Art of Murder

5

Susan is a Lamp.

The square label on her left wrist says: Susan Cabot, aged nineteen, Johannesburg South Africa, straw blonde hair, blue eyes, white skin, unprimed. Susan has been lighting meetings as a Marooder Lamp only for the past six months. Before that she had been another three decorations for the Foundation. She alternates this work with that of mediocre portrait painters (the contract she has with the Foundation is not exclusive) because when it comes down to it, a portrait simply means they cover your body with silicone and then mould you in whatever form the client wants. There is not much hyperdramatic work to it. Susan does not particularly like Hyperdramatism – that is why she abandoned her early career as a canvas and decided to become a decoration. She is aware she will never be an immortal work of art like the 'Flowers', but that does not bother her too much. The 'Flowers' have to keep up much more difficult positions for days on end, they are always on drugs and have become real vegetables, roses, daffodils, irises, marigolds, tulips, perfumed and painted objects which no longer dream, enjoy themselves, or live. Being a Lamp on the other hand allows you to earn a bundle of money, retire young, and have kids. You don't end your days like one of those sterile canvases condemned by humanity to the hell of eternal beauty.

Early on the morning of 29 June 2006, Susan's bleeper went off unexpectedly on her bedside table, and woke her from a deep sleep. She dialled her code number on the hotel telephone, and was instructed to proceed immediately to the airport. She was sufficiently experienced to know this was no routine matter. For the past three weeks she had been in Hanover, for six hours a day – with intermediate breaks – lighting a small meeting room where debates about biology, painting, and the relation between art and genetics took place. Susan had not heard a word of them, because she had been wearing ear protectors the whole time. Sometimes she was also given a mask to put on, when she supposed that the guests were well-known faces who wanted to remain anonymous. As a Lamp, she was more than used to ignoring everything. But she had only rarely been called so urgently in the middle of the night, and hardly given time to get dressed, grab her bag with her equipment in it, and rush off to the airport. There a ticket was waiting for her on a flight that left for Munich half an hour later. In Munich she met up with other colleagues (she did not know them, but that was common among decorations). They were taken by private bus guarded by four security men to the Obberlund building, a squat steel and glass complex of offices and conference halls situated very close to the Haus der Kunst, next to the English Garden. During the journey she got a phone call from the decoration supervisor, a thoroughly unpleasant young woman by the name of Kelly, who explained briefly the position she was to occupy in the room she would be working in.

Once they had arrived at the Obberlund, she had only twenty minutes to get ready: she took all her clothes off, put on a porous swimsuit and a colour cap for her hair, and then waited for the paints to dry. After which she took off her suit and cap, checked her body painted a rosewood pink and her dark teak hair, took the lamp fittings out of her bag, clamped the base round her right ankle, and limped to the meeting room with cable in hand, trying hard not to stumble and fall. Her colleagues were also silently and efficiently occupying their positions. Susan lay on her back on the floor and took up her pose: hands on hips, backside in the air, the right leg lifted out straight and the left bent over her face. The lighting circle with four cold bulbs was attached to the ankle in the air. The cable was not wrapped round her leg, but curled off across to the plug. All Susan had to do was to stay still and let the lights shine. It was a difficult posture to maintain, but training and habit had turned her into a first-class object. Her operating time was four hours.

A short while later, someone – Kelly, in all likelihood – came and switched her on. The bulbs were lit, and Susan began to illuminate the room. Then a workman arrived to put on her ear protectors and the mask, then she was left in darkness and silence.

The meeting took place on the tenth floor.

The room the Obberlund managers had offered them was square, hermetic and soundproof. It had dark-tinted windows. There were only a few non-human pieces of furniture: metal and plastic chairs on a single leg were scattered around an enormous steel-grey-coloured carpet. All the other decorations were painted human bodies. There were Tables, Lamps, Ornaments by the window and, in the corners of the room, one stationary Trolley and eleven mobile Trolleys. Apart from the latter, which had to go from one side to another serving the guests and therefore had to see and hear clearly, the rest were wearing ear and eye protectors.

