The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts (4 page)

I wait for Marconi to show within half an
hour and when he doesn’t I decide to investigate. His door is
slightly ajar but not enough to see inside and there are no sounds
from inside the room so I gently push it open further. A hand comes
into view, palm upturned, lying on the carpet; it doesn’t move. I
stick my head in and look around to make sure there is no one else
here; the room is empty. Marconi has a knife stuck in his chest. I
swallow hard and turn my attention to the area and search for the
box, but I know in my mind it’s missing. And it is. I replay events
from the time we returned to the hotel and realize that only one
person went to the second floor – ‘flower shirt’ has it. He didn’t
come back to the lobby and the window is locked from the inside so
he’s still in the hotel or he took the stairs. What should I do? I
leave the room quietly; making sure nobody has seen me. I do not
bother to phone the police. Let room services discover the body as
I have more important things to do right now than being
interrogated by the police. I will assist them after I have solved
the case myself. But I know that I am dealing with a very dangerous
man.

On a hunch I go to the maitre de.

“Yes miss?”

“By chance did you see the gentleman in the
Hawaiian shirt a short while ago?”

“I see everything here miss.”

“Can you tell me if he is a guest here?”

“Miss, this is the ‘Victoria’ - have you seen
any other guest dressed in –
‘that’
– attire?” He asked with
utter disdain.

“That’s what I thought, thank you.” A twenty
dollar bill passes hands.

Now what? I can take root in the lobby and
wait for someone carrying a box, or go looking. I’d better grow
roots. Several guests check out with luggage but these are not what
I’m interested in – it’s the lone man in a business suit, toting a
purple wheeled airline carry-on bag that gets my attention. He
could be off to a meeting, but why would a person not have an
attaché or brief case? It just looks ‘wrong’.

I follow, and he knows it. He enters a taxi
and gives his destination but I’m not close enough to hear – I get
a taxi and follow. We arrive at Fiumicino airport at the KLM
departure building, but he has already disappeared into the crowd.
I look at the departure board – there are three KLM flights
scheduled – Amsterdam, Lisbon and Tocumen. All international
flights, but only the latter requiring passport clearance, which
seems to rule it out. So – Amsterdam or Lisbon? Holland or
Portugal? I go with Amsterdam only because of the diamond exchange
and make my way to gate B17. Boarding has not been announced and so
I get a good look at the passengers. The guy with the purple bag is
not among them. The Lisbon flight is at gate B19 and is boarding –
my gut says this is not the one. That leaves Tocumen. But why
Panama? I check the board and see that the flight leaves from gate
D10 – I’ll never make it in time but the elevated concourse will
let me see the departure lounge. And there he is - I swear he looks
up at me before heading down the embarkation ramp.

I take a deep breath, it always triggers my
resolve, he’s gone but I cannot let go and so I return to the hotel
and my I-pad. The KLM flight has a stop in Mauritania but there is
an Air France non-stop flight that will get me there sooner. Oh I
love
computers! A couple of clicks and I have an e-ticket
reservation; my bags are packed and I’m back at the airport with
twenty minutes to spare – enough time to grab a bottle of blond
hair color and blaring red lipstick from the duty free shop.

The looks I got on emerging from the first
class lavatory on board told me I did it right – from the red high
heeled shoes and clinging dress, to the shoulder length ash blond
curls brushing my shoulders, I look pretty darn stunning and I’m
sure my quarry won’t recognize me.

I purchase a second bag from the Samsonite
store, which I load with heavy souvenirs and secure in locker 117.
Now all I have to do is wait for the KLM flight to arrive.

Forty minutes later its status changes to
‘landed’, so I choose a seat near the baggage collection carousels
and watch. Only one purple bag makes the rounds amidst those with
colored ribbons attached for easy identification and I walk close
enough to read the travel tag. ‘Cesar Montego, 224 Santa Maria
Street, San Abajo, Los Santos.’ According to a map on the wall,
there is a small airport at Howard – about forty kilometers away
from San Abajo, and the next flight scheduled does not leave for
three hours. I place my bag on the carousel next to his and wait
for him to show. The bags take a turn out of reach when he appears
and he stands close to me to wait for it.

