by Seb Kirby
Chapter 35
DI Martin Reid watched Julia Blake leave the Allegro Hotel.
He admired the Blake woman’s courage in getting out and about in her condition. He smiled. She should be that much easier to follow.
Who was that with her – not her husband James?
The inspector’s hopes were raised at the thought of the double payment he would claim for delivering them both but it wasn’t the husband, even though the man she was with was enough like him. He wondered if Blake had a brother and checked into the Metropolitan police database from the laptop beside him on the front seat of his vehicle. Yes, there was a brother by the name of Miles who worked as an investigative journalist, no less, meaning care would be needed. Reid wasn’t disappointed – perhaps they were about to lead him to the husband.
He followed them to the Peter Jones store in Sloane Square and waited in Symons Street as the Blake woman went inside while the driver circled round. Reid was near enough to pick her out when she returned to the vehicle yet not too close to be spotted.
A traffic warden came up. Reid wound down the driver window.
“You’re not allowed to park here, sir.”
The inspector held up his identity card. The warden glanced at it, winked and walked away.
Reid followed the Blakes the short distance to Wilbraham Place. He watched as she left the vehicle and walked towards one of the apartment blocks.
He weighed up Blenheim Mansions. It was posh. More than posh, it was wealthy. He used the camera with the telephoto lens to photograph the Blake woman as she pressed the bell to request entry into the building. He watched as she was let in.
He downloaded the photograph to the laptop and enlarged the image.
He muttered to himself. “Number six.”
He logged back onto the police database, called up the Electoral Register for the area and typed in 6, Blenheim Mansions, Knightsbridge.
Back came the names. “Richard and Margaret Westland.”
He returned to the police database. “Richard Westland. Recently reported killed in a road accident. That explains the flowers.”
Reid pondered the significance of the visit. Was she consoling a family friend? He doubted that. If you were on the run you would not make such a visit unless it was essential, something important enough to make it worth the risk of being seen.
His optimism rose once more. Perhaps this was where they were hiding James. Yes, that could be it; they could have split up and were using the brother to protect the woman while the husband tried to make sense of what was happening. Reid had no way of knowing if this was the case or not. He would have to visit the apartment to find out for himself.
All he could do now was wait.
Here was the Blake woman leaving the apartment and walking back to the brother’s vehicle after just twenty minutes. It wasn’t much of a visit.
He followed them into Oxford Street where the traffic slowed almost to a stop.
A delivery van that had been between them pulled over to unload. Reid was right behind them now. He was concerned to be this close. This was not good following practice. If she looked round she might recognize him, but that wasn’t going to happen since the Blake woman was preoccupied and was doing most of the talking. He wished he could hear what she was saying. Brother Miles would be able to see him in the driver mirror if he’d cared to pay attention but that wouldn’t matter, not in the short term, anyway, as they had never met.
Chapter 36
Miles was ready and waiting when Julia returned. “Get in, please. I’m over the parking limit.”
Julia climbed in. Miles started the engine and pulled out into the traffic. “Was Peggy Westland helpful?”
“She took some convincing but in the end I got her to open up to me. It’s just as I thought, what’s been happening to us does go back to Pugot’s death. That’s what set off this whole chain of events.”
“Even though he died in an accident?”
Julia spoke slowly to emphasize each word. “Yes. It doesn’t matter how he died, just that he died. It was enough. Peggy Westland showed me a letter from Marcel Pugot’s lawyer, a copy of which was posted to Richard Westland thirty years ago. Richard called it their insurance.”
“Insurance for what?”
“In case anything went wrong. In case Alessa Lando tried to remove any loose ends.”
Miles pulled out to overtake. “I don’t understand.”
Julia continued. “It’s what the letter is all about. It’s not addressed to anyone in particular. It’s a form letter that could be sent to any number of people if the opening was changed.”
“And Pugot asked his lawyer to prepare such a thing?”
“It says in the letter that it’s only being sent in the event of Pugot’s death. And, what’s more important, the letter names Alessa Lando as being behind the theft of a painting by Picasso. That’s what lies behind the threat against James and me. It’s not about drugs or any of the crimes you’d expect the Landos to be involved with. It’s a thirty-year-old crime about a stolen painting, Weeping Woman. Picasso painted half a dozen canvases of the same subject and they’re in museums all around the world. I know the one in Melbourne and there’s one here in London in the Tate Modern. They’re all masterpieces, all worth millions. I’m certain the one they stole was from a small gallery in Hagedet in France. Back then, in 1983, the theft was in all the newspapers and even made the TV.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“But, don’t you see, the time scale fits. I’m convinced that back then Richard Westland was asked to make multiple copies of Weeping Woman and they were sold as the real thing to a number of people. Otherwise you wouldn’t need a form letter. You’d have a single letter addressed to the person concerned. The lawyer must have been given a list of names to send the letter to. When Pugot died, the lawyer was instructed to send the letter to all those who had been cheated into buying a copy of the painting. That’s why they called it their insurance. Pugot must have told Alessa that if she moved against them, the letters would be sent. Her cover would be blown.”
