The Sunflower Mystery 1-2: Illustrated

1

Chapter 1

Between Paris and Auvers-sur-Oise, France, May 15.

The road had already started to dry in spots after the rain. The dust had been washed away to some extent. The silver-grey Mercedes sped down the road as if on the wings of the wind that had brought and dried up the rain. The yellow stabilizer light flashed faster as the Mercedes took the sharp turns in the road. The girl sank her fingernails into the leather of the steering wheel, then relaxed a bit as the turn widened and the road went into gentle dips. She pressed her lips tightly together, smoothing her fresh, shiny lipgloss, which smiled back at her in the rearview mirror. Her sense of danger decreased as she toked deeply on a joint. The cloud of smoke she blew out obscured the rearview mirror and the bright contrast between her cherry-red lips and her light skin faded for a moment. The sun made an appearance from behind the lingering clouds and glistened off her tired but beautiful azure blue eyes.

Tomorrow I have my last exam. I know I’m not going to get through it. I’ll fail. I don’t know anything! Everything I’ve learned so far has gone right out of my head. All I feel is a great gaping emptiness and the terrible, ringing lack of something. I don’t want my studies to end – I don’t want to leave the university. The speed of the Mercedes increased as she struggled with the increasing torrent of her thoughts.

Behind her, the sight of Paris had decreased to the size of a model-train city. She had watched her progress in the distance as she glanced backwards in the mirror. Now she watched with determination her approach to Auvers-sur-Oise, her destination on countless trips during the course of her university years.

The best thing I can do now is to just set up my easel facing toward the cloister in the distance. Maybe then I can find some peace. Nowhere else in the past months has helped me in that respect. Then I can finish the final sketches that I need to turn in for my diploma.

The tires bounced wildly on the rough, dirt road’s ruts and potholes as she turned off the main road toward the expansive wheat field. The partially dried road now allowed a cloud of dust to accumulate behind the car, and she felt as if her disturbing thoughts were mixed in with the dust. As she pulled up on the edge of the field, clumps of the sandy soil rolled along as the wheels churned them out of the recently rain-dampened soil.

The girl, who was about to say farewell to her years at the University of Paris and her studies in Art History, looked around the quiet landscape as the dusty sandstorm provoked by her hurry, slowly descended and cleared away. She leaned her forehead on the steering wheel and quietly but thoroughly, cried her eyes out in desperation at the rapidly approaching deadline. After wiping off the streams of mascara running down her cheeks, she got out of the car and in almost ritual fashion unpacked her paints and easel from the trunk. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and a pair of Tom Ford sunglasses were pushed up on the top of her head. They flashed a beam of sunlight toward the windows of the abbey.

Breaking her normal routine, she looked for another place for her easel. Stepping carefully in her thin, white summer shoes, she broke up clods of rain-softened dirt. The legs of the easel burrowed easily into the damp earth on this day. She pushed them a little deeper and started back to the car when suddenly the earth slipped and opened a gaping hole right between the easel and the Mercedes. The deep brown earth contrasted sharply with the bright green of the wheat. The earth continued to slip and cave in, the line of the break running now towards the front of the heavy car, which started to slip forward and downward. The three-pointed star of the Mercedes looked down into the hole as the front of the car came to rest about two feet below the back. The easel and everything around it was swallowed into the earth with a rug-like section of wheat whose roots held the earth together. A decades-old tunnel complex had finally given in to the power of entropy and collapsed, pulling down everything in its reach, including one very frightened young woman. She was fortunate, though, as the Mercedes’ descent into the pit had been stopped by some still-intact steel plates that lay across the thick iron-reinforced concrete walls. Her own descent into the unknown had also, luckily, been prevented.

