Chapter 15
Fifteen
Sofie felt oddly light.
There was a not inconsiderable part of her that was in a blind panic over what she’d just done.
She’d never before told anyone who her father was.
It wasn’t that it was a secret. Certainly some people knew, because the only way his declaration that her home was holy ground held any weight was if they knew his connection to the Vatican. Her father's enemies, or perhaps it was more accurate to say rivals, respected the church enough to honor his declaration.
The men who’d invaded her home at least knew that her home had been declared holy ground, even if they didn’t know specifically who her father was. That’s why they hadn't done more than scare and slap her.
Yes, her father’s identity was known to some, her home's status known to an even wider circle than that.
But she’d never told anyone.
She’d never had anyone she trusted enough to tell.
And now that she had told someone, her body felt lighter than it had before.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Colette held up her hand, clicking her tongue in a very French way. “What you’re saying…it’s all too disconnected. Sofie, just tell us everything from the beginning to now.”
Sofie wiggled into a slightly more comfortable position and thought about where to start.
She, Andrei, Colette, and Landon were in a partially completed bar and lounge area on the glass floor, as she’d decided to call it.
She hadn't been able to see this room previously, given that it was on the opposite corner of the building from the playroom she and Andrei had used, with the elevator bank blocking direct line of site. This space had a view not only of the river which curved in just past the building, but also the skyline and lights of Amsterdam. If this area once had small glass offices, they’d been removed, leaving a large open space.
And unlike the other spaces on this floor, here there was no visible BDSM equipment, or hints as to the purpose of this place.
A bar was being built against the back of the elevator bank—the bar itself was in place, as was the plumbing for the sinks and the under counter dishwasher, but the glasses were still in their boxes. A bank of small refrigerators was installed and plugged in under the back counter, which is where Colette had gotten the cold bottle of mineral water Sofie now held as she sat on a long, low leather couch.
Andrei was beside her, slumped on the couch with his eyes closed, a Belgian beer in one hand. The other arm was laid out along the back of the couch. His hand almost brushed Sofie’s shoulder.
She kept waiting for him to touch her again, but so far, he hadn’t. Even when he’d led her upstairs after saying goodbye to Agent Baas.
Colette clicked her tongue. “Sofie. Pay attention and start talking.”
Landon, seated with Colette on the couch across from Sofie and Andrei, chuckled as he took a sip from his bottle.
Sofie opened her mouth, closed it, then took a sip of her water. “I’ve never told anyone my story before. I guess I've never had anyone to tell.”
Colette’s face twisted. “I'm so sorry that I wasn't a good enough friend to you.”
“You're my best friend,” Sofie said simply.
“Exactly. That's why I should have known. I should have realized that there was more going on.”
Sofie dipped her head, embarrassed, though she couldn't say why.
After another sip of water, she'd gathered her thoughts enough to begin.
“I was adopted when I was either six or seven. They weren't sure when I was born, so they had to guess.”
Landon raised his brows in question, though didn’t actually ask a question.
“Oh, you're wondering where I'm from? I used to think in French. Sometimes even now, I will hear something in French and have this almost memory moment. But I don't remember enough about the French to help narrow down where I learned it. I was left at an orphanage outside Maastricht as a toddler.”
“A toddler? Not an infant?” Colette asked.
“A toddler.” Sofie had spent more time than she cared to think about imagining what had been happening in her parents’ life that leaving her on the steps of a church was the solution. Paintings of mother and child were hard for her because of it.
Unless of course it was a medieval piece with a homuncular Jesus.
“I could walk, but not talk well enough to tell them my name. At least that's what I was told.”
It was almost unnerving, having the attention of three such intense people. Landon and Colette were both looking at her, but Andrei was still reclined, head on the back of the couch, eyes closed. Despite that, she knew he was listening. Focused not just on her words but on her.
Had he sat up and turned to face her, she might not have been able to go on, and part of her wondered if he knew that.
