The Da Vinci Deception (43 page)

“We will pay eight million dollars. The money will be deposited to your bank within twenty-four hours of the signing of this agreement.”

Jonas sat. The reality that he would be paid so large a sum came with a sudden rush of exhilaration and fear. He had vainly tried to put a value on the manuscript, but couldn't trust his judgment. Selling privately would attract little attention. Offering the pages one at a time at auction would create demand, higher prices, and worldwide attention.

“I will need time to consider your offer. There are many advantages to the auction.”

“I have reviewed your astrological chart and it distresses me deeply. You, or someone close to you, remains in grave danger.”

“Damn your chart! You make an offer and tie it to warnings of danger. Is that really what your astrology is all about?” He had dismissed her ominous prophesy before, but in spite of his outburst he could not shrug off his new respect for the foretellings of Madame Sun's
Ming Shu.

“There is something more which is not part of your astrological chart,” Madam Sun intoned. ‘'You have stretched your financial resources to the limit. Your bank has refused further credit.”

“That's absurd,” Jonas protested. He had assigned the balance of his assets, including his first editions and the Childe Hassam he had been so profoundly proud to loan the Museum of Modern Art. “Searching for lost treasures is not for the timid.”

“
Il Diodario
has been an expensive luxury. You must allow me to visit there.”

Jonas got to his feet. Madame Sun looked up to him, her face composed and smiling. James was behind her, a hand touching his mother's shoulder. He, too, was smiling. They seemed poised for a portrait, but to Jonas they were a threat to everything he had worked so long to achieve.

“I'll consider the offer,” he said.

“We are certain that you will.” Madame Sun handed him the folder. “The terms are most reasonable. You will also find a telephone number where you can reach me with your decision.”

Jonas took the folder. He scanned the first page, then walked to the door and turned to look back at the tableau of mother and son, smiles frozen to faces as if they were masks covering lifeless robots.

A
black sedan stopped in front of Torno's
municipio.
From it emerged Bruno Brassi and his deputy assistant, Dario Zingoni. Two uniformed men remained in the car. Brassi had not called beforehand, aware that doing so might frighten Torno's chief of police off to a quickly conceived “emergency.” Brassi brushed aside an indignant sergeant and strode directly into Pavasi's office.

Seated behind a cluttered desk was a man in the full bloom of dissipation. Seeing the
comandante,
he began fussing with a black tie wrapped loosely around an unbuttoned shirt a size too small. A bulge of fat rimmed the collar. His eyes were swollen, his lips puffed. On his blue serge uniform was stuck a gold pin to one lapel, the other missing.

“This is a surprise, Bruno. You should have phoned.”

“Why? So you can make believe you are busy?” He picked up an empty wine bottle. “So you can hide these in the
rifiuto
?”

“You haven't come to spit your insults at me.”

“Hardly that. It would be a waste of time. Tell me what you know of
Il Diodario
. Your men are posted on that property around the clock, and I find it difficult to understand how they can serve the people of Torno and guard the villa at the same time.”

“They volunteer for the extra pay, Bruno. You remember how it was to earn extra money?”

Bruno remembered and had done the same. “Who pays them?”

“The money is from Signore Kalem, the owner.”

“Who puts the money in their hand?”

Pavasi went to a mirror and finished knotting his tie. “Of what concern is it? The men get paid.”

“I'm authorizing Lieutenant Zingoni to review all records and interview your ‘volunteers.'”

“Bruno, please listen. The American pays me and I pay the men.” He waved his arms. “Isn't that all you need to know?”

“How much for Pavasi? How much is lost at the tables in Campione? And last week you play the big shot in Monte Carlo.”

“I win and I lose. It's no one's business.”

“You gamble with your money? How much does Kalem pay you?”

“I made a contract with Signore Kalem. How much is for the guards and how much is for me is my affair.” Pavasi grew excited and the button at his neck popped loose.

“How many volunteers guard the old place?”

“I have a contract. I am honor bound to put men on the property.”

“Your honor is twisted. Your first obligation is to the people of Torno. But enough of honor and money, the investigation will speak for itself.” He sat across from Pavasi and signaled for Dario to close the door.

“You are aware that Signore Burri from Cernobbio was found dead on the lake Friday?”

“A terrible thing.
Un attacco cuore,
” Pavasi said somberly.

“You knew it was his heart?”

Pavasi looked surprised. “Doesn't everyone know?”

“Everyone? Did you learn this from the people at
Il Diodario
?”

“I haven't been there in a week.”

“Then by telephone?”

“I talk to Signore Kalem every day, but he was away this weekend. He came back on Sunday.”

“You met him at the airport,” Brassi said flatly.

“You knew?”

“It is my business to know. What did you talk about?”

Pavasi looked away. “Nothing of importance.”

“Perhaps not to you, Luciano, but however trivial, I want to know why he calls every day.”

“Usually about the guards. Yes, he asks about the guards.”

“What else?”

“He wants to know if I have heard from a certain Englishman.”

“The name?”

“I have it here someplace,” Pavasi said, trying to forestall the inevitable. He sifted through the litter of papers. “Here. The name is Deats.”

Brassi got to his feet.

“Everyone in
Il Diodario
must be interrogated regarding our investigation of Burri's death. I want you to telephone Kalem and advise him that it's urgent you meet him tomorrow morning at ten o'clock.”

“Tomorrow is not good. I have a meeting I must attend in Como,” he said importantly.

