Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  'April, it's impossible for me to tell that on the basis of a description in a catalogue ...'

  'Hirum: in London all the past week I've been sending this catalogue to the four corners of the earth. I've talked to dozens of art critics on all five continents, and I've drawn up a list. All of them told me exactly the same as you, and I've had to insist with all of them, although you're the only one to whom I've told the whole truth. They protested, but eventually all of them gave me their opinion. I need you to do the same.'

  Oslo stared at her, feeling sorry for the desperate gleam in her eyes. He thought it over for a moment before replying.

  'It's very hard to say whether there'll be any work like those two in "Rembrandt". I think it's a very different collection to "Monsters", just as that was different to "Rowers". On one level, it's a homage to Rembrandt on the four hundredth anniversary of his birth. But we also have to remember that Rembrandt was Maurits' favourite painter, and perhaps for that very reason, because he was his father's favourite, the collection has some very odd things in it. In The Anatomy Lesson, for example, instead of a body there's a naked, smiling woman, and the students look as though they're just about to throw themselves on her. The Syndics shows Van Tysch's teachers and colleagues: Tanagorsky, Kalima and Buncher . .. The Jewish Bride could hide references to his father's collaboration during the war; it's even been said that he has disguised the female model as Anne Frank . .. the Christ on the Cross is a kind of self-portrait . .. Gustavo Onfretti, the model, is painted to look like Van Tysch and is hanging from a cross ... in other words, in "Rembrandt" nearly all the works are directly related to Van Tysch and his world, in one grotesque way or another ...'

  'But this guy is only going to destroy one of them,' Miss Wood snapped. 'And I need to know which one.'

  Oslo could not bear to meet her imploring eyes.

  'And what will you do if I say a probability among the thirteen? You'll give that one more protection, won't you? What if

  I'm wrong? Will that make me responsible for a death? Or more than one, perhaps?'

  Toil won't be responsible for anything. I've already told you, I'm collecting the opinion of experts all round the world, and I'll choose the work that gets most votes.'

  'Why not ask Van Tysch?'

  'He didn't want to see me,' replied Wood. 'The Maestro is inaccessible. And besides, he hasn't even been told that Deflowering and Monsters have been destroyed. He is on top of his private summit, Hirum. I can't reach him.'

  ^What if the majority of experts are wrong?'

  'Even if that's the case, nothing will happen. I'm not going to put the original work at risk.'

  All of a sudden it was Hirum Oslo who felt nervous. As he stared at Miss Wood's face lit by the desk lamp, he realised what she was proposing. His whole body went tense.

  'Hang on a minute. Now I understand. You're going to ... you're going to put a copy as bait for this madman ... A copy of the work that gets most votes ...'

  There was another pause. Oslo was convinced he had hit the nail on the head.

  That's your idea, isn't it? And what will happen to the copy? You know very well we're talking about human beings ...'

  'Weil protect the copy,' she said.

  Oslo was quick to realise she was being insincere.

  'No, you won't. It wouldn't be of any use to you if you protected it ... you want to use it as bait. You want to set a trap. You're going to hand over one, or more, innocent people to this psychopath, in order to save the others!'

  'A copy of a Van Tysch work is only worth fifteen thousand dollars on the market, Hirum.'

  Oslo could feel the old fury gripping him.

  'But they are people, April! The copies are people, too, just like the original!'

  'But they're not worth anything as art.'

  'And art isn't worth anything compared to people, April!'

  i don't want an argument, Hirum.'

  'All the art in the world, all the damned art in the world, from the Parthenon to the Mona Lisa, from the statue of David to Beethoven's symphonies, is rubbish compared to even the most insignificant of people! Can't you understand that?' 'I don't want an argument, Hirum.'

  There she was, thought Oslo, there she was, unmoving, and the world would go on turning. We are defending the world's heritage, she always said, we are defending the great human creations, pyramids, sculptures, canvases, museums, all of them built on dead bodies, bones on bones. We are protecting the heritage of injustice. We buy slaves to haul blocks of granite. We buy slaves to paint their bodies. To make Ashtrays, Lamps, and Chairs. To disguise them as animals and men. To destroy them according to their price on the market. Welcome to the twenty-first century: life is disappearing, but art survives. Some consolation.

  'I'm not going to have anything to do with an act of injustice,' said Oslo.

  Unexpectedly, Miss Wood smiled at him.

  'Hirum: you've seen lots of works by Van Tysch in your life, and you know a copy can't compare, artistically, with an original by the Maestro, can it?' - Oslo agreed - 'You say that both of them are human beings, and I agree with you. It's precisely because the material is the same that the value is different. And when one has to make hard choices, one has to choose the more precious thing. I've already told you I don't want to argue, but I'll give you an example. Your house is on fire and you can only save one work of art. Would you save Bust by Van Tysch or a copy of Bust? In both cases we're talking about an eleven- or twelve-year-old girl. But which of the two would you save, Hirum? Which of the two?'

  This time there was a long silence. Oslo wiped the sweat from his forehead. Miss Wood continued, with another smile:

  That's the kind of "act of injustice" I'm asking you to commit.'

