He fell into his chair, tears filling his eyes as he gazed upon what was revealed.
The red chalk drawing of the master himself.
He gazed up at the heavens, tears rolling down his cheeks, then down at the picture of his grandfather that hung on the wall nearby.
It’s home, granddad. It’s home!
Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
October 1st, 1998
Two weeks after the return
Laura Palmer peered through the microscope, her professor explaining what to look for. It was disappointing, yet exciting at the same time. She was only in her third year of university, and her Art History professor had invited several of the more promising students with her as part of a team to determine if a drawing recently discovered was indeed genuine.
And it wasn’t.
It was actually a relief, the self-portrait, in red chalk, heavily degraded from years of neglect. If it had indeed been the genuine article, it would have been a travesty what had happened to it.
But it was unfortunate as well.
The drawing had a storied history, not the least of which was the fact the Nazis had tried to acquire it, legends apparently surrounding it that it could imbue great power to anyone who possessed it. Apparently, the curator of the museum had secreted it away, eventually dying after being brutally tortured for days.
She sighed at the thought this man’s efforts would go unrecognized, the drawing still lost to history.
She rose and looked at the current curator, the grandson of the hero who had tried to save the genuine article.
“Are you certain?”
She nodded. “It’s very good, but the paper is far too new. It’s a near exact duplicate when you compare it to the photos you provided, but the paper is all wrong.”
The man dropped into his chair, deflated. He pulled at his hair as he shook his head. “It’s not fair! He died for nothing!”
Laura’s heart went out to the man. His grandfather, whom he had obviously never met, had died a horrible death, and the fruits of his labor were still lost.
“You know some people still say he stole the portrait? That he got what he deserved?” He slammed his fist on the arm of his chair, startling Laura. He glanced up at her then at her professor. “It isn’t fair.”
Professor Cindy Osborne nodded. “No, it isn’t. He was a hero. He protected the portrait from the Nazis. Eventually, one day, it will turn up, and he’ll be recognized for what he has done.”
Donati stared off into the distance, his eyes glassing over, then his eyes flared for a moment as if something had just occurred to him. He looked at Professor Osborne. “You are bound by the confidentiality agreement, correct?”
Osborne bristled, Laura getting the distinct impression she knew exactly what was about to be said.
“Yes.” The word was drawn out, as if the answer was feared.
There was a knock at the door, interrupting them. Laura turned to see an old man standing there, a shaking cane in his right hand, his left gripping the doorframe.
Donati leapt from his chair. “Mr. Santini!” He rushed over to the old man, his mouth agape, then turned to the others before giving the man a chance to say anything. “This is the man who helped my grandfather, who took the portrait to Rome!”
“Is it true?” asked the man in English, his voice low yet still filled with vitality. He froze when he caught sight of the portrait on the worktable. “Is that it?” His voice was filled with wonder as he shuffled toward it, the excitement in his eyes clear.
And it crushed Laura to see his face when the curator responded.
“No. It’s a forgery.”
The old man leaned on the table, staring at the portrait then looking about. “Bring an old man a chair.”
Laura leapt forward, dragging a chair toward him then helping him into it.
“Thank you, my dear.” He looked up and smiled at her. “Aren’t you a pretty one.”
She blushed.
He patted her hand. “You can call me Nicola.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Laura.”
He gave her hand a trembling kiss then pointed at the remains of the crate that the portrait had been shipped in. “Did he initial it?”
Donati’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Did he initial it? Your grandfather always carved his initials in the bottom of any crate, that way he’d know if it had been repackaged.” He looked at Donati. “He wasn’t a very trusting man.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you?”
Donati seemed unsure of what to say, but Laura was already examining the pieces of wood. She grinned, grabbing one of the pieces. “Here it is, VD, Vincenzo Donati!”
She handed the piece of wood over to Nicola who examined it himself then nodded, handing it back. “Interesting. Had it been opened before?”
Donati shook his head. “I don’t think so, but it’s hard to tell. I think Grandfather himself wrapped it.”
“Wrapped a forgery.” Nicola grunted, frowning, his knuckles turning white as they gripped the arms of his chair. “He tricked me, right from the beginning.”
Laura knelt down beside him. “Do you have any idea where the genuine portrait is?”
“I’m not sure. I removed what I thought was the real drawing from its case so this”—he motioned toward the disassembled crate—“couldn’t be from what I took.” He sighed, his chin dropping to his chest. “This forgery was never part of the plan I knew about.” Nicola looked up at her, tears filling his eyes. “I have no idea where the original is, but I have a feeling I never had it.”
Casa del Conte Verde, Rivoli, Italy
July 3rd, 1941
The night before Nicola took the portrait
“He must think it’s the genuine portrait.”
Vincenzo Donati nodded, the pit in his stomach at deceiving the young man almost overwhelming. He wanted to throw up. He looked at the man whose name he had never been given. “What makes you think he’ll take it?”