She stood thigh-deep in rubble with scrapes on her legs, turning her head, surveying the incomprehensible turn of events. Under her right foot, she had felt something crack and under her left foot she now felt a rounded object which had stopped her fall with an empty sounding gong. She pulled up her left foot and tried to pry up the object below it. She managed to get it out. After brushing off the musty smelling earth, she recognized the familiar shape of a soldier’s helmet with a rusted eagle of the Third Reich still attached. The side entrance to an underground bunker complex that had been blown up decades before revealed itself to her. The thirty-six-inch thick iron reinforced cement walls gave way at the end of the tunnel to a brick wall covered with the white, flakey powder that exudes from damp brick. The tunnel ended in what looked like a bricked in window. The girl walked on tiptoes and shaky legs to the wall and tapped on it, but heard nothing to indicate empty space on the other side. She sat down for a moment on a ledge protruding from the brick wall to catch her breath and wipe off a bit of mud from her brow. The mud had mixed with the blood seeping from a small wound on her forehead.

Her back barely grazed the brick that was embossed with a guild symbol when with a tremendous groan the wall started to move and the screech of metal moving over metal with rocks caught between made an unbearable noise. The wall moved in a complete half circle, carrying the terrified girl with it, stopping with another groan in a dank room where scarcely any light penetrated. The girl placed her hands on the wall and tried to push the secret revolving door back using the weight of her whole body. Her remaining strength soon gave out and she just panted in the dark, spooky tunnel. When she caught her breath a little, she noticed a distant metal door that had three small circular apertures which glowed with yellow light. She heard the voices of two people arguing very loudly and emotionally as she started toward the light. In the next moment, she jammed her fist in her mouth to keep from screaming as she became aware of a row of mummified German soldiers seated against the wall that led to the door. As she approached the door, the three shafts of light played on the skulls of the mummies in an other-worldly way. The well-recognized form of the armored division helmets still sat proudly on the heads of the long-dead soldiers. She took a deep breath and covered her ears so she would not hear the crackling of whatever it was under her feet and went straight to the door.

She immediately put her eye to an opening and saw a man and a woman in a very large room. They were dressed in what looked like brown, hooded robes right out of the middle ages. She became an ear-witness to a very vitriolic argument between the two and placed her ear to the door so she could hear more clearly. The metal was a good conductor of sound to her ear and their shouting rang through. After having gone through the caved in tunnel and the sealed off, neglected section, she was astonished by the sight of a completely renovated, large, ultra modern room with state of the art ventilation and lighting. It was as if she had just dropped in to a place that had been already prepared decades before to offer someone permanent accommodations. All around the walls of the room hung well-protected Van Gogh paintings, all under vacuum seal in safety glass. Each of the paintings had its own light source from above and shone with a mystical glow.

The avalanche of memories that came and the horrifying experiences that she had been through so far that day ran shivers up and down her spine and flashed an electrifying picture in her mind. She knew with absolute clarity, that she knew this place from well in the past. Somehow, she had been here as a little girl. She was entirely sure of that.

I absolutely will not put another painting on the market! From the sale of the last two, we had to acquire a mercenary army and a whole arsenal of weapons. We’re not going to be able to smuggle out the paintings from here. After all the decades of guarding them here, this place is no longer secure. The woman’s angry and harsh tone of voice rang in the room.

It may be a few more months before the two buried tunnels are discovered. By then, we may have a solution.

"The success of the business during World War II brought the sect’s glory days. Under your direction, however, almost everything was lost! The secret weapon was used after only one test with shocking results, but after the allied naval invasion it was never used again. That would have changed everything, though. But now the time has arrived for us to use this unique weapon once more for our own purposes!

If you don’t make up those losses by getting two more paintings, the sect will excommunicate you forever from our ranks. The woman’s voice had a very cold, hard edge like a shiv. She pushed the metal container that sat on the stone table to one side and lifted up both her arms. The tendons stood out. Lisa gasped silently. The voices that seemed to come from the depths rang in her ears with an eerie familiarity in that crypt-like place. When the middle-aged female sect leader pushed the hood of her robes back, the girl finally saw her face and was overcome with astonishment.

Oh, God! What’s she doing here? she shouted, forgetting herself. The heavy metal door resonated with her shout. She slammed her hand to her mouth but it was too late. She almost fainted with the dizziness that overcame her and shook her whole body. The two sect members turned toward the door then looked at each other completely dumbfounded. An instant later they reached for the weapon lying on the table.

