“I am a little nervous,” said the boy. “And my hands are getting all sweaty.”
Lantham, Bazanov, and Belette each took two more steps back. “We still don’t know what he did with Nigel,” Bazanov muttered. “The kid’s some sort of . . . junior attack ninja or something. Maybe he blew Nigel up.”
Palmer stood in the middle of the room and waved his arms wildly in the air. “There is nothing in that bag but colored sand or Kool-Aid. I’m telling you, it’s a bluff!”
“It’s not a bluff,” Art said.
And without another word of warning, the boy simply tossed the small plastic bag toward Palmer and the others.
Chapter 47
12:10 a.m.
Sunday, December 17
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
Art watched the bag flip end over end as it flew across the room in the direction of the four men. It reminded him of watching a play in baseball, when a group of infielders converge on a fly ball—no one calls for the catch, and everyone assumes someone else is going to make the play.
But no one caught it. No one made the play. The ball—or rather, the bag—simply fell between all of them as they stood and watched.
The boy had expected to hear some sort of splat as the bag hit the ground.
But there was no splat—only a boom. A really big boom.
The bag exploded in a burst of bright red light. Smoke instantly filled the room.
The flash of light and the smoke had left Dorchek Palmer dazed and struggling to see what was going on around him. His ears were ringing from the explosion, but he could faintly hear Lantham, Bazanov, and Belette coughing and screaming like small children as they desperately tried to make sure all their hands and fingers were intact. Palmer took a step back but tripped over Belette, who had fallen to the floor in the confusion.
“Get them!” Palmer screamed from where he’d landed on the ground. “They can’t get away.”
There was no more time for games—Palmer knew that he needed to end this mess now. He pulled a gun from his coat and stood back up.
He could see figures moving around in the smoke, but exactly who was doing what was unclear.
Palmer positioned himself near the entrance to the room and prepared to shoot anyone who tried to leave.
Despite everything that was going on around them—the smoke, the yelling, the screaming, the coughing—Arthur Hamilton Sr. could not help but smile.
The blast of light from the explosion and the ensuing smoke had provided the perfect cover for their escape. Art’s plan had been brilliant—if more than a little reckless and dangerous.
Arthur Hamilton grabbed his son by the arm. “Let’s go,” he whispered.
“No,” said Art. “We’re staying here.”
Hamilton couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could they stay? Palmer would not show any mercy—they would not make it out of the room alive.
“But we need to go,” insisted Hamilton. “Now!”
Art did not respond. Instead, he tore himself free from his father’s grip and stepped over to the painting by Leonardo da Vinci. Art looked at his father for a brief second, then turned back to the artwork.
“What are you doing?” Hamilton exclaimed.
But it was too late. The smoke was already starting to clear—and Hamilton could hear Palmer shouting directions from the far side of the room.
They had missed their opportunity.
And that’s when the boy did something totally unexpected. Hamilton watched as his son ripped the five-hundred-year-old fragile and priceless da Vinci painting from its stand.
Dr. Roger Belette, still on the floor, was the first to see it.
The smoke had cleared just enough for him to make out the figure of the boy standing in front of the da Vinci painting in the middle of the room.
The director’s jaw dropped as he watched the boy wrench the painting free from the panel.
The first thought that passed through Belette’s mind was concern over the painting—he was, after all, the head of acquisitions for the museum, and the boy was manhandling an irreplaceable piece of history. There are only a relatively small number of paintings by Leonardo da Vinci in existence, and the boy was recklessly tearing one of the artist’s portraits from the stand on which it was hanging.
Didn’t the boy know better?
And then a second thought hit Belette like a speeding train. He understood exactly what the boy was doing.
But it was too late to stop him.
Palmer stood and assessed the situation. Only a thin haze of smoke remained in the room. Lantham, Bazanov, and Belette had finally gotten control of themselves after realizing that all their appendages remained fully intact. Lantham and Bazanov had drawn their guns, and they appeared angry.
Remarkably, Hamilton stood in the exact same place as he had when his son had tossed the bag. His son stood to his left, holding something in his arms. Neither had taken the opportunity—presented by the explosion, the smoke, and the confusion—to escape.
Palmer leveled his gun at Hamilton. “It’s over,” he said.
And that’s when Belette screamed.
“The painting!” Belette yelled. “He removed the painting!”
Palmer turned to Belette, who was sitting on the floor with a look of horror on his face. But Belette wasn’t looking at the boy, or the painting. He was staring past Palmer—back toward the entrance to the room.
