by Anna Porter
Artemisia shed Caravaggio’s influence as her own style developed, and she began to paint in styles favoured by the courts of Milan and Naples. She needed patrons, and the rough Caravaggist manner was thought unsuitable for a woman. The painting of Cleopatra she had presented to the Grand Duke Cosimo de’ Medici was much softer, the figure more suggestive and less powerful than her earlier female figures.
“There are forty known paintings by this artist in the world,” Helena said. “I think I have seen them all. I have also spent a couple of winters in the basement of the Hermitage, and I would definitely remember this painting had it been there. I have to do some tests, of course, but I do not believe it’s a copy of anything in the Hermitage.”
“Tests?”
“Carbon dating analysis of the canvas fibres, the pigments in the paint, the wood support of the canvas. It will take time.”
“How much time?”
“It can take months if you want it authenticated. One case I was involved in took two years. If you want to be absolutely sure, you would use spectroscopy, as it allows us to determine the molecular structure of the paint . . .”
“I don’t have months,” Gizella said. “What can you do in a couple of weeks?” She stood and walked to the windows. “I do not think he will give me even that long. He has announced his intention to move to Brussels before the end of the month to take up another appointment. I would not be going with him.”
“That does not sound very cordial. And you said the divorce was not unpleasant.”
Gizella shrugged, rubbed her palms together in a strange gesture of “what can you do,” and smiled out at her garden. “It’s the move to Brussels,” she said. “He has another, more important appointment, and he wants to settle everything before he goes.”
“Presumably,” Helena said, “Mr. Magoci gave you advice on that, Mrs. Vaszary. I certainly cannot, but I can tell you that a proper analysis of the painting cannot be done in such a short time. All I can do is take small samples for carbon dating and give you my best guess as to authenticity.”
“There are buyers who may not demand a complete analysis, don’t you think?” Gizella turned away from the window and came up to the painting. “There are some who may even accept an opinion from an expert, such as you, and not wait for the test results.”
Helena said she would see what she could do. She took a number of photographs of the painting, some from a distance of three metres to encompass all of it, some up, paying particular attention to the faces, the folds in Judith’s cloak, the contrasts of murky dark and brilliant highlights, the signature, and the rusty blood around Holofernes’s neck. She nicked the tiniest bit of paint from the bottom left corner of the painting and put it into her handkerchief, another from where Judith’s dress met her breast, and an even more miniscule sample of the signature. She examined the back of the painting for any telltale marks, felt the canvas, and cut a tiny speck from the wood. “I will let you know,” she said. “Meanwhile, I have a pressing problem with the local police, who knew I was with your lawyer on the boat and seem to think I can tell them something about the man who killed him.”
“And you can’t?”
“I can’t. And I don’t want to be involved with the police here — or anywhere, for that matter. They are slow-moving and tedious. This whole situation has nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know the man.”
“But you did take off after the killer. It’s what the television said.”
“It was the right thing to do. He had just shot someone I sat with, and he was going to vanish long before the police arrived. . . .”
Mrs. Vaszary laughed. “I wouldn’t have thought of running after that man.”
Not in that outfit, and not in those shoes . . . “I need to borrow a scarf and sunglasses, if you have them,” Helena said. “Perhaps I can give you my preliminary assessment and leave before they decide to hold me as a material witness.”
“I can’t imagine they would,” Gizella said, and asked Hilda, who had been lingering in the doorway, to bring her silk Chanel scarf and a pair of sunglasses from the hall closet.
Helena stuffed her baseball cap into her backpack, exchanged the cheap cathedral scarf for Gizella’s chic Chanel, which she wrapped over her head and throat. She put on the sunglasses and checked her reflection in the gold-framed hall mirror. Lucy, she noted, had watched her every move.
