Tuscan Hoax: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure Book 4), page 14
“What?” asked Darwin, trying to sound surprised. As he got under the bar, Zac described Jasmin telling him about visiting the megayacht. Darwin wavered again on the set, but he got it done.
“The bastard didn’t even sign the papers. Just wanted another power trip. I tried to go out there, but she begged me not to,” said Zac, punching through the reps of his third set like it was his warm-up.
“They must have a lot more money than she let on. That boat’s huge.”
“I guess. Galleries must be a better business than we thought.”
Darwin started his last set, and his gut twisted as he probed deeper. “Eyrún and I were talking about Jasmin’s arrival.” He paused. Zac’s eyes narrowed as he looked askance. “Dunno. It’s just all this trouble with the ACA seemed to coincide with Jasmin showing up.”
“WTF, bro. Are you saying she’s behind this?”
“No. But I called a professor I know at Al-Kafaàt University in Lebanon, and he said Jasmin Kahn had been there but didn’t get a Ph.D.”
“You ran a background check on her?”
“No. No. Just a call. He said she left after an arrest for antiquities looting.“
Zac stared at him, mouth agape.
“I just got curious.”
“Got curious? Jesus, Darwin! It’s Eyrún, isn’t it? I know she’s cautious with people, but this is fucked up.”
“It’s not Eyrún,” said Darwin, trying to keep her out of it.
“Bullshit! She’s not saying, but I’ve seen her look at Jasmin. She’s still pissed I left Stevie.”
“C’mon, Zac. You know Eyrún’s not like that.”
Zac paused while moving weight onto the bar for his last set. Then he sighed. “I moved to France for her. I love her, but she kept taking off for weeks at a time. I never knew when she would be back.”
“Eyrún complains about it, too. She knows how Stevie is.”
Zac moved under the bar and thrust up nine reps before slamming the iron back in the rack. He sat up. “Jasmin’s great. She cares for me. I don’t know where it’s going, but she needs healing, and so do I.”
Darwin hated conflict. A maelstrom churned his insides, and his vision tunneled as he grasped for ways to defuse the conversation. “I’m not implying—”
“Yes, you are implying, Darwin. I hear you loud and clear. You and Eyrún think Jasmin’s behind this. Well, fuck you. Both of you.”
Zac picked up his gym bag and walked out, leaving Darwin standing by the bar and the other patrons staring.
42
Zac ran hard along the wharf, sweating out the anger from Darwin’s accusations. He turned onto a trail in the eastern harbor and climbed through the maquis. Its dry, woody appearance reminded him of his native Oakland, California. The shrubs, warm in the setting sun, oozed their earthy fragrances, which mixed with a bitter undertone from the dry Mediterranean soil.
He flinched, flashing on a memory of a violent mission in similar Afghan terrain. Steadying his pace, he mentally grasped the vision and put it back on a virtual shelf. The technique Jasmin had taught him seemed to work. He had confessed to having unwanted visions after she had asked him about his occasional nightmares. While he had no problems with most of his service as a US Army Ranger, some encounters, especially with innocent civilians, had left gut-wrenching images.
“It’s impossible to forget, and suppressing them will only drive the pain to resurface someplace else. Think of it like a can that falls off a shelf. You pick it up, acknowledge it, and put it back on the shelf where it belongs.”
“But they keep falling,” he said.
“Then keep putting them back. It’s how I’ve learned to cope with my ex.”
“But what do I do with a memory that won’t go away?”
“You may want to hold it and ask why. Don’t react to it. Just question. After a time, you may find it fades,” Jasmin had said.
He tried this technique with Darwin’s argument, but to no avail. Why does it piss me off so much? His heart lurched as a vision of Stevie popped up. He loved her fearlessness, whether exploring a cave, motorcycling, or, where he drew the line, base jumping in the Alps. Best of all, he loved her wicked, mischievous smile. But he had come to realize he wanted someone to return to each day. She seemed most alive when roaming. A kilometer of trail rolled under his feet as he released the bittersweet memories of his former lover.
