MONA LISA: The Virgin Mother

By JJ Barrie

Da Vinci's Mona Lisa – the most famous icon in the art world – was stolen from the Louvre in Paris in 1911 and again in 1986. The Lady made headline news everywhere. The truth behind this endearing painting... and her smile.

The compelling story of the intrigue surrounding the robbery of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. This engaging, fast-moving plot is one of enthralling mystery. With double-cross and murder, the persuasive conspiracy has an unexpected conclusion.

Drawing upon the robbery of the painting from the Louvre in 1911 and its substitution with a superb copy, the storyline is transposed to modern-day Paris. The involvement of the forebears of some of the participants is inextricably linked to the original robbery and a motivation for this new attempt.

Returning once again, le Colonel - Gérard Colbert - is masterminding the stealing of the Lady and the sale to an international art dealer while Paul Davaine, his principle covert operative and the incorrigible Annabel, combine their talents. As the chic la Coccinelle, she remains Europe's foremost jewel thief while Paul continues his other nefarious roles for hire.

While removing the painting, Paul is wounded. Annabel manages to hide the icon after almost insurmountable problems on the River Seine. Soon discovered, the French media labels the robbery as The Crime of the Century. The Surête boldly announce they will recover the painting but in fact there is not a clue. As Chief Inspector Boudelôt says, 'We have nothing... less than nothing, if that is possible!' Then a painting is found at Charles De Gaulle airport on its way out of the country. Hell breaks loose, mistakes are made and the best-laid plans of some fall apart. With new strategies, some profit while others die – and the crisis has the power to topple the government.

A clever and fortuitous subterfuge is presented to the public but in the process some powerful Chinese more than money is gone – face is lost. Illicit recompense should have solved the dilemma but mayhem quickly becomes murder. An ugly vendetta is hatched in Hong Kong, moving quickly to Paris and finally Spanish Majorca.
Devised as a simple, elegant robbery for profit becomes the catalyst for increasingly more bold assassinations to which no end seems in sight... then a mutually propitious exchange and it is ended.

An international thriller rich in atmosphere as the tale moves from Maryland in the USA to Florence and Paris, Tel Aviv, Hong Kong and Nice on the south coast of France. The gripping suspense filled finale on the Spanish island of Majorca is alive with the imagery of the locales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CUSTOM BOOK PUBLICATIONS
• Release date: Jan 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465870759

JJ Barrie

J J BARRIE, the Australian born author and novelist, recently retired after years of involvement in general business writing in order to concentrate on a love of historical crime and investigative procedure. The first historical crime novel was published in 2009.An abiding interest over decades in English family history largely related to Cambridgeshire and adjacent counties continues. Particular interest and research into industrialisation and the resultant migration to the colonies has resulted in THE EMIGRANTS. The trilogy is almost complete with the first volume - THE BROTHERS FIVE - published in eBook and print formats by Custom Books. The second volume - GOLD & GLORY - is in edit for release towards the end of 2012. The final volume is in draft and planned to be released in 2014.Now writing fulltime and extensively traveled, with a close knowledge of much of Europe and Asia, each novel has a particular affinity with their locales as reflected in the revised historical novel just released – MONA LISA: THE VIRGIN MOTHER. Several other historical thrillers are works in progress, notably CURSE OF THE DIAMONDS and THE SHELFORDS OF SHELFORD – both set predominantly in England.More information is at www.jjbarrie.com

Book preview

PARIS

Crime of the Century 1986-1987

Chapters 1-31

EPILOGUE

Chatsworth House 1987

About The Author

*****

PROLOGUE

1452 - 1515

A dog barked, another answered.

In the tiny ancient walled village of Anchiario, the bells tolled the Angelus. This close to dawn, a great hemisphere of stars swept down to the horizon. From the river came the splash of oars as the night watch rowed between the moored merchant vessels sleeping at anchor. The yellow flickering lanterns of the old fishing boats winked across the broad waters of the Arno.

On the hard white-sheeted bed in the windowless, low-ceiled room off via Rossa, the slave girl, once of distant Constantinople, gave a last cry and pushed down one further time. A tiny head appeared, hesitating tentatively before deciding to enter the new world. The mother, immensely pleased with his decision, slumped back against her pillows exhausted.

