“Good. Now, let us talk money. What is this little venture likely to cost us?”
Engel had given the costs a great deal of thought.
“Tell me, Mr Ioannidis, what do you think the Parthenon Marbles are worth?”
“My friend, they are priceless. No amount can be considered.”
“OK, let me put it another way. As I see it, the Turners going to Glasgow would have an auction value of close to four hundred million dollars. The British would pay that sum for their safe return. I would be prepared to accept a tenth of that amount, which would include all the costs likely to be incurred. I have a stipulation of my own. They would be transported to Greece, obviously, not in a ship belonging to you or any of your colleagues, but in a vessel of which you approve and discreetly organise.”
Ioannidis thought for a moment. “OK, that can be arranged. So, we each have to come up with eight million dollars, to ensure the Marbles are returned to their rightful home. Herr Engel, we have a deal.”
The two men got to their feet and shook hands.
*
Ioannidis was still shaking Engel`s hand when he said, “One final element of this transaction, Herr Engel. This is the way we shall pay you. One third of the forty million dollars when the paintings are in your possession. The second when they are safely aboard ship; and the final amount when they are delivered to the Parthenon. Do you agree?”
“That is acceptable, Mr Ioannidis.”
“Good. I shall now inform the others that we have satisfactorily concluded our arrangement. I shall also call my helicopter pilot to take you to the airport. Shall we say in half an hour?”
“There is just one other factor I must touch upon, Mr Ioannidis. The timing of the departure of the vehicle carrying the Turners from the Tate Gallery is critical. I shall have to… ”
Ioannidis interrupted him. “Herr Engel, that should not be a problem.”
*
Later, when Engel had left, the five shipping magnates gathered in the drawing room. Champagne was poured, and they toasted to the success of the venture.
“If all goes to plan, Konstantinos, and the Marbles are liberated a week or so before the exhibition, what a coup that will be,” grinned Pappadakis, slapping Ioannidis on the back. “With Independence Day on the twenty fifth of March, the country will have even more cause to celebrate!”
When he was finally alone, Ioannidis went to a private room at the back of the house. It was his communications centre. Seated at a console, peering intently at a number of screens, was someone of no great stature, dressed in nondescript clothes.
“I presume you saw and heard all those exchanges?”
“Yes, and I recorded them. Just in case we ever need to refer to them.”
“Good. So you heard me tell Engel the need for total anonymity on our part?”
The person nodded.
“Right. So when the plan gets under way, when he`s in Britain, keep him under scrutiny. If there is ever the slightest suggestion of our involvement being revealed, you know what to do.”
Chapter 15
On this occasion I took a taxi to Mead Court.
McKenna was at the house, and he joined me as I walked up the staircase. He followed me into my room.
Throwing my travelling bag on the bed, I turned to him.
“Well? Has the truck gone?”
Yes, safely hidden.” He hesitated, then added. “I told your mother it is safe from prying eyes. However, Alan, I have to tell you I am now certain our movements are being watched. I moved the truck to the store in Dinah`s Hollow Road, and that is now receiving their undivided attention. There are three people keeping round the clock surveillance.”
“How on earth can you say don`t worry, McKenna, when, whoever they are, could blow the whistle at any moment? That store is widely known to belong to us. We are still in the same fix. You haven`t improved matters at all!”
I was getting angry, justifiably so.
“Before you blow your top, I said I`d moved the truck. That was after I had removed its contents. The paintings in their crates are safely tucked away on a neighbouring farm. No questions asked.”
“Oh… I shouldn`t have jumped to conclusions.”
Then the thought struck me. “Does my mother know the store is being watched?”
“I haven`t told her. That`s why I came up here with you, to let you know my suspicions have been confirmed.”
“Are they the police, or Customs and Excise, do you think?”
McKenna considered the situation.
“No, I don`t think so. If they were, they`d have been all over us by now. I am convinced they are something to do with that Engel fellow. He probably set it up with his agent in the UK.”
“You are sure the Gurlitt cache is perfectly safe, no problems with the storage, and they are hardly likely to be found by anyone?”
McKenna nodded. “They can stay where they are in total safety.”
I patted him on the back. “Come on, let`s go and have something to eat. I`m starving.”
Chapter 16
I spent a good part of the week developing the Vermeer project for the BBC Culture Show, and writing three articles for the Art Newspaper. Between times, I turned the spare room, containing the paintings, into something akin to a studio; and refreshed what talent I possessed painting on a board roughly four feet by five feet. After a hesitant start, the paint began to flow. I became almost obsessed with what I was doing, working at the easel for much of the daylight hours, and earning my living as a journalist when the light faded. Until, finally, the painting was finished. I stood back to survey the work, a copy of a painting of which I had total recall.
*
On Friday Sophie phoned.
“I have the results of our tests, Alan.” Her voice low, almost conspiratorial.
“Sorry, Sophie, can you speak up?”
“No, I can`t. I`m at the Gallery. Look, could I come round this evening? We can talk then.”
