Chapter 7: The Dutchman
Federal Building. January 24, 2005. Monday afternoon.
During the afternoon briefing, Peter told Neal to focus on the Dutchman and that's what he intended to do. He still had a few hours remaining in the afternoon before he needed to leave for evening classes.
In the past, Neal was the forger out to fool the authorities. Now the tables were turned. How skilled was he at unmasking one? He had in his possession not only the Corot painting but also several suspected forgeries by the Dutchman. Could he make a case for the Corot forgery also having been painted by the Dutchman? Neal knew he wouldn't be able to leave the mystery alone till he cracked it. This was one time Mozzie would be of limited help. Art was Neal's bailiwick. Solving the mystery of the Dutchman would prove his art chops to the bureaucrats in D.C. who didn't think they needed an art crimes investigator in New York.
For the time being, he put aside the bond forgeries and concentrated on the paintings. He'd decided his best shot at uncovering a tell from the forger would be an analysis of the paint pigments. Starting with the Titian, went through the pigments, identifying them by their source. Raman spectroscopy was the best and fastest non-destructive method he knew of, but it would still take days.
#
"You're not going to Columbia this evening?"
Startled, Neal turned away from the microscope to see Travis. He already had his coat on and was ready to leave. Neal glanced at his watch and grimaced. Six o'clock. He'd have to hustle to make his appointment.
"Thanks, I lost track of time. I should have left an hour ago."
"I know the feeling," Travis said, helping him to turn off the equipment. "What do you have on tonight?"
"A seminar on abstract expressionism. I'm scheduled to meet with my advisor before class." He'd already returned the other materials to the evidence locker and only needed to carry the Titian back. But even with Travis's help, it took thirty minutes before he was on the subway for Columbia. No time to stop and eat, but Neal grabbed a granola bar from the breakroom on his way out.
He made it to Sherkov's office in Schermerhorn Hall with one minute to spare. Sherkov was sitting at his desk, a large open book in front of him. He'd been examining a plate of a Giorgione painting—Boy with an Arrow. Research for the next day's class perhaps. Sherkov had called for the meeting and Neal assumed it was to discuss his coursework, although it seemed too early to discuss his final paper or the next term.
After a few remarks about the Giorgione in front of him, Sherkov switched topics. "Your appraisal of the Corot at Weatherby's was quite impressive. There are few people I know who could have provided such a skilled analysis on the spot, and none of them is a grad student with only one semester under his belt. I'm told the Met confirmed your opinion."
"That's right." Neal was taken aback by Sherkov's comment. At the time, he'd been so focused on the painting, he hadn't thought about how it would look to others. He hadn't stopped to consider the repercussions of a first-year grad student demonstrating authentication expertise. He'd grown careless. Had he awakened the bear in Sherkov?
"When I asked you for an explanation of how you were able to make that determination, you were unsatisfyingly vague. Perhaps you could make another attempt."
Sherkov wouldn't be content with simple deflection. But the real explanation—what he'd given Peter—of being schooled on Corot forgery techniques was out of the question. Neal hoped the background supplied by the marshals would be enough to let the matter drop. "I grew up in Paris and was fortunate to have a series of excellent teachers plus outstanding museums to visit. As I'd explained before, my art teachers believed in copying the old masters. I have an affinity for that."
Sherkov rocked slowly in his desk chair. "It's more than that surely. The kind of ability you demonstrated to evaluate a painting from the artist's perspective is an innate gift. The reason I requested the meeting is I'd like to recommend you for the PhD program."
A doctorate? Getting any kind of degree was still a dream. He hadn't even graduated from high school and was waiting for the first diploma for his wall. Doctor Neal Caffrey?
Sherkov chuckled. "Evidently not something you were contemplating, but I think you should. While you retrieve your jaw off the floor, allow me to continue. I know many don't feel art history is that relevant to a career in today's society, but for you, it's a natural. You could specialize in art authentication. Surely the FBI would support you in your efforts."
"But how I would find the time? Going for a master's has been difficult enough with the hours I'm required to keep."
"You'd mainly be performing research, not taking classes, so your schedule would be much more flexible than what you have now. As you probably know, Columbia only offers a very limited admittance to the program, presently about fifteen students. If you're accepted, you'll receive full funding for tuition and a stipend toward living expenses. It will be my pleasure to act as your sponsor." Sherkov paused to let his words sink in. "You should consider it strongly. You don't have to tell me your decision immediately, but you should decide by February."