The working breakfast was served by the eleven Trolleys: freshly baked croissants, five kinds of bread, and three different butter substitutes, as well as coffee, coffee and tea substitutes -these last for Benoit, in particular, as he was very nervous. There was also a variety of fruit juices, pastas, cheese spreads and glasses of mineral water full of gleaming ice cubes. Finally, there was a selection of dried fruit in a bowl on one of the Tables (the guests had to go and get these, because the Table – a boy lying with his back on the ground, legs in the air, and a girl balancing on his feet, both of them painted a fuchsia colour – could not move) and a dish of multi-coloured sweets between the breasts of a red Marooder Trolley, its body arched backwards with hands and feet on the ground, shiny copper hair brushing the floor.

One of the guests was eating these sweets non-stop: he would lean over, grab a handful of them and stuff them one by one under his moustache, as though they were peanuts. He was a young man with black hair and a high forehead. His eyebrows were as bushy as his moustache. His maroon suit was impeccable, and beautifully cut, although not as expensive as Benoif s. He looked like a cheerful, friendly, talkative sort: in other words, someone of little importance. But Bosch instinctively realised that this individual, this anonymous-looking young man with a moustache who was devouring all the sweets, was the most important of all the important people in the room. He was the Head Honcho.

Bosch had been appointed moderator. When he felt he had allowed them enough time, and caught a nod of approval from Miss Wood, he cleared his throat and said: 'Shall we begin, ladies and gentlemen?'

The mobile Trolleys, who were not wearing ear protectors, immediately left the room. Unavoidably curious, the eyes of the guests followed the procession of tall, varnished, naked bodies out of the room. For a minute, no one spoke. Finally, it was Paul Benoit who seemed to awaken out of a dream and opened the discusssion.

'Please, Lothar, how did he get in? Just tell me that. How did he get in? I don't want to get nervous, Lothar. Just tell me… I want you and April to explain to me… to us, right now, how on earth that bastard got into the suite, Lothar. How did he get into a hermetically sealed suite crammed with alarms, with five security men permanently on guard in the lifts, stairs and doorways of the hotel… How do you explain it?'

'If you'll give me a chance, Paul, I will explain,' Bosch replied calmly. 'He didn't have to get in: he was already inside. The Wunderbar hotel has hyperdramatic decorations. There was one in the suite: an oil painting by Gianfranco Gigli…'

'A worthless disciple of Ferrucioli’ Benoit spat. 'If he hadn't killed himself, his works would be sold by weight.' 'Paul, please.' 'Sorry. I'm nervous. Go on.'

'Four models take turns to be the Gigli work. Somehow, this guy managed to pass himself off as one of them – Marcus Weiss, forty-three years old, from Berlin. Weiss was the work on Tuesdays. When we discovered what had happened we went to the motel where he was staying. We found him bound hand and foot to his bed, and garrotted. The police calculate his death took place on Monday night. It was, therefore, not he who turned up the next day at the Wunderbar wearing the paint and the mask for the Gigli painting.'

'Have I understood correctly?' asked Rudolf Kobb, from the Foreign Office. 'We're looking for a guy who disguises himself as someone disguising himself as something else?'

'A guy who disguises himself as a model who is a work of art on show inside the suite,' Bosch corrected him.

'No. No. No, Lothar.' Benoit shifted in his seat, straightening the crease on his trouser leg. 'I'm sorry, but I'm not convinced. Who was the idiot who let him into the suite?'

'My men are not responsible, Paul. In any case, I have no problem assuming responsibility for them. On the dot of seven on Tuesday evening, a man who looked like Marcus Weiss, wearing the labels Marcus Weiss wears, and carrying Marcus Weiss' credentials, arrived at the Wunderbar. My men checked his papers, made sure everything was in order, and let him in. They had been doing exactly the same with Weiss for several weeks.' 'Why didn't they search his bag?'

'Paul, he was a work of art; he didn't belong to us. He was not from the Foundation. We cannot search the bag of a work that is not ours.' 'Who raised the alarm?'

'Saltzer. He phoned the suite at twelve as a matter of routine. No one replied, and perhaps that was when he made his only mistake. He chose to stay downstairs and call again later. According to him, sometimes the twins decided not to answer the phone. After ringing three times, he got worried and went up to have a look. That allowed us to have more control over things than in Vienna, because we were the ones who discovered the bodies and informed the police when we were ready to do so. And I can forgive him his mistake, Paul. The guy was already inside.'

'OK, so he was inside,' Kurt Sorensen butted in, 'but how did he manage to get out?'

