“Protect me from what? I’m a professor of art history. It’s not a dangerous profession, Alexei.”
Alexei paused for a moment before speaking quietly and calmly. “If you won’t say it, I will. You’ve placed your name behind the authentication of a painting attributed to Vermeer. The Concert.”
There was a slight hesitation before he replied. “Yes. It’s what I do. You do the same.”
“You do realize that The Concert was stolen from a Boston art museum years ago?”
“Who would know better than I? I live across the river from the museum. So what? My function was simply to certify its authenticity. I was told it was for the benefit of the insurance company. That it was part of the process. The painting would be returned through the insurance company. This happens.”
“I know it happens. And you know that none of that is at the heart of the problem. Again I ask you, what are you doing, Leopold?”
Leopold raised his hands with a shrug to indicate confusion.
“Damn it, Leopold! I’m telling you that your life is in danger. Mine as well for telling you this. Answer the question.”
“I would if I had any idea—”
“That painting is a fraud. There is no one on this earth, including Vermeer himself if he were alive, who would know that better than you do. You’ve broken faith with everything you’ve put your life into. Why, Leopold?”
He held up his hands and merely shook his head.
“All right, Leopold. If I can’t appeal to your pride, maybe I can rouse your sense of self-preservation. There are those whom you have caused — serious inconvenience with your lies. One solution to the problem, which is you, is to do away with you. This is being considered. Does this get through to you? I owe you this warning out of our friendship. Understand, it places me in danger as well.”
Alexei could see the change in his friend’s countenance from naïve denial to honest fear.
“I ask you again, Leopold. What are you doing?”
His friend covered his eyes and withdrew against the back of the chair. Alexei gave him time to compose his thoughts.
“It began so simply. A former student came to me. He said he represented an art collector. He wanted a good reproduction of Vermeer’s work, The Concert. An honest, admitted reproduction, you understand. As you said, the original had been stolen from the museum, but there were plenty of photographs of the painting to work from. I produced a reasonable reproduction for a fee.”
“You painted it?”
“I did. An admitted reproduction. Not for fraud. I was later told that I would be required to certify that it was the original. I refused, of course.”
He hesitated.
“So what changed your mind?”
“They came to me with pictures of my grandchildren at school, at play, in their home. What they said they would do to them — The pictures were to prove they could get to them anywhere.” He paused. “I gave them their certification.”
Alexei leaned back into the high leather chair. He could feel his breath flowing out of him when he heard the confession, even though he knew before it was spoken.
“Why did you call me, Alexei?”
Alexei held up limp hands.
“What I said is true. Your authentication produced ripples in the financial world. You have no idea. What matters is that there are those who believe the ripples will go away if you—”
He waved his hand, and Leopold understood.
“Alexei, this was a very private transaction. Do these people you’re talking about know that I was the one?”
“I want to say no. I want to very badly. From what I’m told, they only know that the painting was authenticated. They don’t know by whom. Of course I knew who it had to be as soon as I heard it. I can swear to you that I told them I didn’t know. If they believed me, you’re safe. It’s just that — I would not bet your life or mine that I fooled them.”
“What can I do, Alexei?”
“I could say be careful, but even I don’t know what that means. These are terrible, vicious people. Unfortunately, unlike the old days, they are also very intelligent. I could say go into hiding, but I think they’re too clever for either of us. Perhaps the best thing is to go on with your life and raise no suspicion. And pray.”
“Yes.”
Leopold leaned forward. “You put yourself at risk to save me, old friend, even though you thought I betrayed the thing we love.”
“I knew there had to be a reason, Leopold. That’s why I had to see you, and warn you. I’ll say it from my heart. Be careful.”
Alexei rose and held out his hand. Leopold remained seated.
“We’re not through, Alexei. Sit down.”
Alexei sat slowly.
“You said you knew that the painting I authenticated was a copy. How?”
“I assumed that a painting that was missing all these years would hardly turn up just like that.”
“No. I don’t think so. Missing paintings turn up in unexpected ways. Now it’s my turn to insist. How did you know that my painting was not the original?”
Alexei sat mute.
“There’s only one way you could be sure. Yes? You’ve seen the original. You know where it is. And why would someone show it to you? I think so that you would authenticate it for them — even though you knew it was stolen. I think it’s your turn to be honest.”
Alexei remained silent.
“My dear God, Alexei, our folly may be the death of both of us. Can’t we at least preserve a bit of honesty between ourselves?”
Alexei placed his hand on Leopold’s shoulder.
“It seems we’ve both played Judas. Do you remember when we were at university together in St. Petersburg all those years ago? What brought us to this confessional, Leopold?”
His friend just shook his head.
“At least you can say you did it to save your family. I did it for money. A great deal of money. I told myself that it was no lie. I said to myself that I was being true to the master by announcing to the world that that masterpiece was his handiwork. My sin was the greater. I’ve paid the penance in anguish, and, I’ll admit it, in tears.”