The midwife hurriedly called by the barkeep’s wife, tapped the upturned, still slippery, mottled baby – once, then again. With a sharp intake of breath, the boy gave out a lusty cry, almost a bellow. The mother smiled in the smoky light of the failing candlelight. Outside the morning mist hung over the Duomo - the old church of St. Brigit, the virgin saint - shrouding the birth on this dull morning.

Caterina, the nineteen year-old mother, was a simple barmaid in the spartan hostellery below. The father of the illegitimate boy was a notary from a nearby village between the two Tuscan cities of Pistoia and Empoli - each only a short horse or cart ride from the ancient city of Florence.

The first-born boy would shortly live with his father’s family and in due course, he would be baptised into the mother church in his father’s village of Vinci.

He would be named Leonardo – Leonardo da Vinci.

The date was 15 April 1452.

*****

Florence, Italy

Leonardo was impatient - the girl was late.

At the knock on his studio door, Salai opened the old oak door to the young woman and her companion. ‘The master is waiting, Signorina,' he bowed in welcome, ignoring the elderly crone of a chaperone. Leonardo smiled.

‘If you will sit here with the light behind you, today I will sketch before we will commence the real work, if that is satisfactory, madam?’ She nodded demurely, inclining her face slightly. Leonardo pondered her profile, her hair and her hands.

She was beautiful in her own way as she instinctively removed her elegant scarf and the ornate clip holding back her lustrous black hair. Long and straight, a slight toss of her head and the hair cascaded, framing her face. ‘Is this suitable, Signor da Vinci?’ she enquired in her soft, intense voice, bringing him from his reverie.

‘Yes, that’s fine... just incline your head a little to the left,’ he said softly. Stepping towards her, he lightly touched her chin inclining her face slightly. The contact was electric. Eyes met; both quickly turned away. Nothing was said.

Two hours later, the master had sketched her features, tracing the outlines of the basic portrait and making drawings of her hands reposing in several positions. She was tired and her subtle smile was defeating him.

‘Next time,’ he mumbled, ‘I shall capture that smile.

*****

The morning had turned bitter. The wind blowing down the River Arno picked up the Arctic snow flurries that were already swirling around his windows. At her father’s apartment on Via Emilio, all was quiet – her parents were visiting their son in Livorno. Dressing for the weather, Lisa braved the blistering winds as she ventured tentatively out into the cold, forbidding blizzard.

The young woman strode determinedly towards the shelter of Ponte Vecchio where the ancient shops of the goldsmiths, jewellers and the studios of the artists and sculptors enclosed the walkways across the river in a weatherproof embrace.

Like all women, she aspired to a marriage of love but Lisa knew that after negotiations were completed, her wedding to the podgy, old merchant would be set. Despairingly, she wandered the merchant bridge where most dealers were closed against the weather. Clutching the heavy hooded woollen cloak tightly against her body she was about to turn back before realising she was almost in the artist's doorway. With the blustery winds still finding ways to penetrate her enfolded body, she pulled the cord, listening for the tinkling of the bell.

After seemingly an eternity, the door cracked to the wizened face of her tall, bearded artist before being widened in greeting. ‘Signorina, you will die from cold. Please come in … I have a fire to warm your bones and chocolate to heat the body.’

Leading her to his large parlour, he stoked the fire in the open grate before taking her coat, asking gently, ‘To be out on such a day? May I offer you the chocolate or something warmer, perhaps?’

‘Thank you. I… I thought... I do not know, I just walked ... well, in any event – here I am. As soon as I partake of the refreshment, I shall leave you to your peace.’ Turning slowly, she pressed on brashly. ‘But maybe … could I sit for you this morning?’

She was relishing his silent homage, her image reflected in his coal blue eyes. He nodded and for the first time she looked into the man, at her painter, taking in his fair beard, the freshness and intensity of his flashing eyes in a face the colour of cooked ham. In his late forties, she guessed. In any event, he was younger than her husband-to-be … more athletic and taller.

She unclipped her hair once again, allowing the shoulder-length hair to cascade, slipping her modest sleeves to casually expose a slightly less than discreet décolletage. Flames rose in her cheeks and disconcertingly, unusual warmth moistened her thighs.‘

It is so cold outside ... ’ was all she could think to say, colour again intensifying her face. Telling herself the strange feelings would pass, she was, however, starved of caresses. Her virginal body longed for knowing lips to awaken her voluptuousness. 'I am sorry, I must have walked too fast in those cold winds, or maybe…’

‘Sit by the fire. You need to relax. Come,’ he replied tenderly, taking her hand. As the glow in her grew, his touch burned, invading her with intense desire. Lisa breathed deeply, trying to regain some semblance of control.

