Murder at the National Gallery (10 page)

“You assure me that at the end of the month in America, the painting will be returned here?”

“Si.”

“Not one day later. We must arrange to celebrate its discovery.”

Pompous ass, thought Giliberti. He smiled and enthusiastically shook the minister’s fat hand, thinking that he cared no more about Italy than the rest of the greedy politicians. “You are a great man, Signor Betti,” he said. “I must go. I will keep you fully informed of every step.”

“Be sure to do that, Carlo. There must be no surprises.”

“No surprises, your excellency.”

Betti waddled alongside Giliberti to the door. “This will not be easy for me,” he said.

“Of course not.”

“I will have to accommodate many others. Soothe their concerns.”

“Naturally. You need only tell me what resources you will need.”

“I will think about that and call you.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

“Your—contribution—will have to be substantial. This is a
substantial undertaking. You say Signor Mason will make this announcement at a special dinner one month from now?”

“
Si
. You see how important this is. Usually, only one dinner for the opening. In this case, two dinners. A two-dinner occasion.” He laughed. “And it is his intention to bring the priest to Washington for that dinner. The priest must remain in seclusion until then. I will alert Italian media in the U.S. that something special might be announced that evening. Simultaneously, you should have a statement ready to release from you and your office.”

“I will do that.”

“Good.”

“Your friend Signor Mason is to be congratulated.”

“I will personally pass along your best wishes and salutations.”

“Grazie.”

It took Giliberti an hour to sober up Jacques Saison to the point where he understood the assignment. He examined
Grottesca
for a long time, his unshaven face grimacing as he came to recognize the work. “Caravaggio,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter, Jacques. No questions. All you must do is to create two perfect copies.”

“Two! How long do I have?”

“You will have the painting here for almost a month.”

“Two copies? Impossible!” He poured himself another
café calva
with shaky hands, reversing the usual proportions of thick espresso and Calvados, and offered Giliberti the leftovers of a plate of
pâté en croute
. Giliberti declined, wincing at the tremor in the artist’s extremities. Hopefully enough alcohol would steady him, as it usually did with alcoholics.

“Take photographs, Jacques. Use them after I take the original from you.”

“And how long do I have to complete the copies?”

“A few months. I will let you know in plenty of time when I need them. Bring in your assistants. There is enough money for whatever and whoever you need. More money than you have
ever been paid before. Enough to leave Paris for a six-month vacation … more.”

Saison now demonstrated more interest. He discussed the techniques he would use and listed those assistants whose talent was sufficient to help with the job, but who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

“One final thing, Jacques,” Giliberti said as he prepared to leave. “I mentioned enough money for an extended vacation away from Paris. You
will
take that vacation until told you may return here. And you will tell no one where you have gone.”

“
Oui
. I understand.”

Giliberti called his wife at their residence in Washington to tell her he’d be back the following day. He then hooked up with a friend from Italy, a willowy young woman who supported herself by working in a French bakery during the day and by offering her services as a call girl at night.
His
cross-cultural mission continued.

The next morning, Giliberti decided that this project of Mason’s was becoming too complex, too time consuming, and most important, too expensive. If Mason wanted his continued collaboration, he would have to ante up more money. Lots more.

“Sei la più bella ragazza del mondo,”
he told his “cousin” as he prepared to head for Orly and his flight to Washington. He kissed her.

“Come again soon, Carlo,” she said, not believing for a moment that he considered her the most beautiful woman in the world. Typical Italian male
adulazione
. She was a whore and knew it. Pretty, perhaps, but not beautiful. And good at her moonlighting trade.

“Arrivederci, visetto d’angelo.”

“
Arrivederci
, Carlo.”

Ordinarily, Court Whitney would have called a meeting of all department heads to plan the inclusion of
Grottesca
in the Caravaggio exhibition. But from the moment he committed himself to the terms of Luther Mason’s remarkable find and the delivery of the controversial painting, he realized it was necessary to establish a need-to-know system within the Gallery.

Mason’s discovery would be formally announced in a month at the first of two dinners. In the meantime, Whitney established a series of restrictions on how interoffice correspondence was to be generated and distributed, and who would be invited to meetings. He wasn’t naive enough to think a lid on the project’s details could be securely closed and sealed for a month, especially not in the city of leaks, Washington, D.C. But he had to try. And he did.

Mac Smith handed their engraved invitations to the uniformed guard at the West Building’s Constitution Avenue entrance, then he and Annabel passed through a metal detector. The attendance of Vice President and Mrs. Aprile dictated enhanced security; two Secret Service agents with dogs patrolled the perimeter. Mr. and Mrs. Mackensie Smith climbed the stairs to the Rotunda on the main floor, where the predinner cocktail party was in full swing.

