The Machiavellian

menos.

PREFACE

The story of the Madonna de Bogotá –– the last of Raphael’s thirty-seven paintings of the Madonna –– began at the famous battle of Pavia, in 1525, when the soldiers of the Spanish Imperial army of Emperor Charles V defeated the armies of King Francis I of France. The Emperor seized the painting and presented it to the captain of his guard, Gonzalo Suarez Rendon, who some years later sailed to the New World to take part in the conquest of the interior of the Neuvo Reino de Granada, the territory which later became Colombia. The painting traveled with Suarez Rendon from Europe to the port of Santa Maria, and then to the Andes. But after Rendon died in the Andean city of Tunja, knowledge of the whereabouts of the Madonna de Bogotá was all but lost until it reemerged, in 1938, hanging in the home of Señora Maria Mendoza de Martinez. By that time, the Madonna de Bogotá was in a poor state, full of soot, the poplar wood panel it was painted on split in half. When Señora Martinez showed the painting to the famous Colombian painter, Santiago Martinez Delgado, he suspected that it might be a Raphael. A year later, he brought the painting to New York’s Metropolitan Museum where experts confirmed his belief and named it the Madonna of Bogotá.

The painting now lies in the vault of a Swiss bank in New York City where Santiago Martinez Delgado deposited it, in 1939. There it must remain, under the terms of a trusteeship agreement, until the year 2039, when its ownership will pass to the colonial Church of San Agustin in Bogotá.

…he who seeks to deceive will always find someone who will allow himself to be deceived.

— Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

PROLOGUE

The old Cuban eyed the tall, well-dressed American with curiosity. In his white linen suit and white Panama hat, he certainly didn’t have the look of the tourists who usually visited the old Cuban’s souvenir shop in Little Havana. This man was different, the old Cuban decided. He hadn’t come to Calle Ocho to sample the pastelios and bocadios, or to drink the mojitos either.

For almost forty years, the old man had watched the tourists come and go. These days, he rarely got out of his chair to greet them. A ‘Buenos dias, Señor‘ or ‘Señora’ was all the cordiality they received. His English wasn’t good, so he never felt tempted to make conversation. He just smiled, took their money, and said, Gracias Adiós.

When the American had entered his shop, the old Cuban was drinking his cafecito and listening to an old recording of Celia Cruz on the radio. Her voice had brought back memories of his youth, and he had been so engrossed in reverie, he had been startled to see the elegantly attired American standing in his shop.

Buenos dias, Señor, the old man had said, offering his usual greeting.

The American seemed uninterested in the boxes of hand-rolled cigars or the Little Havana souvenirs and memorabilia. He was looking for something, but the old Cuban wasn’t sure what. Then a terrifying thought came into his head. Maybe the American was a policeman, or even worse, from the United States government.

There was good reason for the old Cuban to worry. For several years, his souvenir shop had been a cover for selling stolen goods. The thieves brought him the goods and the old Cuban made forty to fifty percent for his trouble. It was a good deal for the old man: he was making more money than he could spend. Still, he worried that one day the police might coming knocking on his door. He was old and he had no desire to spend his remaining years in prison.

While the old man conjured up the worst case scenarios in his mind, the American continued to make his way through the aisles of bins. When he came to one filled with small religious statues, he stopped briefly to look at a few of the brightly painted figures of the Madonna before raising his eyes to scan the walls. His gaze came to rest on an old painting.

Queiro ver eso, the American said in Spanish, pointing to the painting.

The old Cuban looked at the painting as if he were seeing it for the first time. He didn’t know why the American was interested in an old painting of the Madonna, but he did know he had to be very careful in his dealings with him. It could be a trap.

The painting was still in its crate when the thieves brought it in. The old Cuban had thought he was buying a flat screen TV. To his surprise, when he had opened the crate and looked inside, he had found an old painting of the Madonna.

"¡Santa Madre! he had exclaimed. Who in Calle Ocho was going to buy an old painting of the Madonna? They would rather hang a poster of Jennifer Lopez, with her curvaceous behind, on their bedroom wall than a painting of the Madonna, even if she did have a beautiful face.

The old Cuban was still considering his folly when the American reached up and took the painting down from the wall. ¿Cuánto cuesta? Queiro comprarla, he said, rolling the Spanish r’s off his tongue with ease.

He wants to buy the painting. Now the old Cuban was even more suspicious of the American’s intentions. If it was a ploy to entice him into a trap, the American was soon going to find out he wasn’t a fool.

Lo siento, Señor. No puedo conocerla, he politely refused the American’s request.

The old Cuban hoped his refusal would be enough, but the American persisted. Mil quinientos, he countered, determined to have the painting.

