Art of Murder

4

The landscape is one of hands opening in the darkness as though trying to catch something. They are hanging from streetlamps, are stuck on walls and the ironclad sides of trams, they flutter beneath the arches of the canal bridges. This is the image chosen to publicise 'Rembrandt': the hand of the Angel from Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, the work being shown to the press in the Old Atelier this very day, Thursday 13 July, the work which will fire the first salvo in the most amazing show of the decade.

Bosch shuddered to think that they could not have found a more appropriate symbol. He knew there was another hand stretched out in the darkness, trying to catch something. As the days went by, Miss Wood's fears seemed to him more and more reasonable. If before he had doubted that the Artist was going to attack 'Rembrandt', now he was sure of it. He was convinced the criminal was there,, in Amsterdam, and had already laid his plans. He would destroy one of the canvases unless they could find some way of stopping him. Or of protecting the work he was targeting. Or setting him a trap.

The sky was lined with heavy clouds as Bosch arrived at the New Atelier that Thursday morning. Above the Stedelijk roof could be seen the black tops of the curtains that made up the 'Rembrandt Tunnel', as the press had baptised the exhibition tent erected on the Museumplein. It was a cool day even though it was midsummer. Bosch recalled that the weather forecast had spoken of rain for Saturday, the day of the opening. Rain, yes, and thunder and lightning, too, he thought. When he entered his office, he saw that all his phones had unanswered messages, but he could not deal with any of them because Alfred van Hoore and Rita van Dorn were waiting for him with a CD-ROM and a burning desire to tell him things and, in the case of van Hoore, to show him his new computer simulations. Both of them had stickers for the exhibition on their jacket lapels: a tiny Angel's hand above the word 'Rembrandt'. Bosch found the stickers absurd, but was careful not to say anything. His two colleagues were smiling with satisfaction at the progress of their security measures, which Stein had complimented them on. They both seemed pleased with themselves. Bosch felt rather sorry for them.

'I'd like you to see this model, Lothar,' Van Hoore was saying, pointing to the three-dimensional skeleton of the Tunnel on his computer screen. 'Does anything attract your attention?' Those red dots.'

'Exactly. Do you know what they are?' Bosch stirred in his seat. 'I imagine they're the public emergency exits.' 'Exactly. And what do you think of them?' 'Please, Alfred, you tell me. I've got a dreadful morning ahead of me. I'm not up to facing an exam.'

Rita smiled silently. Van Hoore looked offended.

There are too few exits for the paintings, Lothar. We've thought more about the public, but let's take an extreme case. A fire.'

He pressed a key, and the spectacle began. To Bosch's mind, Van Hoore was staring at the screen with the same fascination that Nero must have observed Rome burning. In a few seconds, the three-dimensional tunnel was consumed by flames.

‘I know the curtains aren't flammable, and Popotkin has assured us that the chiaroscuro lighting does not short-circuit like ordinary lights. But let's just imagine that in spite of everything, there is a fire…'

Igor Popotkin was the physicist who had designed the lighting to produce the effects of light and shade. He was also, like many Russian scientists who had received their training during the period of glasnost and perestroika, a poet and a pacifist. Stein used to say that in a year or two they would award him a Nobel prize, although he was never quite sure what for. Bosch had seen Popotkin a couple of times during his visits to Amsterdam. He was a little old man with bovine features. He loved smoking dope, and had frequented all the coffee shops in the red-light district to get little bags of the stuff.

'What do you think would happen if there were a fire, Lothar?'

That the public rushing for the exits would get in the way of the paintings,' Bosch replied, submitting finally to the grilling. 'Exactly. So what is the solution?' 'To make more exits.'

Van Hoore's face was a picture of fake compassion, like a quiz show host who has detected a wrong answer.

'We don't have time for that. But I've had an idea. One of the security teams will be dedicated to getting out the artworks if there is a disaster. Look.'

Tiny figures in white shirts and trousers wearing green jackets appeared on the screen.

‘I call them the Artistic Emergency Personnel,' Van Hoore explained. They'll be at collection points in the centre of the Tunnel horseshoe, with special vans ready and waiting to whisk away the paintings if need be.'

