“Tulp is a Dutch name too.”
“Very likely, but she lived in Germany.”
“How did you know that?”
“Dominick might live on an island, but he does manage to learn some things. Old Tulp operated out of Mannheim.”
“Could that be what Olivier meant by going south? Should we go to Mannheim?”
“No. Why won’t you tell me what you realized or remembered or whatever? Why can’t you trust me?”
She looked away from him.
“Rafaella!” He grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face him. One of the guards took a step forward, then at the frown from Marcus quickly retreated. Several tourists, whispering among themselves, detoured a goodly distance away from the Rembrandt.
“Trust you? Okay, here’s trust. Who is Anton Rosch?”
That got him, but good. He stared at her, then exploded. “Ah, so now you eavesdrop on my phone calls.”
“No, I was just smart enough to call the operator after you took yourself off, and she told me it was this man Rosch, and what his room number was in the hotel.”
“So you just scampered upstairs to spy on me?”
“You’re making a scene. Who is Rosch? Some foreign agent? What does he have to do with you? Are you a foreign agent?”
“Forget Rosch. He’s not important at the moment, and don’t be a fool, of course he’s not a foreign agent. Why won’t you trust me?” He shook her. “You do know something. And it’s something close to home, isn’t it? It’s something you’d know that I couldn’t possibly know.” He saw it in her eyes. “Yeah, something real personal. What is it, Rafaella?”
She struggled with herself. She drew a deep breath, her decision made. “Let’s find an expert. Let’s have this painting authenticated.”
He stared at her, then up at that painting. It looked authentic to him. “Who are you, Ms. Holland?”
“I’m just what you see—almost. But stop doing that, stop putting me on the defensive. You’ve got more secrets than a pig in a space suit.”
“Don’t try to explain that one. You want an expert, okay, let’s find one. Do you think the officials here at the Louvre, one of the most respected and famous museums in the entire world, are just going to nod and say, ‘Why, certainly, Ms. R. Holland. You think this wonderful picture is a fake? Let’s find out.’ Get serious, Rafaella.”
“I don’t know if I can get them to go along with it. All we can do is try.”
The name of Charles Winston Rutledge III did help in the end. The art expert, a Monsieur André Flambeau of Gallerie de la Roche, was allowed the following morning to examine the Rembrandt. Monsieur Didier, one of the assistant directors of the Louvre, hovered over him, alternatively frowning, pursing his thin lips and looking vastly worried. He kept reminding all of them, “Of course it’s genuine, certainement. C’est ridicule, vraiment, ridicule!” He talked of the painting’s papers, its provenance, all provable and quite authentic, of course. On and on. Hours passed. Testing continued into the late afternoon. Monsieur Flambeau requested the assistance of another expert, associated with the Sorbonne. He arrived, all agog, and the two men closeted themselves from the Louvre officials. Testing continued well into the night. Finally, near to midnight, Flambeau raised his head and stared off into space.
Monsieur Didier was dancing about with impatience, his nails, Rafaella saw, nearly bitten to the quick. He looked ready to explode. Flambeau said slowly, in very precise English, looking directly at Rafaella and Marcus, “I don’t know how you guessed, how you—admitted amateurs—could possibly tell. But you were quite right. It’s one of the finest forgeries I’ve ever encountered in all my career, but a forgery it is.”
All hell broke loose the following day in Paris when the announcement was made to the international press.
Giovanni’s Island
April 2001
Dominick stared down at the newspaper with the grainy photo of Rembrandt’s Bathsheba. Well into the article it was said that two Americans—their names were withheld—had brought the possibility of forgery to the officials at the Louvre.
Was it Marcus and Rafaella? Dominick was sure it was; deep down, he knew. Odd how the painting simply hadn’t occurred to him; it hadn’t occurred to anyone except Rafaella. Stupid, really. He, of course, should have guessed right away. He was an art lover, something of an expert, yet the painting just hadn’t come into his conscious mind. Further, he’d had no idea at all that the painting was a fake.
