MasterStroke

by Ellis, Dee

  “I agree. It sounds like the plot of a paperback thriller. But the more I examine it, the more I’m starting to think we have something very special here.”

  “How do you know so much about it?” Sandrine asked.

  “There’s a similar piece that’s set the art world buzzing over the last few years. Its owner has been engaged in a bloody and bitter battle to get it officially recognised as a da Vinci, so far without luck but it’s most likely only a matter of time. Then the collectors, those with deep enough pockets, will be falling over themselves to acquire it.”

  “Similar?”

  “The other has been called La Bella Principessa and it has this gracious young lady in profile rather than full-face. There’s been a lot of research done on it; the media has covered it quite extensively. It’s a fascinating story so I’ve been keeping track of it.”

  “How sure are people that it’s a da Vinci?”

  “Now that’s the stumbling block. Quite a few experts have come out in favour of it and the scientific tests conducted on it have backed it as Renaissance. Interestingly, when it first appeared at auction in the late 1990s, it was catalogued as early 19th century German, linking it to a neo-Renaissance movement called the Nazarene. On the other hand, much of the established art world, particularly museum and art gallery curators, have denounced it as a fake.”

  “Wouldn’t they know?” Sandrine was already as fascinated with the story as the artwork itself.

  “There’s an element amongst the naysayers who are extremely cautious, even closed-minded. They’ve dealt with art all their lives and often aren’t willing to admit there are things they don’t know. It’s threatening to their way of thinking and the very basis of their careers and something as revolutionary as an undiscovered da Vinci represents something they don’t want to acknowledge.

  “When it comes to someone who is so little known, like da Vinci, it’s like chasing shadows. Conjecture informed by guesswork amplified by whoever has the noisiest publicity machine,” Jack continued.

  “The da Vinci supporters have identified it as a portrait of Bianca Sforza, the illegitimate daughter of the Duke’s mistress, Bernadina de Corradis. In 1496, at the time Bianca would have been thirteen years old, she was married to Galeazzo Sanseverino, commander of the Duke’s armies. Regrettably, she died four months later; the cause of death is unknown although it may have been in childbirth.

  “Da Vinci was working under the patronage of Ludovico Sforza, the all-powerful Duke of Milan, at that time. He arrived in Milan in 1482 and stayed for seventeen years. Although he was undoubtedly a genius, he was known to begin projects then abandon them unfinished when something else took his interest. He did enjoy painting beautiful women and the Duke allowed him time out from his other endeavours to paint ladies of the court. Of all his known portraits, only one or two are of men.

  “It was a tradition at the time to commission portraits for special occasions, such as marriages which is when this may well have been executed. It could also have been as a memorial tribute following her death. These portraits were often bound into tribute books; quires, as the pages or leaves of a manuscript are called, were often added to established books, as the family’s fortunes progressed and notable events occurred.

  “La Bella Principessa is considered to have come from one of four surviving versions of the Sforziada, a tribute book to Francesco Sforza, father of Ludovico. It’s notable for one reason. The critics say it can’t be a da Vinci because it is a work on vellum and he was not known to have worked with vellum. But vellum was widely used for codexes and manuscripts.

  “The critics also say that it was only a work by one of da Vinci’s students. If you closely examine the background, you can see the parallel cross-hatching made by a pen. It runs from upper left to lower right, which indicates the work of someone who was left-handed. Da Vinci was left-handed but all his known students were right-handed.”

  “That all sounds pretty definitive,” mused Sandrine. With the desk lamp extinguished and in the indirect lighting of the stock room, the portrait still glowed with a golden burnish. It was unimaginable to her that this work could be fake. There was an almost supernatural quality to it that readily suggested genius. She had seen other works of the master in her travels and, although she knew she was no judge, it seemed entirely feasible, although no less fantastic, that this may be a da Vinci.

