The Da Vinci Deception (28 page)

At Chiasso, Italian police were inspecting every automobile. Passengers stood by as agents rooted through baggage and each car's interior.

A young officer in a tight-fitting uniform asked,
“Passaporto?”

Tony held it out. “Is there a problem?”

“Have you anything to declare?” The English was nearly flawless.

“No. I've come directly from Zurich,” Tony replied.

“Open the trunk, please.”

Tony obeyed.

“And the suitcase. Will you open that also?”

Tony obeyed again.

The officer rummaged through the contents. “You may close it.” He
inspected the interior of the car. Perfunctorily, he smiled at Tony and returned the passport.

“We have had a great problem with drugs coming from the north. Please proceed and enjoy your visit.”

Tony followed the traffic into Chiasso, then, led by the signs, drove the final six miles to the city of Como. In the maze of one-way streets he finally discovered the Piazza Volta and the Hotel San Gottardo.

At the reception desk he was handed a message from Jonas. He was to phone upon arrival. He called from his room only to be told by an operator speaking in poor English that Mr. Kalem was not responding to her rings.

“Page him,” Tony demanded. The page was not answered.

“Tell him Mr. Habershon is in Como and to return my call as soon as possible.”

It was 6:30; the late-summer sun still shone over the old city. He resisted sleeping and paced the confining, small room. His patience grew thin after two hours of waiting. “Where is the fat, bloody bastard?” He stared at the telephone. “Call me, you blubbery son of a bitch! When Stiehl leaves New York tomorrow, they'll be all over his ass. Don't you understand? Stiehl's going to lead them here!” He screamed at the dead instrument.

Not far north on the lake was another phone that had been ringing but was now silent. Jonas Kalem stood on the large balcony outside his room watching a pair of fishermen a hundred yards off the Villa d'Este's pier. Their small skiff rocked in the waves kicked up by a passing speedboat. He glanced south to Como, his lips set in a small “O.”

“Patience, Tony. I'll answer your call when I'm ready and you've exhausted your impetuous anger.” He was satisfied that Tony had reached Como, Giorgio was a short distance away, and Ellie would join him in another week. He put his attention toward Stiehl and the challenge of managing his safe escape from New York. He put in a call to New York, then waited an obligatory six minutes for the connection.

“Good afternoon, Curtis. The arrangements for your trip tomorrow have been finalized. I suggest you write them down.” Jonas proceeded to issue the instructions, then asked Stiehl to read them back.

“Why all the cloak-and-dagger? I can shake a tail on my lunch hour.”

“You may think so, but I prefer putting the odds on our side. We wouldn't want someone to stumble onto those printing plates, would we?”

Stiehl was infuriated to feel the cord tighten around his neck. He was about to loose a fusillade of invectives, but cooled instead. “I'll phone you on Saturday.”

“H
ow is your hand, head, and back . . . in that order?” Alex Tobias stood inside the door to Walter Deats's room in Bellevue Hospital. “You made the first section of the
Times,
though they managed to misspell your name.” He tossed the newspaper on the bed.

Deats looked up from a notebook. “In reverse order, the back aches, the head never was much good, and these”—he held out a bandaged hand—“these fingers hurt like hell, I don't mind saying. If only a misspelled name were my only problem.” He glanced at the brief article. “You're good to look in on me.”

“Elliot's called three times. I'm beginning to think you're important.” Deats laughed. “He's worried I won't be able to bait his line the next time we go for salmon. The man's got ten thumbs.”

Tobias sat at the foot of the bed. “I don't like admitting we blew it when we put out the net for Waters. We covered Kennedy but he went to LaGuardia, then Boston. I've confirmed him to Paris, but after that—”

“After that he went to Italy. Where, I'm not sure, but I've got some ideas. It's certain I won't discover the answer in this antiseptic environment.” Deats threw off the sheets and slid his feet to the floor. He sat for a moment, not sure what might happen when he tried to stand. “Are you sure they said my head was in one piece?”

“They'd have you strapped in if they didn't think so. You seem positive Waters went to Italy. Any thoughts on where he might be?”

“None I'd wager on. Let's hope it's not Milan, or worse, Rome. It would take an eternity to search those cities.” He stood to test his balance. “There, that's not so bad.” He began dressing.

“Look what we've got here,” Deats continued. “A man who trades in art and whose ethics are demonstrably questionable, has brought to his association two others with known criminal backgrounds. The first is
the elusive Mr. Waters, who I am convinced murdered Sarah Evans, but I'm equally quick to admit I don't know for what motive. It seems most interesting that she had been placed in the Royal Library for the purpose of playing watchdog over an extremely valuable art collection. Obviously Waters was masquerading in his engineer's role and was in the library for reasons other than keeping the queen's humidity under control.” He reached for his notebook but threw it back on the bed, realizing he could not write. “Remind me to tell Elliot to have the officials at the library conduct a complete inventory. I can't imagine they haven't already seen to that. Finally, we have Curtis Stiehl—an immensely skilled counterfeiter. The obvious conclusion, at least to me, is they're up to some sort of forgery scheme.”