  'You haven't changed,' Oslo replied. 'You haven't changed a bit, April. What is it you're really trying to prevent? The loss of a painting, or of confidence in yourself?'

  'Hirum.'

  That electric whisper of hers. That frozen murmur which paralysed you the way the bifid taunt of a snake paralyses its tiny victim. Wood leaned over forwards as though her body had lost its centre of gravity. She spoke very slowly, in a tone that made Hirum squirm in his seat.

  'Hirum, if you want to help me, tell me your damn opinion once and for all.'

  Another pause and then, in the same tone of voice and with her blue quartz eyes fixed on him, she added:

  'Forgive me for such a rapid visit, Hirum. In fact, you've helped me a lot already. You don't have to do any more.'

  'No, wait, pass me the catalogue again. I'll study it and give you a call tomorrow. If I see one painting that looks more likely than the others, I'll tell you.'

  He hesitated a moment before he went on, as if wondering whether it was worth obtaining any kind of promise from someone who looked at you the way she did, and who could talk in such a terrible whisper.

  'Promise me you'll do all you can to make sure no one is injured, April.'

  She agreed, and handed him the catalogue. Then she stood up, and Oslo walked back to the house with her. Night was falling on the world.

  4

  The landscape is one of hands opening in the darkness as though trying to catch something. They are hanging from streetlamps, are stuck on walls and the ironclad sides of trams, they flutter beneath the arches of the canal bridges. This is the image chosen to publicise 'Rembrandt': the hand of the Angel from Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, the work being shown to the press in the Old Atelier this very day, Thursday 13 July, the work which will fire the first salvo in the most amazing show of the decade.

  Bosch shuddered to think that they could not have found a more appropriate symbol. He knew there was another hand stretched out in the darkness, trying to catch something. As the days went by, Miss Wood's fears seemed to him more and more reasonable. If before he had doubted that the Artist was going to attack 'Rembrandt', now he was sure of it. He was convinced the criminal was there,, in Amsterdam, and had already laid his plans. He would
destroy one of the canvases unless they could find some way of stopping him. Or of protecting the work he was targeting. Or setting him a trap.

  The sky was lined with heavy clouds as Bosch arrived at the New Atelier that Thursday morning. Above the Stedelijk roof could be seen the black tops of the curtains that made up the 'Rembrandt Tunnel', as the press had baptised the exhibition tent erected on the Museumplein. It was a cool day even though it was midsummer. Bosch recalled that the weather forecast had spoken of rain for Saturday, the day of the opening. Rain, yes, and thunder and lightning, too, he thought. When he entered his office, he saw that all his phones had unanswered messages, but he could not deal with any of them because Alfred van Hoore and Rita van Dorn were waiting for him with a CD-ROM and a burning desire to tell him things and, in the case of van Hoore, to show him his new computer simulations. Both of them had stickers for the exhibition on their jacket lapels: a tiny Angel's hand above the word 'Rembrandt'. Bosch found the stickers absurd, but was careful not to say anything. His two colleagues were smiling with satisfaction at the progress of their security measures, which Stein had complimented them on. They both seemed pleased with themselves. Bosch felt rather sorry for them.

  'I'd like you to see this model, Lothar,' Van Hoore was saying, pointing to the three-dimensional skeleton of the Tunnel on his computer screen. 'Does anything attract your attention?'

  Those red dots.'

  'Exactly. Do you know what they are?' Bosch stirred in his seat. 'I imagine they're the public emergency exits.' 'Exactly. And what do you think of them?' 'Please, Alfred, you tell me. I've got a dreadful morning ahead of me. I'm not up to facing an exam.'

  Rita smiled silently. Van Hoore looked offended.

  There are too few exits for the paintings, Lothar. We've thought more about the public, but let's take an extreme case. A fire.'

  He pressed a key, and the spectacle began. To Bosch's mind, Van Hoore was staring at the screen with the same fascination that Nero must have observed Rome burning. In a few seconds, the three-dimensional tunnel was consumed by flames.

  ‘I know the curtains aren't flammable, and Popotkin has assured us that the chiaroscuro lighting does not short-circuit like ordinary lights. But let's just imagine that in spite of everything, there is a fire ...'

  Igor Popotkin was the physicist who had designed the lighting to produce the effects of light and shade. He was also, like many Russian scientists who had received their training during the period of glasnost and perestroika, a poet and a pacifist. Stein used to say that in a year or two they would award him a Nobel prize, although he was never quite sure what for. Bosch had seen Popotkin a couple of times during his visits to Amsterdam. He was a little old man with bovine features. He loved smoking dope, and had frequented all the coffee shops in the red-light district to get little bags of the stuff.

  'What do you think would happen if there were a fire, Lothar?'

  That the public rushing for the exits would get in the way of the paintings,' Bosch replied, submitting finally to the grilling. 'Exactly. So what is the solution?' 'To make more exits.'

  Van Hoore's face was a picture of fake compassion, like a quiz show host who has detected a wrong answer.