Lisa’s racing heart had reached her throat by the time her scrambling rush toward the open end of the tunnel had almost brought her there. She heard the shots hit the metal door with dull thuds and the screeching of the door being forced open sounded far away. She found a rusted-out corrugated steel plate that had formed part of the ceiling of the tunnel, half caved in, and climbing, scrambling, made her way up the twenty feet to a maze of beams. She squeezed through and was greeted by the friendly waving of the still-green heads of wheat. Pausing a moment to gather her strength, she noticed her papers slipping out of her shoulder bag and falling back into the depths. She tried to catch them. In the middle of this pock-marked, bumpy terrained, decades-old former battlefield, all she could do was watch them go. Hearing the heavy sound of running footsteps closing in gave her an adrenalin boost that rocketed her out of the collapsing area and into the Mercedes which was perched precariously on the edge of the hole, looking downwards. No time to think, the girl started the car, slammed it into reverse and gunned it. Almost miraculously, the heavy car pulled itself out of the pit and careened down the dirt road backwards until Lisa found a place to spin it around. She tried to look back in the rearview mirror, but all she saw was a great cloud of dust behind her, hopefully hiding her from her pursuers. When she finally reached the highway, she felt a dull thumping in her head, the remnant of the feeling of terror. She looked beside her and saw her shoulder bag in the passenger’s seat next to a book by Zola. Something peeked out between the pages of the book – her passport. She pulled it out with a sigh of relief as she looked at her ripped bag.

Thank God that wasn’t in my bag… but all my other I.D.’s and papers with my address and everything… How can I be so unlucky?

The pressure Lisa was now feeling far outweighed anything she’d felt with regard to the exams. Despite the big fight with her father some weeks back, she wanted nothing more now than to return to Switzerland. The night before the trip she couldn’t sleep at all: a dull and hollow weariness had filled her entire body. And in the chaotic events of the past few days, she’d just now found the message, Greg, the director of her father’s lab, had sent her:

"The breakthrough we’ve been waiting for has finally happened -- we’ve been getting the signals… We can talk about the rest in person."

She read the text aloud to her herself in a happy whisper. She was tired of communicating with the man on a stranger-to-stranger basis and was eager to finally meet him, as he’d said, in person.

I’ve got to go there, she decided; I’ve got to see this thing for myself.

And she couldn’t get the dissertation out of her mind: suddenly all that detail and research was becoming a living-breathing reality! The images swirling vividly through her head, she was ready now to embark on this exciting and dream-like journey through the lands and landscapes of the brilliant painter. Everything was pointing in this direction now; she was through with all the restlessness, the sleepless nights. Greg’s message had given her new hope. Finally, all those years of experimentation and research had paid off and she trembled with the inspiration and challenge that these discoveries would bring: the beginning of a new world and the renaissance of the old. Nothing else mattered now -- she could hardly wait for morning to come, to arrive at the lab and actually see everything with her own eyes! Alongside the pleasant pictures that danced in her mind, though, were the vivid and strange memories of the sect and their underground hideout. After another night of tossing and turning, she woke up determined not to take the exam that day. She packed and went to the university to hand in her dissertation and ask for more time on the missing monographs. She was relieved to find that her consultant wasn’t there and that she wouldn’t have to do all that explaining in person. Any and all information about the previous day had to remain a secret. She left the found folder and a message on the consultant’s desk and walked to her car which still showed the mud-and-grass remnants of the previous day.