That was the easy part. He went down the stairs to another floor. From there he took a different lift. And he probably used another disguise so as not to arouse any suspicions. Our men were trained to stop anyone entering, not anyone going out.'

'Do you get it now, Paul?' boomed Gert Warfell. 'This bastard is a real expert.'

There was an uncomfortable silence, after which the Head Honcho spoke with incongruous enthusiasm.

'Excuse me for changing the subject for a moment, but I wanted to say that I had the chance to visit the Haus der Kunst and the 'Monsters' exhibition yesterday. I wanted to congratulate you. It's incredible.' He appeared to be speaking to them all, although he was looking directly at Stein. There were some things I didn't understand, though. What's the point, for example, of putting a terminally ill AIDS patient on show?'

'It's art, fuschus' Stein replied in a level tone. 'The only reason for art is art itself.'

'I've also seen the exhibition,' the Europol representative, Albert Knopffer, said. 'What impressed me most was that eight-or nine-year-old girl carrying that African baby who turned out to be a dwarf male model. That gave me the shivers.'

'We could spend all day talking about the works,' said the Head Honcho as he reached for more sweets. ‘I think they're even more profound than 'Flowers'. But let's be precise. They are different, the two shows can't be compared. However, they do seem more profound to me. Congratulations.' 'They are works by the Maestro,' said Stein.

'Yes, but you work with him. So congratulations are due to both of you.' Stein nodded his acknowledgement. 'Lothar, why don't you tell us about the girl called Brenda?'

Sorensen asked. 'Just to fill in for our friends here’ he added, smiling at the Head Honcho.

Kurt Sorensen was the person who acted as the link between the Foundation and the insurance companies. He had learnt to get on with everyone, but Bosch did not like him. It was not just his pale face and vampire's brows that irritated him, but his character as well. He thought he knew everything, that he had all the latest and most accurate information.

'Fine, Kurt.' Bosch shuffled the papers on his lap. 'According to our information, the other days of the week Weiss was on show as another work, an oil painting by Kate Niemeyer at the Max Ernst gallery on Maximilianstrasse. On Monday after work, a girl was waiting for him outside the gallery. Weiss introduced her to a friend of his, another canvas. He told her she was called Brenda, and that she was an art dealer. Weiss' friend, whom we questioned yesterday, said that Brenda looked like a painting. I should point out that paintings can often recognise others of their kind. Apparently, Brenda looked very much like a young professional canvas: athletic body, smooth skin, striking beauty. Weiss and his friend Brenda, whom we don't know when or how he met, had dinner at a restaurant and then went to his motel. The following afternoon, Weiss left on his own. He said goodbye and handed his key in at reception. The receptionist knew Weiss very well, and says he saw nothing odd apart from the bag he was carrying. He didn't look too closely, but he swears it was not the bag Weiss usually carried – which, by the way, he had left in the restaurant the previous evening. Nobody saw the girl leave at any point that day, and I'm sure that whoever the receptionist was, they would have noticed someone like her. Nor did anyone go into Weiss' room. But, of course, the Weiss who left the motel could not have been the real one, because he was killed more than twelve hours earlier…' 'Therefore…' interjected Sorensen.

'Therefore we are led to believe that the false Weiss and the girl are the same person. In all likelihood what he was carrying under his arm was the disguise for Brenda.'

'Which allows us to link this to the girl who had no papers’

Sorensen said, looking across at the Head Honcho. 'That's right, isn't it, Lothar?'

'Exactly. I think you all know about that already. In Vienna, Oscar Diaz met a girl with no residence papers, whom we can find no trace of. Later, a false Diaz turns up, and the body of the real one is found floating in the Danube, strangled with a wire cable. We must assume our man has repeated the same tactic' 'If there is only one person involved,' Benoit said.

That's true,' Gert Warfell agreed. He was the supervisor of the Foundation's Robbery Prevention and Alarms Section, an impetuous individual with the face of a bulldog.' It could be several people, a complete team of silicone experts working together. It could be a man or a woman, or several men and women. It could be… Dammit, it could be anyone.'

The woman among the group of people Bosch had identified as important shifted in her seat, cleared her throat, and spoke for the first time. Her platinum blonde hair appeared chiselled. She was wearing a steel-grey suit with matching stockings. Her eyes were of exactly the same colour, too; and Bosch suspected her mind might be steely as well. He had been told her name was Roman. Her metallic eyes seemed to give off sparks.

