“That`s all very well, Konstantinos,” remarked Costas Papadakis, the owner of a substantial fleet. “But I am not inclined to part with any money until I know precisely what you have in mind. You say this plan will restore Greek unity, bring back our self-respect. Fine, I agree the principles, but, as I say, give us the details.”
“Be patient, Costas. After dinner this evening someone will provide all the details you are seeking. Then, we shall talk money.”
*
Engel summoned the pilot to prepare the Piper Seneca for flight.
“Where are we going, Mr Engel? Do I need to submit a flight plan?”
“As close as you can get to Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, on the French coast.”
“Hmm… that will be Nice Airport, about twenty five kilometres away.”
“I`ll have a word with the client. He can send a car to collect me.”
When Engel got through to Ioannidis, it was quickly arranged.
“Someone will be at the airport to escort you, Herr Engel. He will bring you straight here in a matter of minutes.”
Engel knew well the difficulty of exiting the A8 Autoroute for Roquebrune, but said nothing.
When his plane landed, a small car was waiting by the stand. Quickly checked through Immigration, Engel was driven across the airport to the helipad.
A helicopter was waiting: its rotors slowly turning in the breeze. Ioannidis was true to his word. Minutes later the aircraft banked over the Roquebrune peninsula and slowly descended, landing in the grounds of the owner`s mansion.
It was nine o`clock exactly. Ioannidis was standing on the terrace.
“Come Herr Engel, my compatriots and I are keen to hear of your proposals.”
*
In the cinema he was introduced to the other four with major shipping interests. When they resumed their seats, Engel began with an explanation.
“I am aware that Mr Ioannidis first spoke with Herr Schendler about his thoughts on a way to restore Greek pride, the country`s morale. As his right-hand man, he explained what was required, and asked me to create a workable plan.
“You may, or may not be aware, that Herr Schendler is no longer with us. He died at the hands of a crazed killer when in New York recently. However, I can assure you that the proposal we have conceived was already formed before his untimely death. We had created an operational model, and tested its workability until the point where it had Herr Schendler`s full blessing. It will work, gentlemen, and the outcome will be an outstanding boost to Greece`s standing in the world.”
“Fine words, Mr Engel,” snapped Costas Pappadakis, “but it`s too late. Our economy is shot to pieces, and the social fabric is breaking down. The government is in disarray, and we could be dumped from the European Union. Whatever you have in mind would have to be cataclysmic to have the effect you are seeking.”
“It is, Costas,” said Ioannidis quietly. “Tell them Herr Engel.”
“It`s quite straightforward, gentlemen. We are going to return the Parthenon Marbles, stolen by the Englishman, Lord Elgin, to their rightful home.”
Chapter 11
I found it difficult to feel any sympathy. From what I had learned, Horst Schendler had been a thief, extortionist and conceivably instrumental in several murders. My next thought, would I still be blackmailed into releasing the four paintings to whomever succeeded him?
It seemed logical to have someone appraise the four paintings. Even to establish what were, and what were not, originals in the long gallery. Someone I could trust not to let the cat out the bag. There was only one person on whom I could rely – Sophie Linard.
She was now working as a conservator at Tate Britain, where my grandfather secured his first and only job. Located on Millbank, it was a short stroll from the apartment in St George`s Square.
I took her to lunch in the Rex Whistler restaurant on the lower floor of the gallery.
“You`ve never taken me for a meal in such style, Alan. You must want something,” she added with a smile. “As you did when we ate in snack bars as students.”
I grinned across the table. “You`re too perceptive, Sophie. I do have an ulterior motive. No, not that one… at least… No, I would like your expert opinion on some paintings I have.”
“My, you are coming up in the world if you have something of value.”
“Actually, they were left to me in my grandfather`s will.”
“Are they at the apartment? I could call in and have a close look at them.”
“No, they are now at his home near Shaftesbury in Dorset. Look, if you`re free, why don`t you come for the weekend,. We could go down together on Friday evening.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You couldn`t bring any of them up to London?”
“For a number of reasons I would prefer not to. Would you mind?”
“Well, I suppose I could.”
Her eyes dropped to the plate before her, and she concentrated on eating for several minutes.
“I can`t make it this coming weekend, but the weekend after is free.”
“Excellent! I`ll pick you up from the Gallery, and we`ll take a train from Waterloo. I shall look forward to that.”
*
In fact, she managed to get away on Thursday.
The two hour train journey flew by. Just like old times, we talked about any number of topics. McKenna was at Gillingham Station to meet us, and twenty minutes later we pulled into the drive and came to a halt on the forecourt.
“Whose house is this Alan? What a splendid setting.”
“It was my grandfather`s, until he died. Now it belongs to my mother.”
I picked up her bags. One for clothing, the other containing some of the tools of her trade. Mother came to the front door to greet us. She immediately took Sophie under her wing, and they were chatting amiably as they climbed the stairs. I followed with the luggage to one of the bedrooms.
I deposited them on the bed, then went along the corridor to my room.