  “But despite all this, it’s not enough for La Bella Principessa to be officially recognised. There are precedents for re-discovered da Vincis. In 2011, a portrait of Christ, known as the Salvator Mundi, painted for Louis XII of France between 1506 and 1513, was officially attributed to da Vinci. Before that, it was Benois Madonna, which had long been considered lost but turned up in a private collection in Russia in the first decade of the 20th century and is now in the Hermitage.

  “However, if and when La Bella Principessa is recognised, then it would naturally follow that this is from the same sitting; amongst his many talents, da Vinci was known for his playful way of exploring and re-imagining the traditions of portraiture. He was a rebel in so many ways. It’s entirely possible that he did two portraits, one in profile like the Principessa and the other full-face like this one.”

  “And it would be worth $150 million? That’s a lot of money,” marvelled Sandrine.

  “People have been killed for a lot less. Now we have an idea of what the Russians are after, we have to be very careful. And the $150 million figure itself is fairly arbitrary. How can you put an estimate on a da Vinci?

  “The most expensive work of art so far is Munch’s The Scream. That sold a few years back for nearly $120 million. Below that are a couple of Picassos at around $105 million each. These are fairly common artists from the recent past. Da Vinci’s work is more than 500 years old and there’s no definitive idea of his output. That which is known is mainly in museums and art galleries. Almost nothing is in private hands.

  “Bill Gates bought the Codex, which is essentially a 72-page notebook of Da Vinci’s ideas and sketches for $30 million in 1994 and it’s now valued at around $100 million. There’s been talk of the Salvator Mundi being sought by a Texas art gallery for around $200 million, so La Bella Principessa and, by implication, this one being estimated at $150 million seems fairly conservative.”

  Even Jack’s natural reserve seemed shaken by the realisation of what potentially was resting on the workbench.

  “I’m not sure what we should be doing now,” he said, an admission that came as quite a shock to Sandrine. “But we have to take good care of it. And that means moving it out of here.”

  “How could the Russians know about it?”

  “That’s just it. They don’t know for sure. They only suspect we have something of value. If they had the same suspicions we have, they would have come on a lot more aggressively than they have.”

  “Not even Marcus would have had any inkling,” Sandrine agreed. “If he did, it’d be sitting in a bank vault in Zurich rather than sending it across the world with DHL.”

  “Agreed but whatever it turns out to be, we still have to be extremely careful.” He looked around the room. “I’m not even sure what we should pack it in.”

  The packing room contained all manner of envelopes, boxes and cartons but, understandably enough, nothing that should be holding an item worth more than the GDP of many small nations. Eventually, he snorted his frustration and gathered the sketch up and sandwiched it between the leaves of the Pre-Raphaelite artworks.

  “Oh well, it’s lasted this long in the portfolio. It can slum it for another couple of days.”

  The portfolios were soon stacked on a bench closest to the loading dock door.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes with the car. Keep an eye on the street out front and call me if anything happens.” Jack kissed Sandrine quickly and then left. She spent some minutes at the front counter, rearranging books and trying, with only moderate success, to appear casual. The dark Mercedes was still across th
e street, parked in a No Stopping zone. Where’s the parking police when you need them? she murmured irritably under her breath.

  Jack returned after ten minutes. While his dark SUV with the tinted windows idled at the rear loading dock, he hurriedly loaded the portfolios.

  “By the way, what have you told the other woman who works here?”

  “Marcella? Nothing,” she admitted cautiously. She hadn’t been entirely sure that keeping the elderly woman in the dark was a good strategy but it was all she could think of. “She’s been taking some time off work and we haven’t spoken in a week or two. I thought of calling but didn’t want to worry her.”

  “Better let her know what’s going on.”

  “Jack, she might be as small as a bird but she’s feisty and more than likely to just march across the street and tell those Russians off.”

  He laughed, obviously amused by the image she painted.

  “That would probably serve them right. I’m sure they’ve never run into that sort of resistance before.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her again, this time with a passion that set her insides alight. Sandrine squirmed against him, trying to feel every part of his body.

  “Can I see you tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll call you later and we’ll set something up. In the meantime, better let Marcella know what’s happening.”

