Duplicity

by Sara Rosett

  Jack consulted the guidebook. “Eleventh century, the Church of Kapnikarea.”

  The church was closed, but they admired the mosaic over the door that glowed with gold leaf. After Zoe snapped some pictures, they went on, rambling down a street that branched off the pedestrian mall. The tension that knotted Zoe’s shoulders gradually relaxed as they admired more churches, studied a statue of Constantine, then found the Plaka neighborhood, where the streets became narrower and were lined with small shops selling clothing and all sorts of souvenirs from the two-toned blue evil-eye amulets to olive oil and T-shirts. Another street was lined with umbrella-covered tables outside tavernas.

  “Lunch?” Zoe asked.

  “Let’s take a little detour first,” Jack said. “I think you’ll like this.”

  She followed him through the twisty streets, which were lined with cars parked bumper to bumper. Finally, Jack said, “I think it’s around this corner . . . yes, here we are.” He waved his arm at a gate-like structure with an arch that was topped with four Corinthian columns and glanced at the guidebook. “The Arch of Hadrian, built in 131 A.D. to mark where the old town of Athens ended and the new city of Hadrian began.”

  “Very impressive. And if I remember, that means we’re close to the Temple of Olympian Zeus,” Zoe said as they moved toward the arch.

  “We are.”

  Once they neared the arch, the massive Corinthian columns were easy to spot, even from blocks away. They stopped by the arch for more pictures, then Jack motioned across the street. “Want to go across to the temple?”

  “Of course.”

  He didn’t have to check the map. They went around the arch and up another street to the entrance to the temple, where they bought a ticket. The temple was set on a flat plain, and they crossed the stubby grass to the columns that towered over them. “How high are they?” Zoe asked, just to see if Jack knew the number off the top of his head.

  He checked the guidebook. “Fifty-six feet high. Fifteen are still standing. Originally there were one hundred and four—” He was rattling off the specifications when he glanced up and caught Zoe’s eye, then stopped speaking mid-sentence. “I suspect you’re humoring me, letting me go on about the details.”

  “The details are fascinating.” Zoe waved her hand at the gargantuan columns. “I want to know more about what was here originally. Read on,” she said in a mock-commanding voice. “Tell me how it looked originally.”

  Jack read off the description of the original layout, which included statues of both Zeus and Hadrian, then he tucked the guidebook into his pocket and they just stood and took in the immense scale. The Acropolis was visible in the distance, and Zoe had to take a picture of it framed with the columns of the temple in the foreground. They asked another tourist to take their photo, and when Zoe studied the result, she said, “We look like ants.”

  “That’s about the scale of it.”

  Zoe said, “Let’s go look at the fallen column.”

  They had to troop around to the far side of the temple to see the toppled column, which showed how they had been constructed with giant stone sections stacked one upon another. Grass was growing between the fallen stones. “Reminds me of a stack of Ritz crackers when you empty the whole sleeve at once,” Zoe said.

  “I was going to say a fallen stack of pennies,” Jack replied. “But it must be lunchtime if you’re thinking of food comparisons.”

  “Yes, I’m starving. Let’s find a gyro.”

  “Sounds terrific.” They found a restaurant that had formal seating inside, but also had a walk-up window on the sidewalk. They chose the fast method, and once their gyros were ready, they took a seat at a high table on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Zoe was glad for the umbrellas that shaded them. The afternoon was heating up. It was much warmer than Amsterdam. The gyros were a mix of rotisserie lamb, tomato, onion, and French fries, topped with dollops of tzatziki and ketchup, all wrapped in soft pita bread and served in paper wrapped into cone shapes.

  It was delicious. Zoe was so involved in watching the foot traffic and enjoying her gyro that she didn’t notice a buzzing sound.

  Jack glanced at her messenger bag. “Is that your phone?” He reached out a hand. “Here, let me hold your gyro.”

  “Thanks, but no sneaking my fries.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Zoe found her phone. “It’s Ava.”

  “I have an update on the schedule,” Ava said after they’d exchanged greetings. “Mr. Vokos’ assistant called. The meeting’s been moved to two o’clock.”