“Drink?” Mac asked.

“A touch of white wine.”

He slipped between elbows to place his order at one of the four bars set up in the West Sculpture Hall. A young tuxedoed man reached over him to snare a
bruschetta
from a tray being passed by a waiter. The small piece of toasted garlic bread, topped with chopped tomatoes and sprinkled with olive oil, disappeared into his mouth in one movement. He smacked his lips and said to those with him, “I know what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t kid about something like that.”

You know something about gluttony, Mac thought.

The string quartet reached the section of a Corelli concerto marked
appassionato
, causing the young man to speak louder: “His name was Yakoto Kayami. Big-shot businessman, more money than God, one of the biggest art collections in Japan.
Somebody got hold of the fact that most of the paintings he owned were trash, or forged, or stolen, or a combination of the above, so he did a hara-kiri on himself, big sword right through his gut.” He laughed. The woman winced. Mac took his wife’s elbow and herded her in the direction of another hors d’oeuvre tray skillfully balanced on the hand of a waitress.

“Mac, Annabel,” a voice said as they were about to toast each other.

“Hello, Scott,” Annabel said to the portly man with silken yellow-gray hair, thick tortoiseshell glasses, and chubby cheeks of high color. His bow tie and cummerbund were created from a multicolored Matisse print, a showy contrast with his black tux.

“Dear lady Annabel,” M. Scott Pims said, kissing her hand.

“Not me,” Mac Smith said, withdrawing his hand from reach. “I left my papal ring home.”

“Pitty,” said Pims. “I need dispensation tonight from—from something.”

“The food?” Annabel suggested lightly.

“Oh, no,” Pims replied. “The food is heavenly. Like the crowd.” He made a face as if a foul smell had wafted into the room.

M. Scott Pims was Washington’s most visible artistic gadfly. He wrote extensively on the arts, his articles and reviews appearing in a wide variety of publications. His books, although never reaching best-seller status, enjoyed splendid reviews and were staples in local bookstores. A weekly program on public television station WETA drew a large audience because of his flamboyant, irreverent, often choleric trashing of the art world. Pims’s reputation as a gossip monger and trivia lover was without peer.

“Braced for the big announcement?” Pims asked.

“Big announcement?” Annabel said, glancing at Mac.

“I admire that in a woman, Annabel,” Pims said. “Practicing discretion until told it is all right to be indiscreet. Of course you know about it, being in the position you enjoy with the insiders.” He laughed and included the room in a sweep of his hand. “And we’re surrounded by insiders, aren’t we? Ah, well.
I shall play along with your admirable façade and pretend you don’t know. You won’t hear it from me. Excuse me. Must circulate. Somewhere in this drove of pretension is a juicy story of lust, love, perhaps murder, or more. And, of course, I must be the one to reveal it. Pleasant evening, Smiths. And Annabel, congratulations on your new role as ambassador-at-large for the White House. Good luck with the Italians. And keep your eye on Luther. He may seem benign here at home, but once abroad he turns into a carnal beast. Ta ta.”

“ ‘Drove of pretension’?” Mac said, laughing as they watched Pims embrace a woman who seemed to be made of jewelry. “He’s a drove of pretension unto himself.”

“I like him,” Annabel said. “He’s fun.”

“I suppose.” Mac leaned close to her ear. “Obviously, the big surprise about the lost Caravaggio isn’t such a big surprise.”

“Which comes as no surprise in this town, or where Pims is concerned. With his network, he probably knew about it before Court Whitney. Besides, he and Luther are very close friends. Court did his best to keep it under wraps, but you know how those things go, especially in D.C., with its committees, networks, people who ‘need to know.’ It’s a wonder it hasn’t been in the papers.”

“Or on Pims’s TV show. There’s Billie and Roy heading into that gallery. Let’s catch up with them. I need to ask Roy something.”

As Mac and Annabel pursued their friends, Roy and Billie Kramer, and while other guests smacked and snacked and enjoyed the Italian wines, National Gallery director Courtney Whitney looked out over the Capitol from the terrace outside his seventh-floor East Building office. He was alone. Down the hall, in the seventh-floor boardroom, Luther Mason and Father Pasquale Giocondi were going over final details of how news of the
Grottesca
would be presented to those gathered.

Whitney’s remarkable meeting with a bedraggled Luther Mason at Dulles Airport almost a month ago had spawned an equally remarkable series of events at the National Gallery.