Art of Murder

09.25.

When Lothar Bosch awoke, Postumo Baldi was in his bedroom.

He was standing three metres from his bed, looking at him. The first thing Bosch thought was that he did not seem particularly dangerous. He's not dangerous, he told himself. The second thing he realised, with precise, terrible intuition, was that this was not a dream: he was wide awake, it was daytime, it was his house on Van Eeghenstraat, and Baldi was in his bedroom, naked, staring at him thoughtfully. His appearance was that of a skinny adolescent with protruding bones, but his gaze was full of beauty. Despite everything, Bosch was not afraid of him. I can overcome him, he thought.

At that point, Baldi began a graceful, silent dance, a whirlwind of light. His thin body danced all round the room, then returned to its initial position, and the world seemed to come to a halt with him. Then he started to move again. And stopped a second time. Fascinated, it took Bosch some time to realise what was going on: he had fallen asleep with the virtual reality visor on while watching the 3-D images the Foundation had taken of Baldi when he was fifteen years old.

Bosch swore, switched off the machine and took off the visor. The bedroom looked empty, but Baldi's iridescent after-image still floated in the air. The brightness outside the window was that of a rainy day: the day the 'Rembrandt' exhibition was to open.

The images had not helped Bosch clarify things a lot. Van Obber had not been exaggerating when he had said Postumo was 'fresh clay': a hairless, smooth creature, a beginning, a human point of departure, the start of all shapes.

Bosch got up, refreshed himself in the shower, and chose a sober dark suit from his wardrobe. At half-past ten he would have to be with the vehicles parked round the Tunnel to supervise the launch of the security operation. Now he was in front of his mirror struggling to fix his tie properly. He had got the silk folds wrong yet again. He could not remember having been as nervous as this since Hendrickje's death.

He's never attacked at an opening. You ought to calm down. Perhaps he isn't even in Amsterdam. Who says April Wood is right? Perhaps he's already handed himself over at some Munich police station or other. Or maybe… stupid knot… Maybe Rip van Winkle really have caught him

… Get a hold of yourself. Think positively. For once in your life, think positively.

All at once he heard the pitter-patter of rain. He went out onto the terrace: the Vermeer landscape had started to change into a Monet. The raindrops had begun to meld together greens, ochres, the reds and whites. OK, so the rain's here.

As he finished dressing, he allowed himself a last thought for Danielle. He did not want to pray, even though he knew that, contrary to what religion teaches, not only the Devil but God himself can create temptation. Nevertheless, he improvised a short prayer. He did not aim it at anyone in particular, beyond looking up at the lowering clouds. She's the only one who has nothing to do with any of this. Protect her. Please, protect her.

After that, he went downstairs. It was going to be an exhausting day, and he knew it.

He had at least succeeded in throttling himself properly. His tie was correctly knotted.

09.29.

Gerardo took a pinch of burnt yellow colour and brushed it onto Clara's cheek.

The Maestro is going to check all the paintings this afternoon before the opening.' ‘I thought he wasn't going to come again.'

'He always likes to have a last look before he leaves. Stay still now.'

He chose a very fine brush and painted her lips with a layer of weak vermilion. She saw him smiling only a few centimetres from her face. He looked like a miniaturist bending over a book of prints.

'Are you happy?' he asked her as he dipped his brush in the paint again. 'Yes.'

The assistant took off Clara's haircap, uncovering a shock of mahogany red curls. Gerardo dipped his brush again, and returned to her lips.

'I'd like to go on seeing you after all this is over. I mean, after you've been bought.' He paused, dipped a finger in some kind of solvent, and scraped at the corner of her mouth. 'Because you must know you've already been bought. You'll be sent to the home of some millionaire collector or other. But I'd like to go on seeing you. No, don't talk. You mustn't talk now.'

His words were as gentle as the brushstrokes he was using to outline her. She felt as though he were kissing her all over. *You know what they say. That there can't be any relationship between a painting and a painter, because hyperdramatism doesn't allow it. Well, that's the theory anyway.' He lifted off the brush, dipped it in the paint, came back to her, wiped with a rag, painted another line. 'But with me things will be different, because I'm a very bad painter, sweetheart. That will compensate for you being such a good painting.'

The assistant interrupted Gerardo and spoke to him in English. They talked briefly about the exact tone of the shading on the sides of Clara's body, and consulted the Maestro's written instructions. Then Gerardo bent towards her lips, and stood observing them closely for a while. He did not seem satisfied. He disappeared from her field of vision, then almost immediately reappeared, his brush dripping red.

Clara was lying on her back on a small bed in one of the rehearsal rooms in the basement of the Old Atelier. She had been brought there early that morning to be finished and placed in the Tunnel.

'We have to be careful,' said Gerardo; 'thousands of people are going to see you today.'

He brushed gently twice against her upper lip. It was like the touch of a butterfly's wings.

'I don't want to hurt you,' he went on. 'I would never hurt you. But I thought that… keeping my feelings to myself would not help me do things any better. I'm more serious than you give me credit for, sweetheart. No, don't talk.' He lifted the brush off as Clara opened her lips. 'You are the work. I'm the only one who can talk. You are in the painting.'

He dipped the brush, and caressed her again with a lighter shade of red.

'I've also heard that a painter often falls in love with his work. I think that's true. But in my case there's something strange: I think I have painted myself as well to some extent. I mean to say that I've been pretending. Sometimes I even think I'm not who I think I am. Every day I get up, look at myself in the mirror, and thank my lucky stars. But things aren't that simple. Look at this moustache and beard.' He plucked them as he spoke. 'Are they a painter's, or are they paint? I've believed it for a long while now, without wanting to look any further, without wanting to see. What is there beyond all this? someone might ask. Well beyond it, there are people. I don't look on you as a painting. I can't see you as a painting.'

He dabbed at her lips to remove a blot. They looked at each other for a moment. As she stared into his huge, twinkling eyes, a strange thought that had already occurred to her several times flashed through her mind once more: maybe Gerardo was not such a poor painter after all; maybe he simply did not want to paint Susanna. The figure did not appeal to him. What he wanted to capture in her face was not the sorrowful gleam or the horrified sense of shame, not that 'canvas of horror and pity' described by Van Tysch. Gerardo wanted to capture her for what she was. Clara Reyes. To regain her, cleanse her, give her light. He was the first ardst she had met for whom she was more important than his own work.

Uhl came in. He said they were being too slow, and that they should start painting her back. The three of them helped her to stand, and she lay down on her front. The process went on, but this time in silence.

20.30.

'Edenburg, miss,' the driver said.

The scenery in the background to the River Geul, in southern

Limbourg in Holland, was out of this world. Woods and valleys glittered in the splendid summer sun, interspersed with rectangular wooden farmhouses. Edenburg appeared almost out of the blue as they came round a bend, at the end of the highway: a mound of steep-roofed houses dominated by the majestic presence of the castle where once upon a time Maurits van Tysch had worked as an art restorer. Miss Wood knew Edenburg. The interviews the painter had conceded her had been brief and tense. Van Tysch had never been concerned about the security of his works: his only duty was to create them.

Miss Wood knew it was raining in Amsterdam, but here in Edenburg there was nothing but sun, warmth, and groups of tourists bearing cameras and road maps. The car advanced slowly along the narrow cobbled streets, which retained all their old-world charm. A few curious passers-by stared at the luxury vehicle. The driver spoke again to Miss Wood.

'Are you going straight to the castle? If that's the case, we'll have to leave the centre of town and take the Kasteelstraat.'

'No, I'm not going to the castle.' She handed him an address. The chauffeur (a polite, attentive southerner who was anxious to keep the 'lady' happy, and who wore a fixed smile despite having to wait almost half an hour for her plane in Maastricht) decided to stop and ask a local the way.

The idea had occurred to her the night before. She had suddenly remembered the name of the man Oslo thought of as 'Bruno van Tysch's best childhood friend': Victor Zericky. She thought it would be a good idea to begin her visit to Edenburg by calling on him. She had called Oslo that same night, and he had been quick to supply her with the historian's address and telephone number. Zericky was not at home when she called to set up an appointment. Perhaps he was away. But she was confident she would see him.

The driver was having an animated conversation with an assistant from a tourist shop. Then he turned to Miss Wood. 'It crosses Kasteelstraat.'

11.30.

Gustavo Onfretti made his way into the Tunnel surrounded by security guards and personnel from Art. He was wearing a padded suit and the usual yellow labels. His body had been painted in ochre and flesh tints. Thin layers of cerublastyne lent his face a certain similarity to the Maestro, but also to Rembrandt's Jesus Christ. I'm both of them, he thought. He was one of the last paintings to arrive, and he knew it was going to be hard to get into position.

He was to be crucified six hours a day.

Wrapped in a winding sheet that smelt of oil, Onfretd walked along the ramp in the darkness to reach the part of the Tunnel where the cross had been set up. It was an artistic cross rather than a real one: it had several devices designed to make his pose less painful. Even so, Onfretd was sure that no device could spare him all the suffering, and this intimidated him a little.

But he had accepted his chalice. He was a masterpiece, and as such was prepared to suffer. Van Tysch had worked on him for a long while in Edenburg so there would be no mistakes. Of any kind. Everything had to be perfect. As he was signing him the previous day, the Maestro had looked him straight in the eye. 'Don't forget, you are one of my most intimate and personal creations.'

This sincere declaration gave Onfretti the strength to bear all he knew awaited him.

13.05.

Jacob Stein had finished his lunch and sat facing the neat lines of the coffee cup. The Table was solid, one of his own designs. It was made up of a glass top held up by harnesses on the shoulders of four kneeling adolescents bathed in silver. A frieze encircled the entire table, creating swirls between the different figures. The adolescents were almost exactly the same height, but the one on the far left corner was a little taller, which meant the surface of the dark, steaming coffee in the cup was slightly askew. Of course, like all the other decorations in the room, the Table was an illegal piece of furniture worth billions. Stein was absent-mindedly leaning his foot on a silver thigh.

He knew that, unlike his room, Van Tysch's 'zone' in the New Atelier was empty. Stein liked to live surrounded by luxury, and had decorated his dining room according to his own tastes with paintings, ornaments and utensils by Loek, Van der Gaar, Marooder and himself. More than twenty adolescents, some of them motionless, others following choreographed steps, were breathing in the room, and yet the silence was immense. Only Stein appeared alive.

He was going over all he had to do in his mind. By now, all the paintings should be in position inside the Tunnel, waiting for the Maestro. Tine opening was scheduled for six, but Stein would not be there: Benoit would take his place and look after all the dignitaries. His own presence was needed elsewhere, where he also had to look after an extremely important person.

Fuschus, power was another kind of art, he thought. Or perhaps a handicraft, showing the ability to control everything. He had been a real master at it. Now he had to surpass himself. It was a very delicate moment, perhaps the most delicate in the Foundation's entire history, and he had to be up to it.

All at once his secretary Neve appeared at the far end of the room.

Even though he was well aware that the expected moment might happen at any time, the announcement that it had truly arrived made his faun's features relax into a happy grin. He stood up leaning on the Table, producing nothing more than a slight quiver from the four silvery girls – and a blink from the one on whose thigh he had been resting his foot – and made for the door.

His visitor stood fascinated for a moment in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at all the warm bodies decorating the room. This was soon followed by a beaming smile and a shake of Stein's hand.

'I'd like to welcome you to the Van Tysch Foundation,' Stein said quickly in fluent English. 'I know you understand English perfectly. I wish I could say the same of my Spanish.'

'Don't worry about that’ replied Vicky Lledo with a smile.

24.26.

Miss Wood had been sitting on the lawn for more than three hours. She had opened one of the fruit juices she kept in her bag and was taking slow slips and staring up at the clouds. It was a tranquil spot, just made to shut one's eyes and rest in. Somehow it reminded her of her house in Tivoli: the same summer soundtrack, with birds singing and dogs barking in the distance. Victor Zericky's house was small, and its apple-green fence showed signs of having been repaired by an expert hand. The garden was full of flowers: an ordered arrangement of plants trained by human hand. The house was shut. It seemed there was no one in.

The old man in the house next door had told her Zericky was divorced and lived on his own. Miss Wood suspected this was his way of telling her he had no fixed timetable, but came and went as he pleased. Apparently, Zericky was in the habit of going away for days on trips to Maastricht or The Hague to collect information for his work as a historian or simply because he felt like stretching his legs and finding new paths along the banks of the Geul.

‘Im not saying it to put you off, 'added the old man, who had hair like marble and cheeks as pink as if he had just been slapped, but if he doesn't know you're here, I'd advise you not to wait. As I told you, it could be days before he returns.'

Miss Wood thanked him, went over to her car, and leaned in at the driver's window. 'You can go wherever you like, but be back here at eight.'

The car pulled away. Miss Wood looked for a suitable spot, sat down on the grass, and leaned her back against a tree. She could feel the rough grooves of the trunk through her thin jerkin; she devoted herself to the difficult task of letting time pass by.

She had nothing else to do anyway, and she had never minded waiting if it was essential to her work. In fact, she rather enjoyed this parenthesis of birdsong and perfumed breeze. She finished her drink, put the empty carton in her bag, took out another one. She only had two left, but she needed to drink liquid. She felt increasingly weary: her eyes were drooping behind the dark barrier of her glasses, and from time to time she almost nodded off. She could not remember how long it was since she had eaten anything solid – two days perhaps, or even longer – and yet she did not feel at all hungry. Yet she would have paid a fortune to have a full thermos of coffee with her. She was hot. She took off her jerkin and left it on the grass. But then in her sleeveless dress she felt chilly.

It did not occur to her to wonder whether Zericky might not come at all. The fact was, she had let her mind go blank. All she knew was that she would wait there until she could wait no longer. Then she would go back to Amsterdam.

She sat drinking more juice while the breeze ruffled her hair.

16.20.

'Nothing to report, sector two.' 'Situation normal, sector three.' 'Nothing, sector four.'

As he listened to this litany from the guards through the loudspeakers, Bosch was not even thinking of the Artist. Instead, he had been reflecting on circuses. As a child he had seen very few, because his father Victor did not like them. Going to the circus was not the best way to make use of the means available. But willy-nilly, all children visit a circus, and Bosch had eventually got to see one, too. When he was there, he did not enjoy it: from the dangerous acrobatics to the wretchedness of the caged tigers, from the meringue-faced clowns to the magicians' packaged tricks, it had all seemed to him a sorry and sad affair.

Now here he was in another circus. The attractions were different, but there was an audience, tents, magic tricks and wild beasts. And it all seemed to him just as sad.

He was sitting inside one of the two Portakabins taken over by Security. There were six trucks on either side of the Tunnel, parked in places that allowed them free access to the recovery and rescue vehicles. Each pair of these trucks was occupied by a different department: Art, Conservation and Security. They had set up closed-circuit TV monitors in the Portakabins to supervise the parts of the Tunnel where works were being exhibited, as well as the entrance, exit and the central square where the paintings were to be picked up. Portakabin A covered the first six works in the first arm of the horseshoe. Portakabin B was in charge of the other seven; it was parked near the Van Gogh museum, and this was the one Bosch was seated in.

The cameras trained on the Museumplein showed a spectacle that would doubtless have Paul Benoit rubbing his hands with delight, thought Bosch. There was still an hour and a half to go to the opening, and the line of shiny umbrellas already reached round the Rijksmuseum and as far as the Singelgracht. Some people had been waiting in the same place since dawn or the previous night, standing in front of the first security barrier, ticket in hand. The police had set up a barricade all along Museumstraat and Paulus Potterstraat to prevent trouble. Despite this – and once again, to Benoit's delight – there was trouble in both places: members of BAH and other groups opposed to HD art were waving banners and shouting slogans against the Foundation. Adjacent to the Tunnel, in the area occupied by the television crews, several presenters were unfurling their microphones.