“I told the agent downstairs I don’t remember anything from my childhood, but I do remember some. I remember getting in trouble because I would leave the orphanage, go across the graveyard behind the new church to the old church. It was nothing grand. Not a cathedral. But there was beautiful stained glass, and the altarpiece was…”
To this day, she found it hard to describe the feeling she got when she saw beautiful art.
“It was the light. Not just the light from the windows in the church but the light that the artist depicted in the altarpiece. I didn’t understand who the sad people were, but I understood the light in the sky, and the way the light made some colors bright, and some dark. I remember getting yelled at for climbing up on the altar to try and look behind the altarpiece. To see if there was a window or a lamp behind that illuminated it.”
Sofie looked out at the landscape before her. It was dusk once more, the setting sun painting one half of the skyline a hazy color somewhere between yellow and blue. People rarely thought of the light of sunset as having green in it, but there was green in gold. The tones were there, if one looked closely enough.
Her mind’s eye flashed up image after image. This view. This moment in time, unique unto itself, never having happened before or to happen again, rendered in a dozen different styles. The stark realism and luminosity of the Dutch Masters, the saturated colors of the Renaissance, the thick strokes of impressionism.
“One of the nuns gave me a sketchbook, and this little briefcase of art supplies—she figured out what I loved about the old church. There were colored pencils, charcoal, pastels, and even a little row of oil paints.”
“They gave you that as a child?” Colette asked softly.
“I don't think it was a children's art set, and I’ve never been able to figure out if that was on purpose. If she deliberately gave me something more than crayons.” She’d turned to Colette to answer the question, but now looked back at the window. “I never stopped getting in trouble for going over to the church, but once they brought me back and slapped my hands, they’d say no dinner for me, but sit me down with paper and my supplies and I’d try and do what I saw in that altarpiece.”
The view shifted as she tried to render the paintings she was imagining with more detail, colors brightening and darkening, shifting and changing.
“Try to capture the very soul of darkness and light.”
Sofie felt herself blushing. She was an artist, but words weren’t her medium, and she felt deeply embarrassed by having waxed poetic.
“I understand,” Colette said softly.
She shot her friend a grateful smile. Looking over at Andrei, she expected to see him with his eyes still closed, but he was looking at her with something akin to wonder.
Sofie jerked her attention back to the view, cheeks hot.
“I think my father first came to visit the orphanage when I was five, because I remember sitting at a desk, so I was school-aged. I remember the grown-ups pointing and looking at something on the wall, and then they came over to me. He handed me a piece of paper and a single pencil and asked me if I could draw God.”
“What did you draw?” Landon asked.
“The night sky, but in reverse.” She had to stop and think about the word in English. “Inverted. So the stars were black in the white, and the swirls of the galaxy looked like wings. Then I told them to take a picture of it, and use the filter—I don’t know why or how I knew about camera filters—to invert the colors.
“He came back again, at least twice that I remember. One of those times he called me Vermeer—a forgotten Dutch artist. He must have asked them to encourage my art even more, because when the other children had to do math, I got to paint. When the other children learned their sounds, I watched a video on color theory.”
“That's a unique kind of neglect,” Landon said dryly.
Sofie laughed, and it felt good to have her story acknowledged but not pitted. “Then when I was six or seven, they told me I was adopted. That’s when my name became Sofie Vermeer.
“My father brought me here, to Amsterdam. To my house. I had nannies who stayed with me—one for day, one for night. And art tutors. Every type of visual art. Every medium.”
“But surely those people knew who adopted you? Your father’s identity can’t be a secret,” Colette said.
Sofie waited for Andrei to speak. When he’d had the police officially arrest her, she’d given them her name, which meant they’d have looked her up. No doubt as an Interpol agent, Andrei also got that information.
But he didn’t say anything, leaving it to her.
“Legally, I was never adopted—Catholic priests are discouraged from full legal adoptions. I guess you would say that he is my foster father. The church was my legal guardian. Everything was paid for by the church, though I don’t know exactly how.”
She took a minute, letting herself breath before continuing. “I didn’t go to school. I know that's not common, and I don't know what exception was used to allow it, but I was taught by my nannies at home.”
“Did you get to…leave the house?” Colette’s expression was worried.
