He told them his name was Matt. He did a bit of everything in the Foundation.
That's exactly what I'm going to do now. A bit of everything.'
Matt was keen for the figures to understand him. He constantly sought in both Clara and Krupka's faces (the two who were not native English speakers) any indication that they were confused, and if they were, he repeated the phrase, or if there was a difficult word, he gesticulated or changed it for a simpler one. This made them pay close attention, despite being so tired. He had taken off the jacket with the words 'Evacuation Team' on the back, and was wearing only a shirt and trousers. Both were white. So was his face. The whole of Matt was an accumulation of white.
'What are we going to do?' asked Krupka. Til explain straightaway.'
He turned his back and opened the briefcase. Took something out of it. Some sheets of paper.
'This is an important part in the stretching of the painting, but don't ask me why. You've all got sufficient experience to know that your duty is to obey the artist's wishes, however absurd they might appear.'
He handed out the pieces of paper. First Krupka, then Rodino, and finally Clara. Buried in a mask of taut skin, his eyes shone expressively.
On the sheet of paper was a short text in English. To Clara the words seemed incomprehensible, a kind of philosophical digression on the meaning of art. Each of them – Matt explained – was to read their text in turn while he recorded their voices. It was important to read well, in a loud and clear voice. If necessary, they would repeat the recording. 'Then we'll go on to the next step,' he said.
21.25.
Bosch's worst fears were confirmed when the security team reached the hotel and found the van for Susanna empty. It was then he discovered how carefully everything had been planned. A second van had been waiting in the car park and the Artist had simply switched the painting over. The first van's tracking device was still giving out its signal, but there was no one inside. Fortunately, one of the guards in the parking lot had seen the transfer, so they had a description of the second van. The guard also said that only the driver and the three figures had got into it.
Van Hoore and Spaalze had answered Bosch's call immediately. The evacuation guard in charge of Susanna was one Matt Andersen, twenty-seven years old, someone 'efficient, experienced, above all suspicion' according to Spaalze. His fingerprints, voice and measurements were not at all similar to the Artist's morphometric details, but Bosch, who was beginning to realise just how much help the murderer was being given from inside the Foundation, considered this unimportant. It was simple enough for any of the top people in the Foundation to get hold of the morphometric information and change it.
'Lothar, I'm not responsible…' Van Hoore's voice was quavering in Bosch's earpiece, if Spaalze tells me Andersen is trustworthy, I have to believe him, don't I…' 'Don't worry, Alfred. I know you're bewildered: so am I.'
Van Hoore had caved in. He sounded like a tearful little boy spattering the microphone with his saliva.
'For goodness' sake, Lothar! I'll talk to Stein myself, if need be! The evacuation team is made up of highly experienced guards, people we trust! Please, tell Stein that…' 'Calm down. No one is responsible for this.'
It was true. Either no one, or all of them. As he listened to Van Hoore's anxious confession in his earpiece, Bosch was busy giving orders and explanations. He could see everyone else reacted with the same incredulity as he had. The unexpected can not happen to the unexpected: lightning never strikes in the same place twice. Warfell for example could not get out a single word when Bosch told him what had happened. That's impossible, his silence seemed to shout. 'The only tragedy permitted is what happened in the Tunnel, Lothar: what's this you're telling me now? That one of the paintings has disappeared?'
As for Benoit, that was another surprise. Bosch found him in the street, surrounded by riot police, Civil Protection forces, firemen and what looked like a whole regiment of soldiers, but when he went up to him, Benoit signalled and took him to one side, then showed Bosch the yellow label round his wrist.
'I'm not Mr Benoit,' he said in a guttural voice with a foreign accent, as he gripped Bosch's elbow. 'I'm a copy. Mr Benoit has left me here in his place, but don't tell anyone, please…'
Recovering from his initial surprise, Bosch understood that Benoit must feel even more anguished than him, and had put this stand-in in his place. He remembered the joke about the dummy in the window of the lost property office. He wondered if this model was the Ugandan. ‘I have to talk to Mr Benoit,' he said.
'Mr Benoit can hear you right now,' the model said. The cerublastyne was amazing: his features were perfect. 'Take my radio, you can talk to him on it.'
Benoit was indeed listening to everything. To judge by the tone of his voice, he was in some personal nirvana: nothing is happening, I'm not to blame for anything, nothing will go wrong. He refused to tell Bosch where he was hiding. He said he was not retreating, merely undertaking a tactical withdrawal.
'That Mr Fuschus-Galistnus didn't tell us a thing, Lothar!' Benoit moaned. 'I mean about the Christ and the "earthquake" in the Tunnel. Hoffmann knew about it, but we didn't…!' The Artist knew about it, too, thought Bosch.
When he succeeded in getting a word in edgeways in Benoit's verbal diarrhoea, he explained what had happened to Susanna. Benoit suddenly went quiet. 'Lothar, tell me this isn't the end of the world!' 'It is,' replied Bosch.
Bosch promised to keep him informed, and gave the radio back to his substitute. As he was doing so, he saw a line of vans entering the Museumplein: the evacuated works were returning. They were all there, apart from Susanna. He saw Danielle getting out of one of the vans. She was a tiny creature surrounded by immensely tall men in dark suits. Her chestnut hair, shiny ochre body and marble-coloured face made her seem like an optical illusion. The first thing she did as she got out of the van was to lift her foot to check that the radiant signature on her left ankle was still there. Bosch could not prevent a lump forming in his throat at seeing her like this. He understood how important this marvellous adventure was for her, and for an instant he almost agreed with her parents' decision. He knew he would not be able to hug her because she was painted and was wearing the clothes for her painting, but he went up to her nevertheless.
Nielle was holding the hand of the evacuation van driver, a tall, well-built man with a pleasant smile. She was very happy. When she saw Lothar, her eyes opened wide in their circle of white oil paint. 'Uncle Lothar!' It was hard to convince her not to throw her arms round him.
'Are you all right?' he wanted to know. She told him she was. Where were they taking her? To one of Art's Portakabins: they wanted to gather all the works there before returning them to the hotel. No, she hadn't been afraid. The driver had been with her the whole time, and this had helped her not to feel frightened. Her parents had already been informed that she was fine. She wanted to tell Bosch a story, but could not finish it because the guards were in a hurry. Apparently Roland had got very nervous when he was told that his daughter 'had not suffered any damage'. Roland was unaware that this was the expression normally used to refer to the works, and at first had believed they were only talking about the paint covering her. So her father had protested: I don't give a damn if the colour has run! I want to know how my daughter is!' This made Danielle laugh till she cried. Bosch could understand Roland's fears, but felt no sympathy for him. Put up with it for art's sake, he thought. He said goodbye to his niece and stored her in a safe place in his mind. For the moment, he did not want anything to get in his way.