chief was telling the public that what had happened was not due to any problem with the Tunnel and there was no fear it would happen again. The police were appealing for calm as well. That seemed to be the general consensus. Everyone, everywhere, was calling for calm. The people around Bosch were starting to smile again. The tragedy was gently lapsing into the anecdotal. But inside him, Bosch felt only horror. His intuition told him April Wood was right yet again.
Nikki had just told him that the first painting evacuated was Susanna Surprised by the Elders. And a few minutes earlier, April Wood had told him: 'It's Susanna Surprised by the Elders. That's the painting he's chosen this time, Lothar.'
22.29.
After taking them to the Old Atelier and installing them in one of the rehearsal rooms in the first basement, the driver had shown his credentials. It was a turquoise-coloured badge. This allowed him, he said, to make the necessary adjustments to each painting. Clara was not the only one surprised at this: she saw the Elders looking inquiringly at the driver too. Did that mean he was a painter? asked the First Elder, Leo Krupka (he had introduced himself to Clara shortly before), the canvas she had seen at Schiphol airport. The driver said he was not a painter, just one of those in charge of keeping paintings in perfect condition. But wasn't that a job for Conservation? (a question from Frank Rodino, the Second Elder, a tall, heavy man). Yes, but for Art as well. Art carried out 'maintenance' on all its masterpieces, even though it was concerned with its own priorities rather than the well- being of the figures. The driver had instructions to evacuate the painting and store it, but first of all to adjust its stretching. A work such as this could not be simply packed up and sent home.
The young man had been very efficient. At almost the same time as the tremor that had shaken the walls of the Tunnel, he had come up to them and said one word in English: 'Evacuation.' He took them out and put them into his van with remarkable speed. He stopped only to give Clara a robe, because she was still naked, with the oil paint stretching her skin. The two Elders had not even taken off the clothes they were wearing for the painting. Then, as they were changing vans in the hotel parking lot, he had explained to them that the Tunnel had been about to collapse, and he had orders to evacuate the painting and take them to the Old Atelier. He spoke fluent, correct English with an accent Clara could not identify. He was good-looking, although rather too thin, and the most striking thing about him was that pair of light-blue eyes.
In the rehearsal room there was a table with a briefcase and an oilskin bag that apparently belonged to the driver. There were also boxes with labels for the three figures. The driver handed these to them, and asked them to put them on. Rodino's bulk made it difficult for him to bend down and reach his ankle. Then the driver made them sit still in chairs like well-behaved schoolchildren, while he stood by the table.
He told them his name was Matt. He did a bit of everything in the Foundation.
That's exactly what I'm going to do now. A bit of everything.'
Matt was keen for the figures to understand him. He constantly sought in both Clara and Krupka's faces (the two who were not native English speakers) any indication that they were confused, and if they were, he repeated the phrase, or if there was a difficult word, he gesticulated or changed it for a simpler one. This made them pay close attention, despite being so tired. He had taken off the jacket with the words 'Evacuation Team' on the back, and was wearing only a shirt and trousers. Both were white. So was his face. The whole of Matt was an accumulation of white.
'What are we going to do?' asked Krupka. Til explain straightaway.'
He turned his back and opened the briefcase. Took something out of it. Some sheets of paper.
'This is an important part in the stretching of the painting, but don't ask me why. You've all got sufficient experience to know that your duty is to obey the artist's wishes, however absurd they might appear.'
He handed out the pieces of paper. First Krupka, then Rodino, and finally Clara. Buried in a mask of taut skin, his eyes shone expressively.
On the sheet of paper was a short text in English. To Clara the words seemed incomprehensible, a kind of philosophical digression on the meaning of art. Each of them – Matt explained – was to read their text in turn while he recorded their voices. It was important to read well, in a loud and clear voice. If necessary, they would repeat the recording. 'Then we'll go on to the next step,' he said.
21.25.
