The Da Vinci Deception

by Thomas Swan

  “Giorgio insisted on retaining the originals. When you execute the final drawings, you’ll have both the originals and Giorgio to guide you. Your instructions were clearly spelled out and I’m sure Tony can answer any additional questions you—”

  “Screw Tony. I should have been with you when Professor Burri turned over the drawings. The same goes for the paper and inks. And the quills. It will take months to learn how to use them without dropping blobs of ink. If Leonardo were alive today, he wouldn’t use a goddamned goose quill.”

  “You agreed to use authentic instruments.”

  “And I will. A quill is a crude device to carry ink and draw a line. I have to constantly dip the damned thing into an inkpot. Leonardo devised pens that held ink. I know that’s true. Besides, it’s the result that counts and I doubt there’s a person in the world who could detect whether I used a quill or a pen I made myself. And, incidentally, that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Have you discussed this with Tony?”

  “No, and I don’t plan to.”

  “I’ve authorized Tony to speak for me.”

  “Then unauthorize him. I’m not taking orders from Tony and that’s final.”

  Jonas paused for a full minute, then interrupted the long transatlantic silence. “Keep an open mind, Curtis. Don’t start any arguments. Tony can be very stubborn. Very stubborn.”

  Each said their good-byes. The line Tony used to monitor the conversation was the last to go silent.

  Chapter 16

  Tony waited until he heard two clicks and a dead phone line, then he turned off the monitor and rewound the cassette. He listened to the conversation twice before going ahead with the inevitable confrontation. Stiehl’s new studio was secluded in the northeast corner, isolated and blessed with abundant natural light.

  Quietly Tony entered the studio. He edged to within a few feet of Stiehl before the surprised artist discovered he was not alone.

  “You might show the courtesy of knocking.”

  “Was I being rude? I thought I was quiet as a church mouse,” Tony said in a mocking way. “I’ve come to see how you’re getting on and how I might help.”

  “I’m getting on as well as all this secondhand crap will permit.” He waved at the mounds of drawings, reproductions, and photographs spread over his drawing table and the work surfaces surrounding him.

  “You’ve bitched and criticized from the moment I gave you all that ‘crap,’ as you call it.” Tony leafed through a stack of Stiehl’s sketches. “Now I find you’re taking your complaints directly to Mr. Kalem.”

  “How would you know?”

  “It’s my business to know. We’re engaged in a bloody damned expensive project and we each have our responsibilities. Part of mine is to see that you live up to yours.” He thrust the phone receiver at Stiehl. “You were complaining to Mr. Kalem about Xerox copies, and you don’t like the quills you agreed to use.”

  Stiehl suspected that his call from Jonas had been monitored. Now Tony confirmed it. “I’m not going to argue with you about quills and pens. If I achieve the correct result with a five-hundred-year-old quill or a pen I made yesterday, it won’t matter.”

  “You agreed to use quills. Anything else and you’ve violated your agreement.”

  Stiehl pushed a box toward Tony. It contained a dozen pale yellow turkey quills. He selected one, cut it to a length of about eight inches, removed the feathers, tapered the end, then created a writing edge by cutting squarely across the quill and narrowing the shaft to a point. Next he cut a slit three quarters of an inch long and inserted a sliver of steel shaped like an “S,” positioning it so that it formed a well for the ink.

  “If you’ll keep an open mind, you might learn something.” He handed Tony the quill. “That pen is the same design that’s been used for fifteen hundred years. Whether its a goose or turkey feather or a bamboo reed, the design and the problems it creates are the same.”

  He spilled the pens onto the table. He chose one from the pile. “Here, this looks like the best of the lot. I’ll put ink in it and you write a couple of sentences on that piece of paper.” He squeezed a small amount of ink from a medicine dropper into the hollow shaft of the reed, then handed the instrument to Tony. “Write slowly,” he cautioned.

  Tony aimed the point of the pen to the paper and slowly began writing. He carefully wrote across the page, then lifted the pen and returned to the left side of the paper. A drop of ink fell onto the sheet. “You put too much ink in it,” he complained.

