20 ...

Marchese smiled, reached into his pocket and handed the waiter a one-Euro coin. "Grazie Marco." The waiter placed the tray on the desk, turned and left without a word. Marchese poured two cups, looked up at Bandone who shook his head no, and with an open hand, gestured toward the pastries. "Please," he said. After a moment or two, the Tenente continued.

"I think you can relax, Signore. If we had wanted to arrest you, your present circumstances would be quite different, I assure you. No, there's nothing very sinister about this meeting. Frankly, we have been presented with some extremely puzzling information, and it would seem that you may be able to assist us. As you have probably surmised – since you seem to be well aware of the various policing agencies in Italy, and our ranks and insignia – Paolo and I work for the Guardia di Finanza. My special area of expertise is high profile kidnappings, and Paolo here appears to have extensive knowledge of art, although he has kept this very close to his chest all these years," he smiled at Bandone who shrugged and nodded.

"Now I must ask you to help us solve a particularly troubling mystery."

"How can I help," asked Newkirk.

"When we came here this morning, this monitor had gone dark. I asked Paolo to go back through the recorded data from that camera until we saw images that would tell us when and how the camera had malfunctioned. What we saw was extraordinary. We saw you, Signore, in the Sistine Chapel, accompanied by four other gentlemen. Three of these resembled some very famous Italian artists from the Renaissance and Baroque periods of our history. We'll come back to them in a moment. The identity of the fourth man has been established, although this identification comes with certain ... uh .. shall we say, discrepancies. This man was identified as Pablo Picasso." He watched Newkirk for his reaction to this news. Was it surprise, or something else that he saw?

"But, that's impossible. Pardon me, Tenente, but Picasso died in 1973, over 40 years ago. Are you pulling my leg? I'm a gullible guy, but really ... "

Marchese raised a hand to interrupt and nodded toward Bandone. "Paolo, tell him what you found, please."

"I was able to capture a very clear image of this man's face. Of course I assumed this was some impersonator, or simply a random citizen who resembled Picasso. Just to be sure, I put the photo through the face-recognition data bases of the Guardia, the Carabinieri, Interpol, MI6, the CIA, and your Canadian CSIS. In every case, I got a positive match. It was unquestionably Pablo Picasso. These systems don't make mistakes. Picasso is in Rome. What we want you to tell us, is why he was with you this morning, and exactly who the other men were, although we think we know that too."

"As you see," added Marchese, "there's no point denying that these men were with you. The camera that you discovered is one that we ourselves installed with some difficulty. And, if I may ask a favour of you, please do not mention the camera or its location to anyone. This could be rather sensitive should Vatican officials become aware. You understand? Now ... can you help us, Signore?"

Newkirk had become increasingly uncomfortable as the two officers spoke. When Bandone confirmed Picasso's identity, he sagged noticeably in his chair, and looking from side to side, hoped there might be some escape from this predicament. Marchese waited patiently as Newkirk's head swam, and though he tried to devise a logical strategy for escape, none was forthcoming. He took a deep breath and surrendered.

"Yes. Picasso was with me this morning," he offered with little more than a whisper. He stared at the floor, resigned to his situation. All he could do now was tell the truth as he knew it. But who could possibly believe him?

"Thank you, David. I may call you David? Grazie. We know a little more about you and your recent activities. I'm speaking of the event you hosted last fall in Venice, during the Biennale." Newkirk looked up, anxious and confused. "What can you tell us about that?"

Regaining some composure, Newkirk elaborated. "This is not going to make any sense. It makes no sense even to me. But I'll tell you what happened, and then you'll have to decide whether I need to be locked in a rubber room. The whole thing began as a kind of tribute to great artists I have always admired. I feel connected to these artists, and grateful for what they have added to my life. If you know about the event in Venice, then you know that I am a painter. These artists have influenced me and each other. It's like a legacy, almost a linear connection, a tradition or a club. These are my vocational forebearers. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Please go on," said Marchese.

"So, I was making paintings in my studio, thinking about this connection. It was as if these artists were sitting in the studio behind or beside me, one at a time, perhaps having a drink or a smoke. They were silent presences, but supportive. I know this sounds bizarre. And I thought how wonderful it would be to meet them all, to have discussions with them, to share a meal together. The Biennale was the perfect meeting place, if only I could organize a party, a get together of some kind, and include all the artists I have ever admired, living and dead – so I thought, anyway. 

"Now, this is where it gets weird.

"Without any fanfare or warning, there I was in Venice. I swear to you that this was no dream. I was in Venice, and they too were in Venice ... all of them ... Velazquez, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Pollock, Shuebrook, Hall, Whiten, Van Gogh, De Kooning ... all of them were there. It was happening just as I had imagined. They were exchanging ideas, having fun, getting drunk together ... " he was nearly breathless as he described what had happened. "I know it's impossible. I know that this cannot have happened, but it did happen. And now, back in Rome, I have run into several of the same artists. We seem simply to have picked up where we left off in Venice. Look ... I can't explain it. I can't! If I'm harmless, you can let me continue with my fantasy. If I'm dangerously nuts ... well ... that's another matter I suppose." He fell silent, looking back and forth at his audience, waiting for some kind of reaction.

"David," said Marchese. "Based on the evidence we have, and on some disturbing bulletins we have received from Interpol, we have no choice but to believe what you've said."

Newkirk visibly relaxed, surprised and relieved, and incredulous. "You do?" he asked. "Really?"

Marchese continued. "We were just notified that this man (he consulted a file) was seen yesterday both at the Palazzo Borghese, and at a hotel – the Domus Romana – where he was evidently a guest. The concierge there contacted the Carabinieri to report that he had disappeared without paying his bill." He passed a photo to Newkirk.

Claude Monet

Wide-eyed, Newkirk exclaimed, "Monet is missing? I haven't seen him in Rome yet, but I do know the hotel. Why would he leave without paying?"

"Monet is just one of several who have disappeared." Marchese paused. "I think we have to agree," he continued "to suspend belief, as you say in English. Can we agree that we all think these events cannot possibly be taking place, and at the same time accept that they are? There is no point arguing the plausibility of what is happening. We must deal with the facts as they are presented to us. My head throbs when I try to construct any other possible course of action. So .. from this point on, we discard logic, and simply deal with events as they unfold, ... agreed?"

"Wow," said Newkirk. "You amaze me. But yes, that is exactly what I have had to do."

"Sure," offered an emotionless Bandone. "Whatever you say."

"I believe that Monet has been kidnapped," announced Marchese.

"But why would anyone kidnap Monet?"

"David, really ... if you could kidnap Monet, what would you want with him?"