But Hamilton’s son, as shrewd as he may have been, had made a serious miscalculation—he had elected to play a match on a chessboard over which Palmer had complete control.
The self-proclaimed grand master made the call to Dr. Belette and set his countermove in action.
Chapter 44
11:57 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
It was one of the first things he had noticed while walking around the National Gallery of Art this past week—massive, ornate iron grates on the walls in the main hallways and in many of the galleries. Art remembered thinking that the space behind the grates looked big enough for a man to crawl around comfortably. The layout reminded him of the hidden passageways at Windsor Castle—yet another secret waiting to be revealed. Late one afternoon, while waiting on his father to finish up for the day, Art had seen one of the museum’s maintenance workers removing one of the grates in the East Sculpture Hall. The boy had immediately started asking questions. It turned out that the grates, and the spaces they covered, were part of the museum’s ventilation system. The thick walls of the museum were, in many places, hollow. Depending on the season, either cool air or warm air circulated through the massive vents built into the very structure of the huge museum.
Art had also learned that there were several points in the museum where maintenance staff could enter the ventilation system to clean it out and remove the occasional mouse family that might make itself at home. One of those access points was near the west stair landing on the main floor. The door—barely four feet tall—was hidden in the back of a maintenance closet near the stairs leading to the ground floor. The entrance led to a ventilation shaft that ran down an interior wall of the museum and through several galleries—including Gallery 30, the area in which the painting of the Pantheon by Panini was located.
Art now sat inside that ventilation shaft—within the wall of Gallery 30. The painting of the Pantheon was on the opposite wall. The boy had no idea what time it was or exactly how long he had been sitting there. Warm air drifted slowly through the ventilation shaft. Art felt as if he could simply lie down and go to sleep—but sleep wasn’t an option.
He knew what his father would have said. Arthur Sr. would have told him to call the police—protect himself, turn over the journal. But Art knew exactly what would happen then—the men who had been chasing the boy would disappear into the wind, and his father would never be seen again. Art wasn’t going to let that happen.
And so he sat in the ventilation shaft and waited.
A few minutes later he heard footsteps echoing in the distance and the indistinct murmur of voices. He closed his eyes and listened for any sign of his father’s voice. The footsteps stopped.
Maybe it was just a security guard.
Art held his breath. For what seemed like an eternity, there was only silence.
And then suddenly the voices returned—but this time far more distinct and clear.
They were close.
The footsteps started again.
From the boy’s vantage point, hidden deep in the shadows of the ventilation shaft and behind the thick iron grate, he had a perfect view of the painting—and his little gift.
As if out of nowhere, a man suddenly appeared. Short and balding, he shuffled across the room and stood in front of the painting. Art recognized him as Dr. Belette, his father’s primary contact at the museum.
“This one,” Belette said.
Another man appeared—this one young and thin.
Still no sign of his father. The boy started to wonder whether his father was still alive.
The young man turned to Belette. “What does that mean?” he asked. He sounded angry.
Belette shrugged. “I have no idea,” he replied. He sounded nervous—almost on the verge of tears.
The young man stood there for a second and simply stared at the painting.
“Get him over here,” he finally said to someone standing on the far side of the room, outside of Art’s view.
A moment later a tall blond man limped over and stood next to Belette. The tall man took one look at the painting and laughed.
Even if he had not seen the man, Art would have known the laugh.
It was his father, and he was still alive. Art’s heart thumped in his chest. He was sure that everyone in the room could hear the sound resonating through the echoing chamber of the ventilation system. The boy took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. The plan was falling into place. He had done everything he could do—it was now up to Camille. Art slowly started sliding himself back down the dark ventilation chamber and away from Gallery 30.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Dorchek Palmer.
Arthur Hamilton smiled at the small note taped to the bottom of the painting by Panini. It read simply: “Le journal est avec le poète vertueux.”
“It’s from my son,” he said. “He wanted to make sure you brought me to the museum tonight.”
“So it’s a trick,” said Palmer.
“No,” said Hamilton. “It says exactly where the journal can be found. But my son knew the note would be useless unless I was here to decipher it.”
Hamilton suspected his son was watching or listening to him as he spoke—but where and how?
He continued. “The French means ‘The journal is with the virtuous poet.’”
“The journal I understand,” said Palmer. “But who is the poet?”
Hamilton smiled. “It’s a reference,” said Hamilton, “to another painting in this museum. I suspect that even Belette could have figured it out—given enough time.”
“Now, wait a second,” replied Belette. “I know the paintings in this museum better than—”
“Better than me?” interrupted Hamilton. “Then please feel free to explain what this means.”
Belette remained silent. His face turned beet red.
“Enough games,” said Palmer. “Explain.”
“Virtutem forma decorat,” said Hamilton. “That’s Latin for ‘beauty adorns virtue.’ It was the poet’s motto.”
