The Da Vinci Deception (30 page)

Today, except for the annoying itching, he was putting his attention to finding Tony Waters. Waters was in Italy, he was sure of that. His immediate task was to come up with the resources to go on the hunt once more. He shut himself in his office to pore over his notes. He played the tapes. Over and over. He studied the forensic reports with their horrible description of Sarah's death. He scoured the files prepared by Scotland Yard on the previous exploits of Tony Waters. The Yard had also deciphered the two shorthand notes found in Sarah's pocketbook.

Deats had no doubt that “G.H.” was Gregory Hewlitt.

Deats read the translations a few times hoping for some kind of insightful revelation to pop up. None did. He turned on his tape recorder:

Early Monday morning Deats was in the Royal Library. It was still closed to the public but he was passed through to the royal librarian's office and a fastidious young assistant with a much-too-perfect BBC accent.
He seemed cooperative and Deats declined the suggestion that he wait for Sir Robin Mackworth-Young to return from his weekend in Bath.

“I'm sure you can answer my questions,” Deats said. “Where in the library are what might be called the Documents Rooms?”

“We have more than a few of those, Superintendent. Some contain personal effects of the royal family, others hold works of art, by category to be sure, and they are all now part of the collection.”

“How are they cataloged? By number . . . name?”

“Numeric, as a rule. It depends what we're dealing with. Then there are the exceptions that make us all go quite insane.” He smiled.

“Does the designation 19M mean anything?”

“I don't see any particular significance to the number nineteen or the letter ‘M.' Nineteen is two digits and we have no such classification. Books and manuscripts are classified in a manner similar to the Dewey Decimal system. Statues and pottery and other three-dimensional objects are cataloged by period and type. Art and manuscripts are filed in series, generally numeric, with three, but usually four or five digits.”

“You used the word ‘series,'” Deats said. “I neglected to include that word. My information comes from very cryptic shorthand notes, possibly very much abbreviated. The specific notation reads: ‘one-nine-M series.'”

The librarian wrote the number, the letter “M,” and the word “series.” “It's so different when one writes it out. The letter M indicates one thousand, perhaps. The reference then might be to the nineteen thousand series. If so, the works would be included among the old masters as we so reverently . . .” he smiled, “refer to them.”

“And they would be in one of your Documents Rooms?”

“We use that term, though it's not an official designation.”

“The notes were written by Sarah Evans, the young policewoman who—”

“Who died so tragically. She was such a willing worker. I couldn't believe she had been placed here by Scotland Yard.” He said the words with deep reverence. “Only Sir Robin knew. But she had learned our particular jargon and probably knew what was kept where.”

“Can you show me the nineteen thousand series?”

“Certainly. It's this way.”

Deats was led to a room immediately off the reception hall. The room was lined with fireproof cabinets, and two rows of the cabinets were placed back-to-back in the middle of the room.

“You picked a good one. The nineteen thousand series includes the anatomical drawings of Leonardo da Vinci.”

Deats scanned the rows of cabinets and looked over the top of the files to the reception area and the door leading out of the library. He recalled Sarah's note. She had seen Waters take something from the files.

“May I see one of the drawings?”

“We can manage that.” A drawer was opened and a folder taken out at random. “What have we here? It's numbered 19127 and titled simply
The Brain.
”

Deats was handed a folder and found it held a drawing of a dissected brain. To his unpracticed eye, the paper was good as new, the inks only slightly faded. The drawing was sheathed in clear acrylic.

“Are there any other ‘old masters' in the nineteen thousand series?”

“Most doubtful. There may be works by Leonardo's students. This series belongs to Leonardo.”

“And this”—Deats returned the drawing—“is it valuable?”

“Of course it would never be sold from the Queen's Collection,” the librarian said imperiously, “but it would fetch four, possibly five million pounds.”

“That much?”

“It's a Leonardo. And there's only one like it.”

The librarian told Deats he had watched Gregory Hewlitt go about his job in a quiet, efficient manner. “Damned surprising he's disappeared.”

Deats was unable to learn more from further questioning, so he thanked his host, spoke briefly into his recorder, then returned to his office. He put in a call to Elliot Heston. The familiar voice came on the line.

“Where in hell have you been?” Heston chided. “I've been trying to get you all morning.”

“What's so important?”

