The Da Vinci Deception (16 page)

She slammed the notebook shut on the last entry, recalling how she had grown lonely and self-pitying. “Dumb broad,” she said aloud. “You made this decision all by yourself. Steve will be here soon. Jonas is coming and you can have it all out with him.” She smiled at what she heard herself say.

Then she turned to face the clutter accumulated over the spring and summer months: the bookshelves overflowed, a cabinet beside it was
crammed full with bottles containing ink samples, carbon black, and gallnuts. More bottles contained chemicals, a box was filled with centuries-old bits of iron, and others held chalks and pigments. An array of mortars and pestles suggested an apothecary's shop. On the floor were tall flasks of distilled water, two propane cylinders, straightwalled ceramic jars, and a light stand to which was clamped an ultraviolet lamp.

On top of another table was Ellie's collection of ancient paper. She had cataloged each sheet by its age, original use, where she bought it, price paid, fiber content, watermark identification, and
cartiere
in the case of twenty-seven sheets that were her prize discovery. She knew that at least two sheets had been made by the same craftsmen that produced paper used by Perino Del Vaga and Leonardo da Vinci.

A long table positioned directly under the skylight was Ellie's command center. Near the door leading to the patio was a smaller table for Patrizia Tozi, her assistant. “Patzi” was an art history student at the university, ideally qualified to investigate the pens, quills, and other drawing tools used by Leonardo. Disarray of a different sort surrounded her work area.

The phone rang. Its distinctive, metallic sound reached every corner of the stone house. She slipped down the steep steps, damning the bureaucratically bogged-down telephone company. It was Jonas.

He spoke quickly, dispensing with the amenities in a sentence, then went on: “I shall be leaving for Milan on Saturday. I will take the train to Florence and arrive late afternoon. You needn't meet me. I'll stay at the Excelsior and will call you at six.”

Ellie was puzzled by his abruptness, by his slow, almost stammering speech. She began to worry that somehow she had displeased him.

T
he quiet dignity permeating the lobby of the Connaught Hotel was shattered when Giorgio Burri stepped through the door, spewing forth a seamless stream of Italian, French, and English, climaxed by a thunderously emphatic
“Mio Dio!”
He was surrounded by the doorman, a taxi driver pleading for his fare, an assistant concierge, and a greatly agitated receptionist, who had dashed from behind his desk to discover what wild storm had blown in off Carlos Place.

“This man”—Giorgio was pointing at the driver—“deliberately drove to the wrong hotel so his fare might be increased.”

“I've been tryin' to tell you I made an honest mistake and I ain't chargin'you for it.” The driver, cap in hand, set himself in front of the highly charged Italian. “Twenty-four pounds and it's all square.”

The receptionist spoke up. “That's quite fair, Signore Burri. You are Signore Burri?”

“Of course. You are expecting me.”

“The fare from Heathrow is often more.”

“I have not been deceived? Then I must apologize.” A broad smile replaced the scowl.
“Sono molto dispiacente.
I am sorry. Here are your twenty-four and three more.” He handed over the notes.

“I'm obliged, sir. Thank you.” The driver spun and returned to his taxi.

“No more misunderstanding.
Va bene!
” Giorgio yanked at the collar of the raincoat he wore as a cape. Long, graying hair covered his ears, framing a lean, expressive face dominated by an aquiline nose that was doubtless a distinguishing Burri family feature. He was tall and trim for a man of sixty-two. He was not the conventional image of an art scholar, not with the toughness he exuded and the ruddy, deeply lined skin that showed weather-beaten evidence of his love for skiing and hiking.

“If you will come with me, Signore Burri, we can arrange for your accommodations.”
Giorgio followed the greatly relieved receptionist to the desk.

As he registered, his eyes never strayed from the porter standing by his luggage. He was handed a message. It was from Jonas, requesting he phone upon arrival. When the porter suggested he take the bags and meet him in his room, Giorgio said with finality, “
Bene,
but the black one stays with me.”

From his room he phoned Jonas. Giorgio treated phones as necessary evils, somehow never relying on the instrument to carry a sound from one place to another. And so, he shouted.

“Jonas, my friend, it is Giorgio. What may I do for you?”

There was silence for a moment and Giorgio looked skeptically at the telephone as if to confirm his suspicions. Then he heard a familiar voice.

“Welcome to London, Giorgio. I have planned dinner for tonight.”

“What a pleasure. I am anxious to see you and place my files in your hands.”

“We'll meet at the bar. Eight o'clock.”

At eight Giorgio was in the Connaught Bar, ensconced at a table opposite the wide door leading from the lobby into the wood-paneled room. A tall glass filled with ice, a section of orange, and a bottle of Pellegrino water had been set in front of him. Resting against his leg was the black bag he had not let out of his sight since leaving his villa in Cernobbio earlier in the day. He wore a heavy tweed jacket with a printed silk scarf tied loosely around his neck beneath an open shirt. A gaily striped
mouchoir
drooped from his breast pocket. The colors and fabrics might normally clash, yet they came together remarkably well.

