I placed on the overhead reader a transparency of the paint analysis, so that my audience could see the date and place of the test.
‘You will see,’ I said, ‘that this test does indeed confirm such a date. It has been generally accepted that 1666 is a convenient position in Vermeer’s oeuvre to place the Lady, on stylistic grounds. Nothing here would contradict that. Although I have to say that nothing strictly confirms it, for the date range is too great to pinpoint the picture to a particular year. To achieve this level of certainty, we must go to dendrochronology. Among the tests to which I had access at first I could find no trace of this most important and accurate analysis, and, without betraying my sources, I have to tell you that, if I had not had help from insiders, I would not be able to give you this information now. Only recently was I shown the results of the dendrochronological test that was done in 1989, which reveals that, whether my hypothesis of van den Bergh is correct or not, Jan Vermeer of Delft certainly did not paint the Lady in a Pelisse.’
I was not dissatisfied with the ripple of excitement that passed through the hall. I placed a new transparency on the overhead reader.
‘If you look at this chart you will see the left-hand scale represents the tree ring growth for the seventeenth century, starting here at 1610 and running through to 1700. The pattern in the centre of the chart is that of the Litvak panel. You can see that it corresponds very well with the period 1625 to 1685. The saw cut falls on the ring for that year. We can assume a year for seasoning of the wood before cutting, and then a period in storage, before it was actually sold for use. This occupies the five years before 1690 to ’91 when I suggest van den Bergh produced his painting.’
Academic violence, the ruining of reputations, is done in a civilised way. Throughout my lecture my delivery was bland, even boring, and an outsider would not have realised that anything remarkable had been announced. Those initiates of the enigma of academic papers knew what my words meant. Indeed, many of them, those who were experts in seventeenth-century painting or in Dutch genre subjects, would have known that my discovery could only mean suppression of evidence, which could only mean by Minna. I left the Lady and went on with my paper, taking another twenty minutes or so to conclude my argument.
I received congratulations and comments which were excited as well as interested. Art historians love controversy and here they could sense one that had the possibilities of scandal as well. Only Henrik said outright what others were wondering, ‘Was Minna in the hall?’ Nobody was prepared to comment on Minna and her reaction in my presence.
Julian said, ‘Oh, yes, she was there. I met her on my way in.’
The adrenaline had ebbed. I felt tired and a sense of anticlimax. I needed to sleep for a couple of hours. Julian and I detached ourselves from the group and made our way down the marble staircase. Standing in the hall was Minna, shrugging on an overcoat with a fake fur collar and military-style brass buttons. If I had been alone, I might have hesitated there to allow her to leave and so avoid a confrontation. Julian’s stride did not falter and I was carried on down by her will.
Minna glanced up and made no attempt to avoid us, holding her ground until we reached her level. Confrontation was what she wanted. I had feared to see her because I was afraid of seeing the pain I had caused, even in the pursuit of truth. I was saved from this, for she manifested none of the emotions I would have felt in her place. She was, simply, furious.
‘Well, Nicholas,’ she said. ‘I told you that you were wrong when you started all this and you wouldn’t listen to me.’ She was not just angry at the invasion of her territory and the demolition of one of her citadels, I realised. She was indignant, too, at the defiance of her authority. ‘The painting is a Vermeer. I do not accept any of the doubts you have chosen, for your own reasons, to throw on it. Its attribution will remain.’
‘You can swear black is white, Minna, but that isn’t scholarly debate.’
‘Scholarly debate, pah.’ It is impossible to reproduce the explosive contempt of the sound that erupted from her mouth. ‘What you have been doing today is not scholarly debate, it’s a crime.’
Part 5
Perjury
36
When we left Moscow I feared Julian would be depressed by Anatoli’s rejection. However, once home her spirits remained high and I felt she had rid herself of her obsession. In addition, the stalking by the Uzbek’s men had ceased. She was coming and going normally and the atmosphere of siege had dissipated. Her decision to go to Moscow had been right. Somehow, I was not quite sure how, the problem had solved itself.
From my point of view, too, the conference had been a triumph. The consensus was that my case for a re-attribution of the Litvak Vermeer was very persuasive and Minna had serious questions to answer about suppression of the scientific data. An article in one of the broadsheets about the painting set out the evidence in a reasonable manner, without personalities obtruding. I was approached by an important journal to write up my discoveries. I heard from Henrik that a colleague of his, now in America, was going to take up the question of the dendrochronological tests with the Board of the Foundation. Minna would find it hard to withstand such demands, especially as he would be supported by Anthony Watendlath, who had phoned me as soon as we returned, already briefed on the events of the conference.
‘I hope you heard, too, about the tribute I paid to various anonymous donors of information,’ I said.
‘I did. I had no idea that these materials were being effectively hidden from researchers. It was a scandal,’ he replied. ‘You can be sure that steps are being taken here at the Foundation. Anyway, I’m delighted you managed to penetrate our defences in the name of truth.’
