I awake several times and tug the string until I receive a reassuring resistance and lapse back into sleep. The shades being closed caused me to sleep longer than usual and I awoke with a start but Gavin’s door remains closed and the string still tightens so all appears well. It’s not until I rise from the bed that the situation becomes clear.
The box is gone.
The string is tied to the bedpost.
Gavin is missing – his bed has not been slept in.
I call the front desk. “Would you page Mr. Galbraith please.”
“I’m sorry signorina, Signore Galbraith has checked out.”
“When?”
“Two hours ago at five – fifteen.”
“Thank you.”
I can’t believe it - how on earth could I have been so gullible? Trust no-one – isn’t that my first rule?
So Gavin is long gone but where? England seems too obvious and he knows I could track him down there. He could make the airport by five forty, half hour check in – forty minutes boarding – my trusty computer tells me that the flights leaving between six – forty five and seven fifteen departed for Kuala Lumpur, Glasgow, Singapore, Amsterdam, Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro and New York.
Intriguing list.
I check rental car availability – Enterprise Rentals are manned twenty four hours – it’s worth a try.
“Enterprise Rentals – how may I be of assistance?”
“This is Mrs. Galbraith – my husband forgot a suitcase – did he check in yet?” I ask.
“Just a moment please.”
“Sure.”
“Mrs. Galbraith…”
“Yes.”
“I don’t see a reservation for your husband – are you sure he rented from us?”
“I thought he did, but I must be mistaken.”
“The other rental agencies don’t open until eight thirty – you can check with them then.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“You’re most welcome, good-bye.”
Well that narrows it down somewhat, but this is like sticking a tail on a donkey.
I rule out Kuala Lumpur and Glasgow immediately. Amsterdam pops up again and I still like it – New York? Would he dare try to sell the books on my turf? I doubt it – Tokyo? More interested in ancient cars and object d’art than manuscripts – Rio? There certainly are collectors in Rio but again my gut says no - that leaves Singapore and Amsterdam. I’ll get the gate numbers and try to hack into the airport video monitor system for those airlines. If security people only knew how easy this is for a girl of my talents… I don’t see Gavin at the Amsterdam gate – Oh there he is… even with the feeble attempt at disguise there’s no mistaking his six foot two frame and long stride.
So, Singapore here we come – a few more clicks and a ticket is reserved. It’s a good job I love a challenge, but first I need to check the alleyway before I leave Rome.
Chapter 11: Retrieving Valuable Manuscripts
Now I know that I am an unwelcome visitor I am forearmed. I travel along Bath Street using store windows as mirrors but see nothing out of the ordinary as I approach the alley. Keeping my back to the wall, I reach the doorway and peer through again and this time, see a small overgrown courtyard and patio beyond the door. Three men sit at a rusty white table drinking beer and playing chess – there is a fourth empty chair which makes me instinctively look behind me, but I am alone. This doesn’t look like a place where one would deal an ancient artifact of this magnitude.
I really need to get a look inside. The door with the cobwebs is locked and I’ll be seen if I climb the fence – a diversion is called for. A well aimed rock clattering on the verandah above them does the trick and I’m over the fence in a heartbeat. It is an easy matter to scale the wrought iron support up to the neighboring balcony before they spot me and I can see that the room here is bare. A screened divider separates me from the next house but I circumvent it without mishap and land lightly above them after the men regain their seats.
“Mama mia – gatti darn.” I hear one of them mutter. Good – they blame cats for the ruckus.
Shutters block my view into this room and I ease them open with a groan of un-oiled hinges which bring another curse and sound of a stick being banged against the balcony from below. The room is full of boxes and crates piled almost to the ceiling and with scant space to traverse across to the door. Most crates are nailed shut but some lids are open to reveal their contents. Statues, paintings being carefully packed for shipping. I am confused what I am seeing, but this is obviously a big scale black market operation. Only a few crates have shipping labels and various art objects are in process of attached and I photograph them with my i-phone - noticing that two of them are headed to the British Museum in London, so I’ll text my father to be on the lookout for them.
A smaller crate than the others receives my attention. It’s placed on another just inside the door with no label assigned and looks at hand for pick up perhaps. It has the weight I’d expect for the books that went missing from Marconi’s room but it is nailed and sealed shut with old fashioned red wax and personal imprint. I’m willing to bet that the books are inside, but that’s a hell of a gamble – if I take the box and I’m wrong it makes me no better than a common thief and I cannot forward it to the intended recipient.
I am separated from my thoughts by the raspy sound of a vehicle’s horn outside and take the crate and hide in the corner of the room. Good decision as it turns out because I hear loud footsteps climbing the stairs.
The door swings open and I hear someone clunking around and moving crates before yelling “Merda! It’s gone!”
“What’s gone?” A voice responded from below.
“The box – that box.”
“It can’t have gone.” More footsteps hurry upstairs.
“I tell you it is. I searched.”
“Toni – did you move the box?” One of them shouted down.”