  “Then you load the ink. Put in too little and you have to reload after every two or three words. That’s no good, I can’t draw that way. Too slow. It causes an uneven stroke.”

  “You’ll have to practice more. If that’s how it was done, you can do it, too,” Tony said firmly.

  “I’ll say it again, and for Christ’s sake, listen to me. I don’t have to master the quill. It makes no sense. I’ve researched writing instruments from the Egyptians to the ballpoint. I can make pens identical to those used by Leonardo, and in fact I turned my apartment into a quill factory until I realized it was nonsense to use such an unreliable device.” He smiled, amused by the memory of gathering turkey and goose feathers from New Jersey farms. “I threw out the feathers and bought a small metal lathe and reshaped the nibs on these fountain pens. They’re specially made for calligraphers. I get an ink impression identical to a quill and without the problems. Here are the pens I’ve made.” He held several in his hand and offered them to Tony for examination.

  Tony took the pens, unsure of what to look for. “There must be a damned good reason you’ve been instructed to use a quill.”

  “Not a good one. Every writing instrument imparts a distinctive mark to the paper, thick or thin lines depending on how the nib is angled. With a microscope the expert sees the peculiar characteristics of the quill; uneven ink flow, an erratic wear of the nib, imperceptible splotches of ink, and imperceptible scratches in the paper a smooth metal tip wouldn’t create.”

  “You’re saying an expert can detect the differences, that he can discover minute differences under a microscope.”

  “Yes, he can see those things. I can, too. So I make a pen that holds ink, won’t drip, and makes marks just like a goose quill. There is only one difference: I can begin to draw immediately instead of training myself for a year before I’ve mastered a technique I really don’t need.”

  “Are you saying that an expert can’t distinguish between your pen and a quill?”

  “No more than you can tell me he can.”

  “Then damn it, there’s a risk and you must use the quill.” Tony had referred to risk-taking with the same trepidation he recalled hearing Jonas invoke many times.

  “You’re welcome to an opinion, but I’m using my pens and that’s final.”

  “You conceded there’s a risk . . .”

  “That’s your conclusion. I said I doubted that a difference could be detected. For that matter, Leonardo probably used a metal pen. After all, his manuscripts aren’t covered with ink droppings, and so my drawings and all the difficult handwriting must also be clean. Right-to-left handwriting in an unfamiliar language isn’t something I want to tackle using a quill.”

  Tony showed his impatience, “You’re to follow instructions.”

  “Tony, you’ve grown tiresome with this bullshit about orders and instructions. I’m responsible for creating the drawings. That’s what I’m doing, and the sooner you leave the quicker I’ll get on with it.” He returned to his high-backed swivel chair, leaned over his work, and gave Tony his back.

  Tony’s reaction was spontaneous. He gripped Stiehl’s right shoulder and spun him half a turn so they squarely faced each other. He thrust the pointed end of a quill to Stiehl’s throat, scraping the skin. A smudge of ink mixed with a line of blood that oozed from the scratch. “The quill . . . the bloody, fucking quill. Your orders are to use it. Now use it! You hear me?” Tony shouted.

  Stiehl’s right hand reached
behind him and pawed at the table until his fingers wrapped around a pair of long-bladed scissors. With his left hand he pushed Tony away, then raised the scissors threateningly. “I asked you to leave so I can get on with my work.”

  The chromium blades reflected the bright studio lights. Tony retreated. There was no doubt he could overcome his slight disadvantage, but it appeared he would concede a small defeat. It buoyed up Stiehl’s confidence. He asked a question that had been on his mind since his meeting with Jonas in the Dukes Hotel.

  “Did you know a Constable Sarah Evans while you were at the Royal Library?”

  He noticed that Tony tightened the grip on his hand and shifted his eyes to the window.

  “Of course I knew her. But as an assistant librarian. It wasn’t until after her accident that I learned she was a policewoman.”

  “What did you think of the way she died?”

