To Catch a Thief (11 page)

Nell drifted into dreams.

And then, strangely, there were roses around her. Peach and cream and crimson, with perfume that spilled magic through a quiet spring night in a place that felt oddly like home….

“W
AKE UP
,
Dakota. We're in.”

Dakota sat up instantly. He'd been dreaming. Something about colors and night.

A perfume that might have come from roses.

Weird
.

But most dreams worked by rules you couldn't define or understand.

Dakota forced the ragged images away. “I wasn't asleep,” he lied. “And exactly
what
are we in?”

Outside in the darkness the warehouse enclosure was deserted.

Izzy gave a cocky smile as he unplugged the thin cables and tossed them into his bag. “We're inside the phone's SIM card. I've got what I need. I'll wipe off the unit and you can slip it back into the safe, to all appearances untouched. Trust me, we just hit pay dirt.”

N
ELL FOUGHT EXHAUSTION
,
listening to the low drone of the airplane motors. The words of the museum reports blurred and then refocused as she struggled to accept the details she had just read.

The dry description went on for page after page, inadequate to express the sheer power of such a discovery. A sketch by da Vinci, with what appeared to be an overdrawing by Michelangelo, if stylistic evidence was to be believed, bringing two of the world's greatest artists—and keenest competitors—together in one work.

Nell closed her eyes.

When word of the discovery leaked out, the art world would be thrown into hysteria. And of course word would leak out. Nothing this immense could be covered up for long, even if the museum delayed their official release to the press.

But was the fragile sketch, captured in a large-format photograph before her, authentic? So far the museum's head curator, Lydia Reynolds, had performed only initial noninvasive tests, like infrared and ultraviolet X-ray scans and energy dispersive X-ray fluorescence. The test results were collated and tacked neatly inside the folder. All supported the historical dating and appropriate styles of the two artists.

From the photo, Nell could see that the design showed the strength and detail that were Leonardo's trademarks. The colors were faded, but Nell could see that the placement of the figure was different from the finished painting. In this sketch
La Gioconda
faced the viewer head-on, with none of the seductive over-the-shoulder posture that was part of her enduring charm. Only faint outlines suggested the pose of the final painting, but these outlines were made in a different style completely. These the curator had assessed as possibly in the style of Michelangelo's work.

The paper dating also appeared appropriate, as were the chalk and pigments, although no invasive sampling had yet been undertaken.

Michelangelo and da Vinci together. The idea was staggering.

But Nell's biggest question still loomed: was it
real?
Or was it a product of the apprentices whom Leonardo used extensively during his far-flung projects? Worse yet, was it a careful copy, either by a near contemporary or by some later forger who had stockpiled authentic period materials?

Impossible to say without more information, more tests, but sampling would be unlikely, given the nearly incalculable value of the piece.

Nell's head began to ache as she stared at the haunting photograph of the world's most famous face. She could imagine the excitement of the curator. Nell had met Lydia Reynolds twice and knew her reputation for succeeding at any cost. But there were still too many questions. What was the history of the second set of markings, once bold lines now nearly ghostlike, executed in silver chalk along the figure's face and shoulders? In the photograph, they were so light that Nell had almost missed them.

Nicholas Draycott crossed the cabin. “Any luck?”

Nell rubbed her neck as the viscount held out a cup of tea. “I'm only on page five of the curator's report from the National Gallery. She seems thorough enough. All the tests made at the time are recorded, although she didn't have time—or approval—to complete many. I would like to speak with the two museum conservators she called in, to check their impressions.”

“I expect that can be arranged.” Nicholas nodded toward the photo. “Amazing, isn't it?”

“Beyond amazing. Michelangelo and da Vinci.”

The viscount's eyes narrowed. “Is it real?”

“That's never a snap judgment. Even with materials and style consistent with the artists, tests are required every step of the way.” Nell ran her fingers restlessly through her hair. “We can't plug in one or two numbers and wait for the final printout. Art doesn't work that way. We deal in black and white, but in every shade of gray, too. You play with all those in-between shades, weighing possibilities, sorting and sifting until you find the style, habits and passions that make every piece of great art unique. Is it authentic? That's always the final question. The curator, Lydia Reynolds, was inclined to believe so according to these files, but without a dozen more tests, she couldn't begin to make a final assessment. It takes weeks, even months of exacting work, and even then three experts will walk away with three different conclusions. X never marks the spot,” she said wryly.

“Ah. Indiana Jones. I'd have to agree with you there, since I've never found anything to be what or where I expected it at the abbey. Records have been misplaced, books are damaged, and art…. is stolen.” His eyes hardened. “You do not know the whole story.”

“What story?”

“My father told me that one of Leonardo's greatest charcoal drawings had been won at cards during a night of reckless play at the abbey. With the drawing came a notebook from Leonardo's own hand, detailing his final plans for the design.”

“This art is
yours?
” Nell's breath caught. “
You
took it to the National Gallery?”

“No, the piece was never found in our collection. All I had was the word of my father, based on old family accounts. He insisted that the sketch was lost during the life of the eighth viscount, sometime in the late eighteenth century.”

“Lost? You mean sold or stolen?”

“Stolen. Adrian, my ancestor, left a list of all those he considered suspects. As far as I knew, the piece was never found. Naturally, when your father contacted me, I was dumbfounded.”

“So…we're talking about your family legacy, Nicholas.”

“It would be impossible to prove without more documents.” The viscount shrugged. “I doubt I will bother to pursue it. I'm not a greedy man. I have art to savor for the rest of my life, and this piece might cost more than it's worth.”