‘A brandy or a sherry is called for, perhaps?’

A tiny sherry, if I might. I…’

Leonardo brought out a bottle and two fine Venetian glasses. ‘I will paint you here where it is warmer but allow me to adjust your hair a little… and call me Leonardo. May I call you Lisa?’ he added, brushing his hand against several wayward locks.

The touch of his long fingers exhilarated her. He evened her sleeves pushing the left lower, running his fingers under the lace edge, straightening the line just slightly. Placing the crystal glass at her side, she closed her eyes while he adjusted her hands in her lap, each touch, each movement or alteration deepened the burning desire in her young body.

Opening her eyes to his weathered face, he breathed, ‘A most intriguing smile, my dear; it will give me much difficulty.’ ‘I am in no hurry,’ Lisa breathed in response.

Donning his leather apron, he sketched and painted with passion, seemingly in a dream.

An hour or more passed.

‘Rest for a short time, you must be stiff,’ he murmured, stoking the embers before adding a further log. Beyond the wide windows the blizzard was blowing the feather-like flakes in circles, the soft mellow light bathing Lisa in gossamer as the fire blazed. He looked at her intently as they sipped.

‘The green of your eyes I shall capture but I will have to mix calamine with cobalt blue from Persia but…’ His voice had grown thick and hoarse while in Lisa the burning ache continued. His nose quivered, his brow clouded over.

‘Shall we continue?’ he said for want of something to say, offering his hand. Their bodies touched, she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. He stroked her face, her hair and then her lips before kneeling before her, slowly slipping the sleeves of her dress down first one arm and then the other.

The room was dense and strangely scented as he touched her lips with his finger, her tongue lightly caressing the tip. Moving slowly to her already engorged nipples, he ran the moistened finger lightly around the darkened circles. Lisa shivered as he returned his finger sensuously to her mouth once more before he rose. His arms were open and inviting. She stood and lifted her head to his caress. Their lips touched. They kissed deeply, her hair falling around her face.

Slowly he undid the sash. Lisa, her fingers trembling, unclipped the last vestiges of the ties holding the dress. Stepping out of the skirt, Lisa pushed down voluminous petticoats, chemise and undergarments as he undressed.

With her arms clutching him tightly, he led her to the couch, pulled back the cover and laid her down tenderly - as though she might break. Lying beside her, his hands fondling and stroking her, Leonardo explored the secrets of her lush, young virgin body.

Artist and model dozed dreamily, making love once again but with less haste… then entwined in each other’s arms, the lovers slept.

The waning moon sent its iridescent beams through the studio windows. Just a tiny flurry of snowflakes lifted on the soft zephyrs of the soft breeze as the bells of Florence called the pious to dawn Mass. The pastry merchants and coffee vendors were already describing their wares in the streets below as they finally awoke. Raising himself on one elbow, Leonardo looked down at the erotic young body stretched languorously beside him. She opened her eyes.

His artist’s mind registered the almost unimaginable hue her green eyes had taken on… that of spring leaves. He kissed her lightly on the lips, her eyes, and the tip of her nose.

‘Good morning,’ she said, rewarding him with that smile.

*****

Within the month, Lisa became the wife of Francesco Bartholomineo di Zanoli del Gioconda. With some considerable enthusiasm, the wealthy merchant prince quickly set out to produce an heir. He could not countenance that the failure of his two previous wives to produce offspring had nothing to do with their fecundancy. Francesco was infertile after a bout of syphilis, caught as a young man. It mattered little – although yet unaware, Lisa was already pregnant to her lover.

Eager to satisfy the every whim of his new wife, however, he enthusiastically agreed to continue her father’s commission of her portrait with Da Vinci at a substantially increased fee  enabling her to again have an excuse to visit her lover.

By the commencement of her second trimester, Lisa della Gioconda knew she could not delay informing her husband any longer. He was ecstatic and could deny his wife nothing.

*****

The early spring day was chilly with a soft, cool wind blowing along the path of the River Arno. A light, wet mist settled on the glass windows overlooking the vibrant city. On the pretence of a final sitting, Lisa determined to visit Leonardo in his workshop studio one last time. In Lisa, the very essence of her impending motherhood showed in her fuller figure, artfully concealed by her demure  almost austere  dress, dull green in colour and lifeless, utterly plain and yet timeless. Nothing competed with her beauty.