Chapter Five
Attila took a cab from the Strasbourg airport to the official residence on Rue Geiler. He asked to see Iván Vaszary. When Hilda told him that Vaszary was not expected back from Paris until eight o’clock, he asked whether Mrs. Vaszary could see him. Hilda, a pleasant woman from somewhere on the Hungarian prairies, was usually happy to see Attila. Someone from home who had no airs and often shared old Hungarian jokes with her. Today, however, she was as gloomy as Attila felt after his visit with Tóth. “Mrs. Vaszary,” she said, “told me to tell you that she does not feel well.”
That, Attila thought, was hardly surprising since her lawyer had just been killed.
Attila took another cab to Magoci’s office at the end of Rue d’Austerlitz. It was in one of the new designer structures that the city had commissioned. All glass and steel, reminiscent of Eurométropole, with not a hint of comfort for anyone who was determined to rent there. Magoci and Associates (Les Bureaux Magoci) occupied three floors, with the entrance on the second floor, where two uniforms and a very blond receptionist surveyed Attila with no hint of a welcome.
Attila marched past the uniforms. “Bonjour,” he said to the receptionist with his friendliest smile. “I have an appointment with Monsieur Magoci.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Quel est la nature de votre relation avec Monsieur Magoci?” the taller policeman asked.
“A private matter,” Attila said in English.
“Perhaps Monsieur Gilet could help you?” the receptionist asked. “He is one of our senior lawyers.”
The taller policeman inserted himself between Attila and the receptionist. “No one,” he said, “will go into the office today.”
“Mais Monsieur . . .”
“You have not heard the news,” the policeman interrupted. “Mr. Magoci has . . . he died.” He accompanied his statement with a slight eye roll followed by a sad glance at his boots. “We need to know why you want to see Mr. Magoci.”
“He was acting for one of our citizens in, as I said, a private matter.”
“What citizen?”
“Hungarian,” Attila said, as if that explained everything.
“You wait here,” the policeman commanded, and left by the door behind the remarkably well-endowed receptionist. She seemed quite aggrieved by Attila’s treatment but contented herself with asking for his name and telling him that she was usually Monsieur Magoci’s receptionist and she would be pleased to make the introduction to Monsieur Gilet, one of Monsieur Magoci’s associates, when this was over. Her name, she said, was Mademoiselle Audet.
The uniformed officer returned with a plainclothes policeman who asked what Attila’s business was and who had sent him.
“Je ne parle pas bien français,” Attila said. “English?”
“Okay,” the detective said. “Your name?”
“Fehér,” Attila said, “and I work for the Hungarian representative at the Council of Europe, Mr. Vaszary.”
“Secretarial, I assume?” the detective asked, smirking at Attila’s wide shoulders and sharing the joke with the uniformed guys.
“Of course,” Attila said, and returned the smirk. “But I used to be a policeman,” he said.
“Hébert, Lieutenant de Police,” the plainclothes policeman said, and shook Attila’s hand. “Your rank?”
“Lieutenant when I left.”
“And you are here because?”
Attila had considered the possibility of admitting that Ma
goci had been Gizella’s lawyer but decided not to. “Mr. Vaszary had hoped to hire Mr. Magoci on a private matter. Not strictly embassy business. He asked me to find out if Mr. Magoci would be interested.”
“Where were you yesterday?”
“In Budapest. Why?”
“Magoci was killed yesterday,” Hébert said. “On a tour boat.”
Attila managed to raise both eyebrows to indicate utter surprise. “On a tour boat?”
“With an arrow.”
Attila whistled in appreciation of the unusual circumstances. “On the Rhine?”
“L’ill. It runs through Strasbourg. There was a man with a bow and arrow on one of the bridges.”
“Have you arrested him?”
Hébert shook his head. “Monsieur Fehér, I am asking the questions. Before you came here today, did no one tell you that Monsieur Magoci has been murdered?”
Attila shook his head. Ignorance was usually the best way to extract information.
“Do you know how your boss happened to pick Monsieur Magoci for his lawyer?”
Attila shook his head again.
“Have you met him before?”
“Monsieur Magoci? No.”