What about Jasmin? He considered a life with her, but then he shook his head. Too early. She’s dealing with her own mess.
He turned back toward town, increasing his pace to blur the mental noise. The endorphin rush lightened his spirit, and his attention drifted to the surrounding beauty: orange sunlight chasing shadows up the mountain through the verdant brush.
But the conversation with Darwin still banged around in his head. His suspicion’s bullshit!
An hour later, after a shower and a post-run beer, his mood had lifted. By the time he had freshened up, Jasmin had arrived, and the tendrils of her musky perfume hooked his nostrils, reeling him into the main room.
“You smell good,” he said, kissing her.
She grazed his cheek with her fingernails, and a shiver ran through his core.
“So do you,” she said, adding, “I’m hungry,” in response to his hand exploring her backside.
They walked to a local brasserie, where they ordered a carafe of rosé and a plate of charcuterie and olives. He shoveled in bites of coppa and slowed down after a look from Jasmin prompted him back into Corsican time. They spoke about work at the ACA, their most common activity. Jasmin mentioned an intern from Chad who hoped to preserve ancient desert dwellings.
“He comes from a family that looted tombs to earn a living. He’s hoping to create eco-tourism by preserving the past. It’s a lovely dream but not likely.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no infrastructure for safe tourism. You’ve seen it.”
Zac nodded, having indeed seen desperate people in war-torn countries. He asked a few more questions about her work, all the while spiraling closer to what he wanted to ask. “I heard you went to the megayacht again?”
“Yes.” She grimaced and drained her wineglass.
“Did your ex sign the papers?” He refilled her glass.
“No. He just wanted to talk me out of leaving again. Bastard. He’s so manipulative.”
“I’m sorry. How are you feeling?”
Her expression darkened as she folded her arms across her midsection. “He could have sent the papers by courier.”
Zac sensed her subdued reaction was to hold in pain and keep it from exploding in public. He sat forward as if ready to pounce. “Is he still here?”
“No.” Her hands went up in defense. “Zac, honey, please stay out of this. It’s just his way. He’ll realize it’s over and go away. He’s already got a lover. I smelled a perfume lingering in the galley.”
Their main course arrived, and they ate in silence while surrounded by lively restaurant chatter. A cheer went up from the bar as Nice scored against Paris St. Germain. The locals supported any football squad who scored against Paris; the “team of money,” they called it. Zac smiled at the universal appeal of the underdog and used the moment to slip in a question.
“Darwin said you had some trouble in Lebanon?”
“Is that what you were upset about earlier?”
“Yeah. He pisses me off sometimes. Comes from a life of plenty with an old-family arrogance. Has no idea of real-life struggles.”
“What did he say?”
“He called a professor friend in Lebanon. Said you got into some trouble and didn’t complete a Ph.D.”
“It’s a long story, not one I’m proud of.”
“What happened?”
“I went to Beirut to explore my cultural roots and take up graduate studies. A year in, there was a misunderstanding at a dig site where a rival Ph.D. candidate accused me of stealing an artifact.”
“Did you?”
“No. I was earning money to pay for my education. I took a side job working for a company that recovered antiquities from construction sites. The local authorities set up a sting, looking for a payout.”
“That’s a raw deal. I’m sorry.”
“The university expelled me, and my employer did nothing to help.”
“Who did you work for?”
“Alexandria Antiquities.”
“Wait. Isn’t that Nahla Al Mahwi’s company?”
“Yes. But she said it was all legal, that her company had a contract with the government for commercial archaeology work. I spent three days in a gritty cell until my partner got me out. I hate what he’s turned into now, but, back then, he was the only one who helped.”
“Damn,” said Zac, setting his utensils on the empty plate and took her hand across the table. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”
43
The next morning, after dropping Darwin at the airport, Eyrún carried the bust to the lab to study the basalt. The rock’s chemical makeup would give them some idea of its origin. Along the way, she stopped in Barry’s office to check in on the construction.
