Hubris

By TL Bartusch

Fine art is a high maintenance mistress who demands constant care and total commitment. Being the Curator of the most famous painting in the world would be enough to test the skills and commitment of anyone. As the Head Curator of the Louvre, Jean Vernay uses all of his talent and knowledge to keep the museum's treasures safe. His most valuable charge is the Mona Lisa, which challenges modern curatorship not only because of its age, but the fame that has made it a must see for visitors to Paris. The six million visitors who crowd into its gallery at the Louvre every year threaten the painting's fragile surface. Vernay has sealed the painting in a glass tomb to protect it and instituted a questionable summer display policy that forges an opening for a cunning thief. Vernay's home life is a daily horror he is desperate to escape. The mysterious thief, Koenig, exploits Vernay's fear of exposure and makes him the offer of a lifetime. Vernay takes it and sets off a chain of events that can only end in death and destruction of the things he treasures most. As Victor Roth, Interpol's resident genius, tries to unravel the mystery of not only how the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre, and whether its missing Curator was involved, he enters a murky world of blackmail, art forgery and ruthless revenge where his past mingles with the present to drive a vicious game Victor realises he's also had a part in setting in motion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TL Bartusch
• Release date: Aug 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781311184382

TL Bartusch

T.L. Bartusch holds degrees in Arts and Law, practised as a litigator now writes full time in the thriller genre. TL is interested in the increasing sophistication of organised crime, particularly in art forgery and philately. Other interests examined in the Roth books are political corruption, indiscriminate information gathering and that moment of choosing one course over another that can end in tragedy.

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Cover design © T.L. Bartusch

Cover image: Wikimedia Commons

HUBRIS

© 2017

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Author's Note

Hubris is set in Paris and its principal characters are French. They work in French national law enforcement agencies — the National Central Bureau of Interpol, the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire, the Judicial Police, and the French Secret Service, the DGSI, which has a similar role within France to the British MI5. All of these agencies operate very differently to their U.S. or British counterparts.

French criminal procedure is also very different and fascinating, to me at least, perhaps because I trained and practised as a lawyer.

Because of its setting, some of the language and terms used in the novel are also French, including forms of address such as Monsieur, abbreviated to M. and Madame, rather than Mr. or Mrs. Place and street names are in their French form.

A short explanation of the agencies that play a role in the novel may be helpful. Interpol is an international police organisation that operates out of a state of the art facility in Lyon, in eastern France. Lyon is a command centre and data bank for the world's police forces, using what it describes as ‘high-tech infrastructure of technical and operational support', to aid its 190 member countries in fighting crime.

Member countries are represented by their own National Central Bureaux, (NCBs) which often operate as part of the country's national police force.

Victor Roth works in France's NCB, located in the Ministry of the Interior building at 11 Rue des Saussaies, 75008 Paris. Lyon and the NCBs employ experienced police and experts to carry out its investigations, but Interpol's criminal investigation officers do not have any arrest powers, nor do they carry guns.

In France there are two national police forces, the Judicial Police who are responsible for investigating serious crime, and the gendarmerie which handles the rest and also operates in the provinces.

In ROTH, the Paris office of Interpol works with the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire the ‘Judicial Police’, also located in the Ministry of the Interior building in Paris' 8th arrondissement.

French police operate under the provisions of French Criminal Procedure which is an inquisitorial system and aims, unlike the English adversarial system, to arrive at the truth of what happened when a crime was committed, rather than putting the prosecution to proof of the facts.

In their investigations French police are responsible to either a prosecutor, examining magistrate or investigating judge, depending upon the seriousness of the crime. The judge, magistrate or prosecutor takes an active role in directing the investigation.

The role of the police is to prepare a dossier of evidence, but at all times they must refer to the supervising prosecutor or investigating judge who will, if necessary, interview witnesses or suspects under oath and issue authorities for searches and other elements of the investigation.

The French system imposes a legal obligation on suspects and witnesses alike to give a full account of the facts and circumstances in which the offence occurred. At least during the investigation stage, that requirement removes the right to silence. Failing to fully co-operate can reflect badly on an accused person when the matter comes to trial.

The National Crime Agency, UK, ‘NCA’ became operational in October 2013 with the mission to lead the UK's fight to cut serious and organised crime. According to its website:

‘The NCA has a wide remit….to tackle serious and organised crime, strengthen our borders, fight fraud and cyber crime, and protect children and young people from sexual abuse and exploitation.  