“It’s a beautiful day, no?” He asks.

“Yes, it is.” I agree.

“Where you go – from here?” He asks.

“Rio Halo.”

“Ah, beautiful place, I went there once – you
live there?”

“No, I wait for my friend’s chauffer.”

“I go the other way – to Los Santos. I wait
for another plane.”

“I have to wait also, the limo was
delayed.”

We reach for the bags. “We wait together
no?”

“I don’t think so.” I decline.

“Why not? We are friends now, no? My I
introduce myself to you, I am Montego.”

“Pleased to meet you Montego, I am Sophia,” I
lie to him. “Well… I am a little hungry, perhaps a bit to eat.”

“Si, I buy.” He promises.

“Okay, but I want to put my bag in a locker -
can’t be too careful you know. I heard there are thieves in the
airport.”

He looks at his bag with concern. “Good idea
– I do too.”

I choose locker 119 and he takes 123.

We order a ‘Cuban’ pressed sandwich and he
suggests a Seco Herrerano to accompany. “This is the national drink
of Panama.” He announces proudly.

I take a sip – it’s strong and reminiscent of
clear rum. “It’s very good.”

“Two more…” He orders.

“You’ll get me dizzy.” I complain with a
giggle.

“S’okay – we no drive – no?”

“No – we no drive.”

I’m surprised the potted plant next to me
didn’t wilt with the alcohol I fed it and I estimate that I
consumed one drink to his three which made it easy to pick the
locker key from his pocket. Now I have to get rid of him.

“This Seco Herr… whatever makes me sleepy.” I
giggle more.

“There is a hotel, right here – you want to
rest for a while? I wake you up in time.” He offers.

“I shouldn’t.” I say, stroking his chin. “I
really shouldn’t.”

“You’re safe with me – you trust me, no?”

Now I don’t know about you, but rule number
one I learned as an adult was never trust anyone who says ‘trust
me’. “Sure I trusht you.” I slur. “Okay – why don’t you get a room
while I purchase some ‘items’ from the pharmacy. I’ll be right
there.”

Not believing his good fortune, he positively
runs to the hotel entrance while I head to the lockers. It’s an
easy job to switch the box from Montego’s purple bag to mine and
put the souvenirs in his. After toting his bag to get the weights
close I have two iron statues left which I leave in the spare bag
and place on the floor. I leave his bag in the locker but take mine
with me. On the way to the hotel I draw the attention of a security
guard to the unattended bag outside the lockers and meet with
Montego in the lobby. I stagger against him to replace the key in
his pocket and explain the presence of my bag “I need my
nightie.”

His eyes light up with anticipation just as a
loud whistle sounds outside.

“Whatsh that?” I ask.

“I go see.”

He is distraught on return. “It’s security –
the lockers are cordoned off – I can’t get my bag! They are sending
people out of the airport.”

“Oh my God!” I sympathize. “We have to
go.”

“I can’t – I must have my bag.”

It is simple for me to hide in the melee and
get to gate A11 for departure on the return flight. Sucker! In the
airport I phone Interpol. I tell them that I want to stay anonymous
but that I know of a dead body in a hotel room and his murderer
Montego…

Panama is a magnificent country from the air
and I wish I could get to explore it, but this time I will be very
happy to leave. Somewhere over the Caribbean I use my success in
the recovery of the books as an excuse to call Gavin and report my
adventure, but what I really want is to hear his voice.

“Sweetheart – well done! Tell you what – I’ll
meet you at the hotel tonight and treat you to a night out.”

“We can’t go out – the banks will be closed
and I need to keep these books in sight at all times.”

“Okay – dinner in your room then.”

“You’ll fly to Rome again?”

“Absolutely.”

“Gavin…”

“Yes?”

“You understand that we are just very good
friends for now…”

“Yes, I get it.”

“Thank you – later on maybe.”

“Okay – see you tonight.”