“No… didn’t touch it.”
“It has to be here. No-one else has been here. Look again – look everywhere.”
More clattering and swearing convinces me that I do have the books, but getting out of here will be a challenge, but, as you know – I love a challenge.
The crate moving gets closer to my hiding place and I’m sure to be discovered within minutes. I brace against the wall and when the crate concealing me moves I shove it with all my strength and hear a gasp and gush of expelled air as the chest hits the man’s ribs and propels him backwards. It takes a few moments until the other man understands what happened but then he comes at me with a hammer raised. My first instinct is to hold the box up to deflect the blow but I realize the damage it could cause and spin from the strike. The guy on the floor grabs my ankle and this time I use my box to hit the hammer wielder on the temple and stamp on the other’s wrist with a force that produces the sound of a cracked bone and an Italian curse that I can’t interpret. One last kick to hammer the guy’s chest and I exit through the window. I need my hands to swing down off the balcony so I have no choice but to drop the box to the ground and hope they did a good packing job.
I hear a shout – “Out back…” as I drop to the patio and turn to face the onslaught of a big man, with bulging eyeballs, who wants me for dinner. I’m not aware of the knife held behind his back until the sunlight glints on the blade and when he starts an arcing upward lunge and I throw myself into a backward somersault and kick the blade out of his grip at waist height. The knife obligingly rotates towards me, making its capture routine and I now become the adversary, forcing the attacker to retreat but he snatches a chair to use in defense. I hear sounds of backup from inside and need to get out of here in a hurry. Big man is now lunging with the chair and getting legs dangerously close to my head – I duck under and have no choice but to cut his knee muscle in a sweeping slash. He drops on the spot and screams. I seize the books and run to the gate – it’s padlocked so I have to risk the packing again and toss them over before climbing t
he cross members and hopping over.
They did a good job – the box is solidly intact as I retrieve it and take off to Bath Street at full speed and back to the hotel with a quick stop at the general store. I multi – task in my room, packing my case, dying my hair back to auburn, showering and dressing take less than twenty minutes and I leave my room wearing a silk dress and my beloved red high heels. No-one follows me.
I call Roberto from the airport and without going into absolute details, tell him that I have several of the books and am on the trail of the remainder, but as there is no time to meet as my plane departs soon, I will leave them with my parents in London during the flight transfer at Heathrow. I also remind him that he is being watched by Marconi’s mates and possibly others, so this is the safest way. He is okay with that.
I call my father to have him meet me and though not given to high emotions, I sense his excitement in being able to see da Vinci’s books. Two final calls to extend my leave of absence from Harvard and the museum and I’m ready to board.
The flight is a little turbulent but we land in London safely and I meet my father en-route to gate C9 for the final leg to Singapore.
Episode 2
THE STOLEN DA VINCI MANUSCRIPTS & MURDER IN SPAIN
Chapter 1: Singapore
Circling the island that I visited several years ago, I am dismayed to see hardly any vegetation remaining – most of the land has suffered the price of success and is converted to steel and concrete. The ‘Raffles’ Hotel does however boast a lush courtyard of palms and exotic flowers in which the founder of the island would find some solace. My room overlooks the Straits of Singapore and the many marinas laden with expensive yachts, and a pleasant breeze negates the need for air conditioning.
Gavin won’t be as foolish to stay at this, or any other famed hotel so I will bribe the Maitre‘d to send out feelers in search of him. My other approach will be to search the ‘who’s in town’ newspaper sections to see whom he may contact and I will also renew my knowledge of the art and antiquities section of this beautiful city to see if there are any renewable acquaintances here and put the word out that I need to contact Gavin urgently.
There is a special atmosphere I savor every time I visit Singapore and this time is no exception, it is intangible but definite. The multi conglomeration of ethnic cultures brings food aromas that titillate the senses and draw you inescapably to their doors. It reminds me that I haven’t eaten for some time so I choose a curry house and am delighted with the red Thai version with papadums, washed down with sugar water and a glass of Beringer’s oak barrel chardonnay.
I make Russack’s Fine Art Emporium my first port of call and Anastasius showers me with hugs and kisses of welcome.
“Arcadia, how absolutely marvelous to see you – how long has it been?”
“Far too long, but in actual time it’s been about three years - I would visit more frequently if you had something exciting to show me.”
“Ah, I wish… How many pieces has the museum bought from me so far?”
“Seven – all of them are on display and well received by our members.”
“They should be – you practically stole them from me.” He chides.
“Come on Anastasius – you got a fair price for everything. Do you have anything for me this time?”
“Nothing exquisite.”
“Keep your ears open – I believe something very interesting might come on the market any day now. You’ll know what it is. I’m staying at the Raffles.”
“Of course.”
Next on the list is Sir Bartholomew Spencer, knighted by the queen for his contributions to British architecture and specifically to improvements of London museums – he has several designs gracing Singapore’s unique skyline.
“Barty…” I call on entering his office suite.
