by Thomas Swan
“I am Ivonne.” A woman stepped toward Jonas, her hand extended. If Ivonne Burri had been in the kitchen since sunup, she did not look the worse for the effort. She was of average height and lean, her hair a silvery blond and carefully coiffed. She looked very trim in a yellow-and-white summer dress.
“Welcome, Signore Kalem. I have heard so much about you.” Her accent was a blend of French and Italian.
“And Giorgio never fails to speak of you. He praises your touch in the kitchen most of all.”
“The way to his heart is through his stomach.” She smiled broadly. “Please sit. We put a table in this room where we can look out to the water.”
A tureen of hot minestra was in the center of the table. It was followed by linguini and pesto sauce and filets of lake whitefish.
“I apologize I cannot serve the salmonrino, but in a few days I will make a large catch,” Giorgio exclaimed.
Ivonne laughed. “That is what I hear each week, but the promise is greater than the catch.”
“Before these witnesses I say that on Friday I shall return with a basketful.”
Tony joined in. “We’ll pay close attention to how well you do.”
Ivonne’s menu concluded with a salad sweetened with fruit. “You are a lover of wines, Jonas,” Giorgio said. “I see you filled your glass several times with the wine from a vineyard of which I am part owner. It is east of Como, midway to Lake Garda. It is like Santa Maddalena. Do you like it?”
“Wine from your vineyard? I like it. Rich but not too heavy.”
“A good balance, we say. I have a supply in our wine cellar and I will ask Ivonne to bring you a bottle.”
Ivonne nodded, aware that Giorgio and Jonas were about to begin a more serious conversation. “I’ll be in the garden if you should need anything.” She took away the remaining dishes.
Giorgio directed his attention to Tony. “In the room directly below is a collection of rare books, some quite old and beautiful. And more drawings, mostly by our Baroque artists. You’re most welcome to browse there or anywhere in my home.” Tony, realizing he’d been dismissed, went off without a word.
“You enjoyed your food, Jonas?”
“As you told me many times, Ivonne has a master’s touch. And I’ll tell her.” He nestled the leather case in his arms. “But now to more important matters. Curtis has completed two folios, and I have them for your approval.”
“I’ve been curious to know why you brought them here. I should go over them with Curtis in the studio.”
“But this is your studio, your references are here. If there are problems, then you and Curtis can meet.”
Giorgio took the case to the table as if he were handling the Holy Grail. With appropriate reverence he placed two drawings on the table. He looked at each, front and back, for an initial impression. Gone was his usual smile. Now he was somber. He moved a lamp closer and began a closer examination. He spoke quietly in Italian. Jonas moved away and began a careful inspection of Giorgio’s study.
“You must be pleased,” Giorgio said without looking up. “For these sheets to stand as Leonardo’s, we must sense it intuitively, and here, in the young woman’s face, is that unmistakable spirit Leonardo was searching for during all the days when he planned his Mona Lisa. Berenson taught that it is in the spirit and quality that are found the umpires of authenticity. There will be disbelievers, but that would be so if Leonardo da Vinci were to rise from his tomb and fly to London with you.” Giorgio smiled at his joke. “That’s a good one, eh, Jonas? Leonardo in a flying machine?”
“He would approve,” Jonas answered.
Jonas was at the far end of the studio, carefully eyeing the art on the white stuccoed wall. He was less interested in the pictures than what was behind each one. He moved the paintings aside, looking for a hiding place or a small wall safe. Giorgio had boasted that his drawings were behind two feet of stone. But nowhere could the walls be this thick. At least not above ground. But below? In the cellar? In the wine cellar?
Tony accepted Giorgio’s offer and went first to the room where a collection of old books was waiting to be sorted. Shutters were closed on all the windows except one facing the garden. He could see out to the sunlit garden where Ivonne sat writing in her notebook.
From the study he went to a small music room, then to the dining room. Across from the dining room was the kitchen. It was a square room with a massive fireplace, which gave evidence that the house was more than two centuries old. One door opened to the pantry, another to a black void. Only the first few steps of a staircase leading down were visible. Inside the door he found a light switch. He flicked it on, then started down the wooden steps.
At the bottom he found he was in a cavernous room running the full width and length of the house. Lights dangled off wires suspended from the cross beams. Thirty feet away was a brick enclosure. He was certain it was the wine cellar. A thick wood door was secured by a monstrous padlock he could not pick or break apart. He retreated to the top of the stairs, turned off the lights, and then returned to the cellar to wait for Ivonne to come for the bottle of wine.
“They are nearly perfect, Jonas. The study for the Mona Lisa is incredibly beautiful.”
“Nearly perfect is not good enough,” Jonas said sternly.
“There are minor changes to make, but none too difficult. I have made notes for Curtis and we will go over everything together.”
“How much time will it take?”
“A day, no more than two.”
“I will need a week and perhaps more to force the inks into the paper and prepare them for the other tests.”
“I am happy that is not my responsibility. Eleanor could help, but you have kept her unaware. Am I correct?”
“She is asking questions and has become suspicious.”
