Relic of Time (26 page)

Later Don Ibanez joined them and soon they were called to the table. The fare seemed modest after the feast Traeger had had at Empedocles. Afterward, they left the young people to themselves and adjourned to Don Ibanez's study. The old man lit a huge cigar after offering one to Traeger, which he refused. He got out his cigarettes, and for a moment they smoked in silence.

“So, have you figured it out, Mr. Traeger?”

“No.”

“The portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe would not have fit into the trunk of that car we saw a week ago in San Francisco.”

“It could have been rolled up.”

“That would have done irreparable damage.”

“Morgan wouldn't have cared about that.”

“He would if he expected to receive the money that Mr. Hannan so generously put up.”

“If he didn't have it, what did he expect to turn over?”

“A portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe.”

“Which he didn't have.”

Don Ibanez was smiling. He was enjoying this.

“Oh, he must have had what was stolen from the shrine in Mexico City.”

“I'm not following you.”

“Because I am being deliberately mystifying. The original painting had been removed from the basilica earlier, before the theft, when rumors circulated that some such deed was planned. It was replaced by a copy.”

“Are you telling me that all this commotion has been over a copy? That all those monks down there in charge of the shrine would have had to do was announce it and everything would have subsided?”

“Traeger, you will think me naive, but I never imagined the effect the theft from the basilica would have. I flew there, as you may remember, creating the false interpretation that I had been kidnapped. I put it to them just as you did.”

“They refused.”

“Would you have believed such an announcement?”

Traeger thought about it. “Running that risk would be better than letting all this violence continue.”

“You must remember that the basilica no longer seemed to them a safe place to keep what was entrusted to them. Finally they have given their permission.”

“Permission?”

Don Ibanez rose. “Come, there is something I want to show you.”

They went outside through French doors and Don Ibanez led him across the lawn to the basilica. He turned on the lights, some of which illumined the portrait of the Virgin behind the altar. Don Ibanez drifted toward it, went around the altar, and stopped. He looked up at the portrait. Traeger was beside him.

“That is the original, Mr. Traeger. It was brought here for safekeeping.”

Where would you hide a book? In a library. Where would you hide the original painting if not in an exact replica of the basilica in Mexico City? Traeger looked up at the Virgin, at her unreadable eyes. He felt more anger than relief.

“Who else knows of this?”

“You.” Don Ibanez frowned. “And Miguel Arroyo.”

“You have to make this known.”

“First we must return it, Vincent. Then an announcement can be made.”

When Don Ibanez said that only he himself, Arroyo, and now Traeger knew that the supposedly stolen original was safely stowed in a miniature basilica on an estate in Napa Valley, he was obviously not thinking of the many supernumeraries who had been involved in the secret transfer.

How many of the monks in charge of the basilica had known what was taking place? Don Ibanez had no idea, nor did he seem to think it mattered. Obviously any or all of them were trustworthy. “Their lives are dedicated to Our Lady of Guadalupe.” This was clearly a self-evident truth for the pious old man.

Once Don Ibanez had agreed to give a temporary home to the original, the question had arisen as to how to make the transfer. The monks had suggested Miguel Arroyo, who was a frequent visitor to the shrine. Don Ibanez had overcome his reluctance to rely on the young firebrand. Why not fly it to his estate by private plane? It was Arroyo who had pointed out the risks. Air traffic was far more closely monitored than those who crossed the border in vehicles or on foot. A detailed rationale for the flight would have to be given, and then the secret would be out.

Arroyo's plan was to truck the image from Mexico City to Napa Valley. Just drive it across from Tijuana? Arroyo had calmed Don Ibanez. Arroyo had contacts, men he could trust. His plan had been adopted and it had been successful.

“How many men in the truck?” Traeger asked.

Don Ibanez seemed surprised by the question. “Two. No, three. And Arroyo of course.”

“Arroyo was in the truck?”

“At his insistence. He would be armed and if his trustworthy companions proved otherwise . . .” Don Ibanez frowned.

“And who installed the image in your basilica?”

“Carlos, Arroyo, and myself. Not that I was much help. I directed the installation.”

“Carlos?”

“My gardener.”

“That's an awful lot of people to keep a secret.”

“But they have, haven't they?”

“So far.”

“That is why we must return it as soon as possible. Once it is back where it belongs, you can tell the press the whole story. And then all this trouble will be over.”

“And how will I return it?”

“You have command of one of Mr. Hannan's planes. I have spoken to him in utter confidence.” And then, as if anticipating the obvious objection, he added, “Mr. Hannan does business with the Mexican government.”

“I was thinking of our own.”

“Ah.”