Gavin is waiting for me with keen
anticipation. “Why do you have blond hair? Never mind… that’s
them?” He points to my bag.

“I didn’t have time to open the box, but I
think so.”

He makes sure the doors are locked and
shutters closed. “Let’s see…”

I lift the box out carefully and place it on
a bath towel set on the coffee table.

We stand in awe and reverence at what we hope
sits inside. There are pry marks on one side which I assume are
recent.

“Go ahead…” Gavin prompts, handing me a
knife.

“I’m scared.”

“Want me to?”

“No, I’ll do it.”

My fingers shake as I insert the blade
between lid and side and lever downwards, just the box itself has
immense value so I take great care not to damage it further.

With a slight creak it raises sufficiently
for me to finish the removal with my fingers and expose the canvas
package inside. It’s tied with a jute cord which alarms me.

“That’s not original.” I determine. “Oh
dear.”

“What about the canvas?” Gavin asks.

“Could be.” My magnifying glass reveals
fibers that would typically be found in materials of that era.

The package remains firm as I lift it out.
“That’s a good sign…”

Picking the knot open with tweezers I become
aware that I stopped breathing, so I step away for a moment. I lay
open the canvas with my fingers to behold a stack of ancient books
- not the hoped for eighty, but perhaps thirty in number sitting on
a wooden block.

“Wonder where the others are?” Gavin
questions.

“Mmmm.”

“Do you think the guy you ‘procured’ them
from took them?”

“I don’t think so – he only had one bag with
him when he left the hotel and he went straight to the airport from
here.”

“So who?”

“The original thief perhaps – or
Roberto…”

“Or his father?” Gavin suggested. “Or, they
were never in the box.”

“Oh I think they were in the box – this
wooden block is quite modern. There is another possibility though –
Marconi went to visit someone or people not far from here – I
followed him. – he may have sold them.”

“We should follow on that.” He said.

“We?” I ask, paying half attention while
concentrating on the books.

“Why not? I
do
bring some muscle to
the games.”

“Mmmm.”

“What?”

“This seems to be the real deal.” I
opine.

“Can you open one?”

“No, this has to be undertaken in laboratory
conditions.”

“Yes. Of course – it’s just so…”

“Amazing, unbelievable, incredible… there
aren’t words to describe this find.” I complain.

Gavin leans forward to smell the books. “I
can’t believe I am this close to something so astounding. It’s like
going back in time almost. So what’s this worth?”

“Who knows? Billions of dollars – I’ll have
my work cut out for me to buy any of this for the museum.”

“What if just one more of the books
vanished?” He hinted.

“I was just joking…”

“That wasn’t funny.”

“Sorry.”

“Gavin! What are you suggesting?” I reproach.
“I don’t believe you said that.”

“There are thirty one books here. I must
photograph and document what I can without disturbing them, then
repack them and secure them for the night. I’ll be sleeping with
one eye open, that’s for sure.”

“While you do that I’ll order food, treasure
hunting gives me an appetite! You must be hungry too.”

“Good idea, not pizza though.”

“Okay.”

I know from the smell before the covers are
removed from the plates that we are eating ‘Peking Duck’ – which I
love. “Good memory” I complement.

“How could I forget? With a bottle of Mateus
Rose, as before.”

“Perfect.”

There is no better place for the box than
under my bed and as I have imbibed a few glasses of wine at Gavin’s
pouring, I tie a string from it to my wrist – an old trick. The
adjoining door is unlocked on his oath that he will stay in his own
bed and we retire for the night.

I awake several times and tug the string
until I receive a reassuring resistance and lapse back into sleep.
The shades being closed caused me to sleep longer than usual and I
awoke with a start but Gavin’s door remains closed and the string
still tightens so all appears well. It’s not until I rise from the
bed that the situation becomes clear.

The box is gone.

The string is tied to the bedpost.

Gavin is missing – his bed has not been slept
in.

I call the front desk. “Would you page Mr.
Galbraith please.”

“I’m sorry signorina, Signore Galbraith has
checked out.”

“When?”

“Two hours ago at five – fifteen.”

“Thank you.”