Dismissing her maid with a perfunctory nod, a minute later Lisa met his eyes as his fingers released the lustrous shoulder-length hair from its clip. Reaching up she traced her fingers over his long unkempt beard and moustache, sensuously touching his lips while one of his hands caressed her hair, his other her slightly swelling belly. ‘First it is time to paint, my dear,’ his smile lighting his face.

She kissed him lightly, whispering, ‘I will always love you.’

Standing back after she was seated, he viewed her angelic, alluring face carefully adjusting her hair once more… and then again before placing her right hand over her left on her lap. Still dissatisfied, he stepped back reaching behind to remove a stranded of pearls clasped around her neck.

Once more, he stood back, then leaned over and ran his finger along the edge of her bodice. Lisa moved, unconsciously assisting, undoing catches and bows, directing him silently until her bodice slid to her waist, exposing first one handsome rounded breast, then the other.

‘May I ask you to again remove your rings?’

Lisa adroitly slipped off the five gold dress rings, hesitating momentarily before removing the wedding band from her swelling fingers. Leonardo replaced her now denuded hands on her lap. Finally satisfied, he commented wryly, ‘Perfect, my little mother...’ Leonardo picked up his palette and brush, turning to the easel where he painted almost frenetically for several hours.

Stretching his tired arms, leaning over to kiss her demurely, he whispered in her ear. ‘I have all I need, my love – I will spend time each day touching you until we are complete.’

She returned his sensual comment with her beguiling smile. ‘Ah, that smile again – but this time I have it for eternity.’

There was nothing inscrutable about the smile – she was simply in love… and in child.

Harangued in equal measure by his companion, Salai and his conscience over the next several months, Leonardo da Vinci knew he must soon complete the lucrative commission of her merchant husband. He removed the silken cover from the almost finished canvass of his now largely nude lover. He slowly began adding the final strokes. For the best part of another month he surreptitiously touched it up in almost miniscule ways.

Late one evening, with Salai absent on an errand to Milano, with the only sounds the whispers of the spring breezes wafting along the Arno, Leonardo viewed his masterpiece once again. He knew it was time. Still he hesitated before applying a gesso-based varnish over parts of the completed work. By the time the rays of the dawn sun broke through the morning mist, he had dressed his lover just as she had appeared on that final visit. He stood back satisfied … then reluctantly added her wedding ring.

In her new modesty, she smiled her inscrutable smile.

He smiled back … and touched her one last time.

Placing his mark and the date ‘1506’ on the lower corner, Leonardo da Vinci named the work – Mona Vanna Lisa della Gioconda – Mona Lisa the Virgin Mother.

One day her name would be shortened to the unforgettable, eternally tantalising Mona Lisa.

*****

PARIS

1911-1913

MONA LISA BACK

Anonymous return of painting

The Director-General of the Louvre announced yesterday that an anonymous person mysteriously returned the famous Mona Lisa. No other information was available to your correspondent as we went to press but police are investigating. Unknown felons removed the incomparable masterpiece from the gallery on 21 August 1911. Since, there have been insistent rumours in the art world that a collector from the United States acquired the Lady…

LE FIGARO, Paris 12 March 1913

*****

Musée de Louvre, Rue de Rivoli, Paris, France

The date was the tenth of August 1911.

At precisely six-thirty, the Louvre maintenance department opened its doors to yet another day in the endless cycle of repair and renovation of the galleries and salons of the historic palace. For the senior foreman, Monsieur Chardon, it was just one more Monday the museum closed its doors to the public, allowing him some freedom to complete his tasks.

Around seven, he sent two of his most reliable workers and a trolley loaded with covers to commence the task of wrapping the priceless paintings in clean dust-sheets before the repairs, scheduled for the golden parquet floors, commenced. The men turned towards the eastern wall and the entry to the Salon Carré. ‘This is the most valuable painting we have,’ one commented to his new assistant. ‘Worth about a million and a half, the smile looks like indigestion to me. She’s getting special treatment. Silk to cover the lady, I’m told,’ he grumbled.

As the clock chimed eight, the aging ex-soldier and now senior guard on the floor, Brigadier André Montalban, a white-moustachioed man of impeccable reputation, casually limped along. Using his gnarled oak stick for more than a little support, at the sight of the blank wall, he scratched his baldpate.