‘We provide leadership in these areas through our organised crime, border policing, economic crime and CEOP commands, the National Cyber Crime Unit and specialist capability teams.

‘The NCA works closely with partners to deliver operational results. We have an international role to cut serious and organised crime impacting on the UK through our network of international liaison officers.’

TLB

July 2017

Chapter 1

The Curator knew there was nothing to be done. As it was still July and summer would torment him for another two months, all he could do was endure—the weather, his life, his wife. The short Paris spring which had promised so much had failed to restore his hope, and too quickly dissolved into relentless heat that persisted long into the night, denying him restorative sleep and the temporary oblivion he so desperately desired.

As he willed his tired legs to carry him to the Metro, the morning air was already suffocating, encasing him in a clammy shroud he dragged with him into the heat and stink of the underground. The atmosphere was stifling as he stood on the crowded platform, sweating through his shirt while trying to distance himself from his fellow travellers. A blast of stale air heralded the train's arrival and the beginning of his short journey.

This too he suffered, jammed into a hot metal tube that rattled and swayed through the darkness, hurtling beneath streets where even at this early hour the pavements were crowded with the curious—those who had come to see a Paris deserted by its residents for the unsullied air of the countryside and the sea.

The Curator despaired: his work would keep him in thrall for another month. Only in August would he be able to escape to the Brittany coast where he hoped the cold Atlantic would refresh him and go some way to soothing the justifiable anger he was struggling to control. Some time ago it had begun as a vague discontent. On this hot summer morning the rage swelled within him, threatening to consume the veneer of cool competence that was the hallmark of his position. He eased the taut muscles in his neck with a well-practised gesture and breathed deeply of the stale air. As it entered his lungs he welcomed it, reminded yet again that he must continue to work, maintaining his fragile façade, just as he maintained and preserved the priceless art entrusted to his care.

The train pulled into the Tuileries station where his workplace awaited him above, laid out in perfect symmetry under a hazy sky. As he left the Metro stairs behind he reflected on the day ahead of him within the Louvre's honey-coloured walls. One thought of the number of personalities he would have to navigate and the decisions he alone would have to make was enough to reduce his spirits further. Despairing, he pushed all thoughts of his day aside as he realised he was exhausted and his wife was to blame.

During the night the sound of her small snores and grunts had inflamed him as he lay awake, his mind working on ways to silence her. He wished he had the courage to drag the pillow from under her head and force it over her face, holding it down until she ceased to torment him. Instead, he lay in lonely isolation his suffering unabated, while she slept heavily in the rumpled sheets that had accumulated in heaps, framing her Rubens nakedness in hillocks of fine white cotton. Offended by her contentment, he'd turned his back on her and rearranged his pillow, thumping it until he succeeded in creating a lump that held his overheated head at an odd angle he lacked the energy to correct.

Just after the early dawn, he'd risen and showered then dressed in near silence as his wife slept on, spread eagled on the bed, her legs and arms as dead and heavy as fallen pillars. The sight of the folds of her loose white flesh repelled him as he buttoned a crisp shirt that he knew would quickly crumple in the heat outside. He took care in choosing his cuff links which were subdued and fitted his position. A carefully ironed linen handkerchief and slim wallet went into his pockets. Finished with his meticulous toilette he left the stifling air of the bedroom and made his way to the kitchen where cool shadows and silence still prevailed.

Coffee restored some of his equilibrium as he relaxed beside the kitchen's open window, glancing at a random book he'd pulled from the shelves as he'd passed through the cramped space that passed for the apartment's salon. He wasn't hungry so the muesli he usually consumed remained untouched on the bench. Time passed with some sense of peace as the city awakened and the usual time for him to leave approached. He looked up as a slight breeze ruffled the sheer white curtain that slowly swelled and fell, reminding him of his wife. He closed his eyes, willing the image gone. Loathing gripped him as his hands loosened on the book and it dropped, landing with a thump on the wooden floor. He froze, dreading that his sleeping wife would wake, even as he heard her call out from the bedroom,

‘Jean? Jean! Is that you? Come here!’

He felt his breath leave his body as he staggered to his feet, toppling the chair which clattered to the floor as he struggled into his coat and left the apartment with small, quick steps. The front door banged behind him as he fled, panting for breath. His pace slowed in the street, allowing his heart to settle to a regular rhythm. Out of long habit he took his usual route, turning left into the quiet oasis of the Place du Marche-Sainte-Catherine where mulberry trees cast a cool shadow in the early light. His home in Rue de Jarente was small but it was a desirable address and he treasured it. From there he walked to Place Sainte-Paul, an island on the busy Rue Rivoli where the red Metro sign loomed above a children's carousel that was still shuttered and silent.

