The Empress's Tomb (28 page)

“You shouldn't have skipped my class,” she huffed when I found her. “You might have learned something.”

“Sorry, but I was making good use of my time. I brought you copies of the paintings from the exhibit that
The Empress Awakens
replaced. Have a look at these two—they're still at the Metropolitan Museum. See if you notice anything strange.”

“Want to give me a hint?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I'm just working on a hunch. I want you to see them with fresh eyes.”

“Okay. I'll meet you in the girls' room during lunch.” She took the printouts and tucked them away in her bag. “By the way, I heard a couple of your classmates gossiping about Oona.”

“You did?” I'd been too busy to pick up on the latest gossip.

“Uh-huh. I guess Oona's the prize guest these days. All the rich girls' parents are desperate to have Lester Liu's daughter over for dinner.”

“Figures.”

“Yeah, but here's the thing. It sounds like Oona hasn't accepted any of their invitations. She keeps snubbing them all.”

“She's smart. Turning them down once or twice will make her even more irresistible. There's nothing these girls respect more than someone who snubs them. It's all part of her plan.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. It just hurts to think that Oona would really turn traitor,” Betty said miserably.

A few hours earlier, I might have replied with a catty remark. Now I kept quiet. Oona wasn't the only one who'd betrayed the Irregulars.

•     •     •

When the lunch bell rang, I grabbed a hummus sandwich from the cafeteria and it exploded when I took my first bite. I was washing the nasty stain out of my sweater when Betty walked into the bathroom, looking like she'd seen a ghost. Her eyes were glassy, her long black wig was askew, and her diamond nose ring was missing. A seventh grader on her way to the sink stopped to gawk at Betty as if she couldn't figure out what was wrong with the picture.

“Fix your hair,” I ordered under my breath.

“Huh?” It was as if I had woken Betty from a dream.

“Look at yourself in the mirror,” I demanded. “What's wrong with you?” I asked while she adjusted her costume.

Betty gazed into the distance, and I wondered if I should slap her like they do in the movies.

“You can leave now,” I informed the seventh grader, who had finished washing her hands.

“I saw
Odalisque in Grisaille,”
Betty finally said.

“Yeah? And?”

“You were right. There's something in it that isn't supposed to be there. Behind the woman's shoulder. You can't see it if you look straight at the painting. You have to be standing in just the right place.”

“Anamorphosis.” I was pleased to know I hadn't been hallucinating at the museum.

“Ana-what?”

“That's what those hidden images are called. They're optical illusions. You can see them only from certain angles. So what was it?”

“A squirrel.”

We stood in silence, watching each other in the mirror. The painting I'd seen showed a woman in a Turkish setting. There was no reason for a squirrel to be there. I didn't even know if they
had
squirrels in Turkey.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I'm sure. There was another painting from the exhibit with a hidden squirrel. It was called
Venus and Adonis.
The squirrel was sitting on a tree branch.”

“Do you think …”

“I don't
think,
Ananka. I
know.
Those are Kaspar's paintings.” And then she started to cry.

•     •     •

During last period I planned a daring after-school escape. My fate might have lain in the mountains of West Virginia, but I had to find a way to postpone it. At four o'clock, I bolted for the exit without waiting for Betty. I didn't know where I would go, but as soon as I was safe,
I'd contact the Irregulars. I hurried down the path that led to the school gates only to find my mother leaning against a parking meter.

“Going somewhere?” she asked.

“Home?” I sighed. It was time to admit defeat.

The subway was crammed with home-bound students, but only one had a parental escort. To hide my humiliation, I practiced the vacant stare of the jaded commuter, my eyes skimming the ads that ran along the top of the train. The most disturbing featured side-by-side pictures of an anonymous man's head. The
before
head was little more than a barren patch of scalp, while the
after
sprouted thick, luxurious hair. A brand of synthetic spray-on hair took credit for the improvement. For sixty blocks, I read and reread its tagline:
They'll never know the difference!
Hidden within those words, a mystical meaning eluded me. By the time the train doors opened at Spring Street, I knew what it was.

That evening, I sat in my room, staring at the wall for hours on end, without any means of contacting the outside world. I hadn't bothered to fill the two suitcases that still sat on the floor of my room. I didn't care if that meant leaving town with just the clothes on my back. I was the only person who knew that a terrible crime had been committed. I couldn't stop dwelling on five simple facts:

1. Lester Liu was a crook.

2. Oona Wong was a traitor.

3. So was I.

4. Something bad was about to happen.

5. There was no way I could leave New York.

The door to my room opened, and someone stepped inside.

“Go away,” I said. “I'll pack later.”

“I hear West Virginia's lovely this time of year.” I turned to see Kiki sitting at my desk, looking completely at home. She unbuttoned her long black coat and threw one boot-clad leg over the other. “Send us some gouda when you get settled in.”

“Do my mom and dad know you're here?”

“Shhhh. Of course not. But they couldn't lock
every
window in the apartment.”

“How's Verushka?”

“She's awake and looking a little more human. It's too soon to say for sure, but I think Mrs. Fei may have saved her.”

“That's wonderful.” I smiled weakly. “Did you get the story I e-mailed you? Livia's coming back to New York.”

“We'll worry about that later. How are you?”

“Miserable. This may be the last time I see you till summer.”

Kiki raised an eyebrow. “I'm not going to hand you over to the cows just yet. I heard you had an interesting time last night. Want to tell me what happened?”

“Didn't Betty tell you?”

“I missed her first call. By the time I finally reached her, she was too upset to make much sense. Besides, I figured it would be far more entertaining to hear it from you.”

