Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  “See that, Herr Engel,” said LeMâitre savagely, “that is your so-called jungle painting by Henri Rousseau! I had your assurances it was the genuine article. Perhaps you believed it was, but Horst Schendler would have known better.

  “What I cannot accept from those with whom I work are lack of knowledge, and possible dishonesty. Surely, you must have known that Henri Rousseau never painted on board. Always on canvas. It seems even that simple fact escaped you. That is what I think of your clumsy attempt to fool me!” LeMâitre pointed to the mangled pile.

  “Now get out!”

  *

  He slumped into the corner of the taxi, dark thoughts of failure threatening to overwhelm him. Schendler had been convinced the Rousseau was genuine. Could he have been so wrong? Or had the original been switched? But who could have executed such a fine copy? No… Schendler had been wrong, and he was now paying the penalty.

  Engel ground his teeth in frustration.

  Suddenly his satellite phone buzzed.

  “Herr Engel?” questioned a voice, which he recognized at once.

  “Mr Ioannidis, how are you?”

  “Well, thank you, Herr Engel.” There was a pause, as though the Greek shipping owner was carefully composing his words. “Herr Engel, I have received news. The shipment departs from London at eleven o`clock on Thursday morning. Do I presume you are ready?”

  Forty eight hours’ time. Ideal. At least this part of the project should be straightforward. He had reviewed and revised their strategy, until everyone knew the role they must play. He had even organised dummy runs, albeit in broad daylight, to accustom them to the limited amount of time they had; and practiced the delicate art of working with electronics.

  “We shall be ready, Mr Ioannidis. You can rely on me.”

  “Good. Let me know when you have completed the first phase. I shall have the first instalment ready for you.”

  The line went dead, as Ioannidis cut the conversation.

  LeMâitre was forgotten. This was the start of a venture that would put the whole enterprise back on an even keel. There was just one piece of the complicated plan to be put in place.

  Chapter 32

  Back in London I checked with Ben Ashley that all the photography done with the rostrum camera was finished.

  “We`ve got some good material to slot into the documentary,” he said, “and the filming is complete, so all we have to do now is the editing and your voice-over. Can you liaise with Murdoch, and do the first cut?”

  I was late back to the apartment in St George`s Square, almost too tired to eat. It was not only the editing playing on my mind, it was also the time bomb stored at Dinah`s Hollow Road, which, at any minute, could explode in our faces.

  I turned the key in the lock and made my way slowly into the sitting room, reading the mail I had collected at the front door.

  “Hello, Mr Cleverden. I expected you sooner.”

  Engel, my nemesis, was lounging on a settee. He even had a drink in his hand.

  He saw me look at the glass.

  “I poured out one for you. But, I`m afraid the ice has melted.”

  “What do you want, Engel? I`ve had enough of your games!”

  He rose quickly to his feet.

  “Perhaps you have. But you are in no position to change the situation. Oh, no. You see, when it comes down to it, you`re little different from me. I may procure works of art, but you, my friend, harbour them to safeguard your grandfather`s name. Do you realise we commit the same sins? Only I admit to them, and you, you are afraid to do so. That`s why you will do my bidding without question, without argument.”

  I made to move towards him, but then thought better of it. I was younger, fitter, and could probably overpower him. But what would that achieve? I would still have to do what he told me.

  “Listen, my impetuous friend, late on Friday night, between eleven and one in the morning, a vehicle will arrive at your warehouse in Dinah`s Hollow... what a quaint name. Anyway, when the vehicle arrives it must be immediately hidden in the warehouse until I let you know otherwise. Do we understand each other, Mr Cleverden?”

  I nodded dumbly.

  Whatever it was, it was not good news. It would undoubtedly add even more to the pressure my mother, McKenna and I were under.

  Chapter 33

  The paintings, sketches, cartoons, and Turner`s favourite easel had been carefully assembled in Tate Britain`s forwarding department. Here each item was carefully wrapped, packed into crates, labelled, and then double-checked.

  When the vehicle arrived at eight o`clock, the many works of art were moved into the loading bay, then efficiently installed in the transporter.

  Three hours later, the driver and his relief, together with a guard and a representative of the insurance company, climbed aboard to begin their journey to the Kelvingrove Gallery in Glasgow.

  The loan from the Turner Bequest, which comprised over three hundred items, had been discussed over the previous eighteen months. The exhibition in the Glasgow gallery was being sponsored by Ernst Young, one of the big four audit firms, and would comprise Turner`s works created during the latter years of the artist`s life.

  By twelve o`clock, the transporter had reached the foot of the M1, a motorway which would take them all the way to Leeds, one hundred and seventy miles due north. Hugging the inside lane the transporter maintained a steady forty miles an hour. When carrying such precious cargoes it was deemed unwise to go faster for fear an accident might damage, even destroy, the nation`s heritage.

  Just after half past one the vehicle turned off the motorway at the A43 interchange on the outskirts of Northampton. Parking in the lorry section, the relief driver and the insurance man went into the service area. Thirty minutes later it was the turn of the driver and the guard.

