Free The Mona Lisa Sacrifice by Peter Roman Page B

you’ll get a chance next.
    I dozed for maybe half an hour or so and then something woke me. One of those feelings of danger that I’ve learned to trust. I tightened my grip on my backpack—experience has taught me to always keep a hand on my luggage, even when sleeping—and opened my eyes without moving, looking around for the source of the danger. For the attack.
    But there was nothing other than the man across from me. He’d put the paper aside and now was looking at a Sotheby’s catalogue of paintings. Old Masters, the cover said over a rendering of a man wreaking havoc in a field with a scythe. I didn’t recognize the painting or the artist, but that was usually the way. The truly good paintings usually get tossed on a fire or locked in a room somewhere. Same with the good artists.
    The man glanced up at me and nodded when he saw I was awake. “We’re almost there,” he said in English, but in an accent I couldn’t place.
    I sat up and looked around. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just other people reading and sleeping and sharing snacks. I wondered if maybe I’d just had a bad dream.
    I looked back at the man across from me.
    “Are you a collector?” I asked, gesturing at the catalogue.
    “Dealer,” he said. “Coming back from the fair in Maastricht.”
    “How was it?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “I wouldn’t call this year a success,” he said. “The attendance was very poor, the offerings substandard. All the good works are being kept under lock and key these days.”
    I studied him for a moment. Then I said, “I take it you couldn’t get a booth to sell your wares.”
    He studied me right back. “What makes you think that?” he asked.
    I shrugged. “I’ve known a few dealers in my time,” I said. “I know the standard line is always the show was a success, even when it wasn’t. It’s all about the buzz. So I’m guessing you’re not a large enough dealer to earn a spot in the show, but you’re large enough that you cared to attend. Maybe your competition got in and now you’re in danger of losing clients. If you didn’t have any stake in it, you wouldn’t have bothered attending and you certainly wouldn’t bother bashing an industry event to a stranger you just met on a train.”
    Sometimes you have to find your own ways to pass the time.
    He smiled, just enough to show his teeth.
    “Are you an artist or another dealer?” he asked.
    “I’ve never had enough business sense to be a dealer,” I said. “And I haven’t been an artist in a very long time.”
    “Are you responsible for anything I would know?” he asked.
    “I doubt it,” I told him, “unless your specialty is Roman sewer paintings.”
    He looked puzzled at that, and I moved on before he could ask any more questions. Another thing I’ve learned is that it’s always better to be the interrogator than the interrogated.
    “I’m still a bit of an art buff though,” I said. “I try to keep up with the latest news. I read in a magazine recently that half the famous artworks hanging in the big galleries are fakes. You think that figure’s right?” That was a bit of a lie. I hadn’t read it in a magazine. Jackson Pollock had told me that, back before he’d made it big and still drank in bars. But the general idea is correct.
    His mouth worked for a bit, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying to hold back another smile or a grimace.
    “Most galleries have access to specialized equipment and labs for testing pigments and fibres and such,” he said. “And experts that cannot easily be fooled. So I think you can be confident that the major works are genuine. But it’s impossible to test everything in a gallery’s collection. It’s simply too time consuming. That’s where dealers such as myself are invaluable. We have first-hand knowledge of many works, and close relationships with—”
    “So you think it’s possible then,” I said.
    “Anything is possible,” he said. “But that