Sherkov continued to promote the doctorate to Neal for several minutes, but his feelings were still mixed. Committing to a program that would probably take three years on top of the two years he'd already signed up for had minimal appeal. He was already chafing to finish his master's. In addition to the time crunch were other headwinds. How would it affect his work with the FBI? Would he feel too tied down?
Neal continued to consider Sherkov's proposal during his seminar. Jackson Pollock's abstracts were the topic, but when Neal looked at them, all he saw was an indecipherable vision of his future. Midway through the seminar, he received another demand on his attention when Mozzie texted him: thrush23690345.
Over the past few months, Neal and Mozzie had conducted a thorough exploration of Columbia's elaborate tunnel system. Mozzie's initial trepidation about possible bacterial residue from the nineteenth century had given way in the face of his overwhelming love for the clandestine routes the tunnels provided. They'd discovered how to access several forbidden tunnel pathways and found a few of the rumored tunnels for which no documentation existed. They could now traverse most of the campus undetected.
Mozzie had taken their exploration to the next level by devising a code for the various tunnel exits based on bird names for different types of emergencies. He'd instructed Neal to commit the list to memory. The numbers referred to the location and date. In this case, 2369 meant the courtyard of Schermerhorn Hall where his seminar was being held, and 0345 referred to the time of 2115. Thrush was not as severe an alert as osprey but it was bumping against plover.
Last Wednesday, Mozzie had been incensed about the plight of the yellow-faced bee. What was it now? Had Godzilla been spotted in New York? Lately, Mozzie's so-called emergencies were so flakey Neal had difficulty taking them seriously. He attributed the problem to Mozzie not having a legitimate mystery to work on.
As soon as the seminar was over, Neal headed outside. He found Mozzie bundled up in a Columbia blue rugby knit scarf and knitted hat in the courtyard outside the hall.
Mozzie motioned for him to walk with him through the quad. As if acknowledging Neal's unspoken questions, he said, "Don't mock me, but this could be serious. I received a call today from the Space Suit."
"Space Suit?" Was Mozzie in communication with the International Space Station? But if he'd heard from NASA, surely that would have been an even higher code. "You mean Travis?"
"Naturally. He was elevated to Space Suit from a mere Vulcanized one on Saturday. He's asked me if I'd like to go to a SETI meeting with him. You know what that means."
"It means he thought you'd be interested. I knew he was going to call."
"Clever," Mozzie muttered. "An obvious attempt to make the offer seem casual. At first, I suspected a trap, but then I reasoned Travis wouldn't be their agent."
A breakthrough of sorts. Travis had chipped away at Mozzie's mistrust of Bureau agents. "Are you going?"
"This is where it gets tricky, because if the Space Suit's asking me, it means something big could be on the horizon. Big as in apocalyptic, end of the world—"
"I hardly think that's what Travis had in mind," Neal said hastily. "He didn't appear to be concerned about an alien invasion when we talked."
"How did he seem to you?"
Neal shrugged. "Fine."
"Did his eyes appear glassy? Did he walk stiffly, as if controlled by someone?" Mozzie started to walk with the jerky motions of an uncoordinated robot. Neal stepped back to enjoy the performance. He could be a hit at a dance party. One of the students passing by stopped to clap.
"I'm confident Travis hasn't been possessed by space aliens," Neal said firmly. "He simply thought you'd enjoy attending the meeting. Where's it being held?"
"Pupin Hall on campus. An astronomy professor, Daniel Leavitt, runs the meetings. I've begun vetting him. On the surface, he appears capable. Doctorate from Berkeley. Leavitt's specialty is in cosmic structure. He's written several papers on a pet subject of mine, dark matter. He's also an expert in gravitational waves. So far, all well and good but my findings aren't complete."
"Travis offered to give me a lift to Columbia tomorrow. How about joining us for a quick meal first? We could meet at the Emporium."
"Perfect. While you talk, I can assess him further. Perhaps run a few non-invasive tests."
"You're a good man, Mozz."
#
Neal's announcement late on Tuesday afternoon that the Dutchman couldn't hide anymore caught Peter off guard.
He'd checked on Neal a few times over the past couple of days, but aside from lunch breaks and mandatory briefings, Neal had kept to himself, focusing exclusively on the forgeries. Peter wasn't holding out much hope that he'd be able to find anything.
Even after Neal's triumphant phone call, Peter tempered his excitement till he heard the details. He met Neal in his art niche. The forgeries were on the worktable as well as several blown-up photos. Peter rolled over a chair to sit next to him. "Show me what you got, hotshot."
