The Da Vinci Deception (18 page)

Tony clutched Giorgio's black bag and trailed Jonas to the elevator. In the lobby Jonas snapped instructions for Tony's return to New York and handed him a sealed envelope marked for delivery to Curtis Stiehl.

“See that Curtis reads this letter before he unpacks Giorgio's drawings. He's not expecting Xerox copies any more than we did.”

Tony pocketed the envelope. “He hasn't forgotten how little time he had with the Windsor drawing; now he gets a pack of copies. He'll be sore as a bloody boil.”

“There's a check in there to ease his discomfort,” Jonas said without conviction. Before going out to his waiting taxi, he added, “That Italian bastard thinks he put one over on us. He can become a first-class pain doling out the drawings one by one. You might have to find a way to get behind his two feet of stone.”

A small smile trickled across Tony's face and Jonas knew that he had struck home. “Just say the word, Mr. Kalem.”

“Keep a close eye on Curtis and handle him gently. For now, the focus of our project is on him.”

Tony followed Jonas to his taxi and waved him off. He returned through the lobby of the Connaught and paused to look at the
Mirror,
the only newspaper that continued to put the story of Sarah Evans's accident on the front page. He didn't read past the headline: SEARCH FOR MISSING ENGINEER IN POLICEWOMAN'S MYSTERY DEATH.

W
alter Deats stood at the bar of the Black Knights Tavern and ordered an ale, which he would ignore save for a sip and then only if the dryness in his mouth persisted. The pub was a mecca for Windsor tourists and their numbers were growing.

He showed his identification to the woman serving him. “I'm Superintendent Deats,” he said quietly. “I have pictures of a man and a woman. Tell me if you recognize either of them.”

“Superintendent, I'll tell you right off I see a hundred faces a day—”

“I know you do, but just on the chance they were here and you saw them, I'd appreciate your help.” He set a photograph of Sarah Evans on the bar.

“Is this to do with the poor girl that was in that awful crash? She's a pretty thing, but I don't recall seeing her.”

“She's the one,” Deats acknowledged. Then he placed a drawing of Greg Hewlitt next to Sarah's picture. Hewlitt's likeness had been developed by the forensic lab, following interrogation of library employees then piecing together Hewlitt's features by the Penry Facial Identification Technique. Deats vouched for the accuracy of the drawing.

“No, I haven't seen that one either. Wouldn't mind if I did.” The woman smiled.

“He has a scar . . . here.” Deats pointed to his own hand.

“I've not seen him. Scar or no scar.”

Deats smiled at the woman and returned the two pictures to his pocket. “Thank you.” He turned to leave, then moved back to the bar. “Were you tending bar last Friday evening?”

“Superintendent,” she answered wearily, “I'm behind this bar every hour it's open.”

“Was someone helping you?”

“My husband's always here. But in the kitchen most of the time.”
She nodded in the direction of a door beyond a noisy group flinging darts at a well-riddled circle of cork.

Several thirsty patrons had grown impatient and tapped their empty glasses on the bar top.

“Sorry I'm no help, Superintendent.”

“I may be back,” he called to her.

Deats made a note to return when the Black Knights Tavern was less crowded. He checked the number of pubs and hotel bars he had visited. Seven. Then he looked at the next name on the list. The Old House Hotel.

Jonas was inclined to disobey instructions and have Tony follow him. Involving Tony might be a risk worth taking, at least until he knew who was behind the Oriental voice. But his decision was made. He would go alone. “The Berkeley,” he called to the driver.

The hotel's lounge was in warm browns and accents of gold and burnished brass. It was a quarter to nine, time enough for a strong drink to fortify him before the meeting. The theater crowds had long since gone to their entertainment, yet the lobby and bars were teeming with men and women of every nationality chatting or drinking and otherwise preparing to launch themselves on an evening's spree. Somewhere in the crowd a pair of eyes was watching him, and he could sense it. But his full attention was not focused on what lay ahead; rather he brooded over the obstacle Giorgio had placed in his way. “Damned Guinea,” he muttered. He finished the drink and went to the newsstand.

His instructions were to pick up a copy of the
Financial Times
and begin to read it. Immediately a voice came from behind him.

“Good evening, Mr. Kalem. Thank you for accepting our invitation.” Jonas turned to find the smiling face of a man he judged to be about twenty-five. He was immaculately dressed in an expensive suit of Italian tailoring. Jonas was intrigued with the young man's features: only the shape of the eyes betrayed his Oriental blood. They were a startling gray blue. The wide smile revealed straight, white teeth. “Please come with me.”

In the elevator the young man said, “That business with the newspaper was pretty corny. Someone saw it in a movie.” They continued to the sixth floor and Jonas was led to the end of the corridor. A door was
unlocked and he was ushered into a suite of rooms. He had formed a vague picture of the man who phoned three days before and was totally unprepared for the sight before him. Standing in the center of the room was a woman dressed in a shining, richly brocaded red dress. A gold necklace framed a very striking face. High cheekbones and arched eyebrows were delicately accented by makeup. She was barely five feet tall, yet there was a majesty to the way she stood, head held up and her arms gracefully crossed in front of her. She greeted her guest with just the suggestion of a bow.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Kalem. We were not certain that you would accept our invitation.” Her slightly accented English was precise.

“Nor was I until this evening.”

“Please join me.” She motioned toward a high-backed chair. “We have presumed you may wish a taste of your favorite whiskey.”

