They could kill him now and he would have no way of avenging himself.
The snow-topped Italian Alps glittered above them as they drove down toward Lake Maggiore. A man in a small boat worked a set of nets near the shore, taking in a meager catch of lavarelli or whitefish, undoubtedly doing a job taught to him by his father, who’d learned from his father and so on back through time. A small speedboat sat half-beached on the shore, an old man sitting cross-legged on its bow. As they drew parallel to the speedboat, the Fiat driver yanked the wheel hard to the left, sending Elata against the door despite his seat belt; the wheels screeched and gravel spat as they came to a halt next to the boat.
Elata unfolded himself from the car slowly, ignoring Peter’s idiotic grunts that he should hurry. He got into the speedboat deliberately, choosing the front seat next to the wheel. The others took the back. The old man stood on the shore and pushed the prow up with his left hand; his arms seemed no thicker than cornstalks, but the push was strong enough to send the boat bobbing backward into the lake. The old man took a step and sprang up, his agility belying the deep wrinkles of age on his face. He jumped over the windscreen, landing square in the seat. The motor revved to life and the boat curled backward and then sped off, foam coursing away and the wake upsetting the fisher’s nets nearby.
A stone building seemed to appear from the middle of the lake a few miles ahead, rising from the shadows of the mountains.
“Ecco,” said the driver. He pointed to the castle, apparently their destination.
“Che è?” asked Elata in Italian. “What is it?”
“Castello Dinelli,” said the old man. The Castle of the Nello Family. He began telling a tale of banditi who had built it during the fifteenth century, men richer than the Borgias and several times as cruel, robber barons who had done what they wanted to the world.
“What became of them?”
“What happens to all of us? The bottom of the lake to feed the fish,” said the old man in Italian.
It’s true, thought Elata. “É vero.”
The island fortress was built straight up from the sheer, chiseled rock; the water lapped against the walls. The only spot to land was a small ramp of mossy rocks flanked on both sides by walls, which made it easily defended. It was impossible to see what might be behind those walls, in the castle beyond, from the water.
The driver reversed the propeller as they approached, slowing to a bare crawl; he turned gingerly, stopping parallel to the rocks, but still a good three or four feet from the island. Elata bent and took off his shoes, rolling his pant legs up; he guessed the water would come to his knees. He reached for his bag, but Peter grabbed hold of it, nearly throwing him off balance.
“What’s the story?” Elata said.
“We’re not allowed on the island. Just you. They’re watching.”
“I can’t have my bag?”
“They’re very nervous, and they’re calling the shots.”
“Well, I need something from it.”
“So take it.”
Elata reached into the knapsack and took out the letter he had been given at the Musée Picasso. He palmed his alphanumeric pager as well, putting both into the inside pocket of his wool suit coat.
“We’ll be here, painter,” said Peter. “Just don’t do anything stupid. They’re not very forgiving.”
Elata threw his shoes and socks to shore and got out of the boat. The water was deeper and the rocks more slippery than he’d thought; he slid backward, stopped only by the side of the craft. His pants were wet well up to his thighs.
If the letter got wet, the daub of paint it contained would be useless. He took off his jacket and held it high above his head, not even daring to throw it ashore for fear he might miss. He walked forward slowly, waddling more than walking. Finally, he reached the dry rocks and could put on his shoes and walk up the ramp.
Elata expected to hear the motorboat rev back up behind him. He expected bullets to glance off the rocks. He expected to die any second, the victim of an elaborate setup.
“Signor Elata?” asked a voice from behind the rock wall on the left.
“Yes.”
“Buon giorno, signore. Come sta.”
“Sto bene,” he said, trying to take a breath.
“I much admire your work. You are a genius,” said a short, thin man with close-cropped hair who stepped out from behind the rock. A small sapphire earring sat in his left lobe. He reached out eagerly and shook Elata’s hand. “I have long wanted to meet you.”
“Okay.”
“You are the third expert Signor Morgan has sent, you understand. But the others — they were clerks. Academics. Schoolteachers.” The small man practically spat as he spoke. “You will understand this. You — it is a pleasure to meet you. Truly.”
Elata started forward. The man caught him.
“I must warn you, my associates, they are very, very suspicious. There are video cameras. One right there, you see?” He pointed toward the yellow wall of the castle where there was, indeed, a video camera. “They hover nearby in a helicopter. Anything bad that you do, anything even suspicious — I’m afraid that it will not go well for you.”
Elata nodded.
“I would not like you hurt. That would be a terrible thing. You have much more to accomplish, eh? The world should not lose you.” The Italian could not have been more sincere. “You may leave when your inspection is done, but the others must stay,” added the man.
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Until the transfer is complete. Simply a precaution. These exchanges are always difficult to arrange. It is a dance. My partner wanted you to stay as well, but I persuaded him that you would be insulted. We would not want you insulted.” The man smiled and nodded. “A small boat will pick you up. Signor Morgan will not object, I am sure.”
“Can I see the paintings, please?”
“This way,” said the man, springing forward.
Elata followed him up the ramp to a narrow corridor behind the wall, and then around a sharp corner that led to the castle interior. A large wooden door stood open. The Italian entered; two men in creased jeans sat glumly on a small bench just inside. Elata guessed they were the other experts Morgan had sent; he wondered what their opinion had been.
This was too elaborate to be a trick, but perhaps the sellers would simply kill anyone who thought the paintings were fraudulent.
Morgan was supposed to protect him, the bastard. How could he give his true opinion under these conditions? He had the letter — but what good was it? How could he compare the paint? He trusted his eye better than any laboratory, but still — this was a job for a team of scientists, not an artist.
The short Italian pushed open a small rectangular wall at the side, its thick iron hinges creaking harshly. Elata had to stoop to step through.
Light flooded into his eyes. He’d stepped into a small courtyard.
Fourteen paintings, each approximately eighteen by twenty-six inches, stood on easels before him. He looked at the first and his lungs ceased working; his eyes turned to the second and his heart stopped. By the third he knew he would never himself pick up a paintbrush, either to make a forgery or do something of his own.
There was no point. These fourteen paintings held all possibilities of art — not merely agony but joy, not simply sorrow but triumph. Beyond this there was nothing.