Cold War - Jerome Preisler [95]
Elata nodded.
“I would not like you hurt. That would be a terrible thing. You have much more to accomplish, eh? The world should not lose you.” The Italian could not have been more sincere. “You may leave when your inspection is done, but the others must stay,” added the man.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Until the transfer is complete. Simply a precaution. These exchanges are always difficult to arrange. It is a dance. My partner wanted you to stay as well, but I persuaded him that you would be insulted. We would not want you insulted.” The man smiled and nodded. “A small boat will pick you up. Signor Morgan will not object, I am sure.”
“Can I see the paintings, please?”
“This way,” said the man, springing forward.
Elata followed him up the ramp to a narrow corridor behind the wall, and then around a sharp corner that led to the castle interior. A large wooden door stood open. The Italian entered; two men in creased jeans sat glumly on a small bench just inside. Elata guessed they were the other experts Morgan had sent; he wondered what their opinion had been.
This was too elaborate to be a trick, but perhaps the sellers would simply kill anyone who thought the paintings were fraudulent.
Morgan was supposed to protect him, the bastard. How could he give his true opinion under these conditions? He had the letter—but what good was it? How could he compare the paint? He trusted his eye better than any laboratory, but still—this was a job for a team of scientists, not an artist.
The short Italian pushed open a small rectangular wall at the side, its thick iron hinges creaking harshly. Elata had to stoop to step through.
Light flooded into his eyes. He’d stepped into a small courtyard.
Fourteen paintings, each approximately eighteen by twenty-six inches, stood on easels before him. He looked at the first and his lungs ceased working; his eyes turned to the second and his heart stopped. By the third he knew he would never himself pick up a paintbrush, either to make a forgery or do something of his own.
There was no point. These fourteen paintings held all possibilities of art—not merely agony but joy, not simply sorrow but triumph. Beyond this there was nothing.
“You may use this phone,” said the Italian, pressing a cell phone into his hand. “Take your time. I will leave you.” He retreated, then paused at the door. “Of course, if you think they are fake—”
“They’re not fake,” said Elata. There was no sense bothering to compare the paint.
“You’ll want to study them carefully before your conclusion. There are X-rays, whatever you want.”
Elata said nothing.
“I’ll leave you,” said the Italian, slipping away.
The phone rang just as Morgan pushed himself back from Lucretia on the divan. Minz, her head resting on her sister’s leg, reached for him lazily.
At other times, most other times, he would not have bothered to answer the phone, but he was waiting for this call. He reached back and took the handset; as he brought it to his ear he felt a sharp pain in his chest, a difficult feeling of remorse—what if the Picassos were fake?
The Italian and his partner would be eliminated, but that would be no consolation, none at all.
“Yes,” said Elata. His voice was hushed, the syllables of the word drawn out.
Morgan said nothing, reaching back and hanging up the phone instead. He slid one hand beneath the oversized divan, reaching for the alphanumeric pager so he could set the exchange in motion.
His other hand slipped onto Minz.
“Be with you in a moment, hon,” he said, turning his full attention to the pager’s miniature keyboard. “But we’ll have to make it quick; I have to meet a helicopter at the airport in ten minutes.”
FOURTEEN
NEAR COLD CORNERS BASE VICTORIA LAND, ANTARCTICA MARCH 13, 2002
THE SNOWMOBILES DESCENDED TOWARD COLD CORNERS through razor bends in the slope, tacking between rock falls, ramparts of drifted and avalanche-piled snow, blue ice pinnacles that soared hundreds of feet into the dusky hanging clouds.
Out front, Burkhart again coaxed the team to speed, his engine greedily pulling fuel from