  “It was bloody awful, but it’s none of my business and none of yours. Now I’m saying for the last time that you’re expected to use quills, not some homemade pen that could shoot down the whole project. If you refuse, I will tell Mr. Kalem.”

  “If you don’t, I will,” Stiehl said.

  He lay the scissors on the table and stared in silence at Tony who seemed to be struggling with his parting words. Stiehl had stood up to him. Finally, Tony spoke.

  “We’ve gotten rather worked up over the issue of pens and quills. I apologize for pushing the matter. But it is something you will have to face with Mr. Kalem.”

  Stiehl picked up the scissors and slapped the closed blades against his palm. “Yes, it’s been foolish.” He showed no sign of accepting Tony’s veiled offer of peace.

  Without further comment, Tony turned and walked off.

  Tony shut himself into Jonas’s cavernous office. The draperies were pulled across each window, shutting out the afternoon’s bright sunlight. The dim light from a single lamp did little to penetrate the vast darkness. He sat behind Jonas’s oversized desk, his arms crossed, his head bowed. He retraced everything that had happened since he last sat on the other side of the desk. He recalled the rainy night in Windsor when he sat beside Sarah Evans, driving toward Windsor Castle on the Datchet road. He remembered looking at her, how she had leaned forward to look for the turnoff into the Castle grounds, how only the instrument lights on the dashboard illuminated her. He remembered that she was very pretty. He clenched his fist as he remembered striking the paralyzing blow to her neck... then, the sounds of the car crashing against the wall.

  “Mr. Waters? Mr. Waters, are you in here?” Edna Braymore stood inside the door at the far end of the office. She was dressed in a severely tailored charcoal suit, her graying hair combed back. Edna Braymore had been Jonas’s executive secretary and office manager for twelve years. She was humorless, diligent, and effective. “The police are on the phone; a Detective Tobias inquiring about you and Mr. Stiehl.”

  Tony was on his feet. “What have you told them?”

  “I’ve said nothing. He asked for Mr. Kalem, and when I told him he was away, he asked if you were employed here. I said I would find someone to answer his questions and came to find you.”

  “You did the correct thing. I’ll take the call.”

  “He’s on line one.”

  He waited for her to close the door, then pressed the button for line one. “May I help you?” He spoke without a trace of an accent.

  “This is Alex Tobias, New York police. Who am I talking to?”

  “Albert Kalem, Jonas Kalem’s brother.”

  “Sorry to intrude, Mr. Kalem, but do you have an employee named Anthony Waters?”

  “Waters . . . Anthony Waters . . .” Tony repeated the name slowly as if he were scraping at the far edge of his memory. “Oh, that would be Tony Waters. He has never been what we call an employee, but my brother did use his services from time to time.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Not here, certainly. He and my brother had some kind of falling-out. Waters moved away from the city, I believe.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Within the year. I don’t recall exactly.”

  “Do you have an address . . . a phone number?”

  “I don’t, Inspector . . . or is it Detective?” Tony asked innocently.

  “I’m chief of detectives, Mr. Kalem.”

  “If the matter is urgent, I’ll check with our personnel people but you’ll have to call tomorrow.”

  “That’s all right. We’d like the information if you can help us. Do I understand that your brother is out of the country?”

  “I don’t keep tabs on his whereabouts,” Tony replied sharply.

  There was a pause, then Tobias asked, “Mr. Kalem, I’m also interested in a man named Curtis Stiehl. Does that name mean anything . . .”

  “Isn’t this a bit irregular, Chief Tobias? Perhaps you should tell me the purpose of your inquiries.”

  “I understand your concern, and I can only ask for your cooperation. I received an inquiry from London Friday afternoon on Waters and Stiehl. My hopes are that you will tell me if they’re employed by your company.”

  “Of course we’ll cooperate, if it’s important.”

  “It is. Do you recognize the name Cutis Stiehl?”

  “I don’t know the names of all our recently hired people but will look into it.”

  “I’ll call in the morning.”

  “If I’m not here, ask for Miss Braymore.” He set down the phone and signaled for Edna Braymore.