My mother called out. “Dinner in half an hour,” as she went downstairs.
*
After breakfast the following morning I took Sophie to the long gallery.
She stood in the doorway and gasped.
“Even if they are copies, they are not only brilliantly executed, they are truly a picture to behold!”
“Yes, they are remarkable aren`t they. Even though I have gazed upon them for the past twenty five years, I still am entranced by the sheer talent of those who created them, copies, or not. So, how do you want to begin?”
“If you don`t mind I`ll study the older ones first. The frames will tell me a great deal. I`ll examine the backing for clues, then review the actual paints and pigments close up.”
She moved down the gallery, stopping in front of a Vermeer, seemingly painted by an unknown artist. She carefully lifted it from the wall and took it to a table. From her bag she removed a large magnifying glass and stared intently at the painting`s surface.
“The thing about Vermeer,” she said, still bending over the work, “is that he often created the background by first laying down black, then with a mixture of weld – a strong yellow - and ultramarine, he would apply them as a glaze. Because weld is a natural pigment it deteriorates over time, so the paintings tend to end up with a dark background.”
She eased the canvas from its frame and examined the edges.
“Come over here. You can just see the merest hint of green where the light has not penetrated. And another thing, contrary to practice at the time, Vermeer attached his canvas directly to the final stretcher, not an oversized strainer. This canvas has not been re-attached.”
She bent over the painting again with the magnifying glass.
“Hmm… can you see them?”
I took hold of the glass.
“What am I looking for?”
“The inclusions. Little pinhead eruptions of white paint.”
“Yes, now you mention it, I can. What are they?”
“Inclusions are
associated with the use of two particular lead-based pigments, red lead and lead-tin yellow. Common in works of the seventeenth century. If this is a fake, it is an extremely clever fake. Look at the surface, the cracking is also consistent with age. I`ll take a paint sample back to the lab and check it using microscopic and micro-chemical analyses.”
As she was preparing to remove an inconspicuous morsel of paint, she remarked, “Of course, it could be a van Meegeren. He spent years working out techniques for making a new painting look old. The biggest problem was getting oil paint to harden thoroughly, which normally takes fifty years. He solved the dilemma by mixing his pigments with a synthetic resin instead of oil, and subsequently baking the canvas. He then took actual seventeenth century paintings, removed the pictures with pumice and water, being careful not to obliterate the network of cracks. Another method he used was to simulate the grime of centuries by laying a coat of Indian ink over the varnish. Then removing the varnish so that a small amount of ink penetrated the cracks in the underlying painted surface.”
Sophie spent much of the day reviewing the paintings and taking paint samples. She even sampled the Rousseau in grandfather`s study.
*
On Saturday I took her for a tour of Shaftesbury. She wanted to see the location of the iconic hill in the Hovis advertisement, of which people still talk even though it appeared on television over forty years ago. She also wished to see the ruins of the abbey, which, being one of the richest in the country, was top of the Dissolution list in 1539.
The following day we strolled round the gardens of Mead Court, and went for lunch in a typical, old English pub. She found the thatched roof and low beams fascinating, and took a number of photos to show her family.
That evening, before we left, I asked my mother if she recalled where all my painting equipment had been moved to.
“I think it`s all back in the loft, dear. Why? Was it watching Sophie, you suddenly felt the urge to paint again?”
I grinned. “Something like that. I`ll dig it out and take it to London with me.”
We were passing through Reading when Sophie remarked, “Do you know, Alan, I`m sure I heard a vehicle coming up to the house last night.”
Chapter 12
For ten seconds there was complete silence.
Then Pappadakis jumped to his feet.
“Are you out of your mind? If the UN can`t persuade the British to give them up, how in all that`s holy, can you contrive their return? I am wasting my time here, Konstantinos. Tell this madman to go, and take his hare-brained schemes with him!”
Pappadakis turned towards the door. But before he took a single step, Ioannidis blocked his way.
“You are impugning my intelligence, Costas. Herr Engel has discussed his plan with me at some length. It is workable, and you should do me the courtesy of listening to what is being proposed.”
The two men stood face-to-face, staring hard at each other.
Then Pappadakis shrugged. “I value your friendship, Konstantinos, so for you I shall listen to what this man has to say. But immediately he has finished, I shall leave. I shall tell my man.”
He walked round Ioannidis and left the room.
Five minutes later he returned and took a seat.
“When you are ready, Herr Engel, tell these gentlemen what you have in mind,” murmured Ioannidis.
Peter Engel rose from his chair and stood before the five businessmen.
“In one respect, Mr Pappadakis is right. The British would not readily surrender the Marbles to Greece. Moreover, it would be impossible to steal them. Not only does the British Museum have the most sophisticated alarm systems, their size and weight would make the task impossible. The only effective way would be to acquire something that is highly-regarded, is patently British, something they would be prepared to exchange for the Marbles.”
Suddenly, Engel had their rapt attention.
