The Gilded Seal (6 page)
lets the rest of us know how good he is.”
“The gambling chip is his symbol,” Dorling confi rmed.
“They’re pretty common in the art underworld.” He paused,
deliberately avoiding Tom’s gaze. “Tom’s was a black cat,
you know, like the cartoon character. That’s why they used to
call him Felix.”
Ritchie nodded slowly, as if this last piece of information
had somehow confirmed a decision that had been forming in
his mind.
“What do you know about the painting?” he asked.
“I know it’s small, about nineteen inches long and fi fteen
wide, so it won’t be hard to smuggle out of the country,” Tom
began. “I know it was painted between 1500 and 1510 and
that a total of eleven copies were produced by da Vinci’s
workshop. Yours was the original.”
“What about its subject matter?” Ritchie pressed.
“Who cares?” Clarke huffed impatiently.
“It shows the Madonna pulling the infant Jesus away from
a yarnwinder, a wooden tool used for winding wool,” Tom
replied, ignoring him. “It’s meant to symbolize the cross and
3 2 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
the fact that even her love cannot save him from the Pas-
sion.”
“Some of the copies even have a small cross bar on the
yarnwinder to make the reference to the crucifi xion more
explicit,” Ritchie confirmed with a nod. Then he paused, as if
he couldn’t quite bring himself to continue.
“Is there something else?” Tom ventured.
“You tell me,” Ritchie said with a shrug, pointing to his
right.
The forensic team had shifted to one side and Tom could
now see the paneled wall where the painting had hung be-
tween two other works. But instead of an empty space, some-
thing seemed to have been fixed there. Something small and
black.
“They found the gambling chip you described in its mouth,”
Ritchie explained, earning himself a reproachful glare from
Clarke.
“In what’s mouth?” Tom breathed.
He stepped closer, his heart beating apprehensively as the
shape slowly came into focus.
He could see a head, legs and a long black tail. He could
see a small pink tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth.
He could see trails of dried blood where it had been nailed to
the wall and a pool of sticky dark liquid on the top of the
display case beneath it rendered a translucent pink by the
light shining through the glass.
It was a cat. A crucifi ed cat.
He glanced sharply at Dorling who gave him a telling
nod.
“I told you he’d left you something, Felix.”
CLAREMONT RIDING ACADEMY, NEW YORK
18th April— 7:55 a.m.
As a precaution against being seen in Hudson’s company,
Cole had allowed five minutes to elapse before follow-
ing the older man down the ramp and out of the stables, leav-
ing Jennifer and Green standing in an awkward silence.
“Any questions?” Green asked as Cole’s footsteps faded
away, only to be replaced by the muffled thump of hooves
from the fl oor below.
“What about the case I’m on now? We’ve got a ware house
under surveillance over in New Jersey. I’m due on the next
shift.”
“It’s all taken care of,” Green said firmly. “I explained the
situation to Dawkins. He understands this takes priority.”
Although Jennifer felt bad about walking away from her
team halfway through, she couldn’t deny that part of her
was relieved. After the month she’d just had, the prospect of
another two weeks of sleepless nights and weak coffee was
not one she had been particularly looking forward to.
“Anything else?” Green asked.
“Just one thing . . .” Jennifer hesitated, not entirely sure
how she should phrase this. “If you don’t mind my asking,
sir, what’s this got to do with you?”
3 4 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
Green nodded, having clearly been expecting this. After
all, it usually took a bit more than a suspect painting to get
the Director of the FBI personally involved in a case, let
alone wading through horse shit at 7 a.m. to a briefi ng.
“Let’s head back down,” he suggested. “I need to get out to
LaGuardia for nine.”
She followed him out of the stall and back down the main
aisle. A hosepipe had been left running, the end twitching
nervously as water spilled across the floor, a ridge of straw
and dirt forming at the edges of its wash. She stepped over it
carefully, not wanting to ruin her shoes any more than they
already had been.
“Hudson and I read law together at Yale,” Green explained
as they picked their way down the ramp to the ground fl oor,
his men jogging ahead to ensure the route was secure. “Or
rather I read law and he played polo. We’ve stayed in touch
ever since.”
“I see.” She fought off the dismayed look that had momen-
tarily threatened to engulf her face. Great. Screw up and
she’d carry the can. Get a result and Green would step in to
look good in front of his old college buddy. Either way, she
couldn’t win. In fact the best she could hope for was to get
this over with as quickly as possible. “Did he call you?”
“As soon as he found out about the second Gauguin,”
Green confirmed, pausing under the building’s arched en-
trance. “He’s convinced that his client’s version is genuine, of
course. But then Cole’s client is the one with the certifi cate of
authenticity.”
“Can’t they just cancel the sale and sort it out between
them?”
“You want the short answer or the long one?”
“Either will do.”
“If they pull the lots, people will start to ask questions.
Questions they can’t answer until they can identify the fake.”
“They could control the story if they wanted to.”
“Perhaps. But they’ve got enough on their hands fi ghting
off all these Holocaust claims without adding to their prob-
lems. And after the antitrust case, neither of them can risk
another big scandal. That was the long answer by the way.”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
3 5
Jennifer nodded. Both firms stood accused by descendants
of Holocaust victims of auctioning off art works stolen from
their families by the Nazis. Nothing had been proved, but
news of them both selling the same painting would hardly
help restore their already battered reputations.
“So I’m guessing you want this kept low key.”