“Would you expect otherwise?”
“I had hoped to bring her into my confidence, but I put it off. I can’t force her to become a willing partner, yet if she knows and won’t join us . . .” Jonas didn’t finish the thought. He put the drawings back into their plastic sleeves and then into the leather case.
“You could explain that these two are part of your discovery and ask that she prove their authenticity.”
Jonas nodded. “That’s crossed my mind.” The big man held the leather case across his generous girth and looked intently at Giorgio. “When Curtis has made the corrections, he will be free to start on the next pages. One of the reasons I’ve come to your home is to ask for the original drawings.”
“You may ask, Jonas, but I will not give them to you.”
“I demand it.”
“It is useless to argue. They stay with me.”
“What assurance do I have you won’t make more Xerox copies and expose the entire project?”
“That would be foolish, Jonas. You have my word.”
“That isn’t good enough. There’s too much money at stake. Once these pages are shown to the world, the pressures on all of us will be immense.”
“The drawings are safe with me,” Giorgio said calmly.
“But are you safe?” Jonas wheeled about and walked off.
Caramazza’s boat was as advertised: solid and comfortable. Deats tried to dress as a tourist, but his wardrobe was as inappropriate for a boat ride as the heavy woolens he had taken to a steamy New York.
From Moltrassio, Caramazza ran his boat slowly along the irregular shoreline. Below the Villa d’Este he swung toward the center of the lake, holding to a hundred feet from the sharp spit of land Deats had seen through the binoculars. After rounding the tip, they turned sharply back along the pebbled beach of Cernobbio.
“There is the landing.” Caramazza pointed to a marina where fishing boats had been pulled up to rest on the smooth flat rocks and sand.
Deats looked for the white speedboat but the only white craft was a Sunfish that a small boy was striving to float out to friendlier winds.
Then he saw the gazebo and below it the boat. He touch
ed Caramazza’s shoulder. “Look there.”
Caramazza put the throttle in neutral. The boat stopped, rising and falling in a nearly imperceptible swell. “That dock belongs to Giorgio Burri.”
“You know him?”
“Yes. And his wife. Though we are not close friends, we have known each other for many years. They come to the hotel for some of our specialties and I have been with them at the home of mutual friends.”
“What is his business?”
“He is retired from the University of Milan. When he was young, he was a painter. Then he became a teacher of art.”
“He teaches painting?”
“Perhaps, I do not know. He gives lectures on the Italian painters at the schools in Como.”
“Tell me more about him. How long has he been retired from the university?”
“Two, perhaps three years. I said he retired, but that is only partly true. He was asked to resign.” Caramazza waved his hand as if hoping to pluck his next words from the air. “There were rumors he published papers on controversial subjects that caused his superiors to demand he make apologies. But he was stubborn.”
“What kind of controversial subjects?”
“As I say, these were rumors and I did not pay close attention. He was a professor of the History of Art, so what can the controversy be over such a subject?” He smiled. “There are politics in the University like everywhere. Am I right?”
Deats sighed. “You are right, Mr. Caramazza. I have seen it.”
“There is someone in that boat who interests you very much. But not in a friendly way.”
“A man I want to take back to England. He faces extremely serious charges.”
“You are a policeman—as I suspected. I think I saw that from the beginning.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“We Italians, especially those of us with military experience, have a nose for crime.” Caramazza ran a finger down his nose. “It’s a national hobby with us, but there is a difference, depending on which side of the law you let your nose do the sniffing.”
“Will you help me?”
“Tell me more about yourself, and this man who you have come after.”
“I am from the Windsor police. One of the men in that boat is suspected of murdering a policewoman. I followed him to New York where this happened”—he held up his hand—“and now to Como. He knows I’m here.” Deats related how he had doctored Eleanor’s car, then happened along to play the good samaritan.
“Will you arrest him?”
“With help. I don’t have the authority.”
“Do you have papers?”
“A warrant and evidence we’ve filed for extradition. I’ll need cooperation from the local police.”
“The comandante in Torno is a very suspicious man. I would not give your papers to him but to someone in higher authority. I have friends in Como.” Once more Caramazza put the throttle in neutral and the boat settled in the water. “Do you know why they have come here?”
“No, but if you could arrange a meeting with Professor Burri, I might find an answer.”
“Sì, I will do that.” He moved the gear to forward and accelerated away from the shoreline.
Tony had nearly given up hope that Ivonne would come for the bottle of wine on the off chance she had found one in the kitchen. He was behind an old chest less than ten feet from the heavy door. He brushed away the stones from the hard dirt floor. He did not want to risk kicking the smallest pebble across the floor in a room with the acoustics of an echo chamber. He heard a scratching noise, like a rake being dragged over gravel. A rat the size of a small squirrel ran past him to the wall, then disappeared into a hole. Then came another noise.
Ivonne was descending the steps. She hesitated briefly, then continued down to the locked door. A key turned, the door opened, and a light was turned on. Tony moved silently to the opened door. Hundreds of bottles lay on dozens of shelves. Ivonne was at the far wall holding up bottles until she was satisfied with her choice. On another wall Tony saw a break in the rows of shelves. The stone wall was interrupted by a section of wood several feet square. He felt certain he had found the vault. He retreated behind the chest. Ivonne locked the door and went back to the kitchen. The lights went out.