“Of course. We went to museums. That's where the art is.”
Beside her, Andrei started to laugh, though it was an oddly humorless sound.
“My childhood was not bad. One of my nannies was too strict, and her punishments would not have been allowed if I’d had anyone to tell.” She shrugged. “But they let me do what I love. Had I had a normal life I would never have been able to spend most of my day creating.”
“That might be true, but it doesn't make the childhood you did have any less problematic,” Colette said gently.
Sofie shifted uncomfortably, and Andrei sat up. She could feel him watching her.
“Get to the good part,” Colette said with forced brightness, clearly seeing Sofie’s discomfort. “When did you start…” Colette grinned. “…allegedly…creating forgeries.”
“If I just say allegedly, he can’t arrest me again?”
“Yep,” Landon said with a grin.
“No. That is not how it works,” Andrei grumped.
“You’re going to start following both the letter and spirit of the law?” Landon raised his brows at Andrei.
Andrei ignored him. “Technically,” he told Sofie, “you’re still in custody.”
“I’m still arrested?”
“Technically.”
“Okay, then I’m not going to tell you.”
Andrei’s head thumped back onto the couch. “Just tell us. I arrested you for your own protection, not because you committed a crime.”
“But if I confess to a crime, the arrest will be real.”
“No. I don’t actually care that much,” Andrei sighed.
“How the hell did you ever get hired?” Landon muttered.
“I knew I liked you.” Colette beamed at Andrei, who couldn’t see it because his eyes were once more closed.
“Confess all you want,” Andrei said. “Unless you killed someone. Don’t tell me that. Then I’d actually have to do something.”
Sofie trusted Andrei, but saying more would be risking more than herself.
Sofie raised her brows at her friend, who nodded and said, “Tell the story of how you became one of the world’s greatest forgers. Allegedly.”
Landon growled, his eyes predatory as he looked at Colette.
Sofie rolled the still-cool glass bottle between her palms and watched the sky darken as she started talking.
“One day, my father came. I didn’t see him often, and I was nervous every time I did. This time, he brought me a painting. I remembered thinking it was very important because the case he brought it in had a lock. He took it out and said he thought that I could do an even better job learning if I could see and copy off a real piece, instead of an image.”
“That’s…something,” Landon murmured.
Sofie shrugged. “When you’re learning technique and testing out new mediums, trying to copy or recreate an existing piece is a good way to learn.
“He left the painting with me. Told me to make sure I paid attention to everything, even the edges.”
Colette grinned at the mention of edges, but didn’t interrupt.
“For a week, I worked. I spent the first two whole days just looking at it. Trying to mentally erase the cracks and discoloration in the varnish to see what it would have looked like when it was created. Then I started painting.
“My father came back, and I still remember the look of disappointment on his face. I was so scared. He smiled and told me it was nice, but the colors were wrong. Too bright. I told him my painting is what the original would have looked like when it was first painted, and I could prove it to him if he let me clean the original.”
Sofie smiled, remembering the rush of pleasure and pride she’d felt with what came next. “Then he smiled at me, and I felt so talented and clever. He arranged for me to take a tour of a restoration lab, though I had to promise not to tell anyone I was planning to attempt my own restoration. He said it was because people would see how young I was and not understand that I was more than capable.”
“That's probably not wrong," Landon said. “I don't think anyone would want a twelve-year-old taking solvents to an antique painting.”
“I made a note of every chemical and tool they used and asked my father to get them for me. He did and when he came back a month later, I had cleaned the original painting. And I’d applied yellow-tinted varnish to mine to try and mimic the coloring or the original, because even after being cleaned, they hadn’t quite matched.
“After that, he brought me new pieces almost every month, and each time, he’d ask for more. More detail. More accuracy. He brought me pages of notes on how to age varnish or mimic the craquelure. I later realized many of those notes were from confessions by famous forgers. One time, he brought a UV light and told me he wanted the paintings to look the same under UV light. That’s when I learned how to paint not only what I saw but to paint time. To paint what came before—the images underneath. The corrections and overpainting.”
“That’s amazing,” Colette murmured.