'Fantastic, Alfred,' Bosch cut in. 'Really. I like it. It's the perfect solution.'

When Van Hoore's fire was extinguished, it was Rita's turn. She simply went over what had already been decided. The works would be picked up by the same identified security men. Inside the Tunnel there would be a security team every hundred metres. They would be armed and have torches, but were not to shine any light unless there was an emergency. There would be three controls at the entry point, with the usual machines: X-rays, magnetic checkers and instant imaging screens. Cases and parcels would have to be left at the entrance. Baby pushchairs would be prohibited. Nothing could be done about handbags, except for random searches of any suspicious-looking persons, but the possibility of anyone being able to bring in a dangerous object in a bag that was not detected by any of the security screens was less than 0.8 per cent. In the hotel where the works were to be kept (the name of which would not, of course, be revealed to the public) there would be round-the-clock guards of three people per painting. The guards who were on duty inside the rooms would have to undergo strict fingerprint and voice tests each morning. They would wear tags that could only be used once, with codes that would change every day. They would carry guns, and electric batons.

'By the way,' Rita asked, 'Why has there been this last-minute change in the list of security guards, Lothar?'

'That was my decision, Rita’ Bosch replied. 'We're going to bring a new team in from our headquarters in New York. They'll be here tomorrow.' Alfred and Rita looked at each other, puzzled.

'It's an extra security measure’ Bosch said to settle it. He was trying to seem as natural as possible, so they would not think he was hiding anything from them. Neither Van Hoore nor Rita knew anything about the Artist, or about the plans he and April had been hatching together.

'It'll be the best protected exhibition in the history of art,' Rita said with a smile. '1 don't think we need to worry so much.'

At that instant, Kurt Sorensen's spiky head appeared round the door. He was with Gert Warfell. 'Do you have a moment, Lothar?'

Of course, come right in, thought Bosch. Alfred and Rita gathered up their things, to be replaced in the blink of an eye by the newcomers. There followed a giddying discussion about the security of all the important guests to the Tunnel. None of them brought up the question that was most worrying Bosch until the very end. It was then that Sorensen said: 'Will he attack or won't he?'

Warfell and Bosch looked at each other, as if weighing up each other's anxiety. Bosch concluded that Warfell seemed much calmer and relaxed than he did.

'No, he won't attack,' Warfell said. 'He'll stay hidden in his lair for some time. Rip van Winkle has got him by the balls.'

No, he's got us in his grasp, thought Bosch, observing him coolly. And perhaps it's one of you two who's helping him.

Bosch had lost what little confidence he had in Rip van Winkle after reading their first reports. They offered three sorts of 'result': a psychological profile of the Artist, an operational profile, and what in the strange terminology of the organisation was known as a 'pruning' – that is, the elimination of access routes. The psychological profile had been drawn up by twenty experts working independently. They agreed only on one thing: the Artist had the classic traits of a psychopath. He was undoubtedly a cold, calculating individual who refused to submit to authority. The messages he forced his victims to read could mean that he was a frustrated painter. Beyond this, their opinions differed: there was no agreement on what sex the Artist was, or his sexual preferences; for some experts he was one person, for others, several people. The operational profile was even more ambiguous. The border systems of the member countries had still not been coordinated satisfactorily. Every case of fake documents that had been discovered by the police in recent weeks was being studied, but some countries seemed reluctant to provide all the information. Descriptions of Brenda and the woman with no papers had been circulated to all the customs officials, but it was impossible to arrest someone simply because they looked like a computer-generated image. All the factories that produced cerublastyne were being investigated. All large movements of money between accounts in European banks were being traced, because it was thought the Artist must be extremely wealthy. Suppliers and manufacturers of cassettes were also being questioned.

Last but not least was the 'pruning'. This was the most depressing part of all. Some of the questioning of cerublastyne experts had been 'special'. Bosch had no idea what went on during these 'special' sessions, but the people who had been questioned never appeared again. Head Honcho had warned them: there would be victims, 'innocent but necessary' ones. Rip van Winkle moved forward blindly, like a crazed leviathan, but at the same time, it tried to cover up the tracks it left in its advance: the 'special' interrogations could not under any circumstances become public knowledge.