In violent contrast, the Tunnel monitors were filming in silence. Some works had already been installed, but in the case of others like Christ the process had not yet been completed. Bosch watched the play of light and shade as Gustavo Onfretti was crucified. They had spent more than four hours attaching him to the rectangles of painted wood by means of something like transparent hoops. Onfretti had to stay in the exact position Van Tysch had painted, which was very demanding. By comparison, the 'descent' would be easy. Flashes from his near-naked body glinted on the TV screens as it was caught in the torch beams.

'Who would want to spend six hours a day like that?' commented Ronald, who was watching the Christ monitor. Ronald was overweight and at times like these stuffed himself with doughnuts. An open box of them lay near his screen, and he was busy bidng into one. Part of the sugar frosting had fallen on to his red card. Sitting in front of The Feast of Belshazzar monitor, Nikki smiled. it's modern art, Ronald. We don't understand it.'

'But this is meant to be classical art,' protested Osterbrock, the man looking after Danae, as he pressed various switches in the seat opposite Bosch. 'After all, they're Rembrandt paintings, aren't they?'

The Portakabin's narrow central aisle was full of Foundation personnel coming and going. Bosch could not help observing them. He looked at all of them, those he had known for some time and those he did not know at all; at Nikki, Martin, Ronald the doughnut-eater, at Michelsen, at Osterbrock. He studied their smiles, their routine gestures, their voices. All of them had been through identity checks before they joined the team, but Bosch watched them as though he were watching a shadow moving in the midst of motionless shadows. Then he turned to look again at the monitor showing the front of the long queue outside. 'Where are you? Where are you?'

That same morning Europol had received a description of Postumo Baldi. Bosch had sent it to them through the proper channels, to some extent using members of Rip van Winkle. Soon afterwards, he had begun to get information.

The Naples police did not know of his whereabouts. Those in Vienna and Munich had not found any trace or sample of body fluid or hairs at the scenes of the crime which compared with their data. All the clues they had found were from disguises or artificial substances. There was not a single organic residue, only plastic and cerublastyne. As though the Artist were a doll. Or perhaps a canvas. Europol was going on with its tireless search on computers all over the world. They were looking for clues that might link Baldi to some place or event. They were checking hospitals and cemeteries, reports of minor offences, crimes committed by others, unsolved cases. The Missing Persons Bureau had tracked him from Naples to Van Obber and Jenny Thoureau, from the house he was born in (since demolished) and his parents – mother's current whereabouts unknown – to the last hotels he had stayed in during 2004. But that was where all tracks ended. At the end of that year Baldi had abandoned his job as a portrait in the house of Mademoiselle Thoureau without explanation, and from that moment on, the earth had swallowed him up. A lot of people thought he must be dead.

In spite of the air conditioning which filled the interior of the Portakabin with a throbbing, unending supply of cool air, Bosch could feel the sweat coursing down his back. Postumo could be one of the faces he was looking at. Baldi could be any of them, he was infinitely interchangeable. In himself he was nothing more than the air a knife slices through as it strikes its blow: invisible, but vital. His eyes were mirrors. His body, fresh clay.

The Young Girl Leaning on a Windowsill seemed to be staring back at him from her distant pedestal shown on monitor number nine. It was his niece Danielle whom Van Tysch had chosen to recreate that particular Rembrandt painting. The chiaroscuro lighting had not yet been switched on, so Danielle did not stand out from the darkness of the Tunnel. Bosch could not even see her face. There he is,' someone said behind his back, startling him.

The speaker was Osterbrock. He was pointing to the monitor that showed the people entering the Tunnel from Museumstraat. A dark stretch limousine was gliding towards the entrance. Its image disappeared as it passed through the first police barrier.

'It's Van Tysch,' said Nikki. 'He's come to give the finishing touches to the paintings.' 'And to switch on the chiaroscuro,' added Osterbrock.

Bosch wondered where Miss Wood might be. Why on earth had she decided to leave all of a sudden? Did she want to keep well out of the way?

He did not think that was the reason. He trusted her. He could not trust anyone else.

He wished the exhibition was already over. Or at least that this day (this interminable day when the hours dragged by as though drenched in oil) would end as soon as possible.

26.45.

Clara wished the day would never end.

She was crouching by the side of a pond of still waters, surrounded by trees and shadowy scenery. Everything smelled of paint, everything was rigid. This was the background to Susanna Surprised by the Elders. Clara was completely naked, painted in dense tones of rose, ochre and cadmium red, with streaks of deep mahogany. Her face was reflected in a mirror placed in the base of the plinth, invisible to the public. This was all she could see clearly, but even though she could not see them, she could sense the presence of the Elders behind her back, petrified, monstrous chimeras, mountains tilting towards her body, cliffs of oil paint.

She had just been put into place and had still not reached quiescence. Time passed like the people flowing round her (technicians and workmen, security agents): something that went by without touching her. Yet she could tell that the exhibition had not yet opened because the chiaroscuro lighting had not been switched on.

At a certain moment, a silhouette moved out of the public gangway, leapt over the security rope, and walked towards the plinth. Behind it came an entourage of legs. Something important was going on. Two dark shoes came to a halt beside her colour-stiffened thighs. She heard again that distant, grave voice, the fluent Spanish like a tolling bell. 'Keep looking at yourself in the mirror.' It was like an electric shock. She obeyed, of course.

So it was true the Maestro gave all the works a final check, just as Gerardo had told her. The shadow flitted from figure to figure, giving instructions to the Elders as well in words she could not make out. Then the shoes came back, like strange patent leather animals, mysterious sharks with polished snouts sniffing at her body. A moment's pause, then they turned away. All that was left were echoes. Then the enchanted silence.

Clara went on contemplating the distant cameo with its painted features.

17.30.

The darkness was complete.

'What now?' Bosch asked nervously, staring at his screen. 'Why don't they light the stupid lamps?'

'They're waiting for Van Tysch to give the order,' Nikki replied. 'It won't be long now,' said Osterbrock.

They turned back to the monitors. A silhouette stood out from all the others, motionless, back to the camera. Torch beams picked it out fleetingly.

'The great panjandrum,' Ronald moaned, devouring the image with the same eager hunger as he polished off his doughnuts.

Every moment needs its setting, thought Bosch. This was a world in which valuable things had become solemn. And all solemnity requires a setting, a ritual, and lofty personages up on podiums admired by fascinated, open-mouthed people. Nothing can be done naturally: artifice, some degree of art is always necessary. Why not light the lights? Why not let the public in? After all, it was only a question of pressing a few buttons. But no. This is a solemn moment. It has to be registered, collected, recorded, made eternal. It has to be long-drawn-out.

'They're taking photos of him,' Nikki commented, chin in hands. Bosch noted a dreamy tone to her words.

Van Tysch had been illuminated by a slanting spotlight: he was an island of light in five hundred metres of twisting darkness. He had his back to the camera. His kingdom was not of this or any other world, thought Bosch. His kingdom was himself, all alone, in the middle of that glittering lake. Shadowy sorcerers blessed him with their magic rays. The painter raised his right arm. Everyone held their breath.

'Moses parting the waters.' Ronald displayed his sarcasm once again.

'Well, something's not working,' Osterbrock said, 'because the Tunnel is still dark.'

'No,' Martine cut in, leaning over his shoulder. 'The signal is when he lowers his arm.'

Bosch looked across at all the screens: they were dark. He was worried that the Tunnel was in darkness for so long. The 'great panjandrum' had demanded it. Before the start of this sabbath, the witches had to honour him with their will-o'-the-wisps. Then when the photo and filming session was over, Satan would lower his paw and his very own inferno would start, his abominable, fearful inferno, the most terrible of all because no one knew it for what it was. Because the worst thing about hell is not knowing if you are already in it. The arm descended.

The three hundred and sixty filaments designed by Igor Popotkin lit as one, their light-filled mouths yawning. For a moment, Bosch thought the paintings had disappeared. But they were still there, only transformed. As though a majestic brush had endowed them with just the touch of gold they needed. The paintings were burning in an ill-defined bonfire. Framed by the TV screens, they looked like classical canvases, but with figures that had depth and volume, had been given a life of dimensions. The backgrounds stood out, the mist took on the air of a landscape.

'My God,' said Nikki. 'It's more beautiful than I could have imagined.'

Nobody replied, but the silence seemed to contain tacit approval of her words. Bosch did not agree.

It was not beautiful. It was grotesque, terrifying. The sight of Rembrandt's works transformed into living beings did arouse an emotion, but to Bosch this was not the product of beauty. It was obvious that Van Tysch had reached the limit: no one could go any further in human painting. But the path he had chosen was not that of aesthetics.

There was nothing beautiful in the crucified man, in the young girl leaning on a windowsill, face as pale as death, in the feast in which the dishes were people, in the naked woman with her red-painted hair spied on by two grotesque individuals, in the silhouette of the girl with phosphorescent eyes, the boy wrapped in painted furs, the angel strangling the kneeling man. There was nothing beautiful in them, but nothing human either. And the worst of it was that it all seemed to accuse Rembrandt as much as Van Tysch. It was a sin shared by both men. Here before you is the negation of humanity, the two artists seemed to be saying. Condemned for being what they were. In a night of horror, mankind invented art. This is our condemnation, thought Bosch.

'Hats off to him, no doubt about that,' a voice said after an endless silence. It was Ronald.

On the screen, Stein raised his hands and applauded. Violently, almost furiously. But there was no sound, which made the clapping on the screen look like a silent convulsion. Hoffmann, Benoit and the physicist Popotkin joined in. Soon all the figures around Van Tysch were clapping their hands like frenzied dolls.

The first to follow suit inside the Portakabin was Martine. As they beat together, her slender, flexible palms sounded like gunshots. Osterbrock and Nikki added their excited burst of clapping. Ronald's applause though was muffled, as if bubbles were escaping from his pudgy hands. All this noise in the confined space of the Portakabin deafened Bosch. He could see Nikki's cheeks were on fire.

What were they applauding? Good God, what were they applauding, and why? Welcome to madness. Welcome to humanity.

He did not want to be the exception, to be the odd one out: he hated drawing attention to himself. He told himself he had to stay within the picture frame. He beat his hands together and produced sounds.

27.35.

In Portakabin A, Alfred van Hoore was sitting in front of the monitor focused outside the Tunnel, observing the deployment of what Rita had baptised the 'parrot brigade'. His Artistic Emergency Team was waiting in Museumplein. They were green-and-white phantoms with yellow oilskins standing beside the evacuation vehicles. Van Hoore knew it was highly unlikely they would be needed, but at least his idea had won the approval of Benoit, and even of Stein himself. You had to start somewhere. In firms like the Foundation you had to come up with new proposals.

'Paul?' Van Hoore spoke into the microphone.

'Yes, Alfred,' he heard Spaalze's voice boom in his headphones.

Paul Spaalze was the captain of this improvised team. Van Hoore had put complete trust in him. They had previously worked together on coordinating security for exhibitions in the Middle East, and Van Hoore knew Spaalze was one of those who 'act first and worry about it afterwards'. This meant he was not someone for making long-term plans, but who was indispensable at moments of crisis.

'Less than half an hour before the flock troops in,' Van Hoore said, through a storm of interference. 'How is everything going out there, Paul?'

It was a rather useless question, because Van Hoore could see from the monitor that 'out there' everything was fine, but he wanted Spaalze to know he was watching things closely. He had spent many long hours designing emergency evacuation procedures on his computer, and he did not want his captain to lose heart from having nothing to do.

'Well, you know,' Spaalze roared. 'The worst catastrophe I'm facing at the moment is the possibility of a mutiny. Did you know they made us sing like sopranos for the voice identity checks, and to touch the screens as though we were paintings before they would let us into the blasted central square? My men didn't like that at all.'

'Orders from above,' said Van Hoore. 'If it's any consolation to you, Rita and I had to undergo the same torture.'

In fact, Van Hoore himself had wondered what the exact reason was for all the additional security measures: this was the first time he had been asked to go through these physical tests before getting in. Rita had not liked it any more than he had, and had even got annoyed with the agents who were blocking the way. Why hadn't Miss Wood told them anything about it? What did the change in the shifts for the recovery and supervision personnel mean? Van Hoore had a suspicion that the withdrawal of the Maestro's works in Europe had something to do with all this, but did not dare speculate what exactly it meant. Above all, he was hurt that he was not yet important enough to be let into the secret. 'They don't trust us,' he said.

Rita van Dorn, feet up on the desk while she stirred a cup of steaming coffee in a plastic cup, looked over at him in an offhand manner, then went on staring at the screens.

17.50.

A technician from the Art division held the umbrella aloft as Van Tysch climbed into the limousine. Stein was sitting waiting for him. Van Tysch's secretary, Murnika de Verne, was in front beside the driver. Journalists and cameramen thronged behind the security barrier, but the Maestro had not answered any of their questions. 'He's tired and does not want to make any statement,' his entourage said. Benoit, Nellie Siegel and Franz Hoffmann would be delighted to become prophets for a few minutes, and reveal the words of God for the microphones, but the Maestro had to leave. The car door closed. The driver – smart, blond-haired, wearing sunglasses – aimed for one of the exits the police had cleared. An agent allowed them out. His oilskin was gleaming in the rain.

Van Tysch looked back one last time at the Tunnel, then turned to the front. Stein put a hand on his shoulder. He knew Van Tysch detested any show of affection, but he was doing it for himself rather than the Maestro: he needed the other man to understand to what extent he had obeyed him, all the sacrifices he had made. And how many he still had to make, galismus. 'It's finished, Bruno. Finished.' 'Not yet, Jacob. There's still something to be done.' 'Fuschus, I swear that… you could say it's already done.' 'You might say it, but it's not'

Stein thought of a possible reply. This was how it had always been: Van Tysch was the eternal question, and he had to find the replies. He leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. Impossible. The great painter was as distant and inscrutable as the works of art he created. Next to him, Stein always felt a bit like Adam in the Garden of Eden after he had disobeyed God, with a certain transparent sense of shame. Any silence before Van Tysch contained an implicit recognition of guilt. It was a really unpleasant feeling. But what did that matter? Stein had spent twenty years of his life watching the Maestro transform human bodies into impossible things, and changing the world. He had enough material to write a book, and one day he would. But he still felt he did not know him any better than the rest of the world. If Van Tysch was a dark ocean, he had simply been a dyke to dam it, an electric power station which could change the extraordinary torrent into gleams of gold. The Maestro needed him, would go on needing him. Up to a point. Just then, a phantom reared up in the front seat.

Murnika de Verne had turned her head and was regarding Stein through the tousled curtain of her jet-black hair. Stein looked away from the empty, lifeless eyes. He knew very well that it was not Murnika staring at him, but the Maestro. Murnika de Verne was Van Tysch to an extent that no one, except Stein, could suspect. The Maestro had painted her like this, with that wild look of hers.

Murnika kept staring at him, her anxious mouth hanging open like a starving dog's. She seemed to reproach him for something, but also to want to alert him.

The car glided on through the darting rain. Her fixed stare disturbed him.

'Fuschus, Bruno, don't you believe me?' he said to defend himself. ‘I swear I'll take care of everything. Trust me. Everything will be fine.'

He was talking to Murnika, but his words were intended for Van Tysch. He was making the same mistake a spectator sometimes makes when he believes the eyes of a painting are following him, or when a ventriloquist's dummy addresses him in the middle of an act. But in this case, it was Van Tysch who seemed like the dummy. Murnika de Verne appeared horribly alive and painted. She stared at him for a moment longer, then the life went out of her and she turned back to face the front of the car.

