Page 65 of An Inside Job

He laid the panel on the table and examined the image in the sunlight streaming through the Dassault’s windows. Typically he used a handheld ultraviolet torch to expose the overpainting of previous restorations, but in this case it wasn’t necessary; a large portion of the panel’s surface was covered in recently applied inpainting. The woman’s heavy-lidded left eye, however, had received no retouching. When Julian viewed the iris and pupil through a magnifying glass, he feared for an instant that his heart had ceased to beat.

“What do you think?” asked Van de Velde.

Julian didn’t dare answer truthfully, for his anger was at that moment incandescent. Instead he lowered the magnifying glass and waited for the painting to speak to him. It was quite talkative indeed.

“It’s a lovely picture of obvious quality, Peter. But one wonders how it ended up in an Amsterdam flea market.”

“You should have seen it before it was restored. There were several layers of old overpaint and a gloppy coat of brown varnish. At first I thought it was Dutch or Flemish. But I no longer believe that’s the case.”

“Nor do I,” said Julian.

“Is it Italian?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Florentine School?”

“Could be, Peter. But where are we going with this?”

“My partner and I were wondering...” He left the thought unfinished.

“Whether I thought it was a Leonardo?”

Van de Velde nodded.

“Come now, Peter. You don’t really expect me to answer that question after spending less than five minutes with the picture.”

“But you were clearly impressed by it. I saw it in your eyes.”

“I agree that the brushwork resembles Leonardo’s, but that does not mean it is his. Furthermore, there is nothing in the historical record to suggest he ever used the silverpoint preparatory sketch of the young woman to produce an oil painting.”

“There’s nothing about theSalvator Mundieither.”

Julian, with his silence, conceded the point. He had yet to look up from the painting. She had been horribly mistreated, the beautiful young woman with mismatched pupils. Julian, at that instant, resolved to rescue her. But how? Personal heroics were not his calling card, especially at thirty thousand feet. The occasional act of professional duplicity in service of a noble cause was more his style.

“There’s a simple solution, you know.”

“What’s that?” asked Van de Velde.

“Let me take the picture back to London. I’ll show it to the curators at the National Gallery and subject it to rigorous scientific analysis. I’ll also hire someone to research the painting’s provenance.”

“Who’s going to pay for all this?”

“Isherwood Fine Arts.”

“And what would Isherwood Fine Arts expect in return?”

“If my work results in the discovery of a lost painting by Leonardo, it will be well worth the money.”

Van de Velde turned to his nameless partner, who shook his head slowly. “Sorry, Mr. Isherwood, but the painting stays with us.”

“In that case, you leave me no choice but to buy it.”

The man smiled. “The bidding starts at two hundred and fifty million.”

“If it’s a Leonardo, it’s a steal at that price.” Julian checked the time. “Mind taking me back to Schiphol now? With a bit of luck, I can still make my flight to London.”

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