The Da Vinci Deception (5 page)

“So you accepted his offer?”

“With a proviso. I agreed to give him my decision tomorrow.”

“What's it going to be?”

“What do you think it should be?”

Steve got up and poured a cup of coffee. Then he leaned against the counter and for several moments said nothing. Ellie looked up at him, aware that his legal mind was wrestling with facts and conjectures. She remembered that she said they would make beautiful children and now she imagined what their son might look like: Steve's long nose and his squarish chin, a gangly runner's body. But mostly a warm and sincerely friendly face.

“Where would you be living?” he asked quietly.

“Florence.”

“That's better than Rome or Milan. I've been in Florence but just briefly. Hot as hell in the summer but a great city. You'll go crazy in Gucci.”

“Are you saying I should go?”

“No, but I don't think it matters what I say. This is your decision. It's a god-awful long time. A year . . .”

“Maybe less.”

“Sweetheart, you're fed up with Washington. I'll survive if you go, but don't be surprised if I turn up on your doorstep.”

Ellie took a deep breath as if she had just passed beyond the dangerous rapids in a fast-moving stream. Steve had a thin smile that suddenly grew broader. Now the tears came to Ellie's eyes and she said softly.

“Only a year, my love. Maybe less.”

T
he day Curtis Stiehl became a member of the Art Department was March 17. It was St. Patrick's Day and a Thursday. Tony Waters remembered it well. He had watched and listened via the closed-circuit television hookup, and he had been angry to learn that Jonas had given him the assignment to relieve the Royal Library of a valuable Leonardo drawing, and furious to learn of it while watching Jonas and Stiehl on a television screen.

Each time a new member of the Art Department was recruited, Tony felt his importance diminish and his relationship with Jonas grow less secure. Tony had been witness to the way Stiehl had dug in his heels, then surrendered to the ominous scenario laid out by Jonas. Tony had been in Cernobbio on Lake Como when the flamboyant Giorgio Burri came to an uncertain agreement after a long and contentious session accompanied by too much wine. And he had been in Washington when Jonas enticed Eleanor Shepard to accept a year's assignment in Florence.

He had striven to be essential to Jonas, and indeed, Jonas had frequently consulted with him as the master plan slowly took form. But when Tony's small empire began to show cracks, he resolved to prove his importance. To reestablish himself he worked with increasing intensity and from mid-March until mid-July he was certain that no member of Jonas's Art Department, or Jonas himself, had worked as hard or made as many sacrifices as he had.

His resolve began immediately. He searched through every conceivable reference source in New York for information about the Royal Library—its location in Windsor Castle, its size, its staff—and he hoped he would come across a description of the security placed around both the royal residence and the rooms he must enter without creating suspicion. It was after two weeks, surrounded by books, brochures, and microfilms of years' old newspaper accounts of attempted robberies in the Castle that Tony realized he had absorbed a mass of information but
precious few hard facts that would enable him to make an assault on the library. Of one thing he was certain: no successful plan could be developed in New York City. He reported his conclusions to Jonas.

“I'd rather you go over in the summer, but it's too important to leave to chance,” Jonas had concluded. “It's April. You have five months to bring out the drawing.” Jonas was not keen on giving Tony complete freedom. He knew his strengths but was equally aware that with Tony's volatile temper it was tantamount to setting loose a heavy cannon.

On the day he flew to London he spent six hours with Jonas, who lectured him on security and the absolute requirement that he not take unnecessary risks. But Tony knew the entire venture was a risk, that his return to London posed serious risks. And that excited him. He left New York on Saturday, April 9, traveling under the name of Gregory Hewlitt and carrying business cards that introduced him as a department manager in the firm of Wade & Reisen. He was a master at assuming a new identity. Safely on the plane, he could relax. It didn't matter that for several months he would be Gregory Hewlitt or some other person. What mattered most to Tony Waters was the fact that for a while, at least, he could put himself aside and become another person.