Belette gasped. “Leonardo!” he exclaimed.
“Leonardo?” asked Palmer. “Leonardo da Vinci?”
“Yes,” replied Hamilton. “The journal rests with Leonardo da Vinci.”
Chapter 45
12:00 a.m.
Sunday, December 17
First District Station, Metropolitan Police Department, Washington, DC
Mary Sullivan sat in an empty office sipping a cup of coffee. Next to her, on a small couch, Camille was curled up, her eyes closed. Her daughter had insisted that she wasn’t tired, but Camille had fallen asleep almost as soon as she had plopped down on the couch. Mary Sullivan decided to let her sleep. She could tell Camille was exhausted.
The detective had spoken with Camille several times since they had arrived at the station—gently prodding her for any information about what had happened that night and where Art might be. Camille had continued to insist that she knew nothing—that Art hadn’t told her anything about where he was going or what he was doing. Mary was relieved to have her daughter back safe and sound. But Art was still out there somewhere—and that worried her.
Detective Evans stuck her head into the room. She looked as worn-out as Mary felt.
“No sense in keeping you here,” the detective said. “Let me grab my coat, and I’ll drive you home.”
“Thank you,” said Mary. “You’ll call if anything happens?”
“Of course,” said the detective. “And you’ll let me know if Camille remembers anything?”
“Of course,” replied Mary.
The worried mother reached over and shook her daughter’s shoulder. “Let’s go home,” she said gently.
The little voice in her head told her to wake up, but her body resisted.
Camille was warm and comfortable. And it felt good.
/>
The voices around her were indistinct, distant, unintelligible—like the adult voices in a Charlie Brown cartoon.
“Just another five minutes,” she murmured.
The distant voice became slightly clearer. “It’s late,” the voice said.
It was her mother’s voice.
“Just another five minutes,” Camille said again out of pure instinct.
“We need to go,” her mother said.
“Just another . . .” the girl started to say again—but the little voice in her head suddenly screamed at her to wake up.
Camille shot up instantly from the couch.
“What time is it?” she asked in a panic.
Detective Evans checked her watch. “Just a bit after midnight,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for a good hour or so.”
“Oh no,” replied Camille. “No, no, no.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded-up piece of paper that Art had given her.
She was too late.
Chapter 46
12:04 a.m.
Sunday, December 17
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
There are a lot of important paintings at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC.
The walls are filled with paintings by Claude Monet, Edouard Manet, Rembrandt van Rijn, and Raphael.
Works by El Greco.
Johannes Vermeer.
Sandro Botticelli.
Mary Cassatt.
They are history’s greatest painters, and they produced some of the world’s most famous paintings.
But there is only one painting by Leonardo da Vinci at the National Gallery of Art.
It is a portrait of a young aristocrat by the name of Ginevra de’ Benci, a woman of renowned beauty and the inspiration for many poems in her lifetime.
In fact, it is the only painting by Leonardo da Vinci on view in a museum in the United States.
The painting resides in Gallery 6 on the main floor of the West Building of the National Gallery of Art. It is mounted on a stand in the middle of the room. A single spotlight shines down on it. The walls of this particular gallery are the thickest in the museum. There are no windows. There is one doorway that serves as both entrance and exit. It is a literal dead end. And it is also where Arthur Hamilton Jr. had decided to rescue his father.
Slightly out of breath from his quick journey through the ventilation system and across several galleries, Art crouched down behind the stand and waited.
Dr. Roger Belette led the way to Gallery 6.
Arthur Hamilton listened as Belette explained the history of the painting to Palmer, who did not seem the least bit interested. Hamilton suspected that his son’s selection of this particular painting was not random. The portrait of Ginevra de’ Benci by Leonardo da Vinci has one particularly unique feature—the painting is two-sided. On the reverse side of the wooden panel on which the portrait is painted is a wreath of juniper, laurel, and palm and the poet’s motto. In normal circumstances the back of a painting is rarely seen—a painting may sit flat against a wall for decades, if not centuries. The inscription on the back of the painting of Ginevra would have been known only to a select few—a secret to the rest of the world. Today, though, the painting is displayed so that both the back and the front can be seen. And the connection between the portrait by Leonardo da Vinci and the water stain on the back of the fake van Gogh was unmistakable.
As proud as he may have been of what his son was trying to do, Hamilton also knew that they would be lucky to survive the night. Art should have called the police. He should have protected himself. Art had allowed his emotions to get the better of him.
Hamilton hoped that his son had some sort of plan.
“We’re here,” Belette said.