Fifteen hundred dollars. It was a tempting offer. Too tempting, the old Cuban reflected warily. This American was a devil for sure.

No, puedo concerla he repeated. Adding, Me gusto, just in case the American thought he was holding out for more money.

The refusal brought a look of frustration to the American’s face. He briefly pondered his dilemma and then reached his hand inside his jacket pocket. The old Cuban assumed he was going to take out his wallet, but when the hand came out of the pocket, the American was holding a gun.

What is this? thought the old Cuban, his eyes growing wide in astonishment. The American didn’t look like the kind of man who went around threatening people with a gun like a common criminal.

He held his hands up in the air. Por favor, señor. No me duele. He wasn’t going to die for a painting. The American could take the damn painting and good riddance.

Moments later, he watched in horror as the American leveled the gun at him and sent a bullet hurtling into his chest. The scream that erupted from the old Cuban’s lips echoed off the walls of the souvenir shop and came back to him in a frightening realization –– the American had come to Calle Ocho to steal the painting and kill him.

With each excruciating second that passed, the pain in his chest grew more unbearable. His blood was seeping out of him, the sound of his heartbeat pounding louder in his ears as his heart struggled to keep him alive. In desperation, he tried to reach the store’s security alarm to get help. But the American was watching him, and when he saw the old Cuban’s fingers nearing the alarm, he fired another bullet into his chest.

The force of the bullet knocked the old Cuban back hard in his chair. There was a burning poker of pain, and then an icy numbness started spreading over him. He could feel it creeping down his arms and legs, slowly squeezing the air from his lungs, and with each strangled breath, the old Cuban knew he was drawing closer to death.

On the radio, Celia Cruz was singing her big hit, Yerbeno Moderno. The song was one of the old Cuban’s favorites, and he closed his eyes and transported himself to his days as a boy on the streets of Havana. He could hear his mother’s voice calling his name. A final gasp of breath passed through his lips and the voice went silent.

‘Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are…’

— Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

PART ONE

1

THAT ONE WAS TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT, ALEX thought. A few moments earlier he had heard the sound of a police siren wailing. When the police car had sped past the hotel, Alex had heaved a sigh of relief. But the experience had left him feeling uneasy. Every knock on his door posed a threat, every voice he heard in the hotel corridor. He had taken a risk coming back to Boston. There was an outstanding warrant for his arrest.

Beneath his hotel window, the Charles River flowed smooth and dark, a sheet of charcoal grey dappled with flecks of autumn sunlight. A group of young men were rowing, their long, narrow sculls like bullets slicing through the water. Alex watched the movement of their oars rising and falling in synchronized unity until they passed under the bridge and out of sight. Across the river, the campus of Harvard University stretched down Massachusetts Avenue and into Harvard Square, a labyrinth of buildings cloaked in ivy. Somewhere in that complex of mortar and stone, Doctor Clara Brindini, the Director of Harvard’s Art Technology Department, was working in her laboratory.

Alex reached for his cell phone and quickly tapped in some numbers. On the third ring, a familiar voice answered –– someone he knew he could trust if offered the right incentive. He didn’t have much choice. Approaching Clara Brindini himself was impossible. The high-minded Doctor Brindini wasn’t going to risk her reputation, or her career, getting involved with a wanted felon.

Have you spoken to her? he asked. The answer brought a frown and the response, I can’t stay here much longer. It’s too risky.

The voice on the other end was loud and gruff, the person inquisitive. Alex had anticipated the questions and knew what to say. I told you before I can’t tell you where I got it. You just have to trust me.

His eyes narrowed when he heard the response.You’ll get all the money I owe you and more, he said in frustration.

The conversation was becoming tedious, full of old history and recriminations, and far too many questions. Alex knew the less he said the better. The Boston art world was small and rumors traveled quickly.

I’ll call you tomorrow. If you haven’t set up a meeting with her by then, the deal is off, he said and ended the call.

On March 8, 1495, Pietro Perugino, the master artist and teacher of Raphael, was contracted to paint an altarpiece for the Benedictine Abbey of San Pietro in Perugia. Perugino had done several preliminary studies for the altarpiece. Most were lost, but a small drawing in conté crayon, depicting the head of one the apostles, was in the Harvard Museum’s collection. The drawing had been sitting under glass for almost twenty years, and the combination of sunlight and humidity had slowly turned the crayon viscid, cementing the drawing to the glass. It was a terrible fate for any work on paper. For a rare Italian Renaissance masterpiece, it was a tragedy.

The dilemma of how to separate the drawing from the glass had preoccupied Clara for weeks. Then one day, she had been looking inside the refrigerator that she kept in the laboratory and an idea had come to her. Put the drawing in the freezer, and once it had frozen, she might be able to break off the glass. The maneuver was tricky, but worth a try.

