The Da Vinci Deception (7 page)

The Old House was aptly named. Christopher Wren had designed it, then lived there in a suite overlooking the Thames. Behind the lobby was the Garden Room, incongruously decorated with a wallpaper resembling jungle vines and garish tropical plants. Tony elbowed past the crowds of weekenders after spotting Sarah at a small table near the windows.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Those bloody reports are positively a damned nuisance.”

Sarah seemed not to be smiling. “Yes, they are a bother. The more so when no one reads them. That's my luck.”

Tony ordered two whiskeys. He held up his glass. “To an unexciting weekend.”

“We sound awfully dull.”

“I agree. Perhaps you can suggest a toast to more stimulating exploits.”

Sarah looked at the bearded face then lowered her eyes. For a brief moment she was silent. “I suspect we're each involved in something unusual at this very moment. Something neither you nor I wants to tell the other.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Tony said.

“When we were in the library, I wanted to ask you some questions, but we were alone, and then you suggested we come here. I realized there would be others around us and I—”

“You have me totally confused,” Tony interrupted.

She breathed deeply. “I must tell you right off that I am not a permanent member of the library staff.” She tried to lock her eyes on his and at the same time drive the tightness from her voice. Instead she fell silent, her eyes fixed on her hands clenched firmly around the glass.

“How do you mean ‘not permanent'?”

“Precisely that,” she replied. “I'm on a temporary assignment.”

“Up from London, then? Filling in while we split open the library and put in all those blasted tubes and odd-looking pieces of machinery?”

“In a way, that's true. But there's more.” Her eyes turned from his and Tony could feel her uneasiness. She took a deep swallow of the whiskey.

“You're a bit on edge,” Tony said. Something gone wrong?

He spoke kindly, then added, “Are you on loan from the Victoria and Albert?”

“No, from the Arts and Antiques Squad, Branch C13 of the London Metropolitan Police.”

Tony's face tightened and immediately he forced a weak laugh. “Well now, that's a bit more exciting than being a librarian.” They were empty words meant only to fill time while he thought.

“If you know anything about police work, you know that much of it is routine.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's so,” he replied mechanically. His brain was racing.

“My responsibility is to augment security in the library while the new air-control system is being installed. The royal librarian insisted on an officer from our squad, and because Windsor Borough is beyond the Yard's jurisdiction, it took a bit of doing for him to pull the right strings.”

“You must be pleased.” He checked the time, then said absently, “There is no price that could be placed on the collection, so it seems the assignment is an honor.”

When Sarah did not respond, he asked, “But why are you telling me this?”

“Because I learned yesterday that you are not Gregory Hewlitt,” Sarah answered quickly and with little thought to any fear that she had felt minutes before.

“I'm sure there is a mistake.”

“It was necessary for me to obtain fingerprints of everyone in the library, including, of course, you and your crew. As all of the regular staff are civil employees, we have a complete record on each. It was not difficult
to secure fingerprints. Your men constantly handle pieces of metal or glass.”

“If what you say is true, what will you do with the information?”

“Just as you must file weekly reports, so must I.”

“And your report will state that I have been employed under an assumed name?”

“I think there is more than that. I haven't read the files, but apparently there are a number of open charges on Anthony Waters. The fact that you are using an assumed name was the extent of my report on you. Up to an hour ago, that would have been all. Women are vain creatures and I went to the lavatory before coming here to the hotel. The main door was bolted and I looked about for you. I saw that you were in the Documents Room and you were looking for something and found it in one of the cabinets. Whatever it was, it's now in your briefcase.”

Sarah talked slowly, measuring her words. Tony noticed that she had not completely overcome her anxiety and guessed that this was her first solo assignment. Running off was not an option. That would preclude any hope of returning the drawing on Monday. More ominous was the threat of facing up to old charges. That could mean years in prison.

“I do have something in my briefcase, but you must not consider it stolen. It is simply something I have borrowed.” He spoke with contrition. “I've taken advantage of these weeks in the library to study some of the old masters and occasionally I take one or two drawings with me on the weekend. It seems harmless enough.”