“Just picked him out of the phone book, did he? Bizarre, n’est pas? And he sent you here with no appointment? Mademoiselle Audet,” he spoke to the young woman at the reception desk, “did Monsieur Fehér have an appointment today?”
Mademoiselle Audet seemed truly sorry that she had to admit “No, Monsieur.”
“Isn’t that a little, how you say, négligent of your boss? You coming here without an appointment? In your country, Monsieur Fehér, would you expect a lawyer to be available for a consultation without an appointment?”
Attila shrugged.
“I thought perhaps not, but, you know, here we are tolerant of other people’s customs. How long have you been stationed in our city?”
“About three weeks,” Attila said.
“You haven’t taken up a bit of archery to pass the time?”
Attila laughed. “I told you I was in Budapest yesterday. You can check with Lieutenant Tóth, of the Budapest Metropolitan Police. I was meeting with him.”
“All day, or just when Monsieur Magoci was killed?”
Nice try, if a bit obvious, Attila thought. “Since I don’t know what time he was killed . . .”
“Of course, I forgot. Le bateau was approaching the Luther Bridge at around 1300 hours where the man with the tir a l’arc was waiting.” He took a step toward Attila and looked closely at his face. Another move right out of the training book, Attila thought. “Monsieur Magoci was not alone,” Hébert said.
Attila fidgeted with his cellphone, took it out of his pocket, looked at it, put it back into his pocket. Hébert, as if he had just been reminded that he had to check his own phone, pulled his out of his shoulder bag, looked at it, then the two men looked at each other. And waited.
“You wouldn’t know a woman, about a hundred and seventy centimetres tall, slim, dark blond shoulder-length hair, high forehead, very athletic,” Hébert said at last. “No. More than athletic. Maybe a gymnast. Fast runner.” He showed Attila the photo on his iPhone. A surprisingly good shot of Helena in the air jumping over someone, one foot still on the side of the boat, other foot raised for landing on the embankment. In the next shot, she was running, her arms pumping by her sides. Her dark blue running shoes floated above the pavement. It was a bright sunny day. Her profile, even from this angle, was lovely, her chin thrust forward, eyes fixed; unfortunately, an excellent picture.
“Wish I did,” Attila said.
“Moi aussi,” Hébert said. “If, by some chance, you remember who she is, or if she introduces herself to you, please let me know.” He reached into his breast pocket, took out a small leather case, and extracted a card with his name, his division number, and his phone number. “How long are you staying in our city?”
“Depends on Mr. Vaszary and how long he is staying.”
“If Lieutenant Tóth at Budapest quartier general de policier is right, Monsieur Vaszary could be here for a long time. His appointment is for five years. Perhaps you should learn French. . . .”
Chapter Six
She saw the car as soon as she rounded the corner of Rue Geiler and Rue Herder. A large black SUV with custom tires and front fenders that had been fitted onto its snout to make it look invincible. Was it the same car she had seen a few blocks from the Vaszarys? It was not the kind of car anyone would choose if he did not wish to be seen. That it followed her at a slow jogging pace proved the point. She stopped at the corner of Avenue d’Alsace, stood in front of the bank building where pedestrians waited for the lights to change, and waited for the SUV to catch up. The driver wore a black uniform, hat and visor, and even a striped tie. The back windows were tinted grey. When the car pulled up next to her, the back door opened, and Vladimir Azarov stepped out holding a long-stemmed red rose in one hand and a flute of what looked like champagne in the other.
“Welcome to Strasbourg, Helena,” he purred. He was tall, broad-backed, with a stone-carved face, high cheekbones, stark long planes, high forehead, thin lips, and wide-set black eyes. He always had a healthy tan. She had known him for years, never trusted him, but found him interesting in spite of herself. “I had hoped to meet you here and, mirabile deus, here you are.”
“Hardly a miracle, Vladimir, since you have been following me for three blocks.”
“And such a clever disguise; it would deceive most men, but as you know I am not most men, and I am used to your inexhaustible tricks of the trade. I particularly love the glasses. Gucci, I believe.”
