After an hour of walking, wet and shivering but fairly certain I had not been followed, I looked for a place to stop. I peered through the window of a bar, too crowded. Another block, a courtyard with a small graveyard, tombstones tilted and worn. I circled the periphery, superstitious about walking over the dead. Then came to a back street where I spotted a shabby-looking café. Under its tattered awning, I took a minute to shake off the rain and smooth my hair.

Only two people at the bar, both huddled over drinks. Neither one looked up when I came in.

The bartender offered me a table, but I asked first for the men’s room.

A bare bulb dangling from a chain illuminated a toilet, pitted sink, grimy black and white floor tiles. I blotted my face with a paper towel, tried hard to ignore the smell of urine and ammonia, got the pages out of my side pocket, and unfolded them. The first page stopped me. This was it, what I’d been looking for. The sentence continuing exactly from the last one I’d read…

…look very carefully at the shadow cast by Lisa del Giocondo’s left hand. Where the hand meets the book. You will see two tiny marks. They will look like nothing more than that. Because you need to turn the painting upside down and look again. Now use the magnifying glass and you will see exactly what the forger Yves Chaudron has painted into every one of his copies.

Two marks. The letters Y and C. For Yves Chaudron. The forger has dared to sign his work!

This is all the proof you need to identify the forgeries. When you find the one without Chaudron’s initials you will have found Leonardo’s original!

I stared at the words, the paper trembling in my hand, could hardly believe I’d found it. I would have to go back to the Louvre and see the painting again, but this time, I’d know what to look for. I skimmed the remaining pages quickly. They appeared to be written after Peruggia had gotten out of prison. I put them back into my pocket, would read them later. The first page, the important page, I folded into a small square, found the tiny tear in my pocket, and forced it through until it lodged inside the lining.

I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sink, dark shadows of my beard and mustache, hair slick with rain, one eye swollen from the fight, a crack in the mirror bisecting my other eye and making it appear smaller. I stared at my face, but it was my great-grandfather who stared back.

63

The rain was no more than a drizzle now, everything cloaked in heavy fog as I made my way down the street, trash floating in puddles, half the lights burned out, shops closed, homes dark—not a desirable neighborhood for this time of night.

A man, hulking and ragged, appeared out of the mist, and I flinched.