Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

'Is that why you haven't told me? Because you don't trust me?' Bosch had asked the question as gently as possible. Nothing in his tone of voice or his expression could lead her to think he was offended.

Miss Wood gave no reply. She stared down at the floor. Bosch began to get anxious. 'Is it something that serious?'

Slowly, almost painfully, Wood told him about Marthe Schimmel and the platinum-blond boy. Bosch listened, disbelieving.

'That bastard has the advantage,' said Wood. 'Someone is passing him information from inside. Someone is helping him! I've had two sleepless nights just thinking about it… he must be someone senior: he knows the valid codes, has prior knowledge of our security measures

… It could be… Who?… Paul Benoit. It could be Paul Benoit. Or Jacob Stein, even though I find it impossible to believe it could be him, which is why I told him my suspicions yesterday. I'm convinced Stein would never damage one of the Maestro's works: he admires him as much as I do, or even more… But in spite of everything, he's refused to postpone the "Rembrandt" exhibition… It could be Kurt Sorensen or Gert Warfell… Or Thea… Or it could be you, Lothar.' She fixed her blue eyes on him. Her face was a tense mask shiny with makeup. 'Or me. I know it's not me, of course, but I'd like you to think it could be me…' 'April…'

He had never seen Miss Wood in such a state. She had stood up and was almost trembling. She seemed on the verge of bursting into tears.

'I'm not used to having to work like this… I can't bear failing, and yet I know I'm going to fail…' 'For God's sake, April, calm down…'

Bosch stood up, too. He was thunderstruck. He wanted to embrace her, and despite the fact that he had never before done so, or even dared to try, he went up to her and put his arms round her. It felt as though he were enfolding such a fragile and ephemeral creature that he almost became frightened. Now that he was with her, now that he could sense, her, April seemed like a small silver figurine, something tiny and tremulous perched on the edge of a table and about to fall off. This sensation led him to throw off all his remaining caution and to clasp her even more tightly. He joined his hands behind Wood's back and drew her to him. She was not crying, only trembling. She leaned her head on his shoulder and trembled. Unable to say a word, Bosch went on holding her.

Then all at once it was over. Her hands pushed him away gently but firmly. April Wood turned her back to him. When he could see her face again, Bosch immediately recognised the Head of Security. If she had noticed anything, if she had had some inkling of his affection, she apparently now dismissed it as unimportant.

'Thanks, I feel better now, Lothar. The problem is… the thing is… someone in the Foundation wants to destroy works by the Maestro. That much is clear to me. The motive does not matter for now. Maybe he hates him. Or perhaps he's being paid to help. His antennae will go on passing information to the Artist, his damned antennae will go on doing that, and the Artist will work out his plan, or will change it (because I'm sure he already has a plan) on the basis of our decisions… In conclusion, I don't think we can catch him. Our only hope is to anticipate what he is going to do. We have to find out what his next target is and set him a trap of our own.'

She paused. She was as tough and hard as ever again. As she spoke, she frowned deeply.

'Let's start from the hypothesis that the Artist is going to try to destroy one of the "Rembrandt" paintings. Which one? There are thirteen of them. They are going to be on show in a five-hundred-metre-long tunnel specially built out of plastic curtain material in the Museumplein. The tunnel interior will be completely dark apart from the glow coming from the works themselves. We can't even use infra-red to protect them. Thirteen hyperdramatic works based on a similar number of works by Rembrandt: The Anatomy Lesson, The Night Watch, Christ on the Cross, The Jewish Bride… It's an amazing show, but it's very risky, too. If we only knew beforehand which work it might be, we could set a trap. But how can we find out? Some of the works aren't even finished yet. In fact, assistants from the Art section are still drawing sketches on our farms. How can we possibly know which painting the Artist will choose this time, if they aren't even completed?' Bosch decided to be reassuring.

'I'm not so worried about the "Rembrandt" exhibition, April: there's almost an entire army guarding each painting inside and outside the tunnel, as well as the regional police and the KLPD. And in the hotel there'll be lots of security agents on guard inside the rooms. The paintings aren't going to be left alone for a second. We'll keep a constant check on the identity of our men by analysing their finger- and voiceprints. And they'll all be new guards, chosen at the last minute. What can go wrong?' Wood stared at him, then asked:

'Have you been sent the list of the original models who will be the paintings?'

'Not yet. I know Kirsten Kirstenman and Gustavo Onfretti are two of them, but…' He saw April Wood's face cloud over with concern again. He could not bear it, and tried to encourage her. 'April, nothing is going to happen, you'll see. It's not just simple-minded optimism, it's a logical calculation. We're going to be able to rescue the "Rembrandt" collection, I'm-' Wood interrupted him.

'You know one of the models intimately, Lothar.' She paused. Bosch stared at her dumbfounded. 'Your niece Danielle will be one of the paintings.'

The arms flinging themselves at her in the darkness reminded her of a drawing of night.

She screamed and tried to roll across the mattress, her brain dissolving in an ocean of terror. Something clamped her wrists, then a rough heavy weight fell across her stomach. She was flat on her back, struggling and screaming. A spider controlled by a higher intelligence felt for her lipless mouth, her mouth where the lips had been stamped, and flattened itself against her. It was a hand. She could not scream any more. Another hand was crushing her right wrist. She fought to get a mouthful of air. The gag left her nostrils free, but she needed to swallow oxygen. Her breasts were crushed against some material. Two tiny mirrors floated a few inches from her eyes: she could see them perfectly, even in the darkness, and thought she caught sight of her own gagged face in them.

'Be quiet… stay still… still…'

Now at last she knew who it was (that voice, those arms, there could not be two people like that) and managed to intuit what was going on. But the earlier impact had been too fierce, and she was not prepared. She knew they wanted her not to be prepared. Even so, she needed to be. If she was on the point of going beyond the final barrier, she needed to gather strength. She struggled again. A hand clasped her hair.

'I'm going to tell you… to tell you… what will happen… if you don't do as I wish… if you don't do as I wish…'

Each phrase poured into her ear was accompanied by a violent tug at her hair. Uhl made her see stars. But he had also made a mistake: he had allowed her to recuperate too much. Clara was mistress of her body and her emotions again. She was still very weak, but she could react. She slammed her feet on to the floor and flung her hips upwards in a move that took Uhl by surprise. She was expecting a more violent response, and it was not long in coming. He slapped her. Not very hard, but enough to stun her.

'Don't do that again… what are you playing at, eh…?'

She lay still, panting, trying to work out what to do next. She knew that if she gave in, it would all come to a stop. She was completely sure of that. But she did not want to. If she took the risk, if she faced up to whatever Uhl was doing, he would increase the darkness of his brushstroke. If she went on fighting him, the stretching would cross the barrier and there would be a 'leap into the void'. She had never experienced this 'leap into the void' with any painter, because it was too dangerous a technique. It could end up badly: she could be damaged, perhaps seriously. And the damage could prove irreparable. Even though she was not working in an art-shock, it was clear that the sketch was very strong (the toughest, most risky). She was very frightened: she did not want to suffer or die, but nor did she want to halt the process. She no longer had any doubt that they were painting her, and she did not want to get in their way. She wanted to surrender to them just as she had to Vicky, Brentano, Hobber, or Gumsich.