Murder at the National Gallery (12 page)

Mason took in the reactions of the audience. Most appeared to be pleasantly spellbound by the little man’s spiel. When Giocondi ended by saying, “And God Bless America,” Luther stepped to the microphone and said, “We all share in our appreciation of what you have given us, Father Giocondi. You
have done a great service to the art world, and to the people of America, as well as to the citizens of your beloved Italy. Thank you for sharing this with us this evening.”

The applause was louder and more sustained now. Guests stood.

Mason led Giocondi back to their table. Court Whitney made a few final comments, including inviting guests to enjoy after-dinner drinks and to examine the great Italian paintings in adjacent galleries.
Grottesca
had been covered the moment Giocondi concluded his remarks, and two uniformed guards prepared to spirit it away for safekeeping.

“Nicely done, Luther,” Scott Pims said when Mason and Giocondi returned to the table. “Julian expressed his apologies for having to leave so abruptly. Undoubtedly a pressing previous engagement.”

People were now descending upon them. Luther decided not to press his luck with Giocondi. He said to them, “Father Giocondi has a heart problem and must return to Rome immediately to continue his medical treatment. He’ll be available for questions later, in Italy. Please excuse us.”

Mason now wanted—needed—to get Giocondi offstage and away from questions. A sudden, pervasive panic had overtaken him. His heart pounded and his mouth had gone dry. As he herded Giocondi toward a door, Carlo Giliberti sprung from his table and joined them. “Very good, Father,” he said. “Excellent, Luther.”

Realizing the three of them were, briefly, alone, Mason said, “I think it best to get him out of here. Back to the hotel. Back to Italy as quickly as possible.”

“All right,” said Giliberti. “I will have my driver take him.”

“He wants more money,” Mason growled.

Giliberti looked at Giocondi.
“Non capisco, Padre.”

In Italian, Giocondi showed that Giliberti did indeed understand him, and he launched into a loud and animated explanation that only exacerbated Mason’s discomfort. He snapped, “I told him I’d give him more. Just get him out of here.”

“Father Giocondi, Bob Wetzel, arts editor,
Washington Post
. I have a few questions—”

“Not now,” Mason said. “Father Giocondi isn’t feeling well. He has a heart condition and—”

“Luther.”

Court and Sue Whitney approached. Whitney extended his hand. “Fine job. Fine speech. You too, Father.”

“How could this painting be languishing in your church all these years?” Wetzel asked. “Did you know—?”

“He’s sick,” Mason said into Whitney’s ear.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Excuse us.”

“Where can you be reached?” Wetzel called after them.

No answer from Mason or Giocondi. Giliberti accompanied them to the Rotunda.

“You’re pale, Luther,” Giliberti said.

“Yes. I—”

“Wait here,” said Giliberti. “I will get my driver to take him to the hotel.”

“Do it yourself, for God’s sake. Just get him
away
from here.” Mason’s voice was unnaturally high. He disliked sounding pathetic.

“Yes, yes, Luther. I will arrange things,” Giliberti said. “But you must calm yourself. People are noticing.” He turned to Giocondi. “Please give me a moment with Signor Mason.”

Giliberti placed his hand on the small of Mason’s back and pushed him away, leaving the priest standing alone. Two couples approached.

“Don’t leave him there,” Mason said.

“Luther,
chiudi il becco
!”

Giliberti’s whispered command to shut up jarred Mason. He pressed his lips tightly together.

Giliberti gripped his arms. “I will take the Father away, Luther. You go home. I will contact you later.”

“All right.”

“Good show, Luther.”

Mason turned to face Annabel and Mackensie Smith, who were passing through the Rotunda on their way home. “You remember Mac,” Annabel said.

“Yes. Of course.” Luther was sweating profusely and
dabbed at his forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief. Mac was surprised at the wet, limp hand Luther offered.

“Quite an announcement you made tonight,” Mac said.

“So exciting,” said Annabel.

Mac started to thank Mason and Giliberti for having been such accommodating traveling companions for his wife, but Mason interrupted. “You must excuse us. I—I have someone I must see. Father Giocondi isn’t feeling well.”

“Congratulations, Father,” said Annabel.

