The Van Gogh Deception

by Deron R. Hicks

  Art ended the call, and the line went dead. He removed the battery from the phone and dumped both the device and battery in a nearby trash can. His hand was shaking from the cold as he slipped his glove back on. Pulling the Sullivans’ thick sweater tightly around him, the boy buried his hands in his pockets again and headed down Constitution Avenue toward his destination.

  9:13 p.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  Starbucks, Washington, DC

  Officer Pat McCarthy took his time preparing his coffee.

  A little sugar.

  A little cream.

  Stir.

  Sip.

  Repeat until perfect.

  He had time to get his coffee just right. With the exception of the incident at the Hotel Monaco, it had been a quiet night in his part of the city.

  McCarthy took another sip.

  Perfect.

  He fixed the lid on his cup and was headed for the door when he remembered the other reason he had stopped in at the Starbucks on Fifteenth Street. He made his way back to the counter. A thin young man with a nametag that read RICK stood behind the register.

  “Can I get you something else?” asked Rick.

  “Nah,” said the officer. “Just forgot to ask something. We have an alert out for a couple of missing kids. One’s a boy, age twelve or so, blond hair. The other’s a girl, ten years old, with bright red hair. Seen anyone matching those descriptions tonight?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” asked Rick.

  “Listen,” said the officer. “Don’t bust my chops over this—​I gotta ask. Kids went missing from the National Gallery a few hours ago, so everyone’s having a fit, particularly with the snow falling like it is.”

  Rick shook his head. “Not what I meant,” he said. “Look behind you.”

  The officer turned around. Standing directly behind him was a girl who appeared to be around ten years of age, with bright red hair.

  “My name’s Camille Sullivan,” the girl said. “And I want to go home.”

  Chapter 42

  9:45 p.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  Storage closet, Washington, DC

  Art opened the small closet and slipped inside. He turned on the light and pulled the door shut behind him. He could feel his entire body starting to slowly defrost. It had been a long walk, and despite the sweater and gloves, he still shivered from the cold. He sat down and rested for a moment in the small warm room.

  Three years ago his father had been asked to examine a painting by Rembrandt that hung in the State Apartments at Windsor Castle just outside London. Art knew that questions always surrounded paintings attributed to Rembrandt. The royal family wanted his father’s opinion—​was it a real Rembrandt or not?

  The State Apartments, located in the Upper Ward of the Windsor Castle complex, have served as a residence for the British Royal Family for centuries. One beautiful fall afternoon, after the crowds of tourists had departed, Art and his father had been escorted through the massive building by a kindly gentleman named Norris. The Rembrandt painting hung in a room overlooking a small stand of trees to the north of the castle. Norris had offered Art a brief tour of the building while his father examined the painting, a proposition that Art had immediately accepted. The tour, it turned out, was spectacular. Art particularly liked the suits of armor that seemed to be standing all over the place. Just as the tour was about to end, Norris stopped near a tall wooden archway and pointed at the thick wall that separated two rooms.

  “There are secrets in these walls,” the gentleman said, almost in a whisper.

  “What kind of secrets?” Art asked.

  Norris looked down at Art over his glasses. “Can I trust ye?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Art replied. “I promise.”

  Norris pondered Art’s response and then, seemingly convinced, made his way over to the archway, which was paneled in oak that had aged to a deep reddish brown. Norris glanced around to make sure the two were alone, and then he pushed the bottom of a tall panel with his foot. There was a click and the panel popped open to reveal a secret passageway.

  “Wow!” Art exclaimed. “And I just thought the walls were thick.”

  Norris smiled. “There are passages that run throughout the castle—​hidden in the walls, floors, and staircases. Servants would use them to move about the household.”

  Norris carefully closed the panel, which blended seamlessly back into the wall. “Remember,” he had said, “there are secrets everywhere.”

  There are secrets everywhere.

  It was a lesson that Art had learned well and applied often. After the visit to Windsor Castle, the boy had learned to ask for behind-the-scenes tours of the famous buildings and museums that his father visited in his work. The boy would ask to see any hidden passages, corridors, and rooms—​places the public never went and never knew existed. The people in charge of these buildings always seemed more than willing to share their secrets—​Art just had to ask.

  Norris had been right—​there were secrets every-where.

  Art had packed a few supplies before leaving his father’s studio. He carefully unloaded the contents of his backpack onto the floor of the closet. It was time to get to work. It was time for secrets.

  9:47 p.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  First District Station, Metropolitan Police Department, Washington, DC

  Mary Sullivan could not stop hugging her daughter.

  “I’m probably grounded for a really long time,” mumbled Camille from somewhere deep within her mother’s smothering embrace.

  “The rest of your life,” replied Mary. “And then some.”

  Mary released Camille from the bear hug, stood back, and wiped the tears from her face. “Detective Evans has a few questions for you,” she said. “And then we’ll discuss what happened today.”

  Camille nodded. There was no sense in fighting the inevitable. But it wasn’t the questions that bothered the girl—​it was the answers. Camille took a seat in the chair next to the detective’s desk. Her mother excused herself and left Camille alone with the detective.