Jonas eased into the chair, and as he did so, the young man offered a small silver tray on which was a glass filled with ice and an amber fluid that Jonas took without hesitation. He took a long sip then said, “We have not met.”

“For the present, I ask that you know me as Madame Sun. You have met James?”

The young man stepped forward and bowed. “It is a very poor joke, but I am the son of Sun.”

“I am happy to meet both of you,” Jonas said, “but who phoned me on Monday?”

“You were contacted by Mr. Dong Shim,” Madame Sun replied. “He will not join us today. Perhaps another time.”

There were two doors leading to other rooms in the suite. Jonas was sure that Mr. Shim was behind one of them. He watched Madame Sun take a chair close to him. Her skin was clear and white and contrasted with the bright red dress. He studied her face and decided that only one word properly described her. She was truly exotic. A foreign and tiny expression of mystery that was simply unfamiliar. At forty-five or six, as he judged her, she had not lost a trace of her sexuality.

“Then we can begin,” he said. “I'm anxious to learn why you wish to meet with me.”

“I am prepared to tell you what has brought us together, but I cannot divulge everything at this time. You may have surmised that my son and I are Korean. My husband is an American who fought in the war, returned to the States to complete his education, then decided to make
his career in Korea. He has consulted with the men who built our trading companies. You know the names of Hyundai and Samsung?”

Jonas nodded. He had heard the names, but had no familiarity with the men who acquired power and wealth as leaders of Korea's giant trading corporations.

“My husband is a lawyer who prefers the world of art to the tedium of business and international law. Over the years he has helped two of these wealthy men accumulate private art collections. One has an insatiable appetite for very expensive paintings and it seems he is more impressed by how much they cost than their value as works of art.”

“You represent this collector?” Jonas asked.

“That is possible,” Madame Sun replied. “It is also possible that my husband will make purchases in his own name.”

“He is a collector?”

“There have been many opportunities,” was her terse reply. “I have asked you here so that we may discuss the provocative statements you have made about the Leonardo manuscripts. It is obvious that you will soon announce the discovery of Leonardo's drawings. Is that not so?”

Jonas poked at the ice in his glass, then took a long sip. “Just as you have said, it is possible.”

“You can be more definite, Mr. Kalem.”

“With all respect, Madame Sun, if the time comes when I have the great fortune to make such an announcement, I will choose the forum most carefully.”

“You have made announcements in four countries and your predictions have been widely reported in the press. You have chosen your forums with great skill. I am merely asking when you will tell the world what you have discovered.”

“In less than a year. Six months, if all goes without complications. The matter of authentication is extremely critical.”

“Who will authenticate the drawings?”

“Harold Pimm heads up the Old Masters Department at Collyer's and could assemble an outstanding panel. They would be my first choice.”

“We will be disappointed if you choose Collyer's. If a gallery is chosen it should be Sotheby's. A board of independent scholars is our first choice.”

“Collyer's reputation is superb, particularly for their knowledge of the Italian Renaissance Masters,” Jonas replied. He put his glass down as if the conversation had ended and he was about to leave.

Madame Sun raised a hand and waved him back into his chair. “I will speak candidly. If the purpose of your speeches is to arouse interest among potential buyers of the Leonardos, you have achieved your goal. But I have gone beyond mere interest. I have studied your astrological chart and confirmed that you will be at the center of an event of international importance.” She nodded to James, who handed his mother a leather notecase. “This news is good, yet I find distressing complications. Clearly you shall tell the world of your good fortune, but it is also apparent that there is blood over some portion of your life. I see in this picture the hand of death.”

Jonas ranked astrologers with fortune-tellers, lumping both into his own agnosticism. But he could be gulled by a superstition, and this woman had tied together his inevitable announcement of the Leonardos with death. He emptied his glass. James took it from him and refilled it.

The two were seated with but a small table separating them. The contrast was remarkable: Madame Sun so very small compared to Jonas's hulking eminence.

“Your speeches about the lost Leonardos have been widely reported and you have shown no reluctance to provide the journalists with personal information. From this I learned your date of birth and New York hospital records revealed the time you were born. I follow the ancient form of astrology known as
Ming Shu,
which requires that I know the correct date and time of your birth. And so, Mr. Kalem, I have recorded that you were born on June fourteenth in the year 1938.”

“I suppose that makes me a Gemini,” he said amiably. He felt the alcohol's warmth and allowed himself to ease into the discourse.

“In Chinese astrology we do not have the signs of the zodiac because we are more concerned with the year of birth. The years are named after animals, and like the months, there are twelve. Before we continue, I must tell you that I am most fortunate to have the ability to accurately read the signs that are different with each of us. There are a great number of persons who will listen only to Madame Sun. You may have little regard for the messages the heavens send, but I know that for many years I have seen the truth and have received much respect for my skills.”

“I've no reason to doubt you are a very gifted astrologer,” Jonas replied, “but I know nothing of it and cannot take it seriously.”

“Many feel as you, until they hear what I have found in their chart. Keep an open mind, Mr. Kalem. Listen to my words.”

Jonas shifted his weight back into the chair. He sensed a strange
power flowing from the small woman. She was confident; he saw that in her eyes looking intently into his. Madame Sun opened the ornately tooled leather cover and removed several sheets, which she carefully placed on the table. Her hands moved gracefully and with practiced assurance. Her lips moved as if in prayer, and she hummed. Then she spoke in a soft voice, speaking in a rhythmic cadence that had a hypnotic effect.