Cold War

hinted during their brief conversation, a ploy to establish the visit as a vacation. She had apparently taken the precaution of calling from a pay phone, and there was in any event no reason to suspect that her calls would be monitored or even observed, but it was the sort of indiscretion that boded poorly, representing a severely flawed judgment that would inevitably lead to great difficulty.

Morgan sensed that the inchworm — she not only thought like one, but had she green hair she would have passed for a human relative of the species — intended to wring an accounting from him of the Scotland matters, which he had handled on her behalf. But at least she’d had the good sense not to bring it up on the telephone. He had graciously promised a driver and car to meet her at the airport and take her to all the important sights. They would also keep her from being a problem until the meeting. After that, further arrangements would have to be made.

The Scotland matter itself remained unresolved, though hopeful. His agent had been instructed to stay at her post indefinitely, but she had not been easily convinced. Like so many excellent killers, she was American, and impatient by nature. Fortunately, being American, her patience could be bought, and a price was finally arranged after considerable haggling. In the meantime, she had decided to go ahead and eliminate the girlfriend gratis — a tidy touch that made Morgan regret that when the time came to eliminate Constance Burns, he would have to give up the agent in the process.

But not a hair of any of these problems had anything to do with today’s business. They were distractions, diversions, needless anxieties. As his men on the street nodded, Morgan stepped out from the door and filled his lungs with the cool air. He embraced it, flinging open his coat, taking another long breath, gliding toward his car. He must live for the moment; everything else would sort itself out in time.

Morgan slid into the rear seat of the sedan, settling in as Hans and Jacques got in on the other side. Wilhelm put the car into gear and they moved gracefully away, heading for Luzern.

Out of habit, Morgan reached for his alpha pager to check for messages. But then he remembered his resolution. There would be time to think of Miss Burns, of Scotland, of the inestimable Mr. Gordian, he reminded himself. For now, his mind must be clear; he must prepare himself for the Italian. He settled back against the thick leather seat, listening as the tenor warmed up to Verdi’s “Brindisi” in the opening act of La Traviata.

* * *

On April 26, 1937, aircraft belonging to Nazi Germany destroyed the city of Guernica, Spain. They acted on behalf of General Francisco Franco and the right-wing Nationalists, fighting in a war that would eventually claim the lives of at least one million people, many of them civilians. The target’s status as a holy city for the Basque people was the sole reason for the attack; the length of the raid and the fact that civilians were hunted down by the attacking aircraft gives the lie to any claim that this was anything other that a deliberate massacre designed to both intimidate and desecrate. For three hours, the German Luftwaffe dropped incendiary devices and explosives, strafed women and children who had run into nearby fields, and otherwise worked hard to obliterate every trace of life in the town. In an ugly era, it was a particularly ugly deed.

And yet, strange, dark beauty blossomed from it. In January 1937, Pablo Picasso received a commission from the Spanish Republican government: a painting to occupy one wall of the Spanish pavilion at Paris’s Universal Exposition scheduled for later that year. He had struggled with what to portray. On April 30th, he saw photographs of the German attack at Guernica in the evening newspaper Ce Soir. The photographs provoked one of the twentieth century’s most important works, a monument to man’s inhumanity and at the same time a testimony to the power of art—Guernica.

The construction of the painting was documented by Dora Maar, whose photographs reveal the various permutations and stages it underwent as the master created. These helped it become not only one of the most famous large-scale paintings of the twentieth century, but also one of the most studied.

More obscure, indeed for all practical purposes unknown, were fourteen small works intended— perhaps—as companion pieces in the exhibit. Each elaborated in a different way on elements of the masterwork — the bull, the lantern, the warrior, the dead child. And each related, in ways at times obscure and at other times obvious, to the Catholic Stations of the Cross — of which there are also fourteen.

Morgan’s heart raced as he slowly slid color laser prints of the paintings through his fingers. Guernica had been rendered mostly in shades of black and white, as if it were a newspaper documenting the horror. The accompanying works were color, exquisite pieces with shades like stained glass — somewhat brighter than, say, Weeping Woman, painted in October 1937 and traditionally linked to the time and style of Guernica. Their style echoed the geometry of Guernica, and yet had the feeling, the softness of expression, the depth of such works as The Dream of 1932. Bizarre yet familiar, violent yet loving, they were works without peer in the Western world.

Morgan felt his tongue heavy in his mouth. His enthusiasm was a weapon that could easily be turned against him — how many times had he used such enthusiasm in others as his own tool in negotiations? The beauty of the paintings was nothing. Art was merely a statement of desire; a forger worked the equation backwards, intensifying the latter to provoke the former. A lover was very easily cuckolded.

He was a true lover now. Sitting at the small cafe table across from the blue-green waters of Lake Lucerne, he was as emphatically in love as any fifteen-year-old who had lost his cherry a half hour before. His hands were sweaty. He couldn’t speak. He tried to hide his enthusiasm with a frown, but knew it appeared phony.

And he didn’t care.

“I can deliver within a few days, a week at most,” said the Italian. “Once the financial arrangements are made.”

Morgan folded the photocopies as deliberately as he could manage, then slowly placed them into the pocket of his jacket. He fixed his gaze on a swan in the lake’s cold water about thirty meters away.

The terror of the bull — the sharp line and bold color — the perception of soul…

Before such genius, what was he? What was anyone?

“The possessors realize that there are difficulties involved with pieces of such magnitude,” ventured the Italian, attempting to open negotiations.

“Mmmm, yes,” Morgan said, continuing to gaze at the water. He had spent considerable resources examining the possibility that the paintings were indeed valid. The governing rumor was that they had been given by Picasso to a friend of Dora’s soon after the exhibit closed; the reason was obscure and varied according to the teller, although the favorite was that they were used to buy the freedom of fourteen Jews — a romantic tale that Morgan necessarily discounted. In any event, all agreed the works had been spirited off to Bavaria by an art-loving colonel, then sold in 1945 to a Russian general, who met with an unfortunate accident in Hungary during the 1950’s. At that point, the rumors ceased completely.

Morgan had hired a private detective from Bonn with certain heartfelt beliefs that solidified important connections to the past. After considerable effort, the detective produced two letters mentioning the paintings. A historical consultant had found hints in other documentary evidence, including two unpublished photos that seemed to show portions of them at the sides of Guernica as it was being completed. The consultant had also supplied certain hints that could be used to authenticate them, including the letter found in the Musee Picasso in Paris. But even if this sketchy evidence, taken together, convinced him that the paintings had indeed been done, nothing he had found so far meant that the works in the Italian’s possession were the paintings. Even if the Italian was not known to deal in forgeries, even he could be fooled.

Two art historians had been retained for their opinion. They would examine the works before any deal was consummated. Elata would be the piece de resistance — the master forger’s eye looking for signs of his craft.

But first, a price had to be settled on. Morgan reached into his pocket and took out his reading glasses, fitting them deliberately around his ears as a sign that he was now negotiating.

“The price,” he told the Italian gently.

“The figure fifty million has been suggested.”

Morgan folded his arms and sat back in his seat. The Swiss waiter, as discreet as any in the breed, caught his eye across the tables and ducked back into the restaurant for another bottle of mineral water.

“But of course, thirty might be more realistic,” said the Italian.

At an open auction, with documentation proving they were real, it was conceivable that bidding on each work alone would begin at ten million and quickly escalate; as a set their worth was simply incalculable. But there would