He gestured wildly as he bellowed at a voice coming from the speakerphone. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow? This isn’t a musical production. I need it today.” He looked at Eyrún, picked up the handset, and held up a finger, indicating one minute.
She tuned out the call as she looked for a clear spot in the mountain of papers to set down the bust. His filing system could not be more opposite hers, but, despite its chaotic appearance, any time she asked for a document, Barry’s eyes would sweep the piles for mere seconds before he snatched up the needed paper.
“Thanks, mate. See, that wasn’t so hard. I’ll meet your driver on the loading dock at half past four—today,” said Barry, his voice mellifluous. Eyrún had heard that students flocked to his lectures for the Shakespearean rants, and students across Europe competed to join his archaeological digs. He was having the same effect at the ACA, as Eyrún had received a steady flow of inquiries and more intern applications than they had spots.
As he turned to her, an infectious grin spread between his ruddy cheeks. “Eyrún! How are you today?”
She returned the smile, feeling a warmth at how Barry had also blossomed in the Corsican climate. “Always better when surrounded by your energy, Barry. I trust the construction’s going well?” She nodded toward the phone.
“Don’t get me started on the French bureaucracy. But, yes, we’re on schedule.” He moved a stack of papers. “Here you go.”
Eyrún set the sculpture on the desk’s bare spot and dusted her hands. As they briefly reviewed the construction, Barry tipped his head from side to side, studying the bust. “This looks familiar,” he said.
“Jasmin thinks it's a Roman emperor,” she said.
“Not that. I mean…now that you mention it, there’s a resemblance to Suetonius, a first-century general. He, er… Never mind. You didn’t come here for a lecture. I think this is in a photo that Lupita captured in her project.” He picked up the bust and eyed it more closely. “Now I’m certain. This is the one Darwin found in that abandoned workshop, right?”
“Yes.”
“Never seen a Roman work done in basalt. Let’s go ask Lupita.”
As they moved toward the door, Barry’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and said, “It’s that contractor again. I better take it. You go ahead. I’ll be along.”
She carried the bust a short distance down the hall to Lupita’s office, where she knocked lightly on the opened door. Lupita looked up and said, “Oh, hello, Eyrún. Come in.”
Her office, the antithesis of Barry’s, featured neatly arranged surfaces. One large table had photos spaced as if on a grid. And, while Barry’s voice boomed at a back-row audience, Lupita spoke as gently as a stream. Eyrún sat with the bust in her lap and asked how she was.
“Fine, thank you. And you?”
“Busy as ever. How is your new flat?” The Lacroix family owned a building in the old harbor, and a unit had recently become available.
“It is lovely, and I have never lived so close to the water.” Lupita smiled, and her sparkling eyes conveyed gratitude.
“Tell me how your project’s going. Zac says it’s up and running.”
“Yes. He has been a great help.” Lupita blushed in the light wash cast by the two large monitors.
Eyrún smiled. Interesting. Is she hiding feelings about Zac?
Lupita tapped on the keyboard in answer to a beep, and, a few beats later, Eyrún said, “Can you tell me how it works?”
Lupita brightened, describing how she had coded an algorithm that used artificial intelligence to develop linkages between the Art Loss Record database and records of worldwide museums’. She surmised the algorithm could find missing pieces in vast collections that individual curators could not.
“For instance, the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford has thousands of pieces on display, but millions in storage. It has turned up a few possibilities, and I printed the photos there.” She pointed at the table behind her.
Eyrún noticed Lupita kept glancing down at the bust as she spoke. “Did you find something about this bust? Barry mentioned it.”
“No. Well, not exactly. I took photos of it and the other vases in the lab as an experiment. To see what the algorithm would find.”
“And…”
“The bust is a copy of a statue in Bath.” Lupita reached for a photo. “It is Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, a Roman general.”
