The Hypnotist

ELEVEN

Nicolas Olshling, the head of security, was holding a crowbar as if he needed a weapon against this violence. It was probably what he’d used to open the crate that lay in pieces on the floor.

“Why would anyone do this?” Weil asked. He didn’t really expect a response and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t get one.

To Olshling and the other employees in the room, it appeared as if the square-jawed man was completely in control, taking in the situation, assessing the damaged painting and making a decision about how to proceed. What no one could see was that the current head of New York City’s great and glorious museum, who was in charge of a six-hundred-person security force and over one thousand employees, was crying.

“Can someone ask Marie Grimshaw to come down?” he said, without turning around. Weil wanted the curator of the European art department here to identify the painting. “Tell her it’s urgent.”

As Weil returned his attention to the canvas he was vaguely aware of Olshling making a first and then a second call, this last to the FBI Art Crime Team. Exactly right, Weil thought, pleased Olshling was being proactive and not waiting for orders. There was a protocol to follow. The authorities needed to be brought in on this right away.

Weil thought of the Met like a great fortress protected by an army of soldiers with Olshling as their general. His was a job that required constant ingenuity, secrecy and cooperation, and he’d been doing it for over fifteen years without incident. This was one area of the museum Weil had felt confident he could let run without his interference while he got up to speed, and so far he’d been right. The Met’s security department operated as a fully functional independent entity.

Inside each of the entrances, uniformed men and women inspected the briefcases, pocketbooks and shopping bags of the four million people who visited the cultural Mecca yearly. Hundreds more guards patrolled the high-ceilinged exhibition rooms, keeping watch over the treasures and softly warning visitors to step back when they ventured too close to an object. There was also a phalanx of plainclothes men and women disguised as museumgoers, all trained to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity and avert any potential disasters. Behind the scenes there were hundreds more employees who protected the art in other ways, from conservation to temperature control to running security systems. And since September 11, there were more of these vigilant soldiers employed than there had been before. But nothing criminal or suspect had ever occurred at the Met to make headlines. For such a large institution, one that served so many, the museum remained a calm shelter in the storm of one of the most frenetic cities in the world.

Until today.

Even though Weil was sure this violence to the Matisse had been done off-site and the Met was simply the recipient of the atrocity, he felt as if he’d failed. The museum had been violated on his watch. His new watch. Weil thought he’d been prepared for how difficult it was going to be to follow in Philippe de Montebello’s footsteps, but he’d been wrong. After three decades that man and the institution he ran had merged, and the museum was still in shock at having a new leader-especially one with such a controversial background and conflict of interest.

No one had expected the trustees to agree on the president of Sotheby’s as the Met’s next director. Dissenters complained that Weil didn’t have the scholarship needed, while those lobbying for him successfully argued that a twenty-first-century museum was not only about the wall hangings. Managing endowments and understanding legal issues-especially those concerning cultural heritage conflicts-were areas in which Weil had extensive knowledge. Overseeing and guiding educational programs, publications, community development and fundraising were all of equal importance, especially in the economic downturn the country was experiencing. There, too, Weil excelled. Sotheby’s was a for-profit corporation, and Weil had been credited with its considerable success under his aegis. On behalf of his choice, the president of the Met’s board argued that while scholarship had flourished under the previous director, income building had languished and the museum’s corporate mission had lost focus.

In the end, Weil had been elected by a small majority. Now, the very last thing he wanted, while he and the Met were still getting acclimated, was a trial by fire, and he feared this urgent situation was about to escalate into one.

“My God.” Marie Grimshaw had arrived and was trying to absorb the monstrosity. The much-beloved elder statesperson of the staff, she was an indomitable scholar who’d authored half-a-dozen books on nineteenth- and early twentieth-century artists. Usually she was the one who helped everyone else through their crises, but now the seventy-two-year-old woman looked pale. Weil guessed that this time she was going to be in need of some support.

“I’m sorry, Marie,” he said. “I should have asked them to warn you.”

She waved away his concern. “I’ll survive. This hasn’t.”

“I wanted you to see it right away.”

She turned her gaze on him. “Do you know what you have here, Tyler?”

“It’s obviously a Matisse, or done in his style. With all that damage, it’s not easy to be certain.”

“But which Matisse?”

“I don’t recognize it. He did hundreds of seascapes, Marie.” Tyler resented the inquisition.

Like a schoolteacher, she shook her head, admonishing him, and Weil guessed she was pleased with the opportunity to lecture him. Unhappy, like many of the Met’s old guard, that the reins of the museum hadn’t gone to someone who was more of a scholar, she’d been vocal about her concerns over his appointment.

“It’s Matisse’s View of St. Tropez.”

She was watching him with her light blue, inscrutable eyes, waiting, he thought, for some sign of recognition, but the title of the painting didn’t mean anything to him.

“I’d like to know what I’m facing before the FBI shows up. That’s why I asked you to come down here. Would you fill me in on the painting’s background? What’s its significance to us?”

“This Matisse was bequeathed to us in the late 1960s by its owner, who died in 2003. We weren’t able to take possession because it was stolen before its owner died. The robbery was in the news for weeks all around the world, Tyler.”

He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of reacting to the dig. “Thank you, Marie.”

“How did it get here?” Grimshaw asked.

“I haven’t been briefed yet.” Weil turned to Olshling. “Who unpacked this?” he asked, not accusatory but inquisitive. “Do we know who sent it?”

“Joe McBurney, here, unpacked it.” Olshling nodded at a young man in a white smock who shuffled nervously from foot to foot under the director’s scrutiny. “And yes,” he said, pointing to an ordinary white envelope taped to the inside of the crate, “there’s a letter. It’s addressed to you, Mr. Weil.”

Weil bent over and read his name, typed, with no other identifying marks. He reached out for it.

“Mr. Weil, could you just wait a moment?” Olshling reached behind him, pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of a dispenser and offered them to the director.

Like most professionals who worked around artwork, Weil knew he should wear gloves while examining a work of art to protect the precious objects from the oils on his skin-and in a situation like this, to protect himself from any hazardous materials-but he’d forgotten. From the look in the chief of security’s eyes, Weil knew that Philippe de Montebello wouldn’t have needed to be reminded not to contaminate the evidence.

Hands encased in synthetic rubber, Weil slit open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper folded around four photographs. He examined each one slowly and carefully before handing the pile to Marie, who had also donned gloves. “I’m guessing these have something in common with the Matisse.”

“You’re right,” she said in a low voice as she looked through the photos a second time. “Every one of these belongs to the museum. All were bequeathed to us, by different donors. And each one was stolen before we were able to take possession.” She handed the pile back to Weil. “What’s going on?” Her voice trembled like a crystal chandelier reacting to a door being slammed shut.