Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

'Hirum, if you want to help me, tell me your damn opinion once and for all.'

Another pause and then, in the same tone of voice and with her blue quartz eyes fixed on him, she added:

'Forgive me for such a rapid visit, Hirum. In fact, you've helped me a lot already. You don't have to do any more.'

'No, wait, pass me the catalogue again. I'll study it and give you a call tomorrow. If I see one painting that looks more likely than the others, I'll tell you.'

He hesitated a moment before he went on, as if wondering whether it was worth obtaining any kind of promise from someone who looked at you the way she did, and who could talk in such a terrible whisper.

'Promise me you'll do all you can to make sure no one is injured, April.'

She agreed, and handed him the catalogue. Then she stood up, and Oslo walked back to the house with her. Night was falling on the world.

The landscape is one of hands opening in the darkness as though trying to catch something. They are hanging from streetlamps, are stuck on walls and the ironclad sides of trams, they flutter beneath the arches of the canal bridges. This is the image chosen to publicise 'Rembrandt': the hand of the Angel from Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, the work being shown to the press in the Old Atelier this very day, Thursday 13 July, the work which will fire the first salvo in the most amazing show of the decade.

Bosch shuddered to think that they could not have found a more appropriate symbol. He knew there was another hand stretched out in the darkness, trying to catch something. As the days went by, Miss Wood's fears seemed to him more and more reasonable. If before he had doubted that the Artist was going to attack 'Rembrandt', now he was sure of it. He was convinced the criminal was there,, in Amsterdam, and had already laid his plans. He would destroy one of the canvases unless they could find some way of stopping him. Or of protecting the work he was targeting. Or setting him a trap.

The sky was lined with heavy clouds as Bosch arrived at the New Atelier that Thursday morning. Above the Stedelijk roof could be seen the black tops of the curtains that made up the 'Rembrandt Tunnel', as the press had baptised the exhibition tent erected on the Museumplein. It was a cool day even though it was midsummer. Bosch recalled that the weather forecast had spoken of rain for Saturday, the day of the opening. Rain, yes, and thunder and lightning, too, he thought. When he entered his office, he saw that all his phones had unanswered messages, but he could not deal with any of them because Alfred van Hoore and Rita van Dorn were waiting for him with a CD-ROM and a burning desire to tell him things and, in the case of van Hoore, to show him his new computer simulations. Both of them had stickers for the exhibition on their jacket lapels: a tiny Angel's hand above the word 'Rembrandt'. Bosch found the stickers absurd, but was careful not to say anything. His two colleagues were smiling with satisfaction at the progress of their security measures, which Stein had complimented them on. They both seemed pleased with themselves. Bosch felt rather sorry for them.

'I'd like you to see this model, Lothar,' Van Hoore was saying, pointing to the three-dimensional skeleton of the Tunnel on his computer screen. 'Does anything attract your attention?' Those red dots.'

'Exactly. Do you know what they are?' Bosch stirred in his seat. 'I imagine they're the public emergency exits.' 'Exactly. And what do you think of them?' 'Please, Alfred, you tell me. I've got a dreadful morning ahead of me. I'm not up to facing an exam.'

Rita smiled silently. Van Hoore looked offended.

There are too few exits for the paintings, Lothar. We've thought more about the public, but let's take an extreme case. A fire.'

He pressed a key, and the spectacle began. To Bosch's mind, Van Hoore was staring at the screen with the same fascination that Nero must have observed Rome burning. In a few seconds, the three-dimensional tunnel was consumed by flames.

‘I know the curtains aren't flammable, and Popotkin has assured us that the chiaroscuro lighting does not short-circuit like ordinary lights. But let's just imagine that in spite of everything, there is a fire…'

Igor Popotkin was the physicist who had designed the lighting to produce the effects of light and shade. He was also, like many Russian scientists who had received their training during the period of glasnost and perestroika, a poet and a pacifist. Stein used to say that in a year or two they would award him a Nobel prize, although he was never quite sure what for. Bosch had seen Popotkin a couple of times during his visits to Amsterdam. He was a little old man with bovine features. He loved smoking dope, and had frequented all the coffee shops in the red-light district to get little bags of the stuff.

'What do you think would happen if there were a fire, Lothar?'

That the public rushing for the exits would get in the way of the paintings,' Bosch replied, submitting finally to the grilling. 'Exactly. So what is the solution?' 'To make more exits.'

Van Hoore's face was a picture of fake compassion, like a quiz show host who has detected a wrong answer.

'We don't have time for that. But I've had an idea. One of the security teams will be dedicated to getting out the artworks if there is a disaster. Look.'

Tiny figures in white shirts and trousers wearing green jackets appeared on the screen.

‘I call them the Artistic Emergency Personnel,' Van Hoore explained. They'll be at collection points in the centre of the Tunnel horseshoe, with special vans ready and waiting to whisk away the paintings if need be.'

'Fantastic, Alfred,' Bosch cut in. 'Really. I like it. It's the perfect solution.'

When Van Hoore's fire was extinguished, it was Rita's turn. She simply went over what had already been decided. The works would be picked up by the same identified security men. Inside the Tunnel there would be a security team every hundred metres. They would be armed and have torches, but were not to shine any light unless there was an emergency. There would be three controls at the entry point, with the usual machines: X-rays, magnetic checkers and instant imaging screens. Cases and parcels would have to be left at the entrance. Baby pushchairs would be prohibited. Nothing could be done about handbags, except for random searches of any suspicious-looking persons, but the possibility of anyone being able to bring in a dangerous object in a bag that was not detected by any of the security screens was less than 0.8 per cent. In the hotel where the works were to be kept (the name of which would not, of course, be revealed to the public) there would be round-the-clock guards of three people per painting. The guards who were on duty inside the rooms would have to undergo strict fingerprint and voice tests each morning. They would wear tags that could only be used once, with codes that would change every day. They would carry guns, and electric batons.

'By the way,' Rita asked, 'Why has there been this last-minute change in the list of security guards, Lothar?'

'That was my decision, Rita’ Bosch replied. 'We're going to bring a new team in from our headquarters in New York. They'll be here tomorrow.' Alfred and Rita looked at each other, puzzled.

'It's an extra security measure’ Bosch said to settle it. He was trying to seem as natural as possible, so they would not think he was hiding anything from them. Neither Van Hoore nor Rita knew anything about the Artist, or about the plans he and April had been hatching together.

'It'll be the best protected exhibition in the history of art,' Rita said with a smile. '1 don't think we need to worry so much.'

At that instant, Kurt Sorensen's spiky head appeared round the door. He was with Gert Warfell. 'Do you have a moment, Lothar?'