“So, this means your system works.”
“Yes. It proved it worked, so I began testing another idea.” Lupita lifted a copy of Vanity Fair from her desk. Eyrún had seen it when she walked in, thinking it uncharacteristic of Lupita, who seemed a scientist to the core. “I directed the algorithm to also scan publications, especially art and culture that the wealthy would read or at least subscribe to. In the last staff meeting, you and Jasmin talked about the super-rich and their egos.”
Eyrún had never seen Lupita so animated, and she guessed the penny was about to drop.
“I figured the magazines with pictures of rich people’s homes might have artworks with questionable provenance. It is still running, but…” She nodded toward Eyrún’s lap, stepped over to a pile on the far table, and lifted another photo. “I found this.” She handed it to Eyrún.
Balancing the bust with her left hand, Eyrún took it and swiveled her chair to catch the light from the desk. The photo showed the interior sitting area of a large yacht. The ocean was visible through a wide door to the stern. Two large paintings hung on either side of the door, and a large Etruscan vase stood on a table almost outside the frame. Lupita tapped on her keyboard as Eyrún squinted at the photo.
“Here it is,” said Lupita. She pointed at a monitor and clicked the mouse to zoom in. While the photo blurred somewhat as the vase enlarged, Eyrún clearly saw the figures on the vase.
“What? That’s my Fountain of Salmacis vase,” she said, setting the bust on the desk and scooting her chair next to Lupita’s. “At least, it looks the same. What do you think?”
“It looks identical to me.”
Eyrún studied the vase’s surroundings, especially the aft deck out the room’s window. Something’s familiar. Wait. It can’t be. Her jaw clenched, and her pulse quickened as she leaned back in her chair to gain perspective. “Zoom out.”
Lupita shrank the photo to its original size, and the ocean and horizon resolved clearly. Then she clicked to a photo of the yacht moored alongside others in what looked like Monaco Harbor.
“Shit!” Eyrún hissed.
“What is it?” asked Lupita.
Eyrún explained how she had seen the same megayacht in Ajaccio Harbor. Then, placing a hand on Lupita’s forearm, she said, “I need you to keep this between us. Please. Not even Zac.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Eyrún’s heart thudded as she carried the bust and photos back to her office. What the hell’s going on?
44
Darwin, needing a distraction, had escaped back to Vatican City, where he gazed absently out an office window into the gardens. He no longer felt raw from the fight with Zac, but his stomach churned with each replay. They had disagreed before but never to this extent, and Zac’s refusal to answer calls or texts added to his suffering.
Eyrún’s consolation had helped somewhat, and she had reminded him that their concerns about Jasmin were not personal. “I like her,” she had said, “but we have to question. We’re under attack and don’t know yet from whom.”
His mobile vibrated, bringing him out of his mental tunnel.
Eyrún: Good morning. Feeling better today?
Darwin: not really
She replied with a sad-faced emoji, suggested he visit a new part of the museum to clear his head, and promised to call later in the day. He pocketed the device as his inner DVR played back the argument with Zac. Stop! Move. Then he walked down the long library corridor towards the Egyptian Museum.
His footfalls echoed softly on the marble floor as he passed elaborately carved cabinets with hand-hammered brass hardware. Overhead, a riot of frescoes covered the upper walls and ceiling. Centuries of creation had packed the hall, so much so that a visitor had to whisk through or miss greater masterpieces elsewhere in Vatican City.
He paused to study a scene over a doorway between corridor sections. Its artist was a lesser genius than Michelangelo but still immensely talented. As faint odors of beeswax and moldering paper tinged the air, Darwin’s archaeological sense of curiosity drew him to wonder about the painter. Who are you? What was your life like? Family, marriage, children? Was this painting your life’s ambition? Or was it just a job that paid the bills? How can we ever know?