  “You had us worried tonight,” said Detective Evans as soon as Mary was out of earshot.

  “I’m sorry,” Camille said. “I was just trying to help Art. I promised my mother that I would keep an eye on him.”

  “We’re all trying to help him,” said the detective. “That’s why it’s so important that you tell me everything that happened.”

  “I’ll do my best,” replied Camille, “but there’s really not much to it. Art sort of freaked out at the museum after my mom went to the restroom. He took off down one of the hallways. He kept saying he had to get somewhere, but all we did was wander around the city. I’m not sure he knew what he was doing. I finally got tired and cold and told him I wanted to go home.”

  Camille knew her story was short on details and not even close to the truth—​but it was the best she could do under the circumstances.

  “Any idea where he might be headed?” asked the detective. “We still need to find him. It’s really cold outside and the snow’s getting heavier. We’re all very worried about him.”

  “I’m worried about him too,” replied Camille. “But he didn’t tell me where he was going.”

  This was true. Art had a plan—​but he did not tell Camille what it was. And she had not asked. Nor had she asked what was on the small, folded-up piece of paper that he had given her. The time for that would come soon enough.

  “Think,” said the detective. Her voice was calm and reassuring. “Was there anything he said that might help us find him?”

  Camille paused and pretended to consider the question.

  “Not that I can remember,” she finally said. “I’m sorry.”

  This was a lie. Lightning was sure to strike the girl at any moment. There were lots of things that Art had said—​and that Camille knew—​that would blow the detective’s mind. But the girl had made a promise t
o her friend.

  The detective leaned over and put her hand on Camille’s knee. She looked the girl directly in the eyes. “I want you to take some time and think about what happened,” Evans said. “It could be dangerous for him out there all alone. If you think of anything—​anything—​please let me know.”

  Camille looked directly back at the detective. She knew better than anyone how dangerous it could be for Art. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

  Evans sat back in her seat. Camille didn’t think the detective was buying her story. But it didn’t matter. A promise was a promise.

  Chapter 43

  9:52 p.m.

  Saturday, December 16

  Downtown streets, Washington, DC

  It was only a short drive from his downtown apartment to the worn-down industrial building in the northeast section of Washington, DC, but he might as well have traveled to another planet. Things change fast inside the Beltway. The fantasy world of multimillion-dollar town homes and hyperexpensive office buildings quickly give way to the basic realities of urban life. The building on Third Street was as anonymous as they come—​constructed of unadorned cinder block and surrounded by other plain cinder-block buildings with nothing to distinguish one from the other except the elaborate graffiti scrawled on the outside. But that’s exactly what Dorchek Palmer had wanted when he purchased the former industrial site.

  As he approached the building, a large steel security door slowly opened. Palmer’s car pulled inside, and the steel door closed behind him with a clang. Lights flickered on inside the structure. Palmer stepped out of his car and looked around the large open space. There was some old industrial equipment piled in one corner and a couple of large trash cans filled to the brim with packing material in another. Otherwise, the building looked as if it had not been occupied for years.

  Palmer made his way over to the stairwell at the rear of the building and stepped inside. A single light bulb hung from the first-floor ceiling. A rusty iron gate with a thick padlock blocked access to the stairs. Old newspapers and coffee cups were piled up behind the gate. In the back corner of the stairwell was a steel door with the fading words MAINTENANCE CLOSET barely legible on it. The door was rusted at the corners and appeared every bit as old as the building itself.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Palmer,” a voice said over a speaker.

  Palmer nodded in the direction of a camera hidden in the corner of the stairwell.

  With a buzzing sound, the steel door popped open. Inside the small closet was a dried-up string mop, an ancient bucket, and a cardboard box filled with empty tin cans. The small space still smelled faintly of industrial solvents and ammonia. Palmer stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. A moment later there was another buzz, and the rear of the closet opened up to reveal a shiny steel staircase. Palmer took the stairs down one floor to a room in the basement that would have fit in nicely with any of the modern office buildings just a few blocks to the south. Winston Lantham sat at a desk watching a panel of monitors while Gleb Bazanov poured himself a cup of coffee. Both of them looked as if they had fallen out of a tall tree and hit every branch on the way down.

  “How’s our guest?” asked Palmer.

  “Same as always,” Lantham replied. “Quiet.”

  “I need to speak to him,” said Palmer. He made his way over to a steel door at the end of the room. The door clicked open. Palmer stepped inside, and the door closed behind him. The room was well lit and constructed completely of concrete. Ventilation into the room was provided by way of several narrow shafts along the edge of the ceiling. The only furniture in the room was a small cot at the far end. A tall man—​too tall for the small cot—​was lying down on it, his legs splayed out over the end of the cot and his eyes closed.

  “We have a bit of a problem, Dr. Hamilton,” Palmer said.

  “We have a problem?” asked the man lying on the cot. He kept his eyes closed.

  Palmer did his best to maintain his composure, but his patience was worn thin. “I have a message from your son.”

  Hamilton remained flat on his back. “That’s nice.”

