Damon Sacks was not a patient man, and he did not suffer fools gladly. And although he understood the need for the hastily called meeting of the board of trustees, it did not please him. At the far end of the room, the director of the museum, Elizabeth Downing, was excitedly discussing the details of the museum’s latest planned acquisition—a long-lost painting by Vincent van Gogh, The Park at Arles with the Entrance Seen Through the Trees. The museum had agreed to purchase the painting for the sum of one hundred and eighty-three million dollars, a purchase made possible through a private charitable trust. And although the amount the museum was paying may have seemed outrageous, Sacks knew it was a wise investment.
The museum was so excited about the painting that it had already arranged a major exhibition to begin in less than two months. The exhibit, which had initially been scheduled to last for only a month, had already been extended into midsummer because of the huge public interest.
The story behind the painting was almost unbelievable. Long rumored to have been destroyed by fire during World War II, the painting—and reportedly several other lost works that had yet to be identified—had recently been found in a bank vault in Berlin. According to the art dealer who brokered the acquisition, the family who had owned the vault had barely escaped Germany with their lives at the outset of World War II and immigrated to the United States. The patriarch of the family—and the only member of the family who knew of the existence of the vault, where he stashed their valuable art collection before they left—died shortly after arriving in New York City. The family had settled into life in the United States, apparently under the belief that their amazing collection of artwork had either been captured by the Nazis or destroyed by fire. More than sixty years later, a representative from the German bank had appeared at the doorstep of the patriarch’s grandson with some rather amazing news.
The family, although they had settled into a comfortable middle-class existence in their adopted country, had neither the desire nor the means to house and maintain the type of art collection left to them by their ancestor. Wishing to remain anonymous, they secured the services of a discreet art dealer from Switzerland to sell the collection. Their only request was that the United States—the country that had provided them safety from the Nazis—be provided the first opportunity to purchase the van Gogh painting, with promises of more paintings to come.
It was a unique opportunity for the National Gallery of Art. But Sacks also knew that buying a painting under these circumstances would not be easy—and not a matter to be taken lightly. The museum first had to comply with guidelines established by the American Alliance of Museums and the Association of Art Museum Directors to ensure that the painting had not been stolen by the Nazis during World War II. Paintings and other artwork identified as stolen by the Nazis would be returned to their rightful owners. The museum also had to establish the painting’s provenance—that is, where it came from. The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam traced the painting’s history from Theo van Gogh, Vincent’s brother, to a family in Berlin in 1928. The paperwork provided by the bank and the art dealer filled in the rest of the story. The stringent museum guidelines had been more than satisfied.
The museum next had to establish the authenticity of the painting itself. Was it, in fact, a real van Gogh? Fake paintings abounded, and more than one museum had been fooled over the years. With a hundred and eighty-three million dollars on the line, Sacks did not intend to take anything for granted. He had insisted on the highest level of proof that the painting was authentic. And so the museum had retained the services of one of the world’s foremost authorities to authenticate the painting. This man had been given unlimited access to the canvas; any resource or support he requested was provided to him. His only mission was to determine whether the painting was a real van Gogh, and the man’s report was set to be delivered the following morning. Upon receipt of the summary, and assuming the painting was authentic, the transaction would likely be consummated and one hundred and eighty-three million dollars would be wired to an account in Switzerland.
“And now,” said Director Downing, “I would like to introduce the man who has led the museum’s effort to obtain the van Gogh—our director of acquisitions, Dr. Roger Belette.”
They made their way out of the rotunda and down the West Sculpture Hall. The boy knew they were heading in the opposite direction from the room in which he had been found. Camille talked the whole way, pointing to one sculpture after another. She had something to say about everything, but that was fine by him. Camille did a great job of keeping her mom occupied. Still, every now and then, the boy would catch Mary glancing over at him. He tried to keep his emotions off his face, but it was difficult—his heart was racing in his chest. He didn’t recognize just some of the sculptures in the hall—he recognized them all.
They made their way into the maze of galleries that surrounded the West Sculpture Hall. The cold marble floors of the sculpture hall gave way to the wide oak planks of the galleries. The rooms were small, and the wood floors infused the galleries with a warm and intimate feel. The trio continued to make their way around and through the west wing—past the dark, moody retreats of Rembrandt van Rijn and the lively portraits of Frans Hals, into the formal elegance of Rubens, through a room filled with the colorful Madonnas of Raphael, and finally for a quick peek at a Botticelli or two.
“Anything?” asked Mary Sullivan as they reentered the rotunda.
“No,” replied Art. He felt bad that he continued to lie to Mary. Everything was so familiar. He could have told her about any of the paintings that they had just walked past or the artists that had created them. He could have described how the painting Girl with the Red Hat by the Dutch master Johannes Vermeer showed his mastery of light, or how the elongated figures in the painting Saint Martin and the Beggar were a telltale sign of the painter El Greco. The boy felt completely at home in the museum, but he remained lost to himself. It was a strange feeling.
