The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts (5 page)

I can’t believe it - how on earth could I
have been so gullible? Trust no-one – isn’t that my first rule?

So Gavin is long gone but where? England
seems too obvious and he knows I could track him down there. He
could make the airport by five forty, half hour check in – forty
minutes boarding – my trusty computer tells me that the flights
leaving between six – forty five and seven fifteen departed for
Kuala Lumpur, Glasgow, Singapore, Amsterdam, Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro
and New York.

Intriguing list.

I check rental car availability – Enterprise
Rentals are manned twenty four hours – it’s worth a try.

“Enterprise Rentals – how may I be of
assistance?”

“This is Mrs. Galbraith – my husband forgot a
suitcase – did he check in yet?” I ask.

“Just a moment please.”

“Sure.”

“Mrs. Galbraith…”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see a reservation for your husband –
are you sure he rented from us?”

“I thought he did, but I must be
mistaken.”

“The other rental agencies don’t open until
eight thirty – you can check with them then.”

“Thanks for your help.”

“You’re most welcome, good-bye.”

Well that narrows it down somewhat, but this
is like sticking a tail on a donkey.

I rule out Kuala Lumpur and Glasgow
immediately. Amsterdam pops up again and I still like it – New
York? Would he dare try to sell the books on my turf? I doubt it –
Tokyo? More interested in ancient cars and object d’art than
manuscripts – Rio? There certainly are collectors in Rio but again
my gut says no - that leaves Singapore and Amsterdam. I’ll get the
gate numbers and try to hack into the airport video monitor system
for those airlines. If security people only knew how easy this is
for a girl of my talents… I don’t see Gavin at the Amsterdam gate –
Oh there he is… even with the feeble attempt at disguise there’s no
mistaking his six foot two frame and long stride.

So, Singapore here we come – a few more
clicks and a ticket is reserved. It’s a good job I love a
challenge, but first I need to check the alleyway before I leave
Rome.

Now I know that I am an unwelcome visitor I
am forearmed. I travel along Bath Street using store windows as
mirrors but see nothing out of the ordinary as I approach the
alley. Keeping my back to the wall, I reach the doorway and peer
through again and this time, see a small overgrown courtyard and
patio beyond the door. Three men sit at a rusty white table
drinking beer and playing chess – there is a fourth empty chair
which makes me instinctively look behind me, but I am alone. This
doesn’t look like a place where one would deal an ancient artifact
of this magnitude.

I really need to get a look inside. The door
with the cobwebs is locked and I’ll be seen if I climb the fence –
a diversion is called for. A well aimed rock clattering on the
verandah above them does the trick and I’m over the fence in a
heartbeat. It is an easy matter to scale the wrought iron support
up to the neighboring balcony before they spot me and I can see
that the room here is bare. A screened divider separates me from
the next house but I circumvent it without mishap and land lightly
above them after the men regain their seats.

“Mama mia – gatti darn.” I hear one of them
mutter. Good – they blame cats for the ruckus.

Shutters block my view into this room and I
ease them open with a groan of un-oiled hinges which bring another
curse and sound of a stick being banged against the balcony from
below. The room is full of boxes and crates piled almost to the
ceiling and with scant space to traverse across to the door. Most
crates are nailed shut but some lids are open to reveal their
contents. Statues, paintings being carefully packed for shipping. I
am confused what I am seeing, but this is obviously a big scale
black market operation. Only a few crates have shipping labels and
various art objects are in process of attached and I photograph
them with my i-phone - noticing that two of them are headed to the
British Museum in London, so I’ll text my father to be on the
lookout for them.

A smaller crate than the others receives my
attention. It’s placed on another just inside the door with no
label assigned and looks at hand for pick up perhaps. It has the
weight I’d expect for the books that went missing from Marconi’s
room but it is nailed and sealed shut with old fashioned red wax
and personal imprint. I’m willing to bet that the books are inside,
but that’s a hell of a gamble – if I take the box and I’m wrong it
makes me no better than a common thief and I cannot forward it to
the intended recipient.

