The Da Vinci Deception

by Thomas Swan

  “All Swiss accounts are not secret, specifically one in the name of Luciano Pavasi. It would be a devastating revelation.”

  “But when it’s discovered I’m not in jail?”

  “That will take weeks. Luciano will say you have become critically ill, that you cannot be seen. Eventually he will say you have escaped. By then you will be a thousand miles away. Getting rid of Superintendent Deats is a simple matter.” His expression turned again to a glower. “It’s Giorgio who presents a difficult problem. He has changed. I saw it in London when he brought his damned copies. Then he tells us there is a version with the words Leonardo might actually have written and another for practice.” Jonas’s skin had turned pink from the sun, now it was flushed red with anger.

  “Either he wants out or is going to demand a larger share. Neither is acceptable. He will be surprised to learn I discovered the hiding place of his drawings.”

  “You found it?” Tony asked incredulously. “I saw into his wine cellar and there is a vault there. I’m positive.”

  “While Giorgio was absorbed in Curtis’s drawings, I surveyed his collection. I was attracted to one in particular. It’s a large pen-and-ink of stones and massive fortifications by a long-forgotten artist. But I was intrigued by the thick frame and heavy backing. Too much for a simple drawing on paper.” He spread his thumb and index finger apart several inches. “I’m positive that’s where they are.”

  “But the vault I saw in the wine cellar?”

  “If I’m wrong, then the drawings will be there.”

  “Assume you’re correct. What then?”

  Jonas got up and went to the window, where he stood, hands clasped behind him. He was taking in short, deep breaths. After several minutes he began to talk in a slow, almost inaudible voice.

  “I have given a great deal of thought to Giorgio and have concluded that he will demand payment for the drawings Curtis has completed, then want nothing more to do with our project. He doesn’t have the stomach to stay with us. He will live the lie for as brief a time as possible and respond to all the questions that will be asked after our discovery is announced. Then he will want to spend time with his Ivonne.”

  “But we need him,” Tony protested.

  “Not if we have his drawings.”

  “What do you propose we do?”

  “Giorgio sets his traps for the salmonrino every Friday. He’s proud that he has learned to catch the fish alone, but he’s no longer a young man, and if he should have an accident, there would be no one to help him.”

  “And you want him to have an accident?” Tony said to the man who had just ordered an execution. “You’ve never forgiven me for what happened to the policewoman, but now you are asking me to eliminate Giorgio. Just like that!” He slashed at the air as if he were dropping a killing karate chop.”

  “We’re past turning back. I’ve gambled everything I own and must sell one of the drawings. No one, including Giorgio, can stop that from happening. How you do it is your business, but it must be an accident. I detest taking a risk. But Giorgio alive would be a greater risk.”

  “While I’m fishing on Friday, where will you be?”

  “I will be in London. Possibly in the West Country.”

  “You’ll have a perfect alibi.”

  “So must you. There’s ample time to prepare for your fishing expedition and remove yourself from any suspicion. But remember, Giorgio sets his traps early. Long before sunrise.”

  Chapter 27

  “Comandante Brassi, permit me to introduce Signore Walter Deats, superintendent from the Windsor police. He carries a special assignment from Scotland Yard.” Brassi bowed slightly and Deats thought he heard the click of heels. Brassi was tall, thin, and blond. His fair skin and narrow face were not typical Italian features. Deats felt he had seen him in an old German war film.

  “Signore Caramazza telephoned to say you wished to see me on a matter of urgency. How may I help you?” Brassi’s English was smooth, with a bare trace of an accent. Deats summed him up as all business, spit and polish.

  “I have an arrest warrant for a man we suspect of murdering a Scotland Yard agent while she was on special assignment for the Crown. I also have copies of a request for extradition which has been filed with your government. The suspect, known as Anthony Waters, is residing at the villa Il Diodario.”

  “May I see the papers? ” Brassi had the warmth of a north Atlantic winter wind, Deats thought.

