Mac Smith handed their engraved invitations to the uniformed guard at the West Building’s Constitution Avenue entrance, then he and Annabel passed through a metal detector. The attendance of Vice President and Mrs. Aprile dictated enhanced security; two Secret Service agents with dogs patrolled the perimeter. Mr. and Mrs. Mackensie Smith climbed the stairs to the Rotunda on the main floor, where the predinner cocktail party was in full swing.
“Drink?” Mac asked.
“A touch of white wine.”
He slipped between elbows to place his order at one of the four bars set up in the West Sculpture Hall. A young tuxedoed man reached over him to snare a bruschetta from a tray being passed by a waiter. The small piece of toasted garlic bread, topped with chopped tomatoes and sprinkled with olive oil, disappeared into his mouth in one movement. He smacked his lips and said to those with him, “I know what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t kid about something like that.”
You know something about gluttony, Mac thought.
The string quartet reached the section of a Corelli concerto marked appassionato, causing the young man to speak louder: “His name was Yakoto Kayami. Big-shot businessman, more money than God, one of the biggest art collections in Japan. Somebody got hold of the fact that most of the paintings he owned were trash, or forged, or stolen, or a combination of the above, so he did a hara-kiri on himself, big sword right through his gut.” He laughed. The woman winced. Mac took his wife’s elbow and herded her in the direction of another hors d’oeuvre tray skillfully balanced on the hand of a waitress.
“Mac, Annabel,” a voice said as they were about to toast each other.
“Hello, Scott,” Annabel said to the portly man with silken yellow-gray hair, thick tortoiseshell glasses, and chubby cheeks of high color. His bow tie and cummerbund were created from a multicolored Matisse print, a showy contrast with his black tux.
“Dear lady Annabel,” M. Scott Pims said, kissing her hand.
“Not me,” Mac Smith said, withdrawing his hand from reach. “I left my papal ring home.”
“Pitty,” said Pims. “I need dispensation tonight from—from something.”
“The food?” Annabel suggested lightly.
“Oh, no,” Pims replied. “The food is heavenly. Like the crowd.” He made a face as if a foul smell had wafted into the room.
M. Scott Pims was Washington’s most visible artistic gadfly. He wrote extensively on the arts, his articles and reviews appearing in a wide variety of publications. His books, although never reaching best-seller status, enjoyed splendid reviews and were staples in local bookstores. A weekly program on public television station WETA drew a large audience because of his flamboyant, irreverent, often choleric trashing of the art world. Pims’s reputation as a gossip monger and trivia lover was without peer.
“Braced for the big announcement?” Pims asked.
“Big announcement?” Annabel said, glancing at Mac.
“I admire that in a woman, Annabel,” Pims said. “Practicing discretion until told it is all right to be indiscreet. Of course you know about it, being in the position you enjoy with the insiders.” He laughed and included the room in a sweep of his hand. “And we’re surrounded by insiders, aren’t we? Ah, well. I shall play along with your admirable façade and pretend you don’t know. You won’t hear it from me. Excuse me. Must circulate. Somewhere in this drove of pretension is a juicy story of lust, love, perhaps murder, or more. And, of course, I must be the one to reveal it. Pleasant evening, Smiths. And Annabel, congratulations on your new role as ambassador-at-large for the White House. Good luck with the Italians. And keep your eye on Luther. He may seem benign here at home, but once abroad he turns into a carnal beast. Ta ta.”
“ ‘Drove of pretension’?” Mac said, laughing as they watched Pims embrace a woman who seemed to be made of jewelry. “He’s a drove of pretension unto himself.”
“I like him,” Annabel said. “He’s fun.”
“I suppose.” Mac leaned close to her ear. “Obviously, the big surprise about the lost Caravaggio isn’t such a big surprise.”
“Which comes as no surprise in this town, or where Pims is concerned. With his network, he probably knew about it before Court Whitney. Besides, he and Luther are very close friends. Court did his best to keep it under wraps, but you know how those things go, especially in D.C., with its committees, networks, people who ‘need to know.’ It’s a wonder it hasn’t been in the papers.”
“Or on Pims’s TV show. There’s Billie and Roy heading into that gallery. Let’s catch up with them. I need to ask Roy something.”