Brassi glared. “There's no meeting in Como. You've been in Brissago on Lake Maggiore every Tuesday for the past two months. You spend the day with Anna Manucci.” Pavasi had been spending his new riches profligately, leaving a trail that Brassi's staff could easily follow. “You must not tell Kalem we have met. Is that clear?”

Pavasi's head was bowed. Brassi barely heard him reply. “
Sì.
It is clear.”

Brassi slammed the phone onto the desk with such force the bell inside rang, and Pavasi bolted halfway from his chair. “Get Kalem on the phone. Now!”

Pavasi dialed and, when he reached the last number, put the receiver down. “Bruno, in the name of the Holy Virgin, what do I say that won't make him suspicious?”

“Tell him you're having difficulties with the guards. That they want more money.”

Pavasi dialed all the numbers again and soon had Jonas on the line. He said as little as necessary, but an appointment was confirmed.

Brassi returned to Como. Dario Zingoni assured his superior that Torno's police chief would not wander off and would be on duty when the
comandante
returned the next day.

Harold Pimm had arranged the Monday meeting long in advance. He had not anticipated the added pressures of the Leonardo and could only trust that his committee had made progress since their meeting with Jonas Kalem the previous Thursday. The committee had other paintings to consider in advance of the February auction. Deadlines were approaching for photographs for the catalog. The Old-Masters auction was a tradition, once an occasion for social mixing, now an important event in the art world. Old Masters were gaining in popularity and price. When word spread that a Leonardo was to be offered, the numbers of collectors, curators, and agents attending would require moving the auction to a hotel, where it would be covered by the media. A great, visual event for television. Of no little consequence, it would mean record profits for Collyer's.

Doan Chamberlin was the last to show and the first to speak directly
to the principal purpose of the meeting. “I trust we can present our opinions and arrive at an early decision.”

“I am in no rush,” Edgar Freebury protested. “If we affirm, that piece of paper becomes more valuable than it deserves to be.”

“Is that a reason to deny its authenticity?” Chamberlin challenged.

“Quite right,” Pimm chimed in. “All of you agreed to evaluate the authenticity of the Leonardo, not put a price tag on it or worry that when it is priced, it will bring too much or too little.” Pimm eyed each man in turn. “The opinion which will ultimately be expressed by Collyer's will be unprejudiced.” He turned to Paul Gilsanon. “Have you had time to complete your technical findings?”

Gilsanon handed a folder to each man. “We worked round the clock,” he said proudly. “I've given you a summary of our findings, and if you're confused by the technical jargon, I will answer questions. We've completed forty-six separate tests on the paper, inks, chalks, and intaglio impressions created by the writing instruments. The paper is of the period and indigenous to the vicinity of Florence ... probably from a
cartiera
along the Pescia River. Our chemical analyses show both inks and chalk to be similar to those found in other Leonardo manuscripts. The spectrographic examinations compare favorably with similar tests released by the Musée Français and the Ambrosiana. Titration tests were also made, as well as docimasy analysis indicating a familiar crude iron had been used in formulating the inks.

“Lately we have utilized a computer procedure pioneered by the Fogg Museum in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Tricky stuff but effective. We have programs that contain all that is known of the way an artist went about creating drawings or paintings. In the case of Leonardo, the computer knows he was left-handed, his brush strokes were more often left to right, and he achieved chiaroscuro effects in his unique fashion. Everything known about his handwriting, and his manner of spelling or use of abbreviations, is also in the computer. Then we entered similar information from the document under study and made a computer match. So far, so good. We're greatly encouraged. I expect to find corroboration from Cambridge on my fax machine as early as this afternoon.

“In balance, we find the work authentic, subject to such vagaries as usually attend granting an unqualified ascription to an artist in circumstances where a work of this great age has no history and no provenance. Our studies, and I point this out most forcefully, do not immediately declare
the work is fraudulent, but neither can we declare that it is unassailably authentic.”

“Good Christ,” Chamberlin burst out, “until your final equivocation, I thought you were going to make a definitive statement for a change. But you've gone off as you usually do, shifting the responsibility to the historian.”

“Come off it, Chamberlin,” Gilsanon replied testily. “You are as aware as I am that this page and others like it that may come before us will be argued over for decades. We take an adversary position; we try to disprove authenticity, not prove it. To that end, we've made a firm declaration.”

“We invite dissension by weaseling our words,” Chamberlin shot back.

“I have not equivocated. Read the report before pointing fingers.”

“I've read other reports from Gilsanon & Knowles. Each one reads like the last. Six-syllable gobbledygook couched in a goddamned language that adds up to pure obfuscation of facts and no clear-cut conclusion.”

Pimm's eyes were closed. He had anticipated Chamberlin's sniping, and when he felt the squabbling had run its course, he called on Edgar Freebury.

“I agree with Ed Gilsanon with respect to the antiquity and authenticity of the paper and inks. I am concerned with content and style, and speak now as an historian.

“I have concluded that Jonas Kalem has made an incredible discovery. The page fits neatly into Leonardo's
Treatise on Painting
and contains preliminary thoughts and sketches he made before the final draft. Our special reward, of course, is the head of the enigmatic
Mona Lisa,
rendered, I presume, very close to the time he worked on the painting.

“From my perspective the drawing can be attributed to Leonardo. I feel his hand touched the paper, that he wrote the words which I've translated to my satisfaction. Quite naturally, I have considered that a student—perhaps Melzi—toyed with some parts of the drawing, but whatever might have been touched is minor.