“Well, when I went to see the Empress exhibit with Oona there were still some workmen in one of the galleries. They were packing the paintings from the previous exhibit. One of them bent over, and I saw he had a
Fu-Tsang tattoo. When he loaded a painting onto a dolly, I followed him to see where he was taking it. But he didn't steal it. He just delivered it to another part of the museum. I watched them hang the painting, and I thought I saw something strange, but I couldn't be sure.

“So this morning I went online to check out the paintings from the earlier exhibit. All of them were nudes. One was
The Toilet of Venus
—the same painting Siu Fah was copying before she escaped. Betty went to see two of the others this afternoon. She said they both had squirrels where there shouldn't be squirrels. She's convinced that Kaspar painted them.”

“Yes, she managed to get that much across. What do
you
think?”

“I figured it out, Kiki. I know what's going on. Lester Liu and the Fu-Tsang have stolen some of the paintings from the naked lady exhibit. He used the Empress to get into the galleries when the alarms were turned off. Somehow they switched the artwork. The ones the workers put up last night—or shipped back to other museums—are all fakes. That's why the Taiwanese kids were kidnapped. He was forcing them to make reproductions. Now that they're finished, there's no telling what he plans to do with them. And I think Betty's right. I think Kaspar is with them. Who else would add a squirrel to a Rubens painting? It was a secret message for us.”

“Excellent work, Dr. Watson,” said Kiki. “But I know something you don't.”

“What's that?”

“You saw Cecelia Varney's art collection the night of
the dinner party. If Lester Liu already owns enough art to fill a museum, why would he need to steal more?”

“Good question.” She was right. It didn't make sense.

“Did you ever consider that he might not be stealing the paintings for himself? Remember when we heard that Livia and Sidonia were staying with that Russian gangster?”

“Oleg Volkov?”

“That's the one. I did a little research when you told me. You say the stolen paintings are all nudes?” I nodded. “Since he made his fortune, Volkov's become one of the biggest art buyers in the world. He's been on a spending spree for quite some time. But his taste is very specific. He doesn't care about style or period. I don't even think he cares if the art's any good. He only purchases paintings of naked women. The bigger the ladies, the better, it seems.”

“You think Lester Liu stole the paintings for Oleg Volkov?”

“How else could Volkov complete his collection if the paintings he wants aren't for sale?”

“What about Sergei Molotov? Where does he fit in?”

“He must be in on it, too. Maybe he's not in New York just for me.”

“What do you think they all want?”

“Money, power, revenge—or some mixture of the three. I suspect we'll find out soon enough.”

“There's one other thing, Kiki. You're not going to like it. Oona knows what's going on. She saw the Fu-Tsang guy at the museum, but she didn't do anything. She's got to be in on the scheme.”

Kiki's icy eyes glimmered. “I suppose you
could
come to that conclusion.”

“You still don't believe it, do you? What does Oona need to do? Write a confession?”

“She's been our friend for years, and she's never let us down before. Before we condemn her, we owe her one thing.”

“What?”

“The opportunity to defend herself. That's why we're all meeting at noon tomorrow at Lester Liu's house. Looks like you'll have to cancel your travel plans.”

“But how am I going to do
that?
Everyone's watching me.”

“We'll have to create a diversion. It doesn't have to be anything major, just enough to let you slip away.”

It was then that I experienced one of my life's few moments of genius.

“Do you have time to make a delivery tonight?” I asked.

I would never advocate a life of crime, but the truth is, it's often easier to
forge
a work of art than it is to
expose
a fake. That's why there are forgeries hanging in some of the finest homes and museums around the world. In fact, some even claim that the
Mona Lisa
displayed in France's Louvre is merely a counterfeit copy of the original. So when it comes time for you to purchase your first masterpiece, it's best to know what you're up against. Here are some of the steps an accomplished forger may be taking to swindle you.

It's unusual (but not unheard of) for a forger to re-create an existing work of art. Most prefer to produce a
new
painting and pawn it off as a
lost work of a respected, dead artist. However, a good forger will think twice before manufacturing a Picasso or a van Gogh. The more famous the artist, the more likely those pesky, microscope-wielding people known as “experts” will get involved.

It doesn't matter if a forger can't paint—there are plenty of people who can. Unfortunately, any American painter willing to do a forger's bidding is likely to charge an exorbitant fee. (Or worse, demand some of the profits!) Fortunately for the criminal community, many countries, such as China, have highly trained young artists who are willing to work for cheap. Most of the time, they don't even need to be kidnapped.

A forger can't just go to the local art supply shop to pick up supplies for her painting. A brand-new canvas is a sure sign of a fake. Often, she'll simply purchase a bad work of art that's the same age as the painting she's reproducing—and paint over it. The fraud can be detected with an X-ray, but she'll ensure that no one looks that closely until her money's in the bank.

Experts often detect forgeries by examining the paints and brushes used to create it. A good forger will research the pigments and tools the original artist would have employed and stick to them—even if it means grinding up a few cochineal bugs to get the right color of red (carmine).

As a painting ages, fine cracks (called craquelure) appear on its surface. Unless a forger wants to wait a decade or two for these fissures to begin to appear, she'll have to re-create them herself. She may expose the painting to heat, etch the surface with a pin, or mix egg whites into her pigment. There's no fail-safe technique, but any of the three—if done well—will fool most eyes.

A forger can't just claim she inherited the painting from her grandma in Topeka. She must invent what's called a “provenance.” This is a history of
the work that traces its owners over the decades or centuries. Buyers should be particularly wary of romantic stories that involve ancient, aristocratic families who've fallen on hard times.