By early 1997, Stéphane Breitwieser and Anne‑Catherine have been stealing nearly every weekend for almost two years, with another one or two solo thefts monthly by Breitwieser. Around two hundred works now fill Mireille’s attic. Breitwieser feels their relationship is strong, but acquaintances say Anne‑Catherine is tiring of the Bonnie‑and‑Clyde life. A recent Normandy trip ended abruptly after an Ouest‑France headline, “Raid on Museums!,” frightened her.

With Anne‑Catherine’s winter vacation approaching, Breitwieser proposes not a pause but a geographic shift to deflect police attention. He believes cross‑border information sharing is weak, so when risk rises—often per Anne‑Catherine’s threshold—they switch countries. He selects Belgium for a weekend reconnaissance, with the option to return during her longer break, and they depart at dawn on a January Saturday in 1997.

The narrative widens to expert perspectives on compulsive collecting. Psychoanalyst Werner Muensterberger describes how collecting can offer outsiders a private refuge and produce an unquenchable need; the thrill peaks during pursuit. Art‑crime scholar Erin Thompson notes that thief‑collectors feel a deeper bond than legal owners and crave the “pleasure of touch.” Breitwieser’s brain has never been tested, but the pattern fits an unsated drive.

What stops such momentum, the chapter suggests, are mistakes or luck. In an early Swiss theft, a belt buckle clattered to the floor near a guard who failed to investigate; Breitwieser learned to avoid big buckles thereafter.

Traveling on backroads to save money and savor scenery, they reach Brussels by lunchtime. They park near the vast Art & History Museum—Belgium’s Louvre‑like institution. Although Anne‑Catherine forbids the actual Louvre, Breitwieser says that here he initiates a crime as close to perfect as he ever achieves.