Bosch's worst fears were confirmed when the security team reached the hotel and found the van for Susanna empty. It was then he discovered how carefully everything had been planned. A second van had been waiting in the car park and the Artist had simply switched the painting over. The first van's tracking device was still giving out its signal, but there was no one inside. Fortunately, one of the guards in the parking lot had seen the transfer, so they had a description of the second van. The guard also said that only the driver and the three figures had got into it.
Van Hoore and Spaalze had answered Bosch's call immediately. The evacuation guard in charge of Susanna was one Matt Andersen, twenty-seven years old, someone 'efficient, experienced, above all suspicion' according to Spaalze. His fingerprints, voice and measurements were not at all similar to the Artist's morphometric details, but Bosch, who was beginning to realise just how much help the murderer was being given from inside the Foundation, considered this unimportant. It was simple enough for any of the top people in the Foundation to get hold of the morphometric information and change it.
'Lothar, I'm not responsible…' Van Hoore's voice was quavering in Bosch's earpiece, if Spaalze tells me Andersen is trustworthy, I have to believe him, don't I…' 'Don't worry, Alfred. I know you're bewildered: so am I.'
Van Hoore had caved in. He sounded like a tearful little boy spattering the microphone with his saliva.
'For goodness' sake, Lothar! I'll talk to Stein myself, if need be! The evacuation team is made up of highly experienced guards, people we trust! Please, tell Stein that…' 'Calm down. No one is responsible for this.'
It was true. Either no one, or all of them. As he listened to Van Hoore's anxious confession in his earpiece, Bosch was busy giving orders and explanations. He could see everyone else reacted with the same incredulity as he had. The unexpected can not happen to the unexpected: lightning never strikes in the same place twice. Warfell for example could not get out a single word when Bosch told him what had happened. That's impossible, his silence seemed to shout. 'The only tragedy permitted is what happened in the Tunnel, Lothar: what's this you're telling me now? That one of the paintings has disappeared?'
As for Benoit, that was another surprise. Bosch found him in the street, surrounded by riot police, Civil Protection forces, firemen and what looked like a whole regiment of soldiers, but when he went up to him, Benoit signalled and took him to one side, then showed Bosch the yellow label round his wrist.
'I'm not Mr Benoit,' he said in a guttural voice with a foreign accent, as he gripped Bosch's elbow. 'I'm a copy. Mr Benoit has left me here in his place, but don't tell anyone, please…'
Recovering from his initial surprise, Bosch understood that Benoit must feel even more anguished than him, and had put this stand-in in his place. He remembered the joke about the dummy in the window of the lost property office. He wondered if this model was the Ugandan. ‘I have to talk to Mr Benoit,' he said.
'Mr Benoit can hear you right now,' the model said. The cerublastyne was amazing: his features were perfect. 'Take my radio, you can talk to him on it.'
Benoit was indeed listening to everything. To judge by the tone of his voice, he was in some personal nirvana: nothing is happening, I'm not to blame for anything, nothing will go wrong. He refused to tell Bosch where he was hiding. He said he was not retreating, merely undertaking a tactical withdrawal.
'That Mr Fuschus-Galistnus didn't tell us a thing, Lothar!' Benoit moaned. 'I mean about the Christ and the 'earthquake' in the Tunnel. Hoffmann knew about it, but we didn't…!' The Artist knew about it, too, thought Bosch.
When he succeeded in getting a word in edgeways in Benoit's verbal diarrhoea, he explained what had happened to Susanna. Benoit suddenly went quiet. 'Lothar, tell me this isn't the end of the world!' 'It is,' replied Bosch.
Bosch promised to keep him informed, and gave the radio back to his substitute. As he was doing so, he saw a line of vans entering the Museumplein: the evacuated works were returning. They were all there, apart from Susanna. He saw Danielle getting out of one of the vans. She was a tiny creature surrounded by immensely tall men in dark suits. Her chestnut hair, shiny ochre body and marble-coloured face made her seem like an optical illusion. The first thing she did as she got out of the van was to lift her foot to check that the radiant signature on her left ankle was still there. Bosch could not prevent a lump forming in his throat at seeing her like this. He understood
