The Hypnotist

by M. J. Rose

  Tyler Weil, who’d called this emergency meeting, the first of his tenure and the first in the museum’s last decade, sat at the head of the table explaining the situation. Doug Comley, in a pressed navy suit, crisp white shirt and carefully knotted striped tie, was on his left, and Lucian Glass, who was unshaven and wearing his usual black jeans and T-shirt and looked even more haggard and exhausted than usual, sat on his right.

  “This is going to be an extremely sensitive negotiation, and I wanted you all to understand what we’re planning.”

  “Before we go there, are you saying you haven’t even figured out why on earth this lunatic wants to exchange these four masterpieces for a sculpture?” Jim Rand interrupted. He was an impatient man in his seventies who was the CEO of a holding company that owned one of the largest advertising agencies in the world and had donated enough money to the Met in the past five years to have a gallery named after him.

  “No one will fault us for making the exchange. The Van Gogh alone is worth a dozen Greek sculptures,” Nina Keyes said. The five-carat diamond earrings she wore bounced in sync to the vehemence of her response. “Just give them the sculpture.”

  “It’s not that simple, Nina. If it gets out that we negotiated or capitulated we leave ourselves open and vulnerable to who knows how many more criminals.” Hitch Oster was chairman of the board. His father, a real-estate mogul, had been on the board, as had his father before him. There were half-a-dozen old masters that had discreet plaques beneath them that read, “A Gift of Milton Oster.” But Hitch wasn’t just fulfilling a family tradition. He was passionate about the museum and its holdings and the importance of the institution. “Museums of our caliber—the Louvre, the British Museum, the Uffizi—we’re all encyclopedias of art and humanity. We’re the crown jewels of civilized nations. We afford everyone of every socioeconomic level the chance to engage with, learn from and be elevated by the objects on display. We do not negotiate.”

  “Rules will cripple you every time,” Nina responded.

  “We will get the paintings back without the museum being compromised in any way,” Comley said. “And we’d like to fill you in on how we’re planning to do that.”

  “Can’t you just legally confiscate them?” Rand asked.

  “Why didn’t you do that already?” Nina asked. “You said you were with the paintings for twenty minutes.”

  Lucian stopped himself from massaging his temples. He’d taken some pain pills a few hours ago, but they were wearing off. The headaches were always worse when he was stressed. Or hungry. The fruit looked good, but none of the platters were near him. “We don’t just want the paintings. We want the man who spearheaded this effort.” He was furious when he thought about what had happened yesterday…they should have—no, he should have—expected that a man smart enough to get this far would have every contingency covered.

  “Are you saying he was able to get the paintings away from a whole team of FBI agents without being followed?” Rand asked dubiously. “How did he do that?”

  Lucian explained as succinctly as he could: as he had feared, the agents in the parking garage, in front of the hotel and in the lobby who were waiting for a signal noticed the hotel guest who left, carrying two ordinary suitcases, four-and-a-half minutes before Lucian got back to his room and called to alert them, but they had no reason to be suspicious. Later, on the hotel’s videotape, they were able to watch the muscle man from the upstairs hallway, the elevator, the lobby and out front where the doorman helped him into a taxi. With the suitcases in the trunk, the cab drove off.

  “So you didn’t get the paintings or a lead on who’s behind this?” Rand asked.

  “Did this guy just take a chance that there’d be a taxi waiting downstairs?” Hitch asked.

  “Probably not. On the tapes we examined there was a car idling in front of the hotel that drove off about sixty seconds after the taxi pulled out. If there hadn’t been a taxi just dropping someone off, our suspect would have probably jumped in that car.”

  “What about that car?” Nina asked.

  “The plates were stolen the day before from a Jeep belonging to a lawyer who lives in Santa Monica.”

  “So basically—” Nina’s voice was strained “—you don’t know anything really?”

  Victims got angry; Lucian was used to it. “We know the paintings are real and that whoever owns them bought them to trade them, which means the owner is probably not a typical collector. We know the governments of Iran and Greece both have requested the return of this same sculpture to their respective countries, making it possible that one of them is behind this. The law firm of Weil, Weston and Young has been engaged by the government of Iran to ensure that the exchange happens, and we have—”

  “What the hell?” Rand turned the full force of his ire on the museum’s director. “Why didn’t we know about that?”

  Weil folded his hands on the table as if needing to feel the wood under them. “My office sent each of you a letter to that effect, which you should have received last week. My father and I are not on speaking terms now and haven’t been for fifteen years. I only just found out about this myself from the museum’s law firm.” He spoke with his usual calm, but when he moved his hands, Lucian noticed that there were impressions of moisture where they’d rested.

  “Your father’s law firm is working for the Iranian government, which is trying to take a famous piece of sculpture away from us? There’s a major conflict of interest here,” Rand said.

  “No, actually, there isn’t,” Hitch Oster intervened. “Weil’s explained that he doesn’t have any dealings with the firm, he is not employed by them and doesn’t benefit by association with them, and in no way should this impact us or our faith in him. Now,” he said, dismissing Rand, whom he clearly didn’t have much respect for, and turning to the three men at the head of the table, “how are you going to get us our paintings?”

