The Da Vinci Deception

by Thomas Swan

  Deats moved in front of a mirror. “Ah, but I am. First I’ll have this tired face shaved, then have one of your fine American breakfasts. After that I shall pay an overdue visit to the offices of Jonas Kalem.”

  “I hope your luck’s better than mine.”

  “You said the reception area is a small art gallery. A man’s character is often reflected in his taste for art. In any event, it’s my last effort in New York. My allowance is all but spent and destitution is forcing me back to Windsor on Sunday.”

  Walter Deats pushed on the revolving door with his good hand and stepped into the marbled lobby, then turned to watch the turning door he had seen spin countless times.

  He entered the brown-and-gold reception room, aware he was surrounded by music and a mildly sweet and pungent odor. The overhead lights dimmed, and as they did, the spots aimed at each painting intensified and gave off their programmed, subtle changes of color. Then he saw he was not alone.

  Seated in the center of the room was a man in a dark charcoal suit who looked up to acknowledge Deats’s presence. “Hello,” the man said genially.

  “Good morning,” Deats replied. His eyes went past the man and took in the paintings hanging on the length of each wall.

  “Interesting exhibit,” the man offered.

  “Most unusual lighting,” Deats said.

  “Are you a collector?”

  “Not for my own account. But I represent those who are. Are you?”

  “Too rich for my blood,” the man answered pleasantly.

  The music was interrupted by a pleasant female voice. “Mr. Goldensen, we’re trying to locate the books Miss Shepard asked for. Can you spare a few more minutes?”

  “Yes, but I hope it won’t be too long.”

  “Give us another minute or two,” the voice answered. “The other gentleman . . . may we help you?”

  “Perhaps. Do you have a catalog? One that includes prices?”

  “You’ll find the literature on the table next to Mr. Goldensen. May I have your name, please?”

  “Of course. Geoffrey Beal. I’m a London agent representing several clients.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Beal. Please feel welcome and if there is any way we can help you, press a gold button on the panel by the chairs.” The music returned.

  “Have you met the man who owns all this?” Deats asked without turning from the row of paintings.

  “No, but my friend tells me he’s quite accomplished.”

  “I’ve tried to meet up with him but he’s deucedly difficult to track down. My clients rather like some of the young artists he’s brought along. Is your friend the one whose books you’re trying to locate?”

  “Yes.” Steve chuckled, “Eleanor met Kalem in Washington, and he’s put her on an assignment.”

  As he moved about the room, Deats spoke softly into his recorder: “There’s no particular theme to the paintings displayed... rather eclectic... two photographs stand out... beautiful lake scenes that are somehow familiar . . . but I can’t locate them.”

  “Did you say something?” Goldensen asked.

  “I slashed these fingers in my workshop before coming over and I can’t take notes as I usually do. I find this little recorder quite useful.”

  “Did I hear London?”

  “A suburb.” Deats stationed himself in front of the photographs. “Will you be returning to Washington? I’m most anxious to go see the East Wing at your National Gallery.”

  “I’m leaving for Paris on Monday. Then spend the following weekend in Italy. But if these people don’t find the books I’ve been asked to take over, I may skip Italy. My friend would not be happy with me if I arrived empty-handed.”

  “I envy you. Paris and Italy at this time of year. Going to Rome, are you?”

  “No. Florence.”

  “Hope you have good luck with the weather. Even now it can be hot.”

  “My friend is in the country for that reason.”

  “Is she in Impruneta by chance?”

  “Near Fiesole.”

  Again the music stopped. “Success, Mr. Goldensen. We located Miss Shepard’s books.”

  “That’s good news!” Goldensen exclaimed. “You’d think those damned books were printed in gold.”

  An attractive girl appeared, package in hand. “Mr. Goldensen? Please follow me, I’ll show you to the elevators.”

  “Good talking with you,” Goldensen said to Walter Deats, and disappeared behind the sliding door.

  “Indeed yes,” Deats called after him. “Enjoy your holiday.”