  “Correspondence relating to the extradition is in this folder. Also you’ll find a copy of the extradition protocol between our countries, though I’m certain that was unnecessary.” The comment was meant to flatter Brassi, but Deats didn’t want any misunderstandings regarding the terms under which Waters would be arrested and confined.

  “Here is the citation and arrest warrant.” Deats gave the comandante another folder.

  Brassi read through the papers. “It seems this man has used many names and disguises. Are you certain that he is who you say he is?”

  “I have no doubt.” Deats related all that he knew about Anthony Waters and his relationship with the new owner of Il Diodario.

  Brassi concluded, “He’s armed?”

  “He carried a gun in New York and I’m sure he has more than that at this time.”

  “We can assume he’ll resist if confronted and escape if he thinks it possible. Would you agree?”

  “He’s not the sort to surrender.”

  “Caramazza, what do you know of Il Diodario?”

  “It is the old Vescovo villa, used by the army. I was there many times.”

  “Sì, I know it, too. My grandfather was a friend of the old man. I went there often as a boy after the war, though no one lived in it.”

  “It is different today,” Caramazza added. “It is guarded by Luciano Pavasi’s men.”

  “That is typical of Pavasi”—Brassi shrugged—“but not unusual for local police to find a job as a guard when not on duty.”

  “At least two are stationed on the grounds at all times,” Deats said.

  “There’s still no easy way to the villa by land, or has that changed?”

  “No,” Caramazza answered. “The hill is too steep for a road.”

  “Will you confirm our request to your officials in Rome?” Deats asked.

  “That won’t be a problem. First you must capture your man before we need the machinery to send him to England. So often the complicated paperwork is completed and there’s no person to arrest. But you know where to find him.”

  “He’s on the lake every day, and I’ve little doubt that he knows I’m here.” Deats told how he had followed Eleanor, then continued to relate what he knew of the two Americans.

  “They are friendly with Giorgio Burri. You know him?” Caramazza interjected.

  “A familiar name, but that is all,” Brassi said. “What are they doing in the old villa?”

  “Kalem is the key figure. He deals in art, but why he has brought his people to Lake Como is not yet clear to us.”

  “Waters knows you are here and hasn’t run off. In fact he puts himself on view every day. Perhaps Pavasi is supplying more than armed guards.”

  Caramazza leaned forward. “Pavasi is corrupt. He lives too grandly for the head of a small police department.”

  “In the long history of our country, has there been such a person who could not be corrupted?” Brassi stood and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I deal in all degrees of dishonesty and find it necessary to know who can be bought off and for how much. A few thousand lire can buy cooperation at any level. I must assume that Luciano Pavasi has a grander scheme and has learned to ask for much larger sums.”

  “Who will make the arrest?”

  It seemed to Deats that Brassi was going to let the question go unanswered. Then he spoke. “Normally that would be Pavasi’s responsibility. As he can’t be relied on, I shall consult with the regional administrator. You can count on my cooperation.”

  “Bene
, bene,” Caramazza called out. “Grazie, Bruno.”

  Brassi stiffened. “There is no friendship here, Caramazza. We are dealing with a very serious matter. I should expect the same consideration if I were in Signore Deats’s jurisdiction.” He turned his cold eyes on Deats.

  “I will honor your arrest warrant and take the necessary precautions to seal off Il Diodario so this man Waters cannot disappear before we call on him. Please return on Monday morning. I will tell you then what action we shall take.”

  Chapter 28

  The last hurdle facing incoming passengers to Heathrow was a legion of oddly uniformed men and women, each waving a card bearing a name or livery service. Standing out from the others was a nattily dressed chauffeur, additionally distinguished because he held no sign. Seumas MacCaffery had met Jonas on many previous occasions and knew it was best for him to locate his myopic client, not the other way around.

  “A good day to you, Mr. Kalem.” He took the suitcase in one hand and locked the other around Jonas’s fat arm. They went off to a vintage Chrysler, Jonas clutching his valuable leather case to his chest.

