The Painted Messiah

by Craig Smith

  Richland's bodyguard, the soft spoken Mike, carried the money. Malloy made a show of checking each of them for transmitting devices and noted that both Jonas Starr and Mike carried handguns. There was a degree of exasperation over the show Malloy made of searching them, but at least Dr North and the Reverend Richland recalled treating him to the same indignity and submitted themselves to the inconvenience with a proper sense of irony.

  Once out of the foyer, they entered the living room and saw the painting. Malloy had set it on the table, propped up so that they could all see it in the reflected light of the fire as soon as they entered the room. Both Starr and North had examined the painting in Zürich under fluorescent lighting. By firelight the colours shivered, the eyes came alive, and the highlights in the blood danced. It was easy to imagine the thing invested with divine power. It was beautiful and frightening and tempted even a confirmed skeptic to bend his knee in its presence, a thing of such majesty and beauty that it seemed not to have been painted by human hand.

  Richland could not help himself. He walked across the room and knelt before it, bursting into an impromptu prayer that soon became incoherent. Talking in tongues. It was his, and his excitement was something more than a love of antiquity or even the whisper of legends. The contessa had been right. He really believed the face of Jesus - this Jesus painted on wood - would heal him of his cancer. His prayer ended, the preacher turned tearfully to North. 'It's like nothing I've ever seen, Nikki!'

  'Are you satisfied?' Malloy asked him.

  Richland pulled his gaze from North and stood up again. 'Very satisfied, Mr Malloy. You've done . . . exactly what you told us you would do!'

  'I want you to call Jane Harrison. Tell her everything is fine. If there is something you don't like about the way I handled this, tell her.'

  Jonas Starr answered from across the room. 'That wasn't part of our deal.'

  When Malloy didn't respond Richland stepped into the silence. 'That's okay, Jonas. We had a few tense moments there. I think we can do this much for Mr Malloy.'

  'You went over my head. Some people might be tempted to think I didn't do everything in my power to get this painting back to you, as per our agreement. If you don't call them, that's always going to be there.'

  'I completely understand.'

  Malloy hit the preset code on his phone and handed it to Richland. Richland was gracious and friendly. Not just a good job, he said. Under the circumstances, an extraordinary job! No complaints! Sure. Sure, there were troubles, but that had nothing to do with Mr Malloy! No, he had handled himself as a consummate professional. Above and beyond!

  Richland's voice, manner, and natural eloquence were undeniable. When he finished, he caught Nicole North's gaze and nodded. North then signaled Mike the bodyguard to hand over the money. 'The painting is yours,' Malloy told them, taking his fee. 'And my responsibilities for it are finished. As per our agreement.'

  At that point Kate and Ethan entered the room. Jonas Starr screeched angrily, 'What is this?'

  Ethan walked toward the portrait, still in Richland's hand. 'This? This is mine.'

  Richland smiled nervously. 'I'm afraid not, young man.' He gestured for the bodyguard's help. Mike reached under his sports jacket, but Kate presented her weapon with such speed Mike was looking at her gun before he had even touched his own weapon.

  'Nicole,' she said, 'tell this man he doesn't have to die this evening.'

  'It's okay,' North said to Mike. The young man let his hand drop to his side again.

  'You can pull a gun on us, young lady,' Jonas Starr grumbled, 'but I'm here to tell you, you will not leave this building with that painting! I've got twenty people outside waiting for us!'

  Ethan walked toward Nicole North, stopping within arm's distance of the woman. 'Tell him. Tell him what you promised me the night I found you in the tower.'

  North seemed uncertain. 'I don't ... I don't know what you're talking about.'

  'You said you'd give me anything I wanted if I would just call the Plaza and asked for Mr Gideon.'

  'I didn't mean this!'

  'You said it, and you meant it. Anything,. Well, this is what I want.'

  'I don't remember! I was under duress! I would have said anything!' She looked anxiously toward Richland and her uncle.

  Kate holstered her pistol. 'I remember. I also remember that Mr Gideon didn't take our call. The person who answered his phone said he was busy. We told him what it was about and he told us the matter was being taken care of.'

  Nicole North looked at Richland.

  'If someone called, I didn't hear about it!' he answered.

  'Tell her what you told me,' Malloy said.

  'I don't know what you're talking about!' Richland tried to smile, but it took some effort.

  'What did you tell him?'

  Flustered, Richland stabbed a finger at Malloy. 'He refused to give Jonas the painting so we could negotiate your release!'

  'That's not quite the entire story, Reverend. Put your hand on Jesus there and tell her the truth.'

  'How dare you!'

  'What did you tell him?' North demanded.

  When Richland could not bring himself to answer the question, Malloy said to her, 'I gave him a simple choice. I said I could use the painting to get you released or I could bring it to New York. I told him if he didn't like those choices he would never see the painting.'

  'What did he say?' North spoke to Malloy, but her eyes stayed on Richland.

  'He told me to bring the painting to New York.'

  'My painting,' Ethan added.

  Jonas Starr stormed angrily toward them. 'You are not taking this painting!'

  'Give him the painting,' North said.

  Richland hesitated. Jonas Starr shouted, 'No!'

