, he hides the picture behind

some student copies propped up against the wall. But at the bottom of the stairs, he finds

...