The Da Vinci Deception

by Thomas Swan

  “Not about the project. She seemed a little homesick and wondered where I lived. That sort of thing.”

  “Eleanor believes that we have an assignment from the Royal Library. And she knows I have been in pursuit of the missing Leonardos for many years. That’s all she needs to know and all she must ever know. She will come back to Il Diodario one more time, then return to her friends in Washington. This studio is off limits to her. But of course you know all this, we discussed it in my office many months ago.”

  Stiehl remembered that first visit when Eleanor Shepard was only a name. Now he could put a face to the name and wasn’t sure he wanted her back in Washington.

  “I’ll be happy to begin work with Giorgio.”

  Jonas glanced at his watch. “He’ll be here in less than an hour. And with his original drawings,” he added with emphasis.

  “All of them? All forty of them?”

  Jonas was suddenly on his feet. “You said forty sheets? But there are fifty-six.”

  “I only have forty.” Stiehl pointed to the forty Xerox copies neatly stacked on the board.

  Jonas leafed through the pages. “Forty? Tony was given fifty-six.”

  “That’s what he gave me,” Stiehl said flatly.

  Jonas picked up the phone and jabbed at the buttons. “Pronto! Pronto! Signore Waters, tell him to come to the studio immediately.”

  “He’s about ready to take Ellie across the lake,” Stiehl said.

  Jonas went to the window. “He’ll get the word. Are you sure there are only forty?”

  “Of course. I logged and cataloged each one.”

  The cheeks on the big man were scarlet. “Does he think this is some silly game we’re playing?”

  The low roar from the engine had stopped. Jonas turned and stared at the door, his hands clamped tightly behind his back, his feet set wide apart. He stood motionless until the door opened and Tony strode confidently into the room.

  “I’ve been informed by Curtis that he has forty sheets, yet you received fifty-six. Perhaps you can account for the missing sixteen?”

  “No problem. I have them.”

  “Why do you have them?”

  “For safekeeping. That was my judgment.”

  “Stupid thinking. Did you think the man was going to sell Xerox copies in Times Square?”

  The rebuke was unexpected and Tony showed anger at being dressed down in front of Stiehl.

  “Bring them to me immediately,” Jonas commanded.

  “It was a reasonable precaution,” Tony protested. “He can’t work on all the bloody sheets at the same time.”

  Jonas pointed a shaking finger toward the door, his voice low and threatening. “I don’t give a damn for your twisted judgments. I make judgments, you follow orders. The other sheets. I want them now.”

  Tony backed away, glowering. He raised his chin and his lips moved but he said nothing. He turned and walked from the room.

  “Forget this incident, Curtis. Tony overreacts at times, and if I treat his mistakes gently, he’ll repeat them.” He returned to the chair. “How long in hours or days—will it take to complete the first drawings?”

  Stiehl shrugged. It wasn’t an easily answered question. “I’ve been concentrating on technique for over six months and I’m confident I can duplicate with a pen—my pen—nearly anything Leonardo ever drew. I’ll never master his brush technique or the subtlety of his chiaroscuro, and no one will match his ability to choose and blend pigments. He spent years on a painting, but only minutes on a drawing. To duplicate the fluid line I must draw as fast.” Stiehl pushed a small drawing of the infant Christ in front of Jonas.

  “If I can’t draw that face in minutes, then I won’t be able to duplicate the smooth lines he put on paper. To be successful, my drawings have to look like Leonardo drew them. It isn’t copying, it’s a different technique.”

  Stiehl stepped back from the table. “When I feel I’m ready to put a drawing on paper, I’ll be able to complete it in two or three hours. The trick will be in feeling ready.”

  “Do you feel you are?”

  “Giorgio will help me make that decision.”

  “It will be favorable, I know.”

  Tony returned. He handed Jonas a package and was gone as quickly as he had arrived.

  Jonas gave the package to Stiehl. “He’ll be angrier than hell until he’s out on the water.” Jonas patted Stiehl’s shoulder and walked from the studio.