He stopped at the stand next to the Metro stairs and bought a newspaper. It remained folded and unread in his hand, a mute reminder of the world around him which he felt was slipping away. The only thing he could still tolerate was his work, and even there he was aware of his growing impatience and shortness of temper.

He was relieved when he reached the museum entrance and showed his pass to the guard who inclined his head and said, ‘M. le Curator’. Inside, blessed air conditioning chilled the wet shirt that clung to his skin. The climate control so essential to the preservation of fine art had an equally beneficial effect on ragged curators. His mind cooled as he set out on the long walk to his office. There was no need to hurry—his appointments wouldn't begin for another hour. As he passed along the marble floors and cool caverns of stone and glass, he took the opportunity to calm himself and prepare for the day.

In his office the electronic calendar sprang to life as he loaded his computer. He read the list of people who would trouble him that day. It had grown by one, a person who would occupy the next hour he would otherwise have to himself. He was furious that the precious time had been flung away on a stranger. He pulled the computer keyboard toward him and composed a terse email to his assistant cancelling the appointment. As he leant back in his chair he found he was panting. Familiar palpitations began as he felt the air leaving his lungs and his heart begin to pound. The only thing to do was hold his breath until the thumping slowed. He drew in air and waited, trying to deal with the fear that this was a real heart attack and not the panic that seemed to be with him so often now.

A beep from the computer alerted him to an incoming message. He was unable to open it as he released his pent breath and dragged in another, which he struggled to hold. The involuntary movement of his body was lessening but he was shaken as he willed the anxiety to release him. The signs of a panic attack were unmistakable, another symptom of the state of his sorry life. Finally he could breathe freely and his heart began to beat normally. He reached for a bottle of water on the desk and drank deeply. Closing his eyes he hoped the attack had passed. Just a moment longer, he thought. I'll be still and quiet and all will be well. The sound of the office door opening dispelled his hope. Eunice, his loyal assistant and chief daytime tormentor, stood in the doorway with her eyes fixed upon him. The sight must have upset her.

‘Monsieur Vernay, are you all right? You're as white as a sheet.’

He forced himself into an energy he didn't feel and spoke in a sarcastic tone he hardly recognised as his own. ‘I'm fine thank you very much, despite being loaded up with appointments that are surely someone else's responsibility.’

‘What appointments?’

He waved at the computer screen, ‘This person at nine thirty. Who is he?’

‘He's the representative of the firm handling the de La Tour loan. You remember, they're booked to pack and transport the painting next week.’

‘I know that, you stupid girl. Why is he on my schedule?’

Shaken by the attack, she took half a step backward. ‘Because….’

‘Because…?’

She regained her ground and stuck her chin out. ‘There's no need to shout at me! He's seeing you because assistant curator Marin is in Antwerp. There's no-one else. Staff are going on holiday.’

The reprimand in her voice brought him up short. He was sincerely sorry.

‘I'm apologise, Eunice. Of course I'll see him. Show him in when he arrives.’

‘He's already here.’ She turned away without another word, only slightly mollified. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. I'm unravelling, he thought, coming apart at the seams.

Eunice showed in a short slightly built man wearing a dark blue suit and nondescript striped tie. She introduced him as, ‘M. Koenig.’ and withdrew, leaving the Curator's visitor standing before the desk where he made no move to shake hands or proffer a greeting. He was completely still, holding a black leather briefcase in a finely manicured hand. The Curator was brought up short at Koenig's poise. In some way it soothed him.

‘Please sit down, M. Koenig. What can I do for you?’

The Curator ran his eyes over his visitor. Koenig's face was dominated by black, heavily rimmed glasses that circled eyes of a dark blue. Celtic, the Curator thought, taking in the man's inky black hair and fair skin. English, perhaps. He raised an eyebrow waiting for Koenig to speak. He may be calm now but he didn't have all day. There were numerous appointments to get through. His Parisian impatience returned as he made a point of picking up and straightening a pile of papers on his desk before clasping his hands in front of him and staring at his unwanted visitor.

Koenig was unaffected and looked at his shoes as he spoke. ‘I'm pleased to meet you, Monsieur, and grateful for this opportunity to convey to you that we value the museum's business.’