I am separated from my thoughts by the raspy
sound of a vehicle’s horn outside and take the crate and hide in
the corner of the room. Good decision as it turns out because I
hear loud footsteps climbing the stairs.

The door swings open and I hear someone
clunking around and moving crates before yelling “Merda! It’s
gone!”

“What’s gone?” A voice responded from
below.

“The box –
that
box.”

“It
can’t
have gone.” More footsteps
hurry upstairs.

“I tell you it is. I searched.”

“Toni – did you move the box?” One of them
shouted down.”

“No… didn’t touch it.”

“It has to be here. No-one else has been
here. Look again – look everywhere.”

More clattering and swearing convinces me
that I do have the books, but getting out of here will be a
challenge, but, as you know – I love a challenge.

The crate moving gets closer to my hiding
place and I’m sure to be discovered within minutes. I brace against
the wall and when the crate concealing me moves I shove it with all
my strength and hear a gasp and gush of expelled air as the chest
hits the man’s ribs and propels him backwards. It takes a few
moments until the other man understands what happened but then he
comes at me with a hammer raised. My first instinct is to hold the
box up to deflect the blow but I realize the damage it could cause
and spin from the strike. The guy on the floor grabs my ankle and
this time I use my box to hit the hammer wielder on the temple and
stamp on the other’s wrist with a force that produces the sound of
a cracked bone and an Italian curse that I can’t interpret. One
last kick to hammer the guy’s chest and I exit through the window.
I need my hands to swing down off the balcony so I have no choice
but to drop the box to the ground and hope they did a good packing
job.

I hear a shout – “Out back…” as I drop to the
patio and turn to face the onslaught of a big man, with bulging
eyeballs, who wants me for dinner. I’m not aware of the knife held
behind his back until the sunlight glints on the blade and when he
starts an arcing upward lunge and I throw myself into a backward
somersault and kick the blade out of his grip at waist height. The
knife obligingly rotates towards me, making its capture routine and
I now become the adversary, forcing the attacker to retreat but he
snatches a chair to use in defense. I hear sounds of backup from
inside and need to get out of here in a hurry. Big man is now
lunging with the chair and getting legs dangerously close to my
head – I duck under and have no choice but to cut his knee muscle
in a sweeping slash. He drops on the spot and screams. I seize the
books and run to the gate – it’s padlocked so I have to risk the
packing again and toss them over before climbing the cross members
and hopping over.

They did a good job – the box is solidly
intact as I retrieve it and take off to Bath Street at full speed
and back to the hotel with a quick stop at the general store. I
multi – task in my room, packing my case, dying my hair back to
auburn, showering and dressing take less than twenty minutes and I
leave my room wearing a silk dress and my beloved red high heels.
No-one follows me.

I call Roberto from the airport and without
going into absolute details, tell him that I have several of the
books and am on the trail of the remainder, but as there is no time
to meet as my plane departs soon, I will leave them with my parents
in London during the flight transfer at Heathrow. I also remind him
that he is being watched by Marconi’s mates and possibly others, so
this is the safest way. He is okay with that.

I call my father to have him meet me and
though not given to high emotions, I sense his excitement in being
able to see da Vinci’s books. Two final calls to extend my leave of
absence from Harvard and the museum and I’m ready to board.

The flight is a little turbulent but we land
in London safely and I meet my father en-route to gate C9 for the
final leg to Singapore.

Circling the island that I visited several
years ago, I am dismayed to see hardly any vegetation remaining –
most of the land has suffered the price of success and is converted
to steel and concrete. The ‘Raffles’ Hotel does however boast a
lush courtyard of palms and exotic flowers in which the founder of
the island would find some solace. My room overlooks the Straits of
Singapore and the many marinas laden with expensive yachts, and a
pleasant breeze negates the need for air conditioning.

Gavin won’t be as foolish to stay at this, or
any other famed hotel so I will bribe the Maitre‘d to send out
feelers in search of him. My other approach will be to search the
‘who’s in town’ newspaper sections to see whom he may contact and I
will also renew my knowledge of the art and antiquities section of
this beautiful city to see if there are any renewable acquaintances
here and put the word out that I need to contact Gavin
urgently.