  Stiehl filled his pen and began to draw. His hand moved confidently, the last traces of hesitation gone. At his side were easels holding enlarged reproductions of Leonardo’s Lady with an Ermine, the Mona Lisa, and numerous studies of young women. He had drawn all or parts of them, it seemed, a thousand times. He was familiar with every feature and nuance—with the angle of a head turned and tilted, with the ways Leonardo had broken from tradition, expressing his philosophy of light and shadow. To Stiehl’s immense capacity to mimic others he added his understanding of how Leonardo used ink and chalks. From the beginning of his association with Jonas he had sought this inner understanding so that whatever his mind told his hand to draw, the result would automatically appear in the precise style of the Master.

  Writing in reverse continued to present a larger problem. He pushed aside the drawings and began again the laborious task of disciplining his hand to move quickly while setting down the unfamiliar words. It required intense concentration to memorize Leonardo’s spelling of two or three words, practice writing them with a ballpoint pen on ruled paper, then plain paper, then with pen and ink, and finally write the few words on what would become the finished manuscript with one of the crude pens he had made.

  The now-familiar sounds from the speedboat grew louder. He went to the window to watch the boat pull alongside the dock and Giorgio hop out.

  “First we must talk.” Giorgio said after an inspection of the studio. “I must know you better—how you think, what you know of Leonardo, how you express yourself. Do not be offended by my questions, at heart I am a teacher. I am told you were in prison. Why?”

  “I counterfeited municipal securities,” Stiehl answered matter-of-factly.

  “That is what you did. I asked why. Why did you counterfeit them?”

  “I knew how, and I needed money.”

  “Could you not use your skills for another purpose? To be an artist?”

  “I didn’t think so then. I was impatient.”

  “Who is Tony Waters?”

  The shift in the questioning surprised Stiehl. “I haven’t figured him out. I know very little about him.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No longer. Divorced.”

  “Do you have children?”

  Stiehl smiled. “A daughter.”

  “Your smile told me it was a daughter.” Giorgio touched the tip of his nose, returned the smile, and continued, “When was Leonardo born?”

  “1452.”

  “Where?”

  “Near Florence. In Vinci.”

  Giorgio continued firing questions about Leonardo, and while not prepared for the long quiz, Stiehl was surprised he knew so much. Then Giorgio turned a hundred and eighty degrees and fired more questions about Tony, Jonas, Eleanor, the Renaissance, and finally Giorgio Burri.

  “I’ve never met anyone who has spent a lifetime studying and teaching art. I never thought that is something I could do, and now I think it’s the most important thing I could ever do. You could be my father, and somewhere inside I wish you were. But I’ve known you for too short a time to talk like that.”

  “Go on. Not to make my ego blow up. You may tear it down. What is it you like about Giorgio?”

  “You speak different languages. You like to fish and hike. You have a good life. You smile and make other people happy.”

  “Those are kind words, and I thank you.” Giorgio’s tone became serious. “Would you risk going to jail again?”

>   It was a question Stiehl couldn’t give a simple answer to. The quick answer was no. Even in the apparent safety of a studio overlooking Lake Como, he was at risk. He did not give an answer, and Giorgio did not push for one.

  The session lasted two hours, and when it was over, both men knew each other as well as if they had experienced many months of a close relationship. As Giorgio asked his questions he roved around the studio. He now stood near a tall bookshelf, and as Stiehl looked toward him, a glint of light caught his eye. He studied the reflection coming off a round piece of glass. Stiehl remembered that first day in Jonas’s office, the hidden television cameras and the room with the TV monitors. Jonas was watching and listening. Then came a gentle rapping and a young couple entered carrying trays of food and wine.

  They talked as they ate, and after Giorgio drained his glass he began a serious study of the drawings Stiehl put in front of him. His reaction was spontaneous

  “Splendido! Bello! It is difficult to believe what I am seeing. Your line is fluid and graceful. They are magnificent.”