Stein drew a deep breath.

The windscreen wipers tussled with the rain. The only noise Stein could hear was this ticking like a clock (or a pendulum, or a paintbrush) as the limousine sped along the motorway towards Schiphol.

'Everything will be fine, Bruno,' Stein repeated.

18.35.

'We met at school in Edenburg,' Victor Zericky explained. 'My family is from here. Bruno only had his father, who was born in Rotterdam and who probably told him, among many other things, that there was nothing to be done here.'

Zericky was a tall, strong-looking man with blond hair going white. He looked like a well-intentioned man for whom things had not always gone as he had wished. Yet there was something about the way he screwed up his eyes when he talked that suggested there might be some hidden secret, some forbidden room, some distant family curse on him. His house was as cramped as it appeared from outside, and smelt of books and solitude. Half an hour earlier, when he returned after his long walk along the Geul with his dog and was showing Miss Wood in, he had confessed that his wife had left him because she could not bear either of these things. 'Neither books nor solitude,' he said with a laugh. But that did not mean he lived like a hermit, far from it: he went out a lot, was sociable, and had his friends. And he loved to discover nature on walks with his dog.

Miss Wood explained who she was, and gave a pardal account of why she was there. She said she wanted to know more about the man whose works she was protecting, which was reasonable, and Zericky nodded, seeming to accept the excuse. Miss Wood launched into an entertaining monologue about the 'tremendous difficulty in finding the real Van Tysch' in the numerous books written about him, which had made her determined to get to the bottom of the problem and interview his great childhood friend. 'Tell me everything you remember,' she asked him, 'even if you don't think it's important.'

Zericky narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he suspected a deeper reason behind Miss Wood's visit, but he did not seem to want to discover what that might be. In fact, he was flattered by her request. It was obvious he liked to talk, and he did not often have the opportunity. He spoke first about himself: he gave classes in a school in Maastricht, although the previous year he had asked for leave in order to catch up on all his unfinished projects. He had published several books on the history of south Limburg, and at present was gathering material for a definitive study on Edenburg. Then he began to tell her about Van Tysch. He had got up to fetch a grimy folder from his bookshelves. In it were a pile of photographs. He passed some of them to Miss Wood. 'At school he was incredible. Look.'

It was a typical school form photograph. The children's heads shone white and round like so many pinheads. Zericky leaned over Miss Wood's shoulder.

'That one's me. And this is Bruno. He was very beautiful. It took your breath away just to look at him, whether you were a boy or a girl. His eyes shone with an inexhaustible gleam. His jet-black hair, inherited from his Spanish mother, his plump lips and thick black eyebrows that looked as if they had been drawn on with ink, gave him the harmonious look of an ancient god… That's how I remember him. But it was more than just beauty… how can I explain it?… He was like one of his paintings… there was something that went beyond what you can see. There was nothing for it but to bow at his feet. And he loved that. He enjoyed directing us, giving us orders. He was born to create things with others.'

For a split second, Zericky's eyes opened wide, as though they were inviting Miss Wood inside to see all that they had seen.

'He invented a game, which he sometimes played with me in the woods. I stood stock still, and Bruno placed my arms, head, or feet in the position he wanted. He used to say I was his statue. The rules were that I couldn't move until he gave me permission, although I must say that he made up the rules as well. Does that mean Bruno could do whatever he liked? Yes and no. I think he was more of a victim.' Zericky paused as he put the photo back in the folder.

'I've thought a lot about Bruno over the years. I've come to the conclusion that he never cared about anyone or anything, but not because he was really uninterested in them so much as in order to survive. He was used to suffering. I remember one of his typical gestures: when anything hurt him, he would look up to the skies as though imploring aid. I used to say it made him look like Jesus, and he liked the comparison. Bruno always saw himself as a new Redeemer.' 'A new Christ?' Miss Wood repeated.

'Yes. I think that's how he sees himself. A misunderstood god. A god made man whom all of us have tortured.'

19.30.

He was out there somewhere.

All of a sudden Bosch had been filled with that terrible conviction. He was out there somewhere. The Artist. Waiting.

Hendrickje, who had put her superstitious faith in his old bloodhound's sense of smell, would have bet anything that he was right. 'If that is what you feel, Lothar, don't think twice about it: go with it.' He stood up so brusquely that Nikki turned towards him, intrigued. 'Is something wrong, Lothar?'

'No. I just feel like stretching my legs. I've been sitting down for hours. I might walk over to the other control post.'

In fact, one of his legs had gone numb. He tapped his shoe on the floor to help the blood flow.

'Take an umbrella: it's not raining hard, but you could get soaked,' said Nikki.

Bosch nodded, but left the Portakabin without taking an umbrella.

It was raining outside – not heavily, but with a steady persistence – although it was quite warm. Bosch blinked, and walked a few paces away from the Portakabin to savour the atmosphere.

The huge tent of the Tunnel was less than thirty metres from him. It shone like petrol in the rain, and looked like a mountain shrouded in mourning clothes. The vehicles parked round it left narrow corridors that were thronged with personnel: workmen, police, plainclothes agents, the sanitary team. The sight inspired confidence and security.

But there was something more, a thread he could perceive although it was almost invisible, a background colour, a deep note playing beneath the surface fanfare of noise.

'He's here.'

Two of his men passed by him and said hello, without receiving any reply from Bosch apart from a brief nod. He swung his head from side to side, studying shapes and faces. He would not have been able to say how, but he was sure he was going to recognise Postumo Baldi when he saw him, whatever his disguise. His eyes are mirrors. But he could not rid himself of his sense of unease, even though he knew it was unlikely Baldi was there at that very moment. His body is like fresh clay. Maybe I'm just nervous because today is the opening, he told himself. That was easy to understand, and with the understanding came a sense of calm.

'Don't try to understand, Lothar. Listen to your spirit, not your mind,' was what Hendrickje used to tell him. But then, Hendrickje read her tarot cards like others read the morning papers, and saw her horoscope as set in stone just like events that had already taken place. Despite this, you didn't see that lorry waiting for you on your way back from Utrecht, did you Hendri? You didn't foresee the astrological confluence of your head and the back end of that trailer. All your intuition suddenly converted into Stardust, eh, Hendri?'

He walked over to the barriers. Why would he be here today? That's absurd. The only reason would be for him to explore the terrain. That's the way he operates. First he gets to know the surroundings, then he attacks. He's not going to try anything today.

He flashed his ID card and an agent let him through. He found himself caught up in the crowd coming out of the long night of the Tunnel – their eyes wide, fascination still shining in their faces, and swam against the current of this tide of humanity. Further on, beyond another row of barriers, was the central square from which all the paintings would be picked up. There were fewer people in there. Bosch could see the green and white uniforms of Van Hoore's team. They all seemed to be like him: nervous but at the same time calm. It was understandable. Never before had such astronomically valuable works of art been exhibited in a place like this. Outdoor pieces were much easier to guard; still simpler the ones in museums. 'Rembrandt' though was a huge challenge for the Foundation personnel.

He made for the Tunnel entrance. To his left, near the Rijksmuseum, was concentrated a small but vociferous group of BAH members waving banners in Dutch and English. The rain did not appear to dampen their enthusiasm. Bosch considered them for a moment. The main banner showed an eye-catching illustration (a blown-up photo) of a Stein original called The Stepladder, with the fourteen-year-old adolescent Janet Clergue. Her buttocks, breasts and genitals had been scribbled over and censored. Other placards displayed texts hastily written in capitals:

HYPERDRAMATIC ART EXHIBITS NAKED CHILDREN. WANT TO BUY A NUDE EIGHT-YEAR-OLD GIRL? ASK AT THE VAN TYSCH FOUNDATION. VAN TYSCH'S FLOWERS: LEGALISED PHYSICAL AND MENTAL TORTURE. PROSTITUTION AND SALE OF HUMAN BEINGS… IS THAT ART? VAN TYSCH DEGRADES REMBRANDT IN HIS NEW COLLECTION.

Another long, unfurled banner went into greater detail, in smaller lettering: 'How many models are there in the world over forty? How many grown men compared to young girls? How many HD works are clothed people in normal poses? How many are naked young women in suggestive poses?'

'What scum’ one of the security guards at the entrance muttered to Bosch. 'They're the same sort who wanted to prohibit Michelangelo's nudes in the Sistine Chapel.' Bosch agreed half-heartedly and walked on.

He is here.

It was easier to get across the crowd of people at the entrance than at the exit, because they were slowed down by the three security filters at the mouth of the Tunnel. Bosch crossed through the queue. He was still intending to call on the other team in Portakabin A. But he came to a halt once more.

He's here.

He looked at the street musicians, the vendors, the people handing out catalogues and flyers. Somewhere.

Further on, near the Rijksmuseum gardens, a large group of young artists were taking advantage of the presence of so many people to show their works. Models with painted bodies posed naked in the rain. There were more than thirty of them. The prices were real bargains; you could snap up a painting for less than five hundred euros. Not that they were very good: they trembled, lost their balance, sneezed, could be seen to scratch their heads furtively. Bosch knew that many of them were relatives or friends of the painters rather than real professionals. Buying one of them was a real risk, because you never knew who you were inviting into your home. You could wake up one morning and find the painting gone, along with your credit cards.

The rain was like a cold sweat on Bosch's forehead. Why could he not rid himself of this oppressive sense of menace?

All at once he changed his mind, turned round, and headed for the Tunnel.

20.00.

The driver had reappeared at five minutes to eight, but Miss Wood told him to carry on waiting.

'It's true he suffered a lot, and he compensated with his excessive passion for art,' Zericky went on. 'First there was his father, who treated him badly. Then that pederast sorcerer, Richard Tysch, who he spent those summers with in California. They all wanted to have their way with him, but he ended up having his way with every one of them…' 'Have you seen him again? Van Tysch, I mean.' Zericky raised his eyebrows.

'Bruno? Never. He left me behind as well, along with all his other memories. I know we're neighbours now, but I've never felt like going to ask to borrow a cup of milk.' Miss Wood copied his weary smile. 'Some time ago I got a few phone calls from Jacob Stein. And also from that… that secretary of his, the odd one…' 'Murnika de Verne.'

'Exactly. They would ask me if I needed anything, as if they wanted to show me that he never really forgot his friends. But I never spoke to Bruno again, and I never wanted to. How a friendship ends is as mysterious as how it begins,' Victor Zericky said: 'it simply happens.'

Miss Wood nodded. Hirum Oslo's tranquil shadow had suddenly flitted through her mind. Yes, the end is as mysterious as the beginning. And as mysterious, too, as the part in the middle. It simply happens. 'Am I boring you?' Zericky asked affably. 'No, on the contrary.'

As he was talking, Zericky was absentmindedly pulling some sheets of paper out of another folder. Miss Wood asked: 'What are those drawings?'

'They're old watercolours, pastels, carbon sketches and ink drawings his father did. I thought you might like to see them. Maurits thought he was a painter, did you know that? One of his great frustrations was that Bruno could not draw,' he said, with a brief laugh.

'From what I can see, the father could, though,' said Miss Wood as she looked at the drawings one by one. She recognised some landscapes of the village with the castle in the background.

'He wasn't bad at all, was he?' Zericky agreed. 'One day I must sort out the collection properly. Perhaps I'll write a biography of the Van Tysch family and use them to illustrate… What's the matter?'

Zericky had seen the sudden change in April Wood's expression.

20.05.

Bosch decided to get into the Tunnel through one of the emergency exits, at the far end. He walked down the whole length of the first side. The rain had eased to a fine drizzle. Even so, he seemed to have got drenched. Why on earth had he not picked up a blasted umbrella? When he reached the area close to the Stedelijk gardens he waved his magic card once more, and passed through the barriers. In front of him was the impressive black curtain. The way in was a labyrinth of folds to help prevent any light penetrating inside. Two guards were on duty. Although they recognised him at once, he still had to go through the rigorous checks he himself had set up. He placed his left hand on the plasma screen that analysed his fingerprints, and spoke into the microphone. He was so nervous he had to repeat the voice test twice. They finally let him through. Bosch was pleased that the security measures were working so well.

When he got inside the Tunnel his eyes closed without any need for lids.

20.20.

'What's this?' asked Miss Wood.

Zericky looked at the drawing she was holding up, and smiled.

'Oh, that was how Maurits crossed out the drawings he didn't like. He never tore them up. He scribbled on them with a red pen, and always in the same way. He was a violent man, but he liked his routines.'

It was a China ink drawing of a human figure, probably a villager from Edenburg. It was scrubbed out with big red crosses. Zericky saw something had attracted the woman's attention, because he saw her place her forefinger on the paper and mutter something. It was as though she were counting the crosses.

'He always crossed them out like that?' she said, in a very odd voice. Zericky wondered what had so intrigued her, but the years and loneliness had made him discreet. 'Yes, as I said.'

Miss Wood counted them again. Four crosses and two vertical lines. Eight lines in crosses and two parallel lines. Ten lines altogether. My God. She counted them again: she didn't want to make a mistake. Four crosses and two separate lines. Eight plus two. Ten in total. She picked up the remaining drawings and flicked through them. She stopped when she came to another crossed out one. It was the rough sketch of a face, traced in pencil. The crosses and vertical lines again. Four plus two. Eight and two. Ten altogether.

She turned to the historian, trying to stay calm as she spoke. 'Mr Zericky. Do you have any more drawings?' 'Yes. In the cellar.' 'Could I see them all?'

'All of them? There must be hundreds of them. Nobody has seen them all.'

'It doesn't matter. I've got time.' ‘I’ll get the folders.'

20.15.

When he found himself inside the Tunnel, Bosch realised immediately it was very different from seeing it on the monitors. It smelt of paint and there was a strange warmth about it: all his senses told him he was in a different universe. The feeling was similar to contemplating a lake at night and then plunging headfirst into its dark waves. The silence was awe-inspiring, and yet there were sounds: the echoes of footsteps and coughs, whispered comments. There were also the grave harmonies of a majestic music that came from the great dome of the Tunnel. Bosch recognised it: The Funeral Music for Queen Mary, by Purcell, with its drumbeats from beyond the grave.

In among these baroque shadows, Bosch could make out the first painting. The tumultuous crowd forming The Night Watch took up a large part of the bend in the horsehoe, and gleamed in the chiaroscuro lighting. Twenty painted, motionless human beings. What meaning could there possibly be to that absurd army? Like all Dutchmen, Bosch knew the original on show in the Rijksmuseum: it was a typical portrait of a military company, in this case commanded by Captain Frans Banning Cocq, but Rembrandt's stroke of genius had been to paint them at work, as though he had photographed them as they were patrolling the street. Van Tysch on the other hand had petrified them. And the figures were full of grotesque details. The Captain, for example, was a woman, and the red sash of his uniform was painted on her stomach. His lieutenant was a yellow monster in ruffs and a wide-brimmed hat. The golden girl with a hen dangling from her waist was completely naked here. The soldiers still bore lances and muskets, but their faces were covered in blood. Torn to shreds, their banner lashed the darkness of the canvas. The background was filled with huge structures like a Piranesi invention. A woman dressed in leather was weeping. A shadowy shape on four legs wearing a hangman's cap was crawling at the lieutenant's feet.

By comparison, the modest, solitary figure of Titus on show a few metres away on a small plinth seemed to lack interest: it was a young boy – Rembrandt's son in the original – dressed in furs and wearing a cap. But the play of lights and paint lent him a constantly changing look. The optical effect was similar to the shifting gleams of a diamond's facets. Bosch screwed up his eyes and thought he could see by turns the head of an unknown animal, the luminous face of an angel, a porcelain doll, and a caricature of Van Tysch's features.