“The fact he wants to help tells me he is brave. His age tells me he is impulsive. If he thinks it is about to be taken by the Nazis, he will act.”
“But if he doesn’t?”
“Then I will place it in his hands and tell him to run. He won’t think twice.”
“I hope you’re right.” He stared at the forgery the man had brought. “It’s really quite good.”
The man glanced at the portrait and nodded. “We have experts available to us. They were able to recreate it based on the photo you provided. It won’t stand up to scrutiny, but it will fool a teenage boy.”
Donati shook his head, his head low. He looked at the packaged genuine portrait gripped in the man’s hands. “You’re sure it will be safe?”
“Absolutely. We’ll take good care of it and return it when the time is right.”
“When do you think that will be?”
“When every living Nazi is dead.”
“Do you really think that will ever happen?”
The man nodded. “Evil will never triumph in the end, God will see to that.”
Donati sighed. “I wish I had your faith.” He checked the clock on the wall. “Okay, you must go now, before Nicola gets here. He must never know what we are doing.”
The man shook Donati’s hand, the top of an ornate tattoo revealed by a loose shirt button. “He won’t, but we will help keep him safe for as long as we can.”
“Please, you must. I feel guilty enough deceiving the poor boy. Should harm come to him…” Donati looked at the forgery. “He could die for nothing.”
“If he dies protecting the forgery, then the Nazi’s will be convinced it is genuine and never think to look for the real one.”
“But if they discover it is a forgery?”
“Then you will claim it always was.”
Donati reached out and touched the boxed portrait. “I feel as if I’m losing a part of me.”
The man shook his head.
“No, yo
u’re protecting it for eternity.”
Approaching Rome, Italy
Present Day
The morning of the theft
“So it was a fake.”
Professor Laura Palmer nodded, not proud of what she had been forced to go along with so long ago. But she had been a student, bound by a confidentiality agreement she actually thought was important. Her professor seemed more concerned with the donation the curator had offered, and the unfettered access to the Turin Royal Library’s impressive collection.
It had been so distasteful it had soured her view of the entire profession, and it was a meeting with the dean that had kept her in, despite her initial protestations.
“Why do you want to leave?”
“I can’t say.”
And it was immediately clear he knew exactly why. Which had soured her even more.
“I assume this is surrounding the events in Turin last week?”
She nodded.
“It’s an ugly business, sometimes. Today too many museums are desperate for money, and money in cash-strapped times usually comes from donors and tourists. A da Vinci draws attention.” He leaned forward. “Whether genuine or not.”
She had opened her mouth to fire with both barrels at the man when he cut her off.
“The fact, Miss Palmer, that you are so offended by what happened, is exactly why you must stay on the path you have chosen for yourself. This profession needs people like you, desperately needs people like you, people who would never dream of agreeing to what your professor signed, then never sticking with it should what happened, happen.”
“You mean I can violate the agreement?”
He shook his head. “No. You can’t. Become a professor, with tenure, and you can do whatever you want.”
Which was what she had done, after switching institutions.
But now her past had caught up with her.
“Yes, and we had all signed a non-disclosure agreement so we couldn’t say anything.”
“Doesn’t sound like you.”
She looked at her husband and smiled. He was the love of her life and her worst fear in all this was that he’d be disappointed in her, a feeling she never wanted to experience. “I’m sorry.”
He put his arm over her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. “It’s not your fault. You were barely in your twenties, what were you supposed to do? The important thing is you’ve never done anything like that again.” He pushed away from her, turned in his chair and gave her a look. “You’ve never done anything like that since, right?”
She slapped his chest with the back of her hand. “Of course not!” He roared with laughter, dispelling her irrational fear that he had been serious. “Oh James, I feel bad enough as it is, don’t toy with me like that!”
He gave her another squeeze as the pilot of their private jet announced their descent into Rome. Reading tapped an iPad he had been reading. “They really played this thing up, didn’t they?”
She nodded. “It was horrible. They never actually claimed it was genuine, they just didn’t say anything either way. But they did use it for major new funding to build a secure, climate-controlled vault to help preserve it, claiming heavy damage so it could never be properly examined. When it was put on display, the story was inspiring. A secret operation to hide it from the Nazis, the legend surrounding it, the mysterious return over fifty years later. It’s the stuff stories are written about.”
“Quite often stories are based on fact.”
Laura nodded. “And in this case it is.”
“And you’re certain it was a forgery?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know it was ever real?” asked Reading.
It was a good question, one she had asked herself during the initial discovery that it was a forgery, but her professor had convinced her the genuine article did indeed exist.
“We know there were at least two versions of the drawing.”
“How?” asked her husband, turning in his seat despite the seatbelt light being on.
“There were several photos of the drawing from back then. Three, in fact. Two were of it framed, one not. The one that hadn’t been framed had da Vinci’s signature in the bottom right, very near the edge.”