  She waited until Jack’s car had turned out of the alley before returning to the store, careful to lock the door after her. She dialled Marcella’s number from memory. As they talked, and Sandrine was careful to couch the events of the last few weeks in very general terms so as not to frighten the old woman, an idea popped into her head.

  “Marcella, could I ask a favour? Are you doing anything tonight?”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  At precisely seven o’clock that evening, Sandrine opened the door of her apartment to a huddled figure with long unkempt grey hair frizzing out of a wide-brimmed red hat, a bright red knee-length puffer jacket bearing the over-sized logo of a local football team and pulling a battered shopping basket behind her. The woman was almost bent double and all Sandrine could see was the crown of the red hat.

  It wasn’t her intention but she burst out laughing. In return, the figure stood tall, and took off the hat. The gray hair came with it, revealing a black pixie cut which perfectly suited the angular face with its sharp cheekbones and wide blue eyes.

  “Really, dear, it’s very cruel to mock your elders,” Marcella declared as she marched through the door. The shopping cart was left beached in the hallway as Marcella propelled herself through the apartment, shucking out of the puffy coat to reveal a slim, almost bird-like figure in a white blouse with the collar turned up, an emerald green cashmere sweater and tailored black slacks with black boots.

  Sandrine always marvelled at how closely she resembled Audrey Hepburn in later life. There was a physical frailty about her that made it seem like she could be blown aside by a strong breeze but this contrasted with a personality that was fiery and quick to react when slighted.

  “Now it’s very chilly out there, Sandrine dear, and you’re being a very poor hostess in not offering me a drink,” she exclaimed in a tone of reproval that suggested she was only partly joking.

  Sandrine motioned towards the coffee table where a silver tray awaited with bottles of cognac and single malt whiskey, a crystal brandy balloon and a cut-glass tumbler.

  “Wasn’t sure what you’d like after your arduous journey,” she replied.

  “It wasn’t easy, believe me. Having to waddle along bent over like an old hag. They say getting old is hell. I’m certainly not looking forward to it.” Her bright eyes twinkled with amusement.

  Sandrine looked her over. As far as she knew, Marcella was on the other side of seventy although she had all the spark and energy of a thirty-year-old. Just exactly what Marcella considered old was anyone’s guess.

  “Thanks for doing this,” Sandrine said as she slipped into the red puffy coat and zipped it up to the neck. She sniffed as she did so. Something smells really bad in this room and I think it’s me, she thought.

  Marcella noticed the look of distress that crossed her young friend’s face.

  “Sorry, it was the best I could do at such short notice. The neighbour across the hall is a hoarder and I’m not sure how long it’s been sitting in the bottom of a damp garbage bag.”

  Sandrine found the same smell, only more intense, coming from the wig as she slipped it onto her head and anchored it with the red hat.

  “Same with the wig, dear. So sorry.”

  “It’s only for a few minutes. Jack is waiting two blocks away. The shades are drawn so nobody can see in. You should walk past them every now and again so they know somebody is in here. I’m not sure when I’ll be back but it shouldn’t be late. I’ll call and let you know.” She walked across to Marcella, who wrinkled her nose as she leaned in for a goodbye kiss.

  “Oh dear girl, you do smell a little on the stale side. Don’t forget the old lady bent-over walk when you reach the sidewalk. With the coat and hat and shopping trolley and that overall Delta Dawn thing happening, those Russians will never suspect it’s you.”

  Sandrine kept her head down and progressed at a slow but steady pace as she left the front entrance, images of all the bag ladies she’d seen around the city informing her gait. As she reached the corner of the block, she hurriedly looked left and right, ensuring there was no oncoming traffic, and marched across.

  By this time, her heart was thudding in her chest; she had no idea whether her elaborate charade had been unmasked or if she was being followed. She just had to hope she’d joined the invisible ranks of the homeless and destitute. The occasional passerby gave her a wide berth and, within a few minutes, she’d made the next block and turned the corner to what she hoped was safety.