And that’s when Palmer heard it. The rapid click click of metal gears accompanied by a swooshing sound. Palmer turned around just in time to hear the clicking sound end with a loud metal clang.
He stared at the entrance to the room—which was now completely blocked by a metal security gate. They were trapped.
Chapter 48
12:15 a.m.
Sunday, December 17
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
Palmer went to the gate and tried to lift it. It wouldn’t budge. Bazanov and Lantham joined in, the veins in Bazanov’s thick neck popping out like cords. The metal structure would not give. There was no way under, over, or around it.
Palmer turned to Belette. “Open it!” he demanded.
“I can’t,” Belette said. He looked as if he would throw up at any moment. “I told you, this is the most secure room in the museum—that’s why the da Vinci is in here. As soon as the boy removed the painting, the room’s security system was activated and the gate came down. It can’t be opened from inside the room.”
Palmer rushed across the room and grabbed Belette by his collar. “Then who can open it?” he screamed.
“O-only the security st-staff,” Belette stammered. “But they may already be on their way down here. There will be questions.”
“Then I suggest you provide them with answers, and quick,” said Palmer.
He turned to Hamilton and Art. His eyes burned with fury. The cool, calm demeanor was gone. “I’ve spent years planning this,” he growled. “The van Gogh forgery was perfect. I will not let one small boy ruin everything.”
He leveled his gun at Art.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a voice from behind him.
Palmer turned around. On the opposite side of the gate stood a short woman in a long dark coat. She had short black hair, and a pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck.
Palmer pointed his gun at her. “Open the gate!” he said. “Now!”
The woman removed her right hand from the pocket of her coat and held it up. She was holding a badge. “Detective Brooke Evans of the Metropolitan Police,” she said. “And you’re under arrest.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Palmer saw Belette faint and fall back on the floor with a thud.
“Open the gate!” Palmer demanded once again.
The woman sighed. “As I said,” she repeated calmly, “you’re under arrest.”
“I don’t think yo
u understand the situation,” said Palmer.
“Nor do you,” replied the woman.
Suddenly the corridor outside the gallery was flooded with police officers and men and women with the letters FBI emblazoned across their chests. They all had guns drawn and pointed at Palmer, Lantham, and Bazanov.
“I suggest you all drop your weapons,” said the detective calmly.
“Get the boy and his father,” Palmer said to Bazanov and Lantham. “We’ll use them as hostages.”
“Are you kidding?” said Lantham. Palmer watched as Lantham put his weapon on the floor and placed his hands high over his head. Bazanov glanced once at Palmer, then placed his own weapon on the ground.
Palmer looked around. Belette was flat on his back on the floor, and Bazanov and Lantham stood with their arms raised in surrender. There were at least thirty police officers and FBI agents standing in the corridor outside the gallery.
Dorchek Palmer had nowhere to go.
Years of planning and preparation to commit the perfect crime had all been for nothing—all because of a blond-haired boy who had lost his memory.
It was over, and Palmer knew it.
He put his gun on the floor.
And with that, the metal gate slowly started to rise.
Chapter 49
12:47 a.m.
Sunday, December 17
West Building, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
Art and his father sat on a bench in the West Sculpture Hall and watched as the FBI and Metropolitan Police scurried about the museum. The FBI had already escorted Palmer, his henchmen, and Belette from the museum. Detective Evans said it would be only a matter of time before the other people involved were rounded up as well—Belette had made it clear that he would tell the police everything he knew to try to save his own hide. The museum’s director stood on the far side of the hall speaking with Detective Evans and an FBI agent. She appeared to be in shock at what had taken place in her museum and directly under her nose.
“They almost did it,” said Art. “One hundred and eighty-three million dollars.”
Art’s father shook his head. “One hundred and eighty-three million?” he said. “This isn’t about one hundred and eighty-three million dollars. Try two, maybe three, billion dollars.”
“What?” Art exclaimed. “How is that even possible?”
“The van Gogh was just the start,” replied his father. “The fake painting was supposedly part of a lost collection of paintings hidden away for years in a vault in Berlin.”
“Why would anyone believe the story about the lost collection?” asked Art. “It seems so . . . well, fake.”
“It was fake, but they believe it because of men like Hildebrand Gurlitt.”
“Who?” Art was well versed in art history, but that particular name did not ring a bell. He wondered if the amnesia was still affecting him.
“Gurlitt was an art dealer who worked with the Nazis during World War II,” said Arthur Hamilton. “He secretly put together a collection of more than a thousand paintings that he stole during the war—all of them masterpieces. Nobody—and I mean nobody—knew about the paintings. He didn’t try to sell them or show them off. They were all just stuffed into a small cramped apartment. When Gurlitt died, his son took over the apartment—and he didn’t tell anyone about the paintings. The secret simply continued.”