“Arcadia!” He responds from out of sight. “What a wonderful surprise - how the devil are you?” He asks when setting eyes on me.
“I am well – and always the better for seeing you.” I flatter.
“This old man?” He doubts.
“You don’t look a year older that when I last saw you. Life must be good.”
“It is, it is. A few hiccups here and there but by and large I cannot complain. To what do I owe this most unexpected pleasure?”
“Can we go into your office?” I request.
“Certainly…” He agrees with knitted brow.
“What’s going on?” He asks when we are seated.
If there’s anyone on this earth outside my family that I can trust, it’s Barty, so I tell him the whole story.
“da Vinci’s lost books – Are you positive? This is absolutely immeasurable.” He gasps.
“Without having the facilities to test them I cannot be totally sure, but yes – I am ninety nine percent sure it’s them. My father will call me with confirmation soon, I think.”
“If word gets out about this there’ll be fireworks – but you know that already. What is your plan?” He asks.
“I really don’t have one until I can locate Gavin. I stopped in to see Anastasius Russack and asked him to keep an ear open for anything that will help me find him – I didn’t tell him about the books.”
“I am astounded that Gavin would turn traitor like this – it certainly reinforces your decision not to marry.”
“Well I didn’t see it coming – I’ve thought about it ever since but I still don’t know why he did it.”
“Revenge? Scorned love?” Barty suggested. “Greed? Fame?”
“Maybe all of the above.” I agree. “I’ll know when I have his neck in my hands.”
“Well my dear, I will see what I can do – I can still muster up a few good men. I assume you are at the ‘Raffles?’”
“Yes – room 438.”
“Very well, I will be in touch.”
“Thanks, Barty.” There’s nothing else I can do for now – Sir Barty will cover all my bases and some I don’t know about.
I take a leisurely stroll along the waterfront and take in the sights, smells and sounds that make Singapore so incredible. I see a sign that promises to reclaim land for tree and shrub planting which makes me very happy and would have Raffles smiling if he were still here. There is time for a nap before the neon signs will announce the coming of night and tempt me back to the streets again. I’m hoping the ‘East of India’ nightclub has not changed and in optimist spirit I choose a satin off the shoulder dress and of course my red stilettos and instruct the taxi accordingly. The club looks just the same from the outside and as soon as the door opens I know all is well – latin band sounds positively attract you like a magnet and impel you inside. Once in they dare you to leave.
The floor manager looks at me like he knows me but frowns. He looks at my red shoes and smiles broadly. “It is you!”
“Yes – it is me.”
He takes my hand and kisses it passionately – almost stooping to one knee in the process. “Madam – this is great honor. Come – I find you best table.”
He leads me to a table occupied by a lone man beside the dance floor and whispers in his ear. The man leaves and takes a table to the rear.
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“I tell him next five drinks are on the house, so move or I throw you out.”
“Kai-liang, you are impossible.”
“You remember my name!” He beams.
“You are also unforgettable – do you still dance?”
“Tango?”
“Yes.”
“But of course.”
“Then order me a Mai Tai and tell the band to play their best…”
“Ah, Oui… of course!”
Kai-liang leads me almost as well as Adriano Bellini in Rome, but he has more youthful passion and vigor. The music is like a drug taking control of my senses and it seems that we dance for hours. Most of the time we are alone on the dance floor, much to the delight of the other patrons, who applaud our performances enthusiastic
ally, but all too soon the band has to call it a night and pack away their equipment. Kai-liang escorts me to a waiting taxi and hands me a cocktail to take to my room.
Morning light awakens me at seven thirty and I throw back the drapes to see the sun sparkling on waves and seagulls circling fishing boats on their trip back to port. It’s a glorious morning. My cell phone announces a call from my father, who confirms that the books are indeed genuine and locked securely in the British Museum vault under his name – safer and more hermetically desirable than any bank.
If there’s anything I hate it’s the waiting game – I am not given to sitting on my rump doing nothing, but in this instance there is not much I can do about it, so I decide to visit the National Museum and compare wares, so to speak. They have a decent collection of artifacts but nothing to drool about like the ‘Rosetta Stone’ that my father had a hand in discovering a few years ago.
The required tourist boat ride around the islands takes care of a little over three hours and reminds me of Singapore’s ever-changing skylines and architecturally exciting buildings, but I need action…
Right on cue my cell rings.
“Arcadia?”
“Yes.”
“This is Bartholomew – I have a lead but I would rather tell you in person – can you come to my office?”
“I can be there in about fifteen minutes.” I promise.
Chapter 2: Calling In Favors
“I called in a few favors.” Bartholomew informs me. “And this might be worth following up on.”
He slides a buff file folder across the desk and I find a photo inside. It shows the back view of a man entering the Ardmore Park condo complex – one of the most prestigious apartment buildings in town. The man could be Gavin – the build is about the same but it’s inconclusive.
“Jeffrey Hamilton maintains a home there.” Barty explains.
The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts Page 4