Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Flanders Panel

“Who is it? Your Swiss friend?”

“No. Ziegler is an efficient, methodical lawyer but he doesn’t know much about art. That’s why I went to someone with the right contacts, with no scruples whatsoever and expert enough to move easily in that complicated subterranean world. Paco Montegrifo.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke about money. Montegrifo is a strange character, who, it should be said, is a little in love with you, although that has nothing to do with the matter. What counts is that he is simultaneously an utter villain and an extraordinarily gifted individual, and he’ll never do anything to harm you.”

“I don’t see why not. If he’s got the painting, he’ll be off like a shot. Montegrifo would sell his own mother for a watercolour.”

“Undoubtedly, but he can’t do that to you. In the first place, because Demetrius Ziegler and I have made him sign a quantity of documents that have no legal value if made public, since the whole matter constitutes a flagrant breach of the law, but which are enough to show that you have nothing whatsoever to do with all this. They’ll also serve to implicate him if he talks too much or plays dirty, enough for him to have every police force in the world after him for the rest of his life. I’m also in possession of certain secrets whose publication would damage his reputation and create serious problems for him with the law. To my knowledge, Montegrifo has, amongst other things, on at least two occasions undertaken to remove from the country and sell illegally objects that are designated part of our national heritage, objects that came into my hands and which I placed in his as intermediary: a fifteenth-century reredos attributed to Pere Oller and stolen from Santa Maria de Cascalls in 1978 and that famous Juan de Flandes that disappeared four years ago from the Olivares collection. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do. But I never imagined that you…”

Cesar shrugged indifferently.

“That’s life, Princess. In my business, as in all businesses, unimpeachable honesty is the surest route to death from starvation. But we weren’t talking about me, we were talking about Montegrifo. Of course, he’ll try to keep as much money for himself as he can; that’s inevitable. But he’ll remain within certain limits that won’t impinge upon the minimum profit guaranteed by your Panamanian company, whose interests Ziegler will guard like a Dobermann. Once the business is finished, Ziegler will automatically transfer the money from the limited company’s bank account to another private account, whose number only you will have. He will then close the former in order to cover our tracks, and destroy all other documents apart from those referring to Montegrifo’s murky past. Those he will keep in order to guarantee you the loyalty of our friend the auctioneer. Though I’m sure that, by then, such a precaution will be unnecessary… By the way, Ziegler has express instructions to divert a third of your profits into various types of safe, profitable investments in order both to launder that money and to guarantee you financial security for the rest of your life, even if you decide to go on the most lavish of spending sprees. Take any advice he gives you, because Ziegler is a good man whom I’ve known for more than twenty years: honest, Calvinist and homosexual. He will, of course, be equally scrupulous about deducting his commission plus expenses.”

Julia, who had listened without moving a muscle, shuddered. Everything fit perfectly, like the pieces of some incredible jigsaw puzzle. Cesar had left no loose ends. She gave him a long look, and walked about the room, trying to take it in. It was too much for one night, she thought as she stopped in front of Munoz, who was watching her impassively. It was perhaps too much even for one lifetime.

“I see,” she said, turning back to Cesar, “that you’ve thought of everything. Or almost everything. Have you also considered Don Manuel Belmonte? You may think it a trifling detail, but he is the owner of the painting.”

“I have considered that. Needless to say, you could always suffer a praiseworthy crisis of conscience and decide not to accept my plan. In that case, you have only to inform Ziegler and the painting will turn up in some suitable place. It will upset Montegrifo but he’ll just have to put up with it. Then, everything will remain as before: the scandal will have increased the painting’s value, and Claymore’s will retain the right to auction it. But should you take the sensible path, there are plenty of arguments to salve your conscience: Belmonte gets rid of the painting for money, so, once you’ve excluded the painting’s sentimental value, there remains its economic worth. And that’s covered by the insurance. Besides, there’s nothing to stop you from anonymously donating whatever compensation you consider appropriate. You’ll have more than enough money to do so. As for Munoz…”

“Yes,” said Munoz, “I’m curious to know what you have in store for me.

Cesar gave him a wry look.

“You, my dear, have won the lottery.”

“You don’t say.”

“Oh, but I do. Foreseeing that the second white knight would survive the game, I took the liberty of linking you, on paper, with the company, with twenty-five per cent of the shares, which will, amongst other things, permit you to buy yourself some new shirts and to play chess in the Bahamas if you fancy it.”

Munoz raised a hand to his mouth and what remained of his cigarette. He looked at it briefly and very deliberately dropped it on the carpet.

“That’s very generous of you,” he said.

Cesar looked at the dead stub on the floor and then at Munoz.

“It’s the least I can do. I have to buy your silence in some way, and, besides, you’ve more than earned it. Let’s just say it’s my way of making up for the nasty trick I played on you with the computer.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might refuse to participate in all this?”

“Of course. You are, after all, an odd sort. But that’s not my affair any more. You and Julia are now associates, so you can sort it out between you. I have other things to think about.”

“That leaves you, Cesar,” said Julia.

“Me?” He smiled – painfully, Julia thought. “My dear Princess, I have many sins to purge and little time to do it in.” He indicated the sealed envelope on the table. “There you have a detailed confession, explaining the whole story from start to finish, apart, of course, from our Swiss arrangement. You, Munoz and, for the moment, Montegrifo, come out of it clean. As for the painting, I explain its destruction in great detail, along with the personal and sentimental reasons that drove me to it. I’m sure that after a learned examination of my confession, the police psychiatrists will happily label me a dangerous schizophrenic.”

“Do you intend going abroad?”

“Certainly not. The only thing that makes having a place to go to desirable is that it gives you an excuse to make a journey. But I’m too old for that. On the other hand, I don’t much fancy prison or a lunatic asylum. It must be rather awkward with all those well-built, attractive nurses giving you cold showers. I’m afraid not, my dear. I’m fifty years old and no longer up to such excitement. Besides, there is one other tiny detail.”

Julia looked at him gravely.

“What’s that?”

“Have you heard” – Cesar gave an ironic smile – “of something called acquired something or other syndrome, which seems to be horribly fashionable these days? Well, I am a terminal case. Or so they say.”

“You’re lying.”

“Not at all. That’s what they called it: terminal, like some gloomy Underground station.”

Julia closed her eyes. Everything around her seemed to fade away, and in her mind all that remained was a dull, muffled sound, like that of a stone falling into a pool. When she opened them again, her eyes were full of tears.