Five

I climb the four flights to my studio thinking about Xavier’s paint, Crystal’s astonished face, and my paintings hanging at Markel G. I think about doing good—whatever good might be—and how there’s no crime in copying a painting. Markel’s a local celebrity, and if anything unscrupulous had ever been linked with his name, I, and the entire city of Boston, would be aware. Even Isaac, who tended to see the worst in everyone, trusted him.

I call Markel. “How good is good?” I ask without preamble.

He chuckles. “It’s something I’m sure you’ve wished you could make happen.”

“Like world peace?”

“Maybe not quite so grandiose, but in a smaller way, yes.”

“Could you be any more vague?”

“Probably not.”

There’s nothing to be said to this, so I ask, “Tell me again how many people we’d be helping?”

When he says hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, I figure he’s running a bit hyperbolic. “Really?”

He laughs. “I know it sounds nuts, but yes, really.”

I hesitate.

“It’s your call, Claire,” he reminds me. “I can get someone else if I have to . . .”

Someone else? “Okay,” I tell him. “I’m in.”

A few days later, a wooden shipping crate is delivered. It’s huge, at least twelve foot by twelve foot. It’s thick, too, as if it could hold half a dozen canvases, although I’m guessing there are only two, at most four, inside.

If there are three or four, it’s likely Markel wants me to create a pastiche, an “undiscovered” painting the forger compiles based on past works of a well-known artist, like John Myatt did. But if there are only two, it’s Ely Sakhai’s paradigm I’ll be following, and one of the paintings will be an original by an established artist—or a minor work by someone more famous—and the other canvas will be the same age as the original. After I strip the paint off the second one, I’ll paint my copy onto it so the forgery is on a canvas and frame authentic to the artist’s era and carbon dating won’t give us away.

I’m dying to know whose work is in the crate, but Markel said not to open it, that he would be here within the hour. He made me promise. But what’s a promise among thieves?

I check the crate on all sides, notice there’s a rip in the tape at the top left corner. I climb the stepladder, stick my finger in and pull. I manage to make a hole an inch round and press my eye to the opening. Of course, I see nothing. I grab a hammer and a crowbar, hesitate, then use the back end of the hammer to jab the tape again. There’s not much give left—the whole crate is held together by nails—but I dig in and double the size of the hole. Now I see bubble wrap.

I hardly ever get to base my Repro paintings on originals, as most of the real McCoys are in Paris or London, and Repro sure isn’t sending me across the Atlantic. Once, I was doing a Botticelli for them—Tragedy of Lucretia—which is owned by the Gardner Museum, so I got to work from that original. Unfortunately, the Gardner is incredibly stodgy, allowing only pencil drawing and no cameras. Still, the repro came out better for it.

The idea of a high-quality piece of artwork in my studio both electrifies and terrifies me. If I were a betting woman, I’d wager Markel is playing the Ely Sakhai game, and the painting is a lesser work I’m to forge so he can sell it to some unsuspecting collector as the original. Seems an odd thing for Markel to be involved in. He’s way too rich and philanthropic, not to mention supportive of struggling artists, for his motive to be greed. But as I’ve no idea what the “good” is, I’m in no position to judge.

In truth, aside from the interactions I had with Markel as Isaac’s dealer—some extremely taxing, to say the least—as well as the usual rumor mill and media hype, I know very little about Aiden Markel. A decade ago, in his midtwenties, he was an art wunderkind, bursting onto the Boston scene, making it big, and staying here, rather than taking off to New York or Paris. He represents many renowned national and international artists, which has pulled Boston from the art backwaters and into the light. Although he’s only six or seven years older than I am, he’s so accomplished, it might as well be decades.

I drop the hammer, grab the crowbar, and contemplate the crate. I climb back up the stepladder, stick the crowbar in the hole, and give it a good yank. The crate lets out an almost human shriek and starts to come apart. I do it again, get a bit more leverage, and the space between the two pieces of wood widens. But I see that I’m going to have to remove most of the nails first, so I switch back to the hammer.

As I methodically work through the nails, I think about the money Markel’s bringing with him. Almost $17,000. This is more money than I’ve ever had at any one time. I owe about twenty-five grand on my student loans, and a chunk will go toward that. Then I’ll pay the landlord the last two months’ rent and cover the tab I’ve been running at Al’s Art Supply. Al and the landlord have been really good about it, but witty, self-deprecating stories will only get a girl so far. Plus, I’m running low on pigments and mediums, not to mention brushes, and there’s no way Al will front me any of that if I don’t pay up.

I look around the studio. A real bed, instead of a mattress. A couch a person could sit on without slipping a disc. A computer that doesn’t take twenty minutes to boot up. A cell phone that isn’t in two pieces. The list is endless.

The phone rings, and I see it’s Markel. I go down and let him in. This time, he’s not at all chatty. When we walk into the studio, he immediately notices I’ve started in on the crate but doesn’t seem surprised.

“So you couldn’t wait,” he says, without the slightest touch of irritation.

I shrug. “Haven’t gotten very far.”

“So I see.”

This visit, I offer no wine or nuts. We stand in front of the towering crate for a long moment, not speaking. Finally Markel says, “We should talk.”

I point to the rocking chair and take a seat on the couch. I fold my hands in my lap and wait.

He pulls an envelope from inside his jacket and places it on the table between us. It’s quite thick. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, as if he’s discussing the weather, “but most of it’s in cash.”

Seventeen thousand dollars. I feel lightheaded. “Of course not, no problem,” I say, in what I hope is a casual tone, although I can hear that it’s not.

