The Icon Thief (26 page)

She advanced to the next picture, the first of several close-ups of the bookcases that lined her living room wall. Approaching the shelves, she checked them one by one. None of the books had been moved.

Finally, she went into the bedroom, where the surface of her desk was buried beneath the usual files and papers. Scrolling to the shot from that morning, she examined the picture, then compared it to the scene before her.

She paused. Although most of the desk looked the same as before, something about one of the stacks of paper caught her eye. Maddy scrutinized the photo again, then looked back at the desk. It was hard to be sure. The papers were from one of Tanya’s reports, removed from their folder and carelessly piled, and as she looked at it now, it seemed to her that the cover page was slightly out of place.

Maddy stared at her desk for a full minute, trying to see if it had really been touched. Then she switched the camera off. It was more than possible, she thought wearily, that the pages, which she had stacked untidily on the desk, had resettled on their own. Or, more likely, that she was seeing things. With that unreassuring thought, she put the camera away, then went to prepare for her expected guest.

Two hours later, she was seated at her dining table with Ethan, who was pouring her a glass of wine. It had been his idea to cook dinner at her house, and after some initial reluctance, she had agreed. He, in turn, had layered the lasagna and garlicked the bread efficiently and respectfully, and if he had noticed how small her kitchen was, he had been too polite to mention it.

“We’ve been going about this the wrong way,” Maddy said now, accepting the wine. She had already told him about her conversation with Lermontov, but something kept her from mentioning the man who had been following her, as if this would only give Ethan license to push deeper into her life.

Ethan handed her a plate of arugula and sliced avocado. “What do you mean?”

Maddy scooped up a forkful of salad greens. “We need to take a step back. If artists are driven by the interests of their patrons, collectors are driven by forces of their own. To find our unknown collector, we need to look at the context in which he might have arisen.”

Ethan dug into his own salad. “So what kind of context are we talking about?”

“A place where occult movements have influenced art in a meaningful way. Let me give you an example.”

She pushed her plate aside. Going into the bedroom, she returned with a large sheet of paper, which she unrolled across the table. It was a historical map of Europe during the First World War, the colors and contours of a ravaged continent spreading softly before her eyes.

“When you look at the history of Europe, you find that there are times and places in which art and the occult are especially close.” She pointed to a spot on the map.
“Munich, for instance. Duchamp spent several weeks there shortly before the war began. Nobody knows why he went, but it was an occult center at the time, and when he returned, his art suddenly changed. Before, it was experimental and detached, but afterward, it was full of stylized images of ritual violence.”

“As if he were following up on a clue.” Ethan frowned at the map. “But about what?”

“I’m not sure. At least not yet. The point is that Munich was a center for both art and the occult. Zurich was as well. But the place I want to talk about is here, only a few hours away from both cities.” Maddy pointed to a speck of blue. “Monte Verità. It was founded as a commune, following the principles of Rosicrucianism, and was home to a lodge of the Ordo Templi Orientis, the society headed by Aleister Crowley. But there was another group active in the region at the same time. I’m talking about the men from the Cabaret Voltaire.”

Ethan set aside his salad, shifting his attention to the lasagna. “The Dadaists?”

“That’s right. Tristan Tzara and Hugo Ball spent months at Monte Verità, side by side with occultists and aspiring Rosicrucians. I read about it in graduate school. Europe was at war, and they were looking for alternatives to the culture that had led to so much death. The occult was one. Dadaism was another.”

Ethan studied the map. “So what you’re saying is that these relationships could have survived, in other forms, to the present day. That’s useful. But we still need to tie them to specific works of art.”

“I know.” Maddy took a generous sip of wine. “So far, I haven’t spent much time on the visual evidence, but it’s
there. Tanya and I found a postcard, for example, that Tristan Tzara sent to Julius Evola, a mystic who later became tied up with Italian fascism. On the photo of a cross on a church spire, he drew a rose, along with a finger pointing toward the sky.”

Ethan seemed to consider this. “And Duchamp was keeping an eye on these groups?”

