'Shit, he butchered them like pigs,' Knopffer from Europol growled, silencing Benoit. He had got up to look at the photos on the stomach of the other Table in the centre of the room, and was studying them closely. The Table's breathing had led to one of the photos falling off on to the carpet.
'Why these marks?' Rudolf Kobb from the Foreign Ministry wanted to know, as Knopffer passed him the photos.
'Ten cuts on each of them, eight of them crosses,' Bosch explained. 'They're the same as with Deflowering. He lays them on their backs with their legs open, but leaves the labels on. We don't know why he always makes these same cuts. He uses a portable canvas cutter, like the ones restorers use to saw wooden frames. And he always leaves a recording. We found this on the floor, between the two bodies. We can listen to it now, if you like.'
‘Yes, we would,' said Head Honcho.
Bosch was about to get up, but Thea van Droon, sitting next to him, beat him to it. Thea was in charge of the Foundation's assault team. She had just returned from Paris after interrogating Briseida Canchares. As Thea stood up, Bosch could get a better view of Miss Wood, who sat hunched in a seat further away, chin on her chest, and her thin legs stretched out in front of her. She doesn't talk, she doesn't say a word, thought Bosch unhappily. She knows she's failed again, and she feels humiliated. He would have liked to comfort her, to reassure her everything would be all right. Perhaps he would get the chance later.
Thea made sure that the two naked young men who made up the Table had their ear protectors on properly. The portable recorder had amplifiers to improve the sound. It was on one of the youngsters' chest, while the speakers were balanced on the other's thighs. Thea pressed a button.
'Art then became sacred,' a nervous, panting voice said in English: a high falsetto voice, which the laboratories had identified as being Hubertus'. 'The figures were hying to ... were trying to discover God and honour mystery...' There was a pause of echoing sobs. Benoit grimaced as the noise filled the speakers. 'By representing death, man was striving to be immortal. .. All religious art involved ... involved the same idea ... torture and destruction were painted or sculpted with the aim of ... with the aim of ...' by now, Hubertus was openly crying 'of affirming life even more . .. eter... eternal life ... Pleeease ...!'
The recording broke down in a welter of hysterical sobbing, then picked up again in the calmer voice of Arnoldus.
'The artist says: my art is death ... The artist says: the only way I can love life is ... by loving death ... because the art which survives is the art which has died ... if the figures die, the works survive.'
'He must force them to read a prepared text,' Bosch said in the silence after Thea had switched the recording off.
"This guy is an insane bastard!' Warfell shouted. 'It couldn't be clearer! He may be very clever, but he's off his head!'
His features etched by the slender naked legs of a Marooder Lamp next to his seat, Benoit turned towards Warfell.
'If s all a bluff, Gert. They want us to think it's the work of a madman, but it's all a damned piece of make-believe that one of our competitors has dreamt up. I'm sure of it.'
'How is it possible for works to survive if the figures die?' Head Honcho wanted to know. 'What does that mean?'
Everyone was expecting Stein to answer. But it was Benoit who spoke.
'It doesn't mean a thing. As far as the figures for "Monsters" are concerned, their death means the work has vanished forever as well. There are no substitutes for them.'
Harlbrunner's grave cello boomed out again, from his post next to the dried fruit Table. As he talked, he carelessly stroked the shining surface of the thighs of the girl making the top half.
'Can anyone explain to those of us who are new to this what on earth this ceru ... cerublas ... is?' Several voices completed the word 'cerublastyne' for Harlbrunner, but he did not seem able to finish the word himself. 'According to the reports, Weiss' face and hands were covered in it, weren't they?'
Now it was Jacob Stein's turn. He spoke very softly, but the sepulchral silence surrounding him made it seem louder.
'Ceru is a material similar to silicone, but much more advanced. It was developed in labs in France, England and Holland specifically for use in hyperdramatic art. . . Galismus, I think you, Mr Kobb,' he pointed at the man from the Foreign Ministry, 'have had your portrait done by Avendano, so you know what I'm talking about.'
Kobb smiled in agreement.
"Yes, it's identical to me. Sometimes it scares me, it's so real.' Remembering the portrait of Hendrickje, Bosch also shuddered.
'In art, ceru is employed in many ways,' Stein went on, 'not just for models as portraits, but for official and fake copies, for complicated make-ups, and so on ... a ceru expert can literally become anybody, man or woman. All you have to do is put a thin layer of it on the part you want to copy, let it dry, then remove it very carefully. It's the perfect disguise. Yet I must stress that you have to be a real expert to be able to handle the ceru moulds properly. They're even more fragile than the layer of skin you get on boiled milk.'
'From what I've heard so far,' said Head Honcho, 'our man is a real expert.'
There was a moment's silence. Then Stein, who seemed to be in a hurry, called on Benoit to sum up the conclusions from this preliminary meeting. Feeling the spotlight fall on him, Benoit sat up in his chair, put on a pair of reading glasses, and picked up the sheets of paper in front of him. He leaned slightly to his left so that the light from the Marooder Lamp would shine on the text.
'On 29 June 2006, in these offices kindly put at our disposal by the management of the Obberlund building, Munich, a crisis cabinet has been formed with the aim of . . .'