"Hansa," Neal said forcefully and repeated the word to reinforce his point. "Hansa. It's so obvious—we got him now."
What was obvious was that Mozzie's love of obscure topics was rubbing off on Neal. "Hansa? As in the Hanseatic League?" Peter dredged up what little he remembered about the group from his college history course. Medieval merchant guilds somewhere in northern Europe, maybe Holland. "The Dutchman is connected to the Hanseatic League?"
Neal looked at him, bewildered. "No, Peter. Hansa as in hansa yellow. Although now that you mention it, the league connection is an intriguing link. I've been analyzing the paint pigments in the paintings. They're all authentic to the period with one glaring exception—the yellow. It should be cadmium yellow. Instead, the Dutchman used hansa yellow. Hansa yellow to the eye looks remarkably similar and has several advantages to cadmium yellow. It's become the yellow of choice for artists, but it behaves differently when mixed and more to the point it was first made in Germany in 1911." Neal eyed Peter expectantly.
"So, you're telling me hansa yellow didn't exist when Corot painted The Dreamer?"
"Exactly."
"But we already know the painting is a forgery. How does this help us?"
"The Dutchman not only used hansa yellow for the apron of the girl in the Corot painting but he also used it in the lace filigree on Titian's Salome and the witch's skirt in the Goya. It's even in two of the counterfeit bonds. The guy's in love with hansa yellow. And not only that, he rushes the aging process. You know what craquelure is, right?"
"It's the crackle on old oil paintings."
"That's right. Forging the correct craquelure is incredibly difficult. You have to consider the brushwork, the age of the painting, the pigments, the canvas, what conditions the painting was kept in over the years, usually centuries ... you get the idea."
"I do. I knew it was difficult but what you're saying makes it sound almost impossible."
Neal shrugged. "To achieve a perfect duplication, I'd have to agree. The best is simply a close approximation. That Vermeer painting I did last fall?"
"The Woman in Blue?"
"That's right. It was the best I've ever done, but I couldn't perfectly duplicate the craquelure."
Peter was beginning to understand Neal's obsession with the topic. Neal's painting was now in storage in the Bureau's vault. Peter had wanted to obtain an evaluation on the quality of the forgery and had sent it to D.C. Art Crimes. The verdict from the authentication expert they retained was that it was the best Vermeer forgery he'd ever seen. He didn't mention any issue with the craquelure. Only Neal thought there was a problem with it.
Neal pointed to the craquelure on the Titian. "An art forger tends to develop his own technique to imitate craquelure and in the process, if he's not careful, he creates a distinct, recognizable style. It's not as precise as a fingerprint but can be almost as valid."
"Can you identify the Dutchman's style?"
Neal nodded. "I believe I can. The Dutchman rushes the aging process. He doesn't take the time to verify each layer is dry before adding another one. He disrespects the artist by using inauthentic paints and sometimes inappropriate techniques. The combination of craquelure and hansa means we have him."
"All we need now is the name." Peter laid a hand on Neal's shoulder. "This is very impressive work, Neal."
"Thanks," he said with a tired grin.
"This niche you've carved out for yourself is paying big dividends for us."
"Do you think it will be easier to obtain approval for additional equipment?"
Peter shook his head doubtfully. "If you can justify it by showing the equipment is needed not just for art analysis but for document authentication, we may be able to."
"Couldn't Art Crimes use a branch office in New York?"
"I can talk to Kramer about it, but realistically, I wouldn't get your hopes up. We're in a period of tight budgetary restraints. I know how much you enjoy this kind of work, but you're in White Collar, not Art Crimes. You have to accept that the vast majority of our cases don't involve art." Peter didn't want to burst Neal's bubble, but he had to accept that in an age of domestic terrorism, art crime was not a high focus for the FBI. The budget was minuscule and what little was available had been allocated to Kramer's group. He could predict in advance what Kramer's reaction would be to a request to share funding with New York.
Neal's lips tightened for a moment. "Would it make any difference if I had a PhD?"
Peter stared at him. Neal didn't look like he was joking. "Are you considering it?"
"I spoke with Sherkov yesterday. He wants to recommend me for the PhD program in art history." Neal proceeded to tell him how the program worked and what Sherkov's thoughts on the subject were.
"Have you decided if you'll take him up on his offer?"
Neal shook his head. "If I had a doctorate, it might be easier to justify working on art crimes, but trying to juggle the doctorate work with a full-time job could be a bridge too far."
"How many additional years would it take?"
