The Hypnotist

SIXTY-THREE

“Tonight I want to welcome you to a very special event,” Tyler Weil said into the microphone. “A private showing of paintings that on paper have belonged to our illustrious institution for decades but have never been exhibited. Each was a bequest never received, a gift we never catalogued, studied or learned from. These paintings were stolen before we ever received them. And have been lost to the world until tonight.”

There was an audible reaction from the assembled guests as people in the crowd asked each other if they’d ever heard anything about these newly found paintings.

The news had covered the story of Darius Shabaz, the billionaire Hollywood producer/writer/director pleading guilty in a Los Angeles courthouse to extortion and buying stolen artwork, but no details linking his transgression to the museum or these paintings had yet leaked out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, before we reveal the paintings I need to warn you that one of the five paintings we’ve just added to our holdings has been vandalized, and we hope to be able to restore it to some semblance of its former glory. We’ve included it tonight because, despite how brutally it’s been violated, it’s still a masterpiece. As is the sculpture on display. The story of this rescue and recovery is nothing less than astonishing, and although I wish I could share it with you tonight, I’ve been asked to hold off until the people responsible are all captured and brought to justice. But I can and do want to thank those who have worked so bravely and tirelessly on our behalf to make it happen. So if you will all join me in a toast-to the Art Crime Team of the Federal Bureau of Investigation-with our heartfelt thanks.”

While the guests raised their glasses and echoed the director’s “Hear, hear!” the screen was pushed back, revealing the paintings and the colossal statue.

There was a sudden cessation of noise and the large room became eerily quiet. One pair of clapping hands broke the silence and then others joined in until the room echoed with the roar of applause.

The Renoir, Klimt, Monet and Van Gogh had been cleaned. Hypnos was stately and tall, and though only a remnant of what he had once been, was still commanding. But more powerful than any of those masterworks was the Matisse in all its horrific destruction.

“You saved those paintings,” Emeline whispered to Lucian.

He looked into her shining eyes and fought the urge to accept the kindness he saw there. “It’s my job,” he said, turning his attention back to the paintings. At least they were safe now. Even the murdered Matisse had a chance of resurrection. Treated by the best restorers in the world it would regain some semblance of its former glory.

This was the only reincarnation he would ever believe in, he told himself. It’s only art that keeps us immortal.

From the corner of his eye he saw Nicolas Olshling walking toward the stage. The stunned expression on the head of security’s face made Lucian’s blood run cold.

“Take your father and sit down at one of the tables. Get him out of the crowd,” Lucian said to Emeline.

“Why?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but something’s wrong.”

Lucian ran across the room, reaching the stage just as Weil stepped away from the microphone.

“What is it, Nicolas?” Weil asked.

“We just received a bomb threat.” He was holding his cell phone as if it were a snake about to strike. “If what I heard is legit, we’re under attack. We are under attack.”