‘Must have gone for photography, she wasn't due until next week. They change dates and don’t tell me,’ he remarked acerbically, noting the fact in his leather-bound pocketbook before returning to his monotonous inspection circuit.

At eight-thirty, when a Frenchman takes his coffee with a Galouise, the workers adjourned for their break in the cavernes of the complex. Passing the salon, the foreman idly registered that the painting no longer reposed in her proper place. With priceless exhibitions constantly changing, he attributed no meaning to the absence.

If something was missing from its accustomed place, it was assumed the removal was authorised. Alarmingly, security in the museum was virtually non-existent.

When his fob read twelve-fifteen, the Brigadier called at the photographic department. Following with the restoration rooms, nobody knew the whereabouts of the Mona Lisa. Departing for the executive offices as quickly as his limp would allow, he reported to his supervisor. Within fifteen minutes, the ashen-faced curator of the Renaissance department advised the Director that the masterpiece was currently mislaid. The following hours yielded no clues.

The Mona Lisa was indeed missing.

The thief nodded prudently to the guards supervising the arriving workmen. Dressed as another artisan, a dirty but voluminous blue smock covered his worker's trousers. A grubby beret jauntily perched on his head; he carried a satchel of brushes, spatulas and pigments. With his blouse flapping in the breeze, his unshaven face was unnoticed among the myriad of trades and professions.

Walking up the wide staircase to the Grand Gallery, nobody showed interest in another artisan in a building full of craftsmen.

Nonchalantly moving towards the entrance to the Salon Carré, he walked up to the painting and checked once again. Gripping the frame firmly at mid-section, he slipped the four holding hooks up and outwards at the same time, something he had practiced incessantly until he could almost do it in his sleep.

Five long seconds later the frame was off its catches, the heavy weight firmly in his hands. Placing it against the wall, he took a silk cloth bag from under his blouse and slipped it quickly over the frame. Lifting the now enveloped masterpiece under his arm with more difficulty than he expected, he walked without haste towards the stairwell. By the time he reached the entrance to the basement, his arm was aching painfully. He had misjudged the weight of the ornate plaster frame.

Standing the masterpiece against the wall, he removed a pair of long pliers and a screwdriver from his bag.

Six minutes had elapsed.

Another four minutes and he had the painting free of its gilded frame. As expected, it measured a little over twenty-seven inches long, less than eighteen wide and about a half-inch thick. Wrapping the now lightweight panel in the silken bag, he carefully slipped the priceless artefact into his loosened belt, positioned flat against the small of his back using his elastic fireman’s braces to hold the painting neatly in place. His large frame covered with the loose blouse, more than adequately concealed the panel now nestling securely against his body. Six foot-three inches tall, he was broad shouldered and well built for his thirty-two years.

At twelve minutes past seven, he passed through the worker's entrance again, unnoticed by the single guard arguing with an artist demanding entry. The operation had taken only a few minutes longer than planned – twenty-one minutes

Florence, Italy

As the train rattled along the Italian coat, Vincenzo dozed, recalling the day not so long ago when he first saw Alfredo Ciancio. He would never forget the man, with the unkempt goatee beard and greying stringy hair, who took pity on him. Barely sixteen and orphaned, he had pulled his threadbare cloak close against the bitterness penetrating the Ponte Vecchio.

‘Who did you say you worked for?’ the old man wheezed, replying when he responded, ‘Shyster, if you lasted all those years with him, you’re employed. Dishonest old crone – you’re lucky to have left him. Pour me a dram of that brandy, lad.’

Sipping the acrid liquid, he turned to the young man again. ‘You can start now. Vincenzo, eh? Use the room next to the stairs.’

Once again, he was working a fifteen-hour day, but his new employer paid generously and treated him well.

In the cavernous maze of shops, studios and workshops, the treasures of the art world, gems, gold and jewellery traded. One needed a truly expert eye to distinguish the authentic and original from the illegal or counterfeit, the smuggled or stolen from that legally obtained. Ordinary dealers and traders made their daily bread from the constant stream of tourists. Their excited visitors, gullible and ignorant of real value, eagerly purchased the questionable art and artefacts.