Tony Waters began his career under the tutelage of a certain Timothy Sean Saunders, once an actor, then in succession bank teller, solicitor's secretary, and finally procurer. They met when Saunders was handling an expensive stable of beautiful women. Tony was asked in to be a strong arm, at the ready to thwart the sometimes violent activity of Saunders's rivals. Tony fit in with the beautiful people. He had a toughness and an athlete's lithe and incredibly strong body. His features taken individually were not particularly good ones, yet women found him very attractive. His skin was swarthy, his deep brown eyes hard and unafraid.

Toward the end of a year's association, Tony took on two thugs that broke into Saunders's sprawling flat off Hyde Park. The scuffle erupted into a bloody fight. The back of Tony's right hand was severely cut, yet in spite of the wound, he overcame the intruders and sent their unconscious bodies down the elevator to the lobby, where they were discovered by a dowager who let out an earsplitting scream, then fainted.

Tony left Saunders and moved on to be his own man. Initially he operated as an estate agent, collecting advance payments on land speculations in Bermuda and Florida. His unsuspecting clientele never saw their money or titles to the land they thought they had bought. He developed
other cons but shrewdly changed his identity after several successful hits and moved to another section of London to start afresh.

He preyed on Americans who attended the auction galleries and who were disappointed to lose out on bids they made on silver or antique furniture. Tony promised delivery on similar items that he claimed were in the inventory of other dealers in London. He sweetened the proposition by asking for a mere half payment with the order, the balance, including his fee and shipping, to be paid upon delivery. For several months his clients were delighted with their good fortune. Only when time passed and their valuables never appeared did they finally realize they had been duped.

Tony's final ploy at the auction galleries was not so successful. An American bidder failed to pull down two Samuel Palmer etchings. Unknown to Tony, there had been a rash of Palmer forgeries, and when Tony met him on the following day to receive half payment, he was asked to produce either the etchings or unqualified proof of their authenticity. The mark he had chosen was a colossal American with squinting eyes, a man of discerning taste and deep knowledge of the major eighteenth-century English painters. Tony had met Jonas Kalem.

Jonas knew a dealer's agent when he saw one, and Tony was clearly masquerading. Yet he saw in his rugged handsomeness and the bold attack of his sophisticated cons a man who might fit the plans he was slowly piecing together.

And now Tony was making judgments. He found fault in the choices Jonas made for his Art Department. Though each was eminently qualified, none merited Tony's endorsement. He concluded that Giorgio Burri had been too bold, and his Italian temperament too disrespectful of the offer Jonas had made. Curtis Stiehl was simply an enigma and Tony was distrustful of people he didn't understand. But he marshaled his most intense opposition to the selection of Eleanor Shepard. She was a woman. That was a mistake. She was a beautiful woman and a beautiful woman may not be easily influenced.

He arrived in England and settled in a small flat in West Kensington. From there he had easy access to central London and was but a short drive from Windsor. He began to grow a beard and after two weeks grew accustomed to it and the role he played as a free-lance journalist. He wrote to Sir Robin Mackworth-Young, the Royal Librarian, requesting an interview and the opportunity to research a feature article on the library. In reply the librarian agreed to the interview but said
that unfortunately it could not take place until after proposed major alterations to the library were completed. Tony learned that the library would officially close on April 26, then reopen October 1.

The news of the library's closing came as a disastrous blow to Tony's plans. He drove to Windsor still another time, hoping he had overlooked a way into the library. The library was located off the royal apartments on the second level of the ancient gray-stone building. Access to the library, other than from the Royal Chambers, was through the tradesmen's entrance, always heavily guarded, and never open to the public. The library's windows looked over the North Terrace, where Tony walked among the crowds of tourists, continuing his search for a chink in the impregnable walls.

The transformation to Gregory Hewlitt was complete, except for a nagging problem; his full beard was shot through with gray, which to some might be a sign of maturity but to Tony was a weakness. And so he dyed his hair and the beard a coffee brown color. In his pocket he kept a pair of glasses, which he occasionally wore, adding another minor blur to his true identity.