“Your hand is important. How is it?”

“You've been calling all morning for that? It's coming along, but if I don't get the damned cast off soon, I may lop it off at the wrist. Elliot, I'm coming on to something and I want you to arrange for a special assignment to Branch C13.”

“Wally, I can't do that, and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the kind. You helped with the New York expedition but that was money from petty cash. Put in a request to assign me to your squad for two weeks. You're a deputy assistant commissioner, you can do it.”

There was a long silence. Deats pressed the phone to his ear for sounds to assure him the connection had not been broken.

“Let's talk it over.”

“Stay put,” Deats responded instantly. “I'm on my way.”

Ellie pushed the Lancia to its limits, rushing toward
Il Diodario.
She bypassed Milan and swung onto the A9. The road began to rise, the mountains surrounding Lake Como appearing dimly through the haze.

At Cernobbio she found her way to the grounds of the Grand Hotel Villa d'Este. Carlo Mietto greeted her with his austere, courtly manner. He wore the crossed keys proudly, the tails of his long gray coat signifying his seniority. “Welcome to the Villa d'Este,” he intoned with a delightfully accented voice. “Signore Kalem has asked that I call him as soon as you arrive. You will be comfortable on the patio until the boat arrives.”

Carlo led her through the hotel and out to a sunlit stretch of white-and-green tile that extended from the hotel to a row of docks. He snapped a young waiter to attention and sent him off for a glass of Campari and soda. Ellie was restless, she had driven hard and was content to stand and take in all the loveliness offered by Lario de Como.

She heard the roar of the boat's engines before she saw it circle around from south of the docks. The man behind the wheel was waving. She recognized Tony Waters and for a brief instant thought of running for her car and speeding away from all the beautiful madness. Instead she returned his greeting, a little giddy and excited that a new episode in her adventure was about to begin. Minutes later the boat skimmed over the deep blue water, a white frothy wake trailing behind. Ellie watched the Villa d'Este recede and the gray spot she marked as
Il Diodario
looming larger.

Eager hands helped her climb the wet steps leading to the portico. She entered a high-vaulted loggia lined with intricate mosaic patterns, the floor of patterned marble, and at its center a round green slab with inlays of pink, white, and black fleur-de-lis. Life-size statues of children stood in granite basins, water cascading over them and spilling in gentle falls to pools sunk into the floor. Broad-leafed plants set in terracotta tubs lined the walls opposite the fountains. Scattered among them were white gardenia plants exuding their powerful perfume.

She walked through the gates into the atrium. It was a square room
with a crystal and porcelain chandelier suspended from a beamed ceiling. Into the wall opposite the iron gates was set a fireplace ten feet wide; alabaster figures and brass candleholders were set across the mantel.

“Welcome.”

She turned to greet Jonas, who approached her, his arms extended.

“What do you think of my
Il Diodario
?”

“I'm not sure. I don't know if I'm in Disneyland or the Middle Ages.”

He took her hand and guided her through another hall to an ornately furnished dining room. The table was prepared for a formal dinner; on it were candles set in crystal and silver holders flanking a centerpiece of white roses and giant dahlias. The table was set for five; two on each side, the fifth at the end in front of the fireplace. Beyond the dining room in a small hallway, Jonas stopped. He pushed a button and a door opened to a small elevator.

“This luxury was installed as a courtesy of the Italian army,” he explained.

The elevator rose slowly to the next level. Jonas had not let loose of Ellie's hand and he guided her once more to a wide door. “This is your room.” He ushered her into an exquisitely furnished bedroom suite that included a balcony overlooking the lake.

“Do you like it?” he asked almost apologetically.

Her words came slowly. “I'm sorry if I sound unappreciative, but I didn't expect this.”

“We shall have cocktails in the solarium at eight. Dinner at nine. We'll be waiting for you.”

Stiehl was in the solarium at a quarter to eight. He had exhausted his eyes during a full afternoon devoted to the intricacies of Leonardo's complex handwriting and further attempts to memorize the peculiar shorthand language the artist had invented. He welcomed the break but was anxious, too, for the chance to meet Giorgio Burri and begin the final process of putting finished drawings on paper. And tonight he would meet Eleanor, the “Maiden from Florence,” as he had dubbed her. The Art Department would be together for the first time and he knew that was significant.