However, a small coterie of discriminating dealers and merchants avoided this unseemly trade, instead restricting their business to the important art houses and collectors. All manner of artisans supported them – the fine copyists, framers, restorers and cleaners, the engravers and photographers, lithographers, plate makers and the printers. Alfredo Ciancio was one the best copyists in Florence where such skills were at a premium. Not forgers at all, copyists filled the void before adequate photography. Copies of the masters were in constant demand from collectors, galleries and dealers who relied upon his perfection. His most sought after talent was copying the Renaissance paintings of Florence. Vincenzo came to love the old man as his father, marvelling at his almost uncanny skills and expertise, such that often on completion, he was unable to choose the copy from the original.

*****

Over the next decade, each invigorated the other.

Vincenzo became the most astute art thief in Europe. While establishing an enviable reputation, he managed to remain anonymous, known to only a few in the stealthy world of illicit art. Selecting museums well, and his targets with even more care, he replaced each artefact with a Ciancio copy – copies so perfect his burglaries remained undetected. Trusted agents sold the stolen masterpieces to private collectors with the proceeds generously shared with Alfredo. This profitable, symbiotic relationship reached its zenith with the Mona Lisa.

‘I simply cannot paint her from a scratchy photograph. I can duplicate the resins and pigments – but the smile. I will need the Lady herself to complete a copy.’

Vincenzo was about to repay his master.

He opened the leather-bound case before standing the silk-wrapped painting on the nearby easel. Loosening the ties, the sheath fell slowly, disrobing the Lady. Alfredo remained still and unblinking as her beauty unfolded before him.

Finally he spoke, ‘I can paint her, and a better copy than this one, too but I need some special pigments, resins and oils.’ Examining the painting closely with a loupe, he added, ‘Appallingly restored; she’s covered in that dreadful German varnish, and the panels are not in good shape either.'

With a twinkle in his eyes, Alfredo was seemingly ten years younger as he held the Lady carefully, minutely examining the work. ‘Some of the requirements will be quite unique, Vincenzo. First, you will have to find two precisely cut panels of properly aged, white poplar; maybe you should find three panels in case one or the other cracks. They will be most delicate and so thin. I shall make a list of all my requirements.’

The hours passed before Alfredo pulled up the silken sheath, covering the Lady before he reverently laid her down in the leather case and cautiously closed the lid. Alfredo was in love once again.

Weeks passed before Vincenzo returned with several large parcels containing the required materials. Pigments, paints, resins, gums and varnishes, special brushes and palette knives, spatulas and more – all were quietly purchased around Europe.

Inside the studio, Alfredo had been hard at work preparing the three panels in readiness for the paints. Unpacking the parcel, Alfredo muttered absently, ‘Good; mercury based, I will have to use plenty of mercury, not this new-fangled zinc-based goo.'

Diligently sorting the jars and bottles, he added, 'Vermillion, excellent, no cadmium red… I need gesso; good, here it is, excellent. Now the oils – no poppy oil… Hardeners, you’ve done a good job, I must have taught you well,’ smiled the wily artist. 'Now I can go to work. In four months, I will present you with the two ladies and I guarantee you will not tell the difference.’

Paris, France

Vincenzo Perrugia needed a very discreet buyer, although word would already be out. From one of the more dubious dealers in the art world, an oblique enquiry would happen, which he would deftly deflect. No urgency, he thought, sipping an after-dinner cognac at Tour d’Argent, his favourite restaurant in a city of restaurants. A gourmand’s delight; such elegance.

A well-dressed young man, presenting a gilt-edged card, interrupted his reverie. 'Monsieur, excuse me for breaking into your thoughts. May I have a few moments of your time? Frederic Dubois - my card, sir, and my compliments.’

‘Be seated, monsieur, and please join me. A drink perhaps?’ replied an expansive Vincenzo, nodding at the leather chair next to him and signalling the unctuous waiter.

‘A cognac, s'il vous plaît,’ responded Dubois, politely accepting the offer of a huge cigar. The waiter poured the fine Hennessy into the warmed crystal balloon.

‘Your health, sir,’ intoned a smiling Dubois, raising his glass in a toast. Vincenzo watched the man intently, vaguely recalling the dealer’s reputation. ‘A touch of business, if I might. I have an American client, wealthy beyond reason, who has a proclivity for expert copies of old masters. He has commissioned my firm to seek special items; price is of little consequence.'

‘I see,’ answered Vincenzo, curious but apprehensive at the fortuitous meeting. ‘What might be on his shopping list?’

‘It occurred to me you might have heard of a fine copy of the Mona Lisa being available now that the original lady is lost.’