Hamilton, Palmer, and Belette stood just outside the entrance to Gallery 6. Palmer’s two thugs remained close behind. In the middle of the dark room and highlighted by a single spotlight was a small square painting on a tall stand—only fifteen inches by fifteen inches in size. A brass railing surrounded the painting. The young woman on the canvas gazed out at the viewer with a stoic look on her face. It was Ginevra, the aristocrat. The painting hinted at da Vinci’s more famous work—La Gioconda, or, as it is more commonly known, the Mona Lisa.
“Is there another entrance to the room?” asked Palmer.
Belette shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s the most secure room in the museum—and for good reason. One way in, and one way out.”
Palmer smiled and stepped into the room, followed by Belette and Hamilton. Hamilton looked around for any sign of his son, but the small room appeared empty.
“Enough games,” Palmer announced loudly. “No more riddles, clues, or notes. I want the journal, and I want it now.”
The room was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Hamilton hoped that his son had thought better of whatever plan he might have had. But then, suddenly, a voice came out of the darkness.
“Do we have a deal?” the voice asked.
It was Art’s voice. Hamilton’s heart dropped in his chest. They were trapped.
The boy appeared from behind the stand that held the da Vinci painting. He clutched the journal in his right hand.
“Art!” Hamilton exclaimed, and started for his son.
One of Palmer’s subordinates grabbed the father by his arm and stopped him in his tracks. Hamilton winced in pain.
“Hand over the journal,” Palmer said.
“Let my dad go,” said Art, “and you can have it.”
Palmer laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “you’re no longer in a position to negotiate. This is checkmate. So no more games—hand over the journal.”
Art did not immediately respond. He simply stood in place and stared across the room.
“Fine,” he finally said. “You can have it.”
The boy tossed the journal at Palmer. It hit the floor and slid to a stop just short of Palmer’s feet.
Palmer picked up the journal and started thumbing through it.
“It’s on the tabbed page,” said Art.
Palmer turned to the page with the small yellow tab and examined the drawings. “The spider,” he said appreciatively. “We have been looking for you, my little friend.”
Palmer handed the journal to Belette. “Destroy it,” he said. “Leave nothing but ashes.”
Belette nodded and mumbled that he would take care of it immediately.
“I’ve kept my part of the deal,” said Art. “Now let my dad go.”
Palmer smiled. “You didn’t really think that would happen, did you?”
“But we made a deal,” Art pleaded. “You’ve got what you need.”
“That’s correct,” replied Palmer. “I have everything I need.”
Palmer turned to one of the large men with him, the one with the thick glasses. “Grab the boy,” he instructed.
“Wait!” said Hamilton. “Please.” He turned to Palmer. “Let me talk to my son,” he said. “He’ll cooperate, I promise. I don’t want this to be any harder than it needs to be.”
“Fine,” Palmer said. “Make sure he cooperates. One wrong move from either you or your son, and we’ll end this here and now. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Hamilton as he wrenched his arm free from Palmer’s underling.
Hamilton made his way across the room and stood next to the brass railing directly in front of his son. Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. Hamilton reached down, pulled the boy over to his chest, and hugged him tightly.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” he whispered to his son. Hamilton could feel the tears welling up in his own eyes. “Listen,” he continued to whisper. “When we leave, I’ll try to create some sort of distraction. When I do, just run.”
“I’m not leaving you again,” replied Art firmly.
“There’s no other way,” said Hamilton.
“There is anoth
er way,” Art said.
“Okay,” said Palmer. “Time to go.”
He nodded at the man with the thick glasses, who started across the room toward the Hamiltons.
The boy pushed away from his father. “I wouldn’t come any closer,” the boy said. He locked eyes with Palmer.
Hamilton looked down at his son with a look of surprise on his face.
The boy continued to stare across the room at Palmer.
Bazanov hesitated. He glanced over at his leader.
“Get them, and let’s go,” said Palmer.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the boy said. He pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and held it up for everyone to see. It contained some sort of red powdery substance.
“And what is that supposed to be?” said Palmer. “A magical potion?”
“Sort of,” replied Art. “It’s a little mixture I put together. My dad showed me how to do it once when we were in Italy—we made homemade poppers. You know, the little fireworks you throw to the ground and they explode. It was awesome. But my dad made me promise to never do it on my own. He said it was too dangerous.”
Arthur Hamilton Sr.’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t,” he said. “Please tell me you didn’t use the potassium chlorate?”
“I did,” said the boy. “And this bag is, like, a thousand times bigger than the little poppers we made—it’ll be awesome. Red flames and a big explosion.”
Lantham, Bazanov, and Belette started to slowly back away, a look of uncertainty on their faces.
“The boy’s bluffing,” said Palmer. “I can’t believe any of you are buying this. If I have to take care of this myself, I will.”
Palmer started walking across the room toward Hamilton and his son.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Hamilton. “My son doesn’t know what he’s doing. That stuff can be very unstable. If he mixed it up incorrectly, then the stuff in that bag could blow us all up.”
The Van Gogh Deception Page 19