He continued to frequent familiar pubs, hoping a friendly face would appear and he could enlist their aid in solving his apparently insuperable problem. Yet he did not want an accomplice; that would be complicating. And time would soon be an important factor. Then on the first Friday in May his daily reading of the London
Times
paid off.

In the arts section he learned why the Royal Library was to close. Sir Robin Mackworth-Young formally announced that funds had been allocated to install a new air-conditioning system and the equally important humidity controls which were designed to
“ . . . maintain the critically necessary levels required to prevent further deterioration to our vast collection of old documents and rare first editions. We will also install new windows with double-thick glass.”
The article concluded,
“There is an imperative need to protect our growing collection of irreplaceable papers, works of art, manuscripts, and royal diaries.”

Tony's spirits soared. He was quick to realize that new faces would swarm over the library: carpenters, electricians, sheet-metal workers, plumbers, painters. He would be among them. While in his teens he had worked at the Hull shipyards in Liverpool, where he apprenticed as an electrician and had later been assigned to a crew that replaced the complicated ventilation systems on large freighters.

His attempts to learn the identity of the contracting firm were unsuccessful;
no one in the library was inclined to divulge that information. Nor could the writer of the
Times
article locate the name in his notes for the story. But on Sunday, with a dozen newspapers strewn about his flat, Tony came across an advertisement on the “Appointments Vacant” page of the
Guardian.
Heldwicke Air-Control Systems, Ltd. was the contractor and they were looking for a field engineer.

On his first interview he manipulated the conversation in order to determine the precise qualifications required for the position. Armed with the information, he phoned Jonas and listed the items Curtis must create: references, letters of recommendation, a diploma indicating successful completion of an engineering course in air-conditioning design and installation, and evidence that he served as shop steward in a local union in Connecticut.

He returned the next day for a brief meeting on the pretext that he would like more information on the Heldwicke company. He was following a plan: show great interest in the company, the importance of the installation, and the dedication he would give to the assignment.

He spent a day in the National Gallery, where he sought out a young technician in the museum's Operations Department. He learned that the most important function of an air-control system is to eliminate fluctuations in either temperature or humidity, that the ideal relative humidity was between forty and fifty percent, and that the temperature should remain between sixteen and eighteen degrees Celsius.

Three days later Jonas phoned to advise Tony that the package had been put aboard British Airways Flight 176, due to arrive Heathrow at 9:00 A.M. the following morning. Tony phoned Heldwicke for an appointment in the afternoon.

He sat in front of Barbara Randall for the third time and noted that the young woman spoke very directly as she had in their previous meetings, but she was less severely dressed, her lips were a shade redder, and her hair had obviously been fussed over. “I want to thank you for the opportunity to present my qualifications for the position, Miss Randall. It would be a great honor to be a member of the construction team.” He set a thick folder in front of her.

She read through the material, pausing to ask a question then listen to the bearded applicant give an articulate response. After more than an hour together, Miss Randall said, “Perhaps if you have a few more minutes, I would like to confer with one of my colleagues.”

“Yes, that would be fine. I'm free until an appointment I've got later this evening,” he lied.

He sat alone in the room for nine, perhaps ten minutes. Though he had frequently masqueraded, there were times of uneasiness; always the possibility someone might break through his disguise. Playing the role of Gregory Hewlitt, he had won over Barbara Randall. He always won women to his side when it suited him. All but the damned Shepard woman. He stroked his new beard and, as he did so, made a mental note to use his left hand for making the thoughtful gesture, not the right hand with the long scar. He felt anxiety building. It was a familiar feeling, which, instead of depressing him, sharpened his senses. It was a touch of the old thrill, the game he enjoyed playing. He breathed deeply then slowly exhaled. The door opened and Barbara Randall returned. She smiled and extended her hand.