As Mac and Annabel pursued their friends, Roy and Billie Kramer, and while other guests smacked and snacked and enjoyed the Italian wines, National Gallery director Courtney Whitney looked out over the Capitol from the terrace outside his seventh-floor East Building office. He was alone. Down the hall, in the seventh-floor boardroom, Luther Mason and Father Pasquale Giocondi were going over final details of how news of the Grottesca would be presented to those gathered.
Whitney’s remarkable meeting with a bedraggled Luther Mason at Dulles Airport almost a month ago had spawned an equally remarkable series of events at the National Gallery.
Upon returning to his office that day, and in violation of his commitment to keep those in the know to a small number—he knew that if he didn’t bring in the trustees from the start, he might not be around for the Caravaggio show—Whitney convened a meeting that night. Joining him in the boardroom were seven of the Gallery’s nine trustees. The two absent members comprised half of the four-person contingent decreed to come from government; the other five had no government connection. Whitney preferred dealing with the government faction, because not being collectors, they tended to defer more readily to his ideas than the others. Besides, the government had little control over the Gallery’s daily activities. Its funds were mandated by Congress—changes of administration meant virtually nothing where money was concerned. Of course, there was always the push by a new administration for patronage jobs, all of which were summarily rejected.
Still, it was nice to have a White House like the Jeppsen-Aprile version demonstrating a particular interest in art. No sense turning one’s back on it. The executive branch might not exactly feed the Gallery, but there was nothing to be gained, and perhaps much to be lost, by biting its hand.
The trustees placed no stumbling blocks in what had become, by that time, Whitney’s shared enthusiasm for bringing Grottesca to the National Gallery. There were the expected questions about the unusual circumstances of the painting’s discovery by Luther Mason, and the manner in which it would leave Italy for its brief residency in Washington. But Whitney urged that Luther, as a foremost Caravaggio expert, be given a free hand. Once the work was securely in the Gallery, he assured them, he, Courtney Whitney III, would take personal charge.
He asked the trustees for public silence until he made the official announcement at the first of two dinners and ended the meeting with a final comment about the unusual conditions of bringing the masterpiece to Washington: “Unorthodox, perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, but no more so than the artist himself.”
The following morning, he chaired a series of meetings, including one at which Annabel Reed-Smith represented the White House Arts Council. By that time there had been discreet communications between Mrs. Aprile and the council, the National Gallery, and Italy’s Ministry of Culture confirming the details of how Grottesca would travel to the United States.
The rumor that a world-class announcement would be made at the dinner had resulted in a crush of media requests to attend. The public-information office urged that a press conference be held prior to the dinner, but Mason was squarely against that idea and pressed Whitney to quash it. “So much more potent, Court, to allow the news to emerge from the dinner. The more mystery the better. Build the suspense.”
Whitney was persuaded. Only top dogs from carefully selected news organizations were invited to the dinner, and they were asked simply to enjoy the evening—no snooping, no questions, no reporting. But press releases were prepared in advance for handing out afterward.
The question of who would make the announcement about Grottesca had also been a topic for debate.
Whitney had thought carefully about it. If he made the announcement—which would be expected—it might appear that he was stealing Mason’s thunder, something he was perfectly willing to do, provided it didn’t look as though he were doing it. He had asked Luther if he would prefer being the bearer of good news. “After all,” he said, “it was you who made this possible.”
Mason didn’t hesitate. “No, Court. It’s the director’s responsibility and privilege. Thank you for offering, but you’re the appropriate person to do it.”
Whitney checked his watch. Time to go. As he slipped into his evening jacket and checked his appearance in a mirror, down the hall Luther Mason was in the midst of a heated discussion with the defrocked priest.
“Absolutely not,” Mason said.
Pasquale Giocondi, who wore his “uniform” for the evening—brown habit, sandals, and a large wooden cross suspended from a leather thong—shrugged and said, “I did not realize when I agreed to do this that so much would be at stake, Signor Mason. You are asking me to take part in a crime, si? But for so little money. I must weigh the risk.”
“There is no risk,” Mason said sharply. “All the risk is mine. All you have to do is say a few words about—”
“A few lies, you mean.”
“From what I understand, lying is not alien to you, Father Giocondi. Nor is crime.”
Another shrug from Giocondi. “I will not take your insult personally. And I will not go through with this unless you pay me more.”
The door opened and Court Whitney poked his head into the boardroom, a practiced smile lighting his face. “Ready, Father?” he asked. “Your audience awaits.”
Giocondi looked to Mason; arched dyed eyebrows asked a question. Luther’s face was tight as he nodded. “All right,” he mumbled.
