He kissed the back of Tracy‘s hand and shook Bourne‘s. -Dear lady. And Professor, it‘s an honor to welcome you both to my house. He gestured toward one of the leather sofas. -Please make yourselves comfortable. He was dressed in an open-neck white shirt under an immaculate cream-colored suit of lightweight silk that looked soft as a baby‘s cheek. -Would you care for sherry, or something stronger, perhaps?
— Sherry and some Garrotxa, perhaps, if you have it, Bourne said, playing his part to the hilt.
— An excellent idea, Hererra proclaimed, calling in the young man for the order. He wagged a long, tapered forefinger at Bourne. -I like the way your palate works, Professor.
Bourne looked fatuously pleased, while Tracy carefully hid her amusement from the older man.
The young man arrived carrying a chased silver salver on which was set a cut-crystal decanter of sherry, three glasses of the same cut crystal, along with a platter of the sheep cheese, crackers, and a wedge of deep orange quince jelly. He set the salver down on a low table and departed as silently as he had come.
Their host poured the sherry and handed out the glasses. Hererra raised his glass, and they followed suit.
— To the unsullied pursuit of scholarly inquiry. Don Hererra sipped his sherry, and Bourne and Tracy tasted theirs. As they ate the cheese and quince jelly, he said, — So tell me your opinion. Is the world, in fact, going to war against Iran?
— I don‘t have enough information to make a judgment, Tracy said, — but in my opinion Iran has been flaunting their nuclear program in our faces for too long.
Don Hererra nodded sagely. -I think finally the United States has gotten it right. This time, Iran has provoked us too far. But to contemplate another world war, well, to sum up, war is bad for business for most, but uncommonly good for a few. He swung around. -And Professor, what is your learned opinion?
— When it comes to politics, Bourne said, — I maintain a strictly neutral posture.
— But surely, sir, on such a grave issue that affects us all, you must come down on one side or the other.
— I assure you, Don Hererra, I‘m far more interested in the Goya than I am in Iran.
The Colombian gave him a disappointed look, but then wasted no more time in getting down to business. - Senorita Atherton, I have given you full access to my unearthed treasure, and now you have brought with you the Prado‘s-and by extension all of Spain‘s-leading expert on Goya. So. He spread his hands.
— What is the verdict?
Tracy, smiling noncommittally, said, — Professor Zuiga, why don‘t you provide the answer?
— Don Hererra, Bourne said, taking his cue, — the painting in your possession, attributed to Francisco JosA© de Goya y Lucientes, is in fact not painted by him at all.
Hererra frowned and for a moment his lips pursed. -Do you mean to tell me, Professor Zuiga, that I have been harboring a fake?
— That depends on your definition of a fake, Bourne said.
— With all due respect, Professor, either it is a fake or it isn‘t.
— You may look at it that way, Professor, but there are others. Let me explain by saying that the painting, though by no means commanding the price you have set on it, is far from worthless. You see, tests I‘ve made confirm that it was produced in Goya‘s studio. It may even have been sketched out by the master himself before he died. In any event, there can be little doubt that the design is his. The actual painting, however, lacks the particular slightly mad attack of his brushstrokes, though it mimics these quite convincingly even to the trained eye.
Don Hererra drained the last of his sherry then sat back, his large hands folded over his lower belly. -So, he said at length, — my painting is worth something, just not the price I‘ve quoted to Senorita Atherton.
— That‘s right, Bourne affirmed.
Hererra made a sound deep in his throat. -This turn of events will take some getting used to. He turned to Tracy. -Senorita, given the circumstances I fully understand your desire to withdraw from our arrangement.
— On the contrary, Tracy said. -I‘m still interested in the painting, though an adjustment markedly downward in price would be necessary.
— I see, Hererra said. -Well, naturally. His gaze turned inward for some time. Then he roused himself. - Before proceeding further, I‘d like to make a call.
— By all means, Tracy said.
Don Hererra nodded, rose, and went to a desk with delicate cabriole legs. He punched in a number on his cell phone, waited a moment, then said, — This is Don Fernando Hererra. He‘s expecting my call.
He smiled at them while he waited. Then he said into the phone, —
Quite unexpectedly he handed the cell to Bourne. Bourne looked up at him expectantly, but Don Hererra‘s face bore no hint of what was happening.
— Hello, Bourne said, continuing in perfect Spanish.
— Yes, the voice on the other end of the line said, — Professor Alonzo Pecunia Zuigahere, to whom am I speaking?
18
NOTHING, Amun Chalthoum said with evident disgust.
He was staring down at the young man Soraya had fished out of the Red Sea after he‘d jumped overboard to escape her questioning. They were in one of the shipboard cabins provided for them by the owner of the dive shop, a narrow, foul-smelling place whose exaggerated rocking made the sunlight an inconstant companion.