“But why take them from the library? You can study hundreds of them if you wish.”

“Perhaps, but with someone peering over my shoulder and another holding a stopwatch. They're terribly protective. You must know that.”

“You're a puzzle, Mr. Waters. You impress me as being very competent, but you are not who you claim to be and now you have taken a very valuable piece of art.”

“Yes, it's a poor show.” Tony was well aware Sarah was showing a touch of assertiveness and had quickly assumed the dimensions of a major obstacle. He desperately wanted to outmaneuver her, to find the words to defuse the accusations she might put in her report. His thoughts narrowed on another solution: get her out of the way...
remove her.

A loud chorus of happy voices swept through the crowded room. To Sarah the sounds were a sanctuary, to Tony a distraction.

“The report. When will you file it?”

“Tomorrow. I have a review each Saturday.”

“And if the drawing is returned to the file tonight, would you strike that from the report?”

“That would be difficult.”

“Please?” He crammed all his emotion into the single word.

“I could withhold that information, but I can't promise.”

Tony asked himself who in bloody hell she thought she was. Anger replaced fear but he kept it in check.

“Thank you, Miss Evans.” He raised his glass again. “To you, and to the weekend.”

Sarah was obviously relieved that the conversation had ended. She hesitated, then downed her drink. “Shall we go?”

A steady rain greeted them as they exited a side door to the parking area. “We'll use your car,” Tony said. “I'll get my briefcase.”

Before Sarah could reply, he darted away. He returned with the briefcase in one hand, an umbrella in the other. Tony suggested they drive to the service entrance off Datchet Road. “William is on security tonight. He'll unlock the library.”

Sarah steered her dark green Rover out of the narrow drive, turned right onto Thames Street, and several hundred yards later turned onto Datchet Road. The service entrance would be on their right, a half-mile away. Thick clouds blotted out the remaining daylight, and the intensifying rain was aggravated by a swirling wind. It set Sarah's full attention to the wet road and the bright headlights of an occasional oncoming car. Tony turned in the seat and placed his right hand behind Sarah's head and his left hand next to her right shoulder.

“I'll signal before we approach the turnoff,” he said reassuringly. She was about to acknowledge when suddenly one strong hand pushed her head forward and the other struck down hard on her neck below the ear. She slumped, immobilized. He pushed her hands off the steering wheel, and took control of the car. His right foot found the brake pedal and several seconds later he brought the car to a stop just off the road.

Sarah was not completely unconscious but Tony would now take care of that. He reached both hands to her neck, feeling for the pulse from the carotid arteries. He was gentle; should he press too hard, he risked leaving marks on the skin. He found her pulse, first the left then the right side. Slowly his powerful fingers pressed the arteries against the bone behind, shutting down the blood flowing to her brain. He counted
the seconds until he reached fifty. Sarah would remain unconscious for approximately five minutes.

He pulled her onto the passenger's seat then reentered the driver's side and drove off. In Datchet he stopped under a street lamp and carefully sorted through Sarah's briefcase. He was relieved to find her report written in longhand. He was sure there were no copies. He slipped the report in his pocket. Her handbag was deep with zippered compartments, and contained a fat wallet bulging with cards, a comb, pencils, pieces of paper clipped together, and a packet of snapshots. He leafed through all the papers and was satisfied all the notes were personal: a shopping list, a reminder for a hairdresser's appointment, check stubs, a doctor's name. Some notes were scribbled in shorthand. He searched the glove compartment and the trunk. He copied her address. Her wallet held more than fifty pounds and he was careful to leave it intact. He carefully wiped clean everything he had touched.

The ignition key was attached to an oval-shaped ring that contained no fewer than a dozen more keys. His first inclination was to leave them, but he chose instead to take them and separated the ignition key from the ring.