Only one small incident suggested that the past had not been entirely sloughed off. One afternoon I had been out to lunch and, since I was close to home, I went in to pick up a file that I had left behind that morning. As I opened the front door of the flat, I heard a male voice and Julian’s murmured reply. I was, irrationally, convinced that this was Anatoli. I opened the drawing room door at once and to my astonishment revealed Tom Naish with a pile of papers on his knee, leaning forward to take a sip of coffee. He was the least likely person I would have expected to find there and at least a proportion of my amazement must have been visible in my face. He looked uncomfortable. Julian betrayed no unease. She finished pouring the thick liquid into a tiny cup and said, as though she was expecting me, ‘Would you like some coffee? Take this one.’
She went out to find herself another cup and Tom, who had recovered from his brief awkwardness, sat back in his chair.
‘I was checking with Julian some of the details of the attacks on her during the winter.’
‘Anything new?’
‘If you mean, do we have anything on the culprit, the answer is no. I’m more interested in the case in order to build up my data on Russian Mafia groups in Britain and their operating methods than in any hope of catching the men who mugged her. We’re not even sure whether they were Russians or if the job was contracted out to locals.’
Julian had returned from the kitchen. ‘The knife is very characteristic of the Russians, though, isn’t it?’ she asked.
Tom shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Anyone can use a knife. I’m still not convinced one way or another. And we’re nowhere near finding whoever was concerned.’
‘Perhaps something’ll turn up,’ she said. This was very different from her previous attitude, which had been to resist all speculation.
‘It may. What you’ve told me today fills in a lot of background, but I’m not sure there’s enough to convict.’
‘Nick was a witness,’ she said, eagerly. ‘If you ever had a suspect, he would be able to testify. He saw it all.’
I tried to recall that momentous evening which seemed so long ago. The car had been a BMW with only one tail light functioning, driven by two men. I could say nothing about their age or appearance. The mugger himself in his dark jogging clothes with his woollen
hat pulled low over his forehead was a little clearer. He had been tallish, white, probably young. But I had no recollection of his face. I couldn’t state his age with certainty, or describe any distinguishing characteristics.
‘I doubt if I could say anything very convincing for a jury,’ I objected.
‘If they found the right person, it would all come back to you,’ Julian said with determination.
I finished my coffee and put down my cup. Tom was in no hurry to leave and was not going to continue his business as long as I was there. ‘I’ll let you get on with it then,’ I said. I picked up my folder from the hall table and my keys from the drawer. The knife that Henrik had given Julian rolled to the back with my mother’s torch.
After I had left, I debated with myself whether I should phone Tom to tell him about the kidnapping in Moscow. It was circumstantial evidence that the attacks on Julian had been organised from Russia and by the Uzbek. However, I could not see that there was any hurry to give him this information, or that it would help in any practical way. The urgency had gone out of the matter.
Since my meeting with Anatoli and our conversation in captivity, my curiosity about Julian’s past had eased. I had been reassured because all the details seemed to tally with what Julian had told me about the Bank and its directors. The nature of their relationship, hers with Anatoli, had become clearer, too. His disparaging remarks about her had shown that, at the most basic level, Julian and I worked in a way that she and Anatoli had not. Unless she faked it day after day.
When I saw Julian that evening, she made no reference to Tom’s visit. I intended to ask her about it, but I waited, choosing my moment carefully. So it was not until we were in bed, viscid, sleepy, my face in her hair, that I said to her, ‘There hasn’t been anything new, that you had to tell Tom? Someone following you? Phone calls?’
She immediately arranged herself for sleep, curling her back to me. ‘No, no.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘Nothing new. Don’t worry, Nick. It’s just the same old stuff.’
When, after several weeks, I had still received no message from Anatoli to say he was coming, I ceased to expect a fax from Moscow. It was one of those promises made to be broken and, since Julian no longer showed anxiety to see him, I did not mind. At some later stage, I thought, I would persuade her to come to a settlement with Anatoli, if there were still financial questions outstanding between them. This would detach her formally and regularise her position. Thus the whole episode could be put behind her.
* * *
My hope for a withering away of the Russian connexion was destroyed one Monday evening on the tube between Green Park and Hyde Park Corner stations. I was strap-hanging in the rush hour, on my way home, reading the morning paper which I had not had time to look at earlier. The headline that caught my eye was on an inside page under the International News. Russian Banker Knifed in Moscow Street.
I read the article at speed, swallowing it whole and reaching the sentence I feared to see near the end. The dead man was a director of the Stary Bank. It is assumed that it was a Mafia killing, although most of the Mafia murders of businessmen in the last few years have been shootings. The Bank may have resisted demands to pay protection money or may have reneged on a deal with the Mafia. Nowhere was the dead man named.
I went back to the beginning of the column. It rehearsed the well known statistics of Russian bankers and business men who had been killed in the last year and quoted various authorities on the dangers to life, human and economic, of the scourge of the Mafia. I folded my paper, as if by concealing the article I could cancel the information it contained. However, I could not hide it from Julian and this would reawaken everything that I had hoped had been laid to rest.
