The Mona Lisa Sacrifice (7 page)

Penelope has been dead for decades. There’s nothing left of her now. No body, no grave anywhere, marked or unmarked. Even her photos are all gone. All that remains of her are my memories.

Penelope and I in the forgotten graveyard in the forest where we met, the morning mist burning away between us as we looked at each other across the simple crosses shoved into the ground.

Penelope and I at the bow of a ship in the Pacific, watching the sun set until we were alone in the darkness. Our own little world.

Penelope and I sitting on a blanket under a row of cherry blossom trees beside the Kamo River in Japan during the annual hanami, toasting the other people around us with sake. The lights of the lanterns better than any stars.

And now another moment of her life—of
our
life—was gone.

Someday I’ll have nothing left to remember her by. I hope that’s the day I die and stay dead.

But I won’t rest until I find Judas and kill him.

Kill him like he killed Penelope.

I took the train to London. It was quick, but not nearly as scenic as the ship crossings of earlier centuries had been. Once we were in the tunnel under the ocean, there was nothing to look at but my own reflection in the window, and I’d had enough of that view some time ago. I settled for reading the back page of the paper that the man across from me was browsing. It had the latest update on a politician caught bedding someone he shouldn’t have been bedding, and ads for the home furnishings of your dreams. The usual fare. At least the train was warmer and drier than taking a ship.

I thought about what Alice had told me. I wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about trying to find Victory’s head in the British Museum, let alone destroying property of the state. As far as I knew, the Royal Family still had a bounty on my head for the Avebury incident. I’d sooner deal with vampires than the Royals. At least vampires still had traces of humanity left in them. Hopefully I’d be able to get in and out of the country before anyone even knew I was there.

I closed my eyes and tried to nap. It’s a habit from my days in various armies around the world. No matter what cause you’re dying for, one thing always remains the same for soldiers: get your sleep while you can because you don’t know when you’ll get a chance next.

I dozed for maybe half an hour or so and then something woke me. One of those feelings of danger that I’ve learned to trust. I tightened my grip on my backpack—experience has taught me to always keep a hand on my luggage, even when sleeping—and opened my eyes without moving, looking around for the source of the danger. For the attack.

But there was nothing other than the man across from me. He’d put the paper aside and now was looking at a Sotheby’s catalogue of paintings. Old Masters, the cover said over a rendering of a man wreaking havoc in a field with a scythe. I didn’t recognize the painting or the artist, but that was usually the way. The truly good paintings usually get tossed on a fire or locked in a room somewhere. Same with the good artists.

The man glanced up at me and nodded when he saw I was awake. “We’re almost there,” he said in English, but in an accent I couldn’t place.

I sat up and looked around. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just other people reading and sleeping and sharing snacks. I wondered if maybe I’d just had a bad dream.

I looked back at the man across from me.

“Are you a collector?” I asked, gesturing at the catalogue.

“Dealer,” he said. “Coming back from the fair in Maastricht.”

“How was it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t call this year a success,” he said. “The attendance was very poor, the offerings substandard. All the good works are being kept under lock and key these days.”

I studied him for a moment. Then I said, “I take it you couldn’t get a booth to sell your wares.”

He studied me right back. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I’ve known a few dealers in my time,” I said. “I know the standard line is always the show was a success, even when it wasn’t. It’s all about the buzz. So I’m guessing you’re not a large enough dealer to earn a spot in the show, but you’re large enough that you cared to attend. Maybe your competition got in and now you’re in danger of losing clients. If you didn’t have any stake in it, you wouldn’t have bothered attending and you certainly wouldn’t bother bashing an industry event to a stranger you just met on a train.”

Sometimes you have to find your own ways to pass the time.

He smiled, just enough to show his teeth.

“Are you an artist or another dealer?” he asked.

“I’ve never had enough business sense to be a dealer,” I said. “And I haven’t been an artist in a very long time.”

“Are you responsible for anything I would know?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” I told him, “unless your specialty is Roman sewer paintings.”

He looked puzzled at that, and I moved on before he could ask any more questions. Another thing I’ve learned is that it’s always better to be the interrogator than the interrogated.