The questions drifted in and out as he imagined the painter’s life and time. Then another thought popped up: Vatican security. They could find out about Jasmin. Of course. He turned, and the decorations fell into the background as he beat a path to the security office.
“The bastard didn’t even sign the papers. Just wanted another power trip. I tried to go out there, but she begged me not to,” said Zac, punching through the reps of his third set like it was his warm-up.
“They must have a lot more money than she let on. That boat’s huge.”
“I guess. Galleries must be a better business than we thought.”
Darwin started his last set, and his gut twisted as he probed deeper. “Eyrún and I were talking about Jasmin’s arrival.” He paused. Zac’s eyes narrowed as he looked askance. “Dunno. It’s just all this trouble with the ACA seemed to coincide with Jasmin showing up.”
“WTF, bro. Are you saying she’s behind this?”
“No. But I called a professor I know at Al-Kafaàt University in Lebanon, and he said Jasmin Kahn had been there but didn’t get a Ph.D.”
“You ran a background check on her?”
“No. No. Just a call. He said she left after an arrest for antiquities looting.“
Zac stared at him, mouth agape.
“I just got curious.”
“Got curious? Jesus, Darwin! It’s Eyrún, isn’t it? I know she’s cautious with people, but this is fucked up.”
“It’s not Eyrún,” said Darwin, trying to keep her out of it.
“Bullshit! She’s not saying, but I’ve seen her look at Jasmin. She’s still pissed I left Stevie.”
“C’mon, Zac. You know Eyrún’s not like that.”
Zac paused while moving weight onto the bar for his last set. Then he sighed. “I moved to France for her. I love her, but she kept taking off for weeks at a time. I never knew when she would be back.”
“Eyrún complains about it, too. She knows how Stevie is.”
Zac moved under the bar and thrust up nine reps before slamming the iron back in the rack. He sat up. “Jasmin’s great. She cares for me. I don’t know where it’s going, but she needs healing, and so do I.”
Darwin hated conflict. A maelstrom churned his insides, and his vision tunneled as he grasped for ways to defuse the conversation. “I’m not implying—”
“Yes, you are implying, Darwin. I hear you loud and clear. You and Eyrún think Jasmin’s behind this. Well, fuck you. Both of you.”
Zac picked up his gym bag and walked out, leaving Darwin standing by the bar and the other patrons staring.
42
Zac ran hard along the wharf, sweating out the anger from Darwin’s accusations. He turned onto a trail in the eastern harbor and climbed through the maquis. Its dry, woody appearance reminded him of his native Oakland, California. The shrubs, warm in the setting sun, oozed their earthy fragrances, which mixed with a bitter undertone from the dry Mediterranean soil.
He flinched, flashing on a memory of a violent mission in similar Afghan terrain. Steadying his pace, he mentally grasped the vision and put it back on a virtual shelf. The technique Jasmin had taught him seemed to work. He had confessed to having unwanted visions after she had asked him about his occasional nightmares. While he had no problems with most of his service as a US Army Ranger, some encounters, especially with innocent civilians, had left gut-wrenching images.
“It’s impossible to forget, and suppressing them will only drive the pain to resurface someplace else. Think of it like a can that falls off a shelf. You pick it up, acknowledge it, and put it back on the shelf where it belongs.”
“But they keep falling,” he said.
“Then keep putting them back. It’s how I’ve learned to cope with my ex.”
“But what do I do with a memory that won’t go away?”
“You may want to hold it and ask why. Don’t react to it. Just question. After a time, you may find it fades,” Jasmin had said.
He tried this technique with Darwin’s argument, but to no avail. Why does it piss me off so much? His heart lurched as a vision of Stevie popped up. He loved her fearlessness, whether exploring a cave, motorcycling, or, where he drew the line, base jumping in the Alps. Best of all, he loved her wicked, mischievous smile. But he had come to realize he wanted someone to return to each day. She seemed most alive when roaming. A kilometer of trail rolled under his feet as he released the bittersweet memories of his former lover.