Their aims were clear enough. Conservation and Security had drawn up an emergency twin-track strategy: defence and attack. There were three items under defence: withdrawal, identity and secrecy. The first consisted in withdrawing all the works by Bruno van Tysch on public display, first in Europe, then in the United States, and finally the rest of the world. 'Flowers' would be the first collection to return to Amsterdam, followed by 'Monsters', and then individual works like Athene in the Centre Pompidou. All the works would be kept in secure places. As for identity, this involved a system of checking all the employees who had any contact with the canvases using voice tests and fingerprint checks. Benoit suggested that all those who had been properly identified should then wear labels.
'But that would make us works of art as well,' Warfell objected.
'Is there really no other way to detect a ceru mask?' asked Head Honcho.
'Fuschus, no there isn't,' Stein replied. 'When ceru dries, it's like a second skin. It takes on the same temperature and consistency. You'd have to scratch the suspect to make sure who he was.'
The labels idea was left for further consideration. Then the secrecy angle was discussed. From now on, the anonymous criminal was to be known by the code name the 'Artist', as he called himself in the recordings.
'Only those of us in this crisis cabinet,' Benoit went on, 'will know everything about the Artist. All other experts or assistants will only be aware of part or even nothing at all of the information concerning the Artist, including details of the attacks and the progress of our investigations. Neither the insurance companies nor any investors who are not clients of Miss Roman here, nor it goes without saying the press or the public, will have access to any of this information. From this moment on, the very existence of the Artist is strictly confidential.'
The attack plan had a single heading: Rip van Winkle. Bosch had already heard of this European security system. It was controlled from a special department of Europol. Head Honcho defined it as 'self-defence and feedback'. Like the character in Washington Irving's story, the system could be 'sleeping' for years until a specific crisis 'woke it up'. Its chief characteristic was that once it had been awakened it could not be stopped until it had achieved its objectives. These objectives were an absolute priority. Each objective achieved became a 'result'
. If necessary, Rip van Winkle could ignore all legal norms, all constitutions and ideas of sovereignty in order to obtain results. It was also self-correcting every week. If it was discovered that in that length of time no result had been achieved, all its agents were changed.
'Today it's us,' said Head Honcho. 'Tomorrow it could be others.'
Rip van Winkle would do everything necessary to get rid of the problem, and would use any means at its disposal. 'There are bound to be victims,' Head Honcho announced dolefully, 'and almost all of them will be innocent, though necessary. I repeat: necessary. The number of victims will grow exponentially in relation to the amount of time we need to achieve our objectives. It's like a secret war.'
In this instance, the main aim of Rip van Winkle was simple: to capture and eliminate the Artist, whoever he was, and whoever might be hiding behind that name.
Then it was Albert Knopffer from Europol's turn to speak.
'We won't spare any effort, I can assure you. You are all well aware of the great interest the Community has shown in the life and work of Bruno van Tysch and the Foundation you represent.'
'Absolutely,' said Head Honcho. 'It's a matter of pride for all Europe, and for us as European citizens, that Mr van Tysch has chosen to create his works here in the Old Continent, unlike so many artists who have emigrated. Not that I would like you to think that I am criticising those artists. I repeat . . .' here he grabbed the last remaining sweets from their bowl and swallowed them.
'... the Foundation is part of our European heritage, and we should therefore do all we can to protect it,' Knopffer finished his sentence for him.
While Benoit and Stein were returning the compliment, Bosch tried not to smile. He recalled that Gerhard Weyleb, who had been his boss before Miss Wood, had told him one day that the real masterpieces Van Tysch and Stein had created were the Europeans themselves. 'Don't you see: we're his finest hyperdramatic work. That's the secret of his incredible success.'
Harlbrunner, who at that moment was resting his hand on one of the varnished knees of the girl who was the dried fruit Table, quickly intervened.
'Art is an absolute priority. You must forgive me if I don't know how to express this any better, but I'm convinced that art is Europe's number one priority.'
As he spoke, he tapped the girl's knee for emphasis like an orator.
A majestic dark-blue limousine glided like a giant fish along the Ludwig Leopold Avenue in Munich. The chauffeur, positioned several metres from the people sitting on the rear seat, wore a uniform and a peaked cap. On the left sat April Wood. She looked thoughtful, and was tapping the back of one hand with the forefinger of the other. Next to her, Stein's personal assistant was busy tapping at the keys of a laptop. Beyond her, head tilted back against the seat, Stein was putting drops into both eyes. His suit and the onyx medallion round his neck were the same shiny black.
Anyone who ever saw Jacob Stein immediately agreed on what he looked like: a faun. His eyebrows stood out above a deeply lined face; his eyes were hidden under dark protruding arches, his nose was prominent, and his thick, sensual lips pushed plumply through the curls of his greying beard. What was more difficult was to assess his real importance in the Foundation. Some people claimed the Maestro dominated him completely, others that he was the one who really reigned. Miss Wood did not dismiss either possibility. One thing was certain: this New York Jew with his faun's features and square head was the chief architect of HD art's success, the person who had turned hyperdramatism into a world empire, a new form of culture. It was Stein who had designed the first human ornaments and objects, had organised the mass production of cheap copies of originals, and set up the pioneering academies for HD canvases. In spite of all this, he occasionally also found time to paint his own masterpieces.