  Zoe checked her watch. “But that’s in thirty minutes.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but Mr. Vokos isn’t one to consider others when he makes his plans. Where are you?”

  “We’re having a gyro . . . somewhere in Athens.”

  “Can you make it to the meeting?”

  “We’ll have to.”

  22

  The address where Zoe was to meet Mr. Vokos was a neoclassical building not far from their hotel. Zoe would have liked to have changed out of her khaki pants and black cap-sleeved shirt, but her outfit would have to do.

  As they approached the building, Jack’s phone rang. He checked the screen, and an expression Zoe couldn’t identify chased across his face.

  “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “What? No. It’s one of the businesses I had a meeting with in London.”

  Zoe gave him a long look.

  He glanced up and caught her watching him. “It’s nothing. Just something I’ve been working on. I have to take this.”

  “Okay.” Zoe gestured to a café across the street. “I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”

  Jack wished her good luck before answering his call.

  “Thanks.” Zoe blew out a breath as she climbed the flight of stone steps, telling herself that just because she was meeting someone who was suspected of being a player in organized crime, there was no need to be nervous—he was retired, after all.

  She climbed the flight of stone steps and entered the hushed atmosphere of the lobby. The opulent building had probably once been a mansion owned by a single wealthy Greek family, but it had been converted into luxury apartments. Mr. Vokos lived on the top floor.

  Zoe found the elevator on the other side of a large modern sculpture of fused cubes and triangles. She punched in the code that Ava had given her and found a hair clip in her messenger bag. She was sure she looked windblown from the quick jog she and Jack had taken across Athens. She pulled her hair into a ponytail as the elevator zoomed up. She fingered the file with the information about the painting, but she didn’t have time to even take it out of her bag before the elevator glided to a stop.

  A gorgeous woman met Zoe as soon as the elevator doors opened. With glossy black hair and high cheekbones, she looked like she’d stepped off a Milan runway. She also had the sulky look that most supermodels displayed on the catwalk. “Mrs. Andrews?”

  “Yes. I’m here for a meeting with Mr. Vokos.”

  “This way.”

  The elevator opened directly into Mr. Vokos’ apartment. Zoe followed the sharp clack of the woman’s stiletto heels as she crossed the marble entry, which was lined on each side with a row of Corinthian columns that looked like miniature versions of the ones they’d just admired at the Temple of Olympian Zeus. The woman strode quickly through a large open room furnished in heavy wood-frame pieces upholstered with various animal prints. Onyx statues of sea creatures were spaced around the room. Mr. Vokos—or his decorator—seemed especially partial to dolphins. The woman paused beside a red-figure amphora with a row of athletes depicted on it. “Mr. Vokos, Mrs. Andrews is here.”

  One side of the room was a glassed-in balcony with a view of the Acropolis. A table had been set up there, and a man in a checkered shirt and baggy pants was bent over the painting. Zoe could see the vibrant purple and sharp white from several feet away.

  Zoe gave the amphora a wide berth because it looked
as if it belonged in a museum. She wished she had time to look at it closely, but she had to focus her attention on the man who was crossing the balcony to her, his hand extended. The light streaming through the glass panels behind him threw his face into shadow except for his white teeth, which stood out as he smiled. “Mrs. Andrews. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Harrington Throckmorton, but I’m delighted to have one of his associates here today.”

  He had a slight Greek accent, but his English was very good. “Please call me Zoe.” They shook hands, and he pivoted slightly, which allowed Zoe to see him better. Vokos had jet black hair with gray at his temples, and now that he wasn’t in the shadows, Zoe could see the smile only occupied the lower half of his face. His pale blue eyes were icy and assessing.

  A slight movement in Zoe’s peripheral vision drew her attention to a man who stood completely still at the far end of the room. He was much younger, probably in his twenties, and had a solid muscular build. His elegantly tailored suit didn’t hide the bulge under the man’s shoulder. Was he carrying a gun to protect Mr. Vokos or the painting?