What about Jasmin? He considered a life with her, but then he shook his head. Too early. She’s dealing with her own mess.
He turned back toward town, increasing his pace to blur the mental noise. The endorphin rush lightened his spirit, and his attention drifted to the surrounding beauty: orange sunlight chasing shadows up the mountain through the verdant brush.
But the conversation with Darwin still banged around in his head. His suspicion’s bullshit!
An hour later, after a shower and a post-run beer, his mood had lifted. By the time he had freshened up, Jasmin had arrived, and the tendrils of her musky perfume hooked his nostrils, reeling him into the main room.
“You smell good,” he said, kissing her.
She grazed his cheek with her fingernails, and a shiver ran through his core.
“So do you,” she said, adding, “I’m hungry,” in response to his hand exploring her backside.
They walked to a local brasserie, where they ordered a carafe of rosé and a plate of charcuterie and olives. He shoveled in bites of coppa and slowed down after a look from Jasmin prompted him back into Corsican time. They spoke about work at the ACA, their most common activity. Jasmin mentioned an intern from Chad who hoped to preserve ancient desert dwellings.
“He comes from a family that looted tombs to earn a living. He’s hoping to create eco-tourism by preserving the past. It’s a lovely dream but not likely.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no infrastructure for safe tourism. You’ve seen it.”
Zac nodded, having indeed seen desperate people in war-torn countries. He asked a few more questions about her work, all the while spiraling closer to what he wanted to ask. “I heard you went to the megayacht again?”
“Yes.” She grimaced and drained her wineglass.
“Did your ex sign the papers?” He refilled her glass.
“No. He just wanted to talk me out of leaving again. Bastard. He’s so manipulative.”
“I’m sorry. How are you feeling?”
Her expression darkened as she folded her arms across her midsection. “He could have sent the papers by courier.”
Zac sensed her subdued reaction was to hold in pain and keep it from exploding in public. He sat forward as if ready to pounce. “Is he still here?”
“No.” Her hands went up in defense. “Zac, honey, please stay out of this. It’s just his way. He’ll realize it’s over and go away. He’s already got a lover. I smelled a perfume lingering in the galley.”
Their main course arrived, and they ate in silence while surrounded by lively restaurant chatter. A cheer went up from the bar as Nice scored against Paris St. Germain. The locals supported any football squad who scored against Paris; the “team of money,” they called it. Zac smiled at the universal appeal of the underdog and used the moment to slip in a question.
“Darwin said you had some trouble in Lebanon?”
“Is that what you were upset about earlier?”
“Yeah. He pisses me off sometimes. Comes from a life of plenty with an old-family arrogance. Has no idea of real-life struggles.”
“What did he say?”
“He called a professor friend in Lebanon. Said you got into some trouble and didn’t complete a Ph.D.”
“It’s a long story, not one I’m proud of.”
“What happened?”
“I went to Beirut to explore my cultural roots and take up graduate studies. A year in, there was a misunderstanding at a dig site where a rival Ph.D. candidate accused me of stealing an artifact.”
“Did you?”
“No. I was earning money to pay for my education. I took a side job working for a company that recovered antiquities from construction sites. The local authorities set up a sting, looking for a payout.”
“That’s a raw deal. I’m sorry.”
“The university expelled me, and my employer did nothing to help.”
“Who did you work for?”
“Alexandria Antiquities.”
“Wait. Isn’t that Nahla Al Mahwi’s company?”
“Yes. But she said it was all legal, that her company had a contract with the government for commercial archaeology work. I spent three days in a gritty cell until my partner got me out. I hate what he’s turned into now, but, back then, he was the only one who helped.”
“Damn,” said Zac, setting his utensils on the empty plate and took her hand across the table. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”
43
The next morning, after dropping Darwin at the airport, Eyrún carried the bust to the lab to study the basalt. The rock’s chemical makeup would give them some idea of its origin. Along the way, she stopped in Barry’s office to check in on the construction.