“Yes, as an artist,” Maddy said, rolling up the map again. “But he would have seen right away that the Dadaists weren’t serious about the sort of revolution that the Rosicrucians wanted. For that, he would have to wait for another twenty years. Ever hear of Georges Bataille?”

Ethan’s lack of recognition disappointed her. He refilled his wine glass. “Who?”

“A writer associated with the Surrealists, until he was excommunicated for his rather extreme opinions. Later, he founded a secret society of his own, influenced by the Marquis de Sade. He called it Acéphale.”

“Headless,” Ethan said, translating it easily. “Like the woman in
Étant Donnés
.”

“Or a society without a leader. They met under the full moon in a forest near Paris, around an oak tree that had been struck by lightning, with Bataille serving as high priest. There was even talk of inaugurating the society with a human sacrifice, although no one wanted to be the executioner. Their goal was to start a chain reaction that would destroy the capitalist state. Which sounds a lot like the alchemical reformation that the Rosicrucians had in mind. Look at this.”

Maddy showed him a drawing, which she had photocopied from one of her old textbooks. It depicted a headless man standing with his arms spread wide, a flaming
heart in one hand, a knife in the other. His genitals were covered by a skull, and a pair of stars were tattooed on his chest.

“This is the cover of the first issue of the journal associated with the society,” Maddy said. “It was drawn by André Masson, who was married to the sister of Bataille’s wife, who later divorced him and married Jacques Lacan. At the bottom of the drawing, there’s a symbol that looks like a modified swastika. Both the swastika and knife are emblems of the Vehmgericht.”

Ethan was clearly struck by this. “That’s interesting. But was Duchamp involved?”

“He certainly knew Bataille, and it’s likely that he was approached to join Acéphale, but declined. Later, years after the war, he designed and cowrote one of the group’s manifestos.”

“But we’re left with the same problem as before. Acéphale is more organized than the Dadaists, but there’s no proof of what they actually accomplished. For these groups to be of interest to Archvadze, or our unknown collector, we need to show that they had real power.”

“I know,” Maddy said. “We’re missing something. The groups we’ve seen so far are pale reflections of the real thing, or deliberate artistic distortions. That’s why I’m not quite convinced that anyone is buying these paintings for the information they contain. Even if it’s there, it’s hopelessly compromised.”

Ethan chewed in silence for a moment. “Let’s work backward, then. If there were a real society with the power to influence world events, what would it look like? It would be global. It would have the capacity to move men and resources from one country to another. It
would have access to power at the national level, but its influence would be invisible and untraceable. You know what that sounds like to me? It sounds like organized crime.”

Maddy drained her glass. Her head was starting to throb. “So you’re saying—”

“What if the societies we’ve been discussing and global organized crime are two aspects of the same phenomenon? We know that the early revolutionists drew inspiration from the underworld. Look at Bakunin. Look at Stalin, who robbed banks to raise money for the revolution.”

Ethan gestured at the picture of the headless man. “Look at this guy. There are a pair of stars on his chest. Even I know that’s the sign of a gangster. And didn’t Powell ask us if the thief had any tattoos?”

Maddy thought of her stalker. Then she remembered the man at the mansion. “But if that’s true, then we’ve been going about this all wrong. We’ve been talking as if the study was stolen by someone like Arensberg. An outsider. But if you’re right, then the heist was ordered by someone connected to the Rosicrucians themselves. They found out that Archvadze had the painting—”

“—and then they took it back.” Ethan stood, eyes bright with excitement, and began to pace around the room. “You’re right. This isn’t about discovering a secret. It’s about trying to cover it up.”

“But there’s no proof that organized crime has anything to do with the Rosicrucians. Except—” She broke off, remembering something that Tanya had said. The Rosicrucians in Moscow had been the first such group to use code names and systems of confession. In the end,
they had been crushed by the Soviets, along with all such societies, but there were rumors that they had only gone underground—

She rose from the table. “Let me get my notes. There’s something I need to check.”