  'Give it to him!' North answered.

  Richland seemed incapable of responding.

  Starr reached for his weapon, but Ethan drew his so quickly, the old man had no chance. 'Do you really want to do that?' he asked.

  When Starr hesitated, Ethan moved in and took his weapon.

  'What do you want? Name your price,' Richland shouted. 'Anything but the painting!'

  'The painting is my price.'

  'Give it to him, Jim!' North cried. 'I paid for it, and if it's what he wants, it's what he gets!'

  Ethan holstered his gun and unloaded Starr's weapon, pocketing the clip and tossing the gun aside. Next, he relieved Mike of his weapon. Finally, he took the relic from Richland. For a moment it looked as if Richland could not bring himself to let go, but when he finally did, Ethan asked, 'Is it mine?'

  'It's yours,' North answered. She studied Richland's face as she said this. It was as if she was really seeing him now for the first time.

  Ethan looked at the painting for a long, sad moment, then stepped to the fireplace and tossed it into the flames.

  Richland screamed and lunged forward. He actually got his hands around the wood as the wax boiled and ran across his hands and arms.

  In agony the preacher dropped the thing and curled up on the floor screaming. Nicole North, who knew something about the pain of fire, came to him and held him as he wept.

  She was still holding him when Malloy, Kate and Ethan walked out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  New York

  December 2, 2006.

  Malloy stood outside the Rockefeller Centre watching Paul Sorrento and Gwen skating. They were hamming it up for his benefit, but were actually pretty good. The Christmas lights were on. People were milling about at the edges of the rink and for a moment he simply forgot the crowd.

  'I understand you have been looking for me.'

  The voice behind him belonged to the Contessa Claudia de Medici and Malloy turned expectantly. 'My God . . .'

  Affecting the look of a prosperous middle-aged New Yorker, the contessa wore a black cashmere coat, a scarf, beret, and gloves. Watching Malloy's reaction, a confusion of surprise and pleasure, her eyes had a familiar spark of mischief.

/>   The Contessa de Medici's disappearance had been overshadowed in the media by the deadly attack on Corbeau's villa, but Malloy had followed the investigation closely. He had even returned to Switzerland to track down financial leads he knew the Swiss police were unable to pursue. He got nothing for his trouble. She was gone. Her money lay untouched in her accounts. A week ago the Swiss police had finally given up, declaring the contessa and her handyman Victims of foul play.'

  'Don't look so surprised, Thomas. You of all people should know I'm not without resources.'

  'I'm just happy you're okay.' Saying this, Malloy's eyes cut from the contessa to search the crowd.

  'I'm by myself at the moment,' she said, 'but Rene is still with me, if you are wondering. Having difficulty learning English, of course, but then he was never very good with his German either.'

  Malloy smiled fondly. 'The man makes himself understood.'

  'That he does.'

  'What happened to you?' he asked. 'When I came back to the house after . . .' He glanced around. Too many people were able to hear them, and he wasn't sure quite how to finish his question.

  The contessa gestured for him to follow her, and they made their way out of the crowd. When they were alone, she said, 'When I heard the gunshots, I thought Corbeau's men had come. There was an old tunnel leading out from under the house, and I used it to make my escape. Once Rene found me and I understood what had happened, I realized I couldn't go back.'

  'With your contacts in the country—'

  'I didn't care to tell the police what you and I were up to, and if Rene was going to stay out of prison, I could hardly refuse to make a statement. My only legitimate option was to disappear.'

  Malloy shook his head. 'I should never have dragged you into this.'

  'If you hadn't come to see me, I think you'd be dead.'

  'That would have been my problem, not yours.'

  She raised one shoulder carelessly, as if her losses didn't amount to very much. 'I knew the risks when I decided to go after Corbeau.'

  'I don't understand. You went after Corbeau?'

  She offered a wry grin. 'There are a couple of things I neglected to mention the last time we talked.' The contessa took a moment, letting her gaze sweep across the crowd. Seeing nothing to disturb her, she said, 'About a year ago Ethan Brand received an e-mail at his website asking if he knew anything about a painting of Jesus made in King Herod's Palace on the morning of the Crucifixion.'

  'You wrote the e-mail?' Why, he wondered, hadn't he suspected her of setting the thing in motion? She had motive, opportunity, and the means to do it - the essential elements of determining guilt - and he had missed it. Had he imagined she had brought down the Swiss bankers over the holocaust accounts only to retire from the public stage?

  'I had Rene send it. Credible deniability, I think you call it in the editing business - or whatever it is you do. At any rate, as I was an expert who also frequented his bookstore, Ethan asked me about the legend one afternoon. Naturally, I told him what I could.'

  'You knew Ethan would try to steal it?'

  'I expected he and Lady Kenyon would do a good deal more than try.'

  'They are good.'

  'Corbeau needed to be stopped, Thomas. I was not the only person who thought it, but I knew how to do it.'

  'What about the letter Ethan read - the kid who talked to Oscar Wilde? Was that a plant?'