  “I’d like to bring in someone for you all to meet,” Lucian said as he got up and walked out of the room.

  Deborah Mitchell looked up when the door to the conference room opened and Lucian stepped out.

  “They’re ready for you,” he said.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “When the physical organism breaks up, the soul survives. It then takes on another body.”

  —Paul Gauguin

  Using a strip of 600-grade sandpaper, Charlie Danzinger smoothed the underside of the sculpture’s thigh-length tunic, enjoying the process of putting the finishing touches on his reproduction. This new Hypnos wasn’t an exact replica, since a fair amount of the original sculpture was missing, but he’d based his reconstruction on passages from ancient Greek writings describing chryselephantine sculpture of the day.

  Stepping back, he examined the piece. In the past week he’d made a lot of progress. Hypnos was only a few days away from completion, and he shone under the incandescent light. The gold and silver glimmered; the emeralds and rubies sparkled; the onyx, carnelian, lapis and other semiprecious stones gleamed. The Greeks who’d once prayed to this god must have been awestruck by his majesty and opulence.

  While he worked, Danzinger listened to classical music, but the two brisk knocks that came one after another were loud enough to hear over the Chopin.

  “Come in.”

  Tyler Weil, Deborah Mitchell and Nicolas Olshling walked in, followed by the FBI agent Danzinger had met last week. The restorer’s heartbeat kicked up. Other than Marie, he wasn’t used to people coming here and didn’t like it. This area of the museum was out of the way and except for the other people in the department, there were so rarely interruptions. And Danzinger liked that. Interruptions made him nervous. So did change. Working on timeless art was soothing. Fixing things and making them whole again made him feel whole. Almost.

  “We need your help—” Weil began without preamble, but then stopped to look at the sculpture—not the original, but the reproduction. The other two men with him did the same. Even thoug
h they’d seen it the week before, Danzinger could tell they were impressed and was pleased that his work elicited this reaction, especially from the director.

  A great majority of ancient Greek and Roman sculptures had originally been highly ornamented and bedecked, but what had survived was stripped by time of its adornments and dulled down by the ages. People who didn’t know that were often shocked by the replicas that looked almost garish in comparison to the pale museum pieces. If the original Hypnos was a showpiece, the reproduction was an extravaganza.

  “That sure is something,” Olshling said, understating the obvious.

  “You’ve done a marvelous job,” Weil said and gave a long, deep sigh. “I’m afraid this is going to be a very difficult conversation.”

  What kind of conversation could Weil possibly have with him that would be difficult? Danzinger listed the possibilities. The most logical would be firing him—but the director of the museum wouldn’t be the one to do that. Even if under extraordinary circumstances that was to happen, there was no reason he’d bring Olshling or Mitchell or the FBI agent with him, unless they suspected him of something illegal. Danzinger’s heart started to pound again even though he knew he was an exemplary employee.

  “Let’s sit down, can we?” Lucian asked, nodding at a table covered with books and art supplies in the corner of the large studio.

  As Olshling sat he nudged a small box of rubies that fell to the floor. The stones rolled, bloodred against the white tiles.

  “I’m sorry,” the head of security said with concern as he bent and started to retrieve them.

  “It’s okay. They’re just paste,” Danzinger explained as he got on his knees and helped.

  “Should have realized you wouldn’t have a cup of valuable stones sitting out in the open like that,” Olshling said as he dropped them back into their container.

  “So how can I help you?” Danzinger was anxious to find out what this was all about.

  “What we’re going to tell you is highly confidential,” Lucian warned.

  “I told Agent Glass you’ve been with the museum for over fifteen years and everyone here has the highest regard for you and your work,” Weil said.

  “Thanks.” Now that he knew he wasn’t being fired or worse, Danzinger relaxed a bit.

  “We’re going to need you to do some more work on the Hypnos.” Lucian looked from the reproduction to the original, which stood in the opposite corner of the studio, carefully out of the traffic path. “How long will it take you to make the copy resemble the original?”

  “The copy? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You know about the four paintings we’re being offered in exchange for the sculpture?” Weil asked.

  Danzinger nodded. “Of course.”

  “Well, we’re going ahead with the trade. We’re going to give the Monster the Hypnos. Those paintings are important masterpieces—we have to do what we can to save them.”

  Looking from the director to the original sculpture and back to his beautiful reproduction, Danzinger realized what they were asking of him. They wanted to make the copy look like the original and then make the trade with the copy. He felt as if he were hearing about a death in his family.

  “I can’t destroy it,” he blurted out.

  Weil looked at him with surprise. “I know how hard you worked on it, Charlie, but we need you to do this.”

  Danzinger didn’t trust himself to talk. Not right away. He concentrated on his breathing and then keeping his emotions in check answered the question. “I’m sorry. I can probably get it to the state you want it in less than a week.”