The guy is completely crazy,' he heard a visitor say in a clear Dutch voice as like him he filed past in the darkness, 'but he fascinates me.'

Bosch could not make up his mind whether he agreed with this anonymous declaration. He went on, without stopping in front of The Feast of Belshazzar, with its banquet of human beings. What most interested him was further on, floating in a lake of glittering browns.

When he reached her, Bosch tried to swallow, but discovered his mouth was completely dry.

Danielle was standing still, quietly beautiful in the midst of all the ochre tones. The Young Girl Leaning on a Windoiusill was a truly magnificent work, and Bosch could not help but feel proud. She was leaning against a chestnut-brown sill, staring into space with eyes that looked like jewels set in a face the colour of alabaster. The white paint was so dense it seemed almost obscene to Bosch. He could not understand why Van Tysch had wanted to shroud Danielle's pretty features in this snow. But what most amazed him was to realise it was her. He would not have been able to tell how he knew, but he would have recognised her from a thousand similar figures. Nielle was there, inside that bloodless mask, and there was something in the position of her hands or the tilt of her shoulders that gave the game away. Bosch lost himself in contemplation of her for several moments. Then he continued on his way.

Like a powerful condor, Purcell's music was soaring up into the far reaches of the darkness.

Bosch still did not understand. What had the painter been trying to say with this timeless, black world, this mystery of lights and music pouring down from the heights? What kind of message was he trying to convey?

20.45.

It was unbelievable. There they were. A girl standing on some flowers. Two fat, misshapen men. There were two drawings: the first in pastel, the second in China ink. They were not crossed out. She had come across them while she was looking for more examples of Maurits' crossing out.

Deflowering and Monsters, Miss Wood thought, scarcely able to believe her eyes, Van Tysch's most personal works: they are based on his father's old drawings, and no one knows it, not even Hirum Oslo. Nobody has taken the trouble to look at Maurits' legacy closely enough. Perhaps not even Van Tysch himself suspects it. Maurits wanted him to draw, to become the successful artist he never managed to be. But little Bruno did not know how to draw. So what he did was adopt some of his father's drawings for his own art. It was a kind of compensation…

She had separated these drawings from the pile, and went on looking. Zericky returned after a few minutes with yet more folders. He put them down on the table, raising clouds of dust, and began to undo the ribbons. 'These are the last,' he said. 'That's all I have.'

'Van Tysch saw these drawings as a child, didn't he?' said Miss Wood. 'Possibly. He never talked to me about it. Why do you ask?'

Instead of replying, she asked another question. 'Who else has seen them?' Rather confused, Zericky smiled.

'As thoroughly as you, nobody. A few researchers have glanced at a folder or two here and there… but what is it you're looking for exactly?'

'Another one.' 'What?' 'Another one. The third.'

There's one missing. The third most important work. It must be here somewhere. It's not an exact copy of one of the 'Rembrandt' paintings. In fact, neither of the other two is an exact copy of Van Tysch's work… the adolescent for example is not naked, and there aren't any narcissi at her feet either… but her pose is identical to Annek's… there has to be something linking it to one of the works: a character, or a group of characters… or perhaps…

She tried to remember the paintings as she had seen them during the signing session the previous day: the characters; their poses; the clothes they wore; the colours. If I could identify Deflowering and Monsters, I must be able to spot the third one.

'Hey, calm down,' Zericky begged her. 'You're throwing all the drawings on the floor..'

Swear that you're going to find it… Swear you're going to do it. .. Swear you're not going to fail this time…

Every so often she came across a crossed-out drawing: always four crosses and two vertical lines. But it was not the moment to try to unravel the meaning of this other incredible coincidence. Nor could she worry about the most troubling mystery of all: how had the Artist managed to see the drawings? Could it have been one of the 'researchers' Zericky had mentioned? And if he hadn't seen them, how else had he chosen the third work to destroy?

One thing at a time, please.

The last drawing in the folder was of a flower. Miss Wood threw it down so violently that Zericky got annoyed.

'Look, you're going to tear them if you treat them like that!' the historian exclaimed, reaching out to take them from her.

'Don't touch me,' whispered Miss Wood. In reality it was not so much a whisper as a rattle in her throat that froze the blood in Zericky's veins. 'Don't even try it. I'll soon be finished, I swear.'

'Don't worry,' Zericky said haltingly. 'Take your time… make yourself at home…'

She must be ill, he thought. Zericky was not a conventional sort, but solitude had made it hard for him to accept any shocks. Anything unexpected (a crazy person in his house going through all the drawings, for example) horrified him. He started to think of a plan to get close to the telephone and call the police without this psychopath noticing.

Miss Wood opened another folder and put aside two landscape studies. Then a carbon drawing with a night-time wood. Drawings of birds. Still lives, but no slaughtered ox. A young girl standing arms akimbo, but she did not resemble the Girl Leaning on a Windowsill.

20.50.

As he advanced along the Tunnel, Bosch spotted one of the guards. His red badge shone dully in the light from the plinths. His face was a blur of shadows.

'Mr Bosch?' the man said when he had identified himself. 'It's Jan Wuyters, sir' 'How is everything going, Jan?' 'All quiet so far'

Beyond Wuyters the sharp linear splendour of the crucified Christ loomed in the distance. A trick of perspective made it look as though it were floating above Wuyters head, as if he were being offered special divine protection.

'I'd be happier if there was more light and we could see the face and hands of people properly,' Wuyters added. 'This is a slum, Mr Bosch.' 'You're right. But it's Art that's giving the orders.' 'I guess so.'

All at once, Bosch decided Wuyters was a very convincing Wuyters in the darkness. He was almost sure it was him, but as in a nightmare, tiny details confused him. He would have liked to have seen the man's eyes outside in the daylight.

'To tell you the truth, sir, I wish today's opening was over,' Wuyters' silhouette whispered. ‘I share your feelings entirely, Jan.'

'And the horrible smell of paint… isn't your throat burning?' Bosch was just about to reply when all hell broke loose.

20.55.

Miss Wood was staring at the watercolour, without moving a muscle. Seeing the change in her attitude, Zericky leaned over her shoulder.

'It's lovely, isn't it? It's one of the watercolours Maurits did of her.' Miss Wood looked round at him uncomprehendingly. 'It's his wife,' Zericky explained. 'The young Spanish woman.' 'You mean this woman was Van Tysch's mother?'

'Well,' said Zericky with a smile, ‘I think she was. Bruno never knew her, and Maurits destroyed almost all the photos of her after she died, so Bruno only had these drawings by Maurits to know what she looked like. But it is her. My parents knew her, and according to them they are a very good likeness.'

First, the remembrance of his childhood. Then his father and Richard Tysch. Now his mother. The third most personal work. Miss Wood no longer had the slightest doubt. She did not even need to look in the remaining folders. She knew exactly which painting the drawing related to. Her hand was trembling as she consulted her watch.

There's still time. I'm sure there's still time. Today's exhibition hasn't even finished yet.

She left the watercolour on the table, picked up her bag and took out her mobile phone.

All at once, something like a sudden presentiment, the shudder of a sixth sense, paralysed her.

No, there's no time left. It's too late.

She dialled a number.

What a shame you could not do it perfectly, April. Doing things well is doing them badly.

She put the phone to her ear and heard the distant screech of the call.

Because if you let yourself be defeated in small things, you'll lose out in the big ones too.

The telephone voice sounded in the minute darkness of her ear.

20.57.

Lothar Bosch had faced up to a crowd on several occasions in his life.

Sometimes he had been part of it (but even then he had needed to protect himself from it); at others, he had been part of those trying to disperse it. Whatever the case, he had known the phenomenon since his youth. He had never been able to draw any useful lesson from his experiences: he thought he must have survived by pure luck. A terrified crowd is not something a person can learn to resist, just as you can never learn to walk in the eye of a hurricane.

It all happened very quickly. First there was a shout. Then many more. A few moments later, and Bosch realised the full extent of the horror. The Tunnel was roaring.

It was the deep roar of underground bells, as if the earth he was standing on had a life of its own and had decided to prove it by rearing up.

The darkness prevented him from comprehending exactly what was going on, but he could hear a ringing sound from the roof's metallic structure and from the curtain walls nearest to him. My God, the whole thing's coming down, he thought. That was when the panic started.

Wuyters, the guard who had been talking to him just a few moments earlier, was swept away by a surge of shouts, gaping mouths and hands clawing for the open air. A thrusting piston of bodies flung Bosch against the guide rope. For one atrocious instant he saw himself crushed by the stampede, but fortunately the torrent of humanity was not headed in his direction: it was just forcing its way past. Fear made the crowd run blindly towards the far end of the Tunnel. The stanchions securing the rope held, so Bosch clung on and avoided falling off the ramp.

The worst of it, he thought, was not being able to see anything, plus this obscene carnival darkness, in which only a minimum of movement was possible. It was like being shoved under a woollen blanket with a lion.

A woman was screaming next to him, trying to get out. The fact that her breath smelt of tobacco was a stupid detail that seized hold of Bosch's terrified brain. He thought he understood that she was holding a child by the hand, and was begging the monster to respect her, at least not to devour her tiny charge. Then Bosch saw her swept under (had she bent down? been swept away?) then reappear further on, waving a tremulous, wailing little creature above her head like a banner. Go on, go on, get him out of here, Bosch wanted to shout, get your child out of here. He was trying to help her when he was struck by another blow, and fell over the edge of the ramp.

He felt he has falling through space. The darkness outside the ramp was so intense his eyes could not calculate the distance separating him from harm. Even so, he managed to put his hands out and parry his fall. For a second or two he could not even work out what had happened, why he was in this strange position of floating along horizontally. Then he understood that all the chiaroscuro lighting must have gone off.

That must be it, because in the entire length of the Tunnel he could not see a single light, not even a speck. The paintings had been swallowed up in the shadows. And he was in the belly of the darkness.

He tried to get to his knees, but was knocked flat again. Something, or some mass of things, swept over him. Somebody had thought that beyond the ramp there might be another exit, and now everyone was running towards this remote possibility. Perhaps it was true that the emergency exits for the paintings could also be used by the public: even though they were further off, they were much easier to get to. The problem was finding them.

Bosch finally managed to stand up and check he had no broken bones. All around him, dumbfounded shadows heaved. He tried to guide them because he knew where the exits were. He started shouting at people who were like stampeding elephants in the black centre of a storm. 'The far end! The far end!'

But: the far end of what? They started running towards the lights. But the lights were getting closer, too. A magical brush painted a sudden majestic white stripe on the sweating, terrified face in front of Bosch. Then the darkness added black, and the face disappeared. Another brush sketched an outstretched hand, then a summery shirt, a fleeting silhouette. In the midst of the Guernica panic, Bosch waved his arms like a drowning man. 'Stay calm, stay calm,' he heard a voice say.

Just hearing words that made sense reassured him a lot. It was a shred of coherence that might lead to some communication. Then there were the lights, which must be torches. He ran towards them as though the darkness engulfing him were flames, and his body needed to douse itself in light. He struggled to push away another person desperate to reach the privilege of light. Darkness is cruel, he thought. Darkness is inhuman, he thought.

'It's Lothar Bosch here!' he shouted. He felt his jacket lapel, but his ID badge had been torn off. 'Calm, stay calm,' the voice offering the gift of light repeated.

A beam struck his face, blinding him. It did not matter: he preferred to be blinded rather than to be blind. He raised his hands, begging for light. 'Stay calm, nothing has happened,' the voice said in English. Bosch wanted to laugh. So nothing had happened?

It was then he realised that it was true that whatever had happened was over. He could no longer hear the sinister creaking of the Tunnel's metallic structure.

The torch painted another face: a woman from the crowd who was weeping as she tried to speak. Bosch contemplated this mask of tragedy as carefully as he had studied the paintings only a few minutes earlier.

He staggered out of the Tunnel inferno, guided by the rescuing torches, but feeling as lost as everyone else around him. Night had not yet fallen, and it had even stopped raining, but the dense ceiling of grey clouds made the sunset even more impressive. Under this colourless sky, the central square was a riot of colour. It was as if the Rijksmuseum had burst open and peopled the streets with Rembrandt's dreams.

The Table and Maid from The Feast of Belshazzar were being helped into their robes by people from Conservation. King Belshazzar, swathed in a heavy painted turban, was panting loudly. The soldiers from The Night Watch were still holding aloft their lances and muskets, and looked for all the world like an army of dead men, astonishment filling their bloody faces. The girl with the chicken at her waist, naked and gold-painted, was a flickering flame at the foot of the recovery vehicle. At the opposite end of the horseshoe, The Syndics were climbing into more vehicles, while the students from The Anatomy Lesson ran about in their white ruffs. Kirsten Kirstenman's pale blue body was being carried on a stretcher. The paintings were all jumbled up with ordinary people. Out in the open, Van Tysch's masterpieces looked like the final nightmare of a painter on the point of death. Where could Danielle be? Where exactly had Young Girl Leaning on a Windowsill been on display? Bosch could not remember. He was completely disorientated.

Suddenly he recalled that the painting had been on show beyond The Feast. He remembered he had decided not to spend much time on that one so he could get to her as soon as possible.

He saw a man from Conservation whom he recognised. He was nervously attaching a label round the neck of Paula Kircher, the Angel from Jacob Wrestling with the Angel. Paula was wearing a huge pair of wings in a gleaming pearl-grey colour, fixed on her back like a monstrous, useless parachute. Another assistant had run over to protect her priceless ochre nakedness in a robe, but it was impossible to put on without removing her wings, so Paula just wrapped herself in it like a towel. People milling round her knocked against her feathers with their heads or shoulders: a fireman tore one out with his helmet. It was Paula who replied to Bosch's desperate question: she seemed a good deal calmer than the man trying to put her labels on. 'She's with the Christ.'

She pointed towards a side exit. But there was no vehicle there. 'My God, where is she? Has she already been evacuated?' He ran wildly over to the exit. A female security agent from the inside team was consoling a woman who, probably, was a person rather than a painting. Bosch decided this because she was not painted. Next to him was a figure who was a painting: maroon clothing and a face like a cardinal by Velazquez: perhaps one of the characters from The Night Watch. Bosch interrupted the agent with his hasty question.

'I don't know, Mr Bosch. She might have been evacuated already, but I can't be sure. Why don't you call up control on your radio?' ‘I haven't got one.' 'Use mine.'

The girl unhooked the microphone and passed it to him. As he was putting the headpiece on, Bosch realised there was a piano tune coming from his chest. It was his mobile phone ringing in his inside pocket. Bosch had no idea when it had started. Then all at once it fell silent. He decided not to worry about the call for now. He would track it down later. Calm, stay calm. First things first.

The radio operator sounded in his ear with a marvellously clear voice. Like the voice of an angel in the midst of disaster, thought Bosch. He asked to speak to Nikki Hartel, in Portakabin A. The operator seemed more than happy to comply, but first she needed the code that Bosch himself, on Miss Wood's instructions, had insisted everyone must have in order to talk by phone or radio to the people in charge. Shit! He closed his eyes and concentrated, while the operator hung on. For security reasons he had not written it down anywhere: he had learnt it by heart, but that was in another century, in another era, in a time when the universe and its laws were different, before order was abolished by chaos and Rembrandt and his works had taken Amsterdam by storm. But he usually had a good memory. He remembered the code. The operator confirmed it. When he heard Nikki's voice, he almost felt like crying. Nikki sounded even worse.

'Where did you get to?' he heard her energetic, youthful voice in his earpiece. 'Everyone here was…'

'Listen, Nikki…' Bosch interrupted her. Then he paused for a second before going on. Above all, it's important to speak calmly.