  “I worry about the handwriting,” Stiehl said apologetically, yet happy with the warm praise.

  “Sì, there are problems, but you underestimate yourself.”

  As the afternoon wore on, Stiehl returned to his apprehension over the handwriting. With Giorgio’s encouragement, his confidence increased.

  It had been a sunless day. The ubiquitous bells announced seven o’clock, and as Stiehl turned on the ceiling lights he was joined by Jonas.

  “I couldn’t wait any longer,” Jonas said. “What is your assessment, Giorgio?”

  “It may be a miracle, but in this young man the genius of Leonardo still lives.”

  Strong praise, thought Jonas, more than he expected, and far more than enough to brighten his round face. “That is the best news of all.” He wrapped his arms around Stiehl in a smothering hug. “You are ready, Curtis. When will you begin?”

  “Tomorrow, with luck. Maybe I’ll have to psych myself up, but if Giorgio thinks it’s time, then I’m ready.”

  “Exquisite.” Jonas turned to Giorgio. “You will approve the drawings?”

  “That is our agreement.”

  “Your original drawings,” Stiehl said. “Can I see them?”

  “Of course.” Giorgio opened a small leather folder and took out his original drawings of Folios 4 and 9.

  Stiehl examined Folio 4. His first impression was that the Xerox had been an accurate guide. But as he looked more closely, he saw that the writing on Giorgio’s original was different from the copies. He compared copy to original and confirmed that a significant change had been made when the copies were run off.

  “The writing is different. Why is that?”

  Giorgio smiled self-consciously. “Leonardo’s words are just as important as his drawings. It is easy enough to decide what sketches he might have made for each of his paintings, but to be inside the Master’s mind . . . to know his thoughts . . . well, that is truly the contribution I have made.”

  “Are you saying that every damned Xerox has different notations from what Leonardo would have written?” Jonas demanded.

  “They are both a fiction, Jonas. However, my originals carry the ideas I am confident Leonardo would have set down. The copies contain what I might describe as idle chatter.”

  “I’ve been memorizing idle chatter?” Stiehl asked.

  “But not in vain. I gave you Leonardo’s vocabulary, and the shorthand he invented. You have not wasted a minute’s time.”

  Stiehl knew that his struggle with the handwriting was not in its content, but in forming the words. He also was aware that Giorgio’s news did not sit well with Jonas.

  “I see there’s more unfinished business between us,” Jonas said as he walked quickly to the door. “I am going to the solarium and expect you will join me immediately.”

  Giorgio sighed heavily. “How unfortunate that trust becomes something to give and never receive. Ah, well, my very talented friend, I must leave you to humor Jonas into a better mood. Begin with the drawings and put Leonardo’s writing out of your mind for the present.” He placed his hand on Stiehl’s. “I will help you. In a few days you will be una scriba esperto.”

  “You made him out to be Leonardo reincarnated,” Jonas said with a measure of approbation. “Or were you building his confidence?”

  “If I made him more confident, then I am happy. But you must know that he possesses a rare talent. I have seen many artists at work and I am a failed painter myself, but there is a magic to the way he moves the pen over the paper . . . as if he wills the ink to flow in a way his mind sees clearly.”

  “All that’s to the good. But you deceived me again. First with copies. And now I find there is the genuine manuscript copy and what you call idle chatter.”

  “I made it clear that I will hold the drawings until each sheet is sold. I have made a concession even so. Two of my originals are with Curtis. It is a fair arrangement.”

  “You call it fair because you hold the drawings. They must be here in Il Diodario where they will be safe. In your hands there’s a risk they’ll be discovered.”

  “There’s little chance of that. My home is filled with drawings and sketches and old books I have spent a lifetime gathering. A few more drawings would scarcely cause attention.”

  “But if anything should happen to you . . .”

  “Nothing shall happen, Jonas. But neither you nor I are truly safe. Only so long as Eleanor believes what you have told her. If she learns of our plan and how you have used her, then all of us are very vulnerable. I have thought about this and it troubles me.”