Clara had just taken the drawing out of the freezer and was holding it over the long walnut table in her library. The head of the apostle appeared ghostlike, an ethereal apparition embedded in a prison of ice, waiting to be released from its captivity. For a brief moment, Clara allowed her eyes to linger over the drawing, studying the face of the bearded man looking skywards. The drawing was a testament to the artist’s superb draughtsmanship and one of the finest works on paper in the Museum’s collection. Clara knew it would be a terrible loss if the Perugino was destroyed in the process of restoration.

She hesitated to remove any doubts she might have regarding her decision, then took a deep breath and raised the drawing in the air. Clara was about to send it down hard onto the surface of the table when her young assistant, James Sheehan, popped his head in the library door.

Your favorite art dealer is here to see you, he announced from the doorway.

Clara didn’t have to ask. She knew he was referring to her old friend, Harry Ross. Didn’t you you tell him I was busy?

Yeah, but he still insisted on seeing you. He says it’s important.

Clara emitted a frustrated sigh. I might as well find out what he wants. He won’t leave until I do, Clara practically moaned and set the drawing back down on the table.

Harry Ross was a legend in the Boston art world. Shrewd, with an eye for quality, Harry had made the sort of finds that other art dealers could only dream about. But lately, Harry’s big finds were becoming a rarity. In fact, there hadn’t been a major find for a very long time. Rumors were his health was failing, and as Clara looked at her old friend now, she could see in his frail appearance that the heart condition that had plagued Harry for so many years was slowly consuming his body.

He was wearing a well worn Burberry raincoat and his signature black beret. Less than a foot from his elbow, a rare fourteenth century painting rested on an easel awaiting restoration. Harry had his neck craned forward and was giving it an appraising look.

It’s by the Siennese painter, Duccio de Buoninsegna, Clara said, entering the laboratory.

It looks ready for the scrap heap. Can you fix it? Harry asked, swiveling his head away from the painting to speak to Clara.

I’m going to try, but I have to stabilize the panel first. There are several hairline cracks in the wood.

Harry turned his head back to give the painting another look. Too much damage, he announced fatalistically.

Oh, I wouldn’t write its obituary just yet, Clara said, giving him a patient smile. So what brings you to the laboratory today, Harry? she asked. Whatever it was, Clara hoped it wasn’t going to take up more than a few minutes of her time.

Harry looked for a chair, found one, and sat down. I have an old Italian painting I need you to look at.

Who’s the artist, Clara asked, her interest piqued.

Harry leaned forward on his cane and cast a glance in James direction. Doesn’t the kid have something to do?

Clara got the message. Harry wanted it to be a private conversation. James, I want to make sure my hands don’t slip when I break the glass on the drawing. Would you please go to the Conservation Department and get me some loose chalk?

James hated to miss out on anything, but he dutifully answered, Sure, Clara. I’ll get it for you right away.

Clara followed his departure with her eyes, and then turned her attention back to Harry. Now what’s the big secret?

Harry thought for a moment. He had to be careful. You gotta promise you won’t tell anybody.

Harry, you know me better than that, Clara said. She was beginning to get a nagging feeling of déja vu.

It’s a Raphael, tumbled from Harry’s mouth.

Clara had been standing, but now she pulled up a chair and sat down. We’ve known each other a long time, Harry, she began, measuring her words carefully. You lost quite a bit of money on the Rembrandt. I’d hate to see that happen to you again.

I still say the painting was as right as rain, Harry asserted defensively. For Christ’s sake, even Berenson said it was a Rembrandt.

Berenson didm’t have the benefit of scientific analysis, Clara said and quickly regretted the remark.

I don’t care about all your god damn technology. Look at the work. The painting screamed Rembrandt, Harry practically shouted at her.

Clara tried to calm him down. Harry, remember your blood pressure.

To hell with my blood pressure. And my diabetes too, Harry threw in to make her feel guilty.

Alright Harry, let’s forget about the Rembrandt. Tell me more about this Raphael, Clara said, eager to move the conversation along.

It’s a painting of the Madonna.

Clara had seen hundreds of forgeries of Raphael’s Madonnas. Next to the Mona Lisa, they were some of the most copied images in the world. Still, there was always the possibility that it might be genuine. Raphael had been quite prolific in his early years as an artist, and Madonnas were his most popular subject. Before she dismissed Harry’s claim, she had to ask more questions.

What’s the provenance? she inquired.

The god damn painting is over five hundred years old. How the hell can anyone know the provenance? Harry answered, waving off her question with a brush of his hand.

