by Dayna Rubin
Reaching the elevator, they found the doors closing, its occupants heading down to the lobby. Mrs. Orbis peeked through the quickly reducing space, and then swung her bag forward to stop the doors form closing, much to the irritation of the other occupants.
“It’s that nice man Philippe Rousseau with his girlfriend…” Mrs. Orbis said to the group who seemed to sigh in unison. “I’m sorry dear; I seem to have forgotten your name.”
Natanya sighed, “That’s all right, quite understandable…” Smiling at Philippe, who turned away from her in feigned embarrassment, Natanya acknowledged the group of women in the elevator with a nod of her head, “Natanya. Natanya Bennett. So nice to meet all of you.” Natanya stated. She exchanged an amused glance with Philippe, as if to say she knew they all had crushes on him.
One of the other older women took a hold of Natanya’s hand, then patted it and asked her quite seriously, “And where do you work dear?”
“Oh, well, yes…I work at Signature Art Conservatory.”
“Ahum…that’s good dear. Not too far I hope?”
“No, it’s very close. In fact, I usually take the train.” Natanya offered, looking around the elevator needlessly as every woman’s eye was glued to Philippe.
The elevator stopped, the doors swooshed open, but they remained, looking expectantly at Philippe.
“Ladies, I do believe you have a swim aerobics class to attend.” Philippe reached forward to hold the doors open, waiting until each of them had exited, then once in the lobby, turned and waved.
“I’m not sure if I should be impressed or totally creeped out that you know they have swim aerobics class…” Natanya laughed as they proceeded to the garage through another set of doors.
The security guards in the garage were also valets upon request, but seemed to spend most of their time watching the tiny television mounted within the small air-conditioned glass enclosure. The door was propped open, and one of the guards was trying to position a fan for the maximum amount of performance.
As Philippe and Natanya walked past the valet station, the newscaster’s voice from the television drifted to them.
An investigation into a previously authenticated work of art from the 17th century has led authorities to label the painting as a forgery. The National Gallery in Washington D.C. is not disputing this information, although no one from the museum will corroborate the information. An unidentified source says that the original painting was switched with the fake at Signature Art Conservatory. We are outside the building awaiting further news. The last known restorer of record to have worked on the Vermeer was said to be a Natanya Bennett, but we have not been able to confirm that information. The newly appointed Director of The National Gallery has declined comment, although an employee of the Gallery has come forward, he does not wish to be indentified at this time…let’s hear what he has to say…”
Philippe hastily propelled Natanya forward to the SUV, opened the passenger door, then literally pushed her into the seat and closed the door behind her. He rushed to the driver’s door, started the engine, and then maneuvered the vehicle out of the garage.
Natanya reached for the radio, but Philippe grasped her hand, holding it until they had reached the streets of D.C.
“We’re not going to wait and watch as they dissect our every movement up to the point of the discovery of the forged Vermeer. We’re not going to do it Nat.”
Natanya raised her hand to cover her face as they drove, turning away from the window. “What if someone recognizes me? This is terrible!” Natanya released a tormented moan.
“I knew you hadn’t exactly come to terms with our commitment, so I took precautions.”
“What kind of precautions?” Natanya sniffed, still turned away from the side window with her hand covering her face.
“Stop it. You look ridiculous.” Philippe gave her a comical expression as he sighed, then pulled her hand away from her face.
“Sit in the seat the right way and put your seat belt on, I don’t want you flying through the windshield, on top of everything else.”
Natanya frowned at him, but did what she was told. Changing the subject, Natanya asked, “Do you think they’ll be there with the catalogue?” Her voice squeaked, and she cleared her throat, ready to ask again, but Philippe had heard her.
“I do believe they will be there.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“They have their proof. Something tells me this was planned the whole time. A type of insurance, if you will.” Philippe relaxed his grip on the wheel, raised his left knee and leaned on the center console with his right elbow.
“Huh? Well, I guess we didn’t see that coming.” Natanya turned to look out her side window as they were driving on rural roads now.
Natanya glanced at Philippe, “I stand corrected. I didn’t see that coming. When did you know?”
“Yesterday.”
They road the rest of the way in silence, both lost in their own thoughts, all of the earlier playfulness extinguished like an unsung birthday cake.
Just as before, Philippe guided the SUV down the steep terrain of the empty creek bed, just under the bridge, and after locating the bag containing ‘Woman Holding a Balance’ By Vermeer, climbed back up the slope to meet their contact.
The sound of the motorcycle did not materialize; instead, a knock on the side window startled Natanya. Natanya gasped finding she was looking into the face of a hooded stranger adorned with aviator sunglasses. Natanya hesitated, appearing not to know whether she should roll down her window, or open the door to speak to him.
Holding up her forefinger to indicate she needed a minute, Natanya attempted to roll down the window, but noticed the keys were not in the ignition, inhibiting her from budging the window.
Raising her eyes to look back out the window, the figure that had once stood with his face nearly pressed to the glass was gone.