  Palmer knew that Hamilton was not going to make this easy. He had refused to answer any questions about the whereabouts of the journal—​or about anything, for that matter. Hamilton seemed to understand what was happening—​and seemed remarkably unfazed by it all.

  Palmer, however, suspected that he might now finally get the good doctor’s attention.

  “Your son has proposed a trade,” said Palmer. “The journal for your freedom.”

  Arthur Hamilton Sr. remained poised, but it wasn’t easy. Everything had happened so fast in the parking garage at the National Gallery of Art. After realizing far too late that Dr. Belette was part of the plan to sell the fake van Gogh to the museum, Hamilton had barely enough time to stuff the journal—​and some money—​into his son’s bag. His last words to Art seemed ridiculous in retrospect—​Hamilton had simply told his son to run and hide. But at the time that was the best he could do. He didn’t know whom he could trust, and he just wanted his son to make it out of the parking garage alive. His son was smart—​brilliant, actually. He knew that Art would eventually find his way to the police or the FBI—​to someone who could help.

  After the incident in the parking garage, the next thing Hamilton remembered was waking up in this room with a nasty headache—​but at least he had still been alive. At that time, he had no idea what had happened to Art. Had he gotten away? The young man standing across the room—​known to Hamilton only as Palmer—​had served as Hamilton’s sole contact with the outside world for the past day or so. Palmer had said nothing about Art. Hamilton took it as a good sign that the young man continued to pester him about the location of the journal. If they had located the journal, then they would have located Art. So if they didn’t have the journal, that meant they didn’t have Art—​he was still out there somewhere. But how long could Art evade these people? Had he gone to the police, or was he on his own somewhere?

  Hamilton had already rolled through all the possible scenarios of what could happen—​and there were some pretty bad ones. He tried to stay positive, but it was difficult. Of all the situations he had considered, he had never expected that his son would try to strike a deal for his freedom—​and that scared Hamilton, that Art was communicating directly with Palmer. But the arrangement also provided the only chance that he—​and Art—​might make it out of this mess alive. His son was up to something, but what?

  There was only one thing he could do—​trust his son.

  Hamilton sat up and opened his eyes. “Go on.”

  “Your son has been quite the thorn in our side,” said Palmer. “We’ve chased him across the city. He’s sent two of my employees to the hospital, left one unconscious in an alley and another one unconscious in a hotel, and—​quite frankly—​I still haven’t figured out what he’s done to the last one I sent after him.”

  Hamilton smiled. Another surprise from his son. Apparently Hamilton had been raising Jason Bourne.

  “So what’s the deal?” asked Hamilton.

  “That’s just it,” replied Palmer. “Your son didn’t provide a lot of details. The trade is supposed to take place at midnight tonight, but I’m not exactly sure where.”

  Hamilton had not had access to a watch or clock for . . . well, he wasn’t sure how long. But the way his captor was talking, the time for the swap must have been getting close.

  “What did my son say?” asked Hamilton.

  “He said we would meet at the Pantheon,” replied Palmer. “I have no idea what that means. Isn’t there a Pantheon in Greece?”

  The Pantheon.

  Hamilton had to work hard to keep from laughing.

  He knew exactly where his son intended to convene to exchange the journal for the hostage—​and Hamilton also knew that his young captor was not going to be happy about it.

  “Rome,” Hamilton said. “The Pantheon in Rome
, not the one in Greece. Most people think of the building in Greece, but that’s actually the Parthenon.”

  The blood drained from his captor’s face. “What?” he exclaimed. “Your son must be playing some sort of trick.”

  Hamilton shook his head. “Nope,” he replied. “My son was talking about the Pantheon in Rome. That’s where he wants to meet you tonight.”

  His captor stared across the room at the man on the cot. “We can’t conceivably get to Rome by midnight. Neither can your son. It’s not possible.”

  “It is possible,” Hamilton said. “Interior of the Pantheon, Rome is a painting by a man named Giovanni Panini. He painted it in the early eighteenth century. It’s quite lovely, I might add.”

  The painting showed the inside of the Pantheon, a Roman temple built in the early second century and a popular tourist destination. In the painting, tourists mill about in the spacious interior of the structure, under its grand dome. The painting was part of one of the children’s tours at the National Gallery of Art. Hamilton had sat in front of this image with his son on several occasions and discussed the various people on display in the work of art. What was the lady in the bright blue dress saying to the lady in orange? Why were so many people kneeling? Art loved that painting.

  “A painting,” echoed Palmer.

  “Yes,” replied Hamilton. “And do you want to guess which museum it’s hanging in right now?”

  Hamilton’s young captor did not respond. He simply turned and left the room without another word.

  Hamilton smiled, lay back on the cot, and closed his eyes.

  And so they were to go back to the National Gallery of Art.

  This was, Dorchek Palmer realized, a chess match—​and the boy had just made his move. Palmer had to concede that it was an unexpected and inspired move—​like Bobby Fischer’s sacrifice of his knight in his 1956 match with Donald Byrne. And Palmer did not need to be reminded that Bobby Fischer, the greatest American chess player ever, had been only thirteen years old when he defeated Byrne, a leading American chess master at the time.