Mary bent down and looked Art in the eyes. “Are you up for the rest of our tour?” she asked.
“I want to keep going,” he said.
Mary nodded. “Okay. But let me know if . . .”
“If I start to freak out?”
She smiled. “Yes. If you start to freak out.”
“Anyone have eyes?” asked Dorchek Palmer.
The answers in his earpiece all came back negative, which was actually good news. Palmer sat in the Garden Café on the ground floor of the West Building of the National Gallery. He had lucked out, as the café was open later than usual due to a special holiday exhibit. Within minutes of ascertaining Mary Sullivan’s location at the museum—and assuming his prey were going inside—he had dispatched his team, who had arrived straightaway to set up at each exit of the West Building, one member doubling up to keep an eye on the concourse leading to the East Building and one member remaining outside the structure. Three vehicles were parked within a block of the museum. Palmer knew that the West Building was far too big and had far too many rooms to conduct an effective ground search, particularly with only five team members and himself. So the first step was to secure the exits and identify the boy if he tried to leave. If they were lucky, the boy was still in the building.
Palmer had his iPad propped up in front of him at a corner table in the café. He had tapped into the museum’s video security feeds—which were extensive—and was running the images in real time through sophisticated facial recognition software. If the software got a hit on the boy, his team would immediately move into action.
Palmer knew that there was no room for mistakes—the boy could not escape again. But Palmer had complete confidence in his team. What had occurred the last time was a fluke—the boy had been a surprise, and there had not been time for sufficient intel gathering and preparation. This time, however, his team was prepared. Palmer had handpicked every member of his crew, recruited them all. They could break into the White House and steal the president’s favorite pen, and no one would know. Catching a small boy would be no problem.
“There is no question,” said Dr. Belette, “as to the authenticity of this painting.”
He pointed to an image of the van Gogh painting on the large video screen beside him on the wall. “Its provenance is well established. It has been subjected to every conceivable test and passed every one with flying colors. It has been examined by numerous experts on van Gogh, each of whom has unequivocally pronounced it as genuine.”
“Not quite all of them,” said a deep voice from the back of the room. “Dr. Hamilton has yet to render his final verdict.”
The speaker was Damon Sacks, the secretary of state of the United States. Elizabeth Downing, the director of the museum, had feared that Sacks would interject himself into the process—he was known to push people’s buttons simply to see how they responded. Downing knew that the only way to respond to Sacks was to push back when he pushed her—never back down. But would the bookish director of acquisitions have the internal fortitude to do that? Downing prepared herself to intervene. To her surprise, Dr. Belette seemed remarkably calm.
“A mere formality,” Belette said confidently. “It is true that we still await Dr. Hamilton’s final report, but I am confident that it will confirm what we already know.”
“You are confident?” asked Sacks. “Dr. Hamilton was hired by this museum to be the final word on this painting. He is the leading authority in the world on art forgery. We are about to spend one hundred and eighty-three million dollars to purchase this painting. I need more than your confidence that the painting is authentic.”
Sacks stood up, pushed his chair back, and glared across the table at Dr. Belette. “I fully expected that Dr. Hamilton would be here today to address this board.”
Uh-oh, thought Director Downing. She had received an email earlier that morning from Hamilton explaining that he was in the process of completing his report and would not be present for the meeting. The museum director started to stand in an effort to mediate. But Dr. Belette motioned for her to remain seated.
“Dr. Hamilton is the best there is,” said Belette. “But his job—no disrespect—is not to put on a dog-and-pony show for this board—or you. His job is to complete his report so that this acquisition can be finalized.”
Dr. Belette paused.
“I hesitate to speak further,” he finally said, “for I fear he may have shared this with me in confidence.” Belette’s voice had dropped almost to a whisper. He spoke as if he were divulging a family secret. Everyone at the table—with the exception of Damon Sacks—leaned forward to catch his every word.
“When we spoke this morning,” continued Belette, “Dr. Hamilton informed me that his report will absolutely confirm the authenticity of the painting.”
The eyes of the board turned to Damon Sacks. The room was silent.
Sacks sat back down. He tapped his pen on the table.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“I’ll await Dr. Hamilton’s final report,” he finally said—and the matter was concluded.
Elizabeth Downing—as well as everyone else in the room—breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced over at Roger Belette and nodded her approval.
Roger Belette took his seat at the table as Elizabeth Downing brought the meeting to a close. His head felt as if it would explode. He had feared that he wouldn’t make it through the meeting and the inevitable resistance from the board’s notoriously acrimonious member. But Belette had. And in the aftermath of his confrontation with the secretary of state, the board had voted unanimously to approve the acquisition of the van Gogh painting as soon as Dr. Hamilton’s final report was received—assuming, of course, that it confirmed that the painting was authentic. But Belette had every confidence that Hamilton’s report would absolutely, and without any question, corroborate that fact. Belette, after all, had written that report, which would be delivered via email to Elizabeth Downing at precisely nine o’clock the following morning.