Miles was skeptical. “If that was their insurance, it didn’t work too well. Westland was killed. What little investigation I had time to do showed that the crash wasn’t an accident.”
“It kept them safe for thirty years. Don’t forget, Westland died after the Pugot letter was sent. That’s the real irony. Though Pugot died in an accident, the letters were still sent out by his lawyer. There was no fail safe in the instructions. Pugot may even have wanted the families to know after his death.”
“So, they didn’t sell the Picasso original?”
“No, Westland made the copies and Pugot sold each copy as if it was the original. The real Picasso was found six months later in a railway station left luggage locker.”
“Do we know how many they cheated?”
“It could be five or six, maybe more. We don’t know but we do know the type of people they are. They’re individuals or their surviving families who’ve been wealthy enough and foolish enough to buy a stolen Picasso thinking it was the real thing.”
“And the letter Peggy Westland showed you is key.”
“Yes, that’s what sets off the current chain of events, beginning with Pugot’s death. The Landos have no reason to hold back once the families know. The Landos are open to retribution themselves – legal action or something less pleasant. I know Alessa Lando. She wouldn’t wait. She’d want to get in first and clean up the loose ends.”
Miles stumbled upon the key question. “I still don’t understand. Why were James and you drawn into this?”
“It’s not about James. It’s about me. I saw the painting. In Lucca. Picasso’s Weeping Woman. One of the Picasso copies that Alessa used to cheat those people into thinking they were buying an original.”
“I thought she only collected old masters.”
“It was there. Hidden. Out of place. And I saw it. A near-perfect copy. Why would she h
ave it? And why would she keep it hidden?”
“Did they know you’d seen it?”
“I don’t know. Something changed her attitude towards me. One day everything was fine, the next she wanted me out. They came up with some excuse that I’d been planted there to spy on them, to gather information to do with tax evasion or stolen art, but I don’t think it was the real reason. I think now it was because I’d seen something I shouldn’t and they’d got to know about it. I’ll never know for sure. But what’s important now is that I did see the copy of Weeping Woman. A convincing copy. One Richard Westland must have made. And you see what that means?”
“Tell me.”
“It means I’m one of the loose ends that Alessa Lando needs to clear up.”
They were stuck in slow-moving traffic along Oxford Street. Miles was unfazed. “This is going to take some time.”
Julia stretched her arms. “Then I have time to tell you I know how Alessa Lando cheated those people. She worked a swindle that had been worked long ago with classical art.”
Miles was confused. “Whoa! I don’t get the connection. Westland, Pugot, the stuff they were involved in was all modem art.”
“You’re right, the Landos collected classical art. That’s what so bewildered me when I caught sight of the Picasso copy in Lucca. What was it doing there, hidden away in a place I wasn’t supposed to know about? And guess what else I found hidden away in the same place as the Picasso – a very good copy of da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.”
“Also by Westland?”
“No, it’s not the kind of thing he would have known how to paint. And besides, it looked much more than thirty years old. It looked almost as good as the real thing.”
“You saw both in Lucca?”
“Yes, but I’ve only just been able to put the pieces together now. You know how bad things were there for me, how I’ve had to shut most things out. Those last few days in Florence are still a blur to me even now. There’s still more coming back in flashes.”
Miles shifted in the driver’s seat. He knew he was close to the moment he feared when he would have to make his peace with Julia over those events in Florence, but the time wasn’t right. He sought to move the conversation on. “The Mona Lisa alongside the Picasso?”
Julia nodded. “You see, the way Alessa Lando made the theft of the Picasso pay has everything to do with what happened when the Mona Lisa itself was stolen.”
She brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You know, I’ve spent most of my working life in art galleries, with other restorers, with the gallery directors and their administrators. It was a long time ago, 1911, I think. But what happened back then was not just known to them all, it was etched in their minds as an example, perhaps the prime example, of how a museum as famous as the Louvre could get it so wrong that it lost the Mona Lisa, Leonardo’s masterpiece, Ui Giaconda, the most valuable painting in the world.”
“How could it have happened?”
“You might ask. One Sunday evening as the Louvre was closing, a certain Vincenzo Peruggia who worked there as a technician hid in a broom cupboard while the museum emptied. When the time was right, he took down the Mona Lisa from its hanging, removed the frame, hid the painted wooden panel under his smock and walked out. Simple as that.”
“I could be forgiven for saying it shouldn’t have been possible.”
“Worse, the theft wasn’t even detected for two days. The museum was closed on Monday, the next day. When they saw the painting was missing they thought it had been removed for photography. Only the day after, when they realized what had happened, were the police called in. Peruggia was interviewed but he convinced them he was working elsewhere when the theft took place. All the time the masterpiece was hidden under his bed. The painting didn’t come to light again for over two years.”
Miles had been listening carefully. “It’s a great story, Julia. But I’m struggling to get the relevance.”
Julia smiled. “It’s not the theft. It’s what happened around the theft. Or at least what’s supposed to have happened. What Peruggia did is rock solid fact. A matter of record. The truth came out when Peruggia tried to sell the painting through an art dealer in Florence. The dealer went to the authorities. When Peruggia was arrested he claimed all along he’d been motivated by pride for his country and was doing no more than returning the da Vinci masterpiece to its rightful place in Italy. He got two months and emerged as a hero. Meanwhile, the Italian authorities sent the painting on a tour of the country for the people to see it before returning it to the Louvre.”