'By a fortunate coincidence,' said Stein, screwing the top back on his eyedrops, 'it so happens that the excuse I used to get out of the meeting is strictly true, fuschus. The Maestro is expecting me in Amsterdam to supervise some of the sketches for the "Rembrandt" exhibition. And to top it all, those aerosols I've been using to prepare the figures for Jacob Wrestling with the Angel have given me conjunctivitis ... Oh, thanks, Neve.'
Stein's secretary had leaned over and dried his eyes with a silk handkerchief. Then she folded the handkerchief, took the eyedrops from him, and put everything away in her bag. The whole operation took place in complete silence. Staring down at the swirls in the car's carpet, Wood caught a glimpse only of Neve's high-heeled shoes and tanned calves as she came and went.
'Which means I hope that what you have to say to me, Miss Wood, is really important, galismus,' concluded Stein.
Stein was jokingly nicknamed Mr Fuschus-Galismus. Nobody had any clear idea of what the two words Stein was always repeating actually meant, and Stein had never bothered to explain. They were part of the slang he used when talking to painters and canvases. His disciples had invariably picked up the habit.
'Postpone the opening of "Rembrandt", Mr Stein,' Miss Wood said directly.
Stein coughed, and his faun's features darkened.
'Fuschus, we turned the wife of the last investor who suggested that into a work of art, didn't we, Neve?' The secretary bared a perfect set of shiny white teeth and laughed a tinkling laugh that Miss Wood found faintly nauseating.
'I'm being serious. If the exhibition goes ahead, there's a strong probability that one of the works will be destroyed.'
'Why is that?' the painter asked with genuine curiosity. 'There are more than a hundred of the Maestro's works and sketches in collections and public exhibitions throughout the world. The Artist could choose any of—'
‘I don't think so,' Miss Wood interrupted him. 'I'm convinced that, whether we're dealing with a lone madman or an organisation, the Artist is following a plan. Until now, Van Tysch has created two great collections, with the third due to be inaugurated in July. "Flowers", "Monsters", and "Rembrandt". Apart from that, the rest of his works are individual pieces. The Artist has destroyed Deflowering, from the first collection, and Monsters, from the second.' She paused, and raised her clear eyes to Stein. 'The third will come from "Rembrandt".' 'What proof do you have?'
'None at all. It's my intuition. But I don't think I'm wrong.'
The painter stared silently down at the fingernails on his right hand. He had designed five special brushes to fit into his nails, so that he could keep them as long and tapered as a classical guitarist's.
'I know I can catch him, Mr Stein,' Wood went on. 'But the Artist is not merely a psychopath: he is a real expert, who has planned everything beforehand and moves at incredible speed. Now I'm sure he has his sights on a work from the "Rembrandt" collection, and we have to defend ourselves.' All at once, Miss Wood's voice became husky. 'You know how I work. You know I will not accept mistakes. But when they do occur, my only consolation is to judge they were unforeseeable. So please don't force me to accept a mistake that is avoidable. Postpone the exhibition, I beg you.'
'I can't. Believe me, it's not possible. The "Rembrandt" collection is almost complete. The press showing is in a fortnight, and the public opening is on 15 July, the date of the four hundredth anniversary of Rembrandt's birth. The work to install the Tunnel in the Museumplein is already well advanced. And besides, the Maestro has spent too long working on it. He's obsessed by it, and I'm the guardian of the paradise of his obsessions. That is what I've always been, galismus, and it's what I intend to go on being...'
'And if we explain to the Maestro the danger his works are in?'
'Do you think that would worry him? Do you know any painter who would refuse to exhibit his works because they might be destroyed? Galisinus, we painters always create for eternity, so we're not worried whether our works last twenty centuries, twenty years, or only twenty minutes.'
Miss Wood studied the patterns on the carpet in silence.
'I'm not going to say a word to the Maestro’ Stein went on. 'All my life I've acted as a buffer between him and reality. M
y own works are nothing compared to his, but I'm happy just to have helped him create them, by keeping him away from all the problems, by doing all the dirty work myself. . . My best work has been, and continues to be, the fact that the maestro can go on painting. He's a man ruled by the dictates of his own genius. An ineffable being, galismus, as strange as an astrophysical phenomenon - sometimes terrible, at others gentle. But if ever, at any moment, anywhere in the world, there has been a genius, then that person is Bruno van Tysch. The rest of us can only hope to obey and protect him. Your duty, Miss Wood, is to protect him. Mine is to obey him . . . ah! galismus, what a wonderful glow. Neve, look at the colour of the skin on your legs now, with the sunlight slanting in on them . . . it's lovely, isn't it? A touch of arilamide yellow dissolved in pale pink, varnish on top and you'd be perfect. Fuschus, I wonder why no one has thought of painting canvases for the interior of stretch limousines. We could use underage models. We've designed and sold all kinds of ornaments and objects for lots of places, but...'