Helena accepted the champagne. What the hell, it had been a long day, and she rarely refused good champagne. Vladimir would always buy the best. “How did you know I was here?”
“It was difficult to miss you on the news, leaping out of that boat, flying along the shore, such long strides, you have not slacked off your daily runs, have you?” he asked. “Would you care to join me? The Veuve Clicquot is in the car, and we could have a more private discussion. So much catching up to do.” Vladimir was one of the less violent Ukrainian oligarchs Helena had encountered appraising Renaissance art, but he was certainly not above some very rough play when he thought it would serve his interests. Rough, in Vladimir’s lexicon, ranged from simple broken bones to the more complex assassinations he may have instigated in Kiev.
“I prefer to walk,” Helena said, looking at Azarov’s driver, who had hauled himself out of the SUV to stand by the open back door. He was a big man. His shoulder and arm muscles stretched the fabric of his black jacket. The bulge at his side was about the size of a Glock, but Helena assumed he would be more likely to carry a Makarov. Despite the frosty relations between Russians and Ukrainians, the latter still preferred Russian manufacturers. “He seems to have recovered nicely from his misadventure in Bucharest.”
“A couple of days in the hospital. A few stitches in his right hand. Your friend Marcia is one tough broad. Good thing you didn’t bring her along for this little job.” Vladimir gestured at the open door. “Will you?”
“I prefer to walk,” Helena repeated, and set off across the road toward the river. A couple of pedestrians had stopped to peer into the car until the driver blocked them. About a year ago, Marcia, the former curator of Bucharest Museum’s seventeenth- and eighteenth-century art turned fixer-bodyguard, had reduced this driver to a whimpering wreck when he was trying to steal a Titian for his boss.
“You needn’t worry about Piotr. He doesn’t hold grudges.” Vladimir laughed. “FSB grads have unusually thick skins.” The FSB, or Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, was the Russian Federation’s security service, the new iteration of the legendary KGB.
“I thought he was Ukrainian,” Helena said.
“Mostly,” Vladimir said with a laugh. “He is also a Cossack. T
hey tend not to belong to anyone.”
“It isn’t him I worry about,” Helena said. “You didn’t say what brings you to Strasbourg.”
Vladimir caught up to her, took her empty glass and tossed it into a recycling bin, broke the stem of the rose and slipped the short end into the buttonhole of his fine linen jacket. “I think we are both here for the same reason. A rare painting that I may be interested in purchasing for my collection. It’s not the sort of art I would put in my bedroom, but it could sit nicely alongside my Titian and the Raphael in the study. I told Mrs. Vaszary I wouldn’t even crate it, we could drive it down the coast to Montenegro. But I would like to think it’s painted by Artemisia herself. As a rule, I don’t buy copies or forgeries.”
Helena knew of at least one forgery Vladimir had purchased, but neither of them had ever referred to it. She assumed that had he known it was one of Simon’s Renoirs, he would have mentioned it when he wanted to buy her expertise the last time. It would have served as excellent leverage. Helena had carefully guarded her flawless reputation from any connection to her father. “You are here to buy the painting,” she said.
“Sadly, I am not the only one.”
“How many others?” Helena asked.
“You haven’t changed your mind about joining me in the car for another glass of champagne?” The SUV was following a few steps behind them, Piotr glowering over the steering wheel. “In that case,” Vladimir said to her back, “perhaps we could try a riverside terrace across the way from Saint Joseph Church, in case you missed that lovely landmark on your hurried river tour earlier? You would be guaranteed a large crowd of jolly late-afternoon beer drinkers, so no concerns about being alone with me inside a car.”
“That sounds fine,” Helena said.
Vladimir led the way into Le Rafiot’s shaded entrance and onto the deck facing the river. He ordered two Kronenbourgs on the way in. They sat on benches at a rough wooden table. “This is the local craft beer, made here since the seventeenth century,” he said. “I tried to buy the factory in 2015, but they wouldn’t sell. I love this city. It’s so pleasantly liveable.”