It seemed to some as if the schoolchildren who had been locked in the Impressionist exhibit that day had simply gathered their bags and blank canvases, and walked out into the autumn air, and faded like smoke.
One of the docents reported seeing the children board a waiting school bus, an older driver at the wheel.
Many people tried in vain to gain a statement from officials at the Knightsbury Institute, but no one could uncover where the school was located—there certainly was no record of any such institution in London. Not in all of England. Some of the children had sounded American, the guards had said, but after three weeks of failed attempts, the coughing children with their hazy eyes were forgotten for a bigger story on another day.
No one saw the man in the Bentley who sat watching them walk from the museum in a single line. No one but he noticed that the portfolios they carried were a tad too thick.
No one but his driver heard him whisper, “Katarina.”
Chapter 35
Gregory Wainwright was not a foolish man. He swore this to his wife and to his therapist. His mother assured him of that fact every Sunday when he visited her for tea. No one who truly knew him thought that he was personally responsible for Henley security—he employed specialists for such things, after all. But the Angel . . . the Angel had gone missing. Had disappeared. And so Gregory Wainwright was fairly certain that the powers that be at the Henley would be inclined to disagree.
Perhaps that is why he did not tell a soul that his security card had somehow gone missing in the chaos of the fire. Perhaps that is why he did not say a lot of things.
If it had been another painting, perhaps all might have been forgiven. But the Angel ? Losing the Angel was too much.
The article that appeared in the evening edition of the London Times was not exactly what the public had expected. Of course, the color picture of the lost Leonardo loomed large in the center of the page. It went without saying that a headline about the robbery at the Henley dominated everything above the fold. And it was only a matter of time, Gregory Wainwright knew, before the old stories about the Angel would resurface. His only surprise was that it had taken less than twenty-four hours for the press to turn the story from a recounting of the Henley’s—and society’s—loss, to a retelling of the Henley’s shame.
It wasn’t Wainwright’s fault that Veronica Miles Henley had purchased the Angel soon after the end of World War II. Wainwright hadn’t taken the painting from its original owner and offered it to a high-ranking banking official who had been of great service to the Nazi party. Gregory Wainwright wasn’t the judge who had ruled that, since the Angel had been purchased in good faith from the banking official’s estate, and since it would hang in a public exhibit, it should not be forcibly removed from the museum’s walls.
None of this was my fault! the man wanted to scream. But, of course, screaming simply is not done. Or so his mother told him.
The press was loving all of it. The Henley was being villified, and Romani was being made out as some sort of hero—a Robin Hood who headed a merry band of thieves.
Still, if there was one thing that Gregory Wainwright could be grateful for, it was that the journalists never heard about the boy.
Wainwright remembered every detail of that day as if he were reliving it over and over again. . . .
“Our guards assure me that the room in which you were found had been completely evacuated prior to the fire-protection procedures taking effect,” Gregory Wainwright said as he sat across from the young man with the dark hair and blue eyes, in the small interrogation room of Scotland Yard. The detectives had assured him that they were too concerned with tracking down the real thief to take much time with the boy; but the Henley’s director had felt otherwise.
“I’m not going to sue,” was the boy’s only answer.
“How exactly did you get into that exhibit?” the man asked again.
“I told you. I told the guy before you. I told the guys before him, and all the way back to the guys who found me, I was in the exhibit when the sirens sounded. I tripped on my way to the door. By the time I got up, I was locked in.”
“But I was in that room. I personally can attest to the fact that our doors only lock when a room has been evacuated.”
The boy shrugged. “Maybe you’ve got a security problem.” This was, if anything, an understatement, but Mr. Wainwright was not in the mood to say so. “Maybe my mom can help you with that,” the boy offered. “She’s real good at that stuff. You know she works for Interpol.”
The woman at the boy’s side was attractive and well dressed, Gregory Wainwright could see. He had, after all, an eye for framing people; so many of them walked through the Henley’s doors every day. He knew tourists and collectors, critics and snobs, but he could not truly grasp the woman in front of him.
“How did you survive the oxygen deprivation measures?” the director asked, and the boy shrugged.
“Some old dude left his wheelchair. He must have breathing problems, because there was oxygen on the back.”
Gregory Wainwright winced slightly as one of the richest men in the world was referred to as “some old dude,” but he said nothing.
The woman began to stand. “I understand if there are waivers or documents which you will need us to sign, but I can assure you, you have no grounds to hold my son, and he’s been through quite an ordeal.”
“I’m afraid your son cannot go anywhere until he has been cleared of—”
“Cleared?” the boy snapped. Gregory Wainwright could not be sure if it was indignation or fear, but there was no mistaking the edge in his tone.
“I was under the impression that the robbery took place in a different wing of the museum,” the mother said.
The boy held his arms out wide. “Search me. Go ahead. Just tell me this: exactly what did I take?” His mother placed a calming hand on her son’s shoulder, but her look at Wainwright seemed to say that that was an excellent question.
“We have no interest in prolonging this matter, Mr. Wainwright,” the woman said coolly. “I’m sure you have many things to do today. If I could offer some advice, I’d remind you that in matters such as these, time is essential. If you don’t recover her within one week, you will likely never do so.”