“Interesting speculation,” Tobias said. “Any thoughts on what kind of forgery?”

“My instincts tell me there will be superbly crafted pieces of fake art floating about, but, Alex, that is like knowing that somewhere a single grain of sand holds all the solutions to the universe and we must search the beaches and deserts of the world to find it. Rather an insuperable job, eh?”

Deats attempted to button his shirt and Tobias did it for him. “I'm not sure you've got permission to be out of bed, let alone getting dressed as if you're going to leave.”

Deats moved in front of a mirror. “Ah, but I am. First I'll have this tired face shaved, then have one of your fine American breakfasts. After that I shall pay an overdue visit to the offices of Jonas Kalem.”

“I hope your luck's better than mine.”

“You said the reception area is a small art gallery. A man's character is often reflected in his taste for art. In any event, it's my last effort in New York. My allowance is all but spent and destitution is forcing me back to Windsor on Sunday.”

Walter Deats pushed on the revolving door with his good hand and stepped into the marbled lobby, then turned to watch the turning door he had seen spin countless times.

He entered the brown-and-gold reception room, aware he was surrounded by music and a mildly sweet and pungent odor. The overhead lights dimmed, and as they did, the spots aimed at each painting intensified
and gave off their programmed, subtle changes of color. Then he saw he was not alone.

Seated in the center of the room was a man in a dark charcoal suit who looked up to acknowledge Deats's presence. “Hello,” the man said genially.

“Good morning,” Deats replied. His eyes went past the man and took in the paintings hanging on the length of each wall.

“Interesting exhibit,” the man offered.

“Most unusual lighting,” Deats said.

“Are you a collector?”

“Not for my own account. But I represent those who are. Are you?”

“Too rich for my blood,” the man answered pleasantly.

The music was interrupted by a pleasant female voice. “Mr. Goldensen, we're trying to locate the books Miss Shepard asked for. Can you spare a few more minutes?”

“Yes, but I hope it won't be too long.”

“Give us another minute or two,” the voice answered. “The other gentleman . . . may we help you?”

“Perhaps. Do you have a catalog? One that includes prices?”

“You'll find the literature on the table next to Mr. Goldensen. May I have your name, please?”

“Of course. Geoffrey Beal. I'm a London agent representing several clients.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beal. Please feel welcome and if there is any way we can help you, press a gold button on the panel by the chairs.” The music returned.

“Have you met the man who owns all this?” Deats asked without turning from the row of paintings.

“No, but my friend tells me he's quite accomplished.”

“I've tried to meet up with him but he's deucedly difficult to track down. My clients rather like some of the young artists he's brought along. Is your friend the one whose books you're trying to locate?”

“Yes.” Steve chuckled, “Eleanor met Kalem in Washington, and he's put her on an assignment.”

As he moved about the room, Deats spoke softly into his recorder:
“There's no particular theme to the paintings displayed... rather eclectic... two photographs stand out... beautiful lake scenes that are somehow familiar . . . but I can't locate them.”

“Did you say something?” Goldensen asked.

“I slashed these fingers in my workshop before coming over and I can't take notes as I usually do. I find this little recorder quite useful.”

“Did I hear London?”

“A suburb.” Deats stationed himself in front of the photographs. “Will you be returning to Washington? I'm most anxious to go see the East Wing at your National Gallery.”

“I'm leaving for Paris on Monday. Then spend the following weekend in Italy. But if these people don't find the books I've been asked to take over, I may skip Italy. My friend would not be happy with me if I arrived empty-handed.”

“I envy you. Paris and Italy at this time of year. Going to Rome, are you?”

“No. Florence.”

“Hope you have good luck with the weather. Even now it can be hot.”

“My friend is in the country for that reason.”

“Is she in Impruneta by chance?”

“Near Fiesole.”

Again the music stopped. “Success, Mr. Goldensen. We located Miss Shepard's books.”

“That's good news!” Goldensen exclaimed. “You'd think those damned books were printed in gold.”

An attractive girl appeared, package in hand. “Mr. Goldensen? Please follow me, I'll show you to the elevators.”

“Good talking with you,” Goldensen said to Walter Deats, and disappeared behind the sliding door.

“Indeed yes,” Deats called after him. “Enjoy your holiday.”

Deats spoke again into his recorder. He knew he must capture the names and places: Goldensen, Eleanor Shepard, Fiesole. And the dates:
“Goldensen will be in Italy next weekend. He will leave Paris on Friday, perhaps Thursday afternoon.”

He returned his attention to the photographs and the voice came again.

“Mr. Beal, have you found anything to your liking?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. But I'm embarrassed to say they are the photographs. Can you tell me about them?”

There was no immediate reply. Music flowed again from the speakers. Then the voice returned. “A painting was sold and the photographs are filling that space temporarily. We have no information on them.”

“Are they for sale?” Deats asked.

Another pause. “No, they're from Mr. Kalem's collection.”