'In short,' she said in a high-pitched voice with an American accent, 'if I have understood correctly, gentlemen, there is someone, or perhaps more than one person, who is dedicated to destroying Mr Bruno van Tysch's paintings. They have already succeeded twice, and apparently there is nothing to stop them from doing so a third time. How, therefore, can I offer my clients any reassurance? How can I persuade them to go on investing in the creation, upkeep and security of works which anyone could destroy at any moment!'

Various voices were raised, but it was Benoit who spoke for all of them.

'Miss Roman, our meeting here is aimed precisely at resolving that problem…' The collar of his splendid maroon shirt was stained with sweat. 'There have been failings in our security system which I am the first to recognise and regret, as you will have heard… but these gentlemen…' he gestured vaguely in the direction of Head Honcho, '. .. these gentlemen are not part of our security team. These gentlemen we have asked to help… do you know who these gentlemen are?…'

"Yes, I know who these gentlemen are’ Roman replied evenly. 'What I'd like to know is how much these gentlemen are going to cost us.'

Another hubbub, which immediately ceased when the Head Honcho began to speak.

'No, no, no. We won't cost the Van Tysch Foundation anything, Miss Roman. Let's be precise. Rip van Winkle is a European Union defence system. More precisely still, Rip van Winkle is a system paid for by the cohesion funds of all the member countries.' He paused to scoop up another handful of sweets from between the Tray's breasts. One of them fell and bounced off the taut naked stomach. 'Let's be precise. Neither Mr Harlbrunner, Mr Knopffer nor I are here because we will be paid more, nor because we have any economic interest in this affair. We are part of Rip van Winkle. Part of it, Miss Roman. Let's be precise. If we are here, it's simply because matters which affect our European cultural and artistic heritage affect all of us, as citizens of countries with long traditions. If a terrorist group threatened the Parthenon, Rip van Winkle would be called in. And if Bruno van Tysch's works are threatened by whatever group it may be, then Rip van Winkle will be involved. It's not about money, Miss Roman, it's about moral obligations.' Flinging his head back, he tipped the handful of sweets into his mouth.

'When people start making statements about morals, it always ends with bank statements’ Miss Roman declared, and nobody laughed. 'But if Rip van Winkle really means no extra costs for us, we have no objections.'

'By the way’ said a booming voice in English with a German accent, 'is it true what I heard? That the loss of those two fat monsters is the same as losing the Mona Lisa?'

He was a man with ruddy cheeks and a bushy white moustache. He looked like the typical Bavarian beer swiller of Hofbrauhaus posters. His name was Harlbrunner. His speciality (according to Head Honcho's introduction) was as the head of the Rip van Winkle SWAT teams. At that moment he was standing next to the Table with the dried fruits, scooping up almonds in his huge white hairy paw, while at the same time staring fascinated at the varnished open legs of the Table's top half.

For a moment there was a silence while the others looked surreptitiously at each other, as if weighing up whether or not it was worth answering his question. Then Benoit spoke:

'No one can… No one will ever be able to assess just what the loss of "Monsters" implies. The world we live in, the planet we inhabit, the society we have built… none of it will ever be the same again. "Monsters" offered the key to what we are, what we have been, what we…'

'Shit, he butchered them like pigs,' Knopffer from Europol growled, silencing Benoit. He had got up to look at the photos on the stomach of the other Table in the centre of the room, and was studying them closely. The Table's breathing had led to one of the photos falling off on to the carpet.

'Why these marks?' Rudolf Kobb from the Foreign Ministry wanted to know, as Knopffer passed him the photos.

'Ten cuts on each of them, eight of them crosses,' Bosch explained. 'They're the same as with Deflowering. He lays them on their backs with their legs open, but leaves the labels on. We don't know why he always makes these same cuts. He uses a portable canvas cutter, like the ones restorers use to saw wooden frames. And he always leaves a recording. We found this on the floor, between the two bodies. We can listen to it now, if you like.' ‘Yes, we would,' said Head Honcho.