His eyes swept the room, pausing to enjoy a dark-haired young lady with an absolutely perfect profile. She sat to the right of the great door. Then he saw Jonas make his entrance. He stood and greeted him effusively, confused at seeing Jonas accompanied by a man he did not know.

“You remember Tony,” Jonas said as he fitted himself into a chair next to Giorgio.

“
Sì.
But he is very much changed. Perhaps it is the mustache. You did not tell me we would have the honor of Signore Waters's presence.”
There was a sharp edge to the way he said the name and a clear indication his business was with Jonas.

Jonas signaled to a waiter and ordered a double Dewars. Tony pointed to the Pellegrino water and asked for the same.

“We are approaching that time when too much is happening in too many places. Tony will help me keep an eye on things, particularly the work that can now commence in earnest.”

“I mean no disrespect to Mr. Waters, but you have emphasized most eloquently that we maintain the greatest—how do you say?—discretion.”

“All the more reason Tony joins us. I rely on him to keep meddlers away. We must have absolute secrecy.” Jonas held his glass to Giorgio. “Agreed?”

“Sono d'accordo.”
Giorgio returned the gesture. “I drink to our success.”

They finished their drinks and moved into the grill, where Jonas played host. Thin slices of smoked salmon were prepared at a small buffet nearby, followed by an entrée of Scottish beef served from a huge silver-domed cart wheeled to their table. Giorgio relished the outpouring of food but could not resist announcing his preference for the simple Chianti wines and sturdy Barbera d'Asti. If the wines Jonas selected had not excited him, the offer of a stout Havana did. A cup of espresso and the cigar added to Giorgio's contentment. He rambled from subject to subject, then praised Jonas for his ambitious undertaking. “There will be many in the academies and universities who will applaud your incredible discovery. You will be famous, my friend. And deservedly so.” Jonas accepted the flattery by puckering his lips to form the familiar “O.”

“Only this”—Jonas held out his arms as if to embrace the entire dining room—“would delay me from seeing what you have brought to us.” Then his mood changed abruptly, and he said very solemnly, “But it is time we go to your room, Giorgio. We have much to discuss.”

In fact, Giorgio had a suite: a bedroom and a handsomely furnished sitting room. It had pleased Giorgio; now Jonas added his approval. He shed his jacket. The grill room had become intolerably warm and perspiration showed across his broad back.

“I shall be very happy to show you what is in my black bag. I have not let it out of my sight, even to go there.” Giorgio nodded toward the bathroom. “It is true, every day another pair of eyes would visit me, and I grew tired of hiding the papers. I have shielded them even from Ivonne, and it is the first time in thirty-six years that I have kept a secret from my wife. I told her that what I was doing was a surprise and
that someday soon I would take her to the United States.” Again he laughed and a sprinkling of gold crowns sparkled from amid straight, white teeth. “Ivonne wishes to visit New York and San Francisco as if they were a hundred kilometers apart.”

He unlocked the briefcase and withdrew a leather-covered box. Jonas edged closer and Tony pulled a chair up to the table around which they were gathered.

“In this box are fifty-six sheets of paper representing twenty-eight leaves. That means there are fourteen folios. I have classified them in two groups. Eight leaves contain Leonardo's architectural studies, which we must claim are missing from similar manuscripts now at the Institut de France. Twenty leaves contain drawings and sketches Leonardo prepared in anticipation of one or another painting he later completed, and are similar to the folios at the Uffizi and on which Leonardo drew his early thoughts for
The Adoration of the Magi.
But these which I have prepared represent his early studies for the
Mona Lisa, The Last Supper,
and the
Leda
.

“The size of each sheet differs slightly from the others, yet most are of the dimensions Leonardo preferred: approximately twenty-one-by-twenty-eight centimeters. The folios containing sketches for his paintings were once part of a bound book. Leonardo's sketchbook, one might say. I think, Jonas, you must suggest that someone at some time took the book apart and changed the size of the sheets to fit into another volume.

“I am pleased with my imitation of Leonardo, but my skills as an artist have long since departed me. Even so, I have been more faithful to Leonardo's style than was Melzi. As I told you, I have taken Melzi's copies and eliminated what were obviously his additions or interpretations. Strange how even in those days a student considered himself more skilled than his teacher. As well as I believe I have remained true to the Master's style, your artist must do even better. He must render every tiny line with absolute precision and with an unhesitating flow of the pen—a task I do not envy.

“My drawings will be his guide, but he must place each drawing on the sheet in the precise position I have indicated. I have, in another box, copies of enlarged sections and details of Leonardo's finished paintings or drawings, and it is these the artist must duplicate with the change in perspective and angle I have indicated. You must show each page to me as he completes them, and of course we shall eventually work side by side as the drawings are completed. This shall be of great importance
when Leonardo's commentary is written. The handwriting will be most difficult to reproduce, and so I have used only the barest amount. And here also are complete instructions for the execution of the Master's handwriting. They must be followed without exception.”

 

As Giorgio spoke, his attention was squarely on Jonas. Tony might well have been simply another piece of furniture. Now with the preamble concluded, Giorgio opened the brown box, took out a packet of papers, and handed them to Jonas, who placed it on his broad lap. He examined the top sheet, which contained sketches of a swan, its curving neck held by graceful hands.