“Excellent idea. Come to dinner. What time can you make it?”
“About seven thirty?”
*
She arrived on the dot of seven thirty.
I took her coat.
“Mm… that smells good. What is it?”
I had been out in the afternoon buying the ingredients for a Mediterranean chicken dish. I can cook reasonably well, as long as it`s not too demanding or takes any length of time. I had also bought a couple of bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, her favourite. I wondered briefly how the evening might progress.
When the intercom rang I lit the candles. As she mounted the stairs I pressed the play button of a CD of Mendelssohn`s Violin Concerto in E Minor. When we were students she was forever playing the disk or humming parts of the concerto.
I opened the door and kissed her cheek.
“Come in to my parlour… ”
“Said the spider to the fly.” She laughed, dropped a briefcase on the floor and slipped out of her coat.
Sophie looked around the living room.
“My… a marked change from when you were a student. It`s not only tidy, but well-decorated. Can I check out the other rooms?”
I was in the kitchen preparing the meal when she called out. “There`s a door here which is locked, Alan. Is it the room your grandfather used to use when in London?”
“Yes, and unfortunately I`ve left the key at Mead Court.”
Five minutes later she came into the kitchen.
“Help yourself to some wine. It`s in the fridge.”
She poured two glasses. Sipped and murmured. “My favourite… you remembered.”
*
Although I wanted to learn of her findings, at first we spoke of other things. The Institute, how we were making our way in the world, and current liaisons. Where the latter was concerned, it appeared neither of us had anyone special in our lives.
While I had prepared the starter – taramasalata and rye bread, and cooked the main course, the dessert was shop-bought. I h
ad come across a Cypriot foodshop in Ebury Street, and bought a selection of Kourabiedes, small almond cakes coated in icing sugar, and some Melomakarona, honey cakes.
She clapped her hands in surprise, and leaned across the table to kiss me.
She seemed taken aback by her own actions, and quickly hid her embarrassment by selecting several and eating them with considerable enjoyment.
“Where on earth did you get these?” she asked between mouthfuls. “I`ve searched much of London for food from my homeland.”
It wasn`t until we were drinking coffee and relaxing on the settee, did Sophie turn to the work she had been doing on my behalf.
She retrieved her case, and removed a notebook.
“I`m not certain how you will take this Alan, but judging from the paint samples, and the resultant microscopic and micro-chemical analyses, only three paintings are fakes. I`m fairly certain the rest, twenty nine of them, are genuine originals. Do you realise you, or rather your mother, is sitting on a goldmine?”
We talked about the paintings for several hours.
When she referred to their provenance, I steered the conversation away from the subject. But she persisted, trying different approaches.
“Did your grandfather truly believe they were not by the actual artists? Was he taken in by the wording on the nameplate that someone, other than the creators of the works, had copied the actual paintings?”
She was no fool. Sophie must be fast coming to the opinion something was not quite right.
Whatever designs I had had about a seductive conclusion to the evening faded as she persisted in her questioning. When she mentioned she ought to be thinking of going home, instead of grasping the opportunity to persuade her otherwise, I picked up the phone and called for a taxi.
As we walked downstairs to the waiting vehicle, I said, “When can I see you again?”
Thinking I would very much like to, but not if there were going to be further questioning about grandfather`s acquisition of the paintings.
“If you like, I`ll come round and check those paintings you have in the apartment, Alan, when you have the key.”
I was thinking of taking them down to Dorset.
“Right… shall I phone you next week to arrange a date?”
“A date… yes, I`d like that,” she smiled, adding, “I`m glad the Rousseau in your grandfather`s study is not a fake. I know how much you admire his work.”
As she stepped into the taxi, she added, “By the way I`ve been digging, and am almost certain the Rousseau you have was one of several purchased by Ambroise Vollard, the art dealer. I`ll tell you more when next we meet.”
Now I would most definitely ring her.
She leaned forward and we kissed.
*
I drove down to Dorset at the weekend. I wanted to tell mother about Sophie`s findings; also to begin moving paintings, from the spare room cum studio, to a safer haven. It would also mean that to assess the paintings, Sophie would have to spend time at Mead Court. A more romantic setting than the apartment.
*
The next day Engel flew into Compton Abbas airfield, and wasted little time in coming straight to Mead Court.
“Ah…You are both here. Good. This will not take long,” exclaimed Engel. His British agent, whom I learned was called Nicholls, was standing beside him.
We were in the drawing room when they came through the door. I had just finished telling my mother all that Sophie had discovered. I rose to my feet.
“What do you want, Engel? I thank you not to come bursting into my mother`s home like this!”
“I come and go as I please, Cleverden. You have little say in the matter. One word to the authorities, and you will be arrested for receiving stolen goods. I know all about your little game with Conrad Gurlitt, and what is stored not very far from here!”
Even if the paintings had been moved, we would not want the police, the art experts they employed, nor Customs and Excise running roughshod through the long gallery and the rest of the house.
“What do you want?” I said icily.