Bosch was about to get up, but Thea van Droon, sitting next to him, beat him to it. Thea was in charge of the Foundation's assault team. She had just returned from Paris after interrogating Briseida Canchares. As Thea stood up, Bosch could get a better view of Miss Wood, who sat hunched in a seat further away, chin on her chest, and her thin legs stretched out in front of her. She doesn't talk, she doesn't say a word, thought Bosch unhappily. She knows she's failed again, and she feels humiliated. He would have liked to comfort her, to reassure her everything would be all right. Perhaps he would get the chance later.

Thea made sure that the two naked young men who made up the Table had their ear protectors on properly. The portable recorder had amplifiers to improve the sound. It was on one of the youngsters' chest, while the speakers were balanced on the other's thighs. Thea pressed a button.

'Art then became sacred,' a nervous, panting voice said in English: a high falsetto voice, which the laboratories had identified as being Hubertus'. 'The figures were hying to… were trying to discover God and honour mystery…' There was a pause of echoing sobs. Benoit grimaced as the noise filled the speakers. 'By representing death, man was striving to be immortal… All religious art involved

… involved the same idea… torture and destruction were painted or sculpted with the aim of… with the aim of…' by now, Hubertus was openly crying 'of affirming life even more… eter… eternal life

… Pleeease…!'

The recording broke down in a welter of hysterical sobbing, then picked up again in the calmer voice of Arnoldus.

'The artist says: my art is death… The artist says: the only way I can love life is… by loving death… because the art which survives is the art which has died… if the figures die, the works survive.'

'He must force them to read a prepared text,' Bosch said in the silence after Thea had switched the recording off.

"This guy is an insane bastard!' Warfell shouted. 'It couldn't be clearer! He may be very clever, but he's off his head!'

His features etched by the slender naked legs of a Marooder Lamp next to his seat, Benoit turned towards Warfell.

'If s all a bluff, Gert. They want us to think it's the work of a madman, but it's all a damned piece of make-believe that one of our competitors has dreamt up. I'm sure of it.'

'How is it possible for works to survive if the figures die?' Head Honcho wanted to know. 'What does that mean?'

Everyone was expecting Stein to answer. But it was Benoit who spoke.

'It doesn't mean a thing. As far as the figures for "Monsters" are concerned, their death means the work has vanished forever as well. There are no substitutes for them.'

Harlbrunner's grave cello boomed out again, from his post next to the dried fruit Table. As he talked, he carelessly stroked the shining surface of the thighs of the girl making the top half.

'Can anyone explain to those of us who are new to this what on earth this ceru… cerublas… is?' Several voices completed the word 'cerublastyne' for Harlbrunner, but he did not seem able to finish the word himself. 'According to the reports, Weiss' face and hands were covered in it, weren't they?'

Now it was Jacob Stein's turn. He spoke very softly, but the sepulchral silence surrounding him made it seem louder.

'Ceru is a material similar to silicone, but much more advanced. It was developed in labs in France, England and Holland specifically for use in hyperdramatic art… Galismus, I think you, Mr Kobb,' he pointed at the man from the Foreign Ministry, 'have had your portrait done by Avendano, so you know what I'm talking about.'

Kobb smiled in agreement.

"Yes, it's identical to me. Sometimes it scares me, it's so real.' Remembering the portrait of Hendrickje, Bosch also shuddered.

'In art, ceru is employed in many ways,' Stein went on, 'not just for models as portraits, but for official and fake copies, for complicated make-ups, and so on… a ceru expert can literally become anybody, man or woman. All you have to do is put a thin layer of it on the part you want to copy, let it dry, then remove it very carefully. It's the perfect disguise. Yet I must stress that you have to be a real expert to be able to handle the ceru moulds properly. They're even more fragile than the layer of skin you get on boiled milk.'

'From what I've heard so far,' said Head Honcho, 'our man is a real expert.'

There was a moment's silence. Then Stein, who seemed to be in a hurry, called on Benoit to sum up the conclusions from this preliminary meeting. Feeling the spotlight fall on him, Benoit sat up in his chair, put on a pair of reading glasses, and picked up the sheets of paper in front of him. He leaned slightly to his left so that the light from the Marooder Lamp would shine on the text.

