When he left his parents at age 17 with a scholarship to study art at the University of Rotterdam, Banat was an unusually polished and confident young man with an impressive technical skill at painting. At school, he readily convinced others what he had already convinced himself, that the itinerant middle-class life he and his parents had lead in his youth had been, in reality, the cosmopolitan wanderings of a well-to-do and connected family. His linguistic talents and charm allowed him to make friends easily. He was a joiner – his name appeared in the registries of dozens of clubs, from government to the student newspaper. Santosh worked as hard in social circles as he did in the lecture room; he made the provost’s list each semester while hobnobbing with the school’s elite. He insisted on the illusion he had created. He would drop famous names familiarly; he would promise jobs to his classmates in his father’s company; he was generous to a fault.
By his second year, Banat was completely broke and petrified of his someone finding out the truth if he got a job. Instead, he came up with a scheme to produce faux-antique frames for an acquaintance who paid art students to make cheap reproductions of unattributable Rococo paintings; the resulting works were anonymous and looked real enough to be sold for relatively small sums to amateur collectors. Eventually, after recruiting several classmates into the scam, the University found out about it. Banat was expelled, and his accomplices severely reprimanded.
Thirty-odd years later, Santosh Banat was the respected head of the art restoration team at the University of Bilbao, proud home to a second-generation MES repper. Santosh had earned the position on his personal charisma and the strength of his credentials: a doctorate in Art History from Oxford; his many published articles on restoration techniques developed during a life-time of academic work; and a letter of introduction from the senior curator of the Gemäldegalerie noting his indispensible assistance with a badly water-damaged Titian. During his eight year tenure at Bilbao, Banat’s department became well-known for its skill and attention to detail as they worked on the restoration of a hundred lesser known paintings for museums across Europe. Banat was particularly sought-out for a preservative shellacking technique he had devised that matched the traditional look while filtering out deleterious ultraviolet light.
In November of 2026, police in Madrid received a tip from a wealthy tourist in Spain on an art collecting excursion. She stated to them that she had met with a reproductions dealer who had recommended a friend dealing in lesser-known Renaissance and Baroque artists. The man, who she described as small, well-dressed and simpering, had called himself Mendes and shown her several inferior pieces of art at his villa. Sensing her disinterest, he had offered her an opportunity. Would you be interested in owning an original Caravaggio? Very much, she had said. Perhaps David Victorious over Goliath? She had been taken aback – she had seen that painting hanging in the Prado several times, and thought she was being offered a steal-to-order. No, no, Mendes had corrected her. It’s already been stolen, and I have it in my possession. The one you have seen in the museum is a fake. I can prove it to you. She had made her apologies and left. By the time the police could act, the villa, which turned out to be rented, was cleaned out. Other leads led to dead ends – the reproductions dealer checked out clean, and the Prado assured authorities that the original Caravaggio still hung in their gallery.
A break occurred two months later. Police arrested a man named Amancio Moreno for attempting to cash a forged check; in his possession they had found numerous credit cards with false names, including one belonging to a Cristian Mendes. Moreno aka Mendes eventually admitted to trying to pass off several fakes but claimed he had no direct contact with the painter. The authorities worked the case from another angle. They compiled a list of the supposedly stolen works that had been offered for sale and worked in conjunction with the museums and galleries that owned them to spot a connection. A pattern emerged; all the works in question had been sent out for restoration within the past several years, and all of them to the same restorer – Santosh Banat.
The police began investigating Banat. They probed him with questions surrounding his activities, his professional life, and his background. The quiet, professional life Banat painted began to fall apart. He lived extravagantly on meager pay, and was severely in debt. He had failed to pay income tax in the last 10 years. Digging further into his life revealed a reputation built on lies. Oxford officials denied that Banat had ever received been a student, much less received a doctorate. His glowing references lead to non-existent people. His history at Rotterdam came out. The police searched his home, finding dozens of identical copies of paintings that had once passed through the university’s art department hands in various states of completion. On May 2nd, 2027, authorities showed up at his faculty office and arrested him for forgery.
