Mary bent down and looked Art in the eyes. “Are you up for the rest of our tour?” she asked.
“I want to keep going,” he said.
Mary nodded. “Okay. But let me know if . . .”
“If I start to freak out?”
She smiled. “Yes. If you start to freak out.”
“Anyone have eyes?” asked Dorchek Palmer.
The answers in his earpiece all came back negative, which was actually good news. Palmer sat in the Garden Café on the ground floor of the West Building of the National Gallery. He had lucked out, as the café was open later than usual due to a special holiday exhibit. Within minutes of ascertaining Mary Sullivan’s location at the museum—and assuming his prey were going inside—he had dispatched his team, who had arrived straightaway to set up at each exit of the West Building, one member doubling up to keep an eye on the concourse leading to the East Building and one member remaining outside the structure. Three vehicles were parked within a block of the museum. Palmer knew that the West Building was far too big and had far too many rooms to conduct an effective ground search, particularly with only five team members and himself. So the first step was to secure the exits and identify the boy if he tried to leave. If they were lucky, the boy was still in the building.
Palmer had his iPad propped up in front of him at a corner table in the café. He had tapped into the museum’s video security feeds—which were extensive—and was running the images in real time through sophisticated facial recognition software. If the software got a hit on the boy, his team would immediately move into action.
Palmer knew that there was no room for mistakes—the boy could not escape again. But Palmer had complete confidence in his team. What had occurred the last time was a fluke—the boy had been a surprise, and there had not been time for sufficient intel gathering and preparation. This time, however, his team was prepared. Palmer had handpicked every member of his crew, recruited them all. They could break into the White House and steal the president’s favorite pen, and no one would know. Catching a small boy would be no problem.
4:15 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
East Building main conference room, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
“There is no question,” said Dr. Belette, “as to the authenticity of this painting.”
He pointed to an image of the van Gogh painting on the large video screen beside him on the wall. “Its provenance is well established. It has been subjected to every conceivable test and passed every one with flying colors. It has been examined by numerous experts on van Gogh, each of whom has unequivocally pronounced it as genuine.”
“Not quite all of them,” said a deep voice from the back of the room. “Dr. Hamilton has yet to render his final verdict.”
The speaker was Damon Sacks, the secretary of state of the United States. Elizabeth Downing, the director of the museum, had feared that Sacks would interject himself into the process—he was known to push people’s buttons simply to see how they responded. Downing knew that the only way to respond to Sacks was to push back when he pushed her—never back down. But would the bookish director of acquisitions have the internal fortitude to do that? Downing prepared herself to intervene. To her surprise, Dr. Belette seemed remarkably calm.
“A mere formality,” Belette said confidently. “It is true that we still await Dr. Hamilton’s final report, but I am confident that it will confirm what we already know.”
“You are confident?” asked Sacks. “Dr. Hamilton was hired by this museum to be the final word on this painting. He is the leading authority in the world on art forgery. We are about to spend one hundred and eighty-three million dollars to purchase this painting. I need more than your confidence that the painting is authentic.”
Sacks stood up, pushed his chair back, and glared across the table at Dr. Belette. “I fully expected that Dr. Hamilton would be here today to address this board.”
Uh-oh, thought Director Downing. She had received an email earlier that morning from Hamilton explaining that he was in the process of completing his report and would not be present for the meeting. The museum director started to stand in an effort to mediate. But Dr. Belette motioned for her to remain seated.
“Dr. Hamilton is the best there is,” said Belette. “But his job—no disrespect—is not to put on a dog-and-pony show for this board—or you. His job is to complete his report so that this acquisition can be finalized.”
Dr. Belette paused.
“I hesitate to speak further,” he finally said, “for I fear he may have shared this with me in confidence.” Belette’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper. He spoke as if he were divulging a family secret. Everyone at the table—with the exception of Damon Sacks—leaned forward to catch his every word.
“When we spoke this morning,” continued Belette, “Dr. Hamilton informed me that his report will absolutely confirm the authenticity of the painting.”
The eyes of the board turned to Damon Sacks. The room was silent.
Sacks sat back down. He tapped his pen on the table.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“I’ll await Dr. Hamilton’s final report,” he finally said—and the matter was concluded.
Elizabeth Downing—as well as everyone else in the room—breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced over at Roger Belette and nodded her approval.
Roger Belette took his seat at the table as Elizabeth Downing brought the meeting to a close. His head felt as if it would explode. He had feared that he wouldn’t make it through the meeting and the inevitable resistance from the board’s notoriously acrimonious member. But Belette had. And in the aftermath of his confrontation with the secretary of state, the board had voted unanimously to approve the acquisition of the van Gogh painting as soon as Dr. Hamilton’s final report was received—assuming, of course, that it confirmed that the painting was authentic. But Belette had every confidence that Hamilton’s report would absolutely, and without any question, corroborate that fact. Belette, after all, had written that report, which would be delivered via email to Elizabeth Downing at precisely nine o’clock the following morning.