He gestured wildly as he bellowed at a voice coming from the speakerphone. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow? This isn’t a musical production. I need it today.” He looked at Eyrún, picked up the handset, and held up a finger, indicating one minute.
She tuned out the call as she looked for a clear spot in the mountain of papers to set down the bust. His filing system could not be more opposite hers, but, despite its chaotic appearance, any time she asked for a document, Barry’s eyes would sweep the piles for mere seconds before he snatched up the needed paper.
“Thanks, mate. See, that wasn’t so hard. I’ll meet your driver on the loading dock at half past four—today,” said Barry, his voice mellifluous. Eyrún had heard that students flocked to his lectures for the Shakespearean rants, and students across Europe competed to join his archaeological digs. He was having the same effect at the ACA, as Eyrún had received a steady flow of inquiries and more intern applications than they had spots.
As he turned to her, an infectious grin spread between his ruddy cheeks. “Eyrún! How are you today?”
She returned the smile, feeling a warmth at how Barry had also blossomed in the Corsican climate. “Always better when surrounded by your energy, Barry. I trust the construction’s going well?” She nodded toward the phone.
“Don’t get me started on the French bureaucracy. But, yes, we’re on schedule.” He moved a stack of papers. “Here you go.”
Eyrún set the sculpture on the desk’s bare spot and dusted her hands. As they briefly reviewed the construction, Barry tipped his head from side to side, studying the bust. “This looks familiar,” he said.
“Jasmin thinks it's a Roman emperor,” she said.
“Not that. I mean…now that you mention it, there’s a resemblance to Suetonius, a first-century general. He, er… Never mind. You didn’t come here for a lecture. I think this is in a photo that Lupita captured in her project.” He picked up the bust and eyed it more closely. “Now I’m certain. This is the one Darwin found in that abandoned workshop, right?”
“Yes.”
“Never seen a Roman work done in basalt. Let’s go ask Lupita.”
As they moved toward the door, Barry’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and said, “It’s that contractor again. I better take it. You go ahead. I’ll be along.”
She carried the bust a short distance down the hall to Lupita’s office, where she knocked lightly on the opened door. Lupita looked up and said, “Oh, hello, Eyrún. Come in.”
Her office, the antithesis of Barry’s, featured neatly arranged surfaces. One large table had photos spaced as if on a grid. And, while Barry’s voice boomed at a back-row audience, Lupita spoke as gently as a stream. Eyrún sat with the bust in her lap and asked how she was.
“Fine, thank you. And you?”
“Busy as ever. How is your new flat?” The Lacroix family owned a building in the old harbor, and a unit had recently become available.
“It is lovely, and I have never lived so close to the water.” Lupita smiled, and her sparkling eyes conveyed gratitude.
“Tell me how your project’s going. Zac says it’s up and running.”
“Yes. He has been a great help.” Lupita blushed in the light wash cast by the two large monitors.
Eyrún smiled. Interesting. Is she hiding feelings about Zac?
Lupita tapped on the keyboard in answer to a beep, and, a few beats later, Eyrún said, “Can you tell me how it works?”
Lupita brightened, describing how she had coded an algorithm that used artificial intelligence to develop linkages between the Art Loss Record database and records of worldwide museums’. She surmised the algorithm could find missing pieces in vast collections that individual curators could not.
“For instance, the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford has thousands of pieces on display, but millions in storage. It has turned up a few possibilities, and I printed the photos there.” She pointed at the table behind her.
Eyrún noticed Lupita kept glancing down at the bust as she spoke. “Did you find something about this bust? Barry mentioned it.”
“No. Well, not exactly. I took photos of it and the other vases in the lab as an experiment. To see what the algorithm would find.”
“And…”
“The bust is a copy of a statue in Bath.” Lupita reached for a photo. “It is Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, a Roman general.”
“So, this means your system works.”
