by Seb Kirby
Miles sat down and faced her. “Problems with Adam Weston.”
“He didn’t show?”
“No, he was there, late and wired. He handed me the De Baere material. He’s sure he’s being followed.”
“And that’s getting to you? You look stressed.”
“The way Weston was would get to anyone. He’s convinced the FBI are on his case.”
“Why would they connect to Weston?”
“He’s sure he’s overstayed his hacker’s welcome and they’ve tracked him from that.”
“Do you think they’ve made the connection from him to us?”
“He doesn’t know you’re here, so even if they try they’re not going to find you from Weston.”
Julia was relieved. “What was he able to give you?”
Miles opened the document box file. “I printed it out from the information Weston took from the De Baere database.”
Julia was disconcerted by the volume of material. Weston had done well. He’d found the correspondence between the partners and their assistants in the De Baere firm as they worked to fulfill Pugot’s request that the letter he’d penned all those years before should be sent to each of those who had been duped into buying a copy of Picasso’s Weeping Woman. Pugot’s instructions had been precise. If the original purchaser was no longer alive, the letter should be sent to their descendants. What they had here were the emails and attachments that told the story of how De Baere had investigated to find details of the correct recipients of each letter.
Miles could see she was pleased with the amount of material Weston had delivered. “Weston is good. Once he gets in past their firewall there’s little to stop him downloading anything and everything. That’s one of our problems. There’s so much material here, it’s going to take time to go through it all.”
There was information on five families. Julia saw straight away that one could be eliminated.
“McKenzie. Alex McKenzie. Named by Pugot as one of the purchasers of a fake Picasso. Died in 2001. A loner. Didn’t marry. No heirs. Gave his fortune to charity on his death. De Baere decided no letter should be sent.”
Miles nodded. “Agreed. We shouldn’t include him.”
“That leaves four families. Two each.”
They agreed to share out the pages.
Miles smiled. “Quicker this way.”
“I’ll take Ravitz and Montgomery. You take Walsh and Davidson.”
Miles took his share of the pages. “All four are in the US. I don’t know if it’s a good or a bad thing.”
As she read through her share of the documents, it didn’t take Julia long to understand that progress was going to be slow.
She paused and turned to Miles. “De Baere were thorough.”
Miles looked up. “Maybe you’d be thorough if you knew you were going to be paid for each piece of information you found.”
“There’s so much here, yet nothing that leads directly to any of the families. We have postal addresses for each. Mine are from San Diego and Boston.”
“And mine are from New York and Albuquerque.”
“If your addresses are like mine they’re not residences.”
Miles nodded. “Like so many people with wealth they have holding addresses at banks or post office bureau. Then the mail is forwarded. There’s no guarantee the recipients even live in the same town as that in the holding address.”
“And the rest of the paperwork will take days to go through. Meanwhile, James is missing and we have no idea where he is.”
“What else do we know?”
Julia tried to be clear. “We have what Franks said when he called in Weymouth. He said he wanted James to help. Jim accused him of wanting to use us as bait in some kind of trap to uncover a threat to an important US family.”
“And we have what Adam Weston found when he hacked the FBI database. The case Franks was working on was classified and concerned with politics. So which of the four families would fit that bill?”
They began using Miles’ laptop to search for political connections. They found that Montgomery was out. The family business was in manufacture of farm machinery. It was a good way to get rich but nothing in the public record suggested any political involvement greater than lobbying and special interest pleading.
It was a different matter with the Ravitz family. When she saw the details on the screen, Julia shouted out, “That could be them! Eli Ravitz has died but his son, Elmore Ravitz, is a candidate for Senator who’s tipped to one day run for the Presidency. He’s based in San Diego. We may be able to find him from the delivery address.”
Miles tried not to look discouraging. “Hold on, Julia. I’m checking the other families. Both have political connections. Stephen B Davidson’s father-in-law is a one-time Mayor of Albuquerque and the Walsh family go way back in New York Irish politics. It could be any one of those three families that we’re looking for.”
Julia lay back in her chair and focused on not giving in to the helplessness that was about to overtake her. There was a way, a way back to James. She whispered that to herself over and over.
She had to think, and think straight.
She knew what had set in place the damaging train of events that threatened her family. Pugot’s death had triggered the release of the letters to those duped into handing over good money for a fake painting. She’d seen Picasso’s Weeping Woman in Lucca and as a result she was a threat to the Landos, if only that she might one day give evidence against them in court, and she knew enough of the ruthlessness of the Landos to know they would seek to remove all loose ends so that threats to them as yet unknown could not arise. She was one of those loose ends but knowing this had taken her no further to discovering what had happened to James, who had him and where they’d taken him. Now the recovery of the De Baere documents was threatening to end the same way.
Her thoughts turned back to Miles.
Why hadn’t he told her more about his investigation of the Landos?
Another of their long silences had descended. Julia could sense the unease between them whenever the conversation stopped, as if he was all the time waiting for her to question or even accuse him.