‘I guess you've got a lot to tell me,' he said. 'But first of all, there's something I need to know… Where is Nielle? Where is my niece?'

Nikki's reply was immediate, as if she had been expecting his question right from the start. Yet again, Bosch was thankful for her immense efficiency.

'She's safe, in an evacuation vehicle. Don't worry. Everything's under control. The thing is, Young Girl Leaning on a Windoivsill is a painting with only one free-standing figure, like Titus and Bethsabe, and so Van Hoore's team evacuated her before the other more complicated works.'

Bosch understood her explanation perfectly, and for a second the relief he felt kept him from saying anything else. But then he realised something.

'But most of the works are still here. They're even getting out of the vans again. I don't understand.' 'The evacuation was suspended five minutes ago, Lothar.'

'What? That's absurd!… The earthquake could happen again at any moment… And perhaps the curtains wouldn't withstand…' Nikki butted in.

'It wasn't an earthquake. And it wasn't a fault in the Tunnel construction, as we thought at first. Hoffmann has just phoned. It was something Art dreamed up without telling any of us, not even Conservation or most of the people in Art either… something to do with the Christ painting, which apparently was an interactive performance piece with special effects that no one knew about.'

'But the Tunnel shook from top to bottom, Nikki! It was about to collapse!'

"Yes, here in the Portakabin we thought the same because all our screens vibrated, but it seems it would never have fallen. It was all staged. At least, that's what Hoffmann says. He says everything is under control, that there is no damage to any of the paintings, and that he doesn't really understand why there was such a wave of panic. He insists the Tunnel's shaking wasn't that violent, and that it should have been obvious it was an artistic detail because it happened just after the Christ "died" on the Cross with a shout.. ‘

As she spoke, Bosch remembered that everything had begun when he heard a shout.

'Well,' said Nikki, 'here we didn't understand a thing, of course, but it's modern art, so we're not supposed to try to understand it, are we?… Ah, and nobody can find Stein or the Maestro. And Benoit's climbing the walls…'

In spite of the double feeling of relief Bosch felt at knowing that not only was Danielle safe and sound but that the apparent catastrophe had been less serious than he had thought, he felt a growing sense of irritation. As the day drew to its end, he looked round at the flashing lights and the crush of policemen on the other side of the barriers. He could hear ambulance sirens wailing. He could sense the confusion on the faces of the paintings, conservation experts, security agents, technicians and guests: the bewilderment and fear in the eyes of all those he had shared those anxious minutes with. A trick staged by Art? An artistic detail? And there was no damage to the paintings? What about the public, Hoffmann? You're forgetting the public. There might well have been people badly hurt.. . He couldn't understand it.

'Lothar?' 'Yes, Nikki, what is it?' replied Bosch, still indignant.

'Lothar, before I forget: Miss Wood has phoned at least a hundred times. She wants to know, and I quote: "Where on earth you've got to, and why you don't answer your phone"… We've tried to explain what happened, but you know what the boss is like when she's angry. She started to insult us all. She couldn't have given a damn if the whole world had crumbled with you underneath it, she insisted she had to talk to you, only to you, to nobody else but you. Urgently. Right now. Have you got her number?'

'Yes, I think so.' 'If you press the recall button it's bound to be her. Good luck.' Thanks, Nikki.'

As he was phoning April Wood, Bosch looked at his watch: twelve minutes past nine. A sudden breeze that brought with it the smell of oil paint lifted the flaps of his jacket and cooled his sweating back, giving him some thankful relief. He noticed that the Art technicians were taking the paindngs out of the central square. They must be intending to get them together in the Portakabins. Almost all of them were wearing their robes. The Angel's wings shone in the crowd.

He wondered what April Wood had to tell him that was so important.

He raised the phone to his ear and waited.

21.12.

Danielle was inside the dark evacuation vehicle. It had stopped somewhere, but she had no idea why. She thought perhaps the driver was waidng for someone to arrive. He did not speak to her or explain anything. He simply sat in silence at the wheel in the darkness, his silhouette only dimly lit by the glow through the windscreen. Strapped into her seat by four safety belts, Danielle was breathing deeply, trying to stay calm. She was still dressed in the long white shift for Young Girl Leaning on a Windoivsill, and was painted in the four layers of oil paint her figure required. When she felt the earthquake, she was sure one of the layers must have fallen off, but now she could tell it had not. She had started to think of her parents. Once she had got over her fear, she wanted to talk to them, and also to Uncle Lothar, to tell them she was fine. In fact, nothing had happened to her: seconds before the Tunnel had started to tremble, this friendly man had appeared and shown her out, lighting her way with his torch. Then he had strapped her into the back seat of the van and made his way out of the Museumplein. Danielle had no idea what route he had taken. Now he had parked in the darkness and was waiting.

All at once his silhouette moved. He got up and looked round at her. She stared at him anxiously. He was a tall and apparently very strong young man. He came into the back of the van. By the faint light in the van interior, Danielle could see he was smiling.

21.15.

As soon as he had finished talking to April Wood, Lothar Bosch contacted Nikki through his headset. His hands were trembling.

'It's impossible. This time April is wrong.' Nikki was as surprised as he had been by the first question.

'The evacuated paintings? They're fine, Lothar. I suppose they're a bit frightened, but none of them suffered any damage. They've been taken to the hotel, but not picked up yet. They're all in their vans in the hotel parking lot.'

This was yet another security measure. The paintings could only be taken to their rooms by the corresponding security agent. The evacuation team was simply responsible for getting them away from danger. 'So they're all in the hotel car park?' Bosch insisted.

'Exactly. It was decided at our last meeting, if you remember. We agreed not to take them to the Old Atelier straightaway, because that's empty and locked up tonight, and we didn't want any more security staff…'

Bosch did remember. He would have hung up there and then, but April Wood's instructions were clear: he had to make absolutely sure. 'Are all the paintings in the car park now?' 'All of them. What are you worried about?' 'Do the vans' tracking devices all work?' 'Perfectly. We've got their signals on the screen right here.' 'Of them all?' Nikki spoke with motherly patience.

'All of them, Lothar. Don't worry about Danielle. She's being kept in an armour-plated van and…' 'Can you tell me which paintings have been evacuated?'

'Of course.' Nikki paused briefly after she listed each of them, making Bosch think she must be reading them off a screen. 'Bethsabe, Young Girl Leaning on a Windowsill, The jewish Bride, Titus, and Susanna Surprised by the Elders.' 'Only those five?'

"Yes, only those. The others were just being taken out when the evacuation was suspended.'

'Are the signals from all five vehicles appearing correctly on the screen as we speak?' 'Affirmative. Is something wrong, Lothar?' Bosch was stammering into his microphone.

‘Is there anyone with the paintings apart from the emergency personnel?'

The car park guards. And a security team is on its way. They'll be there any minute.'

Bosch could believe it. The hotel chosen to put the paintings in was the Van Gogh, very close to the Museum quarter. You could reach it walking from Museumplein.

'Martine is confirming it,' Nikki told him. 'We're still receiving all five signals, Lothar. Everything is fine, I tell you. They're in the car park, awaiting instructions.'

What else could he ask? He was beginning to think April Wood's fears were unjustified. He prayed that, just this once, she might be mistaken.

21.17.

The driver's shadow dipped down next to Danielle. The darkness was even more complete in the back of the van, so that all she could make out were a pair of attractive blue eyes and a fixed smile. 'Are you OK?' the man asked, in fluent Dutch. 'Yes.'

'Some scare, wasn't it?'

Danielle agreed. The man was kneeling next to her seat, still smiling.

'What are we waiting for?' Danielle wanted to know. 'Orders,' said the man.

She had no idea why, but the darkness and silence frightened her a little. Fortunately the smiling man seemed reassuring enough.

21.18.

All of a sudden, Bosch thought of another question. 'Nikki, which was the first painting evacuated? Do we know?' Nikki told him. it was in the van in less than a minute,' she added, pleased with herself, it must have been a record. The emergency guard was very quick… Lothar… are you still there…?' Silence.

A prolonged silence. Nikki thought the communication must have been lost, but then she heard Bosch's voice once more.

'Nikki, listen carefully. Get in touch with Alfred and Thea… and with Gert Warfell. This is an emergency… No, don't ask me any questions, please… I want a security team to surround the hotel in less than ten minutes… top priority…'

He ended the call and looked around in bewilderment. A loudspeaker was offering calming words. The fire chief was telling the public that what had happened was not due to any problem with the Tunnel and there was no fear it would happen again. The police were appealing for calm as well. That seemed to be the general consensus. Everyone, everywhere, was calling for calm. The people around Bosch were starting to smile again. The tragedy was gently lapsing into the anecdotal. But inside him, Bosch felt only horror. His intuition told him April Wood was right yet again.

Nikki had just told him that the first painting evacuated was Susanna Surprised by the Elders. And a few minutes earlier, April Wood had told him: 'It's Susanna Surprised by the Elders. That's the painting he's chosen this time, Lothar.'

22.29.

After taking them to the Old Atelier and installing them in one of the rehearsal rooms in the first basement, the driver had shown his credentials. It was a turquoise-coloured badge. This allowed him, he said, to make the necessary adjustments to each painting. Clara was not the only one surprised at this: she saw the Elders looking inquiringly at the driver too. Did that mean he was a painter? asked the First Elder, Leo Krupka (he had introduced himself to Clara shortly before), the canvas she had seen at Schiphol airport. The driver said he was not a painter, just one of those in charge of keeping paintings in perfect condition. But wasn't that a job for Conservation? (a question from Frank Rodino, the Second Elder, a tall, heavy man). Yes, but for Art as well. Art carried out 'maintenance' on all its masterpieces, even though it was concerned with its own priorities rather than the well-being of the figures. The driver had instructions to evacuate the painting and store it, but first of all to adjust its stretching. A work such as this could not be simply packed up and sent home.

The young man had been very efficient. At almost the same time as the tremor that had shaken the walls of the Tunnel, he had come up to them and said one word in English: 'Evacuation.' He took them out and put them into his van with remarkable speed. He stopped only to give Clara a robe, because she was still naked, with the oil paint stretching her skin. The two Elders had not even taken off the clothes they were wearing for the painting. Then, as they were changing vans in the hotel parking lot, he had explained to them that the Tunnel had been about to collapse, and he had orders to evacuate the painting and take them to the Old Atelier. He spoke fluent, correct English with an accent Clara could not identify. He was good-looking, although rather too thin, and the most striking thing about him was that pair of light-blue eyes.

In the rehearsal room there was a table with a briefcase and an oilskin bag that apparently belonged to the driver. There were also boxes with labels for the three figures. The driver handed these to them, and asked them to put them on. Rodino's bulk made it difficult for him to bend down and reach his ankle. Then the driver made them sit still in chairs like well-behaved schoolchildren, while he stood by the table.

He told them his name was Matt. He did a bit of everything in the Foundation.

That's exactly what I'm going to do now. A bit of everything.'

Matt was keen for the figures to understand him. He constantly sought in both Clara and Krupka's faces (the two who were not native English speakers) any indication that they were confused, and if they were, he repeated the phrase, or if there was a difficult word, he gesticulated or changed it for a simpler one. This made them pay close attention, despite being so tired. He had taken off the jacket with the words 'Evacuation Team' on the back, and was wearing only a shirt and trousers. Both were white. So was his face. The whole of Matt was an accumulation of white.

'What are we going to do?' asked Krupka. Til explain straightaway.'

He turned his back and opened the briefcase. Took something out of it. Some sheets of paper.

'This is an important part in the stretching of the painting, but don't ask me why. You've all got sufficient experience to know that your duty is to obey the artist's wishes, however absurd they might appear.'

He handed out the pieces of paper. First Krupka, then Rodino, and finally Clara. Buried in a mask of taut skin, his eyes shone expressively.

On the sheet of paper was a short text in English. To Clara the words seemed incomprehensible, a kind of philosophical digression on the meaning of art. Each of them – Matt explained – was to read their text in turn while he recorded their voices. It was important to read well, in a loud and clear voice. If necessary, they would repeat the recording. 'Then we'll go on to the next step,' he said.

21.25.

Bosch's worst fears were confirmed when the security team reached the hotel and found the van for Susanna empty. It was then he discovered how carefully everything had been planned. A second van had been waiting in the car park and the Artist had simply switched the painting over. The first van's tracking device was still giving out its signal, but there was no one inside. Fortunately, one of the guards in the parking lot had seen the transfer, so they had a description of the second van. The guard also said that only the driver and the three figures had got into it.

Van Hoore and Spaalze had answered Bosch's call immediately. The evacuation guard in charge of Susanna was one Matt Andersen, twenty-seven years old, someone 'efficient, experienced, above all suspicion' according to Spaalze. His fingerprints, voice and measurements were not at all similar to the Artist's morphometric details, but Bosch, who was beginning to realise just how much help the murderer was being given from inside the Foundation, considered this unimportant. It was simple enough for any of the top people in the Foundation to get hold of the morphometric information and change it.

'Lothar, I'm not responsible…' Van Hoore's voice was quavering in Bosch's earpiece, if Spaalze tells me Andersen is trustworthy, I have to believe him, don't I…' 'Don't worry, Alfred. I know you're bewildered: so am I.'

Van Hoore had caved in. He sounded like a tearful little boy spattering the microphone with his saliva.

'For goodness' sake, Lothar! I'll talk to Stein myself, if need be! The evacuation team is made up of highly experienced guards, people we trust! Please, tell Stein that…' 'Calm down. No one is responsible for this.'

It was true. Either no one, or all of them. As he listened to Van Hoore's anxious confession in his earpiece, Bosch was busy giving orders and explanations. He could see everyone else reacted with the same incredulity as he had. The unexpected can not happen to the unexpected: lightning never strikes in the same place twice. Warfell for example could not get out a single word when Bosch told him what had happened. That's impossible, his silence seemed to shout. 'The only tragedy permitted is what happened in the Tunnel, Lothar: what's this you're telling me now? That one of the paintings has disappeared?'

As for Benoit, that was another surprise. Bosch found him in the street, surrounded by riot police, Civil Protection forces, firemen and what looked like a whole regiment of soldiers, but when he went up to him, Benoit signalled and took him to one side, then showed Bosch the yellow label round his wrist.

'I'm not Mr Benoit,' he said in a guttural voice with a foreign accent, as he gripped Bosch's elbow. 'I'm a copy. Mr Benoit has left me here in his place, but don't tell anyone, please…'

Recovering from his initial surprise, Bosch understood that Benoit must feel even more anguished than him, and had put this stand-in in his place. He remembered the joke about the dummy in the window of the lost property office. He wondered if this model was the Ugandan. ‘I have to talk to Mr Benoit,' he said.

'Mr Benoit can hear you right now,' the model said. The cerublastyne was amazing: his features were perfect. 'Take my radio, you can talk to him on it.'

Benoit was indeed listening to everything. To judge by the tone of his voice, he was in some personal nirvana: nothing is happening, I'm not to blame for anything, nothing will go wrong. He refused to tell Bosch where he was hiding. He said he was not retreating, merely undertaking a tactical withdrawal.

'That Mr Fuschus-Galistnus didn't tell us a thing, Lothar!' Benoit moaned. 'I mean about the Christ and the "earthquake" in the Tunnel. Hoffmann knew about it, but we didn't…!' The Artist knew about it, too, thought Bosch.

When he succeeded in getting a word in edgeways in Benoit's verbal diarrhoea, he explained what had happened to Susanna. Benoit suddenly went quiet. 'Lothar, tell me this isn't the end of the world!' 'It is,' replied Bosch.