“I’m still a bit of an art buff though,” I said. “I try to keep up with the latest news. I read in a magazine recently that half the famous artworks hanging in the big galleries are fakes. You think that figure’s right?” That was a bit of a lie. I hadn’t read it in a magazine. Jackson Pollock had told me that, back before he’d made it big and still drank in bars. But the general idea is correct.

His mouth worked for a bit, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying to hold back another smile or a grimace.

“Most galleries have access to specialized equipment and labs for testing pigments and fibres and such,” he said. “And experts that cannot easily be fooled. So I think you can be confident that the major works are genuine. But it’s impossible to test everything in a gallery’s collection. It’s simply too time consuming. That’s where dealers such as myself are invaluable. We have first-hand knowledge of many works, and close relationships with—”

“So you think it’s possible then,” I said.

“Anything is possible,” he said. “But that doesn’t make it probable.”

The train started to slow, so I figured it was time to get down to it.

“Let me ask you a question then,” I said. “If the Mona Lisa hanging in the Louvre were a fake, where do you think the original would be?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I can assure you it’s not a fake,” he said.

“It’s been stolen before,” I pointed out. “The real one could have been replaced with a forgery.”

“You cannot even conceive of the range of tests they must have done on that painting to ensure its authenticity,” he said. “The team of experts they would have assembled. It’s more valuable than entire countries.”

“Humour me then,” I said.

“Whatever on earth for?” he asked, frowning and drumming his fingers on his catalogue.

“Let’s say someone came to you to sell it,” I said. “What would you do with it?”

There. That made him pause.

“Turn it in for the reward?” he said, in a less than convincing tone.

I rolled my eyes.

“Well, if we’re speaking hypothetically,” he said. “I guess I’d try to find a private collector for it.”

“How would you do that?” I asked.

“I’d put the word out to my higher-end clients that I have a special work available,” he said. “For private auction. I wouldn’t have to name it. People talk. They figure things out.”

“This actually happens?” I asked.

He shrugged, and we emerged from the tunnel, into the light. A landscape of industrial parks around us. The usual rain. Billboards obliterated by graffiti. Ah, England. As pastoral as ever.

“America,” the art dealer said.

“What about it?” I asked.

“I’d take the Mona Lisa to America,” he said.

I looked at him and he looked out the window.

“They have no history there,” he said. “So the collectors buy history instead. They take the things we love and hide them away until the world forgets them.”

An odd statement, I thought, but he did work in the arts.

He didn’t look away from the window until the train came to a stop. We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. I made time for breakfast at a pub—eggs and potatoes and toast and tea. I sat at the window and watched the rain mist down. I thought about Cassiel and why he wanted the painting so badly, but I still didn’t have any answers. I thought about Judas and wondered where he was at this very moment. I thought about friends I’d had in London who were all long gone now. It was only then that I realized the feeling I’d felt on the train had faded. Whatever threat there’d been, if any, was gone now. So be it. I had other things to worry about.

When I was done brooding, I went out into the rain and made my way to the British Museum. I stood in line behind an endless column of children in school uniforms screaming and taking pictures of each other with their cellphones. I just gazed around and did my best to look like another tourist. Which I was, in my own way.

When I finally paid and went inside, I wandered around like everyone else. I wasn’t sure where the skull was, so I was going to have to find it. I spent the morning browsing the Egyptian wing. I studied stone sculptures and a pitted flint knife that looked like it had seen plenty of use in its time. I read a sign on a glass case housing a sarcophagus with faded paint. The sign said the occupant of the sarcophagus had been destined to become a god upon his death. I hoped he’d had better luck than me.

Morning turned to afternoon, which I whiled away checking the relics and statuary dedicated to Indian and Asian deities in their respective rooms. The British Museum has a lovely collection of jade, by the way, if you ever get the chance to visit.

I found the skull in a glass case in a corner of one of the galleries, surrounded by young boys in blazers who were daring each other to knock over the case. I knew it was the one right away. I could tell by the way it shone with a light no one else seemed to notice. A light like grace but not grace at the same time. One of those things that only I could see. Yep, had to be the one. How many magical skulls could there be in the British Museum?

No, don’t answer that.