  “In a way, I’m hoping that’s not you,” Jack’s deep, extremely arousing voice announced close by. With her head down, gazing intently at the pavement and her shuffling feet, she had no idea where he was. “Keep going up the street for the moment. I need to check you’re in the clear.”

  She was almost on the next corner when Jack returned.

  “It’s all OK. Relax, you’ll strain yourself.”

  As she stood up, something cracked in her lower back and she gave a little whimper of pain. Seeing her in full regalia, he started laughing, an involuntary reaction that increased to the point that he was soon choking.

  “Serves you right, being so mean to me.”

  “How did you come up with this idea?” There was a measure of awe in his voice.

  “You’re not the only one who can think up cloak and dagger moves,” she said. “Anyway, it was Marcella who is really responsible for the outfit.”

  “Smells like she mugged a wino. Should have bought an outfit from Goodwill instead.”

  “Not enough time. She borrowed this lot from a neighbour.”

  Jack looked her up and down. From the amusement on his face, he looked ready for another chest-bursting round of hysterics.

  “She should consider moving to a better part of town,” he said drily. “Keep moving. The car is just around the corner. And stay in character, please. People will just think I’m giving my grandmother a ride home.”

  “Not funny,” Sandrine hissed and she continued pulling the cart behind her in a virtual crouch. The sound of Jack’s near-hysteric giggle was annoying her.

  “That reminds me. I haven’t seen Rain Man in years.” He took the cart from her and placed it in the back of the SUV then patiently guided her into the passenger seat. The grin on his face refused to go away. At first, she was incandescent with anger but she’d caught a glimpse of herself in a shop window a few minutes before and the truly bizarre nature of the situation began to assert itself.

  By the time Jack pulled out into traffic, she was trying without success to stifle her own giggles.

  “You can take th
e wig off now. Unless you intend it to form part of some kinky sex fantasy.”

  She tossed hat and wig into the back seat. Her hair was a mess and refused to go back into place. The cabin of the SUV was warming up so she unzipped the puffy coat. The smell intensified with her rising body temperature. Sandrine wrinkled her nose and looked across at Jack who was attempting valiantly to keep a straight face.

  “It was a good idea. Seems the Russians didn’t twig to it at all. Perhaps, though, you went a little heavy on the Eau de Garbage.”

  Sandrine tossed back a dead stare.

  “You’re a funny guy, Jack. Find this amusing?”

  “Immensely. But I am impressed by your creativity.”

  The journey was uneventful. Within fifteen minutes, they were at Jack’s warehouse apartment. The coat, hat and wig were left in the car but Sandrine’s clothes smelt musty and she asked Jack if it was OK if she had a shower. He gave her a full-length black satin dressing gown, a vintage item with elaborately embroidered red Chinese dragons curling along the front and back panels.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes, please. Surprise me. I’ll be back soon,” she answered, taking her over-sized shoulder bag with her as she left. He leaned in to kiss her but she deflected it with a tight smile. “Sorry, I have to wash off this smell. It’s not exactly conducive to romance.”

  In the large main bathroom, she stripped off and examined her body in the full-length mirror while the shower started to steam up the room. Her pale skin was soft and warm, her nipples hardening. She ran a hand across her breasts, tracing the contours, teasing the nipples, pinching once, twice, until she gasped involuntarily. It was impossible to be naked in Jack’s house without remembering his feel, his smell, his urgent insistence.

  She was so highly aroused, the intensity burrowed deep into her body and ached and she was enticingly dizzy. With her eyes closed, she imagined how he looked naked and the vividness of the vision was startling in its clarity. How he towered over her, his wide shoulders and narrow hips, his muscular arms, the thick curl of his chest hair, the tautness of his legs. Everything about him spoke of power. The veins ridging the back of his large hands, the solid knuckles and long sensitive fingers. She had no idea how he maintained his tan in the middle of winter but it was just another point of beauty on this intensely beautiful man.