  Deats spoke again into his recorder. He knew he must capture the names and places: Goldensen, Eleanor Shepard, Fiesole. And the dates: “Goldensen will be in Italy next weekend. He will leave Paris on Friday, perhaps Thursday afternoon.”

  He returned his attention to the photographs and the voice came again.

  “Mr. Beal, have you found anything to your liking?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. But I’m embarrassed to say they are the photographs. Can you tell me about them?”

  There was no immediate reply. Music flowed again from the speakers. Then the voice returned. “A painting was sold and the photographs are filling that space temporarily. We have no information on them.”

  “Are they for sale?” Deats asked.

  Another pause. “No, they’re from Mr. Kalem’s collection.”

  Once more he studied them until the images were fused in his memory. Then he spoke into his recorder: “Two photographs of an incredibly beautiful lake with mountains rising behind. I don’t understand my fascination for them but have a hunch it has not a thing to do with fishing.”

  He took a brochure with the prices, then pressed the gold button.

  Stiehl made a final inspection of his apartment then wrestled two large suitcases down the narrow stairs to the vestibule, where he was met by a fast-talking young man who gave his name, country of origin, educational status, and list of entrepreneurial pursuits before the luggage was in the trunks and Stiehl was ensconced in the backseat of a car redolent of the too-sweet scent of a cheap aftershave lotion.

  Hoboken grew up before the automobile, making garages scarce, and parking spots along the streets even more rare. But as the Gold Coast Taxi pulled away, an inconspicuous Ford Escort followed from its location near the intersection and lagged a respectable distance behind. Neighborhood cars became as familiar as their owners after a time and a new car was greeted with curiosity. Stiehl had seen the Escort on several occasions, but had not caught a glimpse of the owner. He grew more interested in the car and driver after Tony and the unknown intruder broke into his apartment earlier in the week. Everything indicated he was being watched by a Treasury Department detail, perhaps the warden’s prophecy being fulfilled.

  “Be nice if I knew where we was goin’,” the president of Gold Coast Taxi said, “Newark? LaGuardia? Kennedy?”

  “Teterboro,” Stiehl replied, “and see if you can lose that blue Escort behind us.”

  “Yeah, I see him. Not real easy around here. Too many lights. Is that guy bad news?”

  “He might be. He might also be a guy going to work.”

  “If he’s still tailin’ us when we get to the turnpike, he’s already at work. Hey, call me Enrico. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Stiehl replied, his attention on the car behind maintaining a consistent two-hundred-yard separation. For another two miles through the heavy traffic the cars traveled in tandem. He took it as an inconvenience and, for a moment, suspected that Jonas had intentionally planned to have him followed to assure his uninterrupted departure.

  They reached the turnpike and Enrico pushed his speed to seventy. The Escort widened the gap to three hundred yards. When Enrico slowed to fifty, the distance closed to a couple hundred yards again. “Yeah. He’s workin’all right,” Enrico said.

  “Screw him. Get me to Airlinx Charters at Atlantic Aviation.”

  “You got it!” Enrico turned on the speed and in less than fifteen
minutes they were at the Atlantic Terminal building.

  Enrico helped with the heavy bags and, as he was being paid, asked Stiehl in a hushed tone, “Do you want me to do something with that guy that tailed us over?”

  “It’s all right. He won’t be following me anymore.”

  A girl wearing pigtails and a tight-fitting pink blouse showed Stiehl the way through a door behind the Airlinx counter. “Hop in.” She gestured toward a jeep painted in pale blue and pink and liberally trimmed with chrome.

  She drove a short distance to a waiting Cessna 310, its propellers turning. “There it is,” she said, pointing to the plane. There were seats for four, but he was the only passenger. He shoved his bags ahead of him, then sat in the first row. He was greeted by another pigtailed, pinkbloused girl, taller and older and prettier than the first. “Good morning, Mr. Stiehl. I’m Linda. Welcome to Charter Flight 3 to Kennedy International Airport.”

  “I’m not going to Kennedy,” Stiehl protested.

  “I didn’t say you were going to Kennedy, just the plane. Sit tight while I taxi over to the end of the runway. Your flight to Philadelphia is waiting.”