“OK, but I still don’t get the connection.”
“What’s never been proven is the real reason why Peruggia stole the painting. The claim he did it for the sake of Italy was justification after the event, that much was plain for all to see. There had to be someone a whole lot brighter than Peruggia behind the theft.”
“And there’s evidence for that?”
“Nothing as clear as the case against Peruggia. The only evidence we have is a claim made in a newspaper article published in the nineteen thirties that the whole thing was a clever swindle.”
“Let’s say we go with it.”
“The article claimed the mastermind was an Argentinian calling himself Eduardo di Valfierno. He pulled off the perfect crime, made millions from the theft and was never caught. That was because once the Mona Lisa had been stolen, he had no further interest in what happened to it. Long before the theft, he’d commissioned a French art forger to paint six identical copies. Di Valfierno then smuggled each of the copies into a different country, worldwide, his idea being that before the painting was stolen they wouldn’t be noticed. When the publicity about the theft erupted, each of the wealthy men that di Valfierno had targeted in each of those countries was told they were being offered the original. Millions changed hands.”
Miles was still skeptical. “But you don’t know if the di Valfierno story is true?”
“Agreed. But don’t you see, Miles? It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. It’s the perfect blueprint for a crime. Alessa Lando only has to know about it to be able to use it.”
“A copy-cat crime.”
“Yes. I think it went like this. Just like di Valfierno, Alessa Lando had multiple copies of a painting made by Westland. Only it wasn’t the Mona Lisa, it was Picasso’s Weeping Woman. She sold them through Pugot as if they were the real thing after Bellard had stolen the original. Pugot covered his tracks by working under a false name while he sold the paintings. One remained unsold. Perhaps Alessa Lando was too vain to destroy it. Perhaps, in recognition of Westland’s talent and as a lover of art she couldn’t bring herself to burn it. It doesn’t matter. The copy survived and that’s the one I saw in Lucca.”
“And the scam was thirty years ago?”
“Yes. Alessa Lando pulled off the Mona Lisa swindle, I’m sure of it. No one knew where she got the money giving her the entree into the Lando dynasty. Now it’s clear where she got it. And that’s how Westland, Bellard and Pugot were involved. And it’s why Pugot needed to place a letter with his solicitor as a way of preventing Alessa Lando from cleaning up the loose ends.”
They’d made their way along Oxford Street and the traffic picked up speed as they headed towards the West End on the route that would take them back to the hotel.
Chapter 37
In a hire-by-the-day business office in downtown Austin, Agent Nate Craven explained what he wanted. “Just be here, as yourself, as James Blake.”
“That’s it?”
“Couldn’t be more simple, James.”
“So you are using me as bait.”
He shook his head. “We wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
He leaned back and took a deep breath. “OK. We’ve discussed this as a team. Is the operation going to be more successful if you know why you’re here? I was against it, but my colleagues are convinced there’s a better chance of success if you know.”
“And?”
“We have a high profile family in our care and they require maximum protection.”
“What kind of family?”
“You don’t get to know that.”
I guessed. “Politics.”
Craven nodded. “But that’s all you need to know. It’s important to us because of that. And, so, it’s important to you. You get me?”
“OK.”
“We’re giving them protection, twenty-four seven. But we’ve been asked to do more. To be more proactive. To protect the family by neutralizing the threat against them.”
“And that’s where the bait comes in?”
He shook his head again. “I wish you wouldn’t keep talking like that. We have intelligence there’s an operative out there targeting the family but we don’t know who it is. We do know he’s connected to the Landos and we suspect he’s also linked to the threats being made to you and your family.”
I thought back to the images from Sollicciano Prison and Matteo Lando’s threats against Julia and myself. “And that’s connected with Agent Franks and what you got from the bugged Skype call.”
“You’re getting there.”
“And I’m here to draw the operative out?”
He lowered his voice and tried to sound supportive. “Look, James. You’ll be in danger. I won’t try to hide it from you. But, think about it. You’re already in danger. Your wife, your child, they’re already in danger. Get closure on this and we end the whole thing once and for all. You won’t have to be on the run from Matteo Lando or anyone else. We’ll keep our family protected. And your family will be safe. You stand to gain as much as we do.”
“What I don’t understand is why do you need me? Why don’t you move the family you’re protecting? Move them someplace else?” Craven shrugged. “That’s more stuff you don’t need to know.”
“Try me.”
He sounded weary. “OK, if it helps, here it is. The people we’re up against have intelligence from somewhere. There’s a traitor from within our own organization, maybe from within my own group. We don’t know where. They know enough of what we’re planning to mean they’re only ever one step behind us. We’ve moved the family once, from California to here in Austin. But we’re more than sure they know that. And that they’ll be sending someone here. So, what do we do? Keep moving the family on? Hold them somewhere so secure they can’t live their lives? No, we’re drawing a line in the sand. We’re making sure the family is in a well-protected, unassailable location here in Austin and we draw the assailant into a trap.”