  Vokos noticed Zoe’s glance and waved a dismissive hand at the young man. “My associate.” Unlike the young man, Mr. Vokos wore a cream-colored shirt and a pair of designer plaid shorts along with cork-soled sandals.

  “Come see my wonderful painting.” He moved to the plastic-topped trestle table, which was set up so that it caught the natural light but wasn’t directly in the sun. A pair of bright lights were aimed at the painting, and a magnifying glass on an arm was clamped to the edge of the table.

  Vokos’ figure threw a faint shadow over the painting. The man who was bent over the painting, his face inches from the canvas, said, “Please step out of the light.”

  Vokos didn’t move.

  The man, who was wearing magnifying glasses attached to a headband, straightened with a barely suppressed huff of irritation, then saw it was Vokos directly in front of him. He flipped the magnifying glasses up and swallowed. “Sorry, sir.” He spoke with an American accent.

  “Mr. Ewing, allow me to introduce Zoe Andrews, a representative from Throckmorton Enquiries.”

  “Right.” He was a short man on the heavy side with a grizzled mustache and goatee. “I’d shake hands but . . .” He waggled chubby fingers, which were encased in gloves. “I’m in the middle of something rather delicate.” He added, “Pleasure to meet you,” as he snapped the magnifying lenses down over his eyes and returned his attention to the painting.

  “Likewise.” Zoe moved around the table so that she was on the same side as Ewing. At first glance, the painting looked very similar to the painting she’d seen in the gallery.

  Mr. Ewing shuffled back and forth from the painting to the laptop, typing in notes as he muttered under his breath, lost in his own world.

  Vokos put both of his hands in his pockets and tilted his head down as he examined the painting upside down. “It’s always been a family favorite. I was quite shocked when I heard the news.”

  “About the painting being stolen?”

  “Yes. I’ve been on my yacht for a week with my family. I have a strict policy. Everyone must disconnect. No mobiles, no computers, no television. No exceptions. They grumble—you’d think I’d banned them from eating—but in the end, everyone enjoys it.”

  He gave a shake of his head as he continued to look at the painting. “I couldn’t quite believe the news when we docked, that the painting had been stolen.” He patted his chest. “My painting. I knew it couldn’t be true. I had the painting.” He gestured to the wall in the room that Zoe had walked through. “It’s hung there since I was a child.”

  He certainly sounded convincing, but his insincere smile, which hadn’t slipped for a second, decreased Zoe’s faith in his words. “How did your family acquire it?”

  “My grandmother bought it. And”—he pointed a finger at her—“I have the paperwork to prove it.”

  “So you’re saying the painting that was in the gallery in London was a copy?”

  His shoulders went up. “I do not know about that painting. All I know is this painting.” He knocked his knuckles against the frame.

  Mr. Ewing whirled around from where he had been typing. “Please, do not interfere.”

  Vokos didn’t say anything, but his smile vanished. He stared at Ewing for a few seconds. Ewing glanced at the man in the suit, who’d taken a step forward.

  Ewing cleared his throat. “Sorry. Of course, it’s your painting. I’m just trying to be—careful.”

  Vokos waited a moment, then his fixed smile returned. “Carry on.”

  The sulky woman entered with a cell phone. She and Vokos spoke in low tones, then he said, “Excuse me. I must take this call.” He moved away, and Zoe inched closer to the painting. Ewing glared at her. “There’s no need for you to be here. I’m happy to send you a copy of my report.”

  “I’m here at Mr. Vokos’ request.”

  Ewing blew out a breath through his nose and turned away. Zoe watched Ewing work for a moment, his movements delicate and gentle despite his gruff manner. She had been around other authenticators who shared their thoughts as they worked, but clearly that wouldn’t be the case with Ewing.

  Ewing picked up a metal box from under the table and unsnapped the latches. He opened the lid, exposing a machine packed in black foam padding. While he worked on removing the piece of equipment, Zoe stepped forward and peered at the painting through the magnifying glass that was attached to the arm. She shifted a little so that her line of vision was perfectly positioned to magnify the section of the painting she had memorized. Zoe was so absorbed in what she was looking at that she didn’t realize Vokos had returned until the light changed and his shadow fell over the painting again.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she? It’s one of my fav—” He broke off as Zoe looked up and he caught her expression. “What is it?”

