by Thomas Swan
The four appeared to be in an attitude of supplication. Pimm’s hands were placed palms together at his lips as if he were praying; Freebury was bent forward; Chamberlin, hands on the table, bowed his head; and Gilsanon was kneeling. Without comment, Jonas reached a hand to the drawing and gently turned it over. Edgar Freebury stared down at the Giaconda. “First impressions are dangerous, but the delicacy of lines, her eyes . . . there is a sense of knowing it is from Leonardo’s pen.”
“Don’t be a fool, Freebury,” Chamberlin chided. “Your role is to challenge. We’re advocates of the very devil until every vestige of doubt is removed. Then you’ll have time enough to be emotional.”
Freebury replied, “I know my role, Dr. Chamberlin. Suffice to say I have been untouched by some of the greatest art of the world yet deeply moved by the simplest drawing of a schoolchild. I react to what I see and feel. I’ll make a judgment of authenticity with my head, and confirm it with my heart.”
“You prejudice yourself with emotional dithering,” Chamberlin said.
“And you are prejudiced by withholding yours,” Freebury retorted.
Jonas sensed an argument brewing. “Gentlemen, I have very precise photographic copies for each of you. Mr. Freebury, I have a set of enlarged photographs which should aid in your analysis. You are welcome to compare the copies to the original before Mr. Gilsanon takes it to his laboratories for analysis. How much time will you require for your tests?”
Gilsanon looked up. “I must have the drawing for forty-eight hours. Most of the laboratory work requires two days and several tests may take longer.” He bit on his pipe. “We’ll speed everything along.”
“Including spectrometry?”
“Indeed yes. And we have newer methods that are more accurate. But today’s forger has access to the same technology and it’s become our task to stay a step ahead. With the stakes so high, they stay right on our heels.”
“What are the newest tests?” Jonas asked.
“Lasers. Chemistry. Autoradiography. Even fiber optics has given us new techniques for age-dating and analysis of dyes and pigments.” He put a match to his pipe. “We’ve had spectacular success lately with a new process for testing old inks.”
“Something you might use on this Leonardo?”
“It might be worth trying, but most printing papers were sized with animal renderings, and papers used for drawing were not. Artists, and that would include Leonardo, sized and polished paper differently. That’s what I’ve been looking for.” He waved his magnifying glass. “I see the paper was polished, probably with a stone. The red-dyed chalk used as a wash will give us an opportunity to try our new gadgets.”
Jonas felt suddenly warm. “I would like to see your laboratories.”
“I’ll see if that can be arranged. We’ve been protective of our proprietary methods. You understand.”
Jonas nodded. He understood that a single test Ellie had been unable to conduct might uncover the forgery. Masking his disappointment, he said, “Proof of genuineness is in your capable hands, gentlemen. I trust you will go to every length to prove they are genuine.”
Gilsanon drew on his pipe. “We shall, Mr. Kalem. You can rely on that.”
With the meeting adjourned, Jonas went immediately to the side of Doan Chamberlin. “You’ve been extremely patient. I’m indebted to you.”
“This is not a business where debts are incurred, Mr. Kalem; neither of us can be the other’s creditor.”
“I meant that our meeting lasted longer than I planned, and time is valuable to all of us.”
“Quite so.” The slightest hint of a smile crossed Chamberlin’s usually dour face. “My accountant cautions me to consider that each hour has a precise value. Rather a tidy sum based on the good fortune I had with my last publication.”
Jonas was keenly aware of the book. Royal Art and Sexuality had been one of those scholarly works that received popular response in spite of its supposed narrow appeal. It had been twice reprinted less than four months after the controversial reviews. “You must be pleased with its popularity.”
“The publisher chose the title. I resisted, of course. And so the public’s been fooled to think it’s about royal infidelity and salacious secrets.”
“And pornographic art, according to reviews in the London newspapers.”
“Sensational rubbish. Not a literate mind in the lot and each with a tabloid mentality. My purpose was to investigate the immense quantity of art and literature in the royal collections that is exclusively concerned with sexual relations, both normal and abnormal. You have obviously not read the book, and once you have, we can discuss it further.”