Bosch promised to keep him informed, and gave the radio back to his substitute. As he was doing so, he saw a line of vans entering the Museumplein: the evacuated works were returning. They were all there, apart from Susanna. He saw Danielle getting out of one of the vans. She was a tiny creature surrounded by immensely tall men in dark suits. Her chestnut hair, shiny ochre body and marble-coloured face made her seem like an optical illusion. The first thing she did as she got out of the van was to lift her foot to check that the radiant signature on her left ankle was still there. Bosch could not prevent a lump forming in his throat at seeing her like this. He understood how important this marvellous adventure was for her, and for an instant he almost agreed with her parents' decision. He knew he would not be able to hug her because she was painted and was wearing the clothes for her painting, but he went up to her nevertheless.

Nielle was holding the hand of the evacuation van driver, a tall, well-built man with a pleasant smile. She was very happy. When she saw Lothar, her eyes opened wide in their circle of white oil paint. 'Uncle Lothar!' It was hard to convince her not to throw her arms round him.

'Are you all right?' he wanted to know. She told him she was. Where were they taking her? To one of Art's Portakabins: they wanted to gather all the works there before returning them to the hotel. No, she hadn't been afraid. The driver had been with her the whole time, and this had helped her not to feel frightened. Her parents had already been informed that she was fine. She wanted to tell Bosch a story, but could not finish it because the guards were in a hurry. Apparently Roland had got very nervous when he was told that his daughter 'had not suffered any damage'. Roland was unaware that this was the expression normally used to refer to the works, and at first had believed they were only talking about the paint covering her. So her father had protested: I don't give a damn if the colour has run! I want to know how my daughter is!' This made Danielle laugh till she cried. Bosch could understand Roland's fears, but felt no sympathy for him. Put up with it for art's sake, he thought. He said goodbye to his niece and stored her in a safe place in his mind. For the moment, he did not want anything to get in his way.

In Portakabin A everyone was extremely busy. Nikki was in permanent contact with the police and Thea van Droon's people. Even though it was absurd to think they would be in time, the KPLD had set up road blocks on all the exits to Amsterdam. A police inspector wanted Bosch to tell him all the details, but he could not spare a moment. 'I'm not here for anyone,' he said. He sat down with Nikki in front of one of the terminals connected to the Old Atelier.

'No sign of the van as yet, Lothar,' Nikki said. 'Who on earth are we looking for? Is this anything to do with the search for Postumo Baldi?'

This was no time to keep anything hidden, reasoned Bosch. To hell with the crisis cabinet: everything was in crisis now.

'That's right. But it doesn't matter if it's Baldi or not. He's crazy, and if we don't stop him, he'll destroy Susanna…' 'My God.'

Bosch was looking at the files on Susanna surprised by the Elders on the computer. The female canvas was Spanish, twenty-four years old, and was called Clara. The Elders were a Hungarian -Leo Krupka – and a North American – Frank Rodino – who were a little bit younger than Bosch. The North American Rodino was huge, and so would perhaps be some kind of obstacle for the Artist, in the unlikely event that there was a struggle between them. 'Think positively, Lothar.'

For the moment, he just sat there surveying the images on the screen. In particular, he stared at the young woman's face. She stared calmly back at him from the computer.

It's not a woman, it's a canvas. We are what other people pay us to be.

Bosch did not know her, and had never spoken to her. He read her complete name, and tried to pronounce it under his breath. Her family name was quite difficult for him. Rieyes. Reies. Rayes. Miss Rieyes or Reiyes was from Madrid. Hendrickje and he had occasionally spent their summer holidays in Mallorca, and Bosch had been to Madrid, Barcelona, Bilbao and other Spanish cities for various exhibitions. None of that was important now, but details like that helped him think of her as a human being facing danger. Clara Raiyes or Clara Reies had an expressive, sweet look to her, yet deep in her eyes there was a light that not even the computer image could conceal. Bosch surmised that she was a young woman full of life and hopes, someone who wanted to succeed, to push herself to the limit. He thought of Emma Thorderberg and her boisterous cheerfulness. Clara reminded him a little of Emma. How would Miss Wood and he, how would the Foundation and the wretched painter whose works they were meant to be protecting, pay for the destruction of the hopes of this young woman? How would 'Grandad Paul' restore the life and happiness that shone from the face in front of him? Would Kurt Sorensen be able to find an insurance company to bring her life back? How much money was it worth to torture her to death? That was something they should ask Saskia Stoffels. It's not a woman, it's a canvas.

All at once he conjured up the face of Postumo Baldi peering over her. An empty blue gaze like a painted sky in a picture. His eyes are mirrors. Then the whirring canvas cutter getting closer and closer to her face…

Think positively. Let's think positively. We're all going to think positively about this. To Hell with it. He leapt up from the computer.

'Nikki, get me a vehicle and three guards. They don't have to be from the SWAT teams, they just need to be armed.' She looked at him in surprise. 'What are you going to do, Lothar?'

Precisely. That was the question. What are you going to do, Lothar? Something. No matter what, but something. I'm not an artist and I don't like modern art, so I have to do something. I'm no good at anything else: I have to do things, I need to do them. That's enough of thinking positively: now it's time to act positively, isn't it, Hendri?

'Just remember that the Amsterdam police are on this guy's tail right now,' said Nikki. Bosch saw a different kind of gleam in her eyes. Was she worried about him? That was funny. 'I'll remember’ he said.

'You'll have the vehicle and the three men straightaway’ Nikki replied. That was the end of their conversation.

21.30.

Gustavo Onfretti surveyed them one by one. They were all still painted and in costume. The students from The Anatomy Lesson were in their dark Puritan clothes and white ruffs, The Syndics still had their broad-brimmed hats on. Kirsten, the woman-corpse, had bent double her fantastic, crude anatomy in a chair at the far end of the Portakabin. He himself was sitting with the models from Ox, and was still wearing the ochre-painted loincloth. His body, painted in streaks of earth colour and gleaming yellow, was aching from the long hours spent on the cross, from which he had been brought down only half an hour earlier. Conservation had gathered all the canvases together in the Art Portakabin. They probably wanted to make sure the paintings were all in good shape and had not suffered any damage.

Onfretti could not complain, but the astonished expression on his face gave him the look of someone returned from the dead.

How come nobody knew anything about the special effects for his painting, when everything was supposed to have been planned by the Art Department well in advance? Why had Conservation not been told that the Christ was an interactive performance piece, and that at a certain moment he was going to 'die', making the earth tremble and everything go dark?

He recalled how devotedly Van Tysch had planned everything during the weeks they had worked together at Edenburg. 'A nerve-wracking experience’ he had noted in his diary. The moment of his supposed 'death' with his shouts and the Tunnel's mechanically induced shuddering, had been painted and repainted to the point of exhaustion. The Maestro had told Mm it was very important that all this should happen at exactly the right moment, and he had set up a small warning light at the far end of the Tunnel so that Onfretti would know when he had to start shouting. But the public and Art and Conservation were meant to know about it, and the quake was supposed to be a small one. That, at least, was what Van Tysch had told him. Onfretti wondered why on earth Van Tysch had lied to him.

When he had finished painting him, Van Tysch had kissed him on the cheek. 'I want you to feel betrayed by me’ he had suggested.

Now Onfretti thought the phrase had been more than a suggestion.

22.32.

As Bosch left the Portakabin, he was thinking things over.

If the Artist had taken the painting out of Amsterdam, there was nothing he could do. He would have to let the police or the SWAT team find the whereabouts of the van and pray they got to it in time. But what if he had decided to destroy it in Amsterdam? Bosch thought of all the possible places, and immediately dismissed the parks and public places. It wouldn't be a hotel either, because the figures were painted and might arouse suspicion. Then he thought of the man who was helping the Artist from inside the Foundation. Could he have provided him with somewhere quiet so that the destruction could take place without any problem? If that were the case, he must have anticipated that Amsterdam's entire police force would immediately set out in pursuit of the work. The place, wherever it was, had to be completely safe. Somewhere with lots of room, somewhere empty…

It was then that Bosch remembered what Nikki had told him a few minutes earlier.

At their last meeting, Van Hoore had suggested that the evacuated paintings should not be taken to the Old Atelier, because it was 'closed and empty', as Stein himself had told him.

Closed and empty.

It was a chance in a thousand, and Bosch was sure he was getting it wrong, but he had to bet on something. Let's trust our intuition, shouldn't we, Hendri my love?

He saw the three guards coming towards him. He guessed they must have been sent by Nikki. He ran towards them, worried he might slip on the sodden ground. It was raining heavily again.

'Where's the van?' he asked the first man. He recognised Jan Wuyters, who he had been talking to in the Tunnel before everything came tumbling down. It seemed like a good omen that they were together again.

The van was parked in Museumstraat. The four of them ran to it through the rain. The people in the square had dispersed by now, but there were still some police cars and ambulances.

'Where are we headed?' Wuyters asked him as they climbed into the vehicle. To the Old Atelier.'

He could well be mistaken, of course, but he had to bet on something.

The girl's face. The whirling blade. He had to take a chance.

22.37.

'Strange the impression all this makes without furniture or decoration, isn't it? Even the guest rooms have camp beds, neither better nor worse than the one the Maestro sleeps in. It looks more empty or abandoned than monastic, doesn't it… but the smell of oil paint adds something different: as if it were brand new, about to be revealed, don't you think…?'

Stein was like a guide commenting on all the noteworthy characteristics of the place for a group of tourists. He waved his hand for Miss Wood to follow him. They chose a door to the left, and entered a shadowy world of echoes.

'It's not that strange after all. We all tend to decorate our homes with things we have found on our journeys. Van Tysch has done the same. But all his journeys have been interior ones. All this is the product of what he has found inside himself. The souvenirs of his mind. When I came to the restored castle for the first time, I thought it was all very Dutch. You know, constructivism, Mondrian's clear cool lines, Escher's illusions and geometry… but I was wrong: to Van Tysch, nakedness is not decoration, it's emptiness; it's not art, but the lack of it. Come this way.'

Stein's voice sounded weary. His words had the ring of something inevitable about them. He seemed preoccupied by a nebulous idea, as if his thoughts were tiny beings dancing round him.

Miss Wood was clutching the watercolour she had taken from Victor Zericky's house. It showed a naked woman kneeling on the ground, leaning forward with her head turned towards the spectator. Miss Wood had immediately recognised the posture she had seen Susanna in during the signing session at the Atelier. She could understand how when he saw the watercolour as a boy, little Bruno's mind would have been set ablaze with dreams. And she could also understand how, as an adult, he could want to recreate it in the defenceless, desirable figure of Rembrandt's Susanna. Links between past and present, life and work, were frequent in all painters. What was most troubling in this case were the implications. She had decided to visit the castle and confront them. He'll have to let me in and answer my questions, she thought. But the person who received her, standing in the doorway to the inner courtyard, was Jacob Stein.

Now they were walking down a corridor. At the far end she could see another yard with a chequerboard floor. Night was flooding the distant tiles with its lunar tints.

'Who is helping Postumo Baldi?' asked Miss Wood. 'It's obvious he's not working alone. Who has given him all the information? Who has passed him the badges, codes, access numbers, the shifts our guards were working, the paintings' habits? And who told him what was going to happen in the Tunnel today and the exact time?' A vague smile appeared on Stein's face.

'So you even know that Postumo Baldi is involved… Ah, galismus, our guard dog, our beloved and faithful guard dog… Van Tysch used to tell me: "Be careful with her. She'll pick up the scent and get her jaws on the prey before we're ready." And he was right. You are perfect.' His praise made her shudder. 'Answer my questions, please.'

'When did you realise it was us?' Stein asked her instead. Miss Wood's brain raced.

‘I never did,' she said, then added: 'Why would Van Tysch want to destroy his own works?'

'Destroy? Fuschus, Miss Wood, whoever said that? We are creators, not destroyers. We are artists.'

They crossed the tiled courtyard. Miss Wood had never visited this part of Edenburg castle before. It was very imposing: bare floors and walls. The only architectural detail was the smooth timber columns. The night stretched above them like a sea in the darkness.

'But to be honest, I would not wish to attribute to myself the creation of this work,' Stein said, absent-mindedly once more.

They found themselves in another empty, tiled room. At the far end was another door, but this one seemed different somehow. Miss Wood was still tense. She knew Stein was trying to undermine her defences without facing her openly. Stein was used to manipulating people, not overcoming them. She had to stay on guard.

The door was made of metal and had a lock with a security combination. Stein punched in the numbers, and opened the groaning metal sheet to reveal a completely dark interior. He turned back to Miss Wood with a theatrical gesture.

'The Maestro alone is responsible for the work. But he would be very pleased to know you will be one of the first to see it.' And he showed her in.

22.40.

The young man called Matt had gone from one to the other of them lifting the portable recorder like a sacred object. The texts were short, so it had not taken long to read them. Krupka and

Clara had needed to repeat one phrase because they had stumbled over it. Clara found it hard to concentrate on what she was reading, as well as on what the Elders were saying. This was a shame, because they seemed like very interesting reflections on the true meaning of art. The word 'destruction' cropped up in all three texts. Clara also realised that the fact whether they understood or not what they were reading was of no importance. She was struck in particular by one of the phrases she had to read. 'The art that survives is dead art.' She pronounced this with all due reverence.

Satisfied, Matt switched off the recorder. His next order did not take Clara by surprise – she had been expecting it – but her anxiety increased all the same. She could tell she was trembling as she hurried to carry it out. Matt had asked them to strip naked.

The Elders took much longer about it than she did. They were not even sure how to get the heavy, oil-painted clothes off without help, whereas all she had to do was take off her robe. She folded it and left it on the chair. Krupka got undressed before Rodino, who was not only struggling with his vast tunic, but also seemed uncertain as to why they had to do all this in the first place. Clara was tempted to give him a hand, but restrained herself. That would have been a hyperdramatic error. The Elders were detestable. She was their defenceless victim. That was how things should continue to be. Just thinking about what might happen next made her shudder with disgust, but at the same time she felt a powerful feeling of satisfaction.

'Was it the Maestro who gave all these instructions?' Rodino asked. 'Your clothes, please,' Matt replied with complete calm.

Rodino obeyed without another word. Krupka helped him. Clara, who was standing some distance from them, utterly naked and utterly nervous, had decided not to look at the two men. It was easier for her to imagine them as cruel if she did not look at them. But Rodino's doubts were like cold water thrown in her face. Why couldn't that fat, clumsy canvas just shut up and obey, as Krupka had? Krupka was far more odious than Rodino, more detestable, and therefore the better work of art. By focusing her thoughts on Krupka, Clara managed to feel sick from terror. She suspected that Krupka would not have to pretend to fling himself on her and hurt her: ever since they had seen each other for the first time in Schiphol, he had been constantly devouring her with his sensual, shining eyes. Which meant the Hungarian was a good ally for any 'leap into the void'.

She heard the deep rumble of a curtain coming down. Clara guessed this meant Rodino was finally naked.

She went on staring at the floor between her bare feet. She could see the foreshortened perspective of her painted breasts, with the erect nipples gleaming in rose and ochre. But the silence was so profound she was forced to look up.

Matt had turned his back on them and was searching for something in his case. 'What's next?' asked Krupka.

The young man turned towards them once more. He was holding something in his hand. A pistol. 'This is next,' he said simply.

22.50.

Perhaps it was too late already. 'But don't admit defeat until you have to, Lothar', Hendrickje whispered in his ear. They had crossed the Amstel bridge at top speed and headed towards Plantage through the intense curtain of rain. The windscreen wipers could not cope, so that to Bosch it seemed as if they were driving through an underwater city. All of a sudden the walls of the Old Atelier buildings loomed up in their headlights like tall cliffs. A complicated aerosol graffiti decorated the lower sections. It was signed by a neo-Nazi group.