“Tell me more about your investigation?”
“The Landos?”
Julia nodded.
Miles began, “I thought I’d told you.”
“You haven’t said anything much.”
“I wanted to finish the Lando story. Finish the family. I’ve made progress. You know, I’m on to them again. They’re shipping more cocaine than they ever did when Alfieri was alive and, if I’m right, they’re using the same supply channels. I’m close, Julia. Close to blowing their operation wide open.”
“Even though Matteo has been sent down for life?”
“That’s no barrier for him. He’s head of the family now and he has no problem operating from Sollicciano prison.”
Nothing had changed. Miles was always chasing the next story. This was the official line that he might have told an editor when asked to explain what he was doing. This was getting her nowhere closer to finding James.
She raised her voice. “Miles, why can’t you tell me what’s really happening in the investigation?”
Miles looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You can tell me. Trust me.”
He hesitated and then, drawing courage, he spoke again. “You’re right. I’m not being straight with you but there are reasons why I haven’t been able to tell you. I wasn’t sure myself that I hadn’t dragged you and Jim into all this again. After Florence, I knew you’d never be able to forgive me but I couldn’t bear the thought that I’d endangered you both again. I couldn’t face up to it if it was true. You understand?”
She nodded. “But we know now that as soon as I’d seen the Picasso, this was bound to happen one day, sooner or later. You don’t have anything to feel guilty about what’s happening now.”
Miles looked Julia in the eye for the first time in a
long time. “I’m glad to hear it. At least I’m half-forgiven.”
She reached forward and took his hand. “Miles, I was debased by Alfieri Lando. I can never forgive him for what he did to me. Nor what he and his family did to Emelia. The corruption he brought to everything he touched. And I didn’t think I’d ever be able to forgive you for bringing that evil into my life. But I mean it. I forgive you. You couldn’t have known such a terrible thing could happen in Florence. You can’t spend the rest of your life atoning for that mistake. I do forgive you.”
Tears formed in Miles’ eyes and ran down his cheeks. He whispered, “Thank you.”
Julia felt relieved that she’d made her peace with him. It was part of the healing process that she found as difficult as any other yet she realized now how important it was. Yet, this moment of reconciliation should not delay them. Time was running out in finding James. It didn’t help to see Miles in tears like this. Hard though it was, she had to move the conversation on.
“You said there was another reason.”
Miles wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. “I didn’t want to give false hope. The investigation in the States hasn’t been going well. It’s confused and confusing. I get the feeling that despite all I know about investigative journalism, I’m in danger of being out of my depth. I didn’t want to involve you with all my problems when you have enough of your own.”
“What’s the problem?”
He tried to smile. “Just that I think I’m going to get hauled in before I get even close to breaking the story.” He paused. “And the fact that the main contact, the one who’s on the inside feeding me information, might be unreliable.”
Julia could feel depression returning. “We don’t have anything. James has been missing for over thirty-six hours and we have no way of finding him.”
“There is one thing. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. It’s likely to be a dead end. It’s something that’s come into play now you’ve told me about the Picasso.”
Julia held his hand tighter. “What is it?”
“It’s something I’d discounted. As I told you, in my business you learn to concentrate on the story in hand and dismiss anything that might be a diversion from the main goal.”
“Like you dismissed what Bellard had to say?”
“Yes, like I put that on the back burner.” Miles cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a contact I’ve been working with in Mexico, trying to get information about the drugs supply route used by the Landos. Someone who was helpful at first but who’s been less helpful of late. I’m not sure if he’s been trying to play me to lead me into the hands of the FBI or even if he’s an FBI agent himself who’s undercover in Mexico. Or if he has another agenda all his own. I have no way of being sure. He’s not been giving me the information I need and I’ve been avoiding him.”
“So why could he be of help now?”
“Well, strange as it seemed to me at the time, he’s been pumping me for information on what happened in Florence. About the Lando interest in art. I couldn’t see how that was anything other than a diversion at best and something more sinister at worst. But after what you’ve told me, I’m not so certain.”
Julia released Miles’ hand and sat back. “Why would he be interested in what happened in Florence?”
“I’ve told him nothing. I didn’t want to implicate you any further.”
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t know why, Miles, but I sense this is important. It’s the art swindle that got James and me involved in this again, I’m sure of it. What’s the name of your contact?”
“Luiz Reyas.”
“Can you reach him?”
“He’s been messaging me every day. I just have to reply.”
Julia smiled.
Miles left to arrange to make the contact.
Julia ordered room service. When the waiter arrived, he was accompanied by the hotel manager who made a great show of demanding to see Julia’s passport.
“The forty-eight hours are up, madam. I need proof of identity.”
She tried to sound as unapologetic as possible. “My husband has been delayed a further twenty-four hours. It was unavoidable.”
The manager took his time in agreeing. “All right. Twenty-four hours more but not a moment longer.”