As far as the Curator was concerned all this was a given. He thought they should be grateful—the Louvre's business was highly sought after. What did the man want? He made the smallest gesture that said Koenig should get on with it, which Koenig ignored as he lifted his eyes and stared directly at the Curator. It was an intense gaze with a trace of uncertainty that Koenig took no steps to conceal. The eyes lingered and then seemed to come to a decision. The doubt had gone and he spoke slowly and clearly.

‘I have a proposition for you, Monsieur.’ He paused before saying in the same even voice, ‘It's one, given your personal circumstances, you would be unwise to ignore.’ He placed the card of a nearby patissiere in the centre of the desk. ‘Meet me there in an hour. We'll have coffee and something sweet.’ As he stood up and retrieved his briefcase he added, ‘Don't be late. We both have full days ahead.’

Vernay was alone with the questions he dreaded to ask left unspoken, as the door closed quietly behind his visitor. The time until eleven o'clock stretched out in front of him like a desert to be navigated in the dark. Koenig's allusion to his personal circumstances was swirling in the Curator's mind. How could anyone know? Was Koenig guessing? Was it a bluff? What could he want? Whatever the stranger meant, there was a truth to be found and it was one the Curator had been concealing for some time.

Eunice interrupted his thoughts, calling him to the next meeting of the day in the Louvre's conservation department where he would inspect the seventeenth century canvas by a follower of Georges de La Tour. It was due to travel with Koenig's company the next week. He smoothed the front of his still immaculate jacket and checked his watch. He would have to hurry.

Roth woke early, his bedroom still and cool. The yellow silk drapes were open to whatever breeze the hill of Montmartre could gather to itself. He eased himself out of bed and stretched as he looked across at Marianne. Her delicate body was covered with a loose muslin nightgown that framed her belly, swollen with the child. Her sleep had been fitful. The early morning seemed to be the only time she ceased to toss and turn. He stole into the bathroom.

Marianne was awake and reading when Roth came out of the shower. She was engrossed in the contents of a thick police file which in the less than an half an hour since he’d left her she’d spread over the bed.

He asked, ‘What are you doing today?’

Without looking up from a series of gruesome photographs she was shuffling through, she said, ‘Charles is taking me to the Louvre.’

Victor ran his eye over the row of suits in his dressing room. ‘So, as it's Tuesday and the museum is closed, Charles has arranged a private viewing. What is it this time?’

‘The Mona Lisa.’ She leant back and watched him as he dressed, enjoying the lines of her husband's lean frame. ‘She's on the list because she may or may not have been pregnant or just had a child when the painting was done. It's all about the guarnello, apparently.’

‘Which is?’

‘A gauze overdress worn by a pregnant woman or new mother or as a symbol of virtue.’

‘Which you can also see in the Portrait of a Lady known as Smeralda Bandinelli by Botticelli.’

She dropped the photographs, slightly annoyed. ‘Why ask me when you already know the answer?’

He leant down and kissed her, ‘What else has my father been lecturing you about?’

‘Charles doesn't lecture, but he did tell me that during an examination of the painting under infra red reflectology,’ she held up a hand, ‘thank you, I know what that is, the Louvre curators found the Mona Lisa was enveloped in a transparent gauze garment known as a guarnello.’

Victor pulled down a dark blue suit and as quickly put it back, ‘During the most intense examination of the painting ever undertaken. When was that?’ Marianne didn't have a chance to answer as he said, ‘In 2004.’

She laughed. ‘You're impossible, Victor. Is there anything you don't know about art?’

‘I don't know, which is what worries me.’ He chose a grey light wool suit.

‘Anyway, I want Charles to be happy.’

‘He is. He's going to be a grandfather and moreover he's had your portrait done by France's greatest living artist.’

‘Nearly done.’

‘I thought you'd finished. You've been sitting for three months.’

‘Apparently that's nothing. Our friend Combert thinks he's da Vinci and paints a tiny area at a time. It takes forever. When I told him to take some photographs and work off them the poor guy nearly swooned.’

Victor laughed. ‘No wonder, that's sacrilege. You should be more careful. You know he's rather…

‘Delicate?’ They both laughed at the artist's expense. ‘His assistant stands around with a bottle of smelling salts in his pocket.’

‘They might be for you, you poor pregnant woman.’

She pulled a face and held up the photographs, ‘I don't faint, but Combert might.’ Victor came and sat beside her on the edge of the bed. She smoothed his collar and said, ‘I just want the damn thing finished. What do you want?’

‘A