Since it was a fake, it shouldn’t be difficult for him to discover who’d bought it. He’d e-mail Ammon Civita, a broker in stolen art from Amsterdam. If Ammon hadn’t done the actual procuring, he would know who had.
An hour later, Dominick sat back in his chair. Bathsheba was a forgery, replacing the original in the Louvre at least ten years before. Ivan Ducroz had done the job.
Ammon Civita had handled the painting. Now Dominick knew who had bought it, who had to keep it hidden for all time because it couldn’t be insured.
Dominick felt the sour taste of betrayal fill his mouth. Oh, yes, he knew, and he would now take the necessary steps.
The man who had bought Bathsheba was Charles Winston Rutledge III, Rafaella Holland’s wealthy and powerful stepfather.
For the moment Dominick didn’t wonder about Rutledge’s motives. They didn’t matter for the present. He just thought of revenge—sweet, very tough, exquisitely thorough revenge.
He thought for two hours and then he reached for his phone.
Twenty-one
Paris, France
April 2001
They were questioned until the French officials literally threw up their hands, shook their heads, and let Rafaella and Marcus go; they had no choice: there was no proof of complicity, of motive, of anything.
Rafaella had seen enough interviews with the cops to know their methods, although she had to admit that the suave French gendarmes had a bit more flair. One gendarme had the plummiest voice imaginable and was all sympathy; another growled; and yet another cursed with majestic originality. Certainly their threats to the Americans were more colorfully gruesome in their detail, and far more bloody. The guillotine—out-lawed nearly a hundred years before—was mentioned in frustrated, sour voices. Rafaella held firm. She was polite and consistent and soft-spoken, respectful Boston at its best. There was nothing she could tell them, nothing. She knew art, what else could she say? And there had been something about the painting—No, she couldn’t be more specific—it was an elusive feeling she hadn’t been able to ignore. She’d been drawn to it, drawn to examine it closely. Certainly they understood that? This perception, this awareness that all wasn’t right—ah, yes, she could see that Monsieur Labisse understood, such depths he appeared to have, such sensitivity.
Monsieur Labisse thought this perception, this awareness business sounded like merde, but he was a smart man and he was politically astute. The young lady’s stepfather was the powerful Charles Rutledge III, a close friend of the Minister of Assistance. No, Monsieur Labisse wasn’t stupid. Whatever was going on, he would discover it soon enough, and if this young lady was involved, well, what could he do? For the moment, he’d go very carefully, very discreetly.
As for Marcus, he quickly perfected an elegant Gallic shrug and a wonderful look of bewilderment. He was good, Rafaella thought many times during those long hours at the police station. He hadn’t a drop of sensitivity about the painting, he said over and over in a forthright guileless voice; he was just along for the ride. Very good indeed. Again she found herself wondering just who he really was.
They weren’t released until nearly three o’clock in the afternoon the following day, bedraggled, so tired they could scarcely think; but it was over, until they got outside the station. There were media people clustered there, and like media people from all over the world, which indeed they were, they were ready to do anything to get a sensational story.
“No comment!” Marcus shouted in English.
H
e looked at Rafaella’s pale face and said, “Come on, kiddo, we can get away from them. You’ve just got to move. Come on. Rafaella?”
Marcus came to a sudden halt, whirled about to see Rafaella stopped dead in her tracks, slightly bent over, clutching her stomach.
“What’s the matter? Rafaella?” He was at her side, holding her up, seeing the paparazzi closing in and not knowing for a moment what to do. The hospital? “What’s wrong? Your stomach— Do you have cramps? Appendicitis?”
Rafaella didn’t move any part of her body for at least ten seconds. She saw the photographers and reporters closing fast, seeing that something was wrong, but she couldn’t be bothered. She felt Marcus’s arm around her. She felt dizzy, light-headed, then cramps ripping through her belly. The cramps worsened, and because she didn’t understand why, it was all the more terrifying. Then suddenly the pain stopped. Just plain stopped. Slowly, very slowly, she straightened. Nothing now.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said, all businesslike again, and Marcus just stared down at her, not knowing what to say, what to do.