  By one forty five they had rejoined the motorway, continuing their journey northwards. Three hours later they turned off the motorway at Wooley Edge, fifteen miles south of Leeds. Several cars followed the transporter into the service station, driving into a separate parking area.

  Back at the headquarters of Travis Fine Art Services, the monitor pinged, notifying the operator their vehicle had come to a standstill, with the engine switched off. On the computer screen its location within the lorry park was clearly identified.

  The same pattern as before. The insurance agent and the relief driver went into the building first. Thirty minutes later it was the turn of the driver and the guard.

  The fuel tanks were topped up, and the transporter resumed its journey.

  *

  A brief message was sent from the car park at Wooley Edge to a warehouse in Handsworth.

  The large corrugated double doors were rolled back, and at six fifteen, on a dark, damp evening, another Travis Fine Art transporter threaded its way through the outskirts of Birmingham to join the northbound carriageway of the M6 motorway.

  *

  The M1 became the A1(M), and the quartet sat in amiable silence for the next ninety minutes until they reached the junction at Scotch Corner.

  “We turn off here, onto the A66,” declared the driver, approaching the roundabout.

  Their left turn was shown clearly on the monitor screen in the Travis operations room.

  It was an undulating road with a number of gentle bends. At that hour there was little traffic. However, with a light rain falling, their speed eased on the sixty mile stretch to Penrith. It was close to nine thirty when they skirted the town and picked up the M6 motorway going north.

  *

  The vehicle from Birmingham, unencumbered by cargo, made good time to the Forton service station, just short of Lancaster. In fact, the three men, dressed in Travis uniforms and baseball caps, enjoyed a good meal in the restaurant, and unhurriedly filled the fuel tank, before rejoining the motorway at ten fifteen.

  *

  From Penrith it was a mere twenty miles to junction forty two, the interchange where the A6 runs into the city of Carlisle. Leaving the motorway, the T
ravis transporter made its way to the secure lorry park. The booking had been made several days ago, as had a request for the café to stay open to accommodate the appetites of the four passengers.

  Parking the vehicle, on this occasion the driver and the insurance representative ate first. The relief driver and the guard waited until the pair returned, before crossing the park, going through the security gate, and enjoying a late night meal.

  At eleven thirty all four occupants in the spacious cab had settled down for the night. At that moment, another transporter came slowly to a halt at the security gate. The sixty five miles from the services near Lancaster had been driven at a leisurely pace to allow adequate time for the other vehicle`s arrival, and for the four people to have eaten and settle down for the night.

  “Have we got a booking for you?” asked the guard. He called to his mate. “John, check the screen. Have we got a double booking for Travis?”

  “They may have made a cock-up at the office,” exclaimed the driver. “Thinking someone had made a mistake writing it down twice.”

  “Well, it`s not a problem. There`s plenty of space. Though as we haven`t got a booking for you, you`ll have to pay now, instead of us sending you a bill.”

  “No problem.”

  He took out his wallet and passed over twenty five pounds.

  “By the way, we shan`t be staying all night,” the driver said. “We`ve got to be in Nottingham early tomorrow, so we`ll be on our way by about four. The others are leaving around seven, I believe.”

  “Right… we`ll be ready to open the gates for you. Here`s your receipt, park anywhere you like. Sorry there`s no food , the café is closed.”

  The driver nodded, started the engine, and drove across the park, occupying a bay beside the high-sided, articulated lorry next to the other Travis vehicle. The trio awaited events.

  It was a cold dry night, when, at one o`clock, the cab door of the transporter carrying the Turners opened, and the guard and insurance man walked slowly around it to make sure all was well.

  Within the first minute security guards were on the scene.

  It took a while to explain that they were carrying a valuable cargo, and it was their responsibility to check the transporter every hour or so. Mollified, the security people returned to their post, and the pair to the comfort of the vehicle cab.

  At two o`clock the inspection was repeated, without security appearing on the scene. When three o`clock approached, two of the so-called Travis employees slipped out of their vehicle, and while one stood at the back of the intervening lorry, just in case his partner needed assistance, the other eased himself under the transporter, half in the well of the front wheel on the passenger side.

  A few moments later, the door opened, and tired from their interrupted sleep, the insurance man and the guard slowly clambered down. In the darkness, they were unaware of a hand rising from within the wheel arch, and gently lowering a small cylinder under the passenger seat.

  As the pair began their inspection, he rolled sideways, and in a crouch made his way back to the other vehicle.

  “Everything all right?” whispered his minder, who had also made a stealthy return.

  “Fine. We`ll give it twenty minutes once they`re back in the cab.”

  *

  Turning off the cylinder, they opened both doors to expel the gas.

  Next they took hold of the still forms of the insurance man and the guard, and deposited them on the back seats of their vehicle. The driver was next. He was carried to the same seat in the other transporter.

  Finally, they moved the relief driver.

  Now for the difficult part. Removing the sophisticated satellite navigation and communications unit without setting off alarms, both in the vehicle and in the Travis operations room. One of the trio, the electronics expert, brought with him the tools for the job, together with a twelve volt battery.