“Mr. Chamberlin, I know a great deal more about your book than was in the reviews. We could discuss the role David Latcham played, for example.”
Chamberlin’s expression froze, his air of superiority suddenly gone. “It’s preposterous to think we could talk of such a person.”
“Perhaps, but not out of the question. I heard you say that you plan to drive to the country this evening. Undoubtedly that means the Cotswold, and Chipping Camden to be precise. Is that correct?”
“I said only that I was driving to the country. How would you know about Chipping Camden?”
“I learned by accident, but I did learn. I’ve made arrangements to stay at the King’s Arms and suggest we meet there Saturday evening. Is nine o’clock agreeable?”
“That will be very inconvenient.”
“The bar is pleasant and private.”
Chamberlin’s eyes darted left and right, as if he were trapped and couldn’t find a way out. Then he lowered his head. “Very well, I will be there, but with the understanding that nothing you say will prejudice my decision regarding the Leonardo.”
Jonas did not reply, but nodded his head slowly and smiled. He watched Chamberlin leave the room, then made his way to Pimm’s side and thanked him for his cooperation. Then he made arrangements with Gilsanon for the safekeeping of the drawing. “It shall be safe, Mr. Kalem. We’ve considerable experience protecting art treasures. That’s really what our business is all about.”
“I’m sure it will be safe, but that won’t stop me from worrying. Return it to Harold just as soon as you’ve run all your tests.”
“We’ll begin immediately, and I shall personally supervise. You realize that a small slice of the paper must be sacrificed, and ink scraped for other tests.”
“We took our own samples,” Jonas said knowingly. They shook hands and Gilsanon went to find Pimm. Edgar Freebury folded a notebook in which he had been writing. Jonas handed him a slip of paper. “Please call me if you need further information.”
“I have one question.” Freebury’s voice was soft and his words came slowly. “Your discovery may be the most important contribution to Leonardo scholarship in this century. Greater than locating the Madrid Codex. Have you calculated its value?”
“A great amount of money,” Jonas said with what seemed genuine sincerity. “I am much more concerned with adding to our knowledge of the great master.”
Freebury continued putting papers into his briefcase. “You said that very nicely, Mr. Kalem, and I trust those are your true sentiments. Yet if your discovery proves to be authentic, it may be worth untold millions. Is that important to you?”
“I have made a large investment in time and money to recover the manuscript, and if there’s a high reward, then I feel it will be justified.”
“Did you invest for the sake of enriching our knowledge of Leonardo? Or simply to be enriched?” Freebury reached the door and turned back. “I must remember that when I first look at a work of art, I have an emotional response that tells me if I am looking at truth or a lie. Its commercial value cannot influence my judgment.”
Then Jonas was alone. Chamberlin and Gilsanon had reacted according to form. While neither was in his pocket, both would, in the end, vote affirmatively. Freebury had put his idealism on the table. Yet he showed keen interest in the drawing’
s value. Perhaps he was showing, like so many, that greed was one of his character defects.
Chapter 29
Friday began in the early morning darkness when Giorgio turned in his bed and tenderly ran his fingers over Ivonne’s cheek and neck. She no longer wakened on his fishing days to brew the strong coffee he craved, but would set a kettle of water on the stove before going to bed, knowing he could make his own, and find the basket of cheese and fruit. He smelled the familiar combination of her cologne and perspiration, scents that aroused him. He kissed her closed eyes, then rolled away and onto his feet.
It was 4:45, an hour away from sunrise. The weather was as predicted: cool with an intermittent light rain that might end by noon. Giorgio would set his lines in darkness. The waters along the eastern shore of the lake would remain sunless for most of the day, even though the sun might shine on it later in the afternoon.