'On 29 June 2006, in these offices kindly put at our disposal by the management of the Obberlund building, Munich, a crisis cabinet has been formed with the aim of…'

Their aims were clear enough. Conservation and Security had drawn up an emergency twin-track strategy: defence and attack. There were three items under defence: withdrawal, identity and secrecy. The first consisted in withdrawing all the works by Bruno van Tysch on public display, first in Europe, then in the United States, and finally the rest of the world. 'Flowers' would be the first collection to return to Amsterdam, followed by 'Monsters', and then individual works like Athene in the Centre Pompidou. All the works would be kept in secure places. As for identity, this involved a system of checking all the employees who had any contact with the canvases using voice tests and fingerprint checks. Benoit suggested that all those who had been properly identified should then wear labels.

'But that would make us works of art as well,' Warfell objected.

'Is there really no other way to detect a ceru mask?' asked Head Honcho.

'Fuschus, no there isn't,' Stein replied. 'When ceru dries, it's like a second skin. It takes on the same temperature and consistency. You'd have to scratch the suspect to make sure who he was.'

The labels idea was left for further consideration. Then the secrecy angle was discussed. From now on, the anonymous criminal was to be known by the code name the 'Artist', as he called himself in the recordings.

'Only those of us in this crisis cabinet,' Benoit went on, 'will know everything about the Artist. All other experts or assistants will only be aware of part or even nothing at all of the information concerning the Artist, including details of the attacks and the progress of our investigations. Neither the insurance companies nor any investors who are not clients of Miss Roman here, nor it goes without saying the press or the public, will have access to any of this information. From this moment on, the very existence of the Artist is strictly confidential.'

The attack plan had a single heading: Rip van Winkle. Bosch had already heard of this European security system. It was controlled from a special department of Europol. Head Honcho defined it as 'self-defence and feedback'. Like the character in Washington Irving's story, the system could be 'sleeping' for years until a specific crisis 'woke it up'. Its chief characteristic was that once it had been awakened it could not be stopped until it had achieved its objectives. These objectives were an absolute priority. Each objective achieved became a 'result'. If necessary, Rip van Winkle could ignore all legal norms, all constitutions and ideas of sovereignty in order to obtain results. It was also self-correcting every week. If it was discovered that in that length of time no result had been achieved, all its agents were changed.

'Today it's us,' said Head Honcho. 'Tomorrow it could be others.'

Rip van Winkle would do everything necessary to get rid of the problem, and would use any means at its disposal. 'There are bound to be victims,' Head Honcho announced dolefully, 'and almost all of them will be innocent, though necessary. I repeat: necessary. The number of victims will grow exponentially in relation to the amount of time we need to achieve our objectives. It's like a secret war.'

In this instance, the main aim of Rip van Winkle was simple: to capture and eliminate the Artist, whoever he was, and whoever might be hiding behind that name. Then it was Albert Knopffer from Europol's turn to speak.

'We won't spare any effort, I can assure you. You are all well aware of the great interest the Community has shown in the life and work of Bruno van Tysch and the Foundation you represent.'

'Absolutely,' said Head Honcho. 'It's a matter of pride for all Europe, and for us as European citizens, that Mr van Tysch has chosen to create his works here in the Old Continent, unlike so many artists who have emigrated. Not that I would like you to think that I am criticising those artists. I repeat…' here he grabbed the last remaining sweets from their bowl and swallowed them.

'… the Foundation is part of our European heritage, and we should therefore do all we can to protect it,' Knopffer finished his sentence for him.

While Benoit and Stein were returning the compliment, Bosch tried not to smile. He recalled that Gerhard Weyleb, who had been his boss before Miss Wood, had told him one day that the real masterpieces Van Tysch and Stein had created were the Europeans themselves. 'Don't you see: we're his finest hyperdramatic work. That's the secret of his incredible success.'

Harlbrunner, who at that moment was resting his hand on one of the varnished knees of the girl who was the dried fruit Table, quickly intervened.

'Art is an absolute priority. You must forgive me if I don't know how to express this any better, but I'm convinced that art is Europe's number one priority.'

As he spoke, he tapped the girl's knee for emphasis like an orator.

A majestic dark-blue limousine glided like a giant fish along the Ludwig Leopold Avenue in Munich. The chauffeur, positioned several metres from the people sitting on the rear seat, wore a uniform and a peaked cap. On the left sat April Wood. She looked thoughtful, and was tapping the back of one hand with the forefinger of the other. Next to her, Stein's personal assistant was busy tapping at the keys of a laptop. Beyond her, head tilted back against the seat, Stein was putting drops into both eyes. His suit and the onyx medallion round his neck were the same shiny black.

