The Tulip Virus

by Danielle Hermans

  As the heir to his family’s financial empire, Damian Vanlint is more than likely to remain in the top 500 for the rest of his days. Every year he sends this magazine a letter asking not to be included in our list, but our first loyalty is to our readers. Vanlint spends his days trading antiques, and his swelling assets attest to his acumen. But after work, he is also a sought-after guest at parties and soirées that most of this country’s so-called celebrities can only dream of. Now all he has to do is produce an heir to the Vanlint throne, with a little help from his lovely wife.

  “Well, well, ninety-eight million euros. Sounds like he’s not just frittering it away, either.”

  “No, sir, quite the opposite, in fact. He made a few large investments to set himself up in the antiques business and now owns two shops in Amsterdam’s art and antiques district, just a stone’s throw from the Rijksmuseum. He lives in a large historic house overlooking the city’s most exclusive canal and has other properties somewhere in the north of the country and in the Seychelles.”

  “And does this golden boy perchance have feet of clay?”

  “He’s only human, sir, if that’s what you mean.” Dawn pulled some press clippings out of her file. “See for yourself.”

  Though most of the articles were in Dutch, Wainwright could tell by the typefaces and the poor-quality photos that they came from gossip magazines. A few English clippings caught his eye.

  “‘Damian Vanlint flees love nest!’” Wainwright declaimed. “Oh, here’s another one: ‘Vanlint dumps heiress.’ So our Mr. Vanlint is a heartbreaker. Scrappy too, I see.”

  He held up a blurry picture of Damian punching a photographer while using his other hand to pull the man’s camera off his neck.

  “The police filed a report on the incident, but they decided to go easy on him, because he was constantly being hounded by paparazzi.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he was dating Lindsay Bancroft.”

  “Daughter of the hotel magnate?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “By the way, have you looked at those tapes yet?”

  She nodded curtly. “Nothing.”

  “Then we have a few problems.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, Schoeller won’t tell us what he’s got. Two, I have no idea what book he made off with. Three, Tibbens is no help at all. Four, we have no fingerprints. And five, we have no suspect.” He presented his closed fist. “What does that leave us with?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “I want you to look at those tapes again.” He raised a finger. “This time through my eyes, the eyes of the master.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  She knew Wainwright well enough to know she couldn’t come back empty-handed. But if there was nothing to see, there was nothing to tell. Simple as that. She flung her legs over the arm of the chair and pressed the button on the remote control. The monitor flickered to life.

  Two hours later, Dawn still hadn’t seen anything unusual. She sighed and paused the video, deciding to watch the end later. First, she had to find something to eat. After getting a cup of noodle soup at the cafeteria, she returned to watch the end of the recording. The last of the guests trickled out, and a man came into the assembly hall, heading for the spot where the coffin had lain. He picked up Frank’s photo with both hands, removed it from the stand, and leaned it against the wall. As he started adjusting the first row of chairs, Dawn picked up her chopsticks. Keeping one eye on the screen as the funeral director straightened up the room, she carefully pulled the lid off her soup. Steam rose from the cup, and she waved it away from her face. She dipped her chopsticks into the broth, brought her lips to the Styrofoam rim, and tried to take a sip. A scalding noodle landed on her chin. With a curse, she put down the cup and dabbed at the burning spot. As she bent to pick up the cup again, she saw something move out of the corner of her eye.

  She rolled her chair closer to the screen. On the far left, she could just catch a glimpse of the lobby.

  “Shit.”

  She hit Pause and the picture froze. A man was standing beside the condolence register. She pressed Play. He picked up the pen, and as he leaned forward to write, she got a good look at him. Freezing the frame again, she studied his profile.

  “What’s he doing there? Everyone else left ages ago,” she muttered.

  She slid the DVD of the arriving guests into the player. A second monitor came on.

  The camera was mounted above the table where all the mourners came to announce themselves. The young woman at the table checked them off the long list she had in front of her. Not only did they have images of everyone at the funeral, but they had also turned on the microphone and could attach a name to each face.

  Dawn’s eyes flitted constantly from left to right, from the frozen image of the man to the moving images on the other screen. Then suddenly she shot forward and hit Stop.

  “Gotcha!”

  He walked with a slight stoop and seemed overcome by sorrow. When he was asked his name, he spoke so softly that she could barely hear him.

  She stopped the DVD, pressed Rewind, and turned the volume all the way up.

  “Versteegen, Simon Versteegen.”

  She pushed the button, and as the prints came sliding out, she pressed Play. Then she picked up her soup and leaned back. This time, she watched every move that Versteegen made. During the ceremony he had been seated in the middle of the assembly hall, looking down at the floor the whole time as if deep in prayer. Only when Alec took the podium did he raise his head. Throughout Alec’s speech, Simon’s eyes were fixed on him. Dawn watched Simon stand in line to offer Alec his condolences, talk to a few of the other mourners, and shake hands. Then he wrote something in the condolence register andleft the building. But at that point, the lobby was still filled with people.