Leopold rose and lifted his friend by the arm. He embraced him.
“If we can’t absolve each other, Alexei, at least we can know that one other person understands. I’ve carried this for so long. Somehow I feel like a rock has been lifted from my shoulders.”
They smiled and embraced once more before Leopold put on his raincoat and walked through the chilling rain back to the Grisham Hotel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I’d been to London before, so I knew that it was more important to have rain gear than underwear. And still the chill rain penetrated to the skin on my walk from the Chesterfield Hotel, where Julie booked me, to the Grisham Hotel.
The “lobby,” to be generous, was about the size of my bedroom in Boston. It just barely managed a front desk, room for three people to register, and two wooden chairs that might have actually supported the royal rump of William the Conqueror, if age were the test.
I coaxed the grizzled, bearded face of the desk clerk out of a worn paperback copy of a Lee Child novel with a question.
“Excuse me. Is a Professor Denisovitch registered here?”
He rose out of his seat to a diminutive height that barely put him eyeball-to-Adam’s apple with me. He did it rather nimbly, considering a girth that was at least twice mine. His bulk made it a bit jolting when his voice was a good octave higher than one might expect.
“I’m sorry, the name?”
“Professor Denisovitch. He’s an American.” I’m not sure why I added that. It scored no points.
“No. I mean your name. Are you some form of constabulary?” The words fairly reeked of condescension.
“You mean am I with the police?”
“I mean, have you any official function that entitles you to breach the privacy of the gentleman you’re asking about?”
I
noticed that the officious little twit ended a sentence with a preposition. I did not stoop to comment.
“No, I’m not. Let me put it this way. Would you be kind enough to ring the room of Professor Denisovitch, who may or may not be registered here? If you reach him, my name is Michael Knight. I’d be most grateful.”
He turned his back and dialed a two-digit number on his mini-switchboard. I noticed from the mailboxes behind him that there were eight rooms in all, spread over the three floors above the “lobby.” Ten seconds later he turned back to me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Meaning he’s not in his room?”
He donned a sardonic look and tone and merely repeated, “I’m sorry.”
I doubted the sincerity of his sorrow, but I got the message that he would rather have self-immolated than give me one bit more data. The professor apparently was registered there or he wouldn’t have tried to call him. On the other hand, he was apparently not in. Communication sometimes works in mysterious ways.
Since I had only one purpose for being in London, I decided to wait. I took up a station on one of King William’s chairs and perused the London Times.
It was a good twenty minutes before the front door opened, admitting rain, wind, and two weather-protected individuals. My first guess, when they peeled off an outer layer, was that they were Eastern European. That was confirmed by accents that, to my untraveled ear, could have ranged anywhere from Serbia to Siberia.
They approached our jovial host and asked for a room. He asked in his most officious tone if they had a reservation. They said “No,” and he booked them anyway into one of the rooms on the third floor.
I’d been a semicasual observer until one of them pulled an envelope out of an inner pocket and asked Conrad Hilton to leave it for Professor Denisovitch. The twit obliged the paying customers by slipping the envelope into the mail slot behind him marked Room 5, one of the three rooms on the second floor.
Interesting, I thought. With one little envelope, they had acquired the information that I couldn’t pry out of him with a crowbar. Why didn’t I think of that?
They had my undivided attention when they carried their two valises, the size of the old-time carpetbags, to the “lift.” It was a caged affair that resembled the metal boxes that run up the outside of construction sites. The floor indicator was out of the view of the desk clerk, but I dropped the Times and retrieved it so that it was not out of mine.
Now they had my curiosity as well as attention when the indicator said that the two rode to the second, not the third floor. I waited to see if it was a mistake that they’d correct. Not a bit of it.
Ten minutes later, the elevator descended from the second floor, and the two went back out into the wind and rain. They had the same two valises, but from the way they were carrying them, they seemed considerably lighter than when they’d arrived.
Anyone who was not paranoid from assassination attempts and nerve jangled from jet lag would say, “Of course they’re lighter. They took the stairs the rest of the way up from the second floor to the third floor and unpacked.” There was, however, no one that normal sitting in one of King William’s chairs. Personally, I was engulfed in a sea of raging theories and suspicions.
At six o’clock in the evening, a drenched but familiar figure walked through the front door. Professor Denisovitch went directly to the desk and asked for the key to Room 5. I was on him with enough pent-up angst to cause him to back off a few steps.
“Professor, it’s all right. My name’s Michael Knight. I was a student of yours in History of Art 102. Harvard.”
The exuberance of his ex-student did nothing to prevent him from steadily retreating backward. I thought perhaps he was expecting me to ask him to raise my grade.
“Professor, I need to speak with you. I’m sorry to do it here, now, but I can’t overstate its importance. Could we come over to these chairs for a minute?”
I remembered him as a relatively short, slight man, which he was, but standing there in an oversized dripping raincoat, he also looked pathetically vulnerable. The look on his face shifted from mere trepidation to outright fear combined with an urgent desire to get out of my presence.