  Linda taxied to the top of the runway. “I’ll swing around beside the plane up ahead.”

  Stiehl gathered his suitcases and hopped off the instant the plane stopped. He boarded an identical Cessna 310, also marked with the Airlinx logo and painted in the distinctive pale blue and pink. A pilot’s face showed from the cockpit. Stiehl thought he looked too young to be a pilot. “Climb in, we’re cleared to go.”

  Stiehl watched Linda’s plane move to the edge of the runway, begin its roll, then leave the ground, bank, and turn north. His plane followed. It rose off the runway and quickly banked around to a southerly heading. Stiehl could look directly down to the airport below. He saw a man standing beside a blue Escort. He was holding binoculars and alternately moved from the Cessna heading north to Stiehl’s Cessna heading south.

  They were on the ground at Philadelphia International in fifty minutes. At 4:35, Lufthansa Flight 421 met its scheduled departure time. Seven and a half hours later, Curtis Stiehl walked into the terminal building in Frankfurt, Germany.

  Part Three

  . . . Al Diodario di Sirla Locotentete del Sacro Soltano di Babilonia. [. . . to the Diodario of Syria, Lieutenant of the Sacred Sultan of Babylon.]

  —from a letter by Leonardo da Vinci

  The chief town of each Turkish province was the residence of a Diodario, who presided over the financial affairs of the province. Hence Il Diodario—the Treasury.

  —Jean Paul Richter

  Chapter 22

  Lake Como is of modest dimensions: thirty-one miles north to south by two and a half miles across the widest point at the area known as the Centro Lario. But of Italian lakes, or perhaps in all the world, none is as lovely or so incomparably serene as this blue-watered jewel. The lake is shaped like an upside-down “Y.” At the bottom to the west is the city of Como, and across a range of mountains in the southeasterly arm lies the industrial town of Lecco. At the crotch of the lake is Bellagio—old, charming, and overrun with tourists. The northern shore touches Switzerland, the Alps visible in the distance.

  South of Bellagio is the ancient village of Torno. Into and away from it twists a road cut through thick layers of stone where years earlier crude tunnels were fashioned. The gray stone blasted from the mountain had been thrown down the steep hill to the water’s edge. In the mid–nineteenth century a resourceful and wealthy Milanese banker, Giancarlo Vescovo, purchased land at waterside and set his architect and stone masons to the task of creating one of the most unusually graceful mansions along all of the lake’s shoreline. The heaps of gray stone became the building blocks for a great house.

  Because the mountain angles sharply down to the lake, the building was designed to sit on a narrow plot. It was forty feet from front to back, and over two hundred and fifty feet from a solarium on the north to a row of stone boathouses on the south. A low portico extended another thirty feet over the water with wide steps leading down into the water.

  The villa rose three stories, each with high ceilings and great tall windows with leaded panes. From a boat close in on the water one realized its immensity, yet from across the lake, the building appeared but a large gray dot at the base of the mountain rising behind.

  The Vescovos occupied the mansion from the time of its completion in 1885 until Giancarlo died in 1927. It was unoccupied until 1936 when the Italian army commandeered it for use by senior officers and as a weekend retreat for Benito Mussolini. Then Il Duce was captured in 1945 in the village of Dongo, north and west along the lake, and returned the night of his capture to Moltrassio, a town directly across from Torno. Following the war the house fell to the fate of many old lakeside homes. It was simply ignored.

  Access to the Vescovo home was extremely difficult, as no automobile could be driven closer than several hundred feet on a road directly above. A rock-strewn path zigzagging up a steep slope had once been used by surefooted mules. One reached the house by boat or, on rare occasions, by a seaplane. A high stone wall stretched along the road, ending where deep ravines prevented even the most daring from making the dangerous descent. At the center of the wall was a heavy iron gate anchored in thick mortar. The gate was welded shut, never intended to be opened, standing only as an ornament.

  Over the old welding was a new plaque. It read: IL DIODARIO.

