Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

'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.'