There are a lot of important paintings at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC.
The walls are filled with paintings by Claude Monet, Edouard Manet, Rembrandt van Rijn, and Raphael.
Works by El Greco.
Johannes Vermeer.
Sandro Botticelli.
Mary Cassatt.
They are history’s greatest painters, and they produced some of the world’s most famous paintings.
But there is only one painting by Leonardo da Vinci at the National Gallery of Art.
It is a portrait of a young aristocrat by the name of Ginevra de’ Benci, a woman of renowned beauty and the inspiration for many poems in her lifetime.
In fact, it is the only painting by Leonardo da Vinci on view in a museum in the United States.
The painting resides in Gallery 6 on the main floor of the West Building of the National Gallery of Art. It is mounted on a stand in the middle of the room. A single spotlight shines down on it. The walls of this particular gallery are the thickest in the museum. There are no windows. There is one doorway that serves as both entrance and exit. It is a literal dead end. And it is also where Arthur Hamilton Jr. had decided to rescue his father.
Slightly out of breath from his quick journey through the ventilation system and across several galleries, Art crouched down behind the stand and waited.
Dr. Roger Belette led the way to Gallery 6.
Arthur Hamilton listened as Belette explained the history of the painting to Palmer, who did not seem the least bit interested. Hamilton suspected that his son’s selection of this particular painting was not random. The portrait of Ginevra de’ Benci by Leonardo da Vinci has one particularly unique feature—the painting is two-sided. On the reverse side of the wooden panel on which the portrait is painted is a wreath of juniper, laurel, and palm and the poet’s motto. In normal circumstances the back of a painting is rarely seen—a painting may sit flat against a wall for decades, if not centuries. The inscription on the back of the painting of Ginevra would have been known only to a select few—a secret to the rest of the world. Today, though, the painting is displayed so that both the back and the front can be seen. And the connection between the portrait by Leonardo da Vinci and the water stain on the back of the fake van Gogh was unmistakable.
As proud as he may have been of what his son was trying to do, Hamilton also knew that they would be lucky to survive the night. Art should have called the police. He should have protected himself. Art had allowed his emotions to get the better of him.
Hamilton hoped that his son had some sort of plan.
“We’re here,” Belette said.
Hamilton, Palmer, and Belette stood just outside the entrance to Gallery 6. Palmer’s two thugs remained close behind. In the middle of the dark room and highlighted by a single spotlight was a small square painting on a tall stand—only fifteen inches by fifteen inches in size. A brass railing surrounded the painting. The young woman on the canvas gazed out at the viewer with a stoic look on her face. It was Ginevra, the aristocrat. The painting hinted at da Vinci’s more famous work—La Gioconda, or, as it is more commonly known, the Mona Lisa.
“Is there another entrance to the room?” asked Palmer.
Belette shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s the most secure room in the museum—and for good reason. One way in, and one way out.”
Palmer smiled and stepped into the room, followed by Belette and Hamilton. Hamilton looked around for any sign of his son, but the small room appeared empty.
“Enough games,” Palmer announced loudly. “No more riddles, clues, or notes. I want the journal, and I want it now.”
The room was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Hamilton hoped that his son had thought better of whatever plan he might have had. But then, suddenly, a voice came out of the darkness.
“Do we have a deal?” the voice asked.
It was Art’s voice. Hamilton’s heart dropped in his chest. They were trapped.
The boy appeared from behind the stand that held the da Vinci painting. He clutched the journal in his right hand.
“Art!” Hamilton exclaimed, and started for his son.
One of Palmer’s subordinates grabbed the father by his arm and stopped him in his tracks. Hamilton winced in pain.
“Hand over the journal,” Palmer said.
“Let my dad go,” said Art, “and you can have it.”
Palmer laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he said, “you’re no longer in a position to negotiate. This is checkmate. So no more games—hand over the journal.”
Art did not immediately respond. He simply stood in place and stared across the room.