“Until we know what we’re dealing with.” Green wagged
his finger in agreement. “Ask around. See what you can fi nd
out without making too many waves. Both Cole and Hudson
agree that this isn’t an isolated incident. If there’s an art forg-
ery ring here in New York, we’d all like to know about it.
I don’t want to scare anyone off until we’ve got something
solid.”
“One more question, sir,” Jennifer said as Green made to
step out on to the street where one of his flunkies was hover-
ing with an umbrella, ready to escort him to the limousine’s
open door. “Why me?”
The question had been gnawing away at her all morning.
After all, it had been nearly a year since she had last spoken
to Green, and even then it had been the briefest of conversa-
tions. She knew she should feel flattered that he had selected
her for this, but she had been in the Bureau long enough to
suspect an ulterior motive.
“Because you’re good. Because you deserve it.”
“The Bureau’s full of good agents.”
Green turned to face her, his eyes meeting hers and steadily
holding her gaze. She had the sudden feeling that he was do-
ing this deliberately, as if to try and convince her of his sin-
cerity.
“The press office got called up by some bullshit journalist
a few days ago,” Green began. “Leigh Lewis. Writes for one
of the check-out rags—
American Voice
. You know it?”
“No,” said Jennifer, unsure where this was leading.
“That figures,” he sniffed. “Sometimes I wonder if anyone
actually reads that shit. Anyway, he must have some good
sources, because he was asking about the Double Eagle case.”
Jennifer’s eyes widened in surprise. As far as she knew,
that case was still classified. Highly classified. And for good
reason. At its heart was the cover-up of an old CIA industrial
3 6 j a m e s
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espionage operation and a theft from Fort Knox that led all
the way to the White House. No wonder Green was being
cagey.
“What did he know?”
“Not much. But he had a name.”
“Mine?” she guessed.
Green nodded.
“Obviously we didn’t comment, but, given the extreme sen-
sitivity of that investigation and your previous history . . .”
He didn’t have to complete the sentence for her to know
what he was referring to. A few years back, while on a DEA-
led raid, she’d accidentally shot and killed a fellow offi cer,
her one- time instructor from Quantico. During the inquiry it
came out that they’d been seeing each other. It was a real
mess. Though she’d been cleared of any wrongdoing, that
hadn’t stopped the press speculation and the Bureau gossips.
It certainly hadn’t stopped her being shipped out to the At-
lanta fi eld office until, in their words, things had “blown
over,” when in reality they had just wanted her out of the
way.
“You don’t think Lewis is going to drop the story?”
“We’re doing what we can behind the scenes. But these
things take time. That’s why, when Hudson called, I thought
of you. Given the circumstances it seemed like a good fi t.”
“I don’t follow,” she said with a frown. “What circum-
stances?”
“This case needs to be run in stealth mode. That means
you’ll be flying way beneath Lewis’s radar for a few months.
It’s perfect,” he exclaimed, clearly pleased with himself for
devising such a creative solution.
Jennifer’s heart sank. Far from singling her out as she’d
somewhat vainly assumed, all Green wanted was to banish
her to the nursery slopes where she couldn’t do any damage.
Suddenly two weeks of surveillance didn’t look quite the
bum deal she’d thought.
“Am I being suspended?”
“Of course not,” he spluttered, a little too forcefully for
Jennifer’s liking. “I wouldn’t have put you on this case if I
didn’t think it was important and that you could do a good
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
3 7
job. This is an opportunity, not a punishment. But until we
fi nd out what Lewis knows and where he’s getting it from, I
don’t want you to take any risks. You know the potential em-
barrassment to the Bureau and to the Administration if the
Double Eagle story gets out. We’ll all be in the fi ring line.
This is for your own protection.”
Somehow, Jennifer seriously doubted that. There was a
rumor that Green, armed with his new wife’s money, was
thinking of running for office. A tilt at the Senate, some even
said. The only protection he was worried about was his own.
APSLEY HOUSE, LONDON
18th April— 5:13 p.m.
The hall was dark and still. Several marble busts, once
milky white and now curdled a creamy yellow by age,
flanked its square perimeter and glared unblinkingly into
nothingness. On the walls, a series of somber paintings.
Archie glanced at each piece as he waited, fi dgeting long-
ingly with the cigarette packet and solid silver Dunhill lighter
in his pocket, the sharp click of his heels amplified by the
cloying silence.
“Mr. Connolly?” A female voice suddenly rang out.
Archie swiveled round to see a short woman striding to-
ward him purposefully, her lips shining in the gloom.
“Yeah?”
“Hannah Key.” She thrust out her arm and grasped his
hand firmly. “I’m the curator here.”
“Nice to put a face to the voice,” said Archie.
She was much younger and prettier than he had guessed
from their phone conversation a few days ago, with a pale
oval face and large, inky eyes that reminded him of a Ver-
meer painting. Her long black hair was pulled back into a
ponytail that was fixed in place with an elastic band, suggest-
ing she was more concerned with the immediate practicali-
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
3 9
ties of keeping her hair out of her eyes than she was with
looking good. This impression was further confirmed by her
simple blue dress, complete lack of jewelry and makeup, and
the unsightly chips in the pearl varnish along the edges of her
nails. What struck Archie most though were her shoes, which
were new, clearly expensive and a startling shade of emerald
green. Perhaps, he speculated, these revealed a rather more
impulsive and indulgent character than the severe and forbid-
ding persona she projected at work.
Then again, Archie knew he wasn’t without his contradic-
tions either. His accent, for example, straddled a broad social
divide, occasionally hinting at a
wholesome middle-class
education but more often suggesting a rough apprenticeship