At the infamous trial, the prosecution explained the nature of the scam Banat had perpetrated. Like the group that had stolen the Mona Lisa in 1911 had allegedly done, Banat and Moreno had sold copies of masterworks to the wealthy and easily duped by pretending to have the original. The brilliance of Santosh’s scheme lied in the application of technology. Buyers who bit on the bait Moreno offered were told that during cleaning, the paintings had been quietly taken and run through a MES repper that had produced a single, nearly identical copy. Nearly identical, Moreno had stressed to the marks – the process was imperfect and created a very fine grid on the painting’s surface that couldn’t be seen under normal conditions. Those who had been taken in – at least twenty, claimed Banat – were given a pair of glasses with special polarized lenses and asked to look for themselves. They returned, amazed at what they had seen hanging in the museum – a single work, covered in a fine mesh, surrounded by normal paintings. Then the reveal, as Moreno brought out the supposed original, unmarred by any lines.
A fraud specialist from the Picasso museum in Barcelona spoke both to the quality of the reproductions and the nature of the mostly invisible grid pattern in the finish of five paintings that had been sent to Banat’s team for work, stating he had noticed the effect previously and been assured it was a lingering part of the restoration technique and would fade in time. Two replication experts testified that the current state of replication technology couldn’t possibly create forgeries convincing enough to hang in museums. Banat smiled and nodded, accepting the implied compliment with grace. He seemed to enjoy the attention of the trial immensely, playing to the crowd of reporters gathered with his responses. Even after he and Moreno had been sentenced, when asked by the judge how he could have possibly painted such convincing replicas, Banat leaned conspiratorially over to him and replied in a loud whisper, I have some free time coming up – how many years have you got?
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They’re fake, you know. She hadn’t turned around or acknowledged the proffered drink. She stared directly forward at the painting, the only object in the room other than themselves. The rest of the wing had been traditionally & painstakingly styled – heavy cornices, real wood floors with elaborate parquet inlays. This room was a blank cube with slightly rounded corners. The lighting was hidden, recessed into deep angular holes in the ceiling and walls.
Siri Anders stood stock-still, head slightly cocked. Chandrasekhar noted her with a reflexive attention to detail. She had on no adornments, nor did she need them. Her dress was simple in its elegance, a butter colored A-line halter missing as much of the silk fabric in the back as it could, stepping beyond the bounds of propriety. Chandrasekhar had no doubt that that the silk was real. In a world where the wealthy wore repped clothes, even the richest only wore hand-tailored synthetic fabrics. Natural silk was an extravagant display of opulence. Siri, heiress to the Anders fortune, could afford it like few people on earth.
Chandrasekhar stared at her profile, surprised. He had expected something on meeting her, something kick-starting his brain into thought or memory, but he felt nothing.
Fake? he said. Yes, for this night. She laughed, nearly a giggle. I may have footed t
he bill for the whole wing but they can’t have a bunch of drunks bumping into masterpieces, can they?
And the people aren’t fooled? he inquired, pulling back his arm and the untouched stengah. Oh, they’re very good fakes. The ones they put on display when they’re cleaning and restoring the originals. They’ll put the originals back for the public opening. Nothing but the second-best for us, though.
Some quiet shuffling noises outside -- the heavies reminding him of their proximity. Chandrasekhar glanced back while the woman continued to pour her attention into the painting. He rubbed the back of his neck, clenching his jaw. A slightly tipsy man with a kink that wouldn’t go away.
Except this one – this is an original. Could you tell? No, he admitted. Good. Pretension wouldn’t suit you. She gave a partial smile, as if it was only half a joke. It’s a Lissitzky. “Proun 99” What do you see?