"Beyond the master's? Three long years. Supposedly, I wouldn't have to take many additional courses. I'd have to take oral exams in the spring of my third year and then would research my dissertation topic." Neal raked his hair back with a hand. "It's just such a commitment."
"That might be one of the best things about it—it'd keep you from floating away. It's quite an honor that Sherkov wants to sponsor your candidature. You should give it serious consideration. When do you need to let him know?"
"By February. I don't want to leave the issue dangling for very long so he can offer it to someone else."
"I guess I could get used to calling you Doctor Caffrey, although I don't know if Diana ever will."
Neal laughed. "That's a good reason for me to apply! Has there been any progress with the surveillance of Rinaldi's house?"
Peter shook his head. "Not so far. Jones and Diana are out there now."
Glancing at his watch, Neal said, "I better return these to the evidence locker. I'll have to leave for Columbia soon."
"You want a lift to the subway? It's on my way."
"Thanks but I'm going with Travis. He has a SETI meeting tonight at Pupin Hall, and he's taking Mozzie along."
Peter chuckled at the thought. "I'm looking forward to the report on that encounter."
#
Neal had never seen Travis's car, and in the elevator on the way down to the parking garage, he speculated what kind of vehicle he'd most likely drive. Cars were like dogs. They made a statement about the owner. In Travis's case, maybe a hybrid, like the Honda Insight or the Toyota Prius, or would he go for something sportier? Neal grinned when he saw the silver compact. He'd guessed right—a Saturn Ion. What else would a Space Suit drive? During the drive to Columbia, Neal did his best to prepare Travis. His invitation had thrown Mozzie into a tailspin of consuming curiosity tempered by unadulterated apprehension at the thought of going anywhere with a suit, even if he was a space suit. On Saturday night, Travis had only seen a glimpse of the paranoia he was about to experience.
They found a parking space a short walk away from the Aloha Emporium. "UFOs are but one manifestation of Mozzie's conspiracy-oriented brain," Neal cautioned as he got out of the car. "There are many others. Stick to safe subjects until you're used to it. The initial shock can be disorienting to the uninitiated."
"Mozzie's no Klingon," Travis countered. "He resembles a Ferengi like Quark. If he ventures too far into another dimension, I'll snap him back with a mind meld."
Neal eyed Travis suspiciously. If anyone else had said that, he'd know they were joking. With Travis, maybe not. He and Mozzie could be kindred souls. That he already categorized Mozzie as Quark was a good omen.
Travis glanced over at him. "Are you going to enter the art competition at Tac-Con?"
"I hadn't given it much thought. Sci-fi art isn't something I have much experience with."
"You should consider it," Travis urged. "One category for paintings is called 'Close Encounters.' You could base the work on one of the paintings you made of the night of your kidnapping. Perhaps that seascape of Azathoth."
Neal considered his suggestion. The painting Travis referenced showed a starfish monster emerging from a turbulent ocean of chaotic colors and shapes. It had been the image Azathoth had projected onto their cell wall during their kidnapping and was one of a series he'd painted for the Bureau to document the ordeal. Neal could use the imagery as a starting point and let his imagination run wild.
"I can see I've sparked your interest," Travis said with a chuckle.
"Guilty as charged," Neal admitted as his fingers already itched to draw. "I'd planned to attend to give Richard moral support."
"Having a friend as a fellow participant would make the experience even more enjoyable," Travis said. "But you'll need to decide soon. I shot the video for Richard last week. The deadline for submissions is the fourth of February."
"You have to submit a video too?" This was going to be more complicated than he'd anticipated.
Travis nodded. "They're limiting the competition to forty applicants in each category. Videos are used to cull applications. You have to be recorded at work on your art. You're required to discuss not only it but other works you've done. They're using the videos to verify an artist isn't cheating by using someone else's work."
Okay, he was hooked. Hearing about the difficulty of being selected made the challenge all the more tempting. For the rest of the walk, Neal quizzed Travis on the details of the submission process. They agreed to meet at his studio on Saturday afternoon when Travis would record him.
When they entered the Emporium, they found Mozzie waiting for them at one of the tables in the café. Neal waved at him as they headed to the counter to place their orders. The Emporium was the only place Neal knew of in New York that served pokes, the Hawaiian version of sashimi. Travis had never tried the dish so they both ordered it. At the Emporium, all the pokes came with rice and seaweed salad and were substantial enough for a meal.
Mozzie had an open bottle of honey wine on the table. He took a quick sip from his glass when he saw Travis approach.
