The Da Vinci Deception (6 page)

“Congratulations, Mr. Hewlitt. I'm happy to tell you that we have found your experience suitable and appropriate for an assignment as assistant crew supervisor reporting to Chief of Installation Charles McKean.”

He accepted her outstretched hand. Firmly and slowly he allowed his fingers to wrap around hers.

Tony's enthusiasm began to tarnish at about the time he reported for work on the eighth of May, and for the very good reason that Jonas Kalem was going about the business of speaking at every opportunity on the subject of the lost Leonardo manuscripts. His itinerary included Boston, San Francisco, and Chicago in the States, and there were plans to participate in three symposiums of the Leonardo da Vinci Association in Madrid, Amsterdam, and Paris. Normally, Tony would accompany Jonas on these excursions, acting as aide and associate and at all times enjoying the grand and occasionally sumptuous style that distinguished the big man.

Instead of the luxury of first-class travel, Tony was working harder than ever. He received regular praise from Charlie McKean for his performance on the job, but reacted to the accolades with disdain. He remained in frequent contact with Jonas and was able to stay abreast of the progress both Stiehl and Eleanor Shepard were making. Stiehl's major problem was in duplicating Leonardo's handwriting. Jonas was growing
concerned and was looking for a way to put Giorgio Burri and Stiehl together before September as planned. The Shepard woman was on schedule with her assignments.

Then in mid-July Jonas flew to Bern, where he had been invited to participate in a festival of the Renaissance arts. Again, he charmed his audience and made a daring prediction that immensely valuable Leonardos would surface within the year and that he expected to participate in their discovery. With each speech his credibility grew. The rumor mills began speculating on which of the missing Leonardos would surface. Jonas was becoming a celebrity and he loved the attention and the applause.

He was not applauded by all for the same reason. A small man wearing large spectacles made notes in a small notepad. Outwardly he cheered Jonas on, clicking snapshots, asking for an autograph, and otherwise acting as if he were about to form a new chapter of the Jonas Kalem Fan Club.

At the conclusion of the meeting the little man wrote a detailed report and sent it off to the Metropolitan Police in London.

Attached was a brief note:

I find my head swimming... the body disfigured in death, seeming to be buried in its own belly.

—Leonardo da Vinci

M
otor traffic chattered along Datchet Road headed to or away from the borough of Windsor. From an elderly Morris estate wagon crossing the bridge over the Thames, Tony Waters in his guise as Greg Hewlitt peered directly ahead to the looming Round Tower and the great encircling walls of the Castle.

He had passed the small village of Datchet minutes earlier and was traveling the mile and a half to Windsor for what seemed to be the five-hundredth time. He turned onto a narrow, curving road that led to a restricted entrance to the royal residence. A guard waved him through a security station. He parked alongside a trailer marked with the corporate logo of the Heldwicke company. From the rear of the wagon he pulled several large rolls of engineering drawings and a thick, scuffed briefcase. He followed a familiar route to the tradesmen's entrance in the Upper Ward. Close by stood the fourteenth-century Norman Gate, its portcullis poised menacingly as if ready to crash in front of the terrible enemy. He exchanged greetings with a cheerful older man wearing a stained, wrinkled uniform.

“Good morning, Mr. Hewlitt. Not a bad one it'll be . . . once the sun gets workin' on the fog.” His smile revealed yellow, slanting teeth. The old gent pointed to the briefcase, “What's for today? Egg and sausage sandwich?”

“Not even close. Today I lunch with the queen.”

“In a pig's eye.” The old man, whom Tony knew only as Gumpers, winked.

Over the weeks Tony had developed a good rapport with the security staff, yet had been careful not to become too familiar. He turned and followed a series of passageways leading to a flight of deeply worn stone steps that coursed up to the Royal Library. But on this morning he turned to another corridor leading to the North Terrace, where in an
hour, hordes of tourists would gather to take photographs or pause between tours of the Royal Palace galleries and chambers.

The air was stirring and a thick roily fog began to clear. Bits of it, like torn rags, drifted off the meadow and swept over him. Its refreshing, wet coolness touched his face. He paused in the stillness to reflect on the last four months and anticipate the culmination of his patient work. On this day he would relieve the Royal Library of a drawing of two skulls by Leonardo da Vinci, identified as folio number 19057.

He recalled those first weeks when he realized how much he needed to know and how quickly he had learned. Just when he feared his charade would collapse, he had been able to get on top of the job. His crew was a good one, and Charlie McKean proved to be a bright, energetic, and very patient Scot. Whenever Tony was baffled, McKean blamed it on his American experience. “Look, my friend, we're putting a system into this old building that was standing thirty years before the American Civil War.”

Then, in early August, McKean was handed a second assignment, which meant his time was divided between the Royal Library and a hotel in Maidenhead some ten miles west of Windsor. “You'll be able to handle things, Greg, we're past the gritty part of this installation.”

The added responsibility was more than Tony bargained for, yet there were compensations. He could move freely through all the rooms and justifiably remain in the library after the crew and staff were gone.

He discovered the Windsor Library was a repository of state documents and other treasures accumulated by English sovereigns over the centuries. During these hundreds of years the quantity of official papers, diaries, correspondence, and decrees had grown to uncountable numbers, all bequeathed by forty English kings and queens from the time of William I. Twenty-six monarchs had reigned since Leonardo's birth in 1452.