Chapter 42
Perhaps it was her age but these days Alessa Lando found herself thinking more often about her family and its past.
The story of how her grandfather, Esteban Lobos Ventura, had gone to Europe and returned home to Buenos Aires with a fortune was one she would have liked to share with the world – how he’d pulled off the perfect crime, right under the noses of those who thought they were much more cultured and sophisticated than him.
It was a stroke of genius to find Vincenzo Peruggia, an undervalued technician at the Louvre, and to convince him he should steal Ui Giaconda for the sake of Italy. Nothing was more certain to succeed than the actions of a patriot, one serving a higher cause with a determination denied to those who acted for money alone. Yet, money had been required.
Grandfather Esteban had gambled everything on this single chance. Before leaving Argentina, he’d sold the family home for less than it was worth to have the cash available now, when he needed it – money he used to bribe Peruggia to carry out the theft. Even the patriot must eat, Peruggia had told Esteban. And he needed money for the forger.
Finding Michel Patron couldn’t have been easy; someone who would not blink at being asked to produce not one but six copies of the Mona Lisa; someone good enough to make those copies so exact and so much like they were painted over four hundred years ago that even an expert might be fooled.
Of course, when Patron was approached, he wasn’t told that the real Mona Lisa was going to be stolen. Here was this South American with money to burn who had somehow learned of the reputation of the greatest forger of his day and wanted to buy not one but six copies of the masterpiece. Who was Patron to ask why? And if the South American was using what anyone could see was a false identity, what did it matter? It was none of Patron’s business. The payment was good and was in cash. Money was scarce in Paris in 1911 with war on the way.
Yes, thought Alessa, this had been the second brilliance of Esteban’s plan – to engage Patron three months ahead of the theft, to give him no indication of the real purpose of having the copies made, to allow time for the ageing process that Patron applied to his work to take hold so the copies would look old. Time to smuggle the copies into the chosen countries around the world before the theft took place when no one would be looking for the painting.
The further brilliance was to not let Peruggia know the full extent of the plan. Since it had cost so much to have it stolen, he’d expected Esteban to come to him within a week to collect the Mona Lisa. Esteban gambled that when he did not make contact Peruggia would assume something had gone wrong and Esteban had been forced to flee. He gambled that Peruggia would take this as a further sign that his gods were on his side and he should keep the masterpiece hidden until the time came when he could sell it, knowing if it was found in his possession he would be able to defend himself with the claim that he’d acted for Italy, to restore his nation’s pride. It was less of a gamble that the unexpected prospect of becoming a rich man would be enough to propel Peruggia on this course.
All Esteban wanted was for it to be known that the Mona Lisa had been stolen. The newspapers made sure of that. The story went round the world. He did not care that Peruggia was caught two years later when he tried to sell the painting to a Florence art dealer, nor that he was sent to trial in Italy, found guilty and released after serving just a few months. It did not matter that he emerged from prison as a hero of Italy for trying to return one of the nation’s masterpieces to its rightful home, nor that in the fullness of time the Mona Lisa was returned to the Louvre, because in the years between the furor over the theft of the painting and its recovery, Esteban made his fortune.
The final brillia
nce of Esteban’s plan was to recognize that rich and powerful men who made their money at the margins of legal society would be unable to resist the temptation of owning the most valuable painting in the world. Knowing it had been stolen would not deter them. As long as they had it and it was theirs to keep, to hold in secret, that would be enough. The fact that this would be a guilty secret to be revealed only to those they honored with the knowledge of the secret made the thrill of owning the painting all the greater. Yes, Esteban had understood well the egoism of such men.
If the plan could work once, it could be made to work again. Whoever bought the painting wasn’t going to tell the world what they had done. It was a perfect scam.
Esteban sold the first copy to a Mexican rancher who’d grown fat making illegal cattle imports from the Unites States. The second was sold to an Italian-origin landowner in Chile. The third went to a minor noble in the Romanov dynasty in Imperial Russia. The fourth to a US Senator who had made a quick killing selling armaments to Europe. The fifth to a member of the British landed gentry. The sixth had not been sold. How apt that this remained in the family.
Esteban sold each for one fifth of the market price. It was a bargain for each man, yet one fifth of priceless is a lot of money in any currency and in any age. Esteban got paid five times, not once. He became a wealthy man, returning to Buenos Aires with over one thousand times the money he’d raised in the sale of his home.
He didn’t have to concern himself with the shock of realization that came to each of the men who’d bought a Mona Lisa. It must have hit them like a sledgehammer once the news of the recovery of the real Mona Lisa and Peruggia’s trial spread worldwide. He didn’t have to concern himself with the consequences of the humiliation of those men that came with the knowledge that they’d been duped, nor the fact that those in whom they’d confided their guilty secret came to doubt their judgment and the tragic consequences that followed. Grandfather Esteban was by then living the comfortable and secure life of the rich man he’d become. And she, Alessa, had been an outcome.