Maddy headed for the desk in her bedroom, a clear image in her mind of the page she wanted, on which Tanya had sketched a fist clutching a rose. Riffling through the papers, she kept an eye out for the sketch, then frowned. She had reached the bottom of the pile, but the page wasn’t there.

A second later, she began to ransack her desk, tossing books and papers aside, looking frantically for the missing page. Even as she tore the room apart, heart pounding, she knew at last that this was not her imagination.

Ethan appeared in the doorway, a look of concern on his face. “Are you okay? Is—”

“
Someone was here
.” The words tore themselves from her lips. “Some of my notes are missing. They were here, and now they’re gone.” Shoving aside a stack of books, which tumbled in an avalanche to the floor, she looked into Ethan’s eyes, which were wide and startled. “They went after my notes, but didn’t touch anything else. They knew exactly where to go—”

Ethan came forward. Sensing that he wanted to put his arms around her, she took a step away, her face burning. She finally knew what to do next. The painting, she saw, had been stolen to protect a secret. Her home had been invaded for the same reason. And the only way to find the painting, and the men who had taken it, was to destroy whatever secret they were trying to hide.

P
owell had seen his share of luxury over the past few days, but was still impressed by the view from the penthouse, which looked out onto the Metropolitan Museum of Art. When he complimented his hostess on this, Natalia Onegina smiled. “Yes, this is my favorite room in the apartment. It’s the only place in New York where I can look down on the art world.”

Wolfe took a seat. “We hear you’ve been having some issues with your gallery.”

“No worse than you might expect.” Natalia offered them tea from a pot on the coffee table, then poured a cup for herself. She was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a flattering cotton top, and even without makeup, she was still faintly ravishing. “Some people actually think that we staged the heist to generate publicity. Can you believe it? As if it were anything other than an embarrassment—”

Powell sensed Wolfe waiting for him to begin. They had decided on the way here that he would take the lead. “We’ve had trouble reaching Archvadze. Word is that he’s gone back to Georgia.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Natalia said. “I haven’t spoken to him since the party. Sometimes he’ll vanish
without a word, as if he’s afraid to tell me what he’s doing. It’s a habit he acquired in less happy times. Neither he nor Kostava will answer their phones. I can’t even leave a message.”

“But it’s been almost a week since the heist,” Wolfe said. “Aren’t you worried?”

“Anzor knows how to take care of himself. I don’t pry into his affairs, and he doesn’t interfere with mine.” Natalia looked between the two of them. “Is there anything else? I’m rather busy, and if you haven’t found the painting, I’m not sure what else we have to discuss—”

“No, we haven’t found the painting,” Powell said. “But we’d like to ask you about something else.”

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the clay figurine that they had found among Karina’s possessions. He set it on the table without looking away from Natalia. When she saw it, a shadow of unease seemed to pass across her face, but she regained her composure at once. She picked up the figure. “What is it?”

“It’s a toy from the town of Kargopol,” Powell said. “Have you ever been there?”

“No. I’m not familiar with that area.” Natalia put the toy down. “Why do you ask?”

“We’re just trying to get our facts straight,” Wolfe said. “Where were you born?”

Natalia took a sip from her cup, which was wreathed in wisps of steam. “In Moscow. But you already know this.”

“And you’re related to German Khan? We weren’t sure what the connection was—”

“He’s my uncle. I can’t say we’re especially close, although I’ve gone hunting with him a few times.”

Powell studied Natalia, hoping to see a trace of nervousness, but her face was a mask. “Do you know a woman named Karina Baranova?”

Natalia shook her head, her eyes on Powell. “No. Should I recognize the name?”

Wolfe took a photo of the dead girl from her briefcase and handed it to Natalia. “She was murdered two years ago. Her body was found last week, buried under the boardwalk at Brighton Beach.”

Natalia glanced briefly at the headshot. “I’ve never seen her before. Would you mind explaining why you’re telling me this?”

“Because Karina was your sister,” Powell said. “We’ve looked into your background. Your name isn’t Natalia Onegina. It’s Alisa Baranova. You ran away to Moscow, where you renamed yourself after the Onega River, which flowed by the house where you grew up. Isn’t that right?”