Bosch knew it was a race against time, with only one possible winner. Either art or the Artist would triumph. Europe was doing what it always did in these cases: protecting humanity's creations, the inheritance humanity passed on to itself down the generations. In comparison to this inheritance, humanity itself was disposable. A consecrated work of art was worth far more than a few miserable individuals, even if they happened to be a majority. Bosch was well aware of this from his days as a provo: what was sacred, even if only for a minority, was always more numerous than the majority, precisely because it was accepted by everyone.

Or almost everyone. Perhaps the people interrogated by Rip van Winkle had different views, thought Bosch. But nobody had listened to them.

'By the way,' Sorensen said, 'tomorrow we have a meeting with Rip. In The Hague. Did you two know about it?'

Bosch and Warfell knew about it. The meeting had been announced in the latest report. Apparently, Rip van Winkle had produced some fresh results, and wanted to discuss them face to face. Sorensen and Warfell were of the opinion this meant the Artist had already been caught. Bosch was not so optimistic.

At midday, close to lunchtime, Nikki appeared in Bosch's office. She was holding up her hand and making a W sign. Bosch almost leapt from his seat, until he realised this did not mean 'victory', but 'two'. Well, that's a kind of victory anyway, he thought enthusiastically. Yesterday there were four.

'We've managed to eliminate another two suspects’ Nikki announced. 'Do you remember I told you Laviatov spent time in jail for theft? Well, he's given up being a canvas now and is trying to establish himself with a hyperdramatic gallery in Kiev. I've talked to him and some of his employees, and they confirmed his alibi. He hasn't been out of the city in weeks. And we've had confirmation that Fourier committed suicide six months ago after a failed relationship with one of his previous owners. The company that sold him kept it quiet so as not to scare the other canvases. So we're left with only two without alibis.'

She spread out her sheets of paper on the desk. Two photos, two people, two names. One face framed by long chestnut curls, with a piercing blue gaze. The other almost child-like, featureless, shaven-headed.

'The first is called Lije’ Nikki explained. 'He or she is about twenty, but we're not sure which sex. He's worked mostly in Japan with artists such as Higashi, but he's not Japanese. He specialises in transgender works and art-shocks. We know more about the other one. His name is Postumo Baldi, he was born in Naples in 1986, so he is twenty as well, and male. He's the son of a failed painter and a former ornament, who are now divorced. There is evidence that the mother took part in marginal art-shocks, and that she used her son with her from a very early age. Baldi also specialised in transgender work. In 2000, Van Tysch chose him as the original for Figure XIII, one of the few transgender pieces the Maestro has done. Since then, he's been in art-shocks and portraits.'

Bosch stared at the two photographs as though hypnotised. If Miss Wood's intuition was correct, and if the computer screening process had not let anything slip through, one of these two was the Artist.

'Just think,' Nikki said with a smile, 'Lije could be in Holland as we speak. In fact, he might even be in Amsterdam.' 'What?'

'That's right. His trail disappears after he took part clandestinely in two art-shocks at Extreme, a place for illegal works in the red-light district. That was in December last year.' 'I've heard of Extreme’ said Bosch.

The owners haven't been very forthcoming. They say they have no idea what became of Lije after that, and they refused to give any information to the team of interviewers we sent to talk to them. I'm thinking of sending Romberg's people to pull their teeth out, if you authorise it.'

Bosch was staring at Lije's expressionless features, unable to make up his mind whether they belonged to a man or a woman. 'What about Baldi?'

'We lost trace of him in France. The last work he definitely took part in was a transgender piece by Jan van Obber for the dealer Jenny Thoreau, but he didn't even fulfil his contract. He walked out and vanished off the map.' Bosch thought for a moment. 'It's up to you,' Nikki said, raising her blonde eyebrows.

'Van Obber lives in Delft, doesn't he? Call him and fix an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. I have to go to The Hague in the morning, so I could visit Delft on the way back. Tell him no more than that we're looking for Postumo Baldi. And send Romberg's men to Extreme.'

After Nikki left his office, Bosch still sat contemplating the two faces, these two anonymous youths whose smooth features stared back at him from the photos. 'One of these two is the Artist,' he thought. 'If April is right – and she always is – one of them is him.'