Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“Or a perfect forgery,” Joe said.

“What are you suggesting?” Than Rang blurted out.

“Nothing,” Joe said. “But tell me, did you steal the painting?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you bought it from the men or women who did,” Joe pointed out. “By their very nature, that makes them criminals. Surely you didn’t take it on face value when you handed them their payment.”

The Korean bristled at the remark. “I would not be foolish enough to buy a fake.”

“There must be some way to tell for sure,” Acosta said.

“Bring the lights up to maximum,” Joe said. “One thing that can’t be faked is what’s called craquelure. As the painting ages, the oils dry out and the paint cracks. Based on the age of the work and the type of paint used, specific patterns will appear. It’s somewhat like an artistic fingerprint.”

With the lights up, Joe examined the surface of the painting. From what he’d been told, French craquelure tended to form in curving, sweeping lines, while Italian paintings tended to crack in squares or little rectangular blocks, which was why the Mona Lisa looked the way it did up close.

To Joe’s chagrin, neither pattern appeared on the Manet. There were vertical cracks, and a few horizontal ones, but nothing that looked like what he’d been taught to expect. He pulled out a magnifying glass to give himself a second look, and to buy himself some time. But the more he looked, the more convinced he became he was looking at a fake.

While Joe played art expert, Kurt tailed the mystery woman from the yacht. The longer he followed her, the more he noticed she was moving in a deliberate pattern. Out from the bar and then back, checking a quadrant of the garden at a time, and then reporting back to her date.

“She’s looking for something,” he said to himself.

He moved in closer and managed to overhear part of her conversation. The man called her “Calista.” So now he had a name, even if it was an alias.

She shook her head at something the man asked and then spoke. “Acosta and Than Rang are nowhere to be seen. They must be making the exchange now. Time to get in position.”

The man nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s be quick.” Kurt turned his back and eased in between two Korean businessmen who were having a spirited debate, nodding his head as if he agreed with something that was being said. The businessmen looked at him oddly, then went back to their conversation.

Calista and her date moved past Kurt and separated, heading off in different directions. Kurt followed Calista as she made her way from the terrace into the covered part of the ballroom and down a short hall. She slipped through a doorway and disappeared as it closed behind her. Squinting, Kurt noticed the sign on the door. The ladies’ room.

He looked for a place to linger, but the hall was a dead end. Instead of getting too close, he actually moved back, loitering in a spot from which he could watch the hall in the reflection of a smoked glass window.

Soon enough, the door swung open again.

Kurt kept his eyes on the reflection as she made her way back toward the garden. She passed him without a glance. But Kurt noticed something different about her. Her walk had changed. It was more refined, less brisk. The dress seemed to fit a little tighter, the figure inside was a little fuller.

Kurt couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t have to, he knew what he knew. The woman who’d come out of the restroom was not the same one who’d gone in.

On the fifty-second floor, Joe stared at the painting, wondering what to do. If he pronounced it a fake, all hell would break loose. If he claimed it to be real and it was some kind of test set up by Acosta or even Than Rang, his cover would be blown.

“Well?” Than Rang said. “What is your verdict?”

Joe stroked the goatee that had been glued to his face. “It . . . it . . .” He turned to Acosta and in full character said, “It brings a tear to my eye to see such an old friend once again. Never did I think it would be recovered.”

Than Rang relaxed. Acosta sighed.

Joe exhaled along with them. “Yes,” he said. “I can assure you, this is the bona fide work of the master. Look at the touch. Look at the depth. You are both very lucky men.”

“Very good,” Acosta said. He motioned to the man with one hand and pointed to Joe. “Pay him.”

A briefcase was produced that looked exactly like Solano’s. “The second half of your fee. One hundred thousand euros, as we agreed.”

Joe opened the case, looked over the money, and then shut it quickly. Unfortunately, even as he did so, the one-handed man was taking the case Joe had brought in with him and carrying it off with the tracking device inside.

“My pen,” Joe said. “It’s in the case.”

Acosta laughed and slapped Joe on the back. “You can buy a whole factory of pens with what I’ve paid you.”