  “It’s not what I expected.” Zoe shifted the magnifying glass and gave the area of the painting another look. No, she was right; the brushstrokes on this painting hadn’t been applied in a crosshatch pattern. These were straight up and down with no angle to them. “This painting is different from the one that was stolen from the Janus Gallery.”

  “Of course it’s different. That one was obviously a fake.” His smile was in place, but his gaze bored into Zoe.

  Her heartbeat kicked. She’d just insinuated that she’d expected to find Vokos owned a copy of a very famous painting, not an original—and Zoe didn’t want to be on Darias Vokos’ black list.

  His smile went down a few degrees. “This is the true Tamara de Lempicka painting of Woman in a White Fur. It’s been in my family for decades.”

  “The Blakely family says the same thing, that the painting from their collection of Woman in a White Fur has been in their family for decades.”

  “They are wrong.”

  Ewing slammed the lid down on the now-empty box. “This is why I don’t like amateurs hanging around. All my tests so far indicate that the materials are consistent with the early twentieth century, but it’s too early to make a definitive statement. Now, if you’ll let me get on with my work . . .”

  Zoe stepped back, her thoughts churning. Vokos’ eyes narrowed as he watched her for a moment. His gaze paired with his constant smile gave her the creeps. She sent him a fixed smile of her own. “Of course, I’m sure Mr. Ewing’s report will help us sort it all out,” she said, thinking, I’ve got to read the rest of Olive’s report and find out exactly what happened at Hawthorne House in nineteen twenty-three.

  23

  It was late afternoon by the time Zoe rode the elevator down from Mr. Vokos’ apartment. She dashed around the modern sculpture, her footfalls echoing through the quiet of the lobby. She sprinted down the hotel steps and rushed across the street to the café. Jack was at one of the outdoor tables under a red umbrella. An empty coffee cup sat at his elbow, and he was scrolling on his phone.

  He pulled out a chair for her. “How did
it go?”

  Zoe dropped into the seat and threw back the flap of her messenger bag. “The bottom line is that there are two nearly identical paintings of Woman in a White Fur. I’ve got to finish reading Olive’s report.” She pulled out her copy of it. As she flipped through the pages, she told Jack about the meeting with Mr. Vokos. “So the question is, which painting is the original and which is the copy?”

  “Wouldn’t the original be the one from the Blakely collection?”

  “Maybe. Remember Blakely sent Olive to Hawthorne House because there were rumors circulating about dodgy things going on? When Harrington called, I’d just read a section of Olive’s report where she reports a break-in and an intruder. What if someone stole the painting at Hawthorne House and replaced it with a copy?”

  “Did they?”

  “I don’t know. Olive says the painting was still there in the small sitting room after the break-in. But Carter, the estate manager, wasn’t pleased that Olive showed up unannounced, so that makes me wonder if Carter was up to something. Mr. Vokos swears the painting he owns has been in his family for years—since nineteen twenty-three, to be exact.”

  “Popular year, that one.” Jack studied the underside of the umbrella, his brow wrinkled. “Perhaps the artist painted two versions—same model, same pose. Van Gogh did that with his paintings of sunflowers. I read about it in the guidebook before we went to the Van Gogh museum. There are five versions of the painting.”

  “Yes, that’s true. And Edvard Munch painted several versions of The Scream, but with The Scream and Sunflowers, the versions have easily discernible differences, either with composition—the number and positioning of the flowers—or with the materials used to create the art.” Zoe glanced up at the top floor of Vokos’ apartment building. The glass panels reflected the sun. “The painting I saw today looked exactly like the one at the Janus Gallery in London. The colors and composition and materials were the same—only the brushstrokes were different. Vokos showed me the documentation for his painting. It states the painting is an original one-of-a-kind piece, and it’s similar to the provenance paperwork that the de Lempicka estate sent me for the painting in the Blakely collection. I didn’t get a close look at it, though, only a glance. Ewing packed it up to take back to his lab for analysis.”