He puts his feet flat on the floor and leans toward me. “I don’t want you to think I’m patronizing you, but we need to go over how you’ll handle the money.”

I do think he’s patronizing me. “I’m quite capable of handling the money.”

“Based on what you told me about your pay scale,” he says, as if I haven’t spoken, “I’ve written you a check for eight thousand dollars on the Markel G account. This is official payment for your services, which you will deposit in your regular business account and report to the IRS. Just in case anything goes wrong, this will prove we had a standard reproduction agreement and will put you at arm’s length from anything else I’m involved in. The rest is cash.”

I glance at the envelope and then look quickly away. Nine thousand dollars in cash.

“You’ll have to set up a couple of accounts in different banks,” he continues. “Don’t deposit more than a few thousand in each so as not to raise suspicion. There’s two thousand in fifties you should just keep. But don’t spend them in the places where people know you. Use them at the supermarket or the mall.”

“Is all this really necessary?” I’m not much of a money person, having never had any, and my palms are beginning to sweat.

“It’s my job to make sure there are no mistakes.” He counts out the next directions on his fingers. “No major purchases, no expensive vacations, and no undisciplined gestures like an extravagant gift for your mother or treating everyone at your favorite bar to a drink.”

“I’m not a child,” I say, feeling patronized again. “I understand what we’re doing here.”

“No.” He stands up. “I don’t think you do.”

I stand, too. “Maybe it’s time you enlightened me.”

He walks over to the crate and grabs the crowbar. “You keep on with the nails, I’ll work with this.”

I shoot one last glance at the envelope sitting on the table, then join him. With more than a few grunts and a good deal of sweat, we manage to wrestle the paintings from their enclosure. As I guessed, there are only two. But both are encased in so many layers of bubble wrap that, to my disappointment, they’re hidden in plain view. The canvases are unframed and of identical size, large, but not as large as I expected, probably four foot by five foot. I wonder which is the valuable one.

“This isn’t going to be like your Reproductions.com gig.”

“I’m guessing you chose me for this project because you know I know that.”

For a moment he looks taken aback, then he visibly relaxes. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry for being such an asshole, but this whole adventure is out of my league.”

“So why are you doing it?”

“You’ll see.” He flashes me a mischievous smile. “Got scissors?”

He cuts the tape, and I pull back the bubble wrap. Within minutes, the painting is standing naked and revealed. I immediately recognize the artist, if not the specific work.

“Meissonier,” I say. It makes sense. Ernest Meissonier was a second- or third-tier late-nineteenth-century painter. His specialty was military subjects rendered with meticulous realism. He painted in oil in the classical style and, if I remember correctly, considered himself the second coming of Rembrandt, even though no one else did. But what about Meissonier’s painting could make a million people happy?

“They say,” Markel tells me, “that Degas claimed that everything Meissonier painted looked like metal except the armor.”

I laugh and step closer to inspect the painting. “There are tons of layers here. An unimpeachable forgery is going to take a long time,” I say. “Are you sure it’s worth the effort?”

“No,” Markel says. “It wouldn’t be.”

I stare at him. “This is the one that’s going to be painted over?”

“Removed, actually.”

Obviously, I know there can be no painting under the one I’m to create, as this would be easily detectable with a simple X-ray. But still, to destroy a Meissonier . . .

“It’s a very minor work, despite its size, and there are some, ah, questions of provenance.”

Any interest I had in Meissonier immediately evaporates, and I turn to the other, still bubble-wrapped canvas. “Who?”

Markel looks positively impish. “Don’t you want to wait and be surprised?”

“No.”

Markel laughs. “No delayed gratification here.”

“Never my strong suit.”

Markel hesitates.

“Who?”

“Degas, of course.”

I can hardly breathe. I cut my teeth on Degas as a kid in museum drawing classes. And now, here’s one of his original works, touched by the great man himself, right in my very own studio, only a couple of feet away. And if Markel chose me as the forger, it’s got to be one of Degas’ oils.

My heart races. I’m going to have the incredible good fortune of living with a work by Degas, touching it, breathing it in, studying its every last detail, ferreting out the master’s secrets. It’s a great gift. Perhaps the greatest. One that will inform my painting forever. Sweet. Incredibly sweet. Now I really can’t breathe.

Markel begins to carefully cut the tape holding the bubble wrap together. There are many more layers of wrap on this one.

I stand speechless, mesmerized, unable to move to help him, unable even to think. Degas, Degas, Degas is the only refrain my brain can dole out.

He works painstakingly, much more slowly than when he unwrapped the Meissonier.

It’s nudes. I think three, maybe four. Part of Degas’ bathers series. A time when, in contrast to most of his contemporaries, he focused on the moments of ordinary life. A flash of blue, green, coral. Even under a full layer of bubble wrap, the brilliance of Degas’ colors surge. Which painting is it? He was so prolific during this period. But my brain freezes. I can’t think of a single one.

As Markel strips away the final layer and the painting is uncovered, I’m momentarily confused. My first thought is that it’s not a real Degas. That it can’t be. Then I gasp. Not only is this a real Degas, it’s a Degas I’ve seen before. Many times.

“No,” I cry, and it sounds like a moan.

I should have guessed from the size of the canvas. This is no ordinary Degas. It’s one of his great masterworks. After the Bath, the last of five he gave the same name, but by far the most famous.

And that’s the least of it. This painting was torn from the walls of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, ripped from its frame. It and all the other works taken that rainy night by a couple of bumbling thieves have never been recovered.

In front of me stands one of the most valuable paintings stolen in the greatest unsolved art theft in history.