  Jonas slouched into his favorite chair. “I have thought about it, too. How did you come to Il Diodario today?”

  Giorgio looked at him quizzically. “By that monstrous boat your man runs all over the lake.”

  “Can you come another way?”

  “The road to Bellagio runs behind the villa. There is a gate.”

  “It has never been used. Welded closed. New chain fences make access from the road nearly impossible. You come by water, and if you leave, you return by water.”

  “What has that to do with Eleanor?”

  “I gave you my answer. You come to Il Diodario by water, and if you leave, you return by water. There is no other way.”

  Chapter 24

  Few enterprises run as well as European trains, the Italian State Railway System not excepted. The conduttore had noted Walter Deats’s bandaged hand and had helped him to his compartment for the last leg of his journey to Florence. The rhythmic sounds of the train were relaxing, and staring out to the mountain ranges with their small towns perched high up, Deats remembered his last conversation with Elliot Heston.

  “It’s more than a case of murder.”

  “But what? You’ve got a queasy feeling about some hanky-panky in the Royal Library?” Heston had replied skeptically.

  “Come off it, Elliot, you know that Waters spent the entire summer in the library for a purpose other than installing an air conditioner. It’s perfectly clear that he took something. What? Why?”

  Heston had calmed his old friend, “I believe you, Walter. I’m convinced you’re onto something, and I agree Waters must be found and his friends put under surveillance. But the Yard doesn’t go out of the country except on extraordinary cases, and then it’s handled very specially. Officially, Jack Oxby is on the case.”

  “Why is he out of the country most of the time?”

  “That’s where the stolen art goes.”

  “That’s my point. Oxby chases lost art, not killers.”

  “He gets his share of both.”

  “Damn it, Elliot! I’ve gone this far. I want to find Waters and I need your help. I can’t work with Oxby. No one can.”

  “You know he’s damned good, Wally. He’s coming at Kalem from another direction.”

  “Fine. Just help me get to Waters.”

  “I’m getting heat for financing your Ne
w York escapade, and if I authorize travel funds so you can run off to Italy and you come up empty, they’ll boot my ass back onto the streets with a rank three below constable.”

  “I won’t fail you, and even if I did, you’re too old to be on the streets.”

  “You’re stubborn, Wally. I’ll stick my neck out one more time, but if you don’t come back with Waters . . .”

  “I’ll fish alone.”

  Crowds jammed the platform in Florence, jostling, shoving, bidding tearful welcomes or more tearful farewells. Italians cry a lot, Deats thought. A porter claimed his suitcase, then led him to a line of taxis. His hotel was near the Arno on the west side of the city. Immediately after checking in, he went to the house physician and had the cast opened and the irritating stitches removed. The hand remained bandaged, all but his thumb. He marveled that such an ordinary part of the body could be so essential.

  In the morning he began the task of locating Eleanor Shepard. It proved to be more difficult than he bargained for. Even the articulate manager of the hotel could not extract a phone number from the telephone company. “There is no listing for a Shepard.”

  “She is living in Fiesole,” Deats repeated to the manager.

  “A small town compared to Firenze, but there is still no record.”

  He telephoned the Kalem organization in New York, but if they knew Eleanor Shepard’s address, they were under instructions not to release it.

  His only hope was that wherever she was living, a real-estate agent had been involved. He asked the assistant manager for a list of agents and began calling them in alphabetical order. The American Agency Real Estate Office was third on the list and the voice answering the phone belonged to a young American girl who said that Cecilia Grosso handled the rentals for Americans. Deats made an appointment for that afternoon.

  Cecilia was a short, bubbly woman who had learned her English in Boston. Her accent was an interesting combination of Bostonese and Milanese.

  “Miss Shepard is the daughter of a dear American friend, and I should very much like to pay her a surprise visit.”

  “I haven’t seen Miss Shepard in several months. She’s living in a sweet villa on Via Bosconi.” She talked with her hands and aimed a finger past Deats as if giving instructions. “In the country.” She wrote out the address.