  She shook her head. 'I had traced the Templars' painting from Edessa to nineteenth century Paris some years ago, but from that point on I had no further luck. I was fairly sure Oscar Wilde had encountered it or at least had talked to someone who had seen it—'

  'Because of The Picture of Dorian Gray ?'

  The contessa smiled fondly, as if mentioning an old friend. 'Wilde told a different story every time someone asked him how he had got the idea to write about a magical painting. I knew he had spent most of one winter in Paris in the early 1880s. During that time he met everyone connected with the secret and occult societies that were in fashion then. I had been looking at various individuals in Paris, but if something was going on, the players were keeping it a secret. Finally I started in on Wilde's acquaintances and came across Bill Landi.

  'He only turns up in Wilde's biography because when his parents found out he had spoken to the infamous Oscar Wilde, they cabled for him to return home on the next ship. It makes a good story, of course, but as I read about it, I realized the two had spent most of an evening together in a tavern and that it was the last evening Wilde spent out of his bed. I thought Wilde just might have been in the mood to tell a secret, and so I chased down Landi. He turned out to be a fairly prominent painter some years later, and his papers went to Denver after his death. It was there I found the most incredible tale Wilde ever told in a letter Landi sent to his brother the morning after his encounter with Wilde. With that and some Swiss property tax records I was able to track the painting to Corbeau's grandfather - also named Julian. He was chased out of Paris for some unsavory activities and living on Lake Lucerne. Suddenly a lot of the rumours about Julian Corbeau began to make sense, and I decided to bring the man down.'

  'Was Ethan in on it from the start?'

  'He had no idea I knew what he intended to do. I was just a rather naive resource he thought he could use without showing his hand.'

  Malloy smiled. 'I bet you were surprised when I showed up at your door.'

  'More worried, than surprised, Thomas. To tell you the truth I had imagined it was over, that Corbeau would chase after shadows for a while and never find his painting. I had no idea it was still in the country.'

  'You didn't think I should get involved?'

  'You obviously were and it was clear you weren't about to walk away from an agreement, so I thought it best to remind you of your mortality.'

  'If the point was to eliminate Corbeau,' Malloy said, 'why not just come to me - or one of your other friends? Kidnapping him might not have looked feasible, but an assassination could have been arranged without too much trouble.'

  'The point, Thomas, was to steal the painting. It was at the centre of Templar ritual and magic - the reason for the Order's existence.'

  'We burned the painting, contessa.'

  Her eyes showed curiosity, nothing more.

  He shook his head. 'The idea of Richland holding up the face of Jesus on TV and selling copies to the faithful was worse than anything we could imagine.'

  'I expect all three of them had decided to keep it out of the public eye. Reserved for the elect of the faith, so to speak.'

  'Just like the Templars . . .'

  The contessa's smile turned cold. 'Blessed are the pure in heart.'

  Malloy shook his head in disgust.

  'Do you find it curious,' she asked, 'that a painting of the Savior turned believers into monsters but left you, Ethan, Lady Kenyon, Roland Wheeler, and even Hans Goetz unaffected?'

  'The believers wanted a miracle. For us the only magic in that piece of wood was the cash it could generate. What I want to know is how you resisted it? If I understand you correctly, you'd spent years searching for the Holy Face. When you found it, instead of acquiring it by some means, you arranged to pry it from the hands of one criminal and turn it over to another. That must have been hard to do for a woman of faith.'

  'How do you know I wasn't tempted?'

  'By the way you handled it when we looked at it in your kitchen. I could see you were curious, but you weren't like the others. You weren't afraid that now you had it in your hands someone was going to take it away.'

  She nodded, pleased it seemed he had understood her response. 'There was a reason the Edesseans buried that painting in their city wall, Thomas. You have only to look at the fruit it bore in a matter of days - the death and betrayal it inspired - to know it was an abomination.'

  'You don't really think it was evil?'

  'Not at all. The evil existed in the hearts of those who adored it. The painting simply provided the stimulus for them to act.'


  'Was it the face of Jesus, do you think?'

  'You mean did you commit a monstrous crime?'

  He smiled sheepishly. 'I guess that's what I mean.'

  'Corbeau got what he deserved, Thomas. As far as I am concerned the devil he prayed to can go to hell with him.'

  'Just a painting then - some face?'

  'Who knows? Maybe it was a pretender, a charlatan who passed himself off as the risen Christ. There were certainly enough of them around.'

  Malloy looked away. 'What do you do now, Contessa?' he asked.

  The brittleness that had overtaken her features softened as she considered her prospects. She looked at the passing figures, the bright Christmas lights, the laughing children. 'Now that I am presumed dead in Europe and living as a penniless middle-aged immigrant in the land of opportunity?'

  Malloy laughed. 'You make it sound almost romantic.'

  'Things are not really as desperate as they seem. I may have left a fortune behind, but I can retrieve most of it before they declare me legally dead. And I had a little something to take with me.'

  'The painting you took when you left?'

  The contessa smiled. 'Rene tells me you wanted to know why I chose that particular one and left the others.'

  Malloy looked away again, watching the crowd. He was still not sure if he trusted everything the contessa told him. 'I'd almost convinced myself you had gotten your hands on the True Image and we were all chasing after the face of a first century impostor.'