  Dawn shut off all the equipment and tapped the prints with her chopsticks. “So why did you come back? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  London

  JUNE 13, 1663

  Dear Mr. Winckel,

  I was most grateful to receive your letter and to hear of your decision to make a very generous donation to our Society. Imagine my astonishment when I read how much you intend to give. As you know, we are financially dependent on private benefactors, and you are doubtless aware how much this contribution will mean to us.

  You wrote that your late father had made numerous donations in support of natural science during his lifetime. I am deeply honoured that you have chosen to entrust us with the inheritance you received from him and have prudently managed for so many years.

  Forgive me for saying so, but when I heard how your father had earned his fortune, I could not help but think that at least some good had come out of the tulip trade. Apparently, not everyone was ruined when the market collapsed. Your father must have had remarkable business acumen and known just when to sell his bulbs.

  I can assure you that the money will be in safe hands with us, and that we will put it to good use. Despite all our efforts over the past decades, our studies are still at an early stage. There are countless questions yet to be answered, and countless others we have not even asked.

  Thanks to your munificent gift, we can carry on our quest to solve the strange and wonderful riddles of nature. Your countryman,Christiaan Huygens, an esteemed member of our Society, expressed his delight when he heard the news and promised he would visit your home to thank you personally on behalf of all our members.

  We received still more good news a month ago, when our King granted us the privilege of calling ourselves the Royal Society. Twenty years ago a group of scholars came together to discuss their ideas. Little could they have known that two decades later this enterprise would be a respected scholarly institute established by Royal Charter.

  We are deeply gratified by the trust you have placed in us, and we shall not disappoint you. It is our great pleasure to offer you honourary membership of our Society.

  Your faithful servant,

/>   Sir Robert Moray

  President

  The Royal Society of London for the Improvement of Natural Knowledge

  London, 1663

  THIRTY-THREE

  Simon felt terrible. It was as if his body were rejecting the mess he’d gotten himself into, like an organ after a failed transplant. The pain increased with every step he took and everything he did. It had twisted his mind, and now it was torturing his body.

  He pulled the curtains closed to keep out the daylight, and then he got into bed. With one hand, he twisted off the top of the brown plastic bottle. Pills rolled into his hand. He swallowed two of them, closed his eyes, and lowered his head into his pillow. He could feel the hairs on his arms rising. A shudder went through his body. He pulled up the cover and concentrated, trying to picture it: the pills reached his stomach, were swamped in gastric acid, and dissolved into molecules that entered his bloodstream. He tried to take slow, regular breaths. He heard the echo of his breathing in the room and, a few moments later, fell fast asleep.

  Alec snapped his cell phone shut. Simon Versteegen hadn’t wanted to say anything on the phone. After they’d agreed to meet that afternoon, Simon had given him his address and hung up, without even saying good-bye.

  Alec looked outside. The weather was the same as the day before, as if there had been no night. He went over to the kitchen table. Beside the sorted stacks of paper was a heap of correspondence they still had to sift through. He had just settled down to the task when the front door slammed shut and he heard Damian’s footsteps in the hallway.

  After last night’s shouting match, Alec dreaded the prospect of facing Damian. The wine had certainly influenced his behavior, but that was no excuse. Besides, he recalled every word of the conversation, so how drunk could he have been?

  “I see you’re hard at work. Want some coffee?”

  Alec nodded. Damian went to the espresso machine and placed two cups under the spouts.

  “You were out early,” Alec said.

  “They picked up the stuff for the antiques show this morning. I wanted to make sure they loaded everything safely. It wouldn’t be the first time things went into the van in perfect condition and came out damaged.”

  He put Alec’s espresso down on the table and said, “I made a few phone calls about the tulip book. We have an appointment at the auction house this morning, with Jacob Wolters. He appraises rare books for a living and knows how to handle them.”

  “Perfect. What time are we supposed to be there? I arranged to see Simon this afternoon.”

  “Where?’

  “He lives in The Hague.”

  “No problem, Wolters is expecting us in half an hour.” Then he looked Alec in the eyes. “Don’t you agree that it was better to wait? Those few hours didn’t make any difference.”

  Alec couldn’t conceal the irritation in his voice. “I’m glad you’re so sure it didn’t make any difference. I guess you know more than I do.” Seeing Damian’s face fall, he said, “Sorry, I don’t want to get started again. Sometimes I just . . .”

  Damian sighed. “No, you’re right. I know I’m impossible sometimes.”

  “You ought to have more confidence in me. I can take care of myself, I’ve been doing it for years. You know that.”

  “I know, but I was worried that Frank’s death would be too much for you, that you would fall back into your old ways.”

  Alec shook his head. “I admit it’s been hard, but I’m still clean. And if I can get through this . . .”

  “. . . you can get through anything.” Damian clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll say no more about it.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Alec’s eyes scanned the yellow brick building, a fine example of the Amsterdam school architecture of the 1920s. On the left and right, two bay windows bulged like fat cigars. The brickwork between them formed a decorative pattern of verticals and horizontals, like strips of wallpaper pasted to the façade.

  Damian pushed open the heavy front door. They entered the hall and went up to the reception desk, which was decorated with posters from past auctions. The low table next to it was piled with old catalogs, all of them chained to the legs. To dispel any lingering doubt, each one bore a label in thick black marker: display copy! The receptionist’s eyes lit up when she saw Damian. “Good morning, Mr. Vanlint. How are you today?”