It was Smiley who, the following day, came up with the solution. He would file a flight plan to Catalina Island. They would fly there with the original in the plane, land, then file another flight plan to Miami. He would enter Mexico over Baja, touch down at Mexico City, and unload Traeger and his precious cargo. He would be on his way within an hour and report the mechanical difficulty that had necessitated the unscheduled stop in Mexico City. Traeger considered it from every angle he could think of. It looked workable.

“A week from today,” Don Ibanez said.

“A week!”

“I will fly to Mexico City and make all the arrangements there.”

“What about Arroyo?”

“There is no need to bring him into this. He can rejoice with us when the deed is done.”

The delay still bothered Traeger. His only consolation was that this time, there would be fewer people in the know as to what was happening than there had been when the image had been brought to Don Ibanez's basilica. Smiley was used to doing hush-hush things for Hannan and was told that the stop in Mexico City had something to do with Empedocles.

“Getting it down and ready to go will be a problem.”

“George Worth can help us.”

And so it seemed settled, except for that week's delay. George Worth seemed happy enough with the thought that he could put off his return to Palo Alto with a clear conscience.

It was the following day that Neal Admirari came up the driveway to the hacienda.

Neal Admirari had had occasions before to think that it is a small world. How often someone who should have been a thousand miles away had come upon him in, if not a compromising position, one that was difficult to explain. Of course things were different now that he had finally married Lulu. Lulu who was a continent away. Lulu who had become the monitor of his habits, regulating the amount he drank, asking if his insurance was paid up whenever he lit a cigarette. Women like to organize men. It was that simple. He liked it, more or less; it was different. Still, he was enjoying this little respite from wedded bliss, pursuing the spoor of Lloyd Kaiser.

Lulu thought he was nuts. She could be right; after all, he had married her. Joke. He didn't mean that. He loved Lulu. He had loved her for years. But he had grown used to having his passion unrequited and the three weeks of marriage had provided an animal contentment he had never imagined. Lulu was quite a girl. Well, no longer a girl, but Neal knew what he meant. So it was that, driving up the Napa Valley, he was torn between homesickness and the sense that he had, however fleet-ingly, regained the freedom he had lost when he married Lulu.

How easily the concierge in the Whitehall might not have dropped the remark that put Lloyd Kaiser in a new light. The simple pilgrim who had been gunned down in the basilica in Mexico City was now revealed as a man who had cavorted with a woman not his wife for three days in a Chicago hotel. Of course Kaiser was a widower, but even so it was difficult to put together the pilgrim and the swinger. Neal would cast him in the role of penitent.

And Catherine Dolan was another surprise. Former academic, holder of several lucrative patents, divorced, she and Lloyd had known each other as teenagers. The Chicago interlude might have been a sentimental reunion that moved on into something else. Neal had not known what to expect when he showed up at Catherine's apartment building overlooking Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis. To learn she was off in California and using Jason Phelps as her forwarding address added more tang to the mixture. Phelps had made a name for himself as the tireless debunker of religious phenomena. The only thing he hadn't taken a shot at was the appearance of the Virgin to Juan Diego. But somehow Neal felt that several more unrelated items were gathering into a unified explanation.

He had been about to turn into Phelps's drive, when he thought of Don Ibanez just up the road. First he would see if Don Ibanez knew what was going on at his neighbor's. So it was into Don Ibanez's drive that he turned and there was Traeger. Neal hopped out of the car and reminded Traeger who he was. “Rome, North American College . . .”

“I remember.”

“You can bring me up to date.”

“On what?”

“Your investigation.”

A member of the press grew used to the equivocal manner in which people were apt to regard what must seem mere curiosity.

“Where've you been?” Traeger asked.

“Walking up and down in the world, like the devil in Job.”

“You drove.”

Neal let it go. Biblical allusions were seldom grasped in this secularized world.

Clare emerged from the hacienda with George Worth at her side. Traeger introduced him.

“A member of the yellow press.”

“I run an ad in the yellow pages,” Neal said, striking a light note. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. Portrait of a weary reporter dying to be offered a drink. Clare obliged and they all headed for the patio. Minutes later, Clare emerged with a pitcher of sangria, the tinkle of ice cubes accompanying her return. Don Ibanez, it emerged, was away for several days.

“Do you see much of your neighbor, Jason Phelps?” Neal asked her as she poured.

“Not now. I worked for him but I've been replaced.”

“That's difficult to believe.”

He had to wait a moment before she realized he was flattering her.

“The new person is far more qualified than I was.”

“Catherine Dolan?”

“How did you know that?”

“It's a long story. What is she like?”

“As I said, qualified. Competent.”

“Would you happen to know where she's staying? There's something I must tell her.”

Clare grew embarrassed. “She's staying at the house.”

“Phelps's? Good, that simplifies matters.”

“In what way?”

“It's confidential.”

Traeger, too, seemed to have lost his edginess. Maybe it was just the wonderful weather in Napa Valley. It wasn't until after dinner that Neal was able to separate Traeger from the others.