Their voices were still indistinct but louder here, and I could tell they were arguing.

“Leave him out of this,” the woman said.

“Sorry,” Baine said, “but I can’t do that.”

I didn’t want to be in the middle of a marital spat, but something in their voices drew me forward. I took a few more steps down the hall and heard the woman say “Please.” It was just one word, but the imploring way she said it was enough to send a chill through my body.

96

She looked up as I came into the room, lips parted in midsentence. “Oh my God—” Then she blinked slowly as if to make sure what she was seeing was real.

I was trying to take it in too, the unreality of the moment, the room blurring behind the two central characters. A minute to collect my thoughts, to find my voice. “Is this the guy you’ve been working for?”

“You don’t understand,” Alex said. “You think you do, but you don’t.”

“Well,” said Baine, “now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s adjourn to a less comfortable setting.” He opened a desk drawer and withdrew a small pistol.

Through a buzzing in my ears, I heard fragments of what he said: Ed Brown Compact…no kickback…fits the hand…under $3,000.

He aimed the gun at me.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we? I need your help with something.”

I was still trying to locate my feelings, everything in high relief, Baine’s gun, Alex’s face, my mind a kaleidoscope of half thoughts and images—torn journal pages, Brother Francesco on a stretcher, dead booksellers. Could Richard Baine possibly be responsible for all that?

“Please,” Alex said.

“Stop whimpering,” Baine said. “It’s beneath you, embarrassing.”

“Go to hell!” she said.

“Alex,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“You will get your answers when I get mine.” Baine planted the pistol against my back, urging both Alex and me forward.

“You’re insane,” Alex said to him.

“Please. No need for name calling, my dear.” Baine led us into the hallway, then down a staircase. At the bottom, into an office, telling me where to find the key, how to push the bookcase out of the way and open the vault. When it was open, he ordered us inside and flipped a switch. The room flooded with light. Alex beside me, the two of us gasping in unison. I looked from one artwork to the next, then two Mona Lisa paintings, one hanging on the wall, another just beneath it.

“Jesus,” Alex said. “I never—”

“No, you never,” Baine said. “These are for my eyes only.”

It only took a second for me to see the initials in the Mona Lisa resting on the floor, a Chaudron forgery for sure.

“All of them stolen?” I asked.

“Not all,” Baine said. “Some bartered, others paid for more dearly than you can imagine.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” I said, thinking again of Brother Francesco, Quattrocchi, and the booksellers. “Tell me, does all this make you happy?”