“And the other two didn’t.” James nodded. “The frame covered it.” He turned to Reading to explain. “Most likely it had been cut at some point, trimming the excess for some reason, leaving the signature too close to the edge.”
“That was our guess as well,” agreed Laura. “We believe—or rather my professor believed—that the forgers worked from a photo of the framed drawing, so didn’t know the signature was supposed to be there. The museum knew, but claimed it had faded due to the degradation suffered from improper storage.”
“Could it have?” Reading shrugged. “I mean, from what I just read it was in pretty rough shape.”
“Absolutely, it was,” agreed Laura. “But the paper was also from the wrong era, off by over a century.”
“I’ve never understood that,” said Reading as the wheels touched down. “How do they get away with that?”
James leaned forward, entering teaching mode. “Usually they take a painting or drawing from the same era and paint over it. Something much less valuable, obviously. You’re not going to destroy one masterpiece to forge another.”
“But this was a drawing.”
“True. But there are thousands upon thousands of things from that era that have been collected over the years, quite often by unscrupulous people simply planning ahead. There’s an entire black market for blank canvases and paper from all eras.” James shook his head, frowning. “It’s really quite the disgrace.”
“What would the world be like without liars and thieves?” bemoaned Laura.
“Well, I’d be out of a job.”
Laura smiled at Reading. “Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?”
Reading grunted. “I’d give it up in a heartbeat if it were somehow possible, but there’s just as much chance of me fitting into my bobby uniform tomorrow as that.”
Laura laughed. “Well, I’ll say this. If this turns out to be the genuine drawing, it will clear up a seventy year old mystery.”
“And open up an entirely new one.”
Laura and James looked at Reading.
“Meaning?”
“Why did two members of the Keepers of the One Truth have it, and who felt it was valuable enough to kill them for it?”
Approaching Sapienza University, Rome, Italy
Acton glanced behind them for the umpteenth time, Mario Giasson smiling at him. He had the distinct feeling the limousine the Vatican had sent to pick them up was being followed, but his eyes could find no evidence of what his intuition was telling him.
“Relax, Jim, no one knows you’re coming.”
Acton looked at Giasson. “Uh huh.”
Laura squeezed his hand a little tighter as she too apparently was remembering the gut wrenching experiences they had been drawn into too often in what should be one of their favorite cities to visit. And with the Keepers of the One Truth involved, four dead bodies and a seventy year old conspiracy, he was going to feel uncomfortable, whether Giasson felt it was warranted or not.
Giasson seemed to sense his doubts. “Look, the portrait was moved by my men to the university only this morning, just a handful of people know what is being tested, and Italian State Police are providing security. Nothing will happen like last time.”
Acton frowned. “Which last time?”
Giasson chuckled. “Good point.” He started rhyming things off on his fingers. “You won’t be kidnapped by the Keepers, protesters won’t try to storm the university—”
“You say that now.” Acton raised a hand, cutting off Mario’s continued assurances. “Let’s just get this over with and hopefully break the pattern.”
“What pattern is that?” asked Giasson as the car rolled up in front of the university.
“The one where every time the
Vatican calls, someone tries to grass my ass.”
Giasson grinned, Reading stifling a laugh as Laura winked at Acton. “And such a nice ass it is.”
“Indeed.”
Acton gave Reading a look, the man shrugging. “I’ve been told I don’t hand out enough compliments.”
“I wouldn’t be starting with my ass.” Acton pointed at the open door. “You first, I wouldn’t want to give you a show you’d feel compelled to praise.”
Reading chuckled as he stepped out into the morning sunlight, Laura’s private jet, part of a lease-sharing network, having got them to Rome in good time. They could have been here earlier, however Father Rinaldi had indicated the university laboratory wasn’t available until regular hours. The elderly man was rushing down the steps, clearly invigorated by the excitement the discovery of a da Vinci merited.
“Professor Palmer, so good to see you again!” he gushed as he grabbed her by both shoulders, giving each cheek a kiss. He did the same with Acton, then moved on to Reading who caught the man’s right hand with his own, placing his left hand on the art historian’s shoulder, preventing the kissed greeting.
“Nice to meet you, Father.”
“Come, come, you need to see this, it is incredible!”
He bolted up the stairs leaving the others to look on in wonder, Reading and Acton grinning at each other as Acton helped his wife up the steps. She had been shot outside of Paris several months ago and was still regaining her stamina. Stairs were one of her biggest challenges, and hours aboard a luxury jet might sound comfortable, though it wasn’t compared to a pillow top mattress.
Reading looked at Acton then at Rinaldi as he disappeared through the doors ahead. “Good kisser?”
“Ooh, the best. If things don’t work out with Laura and I, I might give the man a call.”
Laura cleared the last step and took several gasping breaths, Acton fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing her forehead dry. She smiled a thank you.
Saint Peter's Soldiers (A James Acton Thriller, Book #14) Page 7