You, he wanted to say. You at the spire. Why? He glanced at the painting and pretended to consider it. He knew nothing about its style or artist, and could only identify the literal geometry of it. I see a large cube, maybe made of… aluminum? The paint looks metallic there and... draws the eye. Two arcs, red and blue, sort of.. hugging the cube at points, springing from a triangular grid. He smiled apologetically. I’m not much of an art critic, especially after I’ve had a couple.
Is that all? Just shape-things and grid-lines? she broke her stare and looked upon Chandrasekhar for a moment before returning her gaze again to the painting. He had expected her tone to be disappointed or even suspicious, but it had a unanticipated warmth. Friendly, almost – sisterly? It was hard to read her tone. She rolled her words languidly compared to the clipped speech prevalent among the cosmopolitan. Shape-things, grid-lines. A strange emphasis on both words... Not an accent, but her own peculiar inflection. Chandrasekhar was convinced it was an affectation, an attempt to pass of antiquated mannerisms as sophistication.
The train of thought was a distraction. Chandrasekhar was about to rub his neck again to cover the twitch in his throat but stopped himself. The ship was already on its way. He needed to stall. He looked intently at the painting. The lines in the grid – yes... there’s some distortion in it.
A moiré pattern, Siri said with satisfaction. Parallel lines causing wave interference. The thing about a moiré pattern is that it’s a formula of perspective. That particular pattern should only occur when viewed at a specific angle. I used to think to myself that Lissitzky had created it as a legend, a key. I would spend hours standing in front of it, moving back and forth, side to side. I thought if I could remember the exact spot where that pattern would happen, then I could see it just as it was meant to be seen.
For a moment he forgot himself and took in the whole breadth of the Proun. Chandrasekhar made a slight side-step. He felt an itch in the back of his brain, a trickle of memory. Reconnez cherie? she murmured as her eyes shifted to his. Sorry? He looked away, looking confused and hiding suspicion. He gazed at the ground for a moment, and recalled himself to the job. He listened intently, hearing nothing but the sound of distant clinking glasses an occasional shuffling step from one of her guards. Not that he would hear anything until the moment had come.
He brought the conversation around again. So, did you find it? She smiled. Great artists aren’t usually bound by math. I could be way off the mark. Maybe I’m looking for more than what is there. Or maybe I’m just looking at it wrong.
A hushed thrum from beyond the wall the painting was hung on. Chandrasekhar was a blur. He moved close, up-ended the stengah and brushed the glass’s bottom against her skin. Siri felt nothing. A tiny shard of crystal embedded itself into her skin. The next moment she had collapsed into his arms. One of her bodyguards grunted, rushing through the door. A muscle twinged in Chandrasekhar’s jaw. A shock rumbled the foundation.
The second bodyguard followed and saw his comrade standing in front of an opaque spot where the room used to be. Adjusting his eyes, he could barely make out the remaining walls intersecting with an absence of space surrounded by a subtle white glow. The effect lasted mere seconds. Inside his ship, Chandrasekhar clicked his jaw, shutting down the air shield that had cut through the bonds of the wood and brick in the museum walls. When the effect ended, the room returned to normal, except for fresh air blowing in from the oval hole in the far wall next to the perfectly preserved painting and the sight of a retreating gravcar.
Chandrasekhar twitched his switch, and a relay sent another command, accelerating the car as he dragged Siri’s limp body through the claustrophobic cabin.
Chapter 5
Plane Crasher | Audiophilia | Boots of Steel
Sir, it doesn’t matter if it’s not plugged in – noise cancelling headphones use power. She adds, snidely: I can see the little light on it. Wald turns off the switch, while leaving the earphones in and the plug dangling in plain view on his knee, the way he’d set it up originally to disarm suspicion. A criminal lawyer would tell you this is a bad plan. If you cooperate upfront with the authorities then they’ll just dig deeper, sure that you’ve done something worse. Thank you, she mouths as she leaves, not bothering to feign the sincerity of actual speech.