“Grazie.”

“
Buona notte
, Mrs. Smith,” Carlo said to Annabel.

Mac and Annabel watched them walk away.

“The
priest
isn’t feeling well?
That
man looks like he’s about to drop dead,” Mac said of Mason.

“I know. Something is definitely wrong.”

“So that’s Carlo Giliberti.”

“That’s Carlo.”

“Let’s go. Rufus needs to go out.”

“So do I. The food was heavy.”

“The food was bureaucratic Italian.”

Once their blue Great Dane had been walked, and they’d changed into night clothes and robes, Mac poured them each two fingers of cognac and they settled on a couch in the study.

“Do you get the feeling, Annabel, that there’s something strange about this suddenly discovered painting?”

She shook her head. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know. What if—?”

“What if what, Mac?”

“What if it’s a phony? A forgery?”

“Impossible.”

“Why? Happens all the time.”

“Not with an institution like the National Gallery, or a curator with Luther’s credentials. Besides, it’s a moot point. The Gallery will be subjecting
Grottesca
to every conceivable test. I understand other experts will be brought in to lend their opinion.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He sipped, enjoying the burn. “I know one thing for certain.”

“What’s that?”

“Luther Mason had better get himself to a doctor for a physical. Judging from the way he looked tonight, he might not be around to enjoy his own exhibition.”

Giliberti went to where Father Giocondi was talking with a knot of guests.
“Scusi,”
he said pleasantly. “Come, Father Giocondi. You will be late for your flight.”

“What a wonderful thing you’ve done,” said a woman.

“Grazie, grazie,”
the priest replied.

Giliberti herded him down the stairs and outside, into the cloudless night. A white Lincoln Town Car stood at the curb. Seeing Carlo, the driver got out and opened a rear door.

“Get in, Father,” Giliberti said.

With the priest settled in the backseat, Carlo spoke to the driver: “Listen carefully to me,” he said, handing him money. “Take Father Giocondi to his hotel. Stay with him.
Capisce?
Do not leave his side.”

“But what if the ambassador asks where I am?”

“I’ll take care of it. Do not allow the Father to speak to anyone.
Anyone
.”

“Si.”

To Giocondi in Italian: “You were excellent tonight.”

“
Grazie
. Signor Mason will pay me more?”

“I will talk to him. You spend a pleasant evening, take your flight home tomorrow. Speak to no one. I will be in touch.”

“
Si
. Call me when he has the money.”

“
Buona sera
, Pasquale.”

As Giliberti sent Giocondi on his way, Luther Mason went to a men’s room where he took two Tums and used a paper towel soaked in cold water on his face. Other men came and went. Some congratulated him. Mason struggled to acknowledge their kind words. He felt as though he had no voice. He tried to appear relaxed, but his legs were rubbery, and he leaned on a sink for support.

He eventually regained enough composure to return to the scene of the party, where hangers-on watched guards remove
Grottesca
from its easel and spirit it away to an unspecified safe place. His attempt to calm down had been successful. There was nothing to worry about, he reminded himself over and over, annoyed at his prior loss of confidence. The Caravaggio original of
Grottesca
was now safely in the possession of his employer, the National Gallery. And he was the one who’d found and delivered it, perhaps not the way he’d described it, but found and delivered it nonetheless.

He’d done nothing irregular—yet. And it wasn’t too late—yet—to abandon the plan.

Or was it?

The problem, he knew, was that others were involved. He could trust Carlo. But what about the rascal of a priest, Giocondi, who’d already violated their agreement by asking for more money? And the old man, Luigi Sensi, was a mafioso. As long as he was paid what Luther had agreed to pay, he had no reason to upset things.

Of course, the source of the money for Luther to finance the plan, San Francisco art collector Franco del Brasco, was also a gangster. A dressier one, and smooth, with good cover—a man whose hands and money were dirty. At least that’s what Luther had been led to believe. A very rich gangster. No reason for him to cause trouble either.

Still, too many people.

He spotted his friend, writer and broadcaster Scott Pims, speaking with two women Luther recognized as leading gallery fund-raisers, and started in their direction. But he
stopped when he saw Carlo Giliberti entering the court. Mason went up to the cultural attaché. “What happened?” he asked, suffering the return of panic. “Where is Father Giocondi?”