There is a special atmosphere I savor every
time I visit Singapore and this time is no exception, it is
intangible but definite. The multi conglomeration of ethnic
cultures brings food aromas that titillate the senses and draw you
inescapably to their doors. It reminds me that I haven’t eaten for
some time so I choose a curry house and am delighted with the red
Thai version with papadums, washed down with sugar water and a
glass of Beringer’s oak barrel chardonnay.

I make Russack’s Fine Art Emporium my first
port of call and Anastasius showers me with hugs and kisses of
welcome.

“Arcadia, how absolutely
marvelous
to
see you – how long has it been?”

“Far too long, but in actual time it’s been
about three years - I would visit more frequently if you had
something exciting to show me.”

“Ah, I wish… How many pieces has the museum
bought from me so far?”

“Seven – all of them are on display and well
received by our members.”

“They should be – you practically stole them
from me.” He chides.

“Come on Anastasius – you got a fair price
for everything. Do you have anything for me this time?”

“Nothing exquisite.”

“Keep your ears open – I believe something
very
interesting might come on the market any day now.
You’ll know what it is. I’m staying at the Raffles.”

“Of course.”

Next on the list is Sir Bartholomew Spencer,
knighted by the queen for his contributions to British architecture
and specifically to improvements of London museums – he has several
designs gracing Singapore’s unique skyline.

“Barty…” I call on entering his office
suite.

“Arcadia!” He responds from out of sight.
“What a wonderful surprise - how the devil are you?” He asks when
setting eyes on me.

“I am well – and always the better for seeing
you.” I flatter.

“This old man?” He doubts.

“You don’t look a year older that when I last
saw you. Life must be good.”

“It is, it is. A few hiccups here and there
but by and large I cannot complain. To what do I owe this most
unexpected pleasure?”

“Can we go into your office?” I request.

“Certainly…” He agrees with knitted brow.

“What’s going on?” He asks when we are
seated.

If there’s anyone on this earth outside my
family that I can trust, it’s Barty, so I tell him the whole
story.

“da Vinci’s lost books – Are you positive?
This is absolutely immeasurable.” He gasps.

“Without having the facilities to test them I
cannot be totally sure, but yes – I am ninety nine percent sure
it’s them. My father will call me with confirmation soon, I
think.”

“If word gets out about this there’ll be
fireworks – but you know that already. What is your plan?” He
asks.

“I really don’t have one until I can locate
Gavin. I stopped in to see Anastasius Russack and asked him to keep
an ear open for anything that will help me find him – I didn’t tell
him about the books.”

“I am astounded that Gavin would turn traitor
like this – it certainly reinforces your decision not to
marry.”

“Well I didn’t see it coming – I’ve thought
about it ever since but I still don’t know why he did it.”

“Revenge? Scorned love?” Barty suggested.
“Greed? Fame?”

“Maybe all of the above.” I agree. “I’ll know
when I have his neck in my hands.”

“Well my dear, I will see what I can do – I
can still muster up a few good men. I assume you are at the
‘Raffles?’”

“Yes – room 438.”

“Very well, I will be in touch.”

“Thanks, Barty.” There’s nothing else I can
do for now – Sir Barty will cover all my bases and some I don’t
know about.

I take a leisurely stroll along the
waterfront and take in the sights, smells and sounds that make
Singapore so incredible. I see a sign that promises to reclaim land
for tree and shrub planting which makes me very happy and would
have Raffles smiling if he were still here. There is time for a nap
before the neon signs will announce the coming of night and tempt
me back to the streets again. I’m hoping the ‘East of India’
nightclub has not changed and in optimist spirit I choose a satin
off the shoulder dress and of course my red stilettos and instruct
the taxi accordingly. The club looks just the same from the outside
and as soon as the door opens I know all is well – latin band
sounds positively attract you like a magnet and impel you inside.
Once in they dare you to leave.