  “Fine, thank you. We have an appointment.”

  “That’s right, with Mr. Wolters. He told us you were coming. Go right ahead, Mr. Vanlint, you know the way.”

  Their footsteps clattered on the black tiles and reverberated down the long corridor. The art nouveau ceiling lamps shed a feeble light, and Alec noticed that the musty smell of old paper, which had infiltrated even the lobby, was growing stronger as they walked on. The door at the end of the hallway was ajar.

  “Entrez, come in,” a young man’s voice rang out. Mr. Wolters came up to them and extended his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Vanlint, it’s good to see you again.”

  After Damian had introduced him to Alec, the three men sat down around a table so large that they could have used it for billiards. Above it a row of green glass lamps hung from a copper rod, filling the room with a weak, spectral glow. They were surrounded by shelves of antiquarian books, as if the walls were upholstered in leather. The gold lettering on the books gleamed against the dark spines. There were shelves between and above the two high windows overlooking the courtyard, and even in the space above the door.

  “Now, Mr. Vanlint, what have you brought me? I’ve been burning with curiosity ever since you called.”

  To rest his elbows on the tabletop, Jacob Wolters had to sit up straight. His delicate features and pointed chin gave him an almost elfin appearance, and his hands looked out of all proportion to the rest of his body as he laced his long, elegant fingers beneath his chin.

  Damian slid the book over to Wolters, who reached into his pants pocket, retrieving a glove. He pulled the book toward him. Nodding slowly, he said, “Very fine indeed. Superb binding, seventeenth century.” Then, with a guarded look, he asked, “Is there anything you feel I should know, Mr. Vanlint?”

  Damian opened his mouth to speak, but Wolters held up his hand and said. “Before you answer, there’s something I must tell you. The thing is, I’ve seen this book before.”

  “What?” Alec’s eyebrows shot up.

  “You see, we sold it at auction a couple of years ago. Right here in Amsterdam,” he said, peering at Alec out of the corner of his eye. “How did it happen to come into your hands?”

  “Do you remember who bought it?”

  “Certainly. It was Mr. Schoeller.” He turned to Alec. “I suppose he was a relative of yours? When you introduced yourself, I thought of him right away.”

  Alec nodded. “He was my uncle.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m very sorry about your loss. I’d heard he recently passed away. What a tragedy.” Wolters shook his head in disbelief. “Yes, his death came as a great shock to us all. He was a valued customer, and we were always glad to see him. A very knowledgeable man, a true connoisseur.”

  Wolters opened the book and stared at the bloodstained title page. “Oh, my God, is that . . .”

  “Yes,” Alec said.

  “How horrible,” Wolters said softly. He cleared his throat and continued. “This book is a florilegium, from the Latin, meaning ‘gathering of flowers.’ Albums of this type were made when the tulip trade was at its height. Some are collections of loose illustrations, while others are bound volumes like this one. If I’m not mistaken, there are only forty-three of these books in the entire world.” He shook his head. “What a terrible thing. Of all the books your uncle owned, how sad that it happened to this one.”

  “I’m sorry we had to confront you with this,” Alec said, “but there was no way around it. Anyway, what do you mean, how sad that it happened to this one?”

  Wolters looked up. “Please, don’t misunderstand me. What I’m trying to say is that this book mea
nt a great deal to your uncle. He had to have it, no matter what the price. I must confess, I was puzzled. I knew he was passionate about seventeenth-century art, but I’d never realized he was interested in rare books. When we notified our regular customers that this book was up for sale, he called the very next day. He paid very handsomely for it too.”

  Alec looked at Wolters thoughtfully.

  “But I understand you need my help. What can I do for you?”

  “There’s something strange about the back cover,” Alec said. “Run your hand along the endpaper and you’ll feel it.”

  Wolters shut the book and lifted the back cover. Turning his gaze to the ceiling, he passed his hand over the endpaper so gently that his palm barely touched it.

  “Hmm, I assume you mean the bulge. That’s certainly unusual.”

  “We think there’s something in there,” Damian said. “I didn’t want to risk opening it myself.”

  “A wise decision. This is a very rare and valuable book. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Wolters stood up, went to the door, and adjusted the dimmer. Alec and Damian squinted in the glare of the lights. Wolters opened a drawer, took out a loupe, and placed it in his left eye. Then he leaned in to examine the endpaper, making his way along the edge so slowly that his head hardly seemed to move. The only sound in the room was the hum of the hygrometer. After a few minutes, Wolters straightened his back and removed the loupe.

  “There’s definitely something in there, and I can see it wasn’t put there by a professional. The edges are coming loose in some places. That’ll make things easier for us. I’ll begin with just one opening, at the top. Perhaps that’ll be sufficient, and it’s less likely to cause damage.”

  They looked on nervously as he slid the razor-sharp blade of a scalpellike instrument between the endpaper and the cover and began, bit by bit, to slit the edge open.

  “What in the world could Mr. Schoeller have put in here?” he muttered as he bent over his work.