It was then that Bosch remembered what Nikki had told him a few minutes earlier.
At their last meeting, Van Hoore had suggested that the evacuated paintings should not be taken to the Old Atelier, because it was 'closed and empty', as Stein himself had told him.
Closed and empty.
It was a chance in a thousand, and Bosch was sure he was getting it wrong, but he had to bet on something. Let's trust our intuition, shouldn't we, Hendri my love?
He saw the three guards coming towards him. He guessed they must have been sent by Nikki. He ran towards them, worried he might slip on the sodden ground. It was raining heavily again.
'Where's the van?' he asked the first man. He recognised Jan Wuyters, who he had been talking to in the Tunnel before everything came tumbling down. It seemed like a good omen that they were together again.
The van was parked in Museumstraat. The four of them ran to it through the rain. The people in the square had dispersed by now, but there were still some police cars and ambulances.
'Where are we headed?' Wuyters asked him as they climbed into the vehicle. To the Old Atelier.'
He could well be mistaken, of course, but he had to bet on something.
The girl's face. The whirling blade. He had to take a chance.
22.37.
'Strange the impression all this makes without furniture or decoration, isn't it? Even the guest rooms have camp beds, neither better nor worse than the one the Maestro sleeps in. It looks more empty or abandoned than monastic, doesn't it… but the smell of oil paint adds something different: as if it were brand new, about to be revealed, don't you think…?'
Stein was like a guide commenting on all the noteworthy characteristics of the place for a group of tourists. He waved his hand for Miss Wood to follow him. They chose a door to the left, and entered a shadowy world of echoes.
'It's not that strange after all. We all tend to decorate our homes with things we have found on our journeys. Van Tysch has done the same. But all his journeys have been interior ones. All this is the product of what he has found inside himself. The souvenirs of his mind. When I came to the restored castle for the first time, I thought it was all very Dutch. You know, constructivism, Mondrian's clear cool lines, Escher's illusions and geometry… but I was wrong: to Van Tysch, nakedness is not decoration, it's emptiness; it's not art, but the lack of it. Come this way.'
Stein's voice sounded weary. His words had the ring of something inevitable about them. He seemed preoccupied by a nebulous idea, as if his thoughts were tiny beings dancing round him.
Miss Wood was clutching the watercolour she had taken from Victor Zericky's house. It showed a naked woman kneeling on the ground, leaning forward with her head turned towards the spectator. Miss Wood had immediately recognised the posture she had seen Susanna in during the signing session at the Atelier. She could understand how when he saw the watercolour as a boy, little Bruno's mind would have been set ablaze with dreams. And she could also understand how, as an adult, he could want to recreate it in the defenceless, desirable figure of Rembrandt's Susanna. Links between past and present, life and work, were frequent in all painters. What was most troubling in this case were the implications. She had decided to visit the castle and confront them. He'll have to let me in and answer my questions, she thought. But the person who received her, standing in the doorway to the inner courtyard, was Jacob Stein.
Now they were walking down a corridor. At the far end she could see another yard with a chequerboard floor. Night was flooding the distant tiles with its lunar tints.
'Who is helping Postumo Baldi?' asked Miss Wood. 'It's obvious he's not working alone. Who has given him all the information? Who has passed him the badges, codes, access numbers, the shifts our guards were working, the paintings' habits? And who told him what was going to happen in the Tunnel today and the exact time?' A vague smile appeared on Stein's face.
'So you even know that Postumo Baldi is involved… Ah, galismus, our guard dog, our beloved and faithful guard dog… Van Tysch used to tell me: 'Be careful with her. She'll pick up the scent and get her jaws on the prey before we're ready.' And he was right. You are perfect.' His praise made her shudder. 'Answer my questions, please.'
'When did you realise it was us?' Stein asked her instead. Miss Wood's brain raced.
‘I never did,' she said, then added: 'Why would Van Tysch want to destroy his own works?'
'Destroy? Fuschus, Miss Wood, whoever said that? We are creators, not destroyers. We are artists.'
They crossed the tiled courtyard. Miss Wood had never visited this part of Edenburg castle before. It was very imposing: bare floors and walls. The only architectural detail was the smooth timber columns. The night stretched above them like a sea in the darkness.
'But to be honest, I would not wish to attribute to myself the creation of this work,' Stein said, absent- mindedly once more.
They found themselves in another empty, tiled room. At the far end was another door, but this one seemed different somehow. Miss Wood was still tense. She knew Stein was trying to undermine her defences without facing her openly. Stein was used to manipulating people, not overcoming them. She had to stay on guard.
The door was made of metal and had a lock with a security combination. Stein punched in the numbers, and opened the groaning metal sheet to reveal a completely dark interior. He turned back to Miss Wood with a theatrical gesture.
'The Maestro alone is responsible for the work. But he would be very pleased to know you will be one of the first to see it.' And he showed her in.
22.40.
The young man called Matt had gone from one to the other of them lifting the portable recorder like a sacred object. The texts were short, so it had not taken long to read them. Krupka and
Clara had needed to repeat one phrase because they had stumbled over it. Clara found it hard to concentrate on what she was reading, as well as on what the Elders were saying. This was a shame, because they seemed like very interesting reflections on the true meaning of art. The word 'destruction' cropped up in all three texts. Clara also realised that the fact whether they understood or not what they were reading was of no importance. She was struck in particular by one of the phrases she had to read. 'The art that survives is dead art.' She pronounced this with all due reverence.
Satisfied, Matt switched off the recorder. His next order did not take Clara by surprise – she had been expecting it – but her anxiety increased all the same. She could tell she was trembling as she hurried to carry it out. Matt had asked them to strip naked.
The Elders took much longer about it than she did. They were not even sure how to get the heavy, oil-painted clothes off without help, whereas all she had to do was take off her robe. She folded it and left it on the chair. Krupka got undressed before Rodino, who was not only struggling with his vast tunic, but also seemed uncertain as to why they had to do all this in the first place. Clara was tempted to give him a hand, but restrained herself. That would have been a hyperdramatic error. The Elders were detestable. She was their defenceless victim. That was how things should continue to be. Just thinking about what might happen next made her shudder with disgust, but at the same time she felt a powerful feeling of satisfaction.
'Was it the Maestro who gave all these instructions?' Rodino asked. 'Your clothes, please,' Matt replied with complete calm.
Rodino obeyed without another word. Krupka helped him. Clara, who was standing some distance from them, utterly naked and utterly nervous, had decided not to look at the two men. It was easier for her to imagine them as cruel if she did not look at them. But Rodino's doubts were like cold water thrown in her face. Why couldn't that fat, clumsy canvas just shut up and obey, as Krupka had? Krupka was far more odious than Rodino, more detestable, and therefore the better work of art. By focusing her thoughts on Krupka, Clara managed to feel sick from terror. She suspected that Krupka would not have to pretend to fling himself on her and hurt her: ever since they had seen each other for the first time in Schiphol, he had been constantly devouring her with his sensual, shining eyes. Which meant the Hungarian was a good ally for any 'leap into the void'.
She heard the deep rumble of a curtain coming down. Clara guessed this meant Rodino was finally naked.
She went on staring at the floor between her bare feet. She could see the foreshortened perspective of her painted breasts, with the erect nipples gleaming in rose and ochre. But the silence was so profound she was forced