“Let’s get back to the hotel, unless you’d like to go to a doctor right now.”
“No, no, let’s go back to the hotel. I’m okay now. It must have been something I ate.”
“I ate the same thing you did—a rubbery pizza with long-dead pepperoni.”
“That must have been it. You’re so macho and therefore don’t get food poisoning. Quick, Marcus, the vultures are closing fast.”
Marcus hailed a taxi, and when they were on their way, he said, “Is this all an act just to postpone telling me what’s really going on?”
“No, no act. For a while there I really felt bad. But there’s nothing now, so forget it.” Actually, she’d felt periods of pain occasionally during all those long hours at the Louvre and then at the police station. But not now, thank God. “And as for the other—not yet, Marcus. Please, just not yet. It’s fantastic, and even I can’t believe it yet. It involves others, not just me, so I’ve got to—”
He cut her off with a slash of his hand. “So you’re not going to tell me anything? I’m like the gendarmes and you’re going to lie to me, treat me like a blithering fool, like the enemy?”
“It’s not like that. Please, Marcus, if it were just me, it would be different, but—”
“Enough. I’m tired of it, too tired to argue with you anymore about it. So much for your trust, so much for us and any future.” He tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder. “Arrêtez! Laissez-moi descendre!”
He took one last look at Rafaella and said, “You’re right: it’s just lust.”
Rafaella didn’t say a word. How could he be so bloody obtuse? Let him go off and sulk, the stupid jerk. Even though she didn’t feel any pain, she wrapped her arms around her stomach. She motioned the driver to go on. He gave her a look, then a Gallic shrug. Typically male, she thought. Of course it was all her fault, she was a shrew, kicking her poor man out of the cab.
Marcus realized he’d been a fool within ten minutes. He was walking down the Rue Carrefour, head bent, hands stuffed in his pockets. He was furious with her, he didn’t understand what she was hiding, and he wanted to tell her she’d better begin trusting him soon, since he was going to be her husband.
Her husband.
He came to an instant stop, bumping into a very fat woman who dexterously held a baguette under her bare armpit. He apologized profusely, in fractured German, not remembering where he was, and kept walking. Oh, yes, he wanted to marry her, the damned irritant. He stopped in front of a jewelry store and stared at the array of wedding rings. He was on the point of going in, then remembered their situation and the fact that Rafaella just might be sick. Where was his sense, his brain? He felt strangely suspended, out of time, and he supposed it was the confusion of a strange city, the bewilderment of spending too many hours being grilled by men who had to make their threats through translators—oh, no, he hadn’t been about to let them know he spoke French moderately well—the confusion of realizing he was in love with a woman for the first time since poor Kathleen. He’d accused her of keeping things from him, but he was blacker than either the pot or the kettle.
Marcus walked into their hotel room a half-hour later. He called out her name and saw her coming out of the bathroom, bent, like before, clutching her stomach, only this time there was blood running down her legs, staining her wrinkled light blue skirt, puddling on the carpet between her feet. And in that instant he knew what was wrong.
Rafaella looked up at him, her eyes dumb with pain and confusion. “Help me, Marcus. Please help me.”
He didn’t know much about miscarriages but he knew about hemorrhage and knew he had to get the bleeding stopped. He was at her side in an instant, scooping her up in his arms and laying her flat on her back on the bed. He quickly got towels, all four heavy white cotton ones that were in the bathroom.
“It’s gonna be all right, Rafaella, just hold on. Let’s get the bleeding stopped.” He pulled her back onto her back and pulled a pillow under her hips. He worked her skirt up to her waist, then pulled off her bloody panty hose and panties, saying over and over, “It’ll be all right. Let’s get you elevated—try to stay this way, love. Just hang in there, just another minute, that’s right. Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry, so very sorry about this. You’ll be okay, just hang in there with me. Don’t forget about our date on the beach, you with your flute.”