The road running east from Datchet to the M4 twists through farmland and Tony knew every intersection and curve. Since he would have to walk to Windsor to retrieve his car, he did not wish to create a longer distance than necessary. But if Sarah Evans was to be killed because she lost control of her car on the slippery road, he must select the most likely spot for such an accident to occur.

He chose a straight, sloping section of road with a sharp bend several hundred yards from the crest. He stopped the car in the middle of the road. Then he eased her back to the driver's seat and brought her arms through the spokes in the steering wheel so she was leaning forward. He wedged her foot down onto the accelerator pedal. The motor raced, a high whining sound. Finally he lowered the window to allow his arm to reach in so his hand could touch the gear lever.

In one continuous motion he opened the door, released the brake, closed the door, and pushed down on the gearshift. The wheels turned wildly, spinning on the slickened surface. Then they gripped the asphalt.

The car lurched forward and sped down the road. At the turn it shot straight ahead, crashed through a low stone fence, then flew into the air and slammed on its side, rolling over before crashing into a high wall of rocks.

Tony ran toward the wreck, hiding once as a car passed, its headlights searching the wet road. He ran again and was careful to step on grass and rocks so as not to leave a telltale footprint. He reached the wreckage and saw Sarah's body.

Glass had cut through her head and neck. In the final light of the darkening evening he could see that her blood was everywhere.

He backed away from the wreck and the blood and the smell of gasoline. Then a powerful rush of exhilaration swept over him and he thrust both arms over his head as a sign of victory. “You're dead, damn you. You had no business meddling.” A car rounded the curve and he sank quickly to his knees. Headlights briefly shone over the wreckage like a flash from a photographer's strobe. In that instant he saw the ugliness of Sarah's bloody body slumped back on the seat, her head tilted up to the black, wet sky.

After another car passed he began his trek back to Windsor. He knew it was two miles to Datchet and another mile and a half to Windsor. Even at a fast pace—though allowing for the need to avoid being seen by passing cars—it would take fifty minutes to reach his car. The rain had become a steady drizzle, and though tempted to throw away the umbrella, he held on to it as he began to half run, half walk.

It took fifty-five minutes. He was chilled and damp and without remorse. Cheerful laughter came from the barroom but he was concerned only with the deserted streets and the parking area, which he happily found was empty of people. Not until he was back on the Datchet road did he switch on the headlights. At the fatal turn in the road the lights shone on the field where Sarah's dead body lay, and as he pulled through the curve he was able to catch a brief glimpse of the shattered car. In the murky darkness it was unlikely the accident would be discovered before morning.

C
urtis Stiehl had waited six months to have Leonardo's drawing of the skulls in his hands. He had learned patience under terrible conditions, but there was a different urgency attached to the assignment Jonas had given him. He had drawn the skulls dozens of times, and had tried other subjects as well. Now he was ready for the actual drawings.

Tony was due at 6:30 and Stiehl's impatience began showing several hours earlier. He fussed over his cameras and took unnecessary inventories of film and chemicals. At seven Jonas phoned to say he would be detained. Stiehl continued his lonely wait.

He went to the window where the view was down to the driveway and the entrance to the Dukes Hotel. Jonas had chosen to headquarter in one of London's small jewels. An in-crowd of Americans liked its quiet intimacy, tucked away on a narrow, cobbled street yet accessible to the shops and services.

The morning Stiehl arrived he immediately began the task of converting a hotel bedroom into a highly sophisticated art and photographic studio. Everything he had asked Jonas to provide was in cartons piled atop each other in the small salon that separated two bedrooms in the Gloucester suite. A large drafting board was set up near one window. The bed was pushed against the wall, and two large tables occupied the middle of the room. Each was equipped with a pair of high-intensity photolamps. A Hasselblad camera was mounted to a copy stand. Under the camera were close-up rings and an assortment of lenses. Two ultraviolet lamps in their reflectors, boxes of assorted films, and filters completed the photographic fixturing. Next to the drafting table was a three-drawer cabinet filled with jars of ink, boxes of chalk, and an array of pens, pencils, and assorted writing implements.