Tony followed her. He slipped into the kitchen, then back to the hall, where he continued his tour of Giorgio’s collection.
Caramazza turned toward Il Diodario and set the throttle forward. Had he or Deats looked back, they would have seen two men get into the white speedboat and begin a similar route across the lake.
“I want to see the faces of the guards protecting Il Diodario,” Caramazza called out to Deats. “When we are running in front of the villa, I will ask that you take over.”
Tony pushed the powerful craft to full speed, thrusting Jonas back in his seat. The fat man clutched the leather case and urged Tony to go slower.
“Softly, Tony, we’re in no great hurry.”
Tony ignored the admonition. His eyes were on a boat approaching the southern edge of the villa.
“There’s no cause to hurry,” Jonas repeated. “It’s damned uncomfortable on the kidneys when this torpedo slaps the water.”
“There’s a boat prowling past our docks. I want to see who it is. Hold on to that bar in front of you.”
Jonas grabbed the chrome bar with one hand and tightened his grip on the case with the other. They spurted ahead, the propeller digging deeper into the water. Jonas felt as if he had sunk six feet under the surface.
Two hundred yards from Caramazza’s boat Tony relaxed speed and came up on the stern of the slower-moving craft, now nearly abeam of the solarium. He drew alongside, closing the distance to less than a hundred feet. Deats glanced left to see the other boat closing on him and immediately dropped out of sight, calling to Caramazza to take over the controls. Caramazza maneuvered his boat very deliberately, as if he were searching for a fishing spot. He knew the waters and aimed for the old landing at Torno. His broad-bottomed boat took little draft and could venture into the shallow waters. At the far edge of the villa’s property he saw a man dressed in khaki. “There’s one of his guards, Mr. Deats. If my eyes see correctly, he is pointing his rifle at us.”
They watched Tony pull into the dock. They were a quarter of a mile away and would easily stretch that to a half mile before Tony could come after them.
Jonas, relieved the ordeal was over, stumbled to the stone dock. “Tie up and meet me in the solarium.”
“But Deats is in that boat. I swear it!”
Jonas glared down to a defiant face. “My orders are to tie up.”
Tony looked out to see the slow-moving boat turn out to the middle of the lake. Reluctantly, he secured the boat and followed.
Jonas placed the precious leather case on the table next to his command chair. A glower was spread over his face and his eyes still squinted from the bright sunlight on the water. “You were ready to chase the boat down and ram it broadside. I could see it.”
“I wanted to follow them. I want to know where to find that bloody bastard.”
“You’re frightened. That’s when you become dangerous.”
“You sit there like a raja telling me I’m frightened because some zealous detective is trying to yank me back to face a murder charge.” He moved in front of an impassive Jonas. “That might frighten a weak man, but I’m not weak.”
“Your bravado is very becoming, Tony. Sit down and let me explain how we shall handle the inquisitive superintendent without violence. We can assume that they have commenced extradition proceedings through their embassy in Rome and that Deats has all the proper papers, including a warrant for your arrest. But where will he take those papers? To the provincial police? To Como? Neither. He must go to the local authorities. We are within the jurisdiction of the town of Torno. The chief of police is named Luciano Pavasi, with whom I have made a contract to protect Il Diodario from curious outsiders. Luciano is a very understanding man, particularl
y now that he has an account in the Suisse Banca in Lugano which grows each month by a million lire.”
“If Deats doesn’t get cooperation from Pavasi, he’ll go to someone higher up.”
“But Pavasi will smother him with cooperation. When the superintendent visits Pavasi, they will talk about crime and punishment and the low state of morality in their respective countries. Pavasi will dutifully contact the officials in Rome and receive authorization for Deats to serve out his warrant. They will come to Il Diodario and place you under arrest. When Deats is assured you are in custody in Torno, he’ll return to Windsor, wait for the extradition process to grind away, then return and escort you to England, where you will stand trial for the murder of Sarah Evans.” Jonas looked up. “Would you size it up differently?”
Tony had listened to the scenario in total disbelief. “I sit waiting like the fatted calf?”
“You weary me, Tony. You are so bright, yet so dull. You will sit here but not as a fat calf—”
“You’ve gone mad! If you think I’m going to be your sacrifice—to protect your ass—”
“Enough!” Jonas propelled himself from his chair and crashed his huge belly against Tony, sending him reeling backward. “I’m protecting you! Let them find you. Let them take you to jail. Let the goddamned Englishman go back to his Windsor. He’ll rot waiting for you to be extradited.”
Tony gained a modicum of composure. “Stop talking in riddles. What are you telling me?”
“If you continue to run, Deats will continue to chase. So we shall arrange a convenient arrest. You will spend several nights in the jail in Torno. When Deats boards his plane for London, you will simply walk away and join me in the car waiting in front of the police station.”
“How do I know Pavasi will go along?”
