The Da Vinci Deception (44 page)

“As I studied the handwriting I was occasionally persuaded that it was not da Vinci's, but I must quickly admit I am not qualified to judge whether he actually penned the words. I am satisfied with the content and the vocabulary.”

Freebury placed a folder on the table. “Here is my report. Brief, but complete.”

“And you vote to affirm?” Pimm asked.

“In spite of my finding, I will not vote for accreditation.”

“Have you lost your senses?” Chamberlin said in disbelief. “What in hell will you do?”

“Abstain. I am repulsed by the thought that what we say will make a piece of paper worth millions.”

“Goddamn it, our job is to say it's real or fake, not put a price on it.”

Pimm fanned the pages of Freebury's report. “Edgar abstains for personal reasons. From what he has said, and from all I see in his report, he has found the manuscript page to be authentic. Have I stated your position accurately?”

Freebury nodded.

“The equivocation continues,” Chamberlin said boldly. “First the caveats, then an abstention. We sound like mice doing lion's work.”

“Then dispel all the vagueness,” Pimm rejoined. “Are you claiming for or against attribution?”

“For it,” Chamberlin said with a firm voice. “The fact that Giorgio Burri had somehow become involved prompted my only reservation. His provenance made interesting reading, but my decision turned on the drawing itself. I have not concerned myself with paper and inks. That is for Gilsanon and all his magic machinery to study.”

Chamberlin placed his report next to the others. “Leonardo, among all the great artists, produced a uniqueness never equalled by another artist. A Leonardo doesn't look like a Botticelli or Perugino, or Signorelli or any of his contemporaries. When Leonardo copied another artist, he left his indelible mark. No one then or since has produced a drawing or a single sentence to be confused with the Master's. It is quality and only quality that decides whether a drawing is an original, a copy, or an imitation. And that ultimate measurement is
in our feelings.
”

Doan Chamberlin had prepared his little speech carefully and warmed to the opportunity of presenting it to his captive audience.

The committee continued its deliberation until after six o'clock. Harold Pimm waited patiently for small arguments to run their course, taking from each new pieces of information that would help him dispel his own doubts. He was not bound by the group's decision yet was pleased there was a positive agreement, including Edgar Freebury's abstention, which was obviously hiding his approbation. A work by Leonardo would bring a gargantuan price at auction. At year's end, Pimm would enjoy a share of the profits.

A false claim and its subsequent exposure would have a contrary effect.
The loss of his share of the profits would be overshadowed by a loss of prestige, or in the extreme, termination from a position he prized.

When finally the discussion and arguments had run their course, Pimm called the conference to an end. He reached out to touch the three reports, then glancing at each in turn said, “Your work is complete. Mine begins.”

In truth, Harold Pimm had devoted as many hours to the project as the others combined. He had begun his study of the drawings and handwriting the previous Thursday and, with very little sleep, had probed and analyzed and come to his own conclusion. He had personally delivered the precious manuscript page to Jonas at Heathrow on Sunday afternoon, then returned to the Victoria and Albert Museum for a confidential meeting with an old colleague with whom he had collaborated on previous attributions.

He set the reports in front of him, and as he read each one he made notes to compare to his own. Gilsanon's findings were still troubling. The handwriting analysis was incomplete and neither Chamberlin nor Freebury had proven persuasively that Leonardo had written on the page. Pimm knew how scholars argued over Leonardo's squiggly lines, yet he was fascinated by the artist's own account of how he invited musicians to practice while he painted and how their laughter resulted in the relaxed smile on the face of the young wife of a Florentine merchant.

He labored over the reports for several hours, sustained by several pots of tea heavily laced with a pungent Cuban rum. At ten o'clock he wrote a brief note to the managing directors in which he confirmed his committee's agreement to grant accreditation. Then he placed a phone call to Jonas as he had promised.

Jonas listened to Pimm's news with childish delight. It was a sweet victory. But there was no delight in Harold Pimm's voice when he learned that Jonas was unwilling to guarantee that he would put the Leonardo into auction.

“I assembled the best authorities in the UK. They came through damned quickly. We're counting on featuring your Leonardo in the Old-Masters show in February. That's your part of the bargain, Mr. Kalem.” Pimm's voice was hard and without its usual friendly musicality.

“I agreed to use Collyer's if I put the drawings to auction,” Jonas replied.

“Are you planning a private sale?”

“Possibly. I'll have a final decision in the next few days.”

Jonas agreed to phone Harold Pimm no later than Friday. He immediately called the number given him by Madame Sun. His call was answered by a woman who repeated the number Jonas had called, then asked simply, “Have you a message?” Her voice was clipped, English, efficient.