Sofie went on, the story flowing easily now as she talked about each new complexity her father brought her and asked her to recreate. The first time he brought her raw materials so she could make her own paints, along with period accurate paintbrushes. An X-ray, along with the original piece, the X-ray showing a whole figure that wasn’t in the final.
“Did you realize what he was having you do? What he was doing with the copies you made?” Andrei asked.
“Not until I was in my artist residency. That wasn’t my father’s idea. I was enrolled at the university as a favor to my father, or maybe to the church. I was in the classes, but I don’t think I was really a student, more I was…allowed to be there. I was focused on technique, and one of my professors, when they said I was struggling to find my own style, put my name forward for an artist residency. It came with studio time, supplies, mentorship, and access to an amazing lecture series.”
Sofie shrugged. “My father wasn't happy about it, but he didn't stop me. It wasn't until I went to one of the lectures on forgery that I realized exactly how different what I was doing at home—creating exact, indistinguishable replicas—was to the way we learned technique by painting our own version of masterpieces in art school.”
She winced, feeling a blush creeping up her chest at her naivety. “I was sheltered, and though they let me read and watch whatever I wanted, I was just a girl in a room with paint. And here was a lecturer talking about how art forgery was a billion-euro industry, and how art could be used as currency for crimes. That didn't seem to have anything to do with me…until he talked about the edges.”
Colette murmured a noise of agreement.
“Until then, I didn’t know how odd it was that my father brought me paintings without their frames. About how paintings are always in their frames, and when they're taken out and photographs are taken of the edges, those photographs are protected. That matching the edges used to be one of the only ways to spot a forgery. Then I remembered my father telling me to pay attention to the edges.”
Sofie took a deep breath, held it, then released it on a sigh. “I wish I could say that the next time I saw my father I confronted him, but I didn’t. Instead, I told him that if I was going to keep doing this, I would need more equipment. That the people who worked at museums had X-rays and chemical tests.”
“So you acknowledged it without directly saying anything.” There was no judgement in Andrei’s voice.
She nodded once. “And it went on that way for several years, until he brought me a painting that I knew… That I knew was more than just a piece of art but of history.”
“Wait, where was he getting these originals?” Landon asked.
“The Vatican archive,” Andrei responded.
“No,” Colette said, shaking her head. “The Vatican archive is documents. The Vatican museum has the art. The majority of the collection is in museum storage, but the museum and the archive are different.”
“It upsets me that you know that,” Landon muttered.
“Every art thief worth the title has imagined stealing art from the Vatican.”
“You’re going to hell,” Andrei said in a bored tone.
But Sofie was sitting forward. “Yes! See, that’s what I want.”
They all looked at her, Andrei sitting up and slowly twisting to face her. She’d been right. It was much harder to focus on telling the story with his predatory attention on her.
“What do you mean that's what you want?” Andrei asked.
“I… Wait there’s more. Unless you don’t want to hear?” Sofie blinked at him.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
She felt that command run down her spine.
“The paintings he brought me, they were all different styles. Nothing too modern, but not all Renaissance or old masters. During my residency, I leaned toward post-impressionist style for myself, but with more surreal subjects rather than everyday life. That becomes important in a minute.”
Sofie twisted her fingers, nearly dropping the bottle.
Andrei reached out and clapped his hand over hers. The nervous, jittery feeling faded now that he was touching her again.
“Your father brought you a painting you knew was important,” Andrei prompted softly, even as he took the glass bottle from her and set it down.
“He brought me Salvator Mundi.”
Colette made a strangled sound, pressing the fingers of both hands over her mouth.
“The original,” Sofie added with a knowing look at Colette.
Colette exploded up off the couch, shouting in French.
“Angel,” Andrei said with a sardonic smile. “I want to freak out like Colette is, but I clearly don’t know enough about art.”
