“Come,” Whitney urged.
By the time they joined the cocktail party, most of the guests had become aware of a painting covered by a red-velvet drape and mounted on an easel on steps leading up to an inactive fountain in the West Garden Court. It was flanked by two uniformed guards. Spotlights on portable metal stands were trained on the easel but had not yet been turned on.
“What is it?” one person asked another.
“Is this the big surprise we’ve been hearing about?”
“What could it be?”
“Scott, you must know what’s under that drape.”
Only satisfied, knowing smiles from M. Scott Pims. “Patience,” he replied to those inquiries. “All in due time.”
“That pompous, phony bastard,” a man said. “He doesn’t know any more than we do, just likes to make us think he does.”
With the appearance of Mason, Whitney, and the skinny little old priest in brown robe and sandals, attention went to them. People speculated on who the monk was.
Whitney circulated with his wife, leaving Mason and Giocondi on their own. Luther led Giocondi to a relatively quiet area behind the musicians. But he couldn’t hide. People kept coming up to congratulate Luther on his success at mounting the Caravaggio exhibition, which meant, of course, having to introduce Giocondi. “This is Father Pasquale Giocondi,” he said quickly. “He’s here from Italy and is my special guest this evening.” That sufficed for most people, although others attempted to engage Giocondi in conversation. Mason answered most of their questions for the priest.
Eventually, the guests were seated for dinner at candlelit tables of eight in the West Garden Court and the West Sculpture Hall. There was no dais. A lectern and microphone had been positioned to the side of the dry fountain, near the shrouded easel.
Court Whitney, the gallery trustees, and the vice president and other high-ranking representatives from government occupied tables nearest the fountain. A large contingent from the Italian Embassy, including Carlo Giliberti, took up two tables. Luther Mason and Father Giocondi sat at a table surprisingly distant from the center of the action, considering that Luther was, in most eyes, the star of the evening. But he hadn’t wanted to be close to others. He chose this table when Special Events was making seating assignments and arranged for Scott Pims; Julian, Luther’s son from his first marriage; Julian’s date; and three members of his curatorial staff to sit with him and Giocondi. It was, for Luther, a safe table.
Mac and Annabel’s table included members of the National Gallery’s senior administrative staff. Once antipasto was served, the topic of conversation quickly turned to the priest.
“Any idea who he is?” someone asked.
The others shook their heads. One gentleman speculated, “Maybe Caravaggio confessed his sins to him.”
“The way this show is shaping up,” said another, “we could use some heavenly intervention.” She was the writer in the Education Department responsible for developing educational Caravaggio materials for schoolchildren. “Caravaggio was a barbarian,” she told her dinner companions. “Assault on the via della Scrofa. Imprisoned in Tor di Nona. Attacking people with swords. Murder in Rome. Rape. Thievery. An out-and-out scoundrel.”
That set off the usual debate over the role an artist’s personal life should play in evaluating his creative output. Another round of discussions centered on whether Caravaggio was homosexual, bisexual, or merely high-spirited. It was a lively and spirited table; the good conversation carried through the meal, until Whitney stepped to the lectern and asked for everyone’s attention.
After an interminable number of introductions and acknowledgments, Vice President Aprile spoke: “I’m honored to be here this evening,” he said, “but I think Carole is the one to make any remarks about the purpose of the evening. She’s the Caravaggio expert in this family. And, I might add, in this administration.”
Carole Aprile pledged the full and continuing support of the White House Arts Council to the exhibition.
Whitney resumed his position at the microphone and said, “Judging from the splendid turnout this evening, having a rumor circulating around town that something important would be announced was good for business.” There was some laughter. “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. The fact is that this institution has been instrumental in finding one of the art world’s most important lost treasures. Ironically, it is a work by the genius we celebrate tonight, whose majestic creative achievement will grace these walls a few months from now.” He went to the draped painting. The spotlights came on, giving brilliant life to the red velvet. Whitney untied two red silk ribbons and slowly pulled the drape away. Gallery photographers took pictures.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Whitney, “I proudly present to you Caravaggio’s lost masterpiece, Grottesca.”
A smattering of gasps from the knowing cut through a muttered chorus of, “What is it? What’s Grottesca?”
“For some background on the monumental importance of this painting, I’d like Senior Curator Luther Mason to say a few words. As most of you know, Luther is one of the world’s foremost experts on Caravaggio and is our curator for the exhibition. Luther’s dedication to seeing that Caravaggio is presented in all his glory to the American people at this institution is exemplary. To have accomplished this in one’s lifetime is achievement enough. But a month ago, Luther returned from yet another of his many trips to Rome and told me a remarkable story. I wish him to share that story with you now. Luther, the floor is yours.”
Mason walked tentatively to the lectern and peered at the crowd. The director’s introduction had focused the guests’ collective attention on what he was about to say. All eyes and ears were trained on him.
He looked back to his table. His son, Julian, stood and held out his date’s chair, and they left the room. “Luther’s son looks so angry,” Annabel whispered to Mac.