“No. Not now, young man. I’m — No.”
He headed at double-quick-time for the lift. I was on his heels, pleading, but he had closed his ears to me. He pulled the door of the lift open just enough for his wan body to slip inside. I grabbed the door, pulled it open the rest of the way, and slipped into the tiny space beside him.
From the look on his face, I had a genuine fear that the panic in his eyes could be the precursor to a heart attack. He was punching the button for the second floor as rapidly as his little fist could poke.
The clangs and squeaks of that industrial dinosaur were mixed with the high-pitched demands of the twit below. “Come down this instant or I shall summon the police.”
“Summon the queen if you want. Just keep everyone off this damn elevator for the next ten minutes!”
We reached the second floor in what seemed like half an hour. The professor wanted nothing more than to spring loose and lock himself in his room with me on the outside. It was time to use the one advantage I had over him. I was bigger than he was.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and pinned him to the side of the elevator and told him in a tone that I could not have conceived of in History of Art 102, “With all due respect professor, shut up and listen.”
He was so far beyond terror that he did just that. I had the stage and an attentive audience of one.
“Professor, I am not going to harm you. I firmly believe I am about to save your life. Two men, Russians I think, came to your room this afternoon. I think they left a surprise package for you. We have to be extremely careful. Are you hearing me?”
His eyes were like letter Os, and he couldn’t seem to speak.
“Just nod. Are you hearing me?”
He nodded, and for the first time that day I felt I had communicated with someone.
“Good, professor. We’re going to get out of the elevator. Stay behind me. Give me your key.”
He did. I walked ahead to the room marked 5. The door and lock were as ancient as every other part of the building. I looked for any kind of marks on the door and thought I saw a scratch on the outside where the latch fit into the groove. I felt the tiniest vindication. On the other hand, the mark could have been made four hundred years ago.
I slipped the key in the old-fashioned lock and turned it until the tumbler clicked into the open position. I thanked God that it predated spring-loading.
I guided the professor down the hall to a position outside of Room 4. I pushed him against the inner wall and told him not to move. He behaved like an obedient cocker spaniel.
I went back to the door to Room 5. I moved as carefully as a bomb squad in turning the knob just enough to leave the door free to swing open. I took off my raincoat and plastered myself as far down the corridor as I could and still have a shot at the door. I rolled my raincoat into a tight ball.
One check of the professor, who had not moved an inch, and I hurled the raincoat with the best sidearm pitch I could manage.
The raincoat hit the door and sent it flying open. In that fraction of a second, I realized that if nothing happened, I would feel as if I had just walked naked into a meeting of the Ladies’ Abstinence Society.
The concern was short-lived. In a fraction of a second, I found myself grabbing the sides of my head to dull the double percussive shock that nearly blew out both eardrums. I fell to the floor with the instantaneous pain in the ears and forced my eyelids closed against the cloud of plaster that filled the corridor.
When I could open my eyes, I saw that the wall opposite Room 5 had been blown away. I was still on the floor when I checked back to see the professor in the same place but down on his knees, holding his ears. He looked up at me, and I signaled him to stay put.
I crept up to the open doorway and looked inside Room 5. The
two Russians, or whatever they were, did nothing halfway. Two shotguns were strapped to chairs five feet inside the room. They were wired to go off when the door was fully opened so that the person entering, assumedly the professor, would get the full benefit of both blasts.
I kicked open the door to Room 4 with a shot from the heel of my still water-soaked shoe. I pulled the professor inside and told him to “sit on the bed and don’t move” till I come for him. At this point, if I’d told him to stand on the window ledge and do the Macarena, he’d be up there.
I closed the door to Room 4 and raced down the steps. The twit was in full fluster. The double blast must have blown to pieces what little grip he thought he had on the situation.
He had the phone in one shaking hand, and was stabbing at and missing the digits with the other. I grabbed the phone out of his hand and hung up.
“Get a grip. What do you dial to get an ambulance?”
His body was shaking in rhythm with his hand.
“I want the police. Right now.” His voice was half an octave higher yet. One more disaster in his evening and only dogs would hear him.
“First the ambulance. What number?”
He fumbled for a sheet of paper with emergency numbers, and I picked the one marked “Hospital/Emergency.” I called it and gave the address of the hotel. They sounded efficient, and to my delight, within three minutes I heard that yodeling wail ambulances make over there.
I watched them pull up to the entrance, and two uniformed medical technicians rushed through the door. I left them to make whatever sense they could out of the rantings and whimperings of the clerk.
I took the stairs on the fly back to Room 4. I grabbed the professor by the hand and led him like a chimpanzee down the stairs. The lobby was now full of confused guests milling around and asking each other questions that none of them could answer. Another siren indicated that the police would soon be taking control. It was time to leave.
I found a back entrance. Still grasping the professor by the hand, I quick-marched down the alley behind the hotel until we reached a cross street. Fortunately, the rain had let up. In two blocks, we slowed to a breath-catching walk.
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