'Drive into the underground car park, Jan,' Bosch said.

The front door to the Foundation was closed, but that meant nothing, if he's brought them to the Atelier, he must have the keys.' One of the men got out and dealt with the electronic keypad that allowed them access. As the van negotiated the descent, the car-park lights came on. Under the blinking fluorescent strips they could see it was empty and silent. But Bosch still thought the other vehicle might be there somewhere.

Then all at once there was the parked van, as if it had been lying in wait for them, beside a block of lifts. To Bosch's surprise this discovery, which apparently confirmed his theory, had the effect of almost totally unnerving him. He swivelled in his seat and hit Wuyters on the arm. 'Here! Stop here!'

The engine was still running when Bosch leapt from the vehicle. He was so nervous he had forgotten he was still wearing the radio headset, and the cable caught in his seat belt, tugging violently at his head as he got up. He threw the headset off, cursing as he did so. His big hands were shaking. He was old: it was a judgment he had no time to reflect on. Leaving the police meant he had got rich, fat and old. He ran towards the other van, sensing that his men were following him. He wanted to shout to them, but could not draw breath. He could not believe how out of shape he was. He was afraid he would have a heart attack before he could even decide what to do.

The van looked empty, but they had to check it out. He opened the front door, looked inside, and breathed in a rasping smell of oil paint. No one there.

Fine, Lothar, fine, you stupid man. You've proved they might be here. So now, where are they?

There were five different buildings in the Old Atelier. They could be in any of them. He'll have taken them to the workshops, Bosch reasoned. That's the safest place. But that was not much help either. The workshops were spread over five floors and four basements. For the love of God, which one would they be in?

Think, you old fool, think. A roomy, quiet place. He needs to make recordings. And there are three figures…

His men were examining the back of the van. It was empty, but it was obvious that a short time before there had been a painting there. The goods lift,' Bosch suddenly muttered. He was still short of breath, but ran towards the lift shaft.

'If he parked here, it was so he could use the goods lift. That goes down to the basements, so there are four possible floors for us to search. He could be in any of them.'

He stopped to look at his men. They were all young, and all looked as bewildered as him. Their hair was streaming from the rain. Bosch himself was amazed at the assured way he gave orders and deployed his men: two of them were to search the third and fourth floors; Wuyters and he would take the second and first basements. Whichever group found them first would contact the others by radio. First and foremost though they were to protect the art work: if they had to take urgent action, they should.

‘I don't know what he looks like, or if he has others with him,' Bosch added, 'but I do know he is a very dangerous individual. Don't give him any chances.' The goods lift opened. Bosch and his men piled in.

They had all pulled out their weapons. Wuyters had a small Walther PPK as a backup, and Bosch asked him for it. Feeling the familiar weight of the metal 'L' in his hand, Bosch hesitated. He wondered how good his aim was nowadays: he had not used a gun in years. Should he ask for help? Reinforcements? Call April? His mind was a flaming wasps' nest. He decided there was no time to lose. It was up to them. They would have to find the Artist and stop him. The goods lift moved off agonisingly slowly.

21.51.

The beginning and the end, she thought. The beginning and the end were there, and she was staring at them.

At that moment she would have loved to have been able to count on Oslo's opinion, but she understood that poor Hirum would take a long time to speak, or even to think coherently, after seeing something like this. Faced with this work, Hirum Oslo would hardly have been able to do anything more than stand open-mouthed, eyes wide, for much longer than she did.

‘It's almost finished,' murmured Stein, clouds of vapour coming from his mouth. 'What's missing is the destruction of Susanna, of course. When Baldi sends it, the paindng will be complete.'

What could it be compared to? wondered April Wood, blinking at the sight. What landmark in the history of art was anything like it? Guernica? The Sistine Chapel? She walked slowly around it to be able to take it all in: it was spread out on the floor. The

Pieta? The Demoiselles d'Avignon? A border, a limit, a point beyond which art changes altogether? The moment when the first man dipped his fingers in paint and drew an animal on the wall of his cave home? The moment when Tanagorsky got up on a platform and shouted to an astonished public I am the painting'?

She twisted her mouth, collected some saliva, swallowed. Her heart was beating at a different rhythm to the slow passage of the seconds in the numbingly cold room, a crazy, unhinged rhythm.

Neither she nor Stein dared disobey the silence for several seconds.

They were in a room measuring about eight metres by ten, that was completely sealed, soundproof and at a set temperature. This was controlled from outside, and was several degrees below zero, giving the room the appearance of a mournful butcher's freezer. The ceiling, walls and floor had all been lined with turquoise-blue steel. The dim white light came from a track of small spotlights on the ceiling. They were all pointed at the man on the floor, who seemed to be floating in a frosty lake.

The man was Bruno van Tysch. He lay completely naked flat on his back, arms stretched out above his head, ankles crossed in a pose that immediately recalled the crucifixion. He was painted ochre and blue from head to foot. The veins at his ankles and wrists were slashed; as she peered more closely, the deep cuts were plainly visible. It was easy to see what had happened only a short while before. The coagulated blood around each extremity formed a dense pool of red on the blue of the floor, which made it look as though Van Tysch was nailed to his own blood. Several large rectangular objects, flat as mirrors, were placed around the body. There were three of them: one on the right-hand side, another on the left – arranged so that their bottom edges met close to the painter's ankles – and the third across the top of his head, touching the hands. But they were not mirrors. The rectangle to the right of Van Tysch showed Annek Hollech's body full-size, naked and labelled, placed in almost the same pose as the painter, torn apart in ten places by the ten cuts of a blade. On the left, there was the image of the Walden brothers in a similar pose, and similarly destroyed. These were not simply video images: the burgeoning mound of the twins' stomachs rose above Van Tysch's body like bloody twin peaks. April Wood supposed they must be some kind of virtual image that did not need a visor. The red of the paintings' wounds, and the gleaming, scarlet, real red at Van Tysch's wrists and feet, formed a whole that contrasted with the flesh tones of the four dead bodies. The backgrounds (a lawn for Annek, a hotel room for the Walden brothers) had been cleverly merged in a uniform turquoise that appeared to continue the floor of this strongroom. The tableau had an incredible symmetry and a mysterious but undeniable beauty. Any sensitive observer would immediately think of some kind of all-incorporating idea: the artist and his creation, the artist and his testament, the immolation of the artist together with his works. There was something almost sacred in that naked family with arms and legs outstretched, torn apart and still. Something eternal. The horizontal panel, much larger than the others and still dark, broke up the harmony. That must be where – thought April – the images from the destruction of Susanna are to go.

'Don't ask me to explain it to you,' said Stein, seeing her expression. 'It's art, Miss Wood. I don't think you'd understand it. And it's not for the artist to try to explain it either-'

At that moment another unexpected voice interrupted his. April Wood almost jumped in terror at this unforeseen outpouring of underground words amplified to an inhuman degree. It was Annek Hollech. Gentle harmonies by Purcell underscored her trembling words.

'ART IS ALSO DESTRUCTION.'

A brief pause. Then the solemn strains of a baroque funeral march.

'IN THE BEGINNING, IT WAS NOTHING ELSE, IN THE CAVES THEY ONLY PAINTED WHAT THEY WANTED TO SACRIFICE.'

Another pause.

April Wood's hair was standing on end. She was shivering as though an unending line of ants was crawling over her.

In the mirror, Annek's image seemed to have changed. Still naked and hacked to pieces, her face appeared to be moving. That was where the voice was coming from.

'THE ARTIST SAYS…'

Stein and Miss Wood listened to the rest of the recording in respectful silence.

When Annek had finished, her face turned back into the hollow mask that was part of her corpse. Immediately afterwards, a chorus of angels seemed to transform the tearful, floating features of the Walden brothers: they came to life and spoke into the air as if saying a prayer or a sacred incantation. Again, neither Stein nor Miss Wood felt they could interrupt them.

When at last the twins subsided into a blood-filled silence, Stein said:

'Van Tysch insisted on having the canvases' original voices, although we improved the quality in our studio. They're programmed to start up every so often, twenty-four hours a day, every day'

The art that survives is the art that has died, April Wood thought. If the figures die, the works survive. Now she understood. In this posthumous work, Van Tysch had found a way to convert a body into eternity. Nothing and nobody could destroy what had already been destroyed. Nothing and nobody could put an end to what had already been ended. The inhospitable electrically controlled cold would ensure this work lasted forever. His work. His last work. *Van Tysch prepared Baldi…' she murmured. In that room, where every sound was an unwelcome guest, her voice was almost a scream. Stein agreed.

'Step by step, ever since 2004, in secret. When in 2001 he painted him in an unimportant painting, Figure XIII, he realised at once that Baldi would be the perfect material for his last great work. He used to call him his "paper". "I write and draw on Postumo, Jacob", he told me, "I make notes and develop my plan for my life's last work.'"

Stein glanced at Miss Wood through the blue-tinged darkness of the room. They were both enveloped in vapour, as though their spirits had decided to leave their bodies but not to stray too far.

'Fuschus, there's no need to look like that. We couldn't tell you anything, could we? If you had known something, you would have collaborated with us of course. But then the work would have been yours to some extent as well. And you're not an artist, April. Not an artist, nor a canvas’ he added. April Wood could detect the cruel way he insisted on these words. 'We had to do everything without involving you, because this was our work, not yours.' ‘I understand,' she said.

'No one else knows about it: not Hoffmann or anyone else in the Foundation. I myself only learnt of it a few months ago. Bruno brought me here and explained it all. He showed me this room, and the shape the work would take when it was complete. This won't be the first time, he told me, that a work demands such a sacrifice from artists. Nor will it be the first time that a painter wants to destroy his best works before he dies. He had planned everything perfectly, down to the Christ's momentary distraction in the "Rembrandt" exhibition. He knew the police and his own security department would have taken a lot of precautions. But he had faith in Baldi: he'd trained him carefully to turn him into the perfect tool, into the paper on which he could draw his greatest work. I told him I agreed with him, but I was upset that Deflowering and Monsters had to be destroyed. "They're your best paintings, Bruno," I said, "the ones you love most, the ones that represent the most for you." "That's precisely why I'm doing it, Jacob," he replied. "They're my beloved creations. I'm doing this out of love." He asked me to help him with the final brushstrokes. Everything was meant to finish today, 15 July 2006, the four hundredth anniversary of Rembrandt's birth. As you know, artists like to close circles. Rembrandt was born on this day, Van Tysch died on this day. I told him yes, I would help him. Fuschus, of course I did.. ‘

All at once, to April Wood's utter amazement – she was expecting anything but that – Stein burst into tears. It was an unpleasant snivelling sound, as if he had caught a sudden cold.

‘I said I would, and I would have said the same a thousand and one times over… a thousand and one times… "Here's your poor Jacob," I told him. "You can trust him, he's like your own reflection"… Today everything was to be finished. That's what he said "everything is to be finished"… I helped him paint his own body and… and all the rest. I won't deny it was the most difficult order to obey of all the ones I've received from him…'

He dried tears April Wood could not see with the back of his hand. She thought that Stein might be telling the truth, but not the whole truth. There was a screenplay, and he was following it. Van Tysch was about to be substituted, and his desire to die with his last work suited you fine, Jacob. I bet you've already chosen the artist who will take his place… I wonder who the lucky person is…

A small stand was placed on the floor next to the work of art. While Stein was still sobbing, April Wood went over to it. The card on it, illuminated by a small lamp, had one word on it in Dutch, English and French.

'Shade?'

Stein nodded.

‘I took the liberty of naming it… Van Tysch did not want to give it a name, but untitled works do not pass into eternity… Do you know how it occurred to me? Van Tysch insisted there had to be only a little light. And his last words were: "Jacob, remember the light. The most important thing in this work is the shade." And he repeated it several times, each time more faintly: "the shade, the shade, the shade…" When he died, the word dissolved in his mouth. So I thought it would make a good title…' 'What about her?' asked Miss Wood.

She pointed to Murnika de Verne's body. Van Tysch's secretary was lying in a distant, even darker corner of the room. Perhaps she had merely fainted, but Miss Wood surmised she would not be alive for much longer, because the thin black dress with slits up the sides could not protect her from the extreme temperature in this ghastly cold storage. Her legs were bent under her, her face entirely covered by a dishevelled mass of hair. She looked like a doll tossed away by a careless child.

That's where she'll stay,' said Stein. 'In fact, Murnika is part of the painting, too. Shade is a work bringing everything together, the greatest ever created, because Van Tysch wanted us all to be part of it. Not just Murnika, but you and I as well, Baldi and the destroyed canvases, their families, the police who are searching for Baldi, the meetings of Rip van Winkle, all the ornaments present at those meetings, the entire "Rembrandt" exhibition including the Christ, of course, as well as all the works in "Flowers" and "Monsters", and the other Van Tysch canvases which had to be withdrawn

… and beyond those, the artists and models, all the art works in the world that considered themselves part of this, as well as any member of the public who had ever looked at a hyperdramatic painting. The whole of humanity. That was the reason for leaving a copy of the recordings beside the destroyed bodies: Van Tysch wanted us all to be involved as amazed, unwilling figures in the work. Shade is the only example of stained art that Van Tysch has produced, Miss Wood and each of us is its material. We'll have to keep it concealed for a while, of course, but the day will come when we make it known to the world… and then people will react… Just imagine the horrified or astonished faces, the surprised looks, the ears terrified by the voices of the paintings speaking from their corpses, the painter immortalised by his own death… This is the centre of the work, of course, but every one of us is part of it. Can't you see how the room is getting bigger? Can't you see how infinitely large it is becoming

…?'

Then, following a short silence in which neither of them did anything other than stare into each other's eyes like two chess players, or a single person looking into a mirror, Stein went on:

'There may even be a book written about it. Then it would no longer be necessary actually to see the work to become part of it: all you would have to do is read it and react.'

Yes, react, thought April Wood, acknowledging that in this respect at least, Stein was right. She herself had already reacted. She stared at Shade knowing it to be Van Tysch's greatest work, perhaps the greatest, most sincere work of all time. Her artistic awareness told her so, her passion told her so. To give up on Shade signified not only giving up on art but on the obscure meaning of life as well. A part of April Wood's soul, an unexplored territory that had nothing to do with her coldly calculating brain, understood the Maestro's intentions, his way of 'crossing out' his 'beloved creations' in the same way his father crossed out his drawings, his way of cancelling the debt he owed to his past and seizing every last nuance of his own creative suffering… Shade was a liberating work. Through it and his death Van Tysch was showing her how to break free of her bonds and escape all her memories. All her memories. I understand. I understand you, she wanted to say to the Maestro. I understand what you mean. Seen in this way, the destruction of Deflowering, Monsters and Susanna was not only comprehensible, but necessary. The world, as Stein suggested, might never understand it: but then the world never understands the miracle of a terrible genius.

For the first time in many years, April Wood felt happy. Her eyes shone, and her breathing, in the freezing atmosphere of the room, came ever more quickly. She suddenly felt a vague sense of concern. 'Where is Baldi now?' She looked down at her watch as Stein did the same.

'It's almost ten. If everything has gone according to plan, Baldi will be in the Old Atelier, carrying out his instructions. As you can imagine, he has to avoid falling into the hands of the police. No policeman could understand this. They're all paid employees, just as you are, but they are much less open than you are. They would start talking about crimes and guilty people, justice and prison, and all the art that a work like this encapsulates would mean nothing to them. They would be capable of… they would be capable of ruining it. Of leaving it unfinished.'

Miss Wood felt increasingly concerned. Stein raised his eyebrows. ‘I have to tell Bosch,' said Miss Wood.