Natanya’s hands flew to her chest, and then to her throat, feeling the familiar restriction as she looked out the front windows, then the driver’s window, and finally the back window. Not finding the hooded stranger anywhere near the car, she turned to face forward, quickly re-checking the front window and then again the passenger window.
Her breathe released in short bursts. She tried to remind herself to breathe out and breathe in; Natanya grasped the door handle, turned it and with shaky legs stood next to the vehicle.
The door is still open…I should close it. Natanya hesitated as she looked around her. Biting her lip, she chose to keep the door ajar, just in case she should need to get in again quickly. Seeing the embankment, she walked with exaggerated purpose toward it, her confidence returning as she tried to think of their contacts as ordinary people, just like herself. They have an object they want to exchange with her object. She pushed aside the fact that one of the objects was priceless, while the other object, the one they had to offer, was worth upwards of twenty to fifty million.
Listening for signs that Philippe may be up above interacting with the hooded stranger who had presented himself at the car, Natanya stopped.
Not hearing anything, she continued, her high-heeled sandaled feet crunched into the gravel as she walked, her sundress swayed with her movements until she reached the surface.
Realizing she had forgotten her sunglasses, she momentarily turned back to their car, which is when she saw them. A larger SUV, one with darkened windows throughout to match its shiny black exterior parked on the side of the road, about a third of the mile back toward town.
She turned around, and walked toward them. As she approached, she could hear a random ticking, she assumed it was from an over heated engine, and placing her hand over her eyes to shield herself from the glare, she tried to look for any sign of Philippe.
Not seeing him, she continued toward the vehicle, trying to think of a song she could hum to herself to keep her mind occupied until she reached them. She jumped when she heard the engine of the Navigator come to life. The engine roare
d as the driver revved the gas pedal.
Loosing her nerve, Natanya’s heels seemed to sink into the gravel, and didn’t appear ready to move. The large SUV did seem to be moving. She wasn’t completely sure, but then she could hear the snapping of twigs and the gravel crunching as it rolled. Suddenly it seemed to leap toward her, the wheels spitting up gravel and the reflection of the afternoon sun glinting off its surface as it steadily approached.
Within seconds, it was next to her, menacingly rolling forward, then back, as if toying with her to say that whichever way she moved, it would be there.
The back door popped open, eliciting another gasp from Natanya, who meant to step back, but remained motionless.
Philippe was tossed out unceremoniously; he rolled along the edge of the road until he came to a stop along the border of weeds.
Running to Philippe to make sure he was all right, Natanya heard the SUV power past her in the direction of the bridge. Not caring whether they stayed or left, she knelt by Philippe, scraping her knees on the stray rocks within the tall strands of weeds.
Philippe moaned for a moment, but then rolled toward her. Natanya had gripped his shoulder, about to shake him to see if he was alive, when she saw that he was smiling. Philippe handed her what appeared to be a small, tightly wrapped package.
“Go ahead, take it. Open it. I want to see if they actually gave us the real thing.”
Natanya gave him a long measured look, and then took the package from his extended hand. As she grasped the package, she took in the swelling of his lip and how his glasses seemed oddly bent in at the bridge. The blood dripping from a cut on his cheek told her the full story.
“Yeah…I ah, wasn’t as serious about the matter as they thought I should be.” Philippe sat up, took his glasses off to push them in at the bridge, and then placed them back onto his face.
“You made a smart aleck remark, didn’t you?” Natanya pursed her lips, frowning at him, the package lying in her lap briefly forgotten.
“Let’s see if it was worth it…open it. I’ll be all right.” Philippe commanded.
“Okay, okay…”
Natanya looked at the paper wrapping the package. Yellowed with age, the newspaper had helped cushion the fall. Carefully removing it, Natanya placed the torn off pieces to the side.
“We’re not going to re-wrap it, Nat…” Philippe swiped at the package but Natanya moved it to the side, and in an unhurried fashion, continued to unveil their prize.
The leather covered binder contained pages of small envelopes mounted upon thick dark paper. Crude tabs divided them into groups. The handwriting was hard for Natanya to read. She could barely make out what appeared to be the names of artists Chagall, DaVinci, Degas, Manet, Monet, and Vermeer.
Opening one of the envelopes, she saw a group of photographs, set between them was small individual sheer papers, and she presumed it was a type of rice paper. Carefully taking one of the photographs, she held it up to the light.
Natanya looked happily at Philippe, who had crept closer to her to take part in the discovery.
“This is it…”
“Look at another one to be sure.” Philippe instructed, his expression and tone quite serious now.
Natanya carefully placed the photograph back in the envelope. She closed the tiny flap, and then turned the page to another farther back. Opening the envelope, she removed another photograph, held it to the light and squealed with joy. “Yes, it’s a Monet.”
Philippe grasped her wrist and looked at her intently. “You know what this means now don’t you?”
A car breezed past them; the paper wrapping caught in the wake of the passing car took flight while Natanya looked on in horror. Her body poised to take flight, Philippe leaned against her to keep her from leaping forward to capture the pieces.
