Cold War

be no open auction, at least not in Morgan’s lifetime.

He almost didn’t want to buy them, for if he did he would inevitably have to part with them; he was a businessman, after all.

He could indulge himself. He might indulge himself. If he sold them off individually, he could keep one or two.

The bull?

Perhaps the infant. The light blue streak underlying the eyes — pure innocence.

Did it exist anywhere in the world outside of art?

The waiter appeared. There was no one else outside on this cold day, and he walked quickly to his customers. As the man poured the water into the glass, Morgan glanced toward his bodyguard at the edge of the railing in front of the lake. He looked a little bored, which Morgan took as a good sign.

“The works will be impossible to sell,” said Morgan after the waiter had gone.

“Not for a man of great reach.”

He must make a bid, and yet he did not wish to. It was sacrilege, an insult.

He had not thought that when he put a number on the Renoir ink. A ridiculously low number — ten thousand American dollars. He had ended buying it from the Russian mafya official for fifteen, then selling it for half a million three months later.

But the child’s innocence could not be bought. The bull’s fear — what price?

A dollar, a billion.

“One million per painting, the usual method, upon verification,” said Morgan.

“An insult,” said the Italian. “Pazzo. Pazzo.”

Pazzo meant “crazy” and was among the mildest epithets available. They were very close.

Morgan resisted the temptation to pull the photocopies from his pocket. Instead, he turned back toward the lake. The white swan had been joined by a black one. He watched for quite a while before the Italian spoke.

“Twenty for all.”

“Fifteen,” said Morgan, deciding on his price. He rose, removing his glasses and placing them back in his breast pocket. “Make the arrangements. A single word in the usual manner when you are ready; use ‘innocent.’ It has a nice ring.”

He rose swiftly, giving his companion no chance to protest.

Paris, France

Nessa studied the carrot stick before biting into it. Since joining Interpol, she had gained nearly five pounds. She couldn’t be called overweight, but if this pace continued her body would soon resemble one of those delightful rum cakes that seemed to lie in wait at every corner. At least the food was contributing to her language skills; “Chateaubriand” fairly rolled off her tongue.

She turned her attention back to the transcript of the interrogation of Mme. Diles, the low-level research assistant at the Musee Picasso who had passed the letter to Elata. The woman claimed she did not know why she had been offered ten thousand dollars for that particular document, nor by whom, nor why only the original would do.

Because his works were so well known, Picasso was not a good candidate for high-level forgery. Stolen pieces of his were somewhat common on the black market, but Elata could probably do far better mimicking other artists.

Jairdain pressed his forefinger to his lips, holding the tip against his nose.

“Most likely he’s still in Paris,” said the French investigator.

“Yes,” she said.

“Perhaps he wants to forge letters now.”

“It’s the daub of paint, I think,” said Nessa, glancing at the photocopy on her desk. “It’s the only thing unique about the letter.”

“The ink.”

“Could have asked for any letter. They wanted this one specifically. June 3, 1937. He wrote it while he was working on Guernica.”

Nessa’s concentration in art history was the Renaissance, but she had taken several courses on modern art, including one that combined the study of Picasso with Matisse. Guernica had taken up about a week’s worth of lectures, thanks largely to the photos that had been taken of its evolution. She remembered an afternoon’s discussion of studies for the painting; there had been six at the very beginning, a rush of ideas the first day. Possibilities had evolved on the canvas itself. One of the students — Karl, long hair, glasses — had suggested Picasso was considering companion pieces or even variations. The professor said there had been rumors of such pieces, but none had surfaced after the war.

Was Elata seeking to create those pieces? It was the sort of grand, bold artistic gesture he was known for — Doigts was unintimidated in the face of genius. He was, after all, a genius himself.

“Why the paint, though?” she asked aloud. “To get the color right? One color?”

And then she realized they had looked at things backwards.

“He has a Picasso,” she told her partner. “From this period. He’s trying to authenticate it.”

“C’e?”

“Who else but a master forger would know all the tricks? It must be.” She jumped up from her desk. “An unknown Picasso, painted around the time of Guernica—perhaps even intended as a companion. It would be worth millions. Many millions.”

“Magnifique,” said Jairdain. “Now all we have to do is find the bastard, and we will both be the most famous Interpol detectives of all time.”

Nessa frowned and picked up another carrot.

Bull Pass, Antarctica

She had been alone in the blackness for hours, or what seemed like hours, before she heard the scream.

Her hands cuffed in front of her, she’d sunk down in a corner after they took him, her knees pulled to her chest, welded rivets pressing into her spine. Hunkered in that angle between two walls, she’d listened numbly to the pounding of machinery somewhere outside the cage. The noise and blackness seemed one, merged. A grinding, shapeless thing wrapped around her, confining her as surely as the walls of the cage itself.

After a while she had slipped into a faded, bottomed-out semblance of sleep, only to be awakened by the scream, startling as a rocket flare inside her head. But when she came back to full alertness, she heard nothing. Nothing but the machines grating away out there.

Out there in the black.

She felt her heart bumping in her chest now, felt her temples throbbing, pulled in a breath of stale air. It helped a little, but not much. God, God. That single, piercing scream. Maybe she’d imagined it. She’d been woozy with fatigue before she nodded off. Very possibly she’d imagined it.

She thought about the beatings they’d given him, tears swelling into her eyes. She didn’t want to think about the beatings, hated to think about the beatings, but couldn’t keep her mind from turning back to them. He was a strong man. Physically and mentally. Stronger than she ever could be. But it was hard to see how anyone would be able to withstand much more of their vicious, unforgiving abuse.

She sat there gathered into a ball. The blackness was absolute. She could have held her hand directly in front of her face and not seen the vaguest hint of its outline. Absolute. Only the noises beyond the cage had variation.

She listened to them, trying to take note of the changes.

Time passed.

The drumming rhythms quickened and slowed. There were periods when everything switched off. Beneath the sound of the machines, and in the occasional lulls, she could hear the quiet susurrus of air blowing through unseen ventilation grilles.

She prayed to God the scream had been something she’d imagined, dreamed, whatever.

She listened intently to the machine noises. She wasn’t sure what compelled her. Perhaps it was ingrained habit, a mind used to filing and sorting information. Perhaps it was only to give her moments shape, definition, a