  “Good. You have three days,” Lucian said. “But it doesn’t have to be perfect. From what I understand, other than a half-dozen people who work here at the museum, no one has seen Hypnos since sometime in the 1890s, and there’s only one photograph from back then, which is in even worse condition than the sculpture. Right?” He looked at Weil and Mitchell, who both nodded.

  Danzinger stood quickly, not taking his eyes off his…off the sculpture he’d been working on for six months. His life was restoration. Even though the Hypnos he’d created was just a copy, it was still going to be the most difficult assignment the museum had ever given him. “If I only have three days…” His voice wavered. He cleared his throat. “I’d better get started.”

  Of all of them, Lucian was the one who seemed the most sympathetic to what the restorer was facing. Before he left, he stopped and put a hand on Danzinger’s shoulder. “It’s a shame. You’ve created something astounding. I wish there was another way for us to do this.”

  Chapter

  THIRTY-FIVE

  As Elgin Barindra unfolded the second to last letter in the box, its left corner flaked off and fell onto his lap. Lifting it carefully with tweezers, he placed it on a felt pad. Even if this letter didn’t turn out to be written by anyone of importance, he’d have to catalogue the corner, so before he read the missive he glanced at the lower left quadrant of the one sheet and struggled to make out the signature. At first it was unintelligible squiggles and lines, but he kept at it and slowly was able to make out the individual characters.

  Dieter M. Loos

  The name didn’t mean anything to him, but he slipped the corner between two sheets of plastic, tagged it, then did the same to the letter and proceeded to read it through the protective covering.

  My Dear Davenport,

  I am pleased to respond to your enquiry. Yes, your colleague Frederick L. Lennox is correct; our society is in possession of the artifact in question, a copper sheet of ancient Sanskrit quite impossible to translate. It was given to our founder by a group of Indian monks in the Himalayas in 1813. Like you, we believe it is a list of the legendary Memory Tools. I wish there was something more I could tell you about it that might help your colleague, but alas, we only know what it is purported to be.

  Please do write and tell me when you and your lovely wife are returning to Vienna. It would be a pleasure to have a dinner in your honor during your stay.

  Yours,

  Dieter M. Loos

  Elgin’s pulse raced as he read the letter for a second time. This was a clear reference to the list of tools that related to the robbery in Vienna. The fact that it also named an active member of the original Phoenix Club who had funded dozens of digs was important, too. There were threads running through all of this correspondence connecting people, places and discoveries, but it was taking a long time to unravel them. With so many boxes still to go through, Elgin felt a twinge of impatience.

  Putting the letter aside, he stood, stretched and walked up the stairs. He needed to get some fresh air and report in with Glass or Richmond.

  Upstairs in the wide hallway, illuminated by the art glass that cast a warm yellow glow on the polished wooden parquet floor, he slowed as he walked by Dr. Samuels’s office, listening for any stray information he might glean, but it was quiet. He was halfway down the passage when he heard footsteps and saw Dr. Bellmer turn the corner and head in his direction, with a man by her side. Under other circumstances the stranger wouldn’t warrant scrutiny—medium height, glasses, slacks, blazer and briefcase—except that Elgin recognized something in the man’s gait, a relaxed way he had of walking as if lights stopped for him and not the other way around.

  “Elgin?”

  The voice came from behind him, and he spun around. Malachai Samuels was standing in the doorway to his office.

  “How’s today’s mail?”

  “I found a very interesting letter that mentioned a list of Memory Tools engraved on copper sheets from ancient India.”

  Elgin thought he heard one of the sets of footsteps in the hallway slow.

  As Malachai ushered the librarian into his office, chastising him about talking in public, Elgin could still hear the conversation in the hall.

  “So how have you been, Mr. Ryan?” Dr. Bellmer asked in a concerned voice. “How are the headaches?”

  Chapter

  THIRTY-
SIX

  “The soul is not the body and it may be in one body or in another, and pass from body to body.”

  —Giordano Bruno, Italian philosopher during the Renaissance, sentenced to be burned at the stake by the Inquisition for his teachings about reincarnation.

  Lucian withdrew a sketchpad from his briefcase, opened it to a certain page and handed it to Dr. Bellmer.

  The doctor examined the old woman’s face. “She looks terribly frightened.”

  “And I’m the one she’s scared of. All of them are.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

  Lucian had finally admitted to himself that he was no longer coming here just to spy on Malachai Samuels’s lair. The agency had Elgin Barindra to do that now—and do it much better than he could. From what he’d just overheard, Elgin was making great progress.

  “What the hell is happening to me? Isn’t it possible I read a book or saw a movie that’s inspiring these regressions? Maybe the accident in Vienna did cause some brain damage?” No matter how hard he fought Bellmer’s hypnotic suggestions, he’d succumbed every time, and the realism of the episodes that played out in his mind was very disturbing.

  “I know how complicated it is to accept for someone as logical as you are, James. But I can’t give you the kind of rationale you want. If you can just stick with it a little longer, for a few more sessions, I believe that what we’re doing here will ultimately bring you peace and understanding.”