  “So it’s Collyer’s you be wanting.” The accent was as thick as if he were Robert Bruce himself. “We’ll be there soon enough if the traffic doesn’t give us fits.” The traffic was kind, and after some forty minutes, Jonas extricated himself from the old limousine, then climbed the few steps to the famous old building on Bruton Place.

  “Mr. Pimm. I have an appointment,” he announced to the receptionist.

  He was ushered into a cramped office on the second floor, where a balding, bearded man of middle years greeted him enthusiastically. Harold Pimm, head of the Old Masters Department, pushed bifocals onto his forehead, then extended his hand to Jonas.

  “I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to this visit.” Pimm’s voice was high and musical, and when he spoke, his eyes blinked as if his speech and sight were somehow connected.

  “I’m impatient to share my news with you,” Jonas replied. “When you see what I’ve brought, you’ll understand my reluctance to reveal it except under these circumstances.”

  “I reviewed our correspondence and had forgotten how long it’s been since we began discussing your search for the Leonardos.”

  “Four years. But the pages have been lost for centuries and a few years more or less hardly matters.”

  “Quite so.” Pimm nodded. “I must remind you that I cannot make any judgments until after the committee finds for or against. I hardly need add that I hope it is favorable.”

  “I understand,” Jonas replied.

  “First I must deal with the paperwork. It’s a nuisance to both of us, but as your discovery may be worth millions of pounds, that becomes a heavy responsibility.” Pimm handed several documents to Jonas. “Please read them, Mr. Kalem. They’re meant to protect you, as well as Collyer’s.”

  Jonas drew the documents close and began reading. Pimm continued talking amiably, observing that Jonas had been brave to travel alone with his valuable treasure. “Someone might have taken the leather case and not cared what was inside.”

  Jonas signed the papers and put his copies in an envelope.

  Pimm took the signed papers from him. “Very good. We’re a few minutes late and an extremely impatient committee member is waiting.”

  Pimm led Jonas to a paneled room where three men were seated at a long conference table. Jonas shook hands with Paul Gilsanon, a tweedy type with leather patches at the elbows, short-cropped hair, and a pipe with the largest bowl Jonas had ever seen. Gilsanon was a chemist and third-generation proprietor of Gilsanon & Knowles, Britain’s finest art restoration laboratory. The major museums, including the National Gallery and the Tate, relied on Gilsanon’s staff to ascertain age, chemical properties, and the authenticity of art and artifacts.

  A man at the head of the table turned in his chair to greet Jonas but remained seated as he acknowledged Pimm’s introduction. Doan Chamberlin looked away from Jonas and said icily, “It is a pleasure, Mr. Kalem, though I must advise you that my time is most valuable and I see we are well behind schedule.” Chamberlin was an art historian, lecturer, teacher, and acknowledged expert on the extensive collection owned by the royal family. He was in his mid-fifties, immaculately dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks. His face was handsome—arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a long straight nose. Jonas thought he was a bit too precise, from his John Lobb shoes to the aftershave lotion that formed an odorous halo around him.

  The third member of the committee stepped toward Jonas. He was Edgar Freebury, thirty-four, a brilliant scholar who had made Lord Kenneth Clark his idol and had achieved recognition for his exhaustively comprehensive knowledge of the Italian Renaissance. Pimm had a deep affection for the younger man, offering him fees and honorariums at every opportunity. He was the archetypal intellectual—blessed with curiosity, an extraordinary memory, and woefully inadequate financial acumen.

  Jonas knew each man’s reputation. In particular he had made a thorough investigation into the personal life of Doan Chamberlin. He turned his squinting eyes back to Chamberlin, noting he wore a ring on each hand, and his fingers were long and delicate, the nails manicured and covered with a clear polish.

  “Gentlemen, the end of our suspense is at hand, and Mr. Kalem pledges that he will not disappoint us. I needn’t remind you we have made an extraordinary departure from our long-standing regulation regarding the submission of drawings to the full committee instead—”

  “Pimm, old man, please don’t say you needn’t remind us of something then go straight ahead and do it,” Chamberlin interrupted with a wave of his hand. “We’re aware of the rules and particularly those we choose to disregard. I’m dreadfully short of time, so let’s have Mr. Kalem show us what he has.” Pimm nodded his assent and Jonas stepped to the head of the table.