  Sliding under the dashboard he quickly identified the relevant wiring, and clipping leads to the battery, attached them to the wires running to the unit. There was a heart-stopping moment when the unit bleeped, and the screen image went blank, but it righted itself quickly, and all three audibly breathed out.

  “For a moment…,” one whispered.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” said the expert urbanely.

  There was a brief flicker in the signal in the operations room; but, at that hour it went un-noticed by the technician overseeing the transporter`s journey.

  Gingerly they carried the unit, still attached to the battery, back to their vehicle. Pushing the sleeping driver to one side, the electronics unit was attached to the transporter`s wiring without mishap. A silent cheer came when it continued to function normally.

  Then the crucial details. The removal and correct placement of empty cartons, magazines, items of clothing, and all the requisite paperwork. By then it was a quarter to four. There was one thing left to do. Exchange registration plates.

  The work of a moment.

  Pushing the driver further over, one of the trio climbed into his seat. At a given signal both engines were fired. When the real transporter eased from its bay, the copy took its place.

  At the security gate, the guard called out, “You didn`t oversleep, then. Have a safe journey.” And cheerily waved them through.

  They crossed over the motorway, and took the A6 road for Carlisle. After no more than two hundred yards, the vehicle turned right onto the old road, now disused with the advent of the motorway.

  Coming to a halt they removed the acetate rolls, transferred from the other transporter. The trio had got it down to a fine art. The rolls were in five metre sections, and each depicted deep windows with vague shapes in the background. They carefully, and efficiently, smoothed the acetate sections over the sides and rear of the vehicle which adhered readily to the metal bodywork.

  It took just twenty minutes to transform the transporter into what appeared, at first sight, a fifty-seater motor coach. Even relatively close up it would be accepted by on-lookers as a vehicle belonging to Carlton Coaches of Slough. Travelling just below the speed limit, the disguise should ensure an uninterrupted passage to their destination.

  They joined the motorway, taking the southbound carriageway of the M6.

  Chapter 34

  They awoke at seven. Heavy-lidded, and with headaches.

  “What time is it?” asked the insurance man, yawning.

  “Christ… it`s seven o`clock. We`d better get a move on. We`ve a hundred miles to go, and we`re scheduled to be there at eleven!”

  “Can`t we stop for something to eat,” asked the guard.

  “No… go and buy some bacon rolls and coffee,” said the driver. “We`ll have breakfast on the move.”

  Was it his imagination that the handbrake was stiff, and the seat too upright? He dismissed both thoughts, he was more anxious to leave the compound and be on his way.

  *

  The communications unit buzzed.

  “Yes, Derek,” responded the relief driver.

  “Tell Reg he`s over the limit, bring it back to forty.”

  “I know, Derek,” the driver said. “But we were a little late leaving Carlisle. I`m trying to catch up time.”

  “Yes, I`ve got you on the move at seven thirty five. I sent you an alarm call. Why the delay?” asked the Travis operator.

  “I guess we didn`t hear the alarm.”

  “Mm… well, from what I can see, there`s not too much traffic ahead of you, so you can bring the speed down. When you`re close to the city come off at junction four onto the M74. Then west on the M8. Take the exit at junction seventeen, and approach the gallery from Kelvin Way. Got that?”

  “Got you,” said the driver.

  “Good. You`ll be coming up to junction four in about fifteen minutes.”

  *

  The trio, wearing Carlton Coaches` uniforms, their caps pulled low over the eyes, purchased food and drink at a service station snack bar. Thirty minutes later they rejoined the motorway.

>   A few minutes before eleven o`clock, having driven over two hundred miles, the vehicle approached junction fifteen, the M6/M4 interchange. They drove eastwards for a short distance before heading south on minor roads.

  *

  The transporter turned off Kelvin Way, and as the hour struck eleven, drew up in front of the main entrance of the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. Built in 1901 in Spanish Baroque style, it followed the Glaswegian tradition of using Dumfriesshire red sandstone.

  Because it was located on Argyll Street, a main thoroughfare in the west of the city, there had long been a myth that the building was accidentally built back-to-front, and that the architect jumped from one of the towers in despair when he realised his mistake. Mere fiction. The grand entrance was always intended to face inwards towards Kelvingrove Park.

  Thus, on this bright, crisp morning, the trustees, curator, members of staff and the Scottish press were present to witness the arrival of the Turner Collection. Roger Melville and a film crew were also there to record the event, as part of the build-up to the prestigious exhibition about to open at the Gallery.

  The relief driver turned off the alarm system, and taking the keys, inserted the first to release the hinged rear cover doors, which he pushed to each side of the transporter. He used the second to operate the tail-lift. Standing on the platform, when it reached its full height, he applied the third and fourth keys to release the bolts on the main double doors.

  The crowd pressed closer to gaze upon the many works of art in the interior.

  Lifting the bolts, the relief driver slowly opened the doors, then did so with a flourish to reveal the contents of the transporter.

  There was total silence, followed by a loud gasp from the onlookers.

  The interior of the vehicle was completely empty!

  Chapter 35

  The driver, relief driver, insurance company representative and the guard stared open-mouthed at the empty carcass of the transporter.