  Jonas chose the solarium for the focal point of his retreat. Glass replaced solid walls and the room assumed the appearance of a greenhouse, including tubs filled with leafy plantings and a fountain that spewed columns of water. The furniture was plushly upholstered. An oversized chair was placed strategically at a corner of the room overlooking the lake. Next to it was a console containing dials and buttons for Jonas to control the lights and electronic gadgetry that amused him and gave him a sense of power.

  Late-season travelers were still very much in evidence on the lake, particularly on this last Sunday in September. On Saturday, Jonas had accepted delivery of a Riva powerboat at the docks of the Villa d’Este. It looked as if it were in motion even while it was moored. White with blue trim, it was guaranteed to outdistance any boat on the lake.

  Stiehl had made his way from Frankfurt to Como. Jonas suggested he spend a day adjusting to the time change, then arranged for a meeting at the hotel. Tony had moved to Il Diodario and the last of his frustration melted when he was handed the keys to the boat. Tony gathered up Stiehl and his bags, then sped over the water to the massive gray house. Alone in the solarium, Jonas made a phone call.

  Two hundred miles to the south a phone rang. Ellie Shepard lay on a chaise in the patio outside her bedroom. She was naked, a towel draped across her waist. In the breezeless afternoon sun she was hot; perspiration glistening on her tanned skin. She swung her legs to the patio, knocking over a glass, sending it skittering into the garden. She swore at her clumsiness and at the phone company as she raced down the steps.

  “Is that you, Steve?”

  “Eleanor, hello. It’s Jonas.”

  “Sorry, I thought it was—”

  “A friend? I am.”

  “Of course you are. Don’t be offended.”

  The towel had dropped away during her dash to the phone and she stood naked in the center of the room.

  “I want you to drive to Como tomorrow. We’ve come to the time when we can all be together.”

  “I think I solved the charcoal problem,” she said proudly.

  “Excellent. Bring your samples.”

  She was disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm. “New lab tests on the reformulated inks are being run, but I won’t have results for another day or two.”

  “You can have the results sent here,” Jonas insisted.

  “How long are you going to keep me?” she teased. A breeze through the open door gave her a chill. “I really have to be here on Wednesday.”

  “I won’t keep you. You’ll be free to leave on
Tuesday. What’s so important?”

  “An old friend is visiting. He’s bringing the books that I left in New York.”

  “Your friend . . . I didn’t hear you tell me his name.”

  “An old friend from Washington. Steve Goldensen. He’ll be in Paris on business and I promised to show him Florence. I’m a hell of a guide, remember?”

  He laughed. “I certainly do. Plan on a four-hour drive to the Villa d’Este Hotel. Arrangements have been made with the concierge. The last leg of your trip will be by boat.”

  “Are you on an island?’

  “No, but I don’t recommend you try coming any other way.”

  When the weather is agreeable, the population of Windsor swells by such numbers as to please every shopkeeper and restaurateur in the old city. Walter Deats faced less promising problems caused by Sunday crowds—complaints over pickpockets, stolen cars, and lost children with runny noses. The sutures in his fingers made the skin itch and he wanted to break open the cast so he could plunge his hand in ice. On his return flight he promised himself he would spend the long hours studying his notes and listening to the tapes. He had accomplished neither, but fell into periods of needed sleep.

  Today, except for the annoying itching, he was putting his attention to finding Tony Waters. Waters was in Italy, he was sure of that. His immediate task was to come up with the resources to go on the hunt once more. He shut himself in his office to pore over his notes. He played the tapes. Over and over. He studied the forensic reports with their horrible description of Sarah’s death. He scoured the files prepared by Scotland Yard on the previous exploits of Tony Waters. The Yard had also deciphered the two shorthand notes found in Sarah’s pocketbook.

  HELDWICKE SLOW IN REPLYING . . . PHONE MONDAY AND SPEED THEM ALONG. NEED FOR FINAL IDENTIFICATION REPORT ON G.H.

  Deats had no doubt that “G.H.” was Gregory Hewlitt.

  FRIDAY. G.H. BOLTED DOOR THEN TO DOCUMENTS ROOM. TAKE (?) FROM 19M SERIES. WILL INTERROGATE.