Anyone who ever saw Jacob Stein immediately agreed on what he looked like: a faun. His eyebrows stood out above a deeply lined face; his eyes were hidden under dark protruding arches, his nose was prominent, and his thick, sensual lips pushed plumply through the curls of his greying beard. What was more difficult was to assess his real importance in the Foundation. Some people claimed the Maestro dominated him completely, others that he was the one who really reigned. Miss Wood did not dismiss either possibility. One thing was certain: this New York Jew with his faun's features and square head was the chief architect of HD art's success, the person who had turned hyperdramatism into a world empire, a new form of culture. It was Stein who had designed the first human ornaments and objects, had organised the mass production of cheap copies of originals, and set up the pioneering academies for HD canvases. In spite of all this, he occasionally also found time to paint his own masterpieces.

'By a fortunate coincidence,' said Stein, screwing the top back on his eyedrops, 'it so happens that the excuse I used to get out of the meeting is strictly true, fuschus. The Maestro is expecting me in Amsterdam to supervise some of the sketches for the "Rembrandt" exhibition. And to top it all, those aerosols I've been using to prepare the figures for Jacob Wrestling with the Angel have given me conjunctivitis… Oh, thanks, Neve.'

Stein's secretary had leaned over and dried his eyes with a silk handkerchief. Then she folded the handkerchief, took the eyedrops from him, and put everything away in her bag. The whole operation took place in complete silence. Staring down at the swirls in the car's carpet, Wood caught a glimpse only of Neve's high-heeled shoes and tanned calves as she came and went.

'Which means I hope that what you have to say to me, Miss Wood, is really important, galismus,' concluded Stein.

Stein was jokingly nicknamed Mr Fuschus-Galismus. Nobody had any clear idea of what the two words Stein was always repeating actually meant, and Stein had never bothered to explain. They were part of the slang he used when talking to painters and canvases. His disciples had invariably picked up the habit.

'Postpone the opening of "Rembrandt", Mr Stein,' Miss Wood said directly. Stein coughed, and his faun's features darkened.

'Fuschus, we turned the wife of the last investor who suggested that into a work of art, didn't we, Neve?' The secretary bared a perfect set of shiny white teeth and laughed a tinkling laugh that Miss Wood found faintly nauseating.

'I'm being serious. If the exhibition goes ahead, there's a strong probability that one of the works will be destroyed.'

'Why is that?' the painter asked with genuine curiosity. 'There are more than a hundred of the Maestro's works and sketches in collections and public exhibitions throughout the world. The Artist could choose any of-'

‘I don't think so,' Miss Wood interrupted him. 'I'm convinced that, whether we're dealing with a lone madman or an organisation, the Artist is following a plan. Until now, Van Tysch has created two great collections, with the third due to be inaugurated in July. "Flowers", "Monsters", and "Rembrandt". Apart from that, the rest of his works are individual pieces. The Artist has destroyed Deflowering, from the first collection, and Monsters, from the second.' She paused, and raised her clear eyes to Stein. 'The third will come from "Rembrandt".' 'What proof do you have?' 'None at all. It's my intuition. But I don't think I'm wrong.'

The painter stared silently down at the fingernails on his right hand. He had designed five special brushes to fit into his nails, so that he could keep them as long and tapered as a classical guitarist's.

'I know I can catch him, Mr Stein,' Wood went on. 'But the Artist is not merely a psychopath: he is a real expert, who has planned everything beforehand and moves at incredible speed. Now I'm sure he has his sights on a work from the "Rembrandt" collection, and we have to defend ourselves.' All at once, Miss Wood's voice became husky. 'You know how I work. You know I will not accept mistakes. But when they do occur, my only consolation is to judge they were unforeseeable. So please don't force me to accept a mistake that is avoidable. Postpone the exhibition, I beg you.'

'I can't. Believe me, it's not possible. The "Rembrandt" collection is almost complete. The press showing is in a fortnight, and the public opening is on 15 July, the date of the four hundredth anniversary of Rembrandt's birth. The work to install the Tunnel in the Museumplein is already well advanced. And besides, the Maestro has spent too long working on it. He's obsessed by it, and I'm the guardian of the paradise of his obsessions. That is what I've always been, galismus, and it's what I intend to go on being…' 'And if we explain to the Maestro the danger his works are in?'