Chapter 13
4:35 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
There was no longer any pretense that this was a normal visit to the museum. The boy and the Sullivans made their way out of the rotunda again and quickly down the East Sculpture Hall, past the tall marble sculptures and enormous urns. Camille offered none of her usual running commentary. They passed through a small gallery of paintings of Native Americans and into a large garden courtyard filled with plants.
The boy pointed to an open passageway on the left side of the courtyard. “Over there,” he said. His pace quickened. He was now walking several steps ahead of Camille and her mother.
Camille started to speed up to catch him, but her mother grabbed her by the arm. “Give him some space,” she said.
Camille slowed down without a word of protest and walked at her mother’s side.
The boy disappeared into the open passageway. Moments later, Camille and her mother arrived and stepped into the gallery. Paintings by Edgar Degas and Mary Cassatt lined the walls.
“We’re close,” Mary whispered to her daughter.
“But where’s Art?” Camille asked.
Mary pointed to an opening to their left.
They made their way across the room and stood at the threshold leading into the next gallery. A small sign affixed to the interior of the doorway pointed into the area beyond. The sign read GALLERY 83.
The boy stood on the far side of the room. In the middle of the space was a relatively small sculpture—barely more than three feet in height—of a young ballerina. It was entitled Little Dancer Aged Fourteen by Edgar Degas. A wide bench sat directly in front of the sculpture.
“Is this . . . ?” asked Camille as they slowly approached the sculpture.
“Yes,” replied her mother. She pointed to the bench. “That’s where he must have been sitting when they found him.”
“That’s funny,” said Camille.
“What’s funny?”
“He’s not staring at the sculpture now,” the girl said.
Mary Sullivan looked at the boy. Her daughter was right. The boy wasn’t staring at the sculpture. Instead, he appeared to be intently studying the paintings on the wall—bright, colorful portraits and paintings of landscapes, flowers, and fruit.
“The paintings,” said Camille. “Who painted them?”
“Vincent van Gogh,” replied her mother. “And a painter named Paul Gauguin.”
Mary turned and looked at the wall behind her. The room was filled with paintings by van Gogh and Gauguin. It occurred to her that when the boy was found, perhaps he had not been staring at the sculpture by Degas—maybe he had been staring at the paintings.
And from the expression on the boy’s face, it seemed that he had come to the same realization.
He walked from painting to painting.
He stood in front of a self-portrait of Vincent van Gogh painted in 1889—the artist, staring intensely at the viewer, holding a palette and brushes, his red hair and beard in striking contrast to the brilliant blue background that seemed to fold the world in around him. It was a portrait of a tortured soul and deep introspection. Van Gogh, Art knew, had spent most of his short life desperately searching for himself and for his place in the world.
A self-portrait of Paul Gauguin hung just a few feet away. Painted the same year as van Gogh’s self-portrait, it was a sharp contrast to the startling intensity of the van Gogh. Although the colors were every bit as bright—brilliant yellows, greens, and reds infused Gauguin’s painting—the paintings could not have been more different. In his self-portrait, Gauguin does not meet the viewer’s gaze—rather, he looks confidently beyond the viewer to the broader world.
As the boy turned around and examined the room, he understood that the other paintings in the gallery revealed that same contrast—van Gogh’s efforts to capture, define, and understand the small, narrow world in which he lived, and Gauguin’s ever-expanding view of that same world.
But despite the differences that separated van Gogh and Gauguin—and there were many—the boy knew of one fact that had brought these men together at a specific time and place. For nine weeks in 1888, Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin had lived together in a small village in southern France—Arles. Now they appeared to be sharing space again, this time in Gallery 83.
Beep.
Dorchek Palmer glanced down at his iPad. The facial recognition software had found a match. He checked the location—Gallery 83. Palmer knew this was in the east wing of the West Building.
Great, he thought, just freakin’ great.
He pulled up the video feed on his iPad. The gallery was crowded, and it took a moment for him to locate the boy. Finally Palmer found him standing on the far side of the room, staring at a self-portrait by Vincent van Gogh.
Oh, for the love of . . .
Palmer pulled out his floor plan of the museum. He had two team members relatively close to the gallery: one was stationed just down the East Sculpture Hall and through the rotunda, at the main entrance next to the National Mall; and another, Regina Cash, was waiting at the east entrance, which was a floor below the gallery in which the boy was now located. Palmer needed eyes on the boy immediately—as good as the video cameras may have been, they didn’t cover everything, and it was easy to lose someone in a crowd.
