DuPont tugged at the knot of his tie, looked up at the ceiling, and then said, “I’m very sorry, Miss Vega, but the document you are looking for is not here.”
“But one matching its description is. I want to examine it. The Smithsonian sent me quite a distance based on representations your staff made—”
“Unfortunately, that document is being restored in our lab and unavailable for viewing at the moment. I don’t believe it’s the codex you’re looking for. But the one in our lab is in good hands, I assure you.”
She snorted. “With all due respect, Mr. DuPont, given your recent history of art restoration, you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust your assurances.”
DuPont’s face shaded red.
“It’s no secret that da Vinci’s Virgin and Child with Saint Anne restoration went horribly wrong—”
“That is patently not true!”
“Mr. DuPont,” Vail said, keeping her voice calm and even, “I’m not going to debate that with you. I haven’t seen it, so I’m merely going by what I read in the news. But I am intimately familiar with the restoration process. I’m not looking to photograph or even handle the manuscript without following proper protocols. In fact, a conservator can handle it. No harm would come to it. I just wish to examine and authenticate it.”
That last part is actually true. Now, what happens after that …
DuPont’s face returned to normal flesh tones. He took a breath and thinned his lips. “The restorers are doing just that. And despite your assertions to the contrary, our staff is among the finest in the world. So—”
“I have my instructions. I can’t leave without seeing that document. And I give you my word that I’ll make a strong recommendation to Mr. Buffett that he make that donation for the Teschen Table.”
“Warren Buffet?”
“I did not say that.” Vail maintained a poker face. “In fact, I’ve already said more than I should.”
DuPont pressed his lips together, a look of frustration. “My instructions are that no one is to examine that document. I’m not even supposed to acknowledge that we have it on premises.”
“Whose decision was that?”
“The director of ancient documents, Lutfi Raboud.”
Sounds like a Muslim name. Stop it, Karen. Not all Muslims are extremists. This is France, with a large Muslim population. It’s very possible he’s a perfectly legit museum officer.
“It’s out of my hands,” DuPont said. “When a painting or antiquity is brought to the basement laboratory for examination, conservation or restoration, it’s administratively transferred to another department. The Center for Document Restoration. I get regular updates on its progress but I’m not involved in the process unless there’s a question or my input is otherwise required. It is indeed unfortunate that you had to travel all this way for nothing. And I apologize if my assistants were uninformed or in any way misled you. Believe me, the Louvre would like to cooperate in any way possible. But there’s nothing I can do.”
“Can I speak with Mr. Raboud?”
DuPont audibly sighed. He was getting tired of dealing with Vail and — she hoped — was willing to pawn her off to the person she needed to meet … and evaluate behaviorally.
“Come with me.”
He led the way out of his office and down the hall to a service elevator. He pressed B1 and the car descended. Seconds later they emerged in a tiled corridor leading to glass doors that opened into a modern, state-of-the-art restoration facility.
DuPont pressed four numerals into a keypad and an electronic lock clicked. Vail memorized the sequence.
“We have a number of restoration workshops in the Louvre, depending on the medium being cleaned and repaired. Our statuary restorations are done in a very large room. It’s low-tech, naturally lit with a skylight in the ceiling. The technicians work on wood surfaces that sit atop sawhorses — very different from what you see here.”
For a second Vail lost herself, marveling at the tools and instruments she wished she could have spent hours playing with. When she was in college studying art history, never in her dreams did she see herself in the bowels of the Louvre, staring at priceless antiquities.
She reminded herself why she was here and glanced around to get an idea of what type of security measures they had in place.
Vail was sure they were stringent — but, then again, it was best not to assume. One would have thought the White House had surveillance cameras installed all along its periphery — but that did not happen until recently when a gunman took a rifle and buried several rounds into a window where the First Lady was napping. The bulletproof glass prevented injury — but the Secret Service was unaware of the attack and had no “eyes” on the periphery, allowing the sniper to escape. It was but one example of a facility that should have been one of the most secure in the world, yet was woefully under protected.
She saw cameras in the hallway but nothing — as yet — inside the lab.
“Please wait here,” DuPont said. “I’ll go retrieve Mr. Raboud.”
“While you’re doing that, I need to use the restroom. Can you point me in the direction?”
“I will escort you. I can’t allow you to wander around here unattended. I’m sure you understand.”
“Absolutely.”
He led her past a number of men and women who were bent over workstations lit indirectly with full-spectrum bulbs, some of whom were peering through high-powered microscopes or jeweler’s loupes strapped to their foreheads.
DuPont stopped opposite two doors in a corner of the facility and gestured at the one on the left. Vail proceeded in and made a quick assessment: it was a fairly basic facility with a single sink, two stalls, and a ventilation duct about six feet off the ground. She stood on her toes and tried to get a look inside but was a couple of inches short.
She waited a few seconds, then flushed the toilet and washed her hands.
DuPont was waiting outside with another man.
“This is Lufti Raboud, the Louvre’s director of ancient documents.” He was a bald, thick man of about forty with a clean-shaven, pock-marked face from childhood chicken pox, by Vail’s guess. He wore a black suit and white tie, looking formal and official.
“A pleasure,” Vail said. “I’ve come all the way from Washington to examine the Aleppo Codex. But apparently there’s been a bit of a snafu and I need your authorization to see it.”
Raboud’s face was as expressionless as that of a stone statue. “We are not in possession of that document. I’m sorry you’ve come so far. This was, indeed, a miscommunication. Was it our fau—”
“I know you have it here,” Vail said. “Mr. DuPont and I have already been through the charade.”
DuPont lifted an index finger. “That’s not exactly what I—”
“So let’s save us both a little time. Just let me do my job. I only need ten minutes, at most, with the codex. Whatever safeguards you insist upon will be fine with me.”
“I cannot let you see that which we do not have. I apologize if Mr. DuPont led you to believe otherwise.” He forced a smile. “Now, mademoiselle, I have a meeting I’m late for.” He nodded at DuPont — a stiff, unpleasant gesture — and turned to leave.
“You’re a skilled liar, Mr. Raboud. Does it come naturally or did you have to learn it?”
Raboud spun and faced her. His face now showed some character: it flushed in anger.
“Whatever your reason for denying that you have the codex doesn’t concern me. Those are administrative matters. I’m solely interested in verifying the art and establishing the document’s place in history.”
Raboud chewed on that a moment, tapping his right oxford dress shoe. Then he took a step forward and bit his lower lip, apparently still deciding how to respond. “We had a document that some thought was the codex. Because of its controversial nature, we did not want it known that it was in our possession. It would’ve created difficulties with the Israelis, the Americans, even the Vatican. I was relieved, to say the least, when it turned out not to be the codex. Either way, it’s no longer here. We did some minor cleaning and sent it on its way.”