She felt the rhythm, the cadence of his voice, not particularly his words, and it calmed her, took away the numbing fear. But the pain was worse now, and she cried out, unable to keep it in, and tried to bring her knees up to her chest, but he was sitting beside her, holding her down, and finally her belly felt like it was twisting over onto itself and she felt a rush and it was warm and liquid and it was her blood and that of the fetus.
Marcus saw it was over. He bathed her again, stuffed the smaller hand towels against her, and quickly covered her with every blanket in the room. “Just lie quietly now, don’t try to move.” He added unnecessarily, “You’ve had a miscarriage. You’ll be okay now.”
So much blood, he thought, gathering up the sodden red towels. Too much blood.
When he came back to the bed, he saw that she was asleep, and he was relieved. Exhaustion, he supposed, that and worry, had brought about the miscarriage. He felt her pulse and it was steady. Her color was better. Still he knew he should get her to the hospital. He wasn’t certain about the blood loss and if she needed a transfusion—that and whatever else should be done following a miscarriage.
He opted for a taxi, not an ambulance. They didn’t need any more publicity. He wrapped her in blankets and held her close until the taxi pulled up at the emergency entrance of Saint Catherine’s Hospital. He calmly told the reception people he was her husband and she’d suffered a miscarriage on their holiday.
He prayed none of them would recognize the two Americans who’d just turned the art world on its ear.
They weren’t recognized. Marcus used his real name. Marcus Ryan O’Sullivan. He thought, as he signed their names, that Rafaella Holland O’Sullivan had a very nice ring to it. Too, it did provide a bit of cover and he prayed as he thought it, prayed for a future for them.
Two hours later he was allowed into her room, a private one that he’d paid cash for. There was no point in taking any chances with another patient recognizing her. She was awake, pale-faced, her eyes shadowed, but she was back with him, thank God.
“Hi, Ms. Holland, or rather Mrs. O’Sullivan.” He sat beside her on the bed and took her hand. He kissed each of her fingers.
“Thanks, Marcus. I didn’t realize what was happening. I can’t believe I was just standing there like an idiot, playing the helpless routine.”
“Sometimes you’re entitled. I shouldn’t ever have gotten in a snit and left you. I knew you hadn’t been feeling well, but I still had to go off and sulk.”
Rafaella ignored that. “The doctor told me to assure my husband that the
miscarriage hadn’t caused any damage. He also called me Mrs. O’Sullivan, in a very charming accent, just like you did. Is that your real name, by any chance?”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to give us a bit of cover. Now, would you please listen to me? I’m sorry about this, Rafaella. But I don’t understand. You’re on the pill.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Remember after our bout in the swimming pool I asked you when your period was due? And you told me any day?”
She looked frighteningly pale. “I didn’t have a period,” she said slowly. “I didn’t even think about it. There was so much happening. I didn’t even realize that I hadn’t had a period. And now this.”
She was crying, not making a sound, but tears were seeping from the corners of her eyes, streaking down her cheeks.
Marcus gathered her against him, kissing her hair, stroking his hands down her back, saying over and over, “It’s all right, sweetheart, really, it’s all right. You’ll be all right now, I swear it. Shush, you’ll make yourself ill. Damnation, you’re supposed to be safe with me.”
Rafaella sniffed loudly, accepted a French rendition of a Kleenex from him—it was about as soft as the French idea of toilet paper—and blew her nose. She was falling apart, and it wasn’t just because of the miscarriage. No, it was the other. She knew he was frightened and concerned, and so she forced a smile and pulled back, out of his arms, and said, “You’re macho, remember? Macho men can overcome anything, including impregnating supposedly impregnable ladies. You are, evidently, frighteningly virile and potent.”
“I like the sound of that, but not what happened.” He plowed his fingers through his hair. “Oh, Rafaella, I’m sorry about this.”
“It’s not your fault. Stop with the mea culpas. All right? Really, Marcus, it just isn’t you. And I am safe with you.”
“You mean you got pregnant that first time in the deep end?”
“It would seem so. Get that look off your face. Men are the strangest creatures,” she added, still smiling at him. “Marcus O’Sullivan. I like the sound of that. Very, very Irish. Your hair is standing on end.”
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