“So what happened?” asked Art. “Someone eventually found out, right?”
“Eventually,” replied his dad, “but only when Gurlitt’s son was very old. In fact, when his son died, a painting by Claude Monet was found in the suitcase he took to the hospital.”
“Wow,” said Art. He didn’t feel quite as bad about tearing the da Vinci from the wooden stand. At least he hadn’t stuffed it into a suitcase.
Arthur Hamilton explained that there were still thousands of lost and stolen paintings—masterpieces by Vermeer, Raphael, Manet, da Vinci, Michelangelo, and, yes, Vincent van Gogh.
“So this wasn’t just about selling the van Gogh painting,” Art’s father said. “It was to convince people that the rumored lost collection was real—that they could believe it existed. If the National Gallery of Art bought a painting from that collection, then the rest of the world would soon follow.”
“But who would buy all of those paintings? Wouldn’t some museum eventually figure it out?”
“Maybe,” replied Art’s dad. “Or maybe not. The fake van Gogh was really, really good—the best fake I’ve ever seen. But more important, there’s pride involved.”
“Pride?”
“Yes, pride. Back in 2012, the Royal Family of Qatar purchased a painting by Paul Cézanne for two hundred and fifty million dollars. There are other countries and people with unimaginable wealth who would line up in a second to buy a masterpiece by Vincent van Gogh, or hundreds of other painters. Trust me, no one wants to believe they paid hundreds of millions of dollars for a fake—so they simply don’t ask.”
Art sat back and contemplated what might have happened if Palmer’s plan had succeeded—hundreds of fake paintings sold for billions of dollars across the globe. And the only thing that had kept that from happening was a small leather journal tucked away in the boy’s backpack.
Arthur Hamilton put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “And even though what you did was incredibly foolish and dangerous,” he said, “I’m very proud of you.”
“It wasn’t just me,” Art replied. “There was this girl named—”
“Art!” a loud voice screamed across the sculpture hall.
All the police officers, detectives, and FBI agents stopped what they were doing and turned in the direction of the sound.
“Art!” the voice screamed again.
Camille was sprinting across the hall, her red hair flying in all directions. “Art! Art!” she screamed as she ran. There was a huge smile on her face.
Arthur Hamilton looked to his son. “Your fan club?” he asked.
“No,” Art responded. “My friend.”
Author’s Note
In 1888, while living in Arles, France, Vincent van Gogh painted The Park at Arles with the Entrance Seen Through the Trees. Following Vincent’s death in July 1890, ownership of the painting passed through a number of hands until it found its way to a private residence in Berlin, Germany in 1928. Unfortunately, the trail ends in Berlin, where the painting was presumably destroyed by fire during World War II. Today, only a black and white image of the painting remains. However, in a letter to his brother Theo, Vincent provides some hint of what has been lost to history:
[N]ature here is extraordinarily beautiful. Everything and everywhere. The dome of the sky is a wonderful blue, the sun has a pale sulphur radiance, and it’s soft and charming, like the combination of celestial blues and yellows in paintings by Vermeer of Delft. . . . But my colours, my canvas, my wallet are completely exhausted today. The last painting, done with the last tubes on the last canvas, is a naturally green garden, is painted without green as such, with nothing but Prussian blue and chrome yellow.1
Still, not all hope is lost—and the underlying premise of The Van Gogh Deception remains sound. As recently as 2014, tax collectors in Spain found a van Gogh painting that had been missing for decades in a safety deposit box. Perhaps one day The Park at Arles with the Entrance Seen Through the Trees will likewise re-emerge.
A big thanks to Anita Homan, documentalist at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, for her assistance in tracing the provenance of the painting. And a big thanks as well to Elizabeth Thorne and Katie Forsyth of Brookstone School in Columbus, Georgia for their assistance with a tricky French translation. Merci beaucoup.
MiddleGradeMania.com
About the Author
As a lawyer, DERON HICKS investigates mysteries for a living. He graduated from the University of Georgia with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in painting and from Mercer Law School. He is the author of Secrets of Shakespeare’s Grave and Tower of the Five O
rders, which were both Junior Library Guild selections. He lives in Warm Springs, Georgia, with his wife and children.
Learn more at www.deronhicks.com
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Footnotes
Credit: Van Gogh Museum, Vincent van Gogh The Letters, Letter 683 to Theo van Gogh. Arles, Tuesday, 18 September 1888.
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