Ghost Ship

THIRTY-FOUR

On the elevator ride to the top floor of Than Rang’s building, Joe continued discussing the art of Degas with Acosta, relaying facts and anecdotes with ease. By the time they reached the fifty-second floor, Acosta seemed impressed.

The elevator opened and let them out into a large foyer. A man with one hand met them there. He was Caucasian.

“Kovack,” Acosta said. “This is Arturo Solano.”

Joe nodded and Kovack offered him a brief glance. “Than Rang is waiting.”

“Excellent.”

Together, the three of them made a short trip to Than Rang’s private office.

Than Rang was already there, still dressed in his indigo robe, looking out over the lights of Seoul through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“We have arrived,” Acosta announced. “It’s time for the exchange.”

Than Rang turned. “Assuming your experts pass their final examination.”

Joe glanced around. The office was sprawling and included a conference room behind smoked glass, but the room was dark, and he saw no sign of the hackers. Wherever they were sequestered to do their final exam, it wasn’t on the fifty-second floor.

“They will pass every test you can devise,” Acosta insisted. “Of that I assure you.”

“Then you will have your prize.”

Than Rang extended a hand toward the far wall. There, guarded by two additional men, was a small easel. At the center of the easel sat a painting not much larger than a standard sheet of paper. It was surrounded by a gilded frame and bathed in a soft warm light.

“First, we’ll run our own tests,” Acosta said confidently.

“As you wish.”

Acosta led Joe toward the easel. “I’m sure this won’t take long.”

Joe went to set up, but the guards didn’t budge.

“Do you mind?” Joe asked. “I need some room to work.”

The guards stepped back a few feet.

With some room to breathe, Joe set his case down and studied the painting in the low light. Fortunately, he recognized it. The painting was a Manet. It was known as the Chez Tortoni.

Joe ran through what he knew about it in his mind. Oil on canvas, painted by Manet over a period of several years and finished sometime in 1880. It depicted a French gentleman with a high top hat sitting in a café that the artist himself was known to frequent.

But there was something else…

“Are you surprised to see it again?” Acosta asked, all but chortling.

Of course, Joe thought. He’d almost forgotten. It had been stolen, along with a dozen other pieces from the Gardner Museum in Boston. All told, the value of the missing art was somewhere around five hundred million dollars. The bio on Solano indicated he’d been working at the Gardner when the theft happened.

Joe reacted calmly. “If it’s real,” he said. “I’ve seen half a dozen forgeries of this painting in the last ten years, some of them quite good. I’ll get excited when I know it’s the genuine article.”

“I assure you,” Than Rang said from behind them, “this is the real thing.”

Joe shrugged, opened his briefcase, and removed a small device that looked like a camera.

“What are you going to do with that?” Than Rang asked.

“It’s an infrared scanner,” Joe said. “Set to the proper frequency, it will look beneath the paint to see if other images are present.”

Than Rang looked a little nervous, and Joe wondered what would happen if an image of Mickey Mouse or Bugs Bunny appeared when he turned on the scanner. Most likely, all hell would break loose between Than Rang and Acosta and their two sets of thugs. Not a cross fire Joe wanted to be in the middle of.

He turned the scanner on and studied the painting. Fortunately, no cartoons appeared, but several stray lines were obvious. The design looked like the outline of a small building. Joe made a few notes on a pad and switched the scanner off. “Well?”

“I’m not done,” Joe said. “Lights, please.”

The room was darkened, and Joe used an ultraviolet light to test the shades of white pigment.

“I see no repairs to this work,” he said. “No signs that new paint has been added. In fact, the fluorescence level is right on target. The pigments match those from the 1800s.”

The lights came back on, and Joe noticed Than Rang had begun to look pleased.

“What about those stray marks?”

“Few know this,” Joe said, making up a story he hoped couldn’t be quickly verified, “but Manet painted this work over the beginnings of another. The marks beneath are believed to be the outline of a carriage house in Toulouse.”

“So this is the authentic item?”

“Or a perfect forgery,” Joe said.

“What are you suggesting?” Than Rang blurted out.

“Nothing,” Joe said. “But tell me, did you steal the painting?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you bought it from the men or women who did,” Joe pointed out. “By their very nature, that makes them criminals. Surely you didn’t take it on face value when you handed them their payment.”

The Korean bristled at the remark. “I would not be foolish enough to buy a fake.”

“There must be some way to tell for sure,” Acosta said.

“Bring the lights up to maximum,” Joe said. “One thing that can’t be faked is what’s called craquelure. As the painting ages, the oils dry out and the paint cracks. Based on the age of the work and the type of paint used, specific patterns will appear. It’s somewhat like an artistic fingerprint.”

With the lights up, Joe examined the surface of the painting. From what he’d been told, French craquelure tended to form in curving, sweeping lines, while Italian paintings tended to crack in squares or little rectangular blocks, which was why the Mona Lisa looked the way it did up close.

To Joe’s chagrin, neither pattern appeared on the Manet. There were vertical cracks, and a few horizontal ones, but nothing that looked like what he’d been taught to expect. He pulled out a magnifying glass to give himself a second look, and to buy himself some time. But the more he looked, the more convinced he became he was looking at a fake.