He gave the woman his name, telephone number, and a brief message: “News from Bruton Place very favorable.”

He had expected to talk with Madame Sun and was disappointed that he could not share the news from Harold Pimm. He had weighed the merits of the private sale against the publicity of an auction. Pressures to replenish his depleted resources were growing and argued for an early sale. Pride gave way to the practical. “There will be other pages,” he concluded, “a little fortune now, fame later.”

“Pavasi's a shit. He cares only about this.” Brassi rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “But his little world is about to come apart. Here, in the heart, he is frightened.”

“Any chance he'll tell Kalem what's going on?”

“Dario won't let him out of sight. I trained him myself.”

Brassi and Deats were seated at a table in a corner of Caramazza's dining room. The
comandante
elected to tell Deats personally of his plans for Wednesday morning. “I want to get inside that damned castle without fuss or suspicion.”

“Waters has a dozen ways to get out of that building you call a castle.”

Brassi shrugged. “Out of it? Yes. Off the grounds? Perhaps. Escape from the lake? Never.”

Caramazza joined them. “My American guests ask so many questions. Where to buy this? How many miles to there? I never know the answers.” He smiled. “Signore Deats, I almost forgot. There is a telephone call for you.”

Deats took the call behind the small reception desk.

“This is Oxby. Have you heard from Elliot?”

“We talked on Saturday. Where are you?”

“I'm in Como.”

“How long have you been there?”

“I came on Sunday. I was on the same flight with Jonas Kalem.”

“Elliot tells me you've been on Kalem's trail since July. Why didn't I know this?”

“You never asked.”

“That's a bad answer, Jack. I need to know what you're up to.”

“You don't need to know. You go your way, I'll go mine.”

It was classic Oxby. Secretive and obstinate. “Stop playing games, Jack. What are you up to?”

“I'm going to pay Mr. Kalem a visit, but I don't want to interfere with your plans.”

“We're taking Waters tomorrow morning.”

“That's good news.” Oxby actually sounded enthusiastic. “What time?”

“Ten o'clock.”

Oxby did not answer. The silence lengthened and infuriated Deats.

“Who have you teamed up with?” Oxby asked.

“Fuck off, Jack. If you want to cooperate, then join us tonight. I'm in Moltrasio at the Hotel Caramazza.”

“I know. There's no point in getting together, but you can do me one favor. When you take Waters, don't rough up Kalem too badly. Cheerio.”

Deats heard the click. The call enraged him. He returned to Brassi, where, unable to conceal his fury, he spilled out the brief conversation. “I don't know what the son of a bitch is up to, but it's typical Oxby. He didn't leave a number. He could be anywhere in Como.”

“My men can check every hotel, every
pensione.
”

“No good. You can put all the police in Italy on the hunt. If Jack Oxby doesn't want to be found, he won't be.”

Jonas remained in the solarium following the call he made in accordance with Madame Sun's instructions. The one camera still working in Stiehl's studio was once more sending a distorted picture. Stiehl had located the cameras and all but one of the microphones. Jonas complained to Tony, arguing he had a right to know what Curtis was up to. “Watch him more closely,” he had told Tony. He was also concerned that Eleanor was spending too much time with Stiehl. What had he told her? Had he
shown her the drawings? “No, Curtis is too smart to do that,” he said aloud. “Eleanor must not know. That would be dangerous.”

He waited impatiently for the phone to ring. He opened another bottle of wine. An hour slipped by and he was certain he would not hear from Madame Sun until the morning. Then, shortly after midnight, the phone rang.

“What is your good news?” Madame Sun asked.

“Collyer's will grant an attribution to the Leonardo,” Jonas replied triumphantly.

“Without condition?”

“Only because there are minor gaps in the provenance.”

There was a pause, then Madame Sun continued, “Have you come to a decision?”

“Yes. I agree to sell, but the money must be transferred to my bank at the time I give you the manuscript. I must have confirmation.”

There was a pause. “That can be arranged. You have the drawing?”

“Of course,” Jonas answered.

“We are anxious to have it, Mr. Kalem.” Madame Sun spoke with an authority that was not to be denied. “Our representative is in Milan and can meet with you tomorrow morning. Would that be convenient?”

Jonas hesitated. All that he had set in motion years before was racing to a climax. It was after midnight, he was tired. Why so soon? Then he threw all those thoughts away. Pavasi was coming. Security would be at full strength. “Yes,” he answered. “Ten o'clock.”

I regret that I cannot visit your
Il Diodario
. But another time,” Madame Sun said. “Our representative will have the necessary papers and will telephone the banks for the transfer of money.”