Despite being upset by Julian’s untimely departure, Luther cleared his throat and slowly recounted his version of events leading to the discovery of Grottesca. When he’d completed his tale, he said, “The parish priest I mentioned, Father Pasquale Giocondi, is here tonight as a special guest of the National Gallery of Art. Father Giocondi, who is now retired, agreed to be here to share in this important moment. It took some real arm-twisting to get him to say something, but I’m pleased he has acquiesced. Father Giocondi?”
There was a buzz from the audience as Giocondi walked purposefully to the lectern. “Signore e signori,” he said, “it is a great honor for me to be here this evening as a guest of Mr. Mason and the National Gallery of Art. I also say that it is frightening for a man such as myself, who has spent his life offering humble service to his Lord, and to his flock. Some might think it was—how do you say?—an accident for me to have met Mr. Mason. But I disagree. I believe that God directed me to be where Mr. Mason was on that day because Caravaggio was a true servant of our Lord. He painted with religious conviction and passion. His great talent was given by God to be used in his service. It pleases me to think that I have played some small part in allowing his greatest work of all to be here, to be seen and enjoyed by millions of people.”
Applause.
Luther stood behind Giocondi. His broad smile said to everyone that he was pleased with what the former priest was saying. In reality, it was a smile of relief. Carlo had been right. Giocondi was good. Smooth. Appropriately humble, yet demonstrating pride in his contribution to the evening and the coming exhibition. And his English was just right, easy to understand but with enough of an accent to add panache.
Giocondi spoke for another ten minutes, and Mason’s relief was sustained. He stuck to the script Luther had created for him. Everything he said supported Luther’s bogus official version of how he’d found Grottesca, the chance meeting of the two men in a Ravello cafe, the casual trip Luther took to the old church, his shock at seeing what he believed was Caravaggio’s lost masterpiece.
Mason took in the reactions of the audience.
Most appeared to be pleasantly spellbound by the little man’s spiel. When Giocondi ended by saying, “And God Bless America,” Luther stepped to the microphone and said, “We all share in our appreciation of what you have given us, Father Giocondi. You have done a great service to the art world, and to the people of America, as well as to the citizens of your beloved Italy. Thank you for sharing this with us this evening.”
The applause was louder and more sustained now. Guests stood.
Mason led Giocondi back to their table. Court Whitney made a few final comments, including inviting guests to enjoy after-dinner drinks and to examine the great Italian paintings in adjacent galleries. Grottesca had been covered the moment Giocondi concluded his remarks, and two uniformed guards prepared to spirit it away for safekeeping.
“Nicely done, Luther,” Scott Pims said when Mason and Giocondi returned to the table. “Julian expressed his apologies for having to leave so abruptly. Undoubtedly a pressing previous engagement.”
People were now descending upon them. Luther decided not to press his luck with Giocondi. He said to them, “Father Giocondi has a heart problem and must return to Rome immediately to continue his medical treatment. He’ll be available for questions later, in Italy. Please excuse us.”
Mason now wanted—needed—to get Giocondi offstage and away from questions. A sudden, pervasive panic had overtaken him. His heart pounded and his mouth had gone dry. As he herded Giocondi toward a door, Carlo Giliberti sprung from his table and joined them. “Very good, Father,” he said. “Excellent, Luther.”
Realizing the three of them were, briefly, alone, Mason said, “I think it best to get him out of here. Back to the hotel. Back to Italy as quickly as possible.”
“All right,” said Giliberti. “I will have my driver take him.”
“He wants more money,” Mason growled.
Giliberti looked at Giocondi. “Non capisco, Padre.”
In Italian, Giocondi showed that Giliberti did indeed understand him, and he launched into a loud and animated explanation that only exacerbated Mason’s discomfort. He snapped, “I told him I’d give him more. Just get him out of here.”
“Father Giocondi, Bob Wetzel, arts editor, Washington Post. I have a few questions—”
“Not now,” Mason said. “Father Giocondi isn’t feeling well. He has a heart condition and—”
“Luther.”
Court and Sue Whitney approached. Whitney extended his hand. “Fine job. Fine speech. You too, Father.”
“How could this painting be languishing in your church all these years?” Wetzel asked. “Did you know—?”
“He’s sick,” Mason said into Whitney’s ear.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Excuse us.”
“Where can you be reached?” Wetzel called after them.
No answer from Mason or Giocondi. Giliberti accompanied them to the Rotunda.
“You’re pale, Luther,” Giliberti said.
“Yes. I—”
“Wait here,” said Giliberti. “I will get my driver to take him to the hotel.”
“Do it yourself, for God’s sake. Just get him away from here.” Mason’s voice was unnaturally high. He disliked sounding pathetic.
“Yes, yes, Luther. I will arrange things,” Giliberti said. “But you must calm yourself. People are noticing.” He turned to Giocondi. “Please give me a moment with Signor Mason.”
Giliberti placed his hand on the small of Mason’s back and pushed him away, leaving the priest standing alone. Two couples approached.
“Don’t leave him there,” Mason said.
“Luther, chiudi il becco!”
Giliberti’s whispered command to shut up jarred Mason. He pressed his lips tightly together.
Giliberti gripped his arms. “I will take the Father away, Luther. You go home. I will contact you later.”
“All right.”
“Good show, Luther.”