Can you at least tell me where the painting came from? I assume it didn’t fall out of the sky.

No, it didn’t fall out of the sky, Harry retorted brusquely as if annoyed by Clara’s persistence. It came from a private collection. That’s all you need to know.

Clara gave Harry a studied look. Whatever he was hiding, she had to make it clear her cooperation depended on his honesty. Harry, I’m not going to jeopardize the Museum’s reputation by becoming involved with a painting that might be stolen, or even worse, a candidate for Holocaust reclamation.

Her remark made Harry squirm in his chair. He thought for a minute, nervously tapping his cane on the floor while he pondered what to do. Lying wasn’t an option. Clara was too smart and she knew him too well. He had to tell her enough to convince her to look at the painting, and yet, not enough to completely tip his hand.

Okay, I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s not much. A couple of days ago, I got a call from an art dealer I used to do business with. He asked if I knew anyone who could authenticate a Raphael.

Does this dealer have a name? Clara asked.

Her question was the one Harry had dreaded the most. You don’t know him. He operates over in Europe.

If he operates in Europe, why didn’t he take the painting to the Louvre? They have experts who could authenticate a Raphael. And if not there, certainly the Uffizi in Florence. It doesn’t make sense bringing it all the way across the ocean to have someone look at it.

Harry had a ready response. You know how snooty those European art experts are. Unless your royalty, they don’t even want to give you the time of day.

Clara was growing increasingly impatient. The Perugino was sitting on the library table, the ice melting with each passing second. If she didn’t break the glass soon, her attempt to save the drawing was going to turn into a disaster.

Harry, Clara began, ready to tell him their meeting was over.

She was interrupted by James bounding through the laboratory door. He had a small, plastic storage bag in his hand. I got all the chalk, they could spare, he said, then caught the look on Clara’s face.

Do you want me to leave? he asked, edging back towards the door.

No, James. Mr. Ross and I are done here, Clara replied, standing to indicate the meeting was over.

Harry looked up at her. At almost six feet tall, Clara towered over him. Dark-haired, with a face and body that could have been created by Botticelli, Harry knew the beautiful and brilliant Harvard professor would settle for nothing less than the truth. But telling the truth wasn’t an option. Then again, maybe three years had changed things.

Alex Dumont, he blurted out.

Clara was on her way back to the library, but she stopped. Alex Dumont. She had hoped she would never hear the name again.

She had been the Museum’s Assistant Curator of Old Master Paintings when Dumont had brought her the small oil on panel by the Venetian Renaissance painter Giovanni Bellini. Being of Venetian ancestry, Clara adored Bellini’s work. His fine composition and delicate coloring had set him apart from his contemporaries and influenced the work of younger Venetian painters like Titian and Tintoretto. The painting, a small portrait of a young noblewoman, was a fine example of the artist’s early work. Clara had become excited at the prospect of adding it to the Museum’s collection, and after much persuasion, the Director had agreed to come up with the two million dollar asking price.

The unveiling ceremony had been a well publicized affair, covered by both the local and national media. Clara was beaming when she stood in front of the cameras explaining the significance of the acquisition to the reporter from CNN. The Director had recently appointed her to head the Museum’s Italian Renaissance Art Department. Her status and career were assured.

Then something unbelievable happened. A representative from the Italian government came to the Museum and demanded the return of the Bellini. It seems the painting had been stolen from the collection of an English nobleman living in Venice.

Rather than go to the police and risk further embarrassment, the Director had simply chalked up the experience to the risk of doing business in Old Master paintings. He hadn’t let Clara off the hook so easily. She had demonstrated poor judgement and was unworthy to head a department. Her demotion had been a bitter embarrassment –– one Clara would never forgive or forget.

A year later, when Dumont was caught in a sting operation, Clara had felt vindicated. She had been prepared to take the stand to testify against him when he had fled the country. But now, Alex had come back, and he was up to his old tricks again. Clara was sure of it.

She walked into the library and slammed the door, a stream of Italian curses flying out of her mouth. The drawing by Perugino sat on the library table in front of her. If she was going to break the glass, it had to be now or the water from the ice’s condensation would ruin the drawing forever.

Clara seized the drawing in her two hands and raised it to the level of her chin. Alex Dumont, you son of a bitch, she shouted out in anger and brought the drawing down hard on the corner of the table. The glass broke in four clean pieces, releasing the drawing from its captivity.

Yes, Clara exclaimed, a smile of satisfaction spreading across her face. From its place on the table, the head of the Apostle stared up at her. Grazie bene, Clara whispered to him in Italian. Many thanks.

2

ALEX QUIETLY OPENED THE DOOR AND PEEKED into the corridor. A tall, attractive