“Quite a lot, but not at this moment. For now I shall be taking with me the Rousseau. Kindly fetch it from your grandfather`s study.”
He waited while I wrapped it in suitable packing materials.
“Do I presume you have a buyer?” I asked, applying adhesive tape to the cardboard outer.
“Of course. A wealthy Frenchman with more money than sense. But that is not your concern.”
“Schendler said, when you were here not so long ago,” I said, pointing to the Rousseau, “that I would sell it for a reasonable price. So let us discuss what I want for it.”
He picked up the painting, turned on his heel and stepped out into the hall.
Over his shoulder he said, “You don`t understand, do you Cleverden? That was then, when Schendler was running the show. But he is no longer able to state terms.”
He hefted the painting in his hands. “Take this would you, Mr Nicholls.”
He then put the point of his finger on my chest. “Let me tell you the new arrangement. Do everything I say, and you get to stay out of prison… at least for the time being. Those are my terms.”
As they were walking to the car Engel turned back to me. “Understand this. Whenever I choose, I shall take whatever I want from Gurlitt`s collection and yours.”
Chapter 17
Engel spent four days contacting each of his agents.
He gave them a precise, exacting brief. He wanted a transporter, the same in every detail to that used by the company, Travers Fine Art Services. A long, low vehicle fitted with an enclosed tail-lift, air-ride suspension, climate control, a barred and padded cargo area, full security and location tracking systems, and additional seating for extra personnel.
It took close to a week before his man in Amsterdam sent an encrypted email.
FOUND – same make and match as Travers – all you asked for. History – bought by The Dutch Royal Picture Gallery in the Hague to move over 850 works for safe keeping when the building was closed for renovation in 2012. Now completed, all the pieces have been returned and the British-made transporter, is no longer required.
Do you wish me to open negotiations?
Engel immediately informed his agent, Julius van Meerten, to purchase the transporter – to negotiate, but to buy it whatever the cost.
In the meantime, he read what was available about the gallery, the Mauritshuis, which had one of the finest collections of Dutch Golden Age paintings, including Vermeer's Girl With A Pearl Earring.
Two days later Engel received another encrypted email.
Purchase completed.
Please transfer 45, 000 Euros
When the receipt for the money and the paperwork transferring ownership to an art gallery on Rämistrasse in Zurich was completed, van Meerten drove the vehicle fifteen kilometers from The Hague to the Hook of Holland. He obtained a place on the night ferry, which docked in Harwich at six thirty the next morning.
He took the A14 off the Ipswich ring road, and drove westward for two hours. Crossing the junction with the M1 motorway he turned off at the Corley service station.
Trevor Nicholls, the British agent, was waiting for him in the coffee shop.
Twenty minutes later his car, followed by the transporter, rejoined the motorway. Leaving the M6 at the Birmingham turn-off, the two-vehicle convoy threaded its way towards the Handsworth district.
A brief series of lefts and rights led them to a cavernous warehouse, which swallowed up both car and transporter.
Large double doors were quickly pulled shut.
Chapter 18
“No, fortunately, it`s not life-threatening, but he will be out of action for a while. So… what I was ringing about was this. Could you bring the Newlyn School programme forward? Instead of filming in the summer, could you do it this spring? How far have you got with it?”
Ben Ashley was a producer on the BBC Culture Show. He was referring to a programme
I had been working on, though, because it was dearer to my heart, the Vermeer documentary had so far taken precedence. Peter Soames was to have been the film director. There was an easy rapport between us, and we worked well together. Now he had suffered the misfortune of being hospitalised by a hit-and-run driver.
“Well you know I`ve been giving Vermeer more attention. It would mean completely revising my work load… and I do have other commitments.”
“We`ll reschedule. Put the Vermeer back a couple of months. And it won`t involve you all the time, you can come and go by plane from Newquay. You can be in London in an hour or so. And it shouldn`t disrupt your work over much on the Art Newspaper. What do you say?”
*
I put down the phone.
What had I let myself in for? Why had I said yes?
It was still late February, cold, wet and dreary… and Ben wanted us to start filming in a matter of weeks!
The next morning I went into the Culture Show London office. A brief word with Ben, then I collected up all my material on the Newlyn project. After lunch I went back to the apartment and settled down to get into the mindset of the Cornish painters. The works I would feature; their private lives - and loves; the locations; and the likely people involved, in front and behind the camera.
During the rest of the week I had frequent discussions with the director, Roger Melville. We had met early on to talk through the bones of the documentary, and the key elements worth focussing on. Neither of us had got to grips with the detail. Now it demanded the quickest meeting of minds to ensure we both were working to the same end.
At the weekend I loaded the car once again with works from the locked room, and drove down to Mead Court. On the journey I had time to reflect on the remark Melville had made when I phoned him at six thirty that morning.
“Do you know what time it is? Go back to bed, and call me at a reasonable hour! I should have turned this one down ages ago. I was warned you were an uncooperative bugger!”
I stopped at a Little Chef just before Andover, and managed to reach Ben Ashley in the Culture Show office.
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