"Too bad we don't have time to play Star Trek: Warp Nine before the meeting," Travis remarked nonchalantly. "Neal, when you and Peter were held captive by Azathoth, Mozzie and I played the board game with Elizabeth. Did I ever tell you how Mozzie cheated me out of twelve bars of gold-pressed latinum?"
"I never cheat," Mozzie retorted. "You simply don't have as profound an understanding of the game as I do."
While Mozzie continued to debate the finer points of game strategy with Travis, Neal mentally gave Travis points. He'd remembered Mozzie's passion for board games and had taken advantage of it. By the time their orders arrived, Mozzie was as relaxed as Quark in his bar on Deep Space Nine. When he saw Travis's order, he nodded his approval. "Tofu poke. You are a connoisseur, Space Suit. Are you a vegetarian?"
Travis nodded. "Space Suit is your designation for me? I'm honored."
He acknowledged Travis's recognition of the high compliment with a complacent nod. "How long have you been involved with SETI?"
"Since college. I took several astronomy courses. One of my professors was from Berkeley which is the center for SETI research. Here in New York, I've been working on the SETI-at-home project where researchers join forces with volunteers who let their PCs be used to crunch data during downtimes."
"I'm also actively engaged in research," Mozzie divulged. "I've been exploring which signals would most likely be used by extraterrestrials."
Travis looked at him with surprise. "Why didn't you join the SETI group earlier? We oversee the program for the East Coast and liaise with Berkeley."
"How many are in your group?" Neal asked.
"Ten of us meet monthly, sometimes more frequently. Most of the work is done at our homes. We perform the initial analysis of radio transmissions before sending them on to Berkeley."
Mozzie proceeded to quiz Travis about the data they received from radio telescopes and the two were soon immersed in talk of frequencies, hydrogen lines, and something called FRB. Travis told him that meant Fast Radio Burst but knowing what the acronym stood for wasn't very enlightening. Neal tried to make a few intelligent comments, but judging by the condescending looks he received, his best efforts weren't up to snuff.
Neal finished his meal and still had a few minutes before class so he left the two radio astronomers to go chat with Maggie. The language of flowers was more his style than astrophysics anyway. Maggie was Billy's daughter and an accomplished florist. She specialized in orchids and Hawaiian tropical flowers. Most were grown in green rooms over the store.
Billy intercepted him on his way over. "Thanks for referring us to Angela. She came in this morning. She's already starting to make sense out of the jumble of honey orders Mozzie had built up. I was afraid she might flee at the sight of them, but she seemed more amused than skittish."
Neal knew Angela had excelled in the business program at the University of Washington. He suspected that had been the primary reason her grandfather had been so upset when she switched to ethnomusicology.
"She was particularly interested in our line of honey-based cosmetics," Billy continued.
"Angela and makeup are a match made in heaven."
Billy chuckled. "I could tell. Up to now, Maggie has been managing the cosmetics part of the business for us but it's become a major challenge. We had no idea the skincare line would be so popular. Maggie embraced Angela like a long-lost relative when she heard of her interest. Your cousin's welcome to work here as many hours as she wants."
Maggie was preparing a floral arrangement with dark violet Dendrobium orchids in the floral nook. She did most of her work in the green rooms but she'd added a nook in one corner of the store where she could work on her arrangements and also keep an eye on customers if needed. She smiled a greeting when he approached. "Did Billy tell you about Angela?"
Neal nodded. "I gather you two hit it off."
Maggie was enthusiastic in her agreement. "I'd been struggling with the cosmetics as I simply don't have the time for them. So far, we're marketing only face and eye creams, but Leon—he's one of my cousins in Hawaii—sent us a sample of honey lip balm that's very promising. Angela thinks we could also start a line of Hawaiian honey lip glosses with floral infusions which would be popular with the student crowd."
Neal smiled. That sounded just like Angela. She'd barely started and already was taking charge.
Maggie stood back from her arrangement to view the effect. "What do you think?"
"It's magnificent. Is it a special order?"
"Yes. I'm doing some preliminary designs for a big order to be delivered on Friday to Long Island. It's for an eighteenth birthday party. I was given instructions to make the flowers romantic and sensual." Maggie tweaked a stem and nodded approvingly. "I think that will fill the bill."
"That violet color will inspire passion in a stone," Neal said. He knew next to nothing about growing flowers but appreciated the artistry with which Maggie made her arrangements.
"I hope Mrs. Rinaldi feels the same way," Maggie said.
Neal stared at her. "Who did you say?"
"Mrs. Rinaldi," Maggie repeated, looking surprised. "Lily Rinaldi. Do you know her?"