something through the earphones attached to an iPod in the pocket of her blouse.
The courses, many of them, were served silently by an older couple, and several bottles of very old, and very good, wine were poured. Palliser tried to gauge his intake, but the glass was always replenished as soon as he had taken a sip. Eventually, the conversation found its way to the assignment Palliser had undertaken.
“So tell me-what is so priceless about this mirror?” Linz asked, dicing up a roasted potato. Palliser had noticed that even though fish and game had been served, Linz had eaten only soup and vegetables. “Who would want it so badly?”
“That I am not at liberty to divulge,” Palliser said, glad for the convenient evasion. His only contact was with a Chicago lawyer named Hudgins, who closely guarded his master’s, or mistress’s, identity. “But may I ask you a question?”
Linz nodded vigorously, without looking up from his plate.
“How did you know what I was looking for?” He noted Rigaud throwing a glance at his boss.
Linz took a swallow from his wineglass, and said, “I’m an ardent collector, as you have already seen. I have many sources, many dealers, and they all keep me apprised of anything new that comes onto the market. They also tell me about any unusual inquiries. Yours was one of them.”
Palliser thought he’d been extremely discreet in his search so far, but now he wondered who had tipped off Linz. Was it that jeweler in Rome? The librarian in Florence? Some rival as yet unknown?
“Tell me what you know of it,” Linz said, “and maybe I will be able to help you.”
Palliser smelled a rat-a big one-but he suspected that Linz already knew what little he could tell him. Whoever his source was had undoubtedly told him a good deal more about what Palliser was seeking-a handheld looking glass, of sixteenth-century Florentine manufacture, and most probably from the hand of the master craftsman himself, Benvenuto Cellini. One side sported a silver head of the Medusa, her hair writhing like snakes, and the other concealed a mirror. Why his client wanted it more than anything on earth, he could not say.
But when he had finished, Linz speared the last of his asparagus, then said, “A lot of what Cellini made, as I hardly need to tell a man of your experience, has been lost or destroyed over the years. So how do you know it even exists? What proof do you have?”
“None, really, apart from a few papers in my case.”
Linz had the briefcase brought to them at the table, and as the servants poured out coffee, Palliser started to enter the combination to unlock the case, when he realized that it was already unlocked. Had he been so careless?
With some reservations, he produced copies of a sketch-in red and black ink-of the mirror, along with copies of some working papers written in Italian, and in a distinctive hand.
Linz studied them intensely, his dark hair, speckled with gray, sweeping low across his brow. There followed a detailed discussion of Cellini’s career, and of the Italian Renaissance in general, which bowled Palliser over. A graduate of Oxford, with a doctorate in art history, he knew a genuine connoisseur when he came across one-and Linz was not only a passionate devotee of the arts, but also someone who spoke of them with the intensity of an artist himself, someone who had wrestled with the aesthetic questions on his own terms. Palliser wouldn’t have been surprised if Linz had his own studio tucked away in one of the unexplored turrets.
Still, he felt that he had given the game away with little to show for it in return. When he finally ventured to ask his host what suggestions he might have for locating the Medusa, Linz leaned back in his chair, and after deliberating, said, “A lost cause, I should say. You admit that it hasn’t been seen for centuries. I should think it was best left alone.”
To Palliser’s practiced ear, it sounded like he knew more than he was telling. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Some things are meant to be found,” Linz said gnomically, “and others are meant to be lost. Everything has its own destiny. As an artisan,” he went on, astutely referring to Cellini in the vernacular of his day, “he was unparalleled in his various skills.” Although the term “artist” was also employed, and came into greater use over time, it was no insult, Palliser recognized, to be known as an artisan. “But in his own lifetime, even Cellini’s greatest work sometimes went unappreciated.”
“The Perseus statue was wildly acclaimed,” Palliser protested. He did not even mention the artist’s other great triumphs.
“But that was not his greatest work.”
Now Palliser was puzzled. Not his greatest work? It was one of the most revered works of all Renaissance art, known throughout the world.
As the evening progressed, Rigaud looked increasingly bored, and Ava perked up only when a torte was brought out, piled high with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. She dug in with gusto.
Linz, too, plainly enjoyed the dessert, a moustache of cream forming on his upper lip. But Palliser had lost his appetite. Glancing at his watch-it was well past ten-he said, “And I do hate to end the evening so abruptly, but I should get back to Paris. I still have La Medusa to find.”
“You sound undeterred,” Linz said. “I’m impressed.” Wiping his lips with his napkin, he added, “But if you would prefer to spend the night here, Lord knows we have plenty of room.”
Little as he relished the idea of the helicopter ride back, in the dark, Palliser was even less inclined to stay the night under such a strange roof. There was something unsettling about Linz, quite apart from the fact that he had provided so little help. All through the dinner, Palliser had increasingly felt as if he was being drained of all his own information, and for nothing in return. He wasn’t used to being duped, and he didn’t like it one bit.
“Thank you,” he said, “but I have an appointment first thing in the morning.”
Linz acceded graciously, rising from his chair. That left arm was definitely palsied, Palliser noticed. But then, to his own great embarrassment, he found himself weaving on his own feet from the effects of the wine. Rocking in place for a second, he said, “Your wine cellar is exceptionally well stocked.”
“It’s the best in the Loire Valley,” Linz said. “In fact, you have been such good company, I’d like to offer you a gift-a bottle of whatever you like.”
Palliser demurred, but Linz would have none of it. “Emil,” he commanded, “tell the pilot to be ready in ten minutes.” And then, taking Palliser by the elbow, he escorted him out of the room while Ava called for a second helping of the torte.
Palliser, holding his briefcase, was led back through the armor hall and the salons, then down a winding stair and through the kitchens and scullery. The temperature grew colder and the air grew damp. Linz circumvented an old dusty rack and flicked a switch. A long corridor, carved from the stone itself, was lined with thousands of bottles of wine, as far as the eye could see. Palliser, who had seen the vaunted storerooms of Moldova, could not even guess at the quantity housed here.
“What do you like?” Linz asked, leading the way under a string of dim white lightbulbs. “Bordeaux? Pinot Noir?” He waved an arm at the racks, moving on. “This valley is best known for its dry white wines. Did you enjoy the Sancerre at dinner?”
“I did,” Palliser confessed, wishing that he had enjoyed it a little less.
“Then let me offer you one of these,” Linz said, stepping farther down the tunnel and taking a bottle from the rack. Blowing off the dust, he said, “Yes, this is a 1936-a very fine vintage.”
As Palliser took the bottle, he became aware of a draft under his feet, and the distant sound of sloshing water. He looked down, and in the wavering light saw that he was standing atop a rusty grate.
“This was once a dungeon,” Linz explained. “You’re standing above the oubliette.”
The shaft, Palliser knew, where prisoners were thrown to die a slow death of thirst and starvation.
Instinctively, he stepped back.
“But the chateau rests on limestone, and the river is eroding the cliffs,” Linz said, stooping to pull the grate away to reveal the shaft; he appeared rather proud of his oubliette. “You see? The water has already reached the bottom of the pit.”
Indeed, Palliser could just make out a surge of water swirling at the very bottom of the funnel, when he felt a steadying hand on his shoulder and turned to see that Rigaud had rejoined them.
“The chopper is ready to go,” he said, Palliser’s cashmere overcoat draped over one arm.
“Good,” Palliser replied, “thank you.”
“Let me take those for you,” Linz said, relieving Palliser of the wine and the briefcase before he could think to object.