Uses power … an AA battery produces less voltage than two potatoes connected by pencil lead and aluminum foil. Not that they'd allow that on board -- nothing looks more like a bomb than a potato with some wires in it. That’s probably the picture they use on the cover of the TSA’s security manual.
No one believes that listening to music on an electronic device can crash a plane. No one believes that the act of 300 passengers simultaneously flipping their phones on and off causes the slightest disturbance in the electromagnetic lifeblood of a commercial airliner. You want to make a call at $10 a minute on the handset in the headrest – no? No one does? Well, you should think about it, because that’s approved, profitable behavior. Ignoring the screaming child in 14-B and blocking out the rest of the world with headphones? No, not approved for in-flight entertainment. Not until we hit our cruising altitude, sir.
Cruising altitude gets higher and takes longer to get to each passing year. The higher you go, the less air resistance, the easier to propel the plane, the more fuel saved, the cheaper the seats ain’t, brother. The greater pressure disparity, the more the child in seat 14-B screams, and the greater Wald’s yearning to discover the power to mentally explode the head of the negligent mother in seat 14-C. 14-B’s cries get more insistent, higher-pitched. 14-C whispers hush hush in a bored monotone to her celebrity gossip magazine, not looking up.
How much longer? He glances around and discovers that the woman on his right in 17-C is a fraud. The waves of her dark hair conceal it almost perfectly – the earphones, the black shiny cord. You might miss it entirely but for the quick bright flash of her music player’s screen reversed against her jeans when she skips a track. Close-up magic with a little bit of misdirection. Plane crasher! PLANE CRASHER! 17-C turns her head slightly and again smiles out of the corner of her mouth. Stephen wonders whether she smiles like that consciously, drawing attention to the dimples in her cheeks and away from her slightly cleft lip. She has tossed the other books carelessly back into her purse -- with some effort, Wald pieces together the title, The Star Rover, off the topmost -- and hugs a large volume against her chest with her right arm as if it was giving off warmth.
It’ll be a while longer, thinks Wald. Cruising altitude, when the fun surely starts. You blast the radio and stick your hands out the sunroof and there are no babies anywhere. Yes, the longer it takes a plane to get to cruising altitude, the slower the plane goes, the more fuel saved, the skinnier the seats are. The golden age of flight died in November 2003 when the Concorde touched down for the last time. Too fast to be cost effective, and that’s that. Add four hours and 30 minutes to your transatlantic passage for the rest of our time here on Earth. Flight’s gone backward ever since. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the same argument against attractive and polite flight attendants – that sort of thing costs money
.
A faction in Row 15 is getting a bit fed up with the crying baby. A few members crane their necks to the side, angling for a better view on the problem. The man in 15-E, a man of importance, a paragon who has been reading his newspaper expansively, two pages abreast, without heed of 15-D and 15-F, measuredly crinkles the business section and clears his throat. He gets the rise he’s looking for – 14-C turns sharply and glares balefully at him. He withstands her gaze for a good couple of seconds and then proceeds to shield himself with the lifestyle section. Wald can’t see 15-F but likes to think 15-D’s half-smile is in appreciation of his expansionist neighbor getting taken down a peg.
It’s clear that Row 15 can’t cut it alone. This isn’t a management issue; it’s a frontline problem for Men of Action. Men who know that no baby problem cannot be solved with a little brandy on the gums; the baby's or mine. Wald briefly considers ringing the attendant, but knows what the answer would be. Sir, we sell alcoholic beverages when the cart comes through and not before. Brandy pacifiers? No, not approved for in-flight entertainment. Wald sighs heavily. There’s a better life, up there in 11B, in the exit row with extra legroom.
Flight is premature. Man wasn’t meant to fly, not until the day our babies learn to work their jaws and pop their ears instinctually. Why do you think we were hunter-gatherers for so long? Like it took thousands of years to catch a couple goats in a pen, chuck in some grass and say do your thing? No, we had to take our time building up a resistance to our adult lactose intolerance until we could make a case for leading sheep around all day just to drink their milk.
Repetition Page 5