‘You will, no doubt, be aware that there are more than sixty bad and good copies of the Lady already in existence. I cannot think of one, however, of the perfect quality you require, but let me enquire. Where might I contact you; and for how long?’

Florence, Italy

Alfredo Ciancio stood before one of his easels, a smile on his gaunt face. Moving to the second easel it became a wide grin.

‘You have nothing to smile about, Signora Gioconda, but which of you is the Lady.’ He adjusted the position of the third easel before playing his game again. At a gaming table it might have been the old 'shell and pea' trick, but on the easels his game was ‘pick the original.' Alfredo had painted two perfect copies.

He had spent the first month preparing the panels. Painstakingly grinding the resins, he cooked, mixed and stirred, then blended again. More grinding and mixing followed until he was satisfied with the colours and hues, and the consistency of his concoctions. Applying them with finesse to the raw sanded boards, by the end of the second month he was satisfied his paints were equal to those used by da Vinci. Only then did he commence the major task of cleaning and restoring the original, removing layers of the viscous coating inexpertly applied in the past as some sort of protection. ‘Shitty stuff, appalling, just appalling but look at the clouding technique the master used. How good it is, even now. It will just take time to perfect,’ he mumbled. The original was springing to life as the accumulations of the grime of a century disappeared. Observing of the artist, he remarked aloud. ‘Damn my soul, he surely knew what he was doing.’

Into the third month, his copies took on the feeling of the original. He knew he was almost there – just another few weeks. He spent a week playing his game of trying to choose his copies from the real Lady. He changed their places on his easels until he lost track. Occasionally he made a tiny alteration until even his skilled and experienced eyes could no longer discern any differences. Satisfied, Alfredo drilled tiny holes on the top right hand edge of two of the three paintings. The width of a large pin set a half-inch apart and about the same in depth, he then filled each hole with a black resin. The tiny dots were almost invisible.

On the first copy, he placed one such tiny mark.

On the original Mona Lisa, he inserted two dots.

He left his second copy unmarked.

*****

Alfredo set the two silk-encased bundles on easels. Theatrically undoing the silken ties on one, then the other, he allowed the blue sheaths to fall. Vincenzo was spellbound. Even under his expert gaze, each of the two paintings was identical. The more he examined them, the more they were indistinguishable; right down to the brushstrokes, the depth of the paintwork, the hazed crackle and gesso work.

‘Fantastic,’ Vincenzo murmured breathlessly.

‘Magnificent! I hate to ask but which is the real Mona Lisa?’ The two Ladies smiled back.

‘You choose, Vincenzo?’ responded a grinning Alfredo. Vincenzo selected the left. Alfredo took a piece of chalk and marked the rear. ‘Four attempts, my boy, turn around while I change them. The second.’

Using a powerful loupe to inspect the brushwork, Vincenzo was sure the right was older. On the next occasion, he selected the left. With a wide smile creasing his craggy face, Alfredo said, ‘Last try!’ Again, Vincenzo selected and placed a mark. Alfredo turned the paintings around. ‘We shall see how good we are, shall we?’

Vincenzo was astounded. Both had two chalk marks.

‘Amazing! Uncanny, I was sure I had the same each time. Which is the original?’ Alfredo examined the top edge of both. The copy without any tiny dots was on the left easel whilst the other copy with the single mark remained on the right.

‘This,’ he said proudly, pointing to the left easel, ‘is the original. This other Lady here is the whore.'

Unknown to Vincenzo, the real Mona Lisa remained in her hiding place – both were fine, indistinguishable copies.

Venice, Italy

Boarding the elegant Simpleon-Orient Express for the long journey through France and Switzerland to Italy and Venice, he was looking forward to his meeting with Monsieur Perrugia, more so longing to see the new Lady. Of even more importance was selling her on as quickly as possible. Frederic Dubois needed the cash from the sale, and most urgently.

Twelve million lire – one and a half million dollars – were mere baubles to the gauche, arrogant American railway tycoon waiting in Naples harbour for delivery.

He was reputedly worth a thousand times that, with an art collection rivalling any good-sized museum in Europe.

Vincenzo Perrugia passed the time idly watching the ponderous gondolas plying their trade on the waterways below. On the easel in the corner, a blue silk-enshrouded Lady waited patiently. At the knock, the waiter opened the door. Vincent welcomed his guest.

'Monsieur Dubois, I trust your journey was pleasant?’

‘Thank you, yes.'

Vincenzo motioned the waiter to pour a glass