“Yes, I am ready, Signor Whitney. I look forward to meeting your honored guests.”
Mason stood and waited for Giocondi to do the same. “Court, I think it would be wise to spare the Father from the media who are here. We’ll handle all the questions at a later press conference. Father Giocondi should be sheltered from that.”
“Probably prudent, Luther. By the way, I’ve decided that after I announce the discovery of Grottesca, I’ll introduce you to say a few words and to introduce Father Giocondi.”
“I really don’t think that’s—”
“Spare me your modesty, Luther.” He slapped his senior curator on the back. “Come on. The hors d’oeuvres will be gone.”
They rode down in the elevator and took the underground moving walkway connecting the East and West buildings. As they stepped off, Giocondi stopped to admire a waterfall created by twenty-four jets of water in the exterior courtyard that linked the buildings. The water spewed six feet into the air and then ran down multiple tiny concrete steps to an expanse of glass that ran floor to ceiling. “Bello! Bello!” he exclaimed.
“Come,” Whitney urged.
By the time they joined the cocktail party, most of the guests had become aware of a painting covered by a red-velvet drape and mounted on an easel on steps leading up to an inactive fountain in the West Garden Court. It was flanked by two uniformed guards. Spotlights on portable metal stands were trained on the easel but had not yet been turned on.
“What is it?” one person asked another.
“Is this the big surprise we’ve been hearing about?”
“What could it be?”
“Scott, you must know what’s under that drape.”
Only satisfied, knowing smiles from M. Scott Pims. “Patience,” he replied to those inquiries. “All in due time.”
“That pompous, phony bastard,” a man said. “He doesn’t know any more than we do, just likes to make us think he does.”
With the appearance of Mason, Whitney, and the skinny little old priest in brown robe and sandals, attention went to them. People speculated on who the monk was.
Whitney circulated with his wife, leaving Mason and Giocondi on their own. Luther led Giocondi to a relatively quiet area behind the musicians. But he couldn’t hide. People kept coming up to congratulate Luther on his success at mounting the Caravaggio exhibition, which meant, of course, having to introduce Giocondi. “This is Father Pasquale Giocondi,” he said quickly. “He’s here from Italy and is my special guest this evening.” That sufficed for most people, although others attempted to engage Giocondi in conversation. Mason answered most of their questions for the priest.
Eventually, the guests were seated for dinner at candlelit tables of eight in the West Garden Court and the West Sculpture Hall. There was no dais. A lectern and microphone had been positioned to the side of the dry fountain, near the shrouded easel.
Court Whitney, the gallery trustees, and the vice president and other high-ranking representatives from government occupied tables nearest the fountain. A large contingent from the Italian Embassy, including Carlo Giliberti, took up two tables. Luther Mason and Father Giocondi sat at a table surprisingly distant from the center of the action, considering that Luther was, in most eyes, the star of the evening. But he hadn’t wanted to be close to others. He chose this table when Special Events was making seating assignments and arranged for Scott Pims; Julian, Luther’s son from his first marriage; Julian’s date; and three members of his curatorial staff to sit with him and Giocondi. It was, for Luther, a safe table.
Mac and Annabel’s table included members of the National Gallery’s senior administrative staff. Once antipasto was served, the topic of conversation quickly turned to the priest.
“Any idea who he is?” someone asked.
The others shook their heads. One gentleman speculated, “Maybe Caravaggio confessed his sins to him.”
“The way this show is shaping up,” said another, “we could use some heavenly intervention.” She was the writer in the Education Department responsible for developing educational Caravaggio materials for schoolchildren. “Caravaggio was a barbarian,” she told her dinner companions. “Assault on the via della Scrofa. Imprisoned in Tor di Nona. Attacking people with swords. Murder in Rome. Rape. Thievery. An out-and-out scoundrel.”
That set off the usual debate over the role an artist’s personal life should play in evaluating his creative output. Another round of discussions centered on whether Caravaggio was homosexual, bisexual, or merely high-spirited. It was a lively and spirited table; the good conversation carried through the meal, until Whitney stepped to the lectern and asked for everyone’s attention.
After an interminable number of introductions and acknowledgments, Vice President Aprile spoke: “I’m honored to be here this evening,” he said, “but I think Carole is the one to make any remarks about the purpose of the evening. She’s the Caravaggio expert in this family. And, I might add, in this administration.”