Once the car had passed, he relaxed against her, swallowed hard and tilted her face to him. “You mean more to me than any of these photographs. Nothing we do will have any significance if you aren’t here beside me. Don’t do that again?”
Natanya shrugged, “I didn’t do anything.”
Philippe raised his eyebrows, and then stood, brushing the mixture of sand and gravel from his beige slacks and black silk shirt.
Natanya inched her way on her hands and knees as she sought to retrieve the remnants of the newspaper wrappings, until Philippe reached down to stop the search and rescue mission. Taking hold of her elbow, he pulled her to her feet.
“We’re not doing that, let it go. We’ve got what we need.”
Chapter Twelve
Overt Recognizable Imagery
“How would she know that the painting is a fake? I’ve had experts from the Signature Art Conservatory here to examine it. I haven’t had it out of my sight…this is impossible!”
The staff assistant silently extricated himself from the office as Warren continued his rant.
“We’re going to check it again,” Warren declared to an empty room. The report from the findings of the Vermeer was clenched in his hand. His face contorted in anger, the veins of his neck standing out, he sought out Dauphine.
Marching into the lab from his office, he saw her. She appeared to be shutting down the units supplied by NASA, giving instructions to Gage as they methodically checked each screen.
The air crackled with tension as Warren held out the crumpled paper to Dauphine. “This oxygenated restorative cleaning system has a listing of chemical substances that shouldn’t be in the painting. Is that what you found?” Warren moved back as Dauphine pushed past him, continuing to press buttons and monitor the activity on the screens.
“No.” Dauphine stated, still absorbed with her ‘shut down’ procedures.
Warren took a deep breath. “Okay, then you’ve found something wrong with the signature.”
Dauphine straightened up for a moment, then pulled out a memo pad from her pocket, consulted it, then placed it back into her pocket.
“Um, no. Gage, why don’t you take a moment and get something to eat…I think it’s been a while since you’ve had a break.” Gage looked from Dauphine to Warren, nodded, and then withdrew from the room.
“There’s a hand written note on this report, stating that you believe the painting is a fake. Where are the supportive findings? And why wouldn’t it be constructed in a professional format?”
Warren reread the reports he was holding, and then turned back toward Dauphine. “This concerns me. I asked you here to remove the stain. The stain has been removed without any damage to the painting, and now you’re saying that it doesn’t matter because the painting is actually a fake. Is that right?”
Dauphine glanced up from under the canvas cover she was using to shield the light to evaluate the sensitive calibration of one of the units.
Warren placed his hands on his hips, walked toward the unit, then away from the unit, then back again, as he waited for her to finish.
“Well, that about does it. We’re finished here.” Dauphine straightened once she was free from the confines of the canvas covering. She pushed her hair back out of her eyes and directed her full attention toward Warren. “You look angry.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“Probably so. I would be if it were my painting.”
“Thank you for that…” Warren said somewhat sarcastically. “But you haven’t answered my question, and it had better be more than a feeling.”
“It is more than a feeling…”
Warren narrowed his eyes at her as he waited, his anger dissipating with hope of a good alternative to having acquired a forged painting.
Warren folded his arms and leaned against the lab counter as he waited for her reply.
“Yes, I would say that it is definitely more than a feeling.” Dauphine stated confidently.
“All right, so we’ve narrowed it down somewhat.”
“Did anyone actually remove the painting from the frame when they inspected it?” Dauphine inquired as she stood opposite him in the lab.
/> “No, they didn’t. They were looking at the damage to the front of the painting as well as damage to part of the frame from the lipstick and wine.” Warren lifted his chin as he defended his previous actions.
“Hmmm. And at no time did you ask to have the canvas removed from the frame?”
“No…I didn’t.” Warren inclined his head and frowned. “What are you getting at?” His voice had dropped to a throaty whisper.
“There’s no stamp.” Dauphine’s eyes met Warren’s revealing no malice, no sarcasm and no judgment.
Warren let the gravity of what she was saying sink in. “You’re referring to the stamp applied to the back of each painting which identified which collection point it had been stored during the war.”
“Exactly.”
Warren didn’t take her word for it, and strode toward the painting held within the confines of the temporary containment center, lifted the lid, and turned it over. His hand lightly explored the back of the canvas as his eyes searched the surface.
He carefully laid it back down, replaced the lid and walked out of the lab.
Dauphine caught Gage’s eye as Warren walked back in the lab and said, “Wrap this up, I’ll be back.” She left the lab in pursuit of Warren.”
Unable to take the same length of stride as Warren, she had to run to keep up with him after she reached his side. She soon saw what he was doing.
“I want every picture removed from its frame.” He approached each picture and began removing it from the wall.
“Do you have the capability of X-raying the pieces?” Warren asked Dauphine, somehow sensing that she was by his side.
“Yes, we do, in fact I was going to ask you if you wanted to proceed with that, but since there wasn’t a stamp I didn’t see the relevance.” Dauphine looked around her to see that in the time it took her to reach him, he had already removed several pictures from the wall. She presumed silent alarms were in a chaotic state at this point.