'Bosch is no problem,' Stein replied. 'He has no idea where Baldi has taken the painting. At ten o'clock sharp everything will he finished…' 'I prefer to make sure.'

She opened her bag and took out her mobile. Her hands were like frozen claws.

It could not be. She had to stop it. This at least she had to put a stop to. It was his great work, the transforming work. And she wanted to protect his art because she worshipped it with the same terrible passion as the Maestro did. April Wood had not the slightest doubt about what she had to do.

At all costs, she had to prevent Shade from remaining unfinished.

21.58.

Lothar Bosch was observing Postumo Baldi through the two-way mirror in the rehearsal room. Dressed all in white, the figure hypnotised him. It was as if Baldi was a cartoon character, a computer game moving according to mysterious instructions.

Wuyters and he had just discovered Baldi at the far end of the corridor in the first basement. The room was soundproofed, and the glass allowed them both to study Baldi without him realising they were there. Just as Bosch had suspected from the outset in spite of the cerublastyne mask he recognised him immediately when he saw his eyes. They really are mirrors, he thought.

They came upon Baldi as he had finished placing the woman in position. The three naked canvases were properly labelled, and were lying on their backs on the floor. They did not appear to have suffered any damage. Baldi must have finished making the recordings and was about to cut them up. Bosch shuddered. 'Shall we go in now?' asked Wuyters, raising his weapon. 'Call the others first,' said Bosch.

They had placed themselves by the door, at the ready. They grasped their guns firmly in both hands. Wuyters switched on his headset and warned the other two. Bosch could see the young man was as nervous as he was, perhaps more so. When Wuyters finished speaking, he looked towards Bosch for further instructions. Bosch signalled to him to be ready to throw open the door to the room.

At that very moment, his mobile phone rang. Still keeping his eyes on Baldi, and despite being aware that he could not hear them, Bosch answered as quickly as he could. He was so pleased to hear April Wood's voice he answered at once in an anguished whisper, before she had the chance to speak.

'April! Thank God, we've got him! He was in the Old Atelier! He was in one of the rehearsal rooms, and he's about to…'

That was when April Wood silenced him with her urgent appeal.

21.59.

It had all happened very quickly. First, the surprise shot. Rodino and Krupka were so defenceless they did not even have time to react. Matt shot Rodino first. He lifted a hand to his throat and opened his eyes wide. Neither Krupka nor Clara could see the dart stuck in his neck. Then, just as quickly, Matt cocked the gun, aimed at Krupka, and fired a second time. Then he turned towards her. Instinctively, Clara protected herself with her hands. 'Stay calm,' Matt told her.

He came over and pushed her hands away from her neck as gently as a lover.

A glass bee stung her throat. Then the dimensions of the room began to fade.

The first thing she saw when she came round was Krupka. He was staring at her from the floor, a horrified expression on his face. She understood she must also be on the floor, like him and like Rodino, who was flat on his back breathing heavily.

Her head hurt. And either the floor was extremely cold, or she was completely naked. The hard layers of her skin told her she was still painted. But she could not recall what she was doing there, under this surgery lamp, laid out like a patient awaiting the knife. Krupka and Rodino were also naked.

A pair of white shoes moved around her head. The shoes came and went, as if they had no fixed destination. At times, she could see a shadow looming over her. Krupka was staring upwards, his eyes dilated with terror. Rodino was groaning. Clara also tried looking up towards the ceiling, but the fluorescent lights blinded her.

'What are you doing?' she heard Krupka say. Or perhaps he had said: 'How are you?' Krupka's English (especially in circumstances like these) was hard to grasp.

Footsteps again. Clara lifted her head and saw the man coming over wielding that strange instrument. He bent over her, and grabbed a handful of her painted hair to force her head down. It hurt as it jerked back. She wanted to raise her arms or move, but felt too weak and dizzy. All at once she remembered who this young man was, with his plastic face staring down at her as blank as a white wall. His name was Matt, and he had told them he was going to repair them according to Van Tysch's instructions.

Matt brought the instrument close to her eyes. What was it? It looked like something typical of a dentist or barber.

Matt's fingers came to within two centimetres of her face, and the instrument started up. Clara could not help shrinking back. It was a kind of spinning disc that made a deafening whine. It set her teeth on edge, as though someone were dragging a metal table across a tiled floor towards her head.

She was scared. She should not have been, because all this was art, but she was. She screamed.

22.00.

Bosch listened to April Wood as he watched Postumo Baldi bending over the girl, canvas cutter in hand.

'Shouldn't we go in?' Wuyters shouted desperately.

A sober traffic policeman, Bosch held up all movement with an imperious wave of the hand, while he listened intently through his earpiece.

He was listening to April Wood. To the woman he most loved and respected in all the world. When she paused, he managed to get out a faint plea. 'April, I don't understand…'

‘I didn't understand either,' said April Wood, 'but now I do. You ought to see it, Lothar. You ought to be here to see it… It's called Shade and it's… it's a very beautiful painting… Van Tysch's most beautiful and personal work… It's a biographical self-portrait. Even the crossings out his father made on his drawings are here… You ought to see it, Lothar… My God, but you should see this!'

April, you should see this, thought Bosch. My God, April, but you should see this!

Jan Wuyters' face, scarlet with rage, fear and sweat, loomed in front of him. 'Mr Bosch, he's cutting up the girl!… What should we do?'

The room was soundproofed. Even so, Bosch could have sworn that the girl's screams, as sharp as the finest needles, were piercing the walls like ghosts and lodging themselves in his hearing. Her silent protest deafened him far more than Wuyters' horrified shouts or April Wood's frenzied commands.

'You're not a policeman any more, Lothar!' she had said before she hung up. 'You work for Art and for the Maestro. Tell your men to protect Baldi when he's finished, and to bring him to Edenburg safe and sound!'

After that, Bosch's headpiece gave off only an intermittent buzz.

What's there in that room are not cursed works of art, they're human beings… and that guy is slaughtering them! He's cutting them to pieces like cattle in an abattoir!… They're not works of art, they're not works of art! They never were!…

That was what he wanted to tell her, but she had already rung off. April Wood's silence was terrible, cruel. But what did that matter now? His whole life had been a miserable failure. He felt sick, overcome with nausea. He had never had what it takes. As if that were not enough, it was Van Tysch who had given him the only really important job he had ever had. His brother had done much better than him: Roland had known how to carve out a future for himself. Having a decent salary was one thing, but what about convictions… what had happened to his convictions?

Baldi had finished with the girl and stood up again (oh, pure virginal flame!). Now he was busy doing something on the table. Perhaps he was playing with money, because he seemed to be throwing away some coins and picking up others. No: he was changing the blade to cut up the next figure. There was no blood to be seen. What a pure, luminous creature. What perfection in every one of his features. What beauty. Beauty can be terrible. A German poet used to say so: Hendrickje liked to read him. Bosch did not read German poets or understand modern art, but nor did he blush when asked his opinion of a Ferrucioli, a Rayback or a Mavalaki. Shit, he might not be as cultured as Hendrickje, or as much as his father had wanted him to be. But he knew what beauty was.

Baldi was as beautiful as a snowy dawn in the outskirts. Bosch stared at Baldi. The painter was no longer looking at the girl. He did not want to see the work until it was finished.

They are not works of art. No human being is art. Art isn't human. Or perhaps it is. It doesn't matter what it is. What matters, what really matters is…

He pulled off the phone headpiece and peered at it as if he had no idea what such a strange thing was doing there in the palm of his hand. What really matters are people.

In the end, what else could he do? Stein had been the one who had made the mistake when he put his trust in such a mediocre individual as him. Van Tysch would never have taken him on. Bosch felt himself to be grotesque and vulgar, an overgrown child examining glass filigree with burlap gloves. He loathed his own vulgarity. Hendrickje had seen how vulgar he was. Maybe that was why he had always thought she detested him. Now April Wood detested him, too. It was strange how all these superior spirits could suddenly come to detest you. Contempt was a bolt the gods struck you with. How pityingly they smiled at you, how padently they looked on you! Hendrickje and April Wood, Van Tysch, Stein and Baldi, Roland, even Danielle: they all belonged to the superior race, the chosen ones, the race of those who did understand life and art and could decide the meaning of both. He was born to protect this race, them and their works, and he was not even any good at that.

He sighed deeply and gazed sadly at young Wuyters' despairing face.

'Put your weapon away, Jan. We're not going to intervene. That guy is working for Van Tysch. He's creating a work of art.'

‘I don't understand,' Wuyters murmured, his white, drained face turned towards the interior of the room. 1 know, I don't either,' said Bosch. 'It's modern art.'

22.01.

Postumo Baldi, the Artist, was not a creator but a tool of creation, like the beings he was destroying. Some day it would be his turn, and he was ready for it. He was an empty bag which needed to be filled with things. It had always been like that. He tried to be better each day, to develop his perfection to fit in with the artist's desires. A blank sheet of paper, as the Maestro called him.

It had taken him a long time to reach this stage. Now all he had to do was to go on. Van Tysch's preparation had been exquisite: not a single mistake, everything perfect, everything gliding along gently. This was thanks to the painter, but also thanks to him. Van Tysch had laid his hand on him, and he (an extraordinary glove) had adapted to his ways. His mother had also been an extraordinary, if undervalued, canvas. Now he was reaching a summit she could never have dreamed of. In twenty-four thousand years, people would still be talking of Postumo Baldi and the absolutely perfect way he carried out the Maestro's instructions, of how he had become the Artist without really being him. For centuries they would speak of how he had carried out the obscure aims of the most important painter of all time. Because there is a moment when work and painter become as one.

Jan van Obber had once told him he was very ambitious. Baldi was happy to admit it. Of course he was. An empty bag fills up with air, after all.

He had brought the whirling blade close to the girl's face neatly and precisely. She had screamed. They all screamed at this point. Postumo suffered with them, he was horrified, carried away by the brutal tidal wave of horror he himself was producing. Postumo was as smooth as the skin he cut to perfection in straight strips ('Don't forget,' Van Tysch had told him, 'four crosses and two parallel cuts. You must do it the same always'). He could understand the canvas' pain as it was cleaved to the core. The Maestro wanted the canvas to understand it, too, so Postumo tried to make sure the paintings were alive, and almost aware of what was going to happen to them, what was happening to them. This was not cruelty, it was art. And he was not a killer, but simply a sharpened pencil. He had killed and tortured according to very precise drawing instructions. He had suffered and wept together with the canvases. And if necessary, when the time came he too would submit to the terrible test of steel.

The girl with red-painted hair squinted desperately as Postumo brought the blade up to her face. It was then he realised his mistake.

He had not chosen the right blade. He had decided to destroy the largest of the figures, the Second Elder, first of all, but then he had changed his mind and chosen to start with the female figure. But the canvas cutter he had was for the biggest body. If he cut the smaller one up with it, the face would be reduced to a mass of splinters. He did not want to crush it: he had been told the crosses had to stand out.

He let go of her hair, switched the blade off, and stood up. He went back to the table and chose the finest blade. He used different kinds, sometimes for each part of the body, depending on the bone structure. For the twins he had scarcely needed to change blades at all, but the young girl had been a nightmare, because she had such a tiny, almost ethereal, anatomy. He tried not to remember all the different changes of blade he had needed to cut up Deflowering, all the interruptions with the girl's body half destroyed, the blood gleaming as it spouted from a still-beating heart. His task might have been simpler if he had used several different canvas cutters, but he could not risk carrying so many objects on him. His work was meticulous; he was forced to go slowly.

He found the blade he needed. It was next to the digital video camera he had taken out of his oilskin bag to use to film the results of his work. Behind his back, the canvases seemed finally to have gone to sleep. That was no problem: they would wake up with the first cut.

He unscrewed the thick blade from the metal handle and threw it on the table. He snapped in the fine one. He switched the cutter on to test it.

Then he turned round and walked towards the girl once more.

22.02.

She was about to cross it. The looking glass. At last.

She had approached its smooth, chill surface and discovered this iceberg world fascinated her. She was frightened, of course, frightened to open the door into a closed room, to penetrate the darkness. The fear of a small girl: a feeling that was unpleasant but tempting, the sweet hidden in the witch's gingerbread house. Come and get it, Clara. And she would walk in and take the sweet, whatever happened. She would do anything to get the deserved, the terrible reward.

'Look at yourself in the mirror’ the painter ordered her. His eyes were colourless, the rest of him endless white. 'Look at yourself in the mirror’ he repeated.

A moment earlier, Matt had let her go, but now he grasped her hair again and brought that strange whirling, deafening object up close to her face.

She knew that the thing she was about to see, that she was on the verge of seeing, was the horrible. The finishing touch to her body in the art work that was her life. Let's do it, she told herself. Let's do it. Be brave. What else was real art, what else was a masterpiece, if not the profound result of passion and courage?

She took a deep breath and lifted her head, presenting it to the sacrifice as if she was running towards the outstretched arms of a loving father.

The horrible. At last.

At that moment there was a thunderous crash and everything was over for her.

22.05.

Bosch had fired straight through the mirror. A living cylinder thrashed around the floor of the room. The canvas cutter was still switched on, its blade furiously sawing the air.

Wuyters, who had obeyed his order and put away his gun, was staring at him dumbfounded. Bosch had not wanted to get him mixed up in what he had decided to do. He needed to be the only guilty one. An old policeman's scruples had led him to ensure that Wuyters did his duty right to the end.

Everything was over, but Bosch stood there motionless. He did not lower his gun even when they told him Baldi was dead. Nor when they assured him that the canvases were out of danger, and that Baldi had not succeeded in cutting the girl in his second attempt, when he changed blades after Wuyters and he had thought he had already started the destruction. The echo of the shot had already faded and the crash of the broken glass as well, but Bosch still held the gun in his outstretched arms.

It was strange – he thought – what had happened with Baldi. He had seen how the bullet had struck his head, and the blood spurting like paint, but he had not noticed any spattered organs, nothing really terrible: just a red stain spreading everywhere across the smooth white surface of his skull. Bosch remembered that once as a boy he had spilt an inkwell, which had produced the same effect on his drawing pad. He guessed it must be the cerublastyne that kept everything so neat and tidy looking. Then through the shattered mirror he saw one of his men strip off bits of the mask to reveal the destruction beneath. Baldi's face was gone. His brain was like chewed-up paper. I'm sorry, thought Bosch, staring at this unaesthetic mass, this scrawl of bones and white strands; I'm sorry. I've killed the canvas. He knew that Baldi was not the guilty one. Nor was Van Tysch: Van Tysch was merely a genius. He, Lothar Bosch, was the only guilty one. A vulgar little man.

He finally managed to lower his arms. He could see Wuyters next to him, still staring.

'Do you know what, Jan?' Bosch said, immensely weary, by way of explanation. 'The thing is, I've never liked modern art.'

22.19.

April Wood listened in silence. Then she hung up and spoke to Stein:

'My colleague Lothar Bosch has prevented Bruno van Tysch from completing his posthumous work. He takes full responsibility and will accept whatever consequences may arise from his actions. He also told me he has decided to resign.' She paused. ‘I beg you to add my resignation to Mr Bosch's, but also to put all the responsibility for this on to me. I did not succeed in informing Mr Bosch properly about what was happening, and therefore he acted on a misapprehension. I am the only one responsible for what happened. Thank you.'

Stein burst out laughing. It was a silent, disagreeable laugh. It was like a continuation of the sobs he had produced moments before. Then he stopped. His face betrayed a certain annoyance, as though he were ashamed of the way he had behaved.

Miss Wood did not wait for any further reply, but turned and walked down the tiled corridor.

The half moon shining in the night of Edenburg had risen in the sky.

Who if I cried would hear me from the hierarchies of angels?