“As you know, there are certain artists, sculptors, men of letters, composers, that the public in Britain place on the highest pedestals. They are their idols… they are revered. However, the one that stands out from this pantheon of talent, who best captures their regard, is the artist, Joseph Mallord William Turner. The English romantic landscape painter. His works symbolise all that is best in artistic endeavour in that country.
“If we could amass a number of Turner paintings, sufficient in quantity to use as a bargaining tool, the outcry would be overwhelmingly in favour of exchanging the Parthenon Marbles for their safe return.”
Another of the group spoke out.
“Surely, the paintings are equally well guarded? You just couldn`t walk out of a gallery with a collection of Turners under your arm?”
“True… but they are not so well guarded when en route to another gallery. I happen to know that an exhibition of Turner`s works will be held in Scotland in the near future. Between London and Glasgow, a distance of five hundred and sixty kilometres, they would be highly vulnerable.”
“Konstantinos,” declared Pappadakis. “I want to know precisely how Herr Engel thinks he can pull this off.”
Chapter 13
Overnight I brooded on Sophie`s remark. I quickly finished an article about the German art market on Monday morning – a lengthy piece questioning whether it could offer dealers a future, when new laws protecting cultural assets as well as an increase in value-added taxes and social welfare payments to artists, are viewed against the threat of global economic risk.
Emailing it to the editor at the Art Newspaper, I managed to catch a lunchtime train to Dorset. A taxi to the house had barely come to rest on the forecourt before I jumped out and ran into the house.
My mother was in the orangery speaking on the telephone.
She waved, and a few minutes later finished the call.
“Alan, what are you doing here?”
“Do you know anything about a vehicle arriving at Mead Court over the weekend?”
She had the grace to look slightly abashed, before nodding.
“Just what the hell is going on here? You could find yourself in deep trouble if you are playing grandfather`s games!”
The door swung open and McKenna walked in.
“Don`t raise your voice to your mother,” he said in a quiet tone.
“Sorry? Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn`t do? This is between my mother and me.”
“Actually, it isn`t, Alan. I was obeying one of your grandfather`s last wishes,” said McKenna quietly. “Just before he died, your grandfather received an urgent phone call from Conrad Gurlitt in Munich. The police were about to raid his apartment and likely seize the cache of art he kept in a nearby salt mine. Michael told him to send as many of his works as he could to England for safe keeping. The truck arrived on Saturday night. At the moment it is parked in one of the barns at the back of the house.”
“My God, what have you done?” I was beside myself in anger. “Do you realise just how vulnerable we are to ending up in prison if word of this gets out!”
“Yes,” he replied. “I am well aware of the risk. And I shall do something about it. But it was a dying wish I could not ignore.”
My mother jumped to her feet. “That`s enough, Alan! McKenna was right to go through with my father`s request. I would have done the same - so would you, if he`d asked.”
That stopped me short. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might have done.
“If you want to avoid trouble, leave now,” mother said forthrightly. “McKenna and I will sort it out. You needn`t be involved.”
She smiled across at McKenna.
I sat down. I couldn`t walk away.
“When you say, you`ll do something about it, what did you have in mind?”
I directed my question at McKenna.
“He will take the vehicle and store it somewhere neither you nor I will know about,” interjected my mother. “That way, if we were ever questioned of its whereabouts, we wouldn`t have the answer.”
“That`s not really the solution
, mother,” I said. “Those works, probably, with the paintings in the long gallery, should be returned to their rightful owners. It should be up to the courts to decide, not us.”
*
I slept badly that night.
There was an uneasy truce at breakfast, and I left soon afterwards. McKenna ran me to the station. Again nothing was said on the journey.
However, when we pulled into the station forecourt, and I reached for the door handle, he said, “You ought to know, Alan, someone is spying on the house. I can`t be sure, but if there is more than one, and they are taking the surveillance in shifts, they could well have witnessed the truck arrive the other evening.”
“Christ, McKenna! I don`t want my mother in a whole heap of trouble. I`m relying on you to shift it, and bloody quickly! What is more, when I come down at the weekend, I want you to tell me exactly where and what you`ve done with the paintings.”
Chapter 14
“After you retired, Herr Engel, we had a long discussion. Nothing was decided last night. However, after they had slept on your proposals, and enjoyed a good breakfast, we reviewed again all the steps in the project you have outlined,” Ioannidis explained. They were seated by the pool, with a distant view of Monte Carlo.
“I can now tell you that we shall finance your endeavour, but with one or two stipulations. First, you must tell me when this exhibition of Turner`s works in Glasgow is taking place.”
“As I understand it, the gallery will open the exhibition to the public on Saturday, the first of April.
“And when will the paintings be delivered?”
“I would say ten days beforehand. In good time to hang them.”
Ioannidis grinned suddenly. “Excellent! Now, the next is a major caveat. No one, and I repeat, no one must know of our involvement in your plan. That would be a disaster. We could not allow that to happen… do you understand me?”
Ioannidis stared at him.
“Of course, sir. You have my word.”
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