“I sent him with Francesco to the hotel.”

“Francesco? Who is Francesco?”

“One of our drivers.”

“You entrusted him to a
driver
?”

“
Si
, Luther. I saw no need to go with him myself. I told Francesco he is to not allow the old man to speak with anyone, and to stay with him until his flight.”

“I wish—”

“Forget Giocondi, Luther. We must talk.” He led Mason to the center of the Sculpture Gallery, where catering personnel were clearing and breaking down tables, and then paused at the foot of a Milanese sixteenth-century Venus.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

Giliberti stretched up to Mason’s ear. “Money,” he said.

“Money? Giocondi?”

“
Si
. And they want more money in Italy.”

“
Who
wants more in Italy?”

“Signor Sensi.”

“That’s ridiculous. I made my deal with him. You said he was a man of honor.”

“Yes. But he did not realize the importance of the painting. It is more valuable than you led him to believe.”

“I led him to believe nothing, Carlo. I was honest with him. I expect honesty in return.”

“A nice sentiment, Luther. But Sensi is not sentimental. You don’t have the choice. He can do terrible things to you. To us.”

Giliberti looked past Mason and stiffened, his eyes wide. Mason turned. Standing at the other large statue dominating the center of the hall, the sixteenth-century
Bacchus and Fawn
, were two heavy men. Luther remembered seeing them during dinner at one of the Italian Embassy tables.

“What’s the matter, Carlo?”

“Them.”

“Who are they?”

“Security from the embassy.”

“Well—?”

“But they work for Sensi, too. They will bring the money to him.”

“I can’t,” Mason said, anger melding with fear. “I can’t.”

“There is nothing you can do about it, Luther, except to pay. Or, of course, you can always return
Grottesca
to him.”

“I don’t
have
more money, damn it,” Mason said. “I can’t go back to del Brasco and ask for more. He’s already advanced me a half million, and I gave Sensi half of that. He won’t give me more until he has the painting. Make Sensi understand that.”

Giliberti shook his head. “Go to del Brasco, Luther, and get the money. One-half million, American. Sensi will not take no for an answer.”

The two men continued to stare at Carlo and Luther.

“I have to go, Luther. I told them you would have the money in three days.”

“You told them
what
?”

“Call me tomorrow and tell me you have worked things out.” He walked away at a brisk pace and disappeared into the Rotunda.

Mason stepped into an adjacent gallery and pretended to study Angelico and Lippi’s
The Adoration of the Magi
. At that moment, he adored nobody. He looked back. The two men slowly passed, paused to look in at him for what seemed an eternity, and proceeded toward the Rotunda.

He slumped on a bench in the middle of the gallery. The air had gone out of him. He tried to resurrect his earlier thought, that he still had time to call it off. It was a failed second attempt. The reality was he’d stepped into a vortex from which it was getting impossible to extricate himself. As a boy, after seeing a movie where someone was sucked into the ground, his recurring dream had him stepping into quicksand—of university, of scholarship, of the museums and art world, and now, this …

He could have avoided the situation, he knew, had he stepped back at any number of junctures. He could have declined dinner with Sensi. But knowing the aged mafioso had
Grottesca
—God, what a powerful motivator—propelled him to that night in Positano.

He could have decided in Ravello not to drive to the run-down church in search of the smarmy priest, Pasquale Giocondi. But he went. He couldn’t change that. Even if he could, would he have? If he hadn’t he might never have seen the painting, held it in his hands, for even a moment.

Despite those decisions, he still could have bailed out. But his call to Court Whitney, his boss at the National Gallery, had defined his situation, shaped it, thrust him into the role of a pilot who, upon reaching the point of no return on a flight, develops engine trouble and still must continue pushing forward, hoping to reach the planned destination.

He did what he seldom did, ordered whiskey, neat, from a bartender finishing up in the West Garden Court.

“Bravo!” His fleshly friend, M. Scott Pims, placed the fingertips of his right hand to his eyebrow and tossed Mason a salute. “Well done. Having a nightcap, I see. To steady the nerves after your triumph?”