He decided to go with Regina Cash, in order to keep the other team member at the main entrance. He sent her a quick text: “Gallery 83, east wing, main floor. Locate boy and follow. Do not intercept.”
A moment later Palmer received a return text: “On my way.”
Chapter 14
4:45 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
Camille watched as the boy slowly made his way around the gallery. He moved in a counterclockwise direction and paused at each painting. Carefully studying each work of art, he repositioned himself occasionally to examine a small detail or to look back at paintings he had already scrutinized as if in comparison. When the boy finally came full circle and arrived back at the doorway they had used to enter the gallery, he silently took his place beside the girl. Camille said nothing. She understood that it was not the time for words.
They stood there in silence and simply watched the flow of patrons through and around the room.
“How about a snack?” Mary Sullivan asked finally. “The café downstairs is nice.”
The boy nodded, and the three visitors departed the gallery without another word.
Regina Cash made her way to the main floor and stationed herself along the East Sculpture Hall. She spied the boy almost immediately. He was accompanied by the Sullivan woman and her daughter—Cash recognized them from the pictures Palmer had sent her earlier that day. Cash nonchalantly moved to the side of the hall and pretended to look at a sculpture.
“Got him,” she said in a whisper. “Heading toward the rotunda.”
Her words were instantly transmitted to the small receiver in the ear of each team member.
Cash made a quick turn as soon as the boy passed and fell in with the rest of the tourists trailing behind him. When they reached the rotunda, the boy, Mary Sullivan, and her daughter turned right and headed for the stairs leading to the ground floor. Cash fell a few feet back but stayed close enough to maintain visual contact.
“Constitution Avenue,” she whispered. “Tag. You’re it.”
Eric McClain was the team member assigned to the exit leading to Constitution Avenue. He moved into position as soon as he heard the transmission from Regina Cash. A moment later he saw the boy and his entourage exit from the stairwell.
“Tagged,” he whispered.
The plan was to intercept them as soon as they left the museum and separate the boy from the woman and her daughter. The roper was already waiting, and McClain needed to confirm which exit they would use. Timing, he knew, was crucial. But the trio didn’t head for the exit. Instead, upon reaching the small foyer at the bottom of the stairs, they turned toward the center of the museum. McClain followed close behind.
“Still in the house,” he said into his transmitter.
McClain stayed close behind as the small group made their way over to the Garden Café, directly in the middle of the ground floor. He watched as they spoke briefly to the hostess, who then escorted them across the café to a small table near a fountain.
“Garden Café,” McClain whispered. “Tag. You’re it.”
He glanced over at Dorchek Palmer, who sat in the café less than ten feet from the boy. McClain nodded ever so slightly in Palmer’s direction, turned, and departed.
Chapter 15
5:05 p.m.
Saturday, December 16
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
Nothing.
Although his head was filled with all sorts of facts and information about the museum and the artwork inside it, the boy still knew absolutely nothing about himself. He had cautiously hoped that it would all come rushing back to him as soon as he had stepped into the museum, or saw the right painting, or sculpture, or whatever it was that had brought him to the museum in the first place. He had hoped that all the memories of who he was and why he had been found here would be waiting for him. He had hoped to find himself in the museum, but the boy remained lost.
Part of him wondered if the memories had ever existed. Maybe Art had always been some sort of blank slate. He knew it sounded absolutely ridiculous, but that’s how he felt—empty and unformed. He had no awareness of himself as anything other than what he was right now. No history. No family. No memories. Nothing. J
ust a boy who seemed to know way more about art than any twelve-year-old should know, sitting in the middle of one of the most famous museums in the world, with no idea why he was here.
“You okay?” Mary Sullivan asked. “You’ve barely touched your pie.”
“I’m okay,” the boy said. “I was just . . . expecting, you know, something.”
“I know.” Mary pointed at his head. “You’re in there somewhere. The memories will come when you’re ready.”
The boy nodded. He had heard that before.
But what if the memories never returned?
Mary glanced down at her watch. “The museum is closing, and we need to be heading back home soon,” she said. “Snow’s supposed to come down hard tonight, and I don’t want to get caught in it. I’m going to run to the ladies’ room before we get going. Will you be okay while I’m gone?”
Camille looked up from her chocolate cake, half of which appeared to be smeared across her left cheek. “You have to be kidding,” she said. “We’re not a couple of little kids.”
“Fine!” said Mary in mock exasperation. “Forget I even asked. Now, may I run to the ladies’ room before I pull a Tycho Brahe?”
Camille burst out laughing. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “And watch out for drunk moose!”
The boy looked at Camille. “Tycho what? Drunk moose?”
The Van Gogh Deception Page 7