“Yes. It proved it worked, so I began testing another idea.” Lupita lifted a copy of Vanity Fair from her desk. Eyrún had seen it when she walked in, thinking it uncharacteristic of Lupita, who seemed a scientist to the core. “I directed the algorithm to also scan publications, especially art and culture that the wealthy would read or at least subscribe to. In the last staff meeting, you and Jasmin talked about the super-rich and their egos.”
Eyrún had never seen Lupita so animated, and she guessed the penny was about to drop.
“I figured the magazines with pictures of rich people’s homes might have artworks with questionable provenance. It is still running, but…” She nodded toward Eyrún’s lap, stepped over to a pile on the far table, and lifted another photo. “I found this.” She handed it to Eyrún.
Balancing the bust with her left hand, Eyrún took it and swiveled her chair to catch the light from the desk. The photo showed the interior sitting area of a large yacht. The ocean was visible through a wide door to the stern. Two large paintings hung on either side of the door, and a large Etruscan vase stood on a table almost outside the frame. Lupita tapped on her keyboard as Eyrún squinted at the photo.
“Here it is,” said Lupita. She pointed at a monitor and clicked the mouse to zoom in. While the photo blurred somewhat as the vase enlarged, Eyrún clearly saw the figures on the vase.
“What? That’s my Fountain of Salmacis vase,” she said, setting the bust on the desk and scooting her chair next to Lupita’s. “At least, it looks the same. What do you think?”
“It looks identical to me.”
Eyrún studied the vase’s surroundings, especially the aft deck out the room’s window. Something’s familiar. Wait. It can’t be. Her jaw clenched, and her pulse quickened as she leaned back in her chair to gain perspective. “Zoom out.”
Lupita shrank the photo to its original size, and the ocean and horizon resolved clearly. Then she clicked to a photo of the yacht moored alongside others in what looked like Monaco Harbor.
“Shit!” Eyrún hissed.
“What is it?” asked Lupita.
Eyrún explained how she had seen the same megayacht in Ajaccio Harbor. Then, placing a hand on Lupita’s forearm, she said, “I need you to keep this between us. Please. Not even Zac.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Eyrún’s heart thudded as she carried the bust and photos back to her office. What the hell’s going on?
44
Darwin, needing a distraction, had escaped back to Vatican City, where he gazed absently out an office window into the gardens. He no longer felt raw from the fight with Zac, but his stomach churned with each replay. They had disagreed before but never to this extent, and Zac’s refusal to answer calls or texts added to his suffering.
Eyrún’s consolation had helped somewhat, and she had reminded him that their concerns about Jasmin were not personal. “I like her,” she had said, “but we have to question. We’re under attack and don’t know yet from whom.”
His mobile vibrated, bringing him out of his mental tunnel.
Eyrún: Good morning. Feeling better today?
Darwin: not really
She replied with a sad-faced emoji, suggested he visit a new part of the museum to clear his head, and promised to call later in the day. He pocketed the device as his inner DVR played back the argument with Zac. Stop! Move. Then he walked down the long library corridor towards the Egyptian Museum.
His footfalls echoed softly on the marble floor as he passed elaborately carved cabinets with hand-hammered brass hardware. Overhead, a riot of frescoes covered the upper walls and ceiling. Centuries of creation had packed the hall, so much so that a visitor had to whisk through or miss greater masterpieces elsewhere in Vatican City.
He paused to study a scene over a doorway between corridor sections. Its artist was a lesser genius than Michelangelo but still immensely talented. As faint odors of beeswax and moldering paper tinged the air, Darwin’s archaeological sense of curiosity drew him to wonder about the painter. Who are you? What was your life like? Family, marriage, children? Was this painting your life’s ambition? Or was it just a job that paid the bills? How can we ever know?
The questions drifted in and out as he imagined the painter’s life and time. Then another thought popped up: Vatican security. They could find out about Jasmin. Of course. He turned, and the decorations fell into the background as he beat a path to the security office.