“Cost in what way?”

He stared out the window into the darkness, looking uncomfortable. “According to my father, the sketch was…cursed. Go ahead and laugh if you like. I know that I did when I first heard the tale.”

“I won't laugh. If a person believed that the art was cursed, then it might affect them exactly that way.”

“
Maledetto
,” Nicholas said softly. “‘Cursed in hand and tongue.' That was what the notebook of Leonardo said. He believed that his thieving young apprentice stole the piece and sold it to his chief enemy, Michelangelo. But Leonardo was never able to prove it.”

“Have you looked for the notebook?”

“Whenever we remodeled or had structural repairs, the notebook was the first thing on my mind, but we never found a trace. My ancestor, the eighth viscount, had a sad life. Married very late, he had a rakehell son who gambled away a good deal of the family fortune. Maybe there was a curse after all,” he mused. “One way or another, I'd like the issue settled. This will be my chance.” His expression hardened. “If you had to make a decision right now, with no more tests, only with your heart—would you say that piece is real?”

Nell stared at the subtle curves of the woman's shoulders and the elusively sensual curve of her smile. She wanted to believe it was by Leonardo's hand, but wanting wasn't enough. The tests would turn up details that no vision could provide.

And yet the answer would not rest in charts and graphs.

The artist was everything. In the end, the whole complicated array of canvas and pigments fell away and only the artist's soul remained. The artist held the answer, but only if you looked into his heart.

Distant or vain. Violent or generous.

Nell had learned that at her father's knee, then learned it again in high school as she moved, stony faced, through mockery, harassment and despair. As a conservator she knew that you went to the person first, back to the habits and biases and hundreds of small eccentricities that made an artist stand out from the pack. Those details grounded any decision about restorations, maintaining the artist's original vision.

Nell was searching for those tiny eccentricities now, thumbing through chemical analyses, pigment layers and X-ray reports, looking for something that caught her eye. And her instincts were sharp. She would know the clues when she saw them.

“Is this piece of paper the work of Leonardo? An impossible question, Nicholas. But if I had to say now…” She smiled slowly. “Yes. That face with its cool eyes. Complex and emotional. Not simple, not even nice.” She felt a wave of awe. “Here we see the slightest shadow of eyebrows, and her posture is different, but only the master could create a mix of emotions like that in a face that is unforgettable.”

For a long time Nicholas didn't speak. “Then we'd better find a way to get it back,” he said. “And your father along with it.”

“There's something else. Did he tell you that he was sick, Nicholas?”

“Sick?”

The surprise in his voice told Nell the answer, and she felt a moment of guilt for revealing her father's secrets. But Nicholas had to know the rest of the story. “He's got cancer. He didn't tell me, didn't say a word. Izzy and Dakota knew, probably from the prison records. It's…bad.”

The Englishman made a low sound and gripped her hands tightly. “Lord, what a thing to happen now, just when he's got his life back. But there are procedures that can be done, Nell. New techniques, new medicines.”

“Not if he's in prison, there aren't. And unless we find out who is behind this theft, prison is where he'll go.” Nell closed her eyes, feeling the grip of regret, feeling anger mixed with bitter hopelessness. “I want him back, Nicholas. I want a little time with my father….”

Before he dies.

She forced down the words. Hopelessness would get her nowhere. Straightening, she studied the sketch, slipping beneath that fragile surface to probe all its secrets. “I'll do whatever I have to do, Nicholas. Understand that. Whatever happens, don't cut me out the way my father did.”

“Understood.” Nicholas drank the last of his tea, then nodded. “I'll do all within my power to keep you informed. But I may not have the final say. I have a feeling that Dakota Smith and Izzy Teague will be taking over very soon. Whether we like it or not.”

“S
AY IT IN
E
NGLISH
,
Teague.” Ryker sounded more irritated than usual, which was saying something. “Cut the
SIM card
and
algorithm
talk. I know it's about memory in a cell phone. Just tell me what it all means and how it's going to help us find the da Vinci.”

“The phone has two numbers stored in memory and nothing else. None of the nine phones have ever been used. I checked the account, which was opened by a construction consortium in Macau that handles luxury residential projects and high-end gambling resorts throughout Asia. The business, East West Properties, has been family-owned for three generations.”

“So it's a dead end,” Ryker growled.

“Not quite. I tracked the company's other cell phone traffic. Turns out, they have a brand-new subsidiary in D.C. Forty-one cell calls were made from Macau to their D.C. offices during the night the painting was discovered stolen. The calls were made to two different cell phones.”

“Get me a log of every call made that night. And I want to know every U.S. company they've ever done business with.”

“Already on its way to your in-box,” Izzy murmured.

“No sign of any art concealed at the Oakland warehouse?”

“None. There was no extra security on any of the outbuildings that would indicate valuables in storage, only at the office. The office safe held only the nine unused cell phones. My guess is that whatever comes in is shipped out immediately. With building supplies in constant transit, a few random boxes wouldn't be difficult to hide. They'd probably have used a more secure location than this one though.”

“What about a connection with the October Twelfth people? Have the men from the alley given up any information yet?”

“That's a problem. An hour ago one of them tried to slash his wrists with a tin can lid. Luckily an officer caught him before he bled out.”

“So they're running scared?”

“I'd say that, sir. The other man swears that the job was anonymous, with their partial cash payment left at an abandoned warehouse in San Jose. They were supposed to drive around with Nell until they got a call and someone would meet them.”

“No names, no numbers?”