I could tell that she had not seen the paper, by her carefree tone calling, ‘Hi, Nick,’ as I came in. I handed her the article without comment Her reaction was immobility, absorbing the shock. She said, desperately, ‘It doesn’t have to be Anatoli. It could be Igor or Dyadya.’
This was true. My assumption had been that the murdered man was Anatoli because of what had happened to us both. The Uzbek had got him at last, I had thought. Julian could more easily convince herself that it was as likely to be one of the other two because she did not know of the kidnapping.
‘Of course,’ I agreed with her. I did not want to seem to be wishing Anatoli dead, so I did not comment on the coincidence of the knife. The weapon itself suggested that the killing was connected with the attacks on her.
When the initial shock had worn off, she became manically energetic. I was sent out to buy all the day’s newspapers to see if there were other, more detailed, reports. As it was late in the day I had to trail around several newsagents to find a complete set. She was sitting with the telephone on her lap when I got back.
‘I can’t get through at all,’ she said in exasperation.
‘Who’ve you tried?’
‘The numbers for Anatoli that Igor gave me. Then I rang The Times and asked for the number of their Moscow bureau, because I thought they might have his name, the name of the dead man. But it’s hopeless. Either it’s engaged. “All lines to Moscow are engaged. Please try later, please try later, please try later.” Or it rings and rings and there’s no answer, so you think you must be on some kind of dummy line.’
She attacked the papers next, scanning the foreign news pages rapidly and throwing them aside. Soon she was afloat on a sea of billowing newsprint. For someone usually so orderly this display of carelessness was almost stranger than if she had broken down in tears.
‘Julian, let’s have a drink and something to eat and think about what we’re going to do.’
‘OK.’ Her acquiescence was verbal, not real. She discarded the Standard with a cry of impatience.
‘There could be something in the financial pages,’ I suggested.
‘I’ll never find them in all this.’
‘I’ll put them all in order and we’ll go through them together.’
She regained control. I reassembled the papers and we began again to search them for news. Her mood puzzled me, for I did not recognise what was distressing her as grief; it was more like rage. Her reaction was odd, discordant.
Eventually, we found one more reference to the murder in the Telegraph, but it was no more informative than The Times, for no name was given and no clue about the dead man allowed us to guess which of them it could have been.
Julian slept badly. I was conscious of her lying tensely silent beside me at different moments in the night. She was up early, dialling and redialling to Moscow, two hours ahead. I had a heavy day of appointments, so all I could do was leave her to her enquiries. When I tried to phone home, the line was always engaged. By the evening the only progress that she had to report was to have reached The Times bureau in Moscow and to have left messages for the correspondent concerned to call her back. He did so later that night, which I was sure was due to the fact that I had phoned the editor, whom I know, and asked for his help. He had done no more than promise to ask Moscow to give us all the information they could. But in the end this lead was of little use. The correspondent had not seen the body. A local stringer had picked up the report and had written it up in the context of Mafia killings, which always played well in England.
None of our efforts bore fruit and Julian began a second day of anxious enquiries, answering any call for me with suppressed impatience. She handed me the phone as I was leaving in the morning, saying brusquely, ‘It’s for you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know. It sounded like Minna.’
It was Minna. I dealt with her as quickly as I could.
What did she want?’ Julian asked.
‘I think she knows she’s defeated. She wants to talk to me privately. So I’ve asked her for a drink here on Friday evening.’
Julian nodded indifferently, taking the phone back from me.
That afternoon when I came back to my office from a seminar, I found in my tray a fax from Anato
li, timed three hours earlier.
He made no reference to the reported killing and wrote that he would be arriving in London in two days’ time. He gave his flight number and finished Can you meet me? I phoned Julian at once to put her out of her misery and was astonished by her reaction.
‘He’s coming the day after tomorrow?’ she repeated and she sounded not overjoyed but afraid.
37
Anatoli’s plane was to land in the late afternoon, at four twenty-three. Julian insisted that the request to be met, although it was addressed to me, meant that she should go to the airport.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ I asked.
‘No, I’ll go… No, yes.’
‘Darling, what does all that mean?’
‘It means yes, if you’re free, you can come with me. You can drive. But Minna’s coming for a drink, isn’t she?’
‘That’s much later. I’ve plenty of time to go to Heathrow and back. What are you going to do with him? I mean, do you propose he should stay here? In a hotel? Shall I book a table somewhere for dinner? For two? For three?’
She looked even more undecided, as if she could not envisage what would happen after their meeting. Perhaps she expected a reenactment of their first encounter at Francesca’s, a flash of lightning which would immediately change the world.
‘I’ll see what he wants,’ she said vaguely, after a pause. ‘Don’t make any arrangements.’
I tried to convince myself that she intended to settle it all in the car on the way into London, with me as driver and witness, a drawing up of a balance sheet and a division of the assets. This would be the clean way to do it. The fear remained that she would desert me and I would watch them leave together and for good.
The Art of Deception Page 26