“Salvator Mundi is the most expensive painting in the world,” Colette rushed to say, pacing behind the couch. “It sold for 450 million dollars, and that was more than a decade ago. With inflation…” She waved one hand in the air. “A lost masterpiece that was in the collection of an American businessman until 2005. Attributed to da Vinci himself. But!” Colette stopped, turning dramatically. “There’s debate about who actually painted it. Some experts say it’s possible da Vinci painted parts of it but not the whole. Many scholars theorize that there is an original that da Vinci created for his students and followers to copy. There are many versions of Salvator Mundi, credited to followers of da Vinci.
“Each has the same subject, composition, but different due to the different artist. The one that sold for a ridiculous sum sold for that much because it’s supposedly da Vinci’s original.”
Landon had a phone out and was frowning at it. He held it out to Andrei who leaned in to look at the image—Christ in Renaissance attire, his right hand performing a blessing while he held a crystal orb in his left.
“But not everyone agrees,” Colette continued. “It was probably mostly painted by Bernardino Luini, one of da Vinci’s followers, with some help from da Vinci himself.”
Sofie nodded enthusiastically as Colette spoke, squeezing Andrei’s hand.
“If a piece with a tenuous claim on being da Vinci’s original sold for 450 million, imagine what the true original would be worth.” Colette sounded almost dreamy, and her eyes had taken on a faraway look.
“Who the fuck could afford to pay that?” Landon said with a shake of his head.
“A Saudi prince,” Sofie answered.
“Ah, well. Okay, then.”
“You’re saying you saw the true da Vinci original?” Colette asked in an almost reverent whisper.
“Yes. It’s beautiful,” Sofie said. “The shoulders are twisted just a little like the Mona Lisa. And the orb is…indescribable. It’s not just clear and flat. The fabric folds reflect the visual distortion of the curved surface of the orb.”
Colette looked enraptured, and Sofie felt almost bubbly with excitement at sharing this information with some who could appreciate it. It was so nice to talk to people. Who knew?
“It took me a long time to replicate that part,” Sofie added. “The sphere.”
Colette braced her hands on the back of the couch and bent over. “You made a copy?”
“Oh. Um. Yes.”
They all stared at her.
“And you didn’t call me?” Colette demanded.
“We hadn’t met yet.”
“Oh, okay.” Colette pointed at her. “Next time, you call me.”
Landon reached up and grabbed Colette’s hand. “No. Next time your friend is replicating a priceless piece of art, how about she not call you.”
Andrei was ignoring the byplay between Colette and Landon, attention on Sofie.
“Your father brought you this painting. One you knew he shouldn't have. What did you say?”
“I saw it, knew right away what it was, and realized that anything involving that piece of art would be international news. Not just in the art community but to everyone. So I asked him what he was going to do with the copy I made, and if I would go to jail if I didn't do a good enough job.”
Colette sobered, circling around the couch to sink down beside Landon.
“My father stared at me for a long time, and asked if I understood what we were doing. I said no, because I didn't really. But I said that I knew what a forgery was, and that if anything I made was presented as the original and not a reproduction, that I could go to jail.
“He said that all I was doing was making copies. Reproductions. There was nothing illegal about that. He brought me originals to work off because I was a gifted artist and deserved to be in the presence of the original pieces created by other gifted artists.”
Sofie looked down at her and Andrei's joined hands. "I should have asked him where he got the originals. I should have asked him again what he was doing with the copies. I didn’t.”
“You were young and isolated. He was an authority figure in your life. It's understandable that you didn't question him,” Landon said.
“It was smart,” Andrei countered. “You protected yourself.”
She smiled at him, but it felt shaky. “After that, I saw my father less, but other people started to show up. They would bring me things and ask me to make a copy. An exact copy. At first, my father would send a note with each stranger who came, so I knew he sent them. But then, after a few years, people started to show up who weren't referred by my father but by one of those first few strangers.”
“I assume that's how you two met?” Landon asked Colette.
She nodded. “I'd heard whispers about a forger they called the new Dutch master. Able to make anything. A true artist. I worked for years to build trust with… well their name doesn't matter. The point is, it took me years to get that person to trust me enough to give me Sofie's contact information.”
“By the time I met Colette,” Sofie said, “most conversations I had were very frank. I knew that the copies I made would get passed off as the originals, but I was very careful to always say that what I had created was a reproduction.”