  'We don't have time for that. But I've had an idea. One of the security teams will be dedicated to getting out the artworks if there is a disaster. Look.'

  Tiny figures in white shirts and trousers wearing green jackets appeared on the screen.

  ‘I call them the Artistic Emergency Personnel,' Van Hoore explained. They'll be at collection points in the centre of the Tunnel horseshoe, with special vans ready and waiting to whisk away the paintings if need be.'

  'Fantastic, Alfred,' Bosch cut in. 'Really. I like it. It's the perfect solution.'

  When Van Hoore's fire was extinguished, it was Rita's turn. She simply went over what had already been decided. The works would be picked up by the same identified security men. Inside the Tunnel there would be a security team every hundred metres. They would be armed and have torches, but were not to shine any light unless there was an emergency. There would be three controls at the entry point, with the usual machines: X-rays, magnetic checkers and instant imaging screens. Cases and parcels would have to be left at the entrance. Baby pushchairs would be prohibited. Nothing could be done about handbags, except for random searches of any suspicious-looking persons, but the possibility of anyone being able to bring in a dangerous object in a bag that was not detected by any of the security screens was less than 0.8 per cent. In the hotel where the works were to be kept (the name of which would not, of course, be revealed to the public) there would be round-the-clock guards of three people per painting. The guards who were on duty inside the rooms would have to undergo strict fingerprint and voice tests each morning. They would wear tags that could only be used once, with codes that would change every day. They would carry guns, and electric batons.

  'By the way,' Rita asked, 'Why has there been this last-minute change in the list of security guards, Lothar?'

  'That was my decision, Rita’ Bosch replied. 'We're going to bring a new team in from our headquarters in New York. They'll be here tomorrow.'

  Alfred and Rita looked at each other, puzzled.

  'It's an extra security measure’ Bosch said to settle it. He was trying to seem as natural as possible, so they would not think he was hiding anything from them. Neither Van Hoore nor Rita knew anything about the Artist, or about the plans he and April had been hatching together.

  'It'll be the best protected exhibition in the history of art,' Rita said with a smile. '1 don't think we need to worry so much.'

  At that instant, Kurt Sorensen's spiky head appeared round the door. He was with Gert Warfell.

  'Do you have a moment, Lothar?'

  Of course, come right in, thought Bosch. Alfred and Rita gathered up their things, to be replaced in the blink of an eye by the newcomers. There followed a giddying discussion about the security of all the important guests to the Tunnel. None of them brought up the question that was most worrying Bosch until the very end. It was then that Sorensen said:

  'Will he attack or won't he?'

  Warfell and Bosch looked at each other, as if weighing up each other's anxiety. Bosch concluded that Warfell seemed much calmer and relaxed than he did.

  'No, he won't attack,' Warfell said. 'He'll stay hidden in his lair for some time. Rip van Winkle has got him by the balls.'

  No, he's got us in his grasp, thought Bosch, observing him coolly. And perhaps it's one of you two who's helping him.

  Bosch had lost what little confidence he had in Rip van Winkle after reading their first reports. They offered three sorts of 'result': a psychological profile of the Artist, an operational profile, and what in the strange terminology of the organisation was known as a 'pruning' - that is, the elimination of access routes. The psychological profile had been drawn up by twenty experts working independently. They agreed only on one thing: the Artist had the classic traits of a psychopath. He was undoubtedly a cold, calculating individual who refused to submit to authority. The messages he forced his victims to read could mean that he was a frustrated painter. Beyond this, their opinions differed: there was no agreement on what sex the Artist was, or his sexual preferences; for some experts he was one person, for others, several people. The operational profile was even more ambiguous. The border systems of the member countries had still not been coordinated satisfactorily. Every case of fake documents that had been discovered by the police in recent weeks was being studied, but some countries seemed reluctant to provide all the information. Descriptions of Brenda and the woman with no papers had been circulated to all the customs officials, but it was impossible to arrest someone simply because they looked like a computer-generated image. All the factories that produced cerublastyne were being investigated. All large movements of money between accounts in European banks were being traced, because it was thought the Artist must be extremely wealthy. Suppliers and manufacturers of cassett
es were also being questioned.

  Last but not least was the 'pruning'. This was the most depressing part of all. Some of the questioning of cerublastyne experts had been 'special'. Bosch had no idea what went on during these 'special' sessions, but the people who had been questioned never appeared again. Head Honcho had warned them: there would be victims, 'innocent but necessary' ones. Rip van Winkle moved forward blindly, like a crazed leviathan, but at the same time, it tried to cover up the tracks it left in its advance: the 'special' interrogations could not under any circumstances become public knowledge.

  Bosch knew it was a race against time, with only one possible winner. Either art or the Artist would triumph. Europe was doing what it always did in these cases: protecting humanity's creations, the inheritance humanity passed on to itself down the generations. In comparison to this inheritance, humanity itself was disposable. A consecrated work of art was worth far more than a few miserable individuals, even if they happened to be a majority. Bosch was well aware of this from his days as a provo: what was sacred, even if only for a minority, was always more numerous than the majority, precisely because it was accepted by everyone.