Leonardo's anatomical drawings were representative of the treasures owned by the Royal Families. The collection had come into the possession of the Earl of Arundel early in the seventeenth century, then disappeared and was rediscovered by Robert Dalton, Royal Librarian to George III. But the drawings created little excitement until 1876, when Jean Paul Richter published
The Literary Works of Leonardo da Vinci.

Fascinating as all the tens of thousands of items in the library might prove, Tony concentrated on the Documents Room, where the Leonardo manuscripts were filed: each page slipped between two sheets of clear
acrylic. The manuscripts were indexed:
Sheets from Leoni's, originally from one bound volume, six hundred drawings, including the Anatomical Manuscripts A. B. and C.

Number 19057—the single sheet he would take—was a designation made under the Royal Library system of cataloging. The cabinets were not locked, but the Documents Room was, and Tony had long since made duplicate keys to it and other rooms in the library.

On September 4, during his weekly phone conversation with Jonas, he received his final instructions. Make a clean swipe of the drawing on Friday, September 9, avoid detection at all cost, deliver the drawing to Curtis Stiehl in the Dukes Hotel in London, and arrange for the safe return of the drawing to the library on Monday morning.

The fateful day had arrived.

During the installation of the air-control system the library staff remained at full strength. It was vital that the routine of the library remain unchanged and the habits of each employee hold to predictable patterns. Robin Mackworth-Young was again in France and his senior assistants (who were masters at stretching out their own weekends) were certain to leave in midafternoon. The others tended to adhere to normal hours, leaving at five o'clock. One or two might linger, then be gone shortly before 5:30. All, that is, save Reginald Streeter, senior researcher, who punctually left at 5:40, and a new assistant named Sarah Evans, who on previous Fridays had remained in the library until after six o'clock.

Tony had failed to determine Sarah's duties, observing that she had short, brown hair, was reasonably attractive, and possessed a very prominent bust. She was pleasant enough, usually flashing a bright, toothy smile. He judged her to be in her early thirties.

He excused the crew early, then spread a week's accumulation of notes over a table and began the task of preparing his weekly report. He was aware of who had left and who remained. At 5:40, Streeter silently exited, and as before, only Sarah Evans remained. She flitted from her desk to a file cabinet to one of the numerous book stacks. She seemed in constant motion, accomplishing little but annoying Tony, who hoped she would wish him a jolly weekend then disappear.

“Miss Evans, will you be staying long? I'll be stuck for a while with this foolish report.”

“I have all sorts of end-of-the-week loose strings to gather up. Am I disturbing you?”

He grimaced. “Not at all. Will you be staying in Windsor for the weekend?”

She stood near the table, her arms hugging several books to her ample bosom. “Oh, no, Mr. Hewlitt. I live in London.” She was breathing heavily, inhaling in short, nervous gasps. Her perfume had a sweet, floral scent. “You were in the States for a while, I understand.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Library people talk. It's not all silence.”

“Not much silence with my gang around.”

“The noise hasn't bothered me. I could carry on if they shot off cannons down below.”

“What sort of assignment have they given you?” He chafed at not knowing how to urge her to leave.

“Mostly clerical, nothing terribly important.” She paused. “But then there is something else I have been doing here. I—” She stopped abruptly and stepped away.

“Yes, what is that?” He eyed her curiously. “What is that?” he repeated.

“Some other time. I'll tell you then. You're busy now.”

“Miss Evans, I can lock up. I'm sure the traffic has thinned by now.”

“I'm really in no hurry. It's raining, and I have nothing to rush off to.”

He wanted her out of the library, yet now she spoke as if she were about to proposition him. If so, it was an offer he would not refuse. “I have an idea. You have a boring weekend ahead, and so do I. Suppose we start it off in a right proper way. Would you join me in the Garden Room at the Old House in thirty minutes? We can have a nip and commiserate with each other over our poor weekend planning.” He flashed a warm smile for good measure.

“Why yes, Mr. Hewlitt. That's a splendid idea. I would enjoy that very much.”

She slammed the books on her desk, gathered up papers and files, and shoved them into a drawer. “There! All the loose strings tied up neat and tidy.”

In another minute she was gone.

Hurriedly Tony scratched out his report and slipped the papers into his briefcase. He stepped out to the reception room, where he bolted the great double doors. Then in the Documents Room he went directly to the cabinet containing Leonardo's anatomical drawings. Each folio was separated by a stiff divider and sequentially numbered. He knew
exactly where to find the 19000 series. 19057 was in the top drawer of a cabinet in the middle of the room. He held Leonardo's drawing of the skulls. He placed it in a metal container then slid it neatly into the false bottom of his briefcase.

He returned to the reception room and lifted a phone to call the night security guard who routinely inspected then locked the library. As he raised the phone he looked directly at the huge carved door he had bolted minutes before. His eyes widened and the hand holding the telephone froze. The bolt had been drawn back. The door was unlocked.

The only sounds were the low whirring of the new air compressors and the buzzing in the telephone receiver. He set the phone down and walked toward the door. Then he smelled the distinctively sweet perfume Sarah Evans had been wearing.