Mason turned to face Annabel and Mackensie Smith, who were passing through the Rotunda on their way home. “You remember Mac,” Annabel said.
“Yes. Of course.” Luther was sweating profusely and dabbed at his forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief. Mac was surprised at the wet, limp hand Luther offered.
“Quite an announcement you made tonight,” Mac said.
“So exciting,” said Annabel.
Mac started to thank Mason and Giliberti for having been such accommodating traveling companions for his wife, but Mason interrupted. “You must excuse us. I—I have someone I must see. Father Giocondi isn’t feeling well.”
“Congratulations, Father,” said Annabel.
“Grazie.”
“Buona notte, Mrs. Smith,” Carlo said to Annabel.
Mac and Annabel watched them walk away.
“The priest isn’t feeling well? That man looks like he’s about to drop dead,” Mac said of Mason.
“I know. Something is definitely wrong.”
“So that’s Carlo Giliberti.”
“That’s Carlo.”
“Let’s go. Rufus needs to go out.”
“So do I. The food was heavy.”
“The food was bureaucratic Italian.”
Once their blue Great Dane had been walked, and they’d changed into night clothes and robes, Mac poured them each two fingers of cognac and they settled on a couch in the study.
“Do you get the feeling, Annabel, that there’s something strange about this suddenly discovered painting?”
She shook her head. “Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know. What if—?”
“What if what, Mac?”
“What if it’s a phony? A forgery?”
“Impossible.”
“Why? Happens all the time.”
“Not with an institution like the National Gallery, or a curator with Luther’s credentials. Besides, it’s a moot point. The Gallery will be subjecting Grottesca to every conceivable test. I understand other experts will be brought in to lend their opinion.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He sipped, enjoying the burn. “I know one thing for certain.”
“What’s that?”
“Luther Mason had better get himself to a doctor for a physical. Judging from the way he looked tonight, he might not be around to enjoy his own exhibition.”
11
Giliberti went to where Father Giocondi was talking with a knot of guests. “Scusi,” he said pleasantly. “Come, Father Giocondi. You will be late for your flight.”
“What a wonderful thing you’ve done,” said a woman.
“Grazie, grazie,” the priest replied.
Giliberti herded him down the stairs and outside, into the cloudless night. A white Lincoln Town Car stood at the curb. Seeing Carlo, the driver got out and opened a rear door.
“Get in, Father,” Giliberti said.
With the priest settled in the backseat, Carlo spoke to the driver: “Listen carefully to me,” he said, handing him money. “Take Father Giocondi to his hotel. Stay with him. Capisce? Do not leave his side.”
“But what if the ambassador asks where I am?”
“I’ll take care of it. Do not allow the Father to speak to anyone. Anyone.”
“Si.”
To Giocondi in Italian: “You were excellent tonight.”
“Grazie. Signor Mason will pay me more?”
“I will talk to him. You spend a pleasant evening, take your flight home tomorrow. Speak to no one. I will be in touch.”
“Si. Call me when he has the money.”
“Buona sera, Pasquale.”
As Giliberti sent Giocondi on his way, Luther Mason went to a men’s room where he took two Tums and used a paper towel soaked in cold water on his face. Other men came and went. Some congratulated him. Mason struggled to acknowledge their kind words. He felt as though he had no voice. He tried to appear relaxed, but his legs were rubbery, and he leaned on a sink for support.
He eventually regained enough composure to r
eturn to the scene of the party, where hangers-on watched guards remove Grottesca from its easel and spirit it away to an unspecified safe place. His attempt to calm down had been successful. There was nothing to worry about, he reminded himself over and over, annoyed at his prior loss of confidence. The Caravaggio original of Grottesca was now safely in the possession of his employer, the National Gallery. And he was the one who’d found and delivered it, perhaps not the way he’d described it, but found and delivered it nonetheless.
He’d done nothing irregular—yet. And it wasn’t too late—yet—to abandon the plan.
Or was it?
The problem, he knew, was that others were involved. He could trust Carlo. But what about the rascal of a priest, Giocondi, who’d already violated their agreement by asking for more money? And the old man, Luigi Sensi, was a mafioso. As long as he was paid what Luther had agreed to pay, he had no reason to upset things.
Of course, the source of the money for Luther to finance the plan, San Francisco art collector Franco del Brasco, was also a gangster. A dressier one, and smooth, with good cover—a man whose hands and money were dirty. At least that’s what Luther had been led to believe. A very rich gangster. No reason for him to cause trouble either.
Still, too many people.
He spotted his friend, writer and broadcaster Scott Pims, speaking with two women Luther recognized as leading gallery fund-raisers, and started in their direction. But he stopped when he saw Carlo Giliberti entering the court. Mason went up to the cultural attaché. “What happened?” he asked, suffering the return of panic. “Where is Father Giocondi?”
“I sent him with Francesco to the hotel.”
“Francesco? Who is Francesco?”
“One of our drivers.”
“You entrusted him to a driver?”
“Si, Luther. I saw no need to go with him myself. I told Francesco he is to not allow the old man to speak with anyone, and to stay with him until his flight.”
Murder at the National Gallery Page 9