  “I’m deeply appreciative of the opportunity that has been extended by Mr. Pimm and Collyer’s. Of course, I am honored by the presence of each of you. I shall not fail you by placing an unimportant work on the table, but shall present what I consider the most important art discovery of our generation.”

  Jonas put two thick folders on the table, each tied with brown yarn. He held the first one up. “This contains the reports on a wide range of laboratory tests that have been conducted on the paper, the inks, the chalks, and also the procedures considered appropriate for ascertaining age, proper chemical analyses, ink absorption, etc. We recognize that in the absence of a provenance, these matters are of extreme importance. We are at this moment conducting additional evaluations and will submit them as soon as possible. I believe the content of this folder will be of the greatest interest to Mr. Gilsanon. The other folder contains an immensely rich amount of documentation supporting our claim for an unqualified attribution of the work. This folder is for you, Dr. Chamberlin.”

  “At this point I should like to review a statement which has been prepared by Professor Giorgio Burri, whom I retained to coordinate the attribution study and create a credible provenance.”

  Jonas gave each man a copy of a typed report that ran to seventeen pages. At the mention of Giorgio’s name, Pimm and Chamberlin reacted strongly, but in markedly different ways. Pimm smiled broadly and Chamberlin showed great anxiety. The latter waved his copy of the report. “I know this Burri person. He’s Italian, of course?”

  “Yes.”

  “University of Milan?”

  “Yes, again.”

  “He’s a troublemaker, uh . . . controversial. A fraud, did I hear?”

  “That would be a strong accusation, Dr. Chamberlin. Do you have any facts to go on?”

  “I’m not the one to ferret out those details. It’s simply the man’s reputation.”

  “Like many of us, our reputations are what different people believe about us. Professor Burri is controversial, but his incredible knowledge of the Renaissance masters has never been challenged.”

  Pimm leaned across the table toward Ch
amberlin. “Doan, you have an incredible penchant for slowing things down when you’re in a terrible hurry. I think we all know of Burri’s unique position on a number of issues, but the man has never been accused of deceit. He’s an extremely bright fellow, and I’ve found his scholarship always at the highest level.”

  Pimm’s comment seemed to satisfy Chamberlin. Then, with the conversation centered on Giorgio, Jonas had in one of those brief instants that can’t be measured in a millisecond, a vision of the lake and of a man standing in a boat preparing his fishing lines. The scene disappeared and Jonas continued. “Gentlemen, please read Professor Burri’s report very objectively.”

  The report contained three essential parts. The first dealt with Giorgio’s qualifications. Next was a detailed description of the Leonardo drawings. And the third was a disclosure of how the Leonardo drawings had been discovered and an accounting of where the pages had been during the past four hundred and seventy years. It was all heady stuff, presented in Giorgio’s scholarly, competent style.

  Conversation ceased as each man read at his own speed. Gilsanon was the first to complete his reading, followed by Pimm, who pushed his glasses to his forehead, then studied the expressions of the others. Freebury turned the final page and in a voice filled with awe said quietly, “An incredible find. Absolutely incredible.”

  Doan Chamberlin, the last to finish, said as if in response to Freebury. “Incredible if true.”

  “Excellent,” Pimm said. “This will require corroboration, of course, but it puts us off to a good start.”

  “The drawing, Mr. Kalem, I must see it,” Edgar Freebury said.

  Jonas placed a thin box on the table. Carefully he pulled out a plastic envelope. He slid the sheet from its protective folders and placed the drawing in front of the committee.

  “Gentlemen, I present . . . Leonardo.”

  Jonas stepped back so the others could crowd over the drawing. Gilsanon pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and focused on the paper and the lines of ink forming images of the familiar young woman whose enigmatic expression had, in its completed form, become part of the most famous of all paintings.