I studied it for a while, wondering if all gorgon bones were made of crystal. Then I read the placard on the wall, which told me the museum acquired the skull from a French antiquities dealer who claimed to have discovered it in Mexico. It said tool marks in the crystal later revealed it was made this century and thus a fraud. Clever, that. Hide one of your most prized possessions in the open by saying it’s not prized at all. I assumed it was one of the museum’s most prized possessions anyway. I’d never been in their storerooms. Maybe the museum had better things in its collection than gorgon skulls.

The boys moved on and I did as well. I didn’t want to stand out from the crowd and be noticed. I wandered a few more rooms until I grew bored. A note to curators: the textiles and clothing of the 15
th
century aren’t any more interesting now than they were back then.

I went for dinner in a pub down the street. It was in a basement and had the usual elements: dark corners, bad ale, drunk bankers. I had a feeling I’d been in this very place before, but I couldn’t recall for sure. So many pubs over the centuries.

I ate as much of an uninventive pizza and drank as much of the aforementioned bad ale as I could before it repulsed me enough I had to push it away. When I reached into my pocket for some money, I discovered I didn’t have any left. So I reached into the pocket of the banker sitting beside me and took his money instead. I didn’t even use any grace. Little tricks you pick up when you spend time in bars like this. I left a big tip and then strolled the streets for a bit. I visited a bookstore with no name in an alley with no name. The owner sat in a wheelchair behind the counter and nodded at me when I came in, even though it had been several years since I’d last been here. We’d never talked but we were like old friends. Maybe because we’d never talked.

I spent an hour or so going through a water-stained copy of Chandler’s
The Lady in the Lake
, rereading all my favourite parts. I didn’t buy it, because I was always on the move and I’d given up collecting books long ago. On the way out, though, I left more of the banker’s money on the counter while the bookstore owner was on the phone. Just doing my part to keep the arts alive.

I went back to the museum and, to make a long and repetitive story shorter and less repetitive, I wandered around some more and then pulled the same trick I had in the Louvre, hopping up on a ledge and using a bit of the grace I’d taken from Remiel to make people think I was a statue. Hell, I could make a decent living as a living statue on La Rambla myself.

I passed the time by trying to remember the memory that Alice had taken from me. But that didn’t work any better than it had all the past times I’d tried with the other memories she’d taken in exchange for some favour or another. So instead I went over my mental list of the various things I was going to do to Judas when I finally caught him and didn’t let him escape this time. It was a very long list. By the time I was done the lights had faded and the museum was empty of everyone except the guards doing their rounds, which looked pretty similar to the rounds the guards in the Louvre had made. When everything was sufficiently dark and quiet, I hopped off the ledge and made my way back to the skull.

As usual, I didn’t have a plan. When you’re stealing magical skulls from the British Museum, you kind of have to make things up as you go.

I studied the display case for a bit and considered my options. I didn’t really see any, as I’m not an art thief. I’ve never had the patience to learn the subtle skills. So I just shrugged and punched my fist through the glass and grabbed the skull. They probably had a double in the storeroom anyway. No visitor would be the wiser once the staff had cleaned up.

Alarms sounded as I pulled the skull from its case and tried to crush it in my hand. No luck—it was as hard as diamond. I wasn’t really surprised. Gorgons never make things easy for you. I tried breaking it against the wall, but all that did was leave a head-sized indentation in the wall. I was going to have to figure out a way to destroy the skull, but I didn’t have time now, so I just shoved it into my backpack and used a bit of grace to heal my bleeding hand. I went through the nearest exit, which took me into the atrium with the food court and souvenir shop, all closed now, of course. I didn’t see anyone, so I headed for the front doors. Once outside, it wouldn’t take me long to disappear.

But as I made for the exit a metal door slid down over it. I could hear others thumping into place in other areas of the museum.

Yeah, a backup plan might have been a good idea.

I headed to my right, into the Egyptian wing in search of another exit. That’s when I ran into the museum’s night watch. The lid of the sarcophagus I’d looked at earlier had been pushed open, and the mummy inside—the one that was supposed to have become a god—was clambering out, decayed bandages and all. Okay, so it hadn’t been any luckier than me.