Carole Aprile pledged the full and continuing support of the White House Arts Council to the exhibition.
Whitney resumed his position at the microphone and said, “Judging from the splendid turnout this evening, having a rumor circulating around town that something important would be announced was good for business.” There was some laughter. “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. The fact is that this institution has been instrumental in finding one of the art world’s most important lost treasures. Ironically, it is a work by the genius we celebrate tonight, whose majestic creative achievement will grace these walls a few months from now.” He went to the draped painting. The spotlights came on, giving brilliant life to the red velvet. Whitney untied two red silk ribbons and slowly pulled the drape away. Gallery photographers took pictures.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Whitney, “I proudly present to you Caravaggio’s lost masterpiece, Grottesca.”
A smattering of gasps from the knowing cut through a muttered chorus of, “What is it? What’s Grottesca?”
“For some background on the monumental importance of this painting, I’d like Senior Curator Luther Mason to say a few words. As most of you know, Luther is one of the world’s foremost experts on Caravaggio and is our curator for the exhibition. Luther’s dedication to seeing that Caravaggio is presented in all his glory to the American people at this institution is exemplary. To have accomplished this in one’s lifetime is achievement enough. But a month ago, Luther returned from yet another of his many trips to Rome and told me a remarkable story. I wish him to share that story with you now. Luther, the floor is yours.”
Mason walked tentatively to the lectern and peered at the crowd. The director’s introduction had focused the guests’ collective attention on what he was about to say. All eyes and ears were trained on him.
He looked back to his table. His son, Julian, stood and held out his date’s chair, and they left the room. “Luther’s son looks so angry,” Annabel whispered to Mac.
Despite being upset by Julian’s untimely departure, Luther cleared his throat and slowly recounted his version of events leading to the discovery of Grottesca. When he’d completed his tale, he said, “The parish priest I mentioned, Father Pasquale Giocondi, is here tonight as a special guest of the National Gallery of Art. Father Giocondi, who is now retired, agreed to be here to share in this important moment. It took some real arm-twisting to get him to say something, but I’m pleased he has acquiesced. Father Giocondi?”
There was a buzz from the audience as Giocondi walked purposefully to the lectern. “Signore e signori,” he said, “it is a great honor for me to be here this evening as a guest of Mr. Mason and the National Gallery of Art. I also say that it is frightening for a man such as myself, who has spent his life offering humble service to his Lord, and to his flock. Some might think it was—how do you say?—an accident for me to have met Mr. Mason. But I disagree. I believe that God directed me to be where Mr. Mason was on that day because Caravaggio was a true servant of our Lord. He painted with religious conviction and passion. His great talent was given by God to be used in his service. It pleases me to think that I have played some small part in allowing his greatest work of all to be here, to be seen and enjoyed by millions of people.”
Applause.
Luther stood behind Giocondi. His broad smile said to everyone that he was pleased with what the former priest was saying. In reality, it was a smile of relief. Carlo had been right. Giocondi was good. Smooth. Appropriately humble, yet demonstrating pride in his contribution to the evening and the coming exhibition. And his English was just right, easy to understand but with enough of an accent to add panache.
Giocondi spoke for another ten minutes, and Mason’s relief was sustained. He stuck to the script Luther had created for him. Everything he said supported Luther’s bogus official version of how he’d found Grottesca, the chance meeting of the two men in a Ravello cafe, the casual trip Luther took to the old church, his shock at seeing what he believed was Caravaggio’s lost masterpiece.
Mason took in the reactions of the audience. Most appeared to be pleasantly spellbound by the little man’s spiel. When Giocondi ended by saying, “And God Bless America,” Luther stepped to the microphone and said, “We all share in our appreciation of what you have given us, Father Giocondi. You have done a great service to the art world, and to the people of America, as well as to the citizens of your beloved Italy. Thank you for sharing this with us this evening.”
The applause was louder and more sustained now. Guests stood.
Mason led Giocondi back to their table. Court Whitney made a few final comments, including inviting guests to enjoy after-dinner drinks and to examine the great Italian paintings in adjacent galleries. Grottesca had been covered the moment Giocondi concluded his remarks, and two uniformed guards prepared to spirit it away for safekeeping.
“Nicely done, Luther,” Scott Pims said when Mason and Giocondi returned to the table. “Julian expressed his apologies for having to leave so abruptly. Undoubtedly a pressing previous engagement.”