'Do you think that would worry him? Do you know any painter who would refuse to exhibit his works because they might be destroyed? Galisinus, we painters always create for eternity, so we're not worried whether our works last twenty centuries, twenty years, or only twenty minutes.' Miss Wood studied the patterns on the carpet in silence.

'I'm not going to say a word to the Maestro’ Stein went on. 'All my life I've acted as a buffer between him and reality. My own works are nothing compared to his, but I'm happy just to have helped him create them, by keeping him away from all the problems, by doing all the dirty work myself… My best work has been, and continues to be, the fact that the maestro can go on painting. He's a man ruled by the dictates of his own genius. An ineffable being, galismus, as strange as an astrophysical phenomenon – sometimes terrible, at others gentle. But if ever, at any moment, anywhere in the world, there has been a genius, then that person is Bruno van Tysch. The rest of us can only hope to obey and protect him. Your duty, Miss Wood, is to protect him. Mine is to obey him… ah! galismus, what a wonderful glow. Neve, look at the colour of the skin on your legs now, with the sunlight slanting in on them… it's lovely, isn't it? A touch of arilamide yellow dissolved in pale pink, varnish on top and you'd be perfect. Fuschus, I wonder why no one has thought of painting canvases for the interior of stretch limousines. We could use underage models. We've designed and sold all kinds of ornaments and objects for lots of places, but…'

Tostpone the exhibition, Mr Stein, or there'll be another work destroyed,' Miss Wood insisted, without raising her voice.

But all Stein did was study her in silence for a long moment. Then he smiled and shook his head, as if he had seen something unbelievable in her face.

Tind the man responsible’ he said, 'whoever he may be. Find the Artist, seize him, bring him back between your jaws, and everything will be all right. Or let Rip van Winkle do it for you. But don't try to put limits on art, fuschus. You're not an artist, April, you're just a hunting dog. Don't forget it.'

'Rip van Winkle won't be able to do a thing, Mr Stein’ Miss Wood said. 'There's something you don't know.'

She paused and looked round. Stein understood exactly what her attitude meant.

'You can say what you like in front of Neve. She's like my eyes and ears.'

‘I’d prefer there not to be so many eyes and ears present, even if they are yours, Mr Stein.'

The limousine had pulled up at the airport entrance. Another car was waiting at the roadside to take Miss Wood back into the city. Stein waved his hand, and his secretary left the vehicle and shut the door. Wood looked up towards the chauffeur: the glass partition meant he could hear nothing.

'This is something no one else knows – neither the authorities in Munich, nor the members of the crisis cabinet, not even Lothar Bosch. But I want you to hear it. Perhaps it'll make you change your mind.' She fixed her cold blue gaze on Stein. 'Yesterday, as soon as we heard about Monsters being destroyed, I called Marthe Schimmel to see if she could tell me anything. She said the Walden twins had asked her to provide a young man for Tuesday night. You know that in Conservation they like to keep them happy. They were demanding a platinum blond. Schimmel was desperately trying to find a suitable candidate when she received a call cancelling their request. It was a voice she did not know, but he repeated the private number of Conservation in Amsterdam, and said he was one of Benoit's assistants. He told Marthe that the boy was no longer needed. Marthe thought of telling Benoit about this, but I told her not to. I called Benoit's assistants in Amsterdam one by one, and then his secretary. Finally I called Benoit himself. Neither Benoit nor any of his assistants ever gave that order, Mr Stein.'

Wood was staring Stein directly in the eye, without blinking. Stein stared back at her equally unmoved. There was a silence, then she went on:

'It cannot have been the criminal who made that call, because at that moment he was disguised as the Gigli work. That leaves only one possibility. Someone prepared things for him from inside so that there would be no problems destroying the work of art. It must have been someone high up, at least sufficiently senior to have access to Conservation's private codes. That's why I'm begging you to postpone the "Rembrandt" inauguration. If you don't, the Artist is bound to destroy another work.

A plane had just taken off, and was soaring through the blue sky like a mother-of-pearl eagle. Stein studied it, then turned to look at Miss Wood once more. A gleam of anxiety, almost fear, veiled the chilly depths of the Head of Security's eyes.

'However incredible it may seem, Mr Stein, one of us is helping that madman.'