  “Chief Tobias was making inquiries for the London police. A most embarrassing affair, Miss Braymore, all over an incident that occurred during the summer. It involved a contract for the purchase of a piece of land south of London, which, when I investigated, proved to be worthless. I considered the arrangement fraudulent but the estate agent thought otherwise and has pursued it in the courts. As I felt obligated to complete my assignment for Mr. Kalem, I have assumed another identity to avoid harassment. It’s all so petty. Can we let this be our secret?”

  Tony played the scene flawlessly. He forced an ingratiating smile. “This Tobias chap will phone tomorrow and I want you to answer his call. You will say you have no further information on Anthony Waters and you will acknowledge that Curtis Stiehl is an employee and was in London with Mr. Kalem. But do so only if Tobias specifically indicates that he knows Stiehl was with Mr. Kalem. I told Tobias I was Mr. Kalem’s brother. Albert was the name I used.”

  “But Mr. Kalem doesn’t have a brother,” Miss Braymore interrupted. “What if that’s discovered?”

  “Unlikely. Please understand that I did not wish to have my personal embarrassment involve Mr. Kalem in any way. Tell Chief Tobias you have no record of my whereabouts . . . that I have not been seen for several months.”

  Miss Braymore dutifully recorded her instructions in a shorthand pad. Her usual calm was becoming unstuck; she was plainly confused by Tony’s deception. “I’m afraid Detective Tobias may come to the office to speak with us in person.”

  “That crossed my mind. Give him as little time as possible, but be courteous. Reveal nothing more than what I have told you.”

  “But if he should talk to others. They have seen you here in the past few days.”

  “They’ve seen me as Keith Habershon. And I’ve kept apart from the staff since returning.”

  “It all seems so strange . . . that they would ask the New York police to search for you because of a misunderstanding over the purchase of some property.”

  “You don’t understand the English.” Tony smiled. “A contract is a bond not to be broken. It’s tradition and it’s a bloody bore.”

  Miss Braymore easily saw past the effete Keith Habershon disguise to Tony Waters’s strong, smiling face. “I think we can take care of Detective Tobias, Mr. Waters, but please don’t get into any more disagreeable situations.”

  Tony waited until he was alone, then returned to sit behind the great desk. There was risk in bringin
g Miss Braymore into his confidence, but the greater risk was in silence. It had taken Walter Deats seven days to uncover his identity; his Keith Habershon cover could crumble in less than two days. Stiehl had become obstinate, his growing independence made supervision of his work nearly impossible, and he had asked about Sarah Evans. Tony was the clear loser in the earlier confrontation over the quills. He had turned his apartment into a pen factory. What else was he doing without Tony’s knowledge or Mr. Kalem’s approval? Stiehl could grow careless and may have shifted more of his work away from the security of his studio.

  Tony stayed in the office for the remainder of the day, then minutes before five o’clock asked Miss Braymore for Stiehl’s address. He departed through a small door off a narrow balcony suspended halfway up the high library walls.

  Chapter 17

  Stiehl was living in the small city of Hoboken, New Jersey, because he knew the territory and would be closer to his daughter Stephanie. A square mile of ethnic neighborhoods, Hoboken was chockful of family-owned grocery shops, taverns, and small churches. The first-ever game of baseball was played on its Elysian Fields, and John Jacob Astor built a summer home along the Hudson River, though no plaque marked the spot. There was the little stuff of history in Hoboken but no greatness. But then, Hoboken had never laid claim to any.

  A cab took Tony the short ride through the Lincoln Tunnel. Police barricades were set across the streets leading off the main avenue, and lights had been strung over the streets; bunting and flags fluttered from wires stretched between houses and telephone poles. Stiehl lived in a converted brownstone in a second-floor apartment. A bay window overlooked the intersection of Garden and Eleventh Streets.

  “There’s a street carnival goin’ on,” the driver announced.

  “Drive as close as you can to Garden Street,” Tony directed.

  “I’ve been here three times in my life, mister. All I know is it’s down where them people are. You’ll have to walk.”