People were now descending upon them. Luther decided not to press his luck with Giocondi. He said to them, “Father Giocondi has a heart problem and must return to Rome immediately to continue his medical treatment. He’ll be available for questions later, in Italy. Please excuse us.”
Mason now wanted—needed—to get Giocondi offstage and away from questions. A sudden, pervasive panic had overtaken him. His heart pounded and his mouth had gone dry. As he herded Giocondi toward a door, Carlo Giliberti sprung from his table and joined them. “Very good, Father,” he said. “Excellent, Luther.”
Realizing the three of them were, briefly, alone, Mason said, “I think it best to get him out of here. Back to the hotel. Back to Italy as quickly as possible.”
“All right,” said Giliberti. “I will have my driver take him.”
“He wants more money,” Mason growled.
Giliberti looked at Giocondi. “Non capisco, Padre.”
In Italian, Giocondi showed that Giliberti did indeed understand him, and he launched into a loud and animated explanation that only exacerbated Mason’s discomfort. He snapped, “I told him I’d give him more. Just get him out of here.”
“Father Giocondi, Bob Wetzel, arts editor, Washington Post. I have a few questions—”
“Not now,” Mason said. “Father Giocondi isn’t feeling well. He has a heart condition and—”
“Luther.”
Court and Sue Whitney approached. Whitney extended his hand. “Fine job. Fine speech. You too, Father.”
“How could this painting be languishing in your church all these years?” Wetzel asked. “Did you know—?”
“He’s sick,” Mason said into Whitney’s ear.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Excuse us.”
“Where can you be reached?” Wetzel called after them.
No answer from Mason or Giocondi. Giliberti accompanied them to the Rotunda.
“You’re pale, Luther,” Giliberti said.
“Yes. I—”
“Wait here,” said Giliberti. “I will get my driver to take him to the hotel.”
“Do it yourself, for God’s sake. Just get him away from here.” Mason’s voice was unnaturally high. He disliked sounding pathetic.
“Yes, yes, Luther. I will arrange things,” Giliberti said. “But you must calm yourself. People are noticing.” He turned to Giocondi. “Please give me a moment with Signor Mason.”
Giliberti placed his hand on the small of Mason’s back and pushed him away, leaving the priest standing alone. Two couples approached.
“Don’t leave him there,” Mason said.
“Luther, chiudi il becco!”
Giliberti’s whispered command to shut up jarred Mason. He pressed his lips tightly together.
Giliberti gripped his arms. “I will take the Father away, Luther. You go home. I will contact you later.”
“All right.”
“Good show, Luther.”
Mason turned to face Annabel and Mackensie Smith, who were passing through the Rotunda on their way home. “You remember Mac,” Annabel said.
“Yes. Of course.” Luther was sweating profusely and dabbed at his forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief. Mac was surprised at the wet, limp hand Luther offered.
“Quite an announcement you made tonight,” Mac said.
“So exciting,” said Annabel.
Mac started to thank Mason and Giliberti for having been such accommodating traveling companions for his wife, but Mason interrupted. “You must excuse us. I—I have someone I must see. Father Giocondi isn’t feeling well.”
“Congratulations, Father,” said Annabel.
“Grazie.”
“Buona notte, Mrs. Smith,” Carlo said to Annabel.
Mac and Annabel watched them walk away.
“The priest isn’t feeling well? That man looks like he’s about to drop dead,” Mac said of Mason.
“I know. Something is definitely wrong.”
“So that’s Carlo Giliberti.”
“That’s Carlo.”
“Let’s go. Rufus needs to go out.”
“So do I. The food was heavy.”
“The food was bureaucratic Italian.”
Once their blue Great Dane had been walked, and they’d changed into night clothes and robes, Mac poured them each two fingers of cognac and they settled on a couch in the study.
“Do you get the feeling, Annabel, that there’s something strange about this suddenly discovered painting?”
She shook her head. “Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know. What if—?”
“What if what, Mac?”
“What if it’s a phony? A forgery?”
“Impossible.”
“Why? Happens all the time.”
“Not with an institution like the National Gallery, or a curator with Luther’s credentials. Besides, it’s a moot point. The Gallery will be subjecting Grottesca to every conceivable test. I understand other experts will be brought in to lend their opinion.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He sipped, enjoying the burn. “I know one thing for certain.”
“Luther Mason had better get himself to a doctor for a physical. Judging from the way he looked tonight, he might not be around to enjoy his own exhibition.”