Salmonrino are bottom feeders; a prize catch runs to four pounds. Professionals, and Giorgio considered himself one, laid a series of lines on the bottom, a procedure more easily accomplished with two men. The lone angler devised his own methods. Giorgio recorded selected areas where he had had success, choosing a spot only after studying the weather, the time of year, and the strength of the Tivano wind that was frequently a factor in the early morning. A mild wind and he chose positions away from the eastern shore. Strong winds meant he must stay close to the high, sheltering rocks. He judged that the Tivano was blowing at less than five knots. He could anchor away from shore, and that pleased him. The water was deeper, and, though it was more difficult to set the lines, there were more salmonrino to catch.
Steam hissed from the kettle. He brewed strong coffee mixed with chicory and filled his thermos. He had packed the boat the previous afternoon, so the morning preparations were brief. Giorgio was proud of his boat. He had contributed to its design, not that that made it better, but it had features and comforts few others could offer. He flew two pennants, one on the bow and another at the top of the squat cabin perched amidships. The colors were bright—red, yellow, and green, matching the striped pole at his dock. It was a happy boat, but unpredictably troublesome. The powerful motor behaved unreliably at times and on too many embarrassing occasions the boat had lain becalmed on sunny afternoons when Giorgio and Ivonne intended to take friends for a tour of the lake.
A few minutes past five he silently paddled away from his dock. The lights along the public landing in Cernobbio could be dimly seen through the mist, and at a hundred yards out, the lights flickered, then were not seen at all. It was as if he had drifted into a black envelope. He turned on the light in the compass housing, then started the engine. He reduced power and slowly moved on a heading that would take him north and toward the medieval town of Torno.
Tony waited until he heard the motor. Then, alternately dipping a double-ended paddle left then right, he followed the gurgling sound that came from the exhaust of Giorgio’s boat. He was as black as the air around him, his face rubbed with an ebony cream made from burned cork and oil. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and a rubber wet suit. The tiny kayak moved faster than the boat it was pursuing and several times Tony had to back off. He shifted the coil of rope slung over his shoulder, then again dipped the oar into the water.
Giorgio put the engine on idle. Dead ahead were the lights at the boat taxi landing at Torno, a bright light on the dock and a red light to his left. When the two lights aligned, he reversed the motor and ran the boat for thirty seconds toward the middle of the lake. At that point he dropped anchor and measured the water’s depth. Twenty meters. He pulled anchor and moved farther from shore and measured again. The bottom fell away quickly and he was atop twenty-eight meters of clear, icy water. He turned the motor off.
The light in the cabin shone on the clock. It was 5:35. He recorded his position, the time, and the weather conditions in a diary. He went to the stern and began preparing the lines.
Noiselessly the kayak circled, slowly closing in on Giorgio’s boat. When he was ten feet away, Tony could see a shadowy figure pulling his nets from a wooden locker. He dipped the paddle deep into the water and with short, silent strokes drew alongside the bow, where he tied a length of nylon rope to the anchor line.
Giorgio separated six lines, setting them out on the port rail. Four short lines, all with hooks and baited, were attached to each. These lengths were fixed at varying lengths from the main line. Giorgio dropped the first line, pulled on it to eliminate slack, secured it, then placed a bright orange buoy the size of a melon to mark the location. “Buono. Mille buono,” he said aloud. The gentle, steady current flowing due south turned the craft’s bow to the north. Giorgio loosened the anchor line and played out eight meters. The line had a thick wrapping of tape at eight-meter intervals. He lowered his second line. The eight-meter separation was not a guess; Giorgio had learned from long experience.
Tony had not anticipated Giorgio’s action and could not unhitch from the anchor line before Giorgio freed his boat to drift the allotted eight meters. Concealed by darkness, he maintained his advantage of surprise, but had lost valuable proximity to his quarry. He reacted immediately and rolled the kayak over, slipped free, then swam underwater to Giorgio’s boat.
Giorgio heard the splash. It was no more than a slap on the water. “Chi è li? Che cos’è?” His question went unanswered.
What followed was a fury of motions and sounds.
Tony dove below the keel then shot up beside the boat, broke the surface, and, extending his waist above water, lunged for the rail. He grabbed it with his right hand, then as quickly pulled up with his left. He rolled over the railing and onto his feet. Giorgio could see only a shadowy form in the dull light. He reached for a pike, a long pole with a curved steel hook at the end. At the same time he touched the handle of a nine-inch fishing knife in a sheath hitched to his belt.