“Fine,” he finally said. “You can have it.”
The boy tossed the journal at Palmer. It hit the floor and slid to a stop just short of Palmer’s feet.
Palmer picked up the journal and started thumbing through it.
“It’s on the tabbed page,” said Art.
Palmer turned to the page with the small yellow tab and examined the drawings. “The spider,” he said appreciatively. “We have been looking for you, my little friend.”
Palmer handed the journal to Belette. “Destroy it,” he said. “Leave nothing but ashes.”
Belette nodded and mumbled that he would take care of it immediately.
“I’ve kept my part of the deal,” said Art. “Now let my dad go.”
Palmer smiled. “You didn’t really think that would happen, did you?”
“But we made a deal,” Art pleaded. “You’ve got what you need.”
“That’s correct,” replied Palmer. “I have everything I need.”
Palmer turned to one of the large men with him, the one with the thick glasses. “Grab the boy,” he instructed.
“Wait!” said Hamilton. “Please.” He turned to Palmer. “Let me talk to my son,” he said. “He’ll cooperate, I promise. I don’t want this to be any harder than it needs to be.”
“Fine,” Palmer said. “Make sure he cooperates. One wrong move from either you or your son, and we’ll end this here and now. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Hamilton as he wrenched his arm free from Palmer’s underling.
Hamilton made his way across the room and stood next to the brass railing directly in front of his son. Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. Hamilton reached down, pulled the boy over to his chest, and hugged him tightly.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” he whispered to his son. Hamilton could feel the tears welling up in his own eyes. “Listen,” he continued to whisper. “When we leave, I’ll try to create some sort of distraction. When I do, just run.”
“I’m not leaving you again,” replied Art firmly.
“There’s no other way,” said Hamilton.
“There is another way,” Art said.
“Okay,” said Palmer. “Time to go.”
He nodded at the man with the thick glasses, who started across the room toward the Hamiltons.
The boy pushed away from his father. “I wouldn’t come any closer,” the boy said. He locked eyes with Palmer.
Hamilton looked down at his son with a look of surprise on his face.
The boy continued to stare across the room at Palmer.
Bazanov hesitated. He glanced over at his leader.
“Get them, and let’s go,” said Palmer.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the boy said. He pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and held it up for everyone to see. It contained some sort of red powdery substance.
“And what is that supposed to be?” said Palmer. “A magical potion?”
“Sort of,” replied Art. “It’s a little mixture I put together. My dad showed me how to do it once when we were in Italy—we made homemade poppers. You know, the little fireworks you throw to the ground and they explode. It was awesome. But my dad made me promise to never do it on my own. He said it was too dangerous.”
Arthur Hamilton Sr.’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t,” he said. “Please tell me you didn’t use the potassium chlorate?”
“I did,” said the boy. “And this bag is, like, a thousand times bigger than the little poppers we made—it’ll be awesome. Red flames and a big explosion.”
Lantham, Bazanov, and Belette started to slowly back away, a look of uncertainty on their faces.
“The boy’s bluffing,” said Palmer. “I can’t believe any of you are buying this. If I have to take care of this myself, I will.”
Palmer started walking across the room toward Hamilton and his son.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Hamilton. “My son doesn’t know what he’s doing. That stuff can be very unstable. If he mixed it up incorrectly, then the stuff in that bag could blow us all up.”
“I am a little nervous,” said the boy. “And my hands are getting all sweaty.”
Lantham, Bazanov, and Belette each took two more steps back. “We still don’t know what he did with Nigel,” Bazanov muttered. “The kid’s some sort of . . . junior attack ninja or something. Maybe he blew Nigel up.”
Palmer stood in the middle of the room and waved his arms wildly in the air. “There is nothing in that bag but colored sand or Kool-Aid. I’m telling you, it’s a bluff!”
“It’s not a bluff,” Art said.
And without another word of warning, the boy simply tossed the small plastic bag toward Palmer and the others.