“That’s why you kept insisting I couldn’t arrest you. You think you’d get off on a technicality.”
Sofie cocked her head as she stared at Andrei. “I was wrong. Because you did arrest me.”
“If it makes you feel better, if I do have to really arrest you, it will be for handling and possessing stolen goods. All those originals you had in your studio…”
Sofie opened her mouth, then closed it. “Is that a crime?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Andrei’s sly smile widened into a grin that made him look young and almost carefree.
“But the pieces your father brought you…those might not have been stolen.” Colette bounced one foot as she thought. “At least not really. He might have been taking them from the Vatican museum storage. I know the museum storage and the secret archive aren’t the same, but I bet he has access.”
“That’s what I think too,” Sofie said. “At least for some of them. Maybe most. But once or twice, he brought me pieces that I knew were held in private collections or museums.”
“What, exactly, is your father doing?” Andrei said. “Is he selling Vatican paintings on the black market, and putting your forgeries in storage in their place?”
“If I had access to a collection like that…that’s what I’d do. Except I’d keep the original and sell the forgery,” Colette added. “Sofie is very good. I expect her paintings would pass authentication tests, and if they came wrapped in something with the papal seal…”
“Collectors don’t ask too many questions when they know the provenance is questionable,” Landon said.
“The prefect of the Vatican Apostolic Archive is a black market art dealer.” Andrei’s use of the proper modern title for the archive startled Sofie.
It was a good reminder that just because he asked questions didn’t mean he didn’t know far more than he let on.
“And thief. Or broker.” Colette shook her head in disbelief. “If he brought you originals of items you know weren’t part of the Vatican museum collection, he had to get ahold of them somehow.”
“Did you steal any of them?” Landon asked her, soundly only mildly curious.
“Do you want to know the answer?”
“No. I don’t think I do.”
Colette laughed, but then looked back at Sofie. “I don’t think I ever worked with your father, at least not directly. I’m Catholic enough I feel like I’d recognize a priest, even without his collar.”
A wave of exhaustion washed over Sofie and she pulled her legs up, curling them under her. The movement caused Andrei’s hand to slip out of hers.
She reached out, trying to grab it back, but he was already turning away and standing.
Sofie tucked both hands between her thighs, hoping Colette hadn’t seen that.
Landon and Colette were speaking softly. On one hand, Sofie was glad that Colette and Landon were here. Their presence dispelled some of the tension and made this more of a conversation, thanks to their periodic interjections and questions.
On the other hand, if they'd been alone, maybe Andrei would have had to interact with her more. He'd be the one having to ask every question.
Maybe if they'd been alone, he’d touch her, with more than just his hand on hers.
Andrei had gone to the bar, but now he returned with two open bottles of mineral water.
“Thank you,” she said as he handed one to her.
He took a seat on the edge of the cushion, twisting to face her.
“What did you mean earlier, when you said that’s what you want?”
His voice was low enough not to interrupt Colette and Landon's conversation, though once he spoke, they quieted.
“When did I say that?”
“When Colette was talking about robbing something.” He studied her feature by feature, and she felt as if she were behind museum glass, an object to be studied. “And you went with her to the museum, despite the rules you mentioned, and we have yet to talk about.”
Sofie opened and closed her mouth, not quite sure where to start.
“Do you want to switch from forger to thief?” Colette asked. "I'll teach you?—”
“No,” Landon interjected flatly.
“—and you can come work at our new company where we only steal things when the museum says it's okay,” she rushed to add.
Sofie shook her head. “It's not that I want to switch, but…well going with Colette, it was an adventure. And I’m tired of staying home. Of being alone.”
Sofie grimaced, aware of how foolish that probably sounded to Andrei, given what he’d witnessed.
“But I did want to learn how to steal something from a museum.”
Andrei closed his eyes, head dropping. “I know I'm going to regret asking this, but is there a specific reason?”
“Yes.” Sofie squared her shoulders. “I'm going to rob the Vatican.”
Landon started to laugh as Andrei switched out his bottle of water for another beer.