“Che cosa fa?”
“It’s all right, Giorgio. It’s me, Tony.
“You are crazy. Why are you here?”
“I like to swim in the morning. Sunrise on the lake is beautiful. Don’t you agree?”
“There will be no sunrise this morning.” Giorgio could barely make out Tony’s shape. “You gave me a terrible fright.”
“I suggested you let me come fishing with you.” He continued toward the older man.
“And we agreed to make plans. Scusi,” Giorgio said, waving Tony away. “This is a critical time. The lines must be set out quickly after the first is put down.”
“Let me help.”
“There’s no time to teach you. Watch, and sit in the cabin.”
Tony walked past the cabin door. He closed it and continued toward Giorgio. His blackened face made his body appear headless.
Giorgio tightened his grip on the pike. “Please go to the bow, and after I drop the next line, you can let off on the anchor.”
“Then I can help. Good, I want to help you.”
Giorgio leaned the pike against the railing and tossed another line into the water. He took up the slack and attached a buoy as before. “Now, if you have come to help, let off on the line until you feel the tape. Then fasten.”
There was silence, only a gentle slurping of miniature waves against the hull and the sound of a truck’s horn on a distant road. “Tony?” Giorgio called into the darkness. “Have you found the line?”
The answer came from behind Giorgio. “We won’t be drifting, Giorgio.”
“But we must. If I drop here, it will be too close to the last line. And see, it is getting lighter.”
“We won’t be dropping any more lines.” Tony moved closer, the circles of white in his eyes shining like bright silver coins. “It is regrettable that no salmonrino will be caught here today. Perhaps others will have better luck.”
“That is foolish talk. If you’ve come to help, then go and let off on the anchor line. We must move quickly.”
“You really don’t understand, do you?” Tony raised his arms, brushing the taut rope agains
t Giorgio’s throat.
Giorgio had understood there was danger from the instant Tony sprang out of the water. Tony was half his age and strong, but Giorgio knew his boat and the lake. He ducked away from the rope and grabbed the pike. He lunged at Tony, slashing the sharp point across his chest and through the wet suit, missing his skin by the thickness of his sweater. Giorgio’s agility surprised Tony, and for an instant he thought the hook had cut into him. Giorgio attacked again. Tony fell back against the railing. He was off balance when Giorgio swung the pike a third time. He grabbed at it, deflecting the hook away from him. He fell to his knees, lurched forward, and grabbed Giorgio’s legs, then brought him down on the narrow decking between the cabin and the rail.
“Bastardo!” Giorgio yelled. “Aiuto! Aiuto!”
Tony wrapped his arms around Giorgio and wrestled him to the railing. Then holding him tightly, he fell into the water.
The sky had continued to lighten and now they could see each other. Giorgio’s eyes were wild with fright. He clawed at the black face, thrashing at the water with one free arm. He reached for his knife, but too late. Tony wound an arm under Giorgio’s head, took a deep breath, then sank into the water, pulling Giorgio down with him. But the lean body had more strength than Tony bargained for. Giorgio squirmed free and swam to the surface. Tony was after him immediately. This time he wrapped his legs around his victim and pulled his head back into the water. Giorgio twisted frantically, exerting every bit of strength to break the hold. Then, abruptly, his body convulsed, then went limp.
Tony swam the few feet to the boat and grabbed hold of a mooring line. He looped the rope under Giorgio’s arms and tied it securely. He climbed onto the boat and hoisted Giorgio over the rail and laid him on the deck. He put his ear on his chest and felt for a pulse. There was none. Giorgio was dead.
Water had seeped through the gash in his wet suit. He was cold and unable to move as freely as before. It was raining. Another fisherman had anchored a half mile away and more boats would soon be on the lake. He sat beside his victim and took stock of the situation. He had planned to make it appear that Giorgio had drowned. But he had had a heart attack and now was on the boat in wet clothes.