On returning home, Lisa spent three days at her father’s research institute, Bridgeball Center, just outside of Geneva. In the lab’s enormous Zen Park -- with its oval white and brown stones and fountains and raked white gravel -- Lisa could relive the calm and tranquility of her childhood. Time stood still there. She couldn’t have imagined a more harmonious place in the world and it only made her more curious about Greg, the director, whose idea this had been. She carefully placed several of the flat dark-brown stones side by side. In the distance, the shadows of the elegant glass bridges and the cable car-like movers that flit back and forth between the buildings, startled the sailfish and seahorses in their sunlit ponds. Few could have guessed what went on within these polymorphous and supermodern buildings, however. Few people could have imagined anything but a continuation of this mountain-ringed idyll. Lisa knew better, knew more than just about the wave experiments that had been going on for years though -- as the daughter of the institute’s founder -- was looked at as little more than a spoiled brat and at best a princess. And, though she tried on several occasions, there seemed to be nothing she could do to change the researchers’ minds. Not long after her arrival, the old feelings and experiences returned. Reality had hit, the emptiness of her university years in Paris returned. Though her father’s vast wealth may have rescued her from bad society, it had done nothing to assure her finding a place in the world.

Lisa knew that Greg had been away from the lab for some days and that he’d come from the U.S. two years before after a dramatic divorce the previous year. Greg, for his part, had heard of Lisa’s great beauty and unstable personality. Then his already busy schedule was made even busier when he was commissioned by a research group from his old university, MIT, to carry out special tests on a series of Van Gogh paintings. Only Lisa’s father’s laboratory was capable of carrying out such nanometric assessments and of decrypting the original color scheme in all its original intensity. This was how Lisa -- thanks to her privileged position -- was able to take part in the restoration project in Boston. After a few days in Geneva, she flew to the States hoping the project would help her to forget all the strange things that’d taken place, especially at the sect’s headquarters. Though she didn’t particularly like Professor Dannenhoffer, she just knew the trip would have a therapeutic effect on her. The almost three weeks she ended up spending there, however, did not have the full healing effect on her that she’d expected. Though she didn’t dare mention it to anyone, the trauma of that afternoon near Paris was still very much with her. Her nightmares began to get worse and she’d toss and turn in bed replaying everything she’d seen there in her head: she could still see all the pictures clear as day and hear the threats of her invisible pursuers. Though everyone could see the change in her, they just began to write it off as exam-related stress.

Chapter 2

Boston, Massachusetts, June 10.

The restoration of one of the most important works of art that old Professor Dannenhoffer had ever worked on was about to be completed. You could almost hear the sound of the tiny strokes of the brush in the absolute nighttime silence under the frescoed ceiling of the library. His young, attractive assistant stepped closer to him, completely absorbed by the painting which she unwittingly stared at in fanatical awe. She broke the silence in a whispered voice.

Professor, are you really sure you want to let me make the last few brush strokes?

The elderly professor looked over the top of his glasses, which had slid down his nose, at the enameled face of the antique Dutch wall clock that had just finished striking eleven. His apparent calmness was broken when he started on an irritated monologue muttering to himself incomprehensibly under his breath as he walked around the table where the painting was lying. His black shoes made a monotone clop-clop sound which was swallowed up in the otherwise echoing hall of the library by the bookshelves lining the walls, holding their precious, centuries-old gold-printed titles. The girl just watched him, not understanding his actions, as he slowed down his dizzying circular movement to a shuffle. He finally wore down like a wind-up toy and stopped, steadying himself with his hands, fingers spread out, on the table. He bowed his head.

"I’m not letting you – rather, I’m asking you to finish the restoration of the painting. I’m done. The owner of the painting, Mr. Pole, will be here at any moment, and if anyone keeps their appointments, he does. I made a contract with him agreeing that if the painting is completed one minute over the agreed time, I will forego payment for my work. I agreed to a time that was really too short, and I have to admit that I’ve slowed down considerably. If we had just one more day to finish. You have done superb work, Lisa. I’m afraid it’s not just that technology has overtaken my forty years of experience; my eyes aren’t what they used to be. But those colors! They’re absolutely original! The effect of this painting with its mystical feeling is more astounding than it’s been in years. Imagine, this is how Vincent van Gogh first saw the birth of his painting in its fresh, new colors. This is an historical moment.

Your exams will go very well, I assure you. If it were up to me right now, I’d see that you got an honorary doctorate, but we must go through the formalities."

Professor Dannenhoffer, I don’t know what to say, Lisa said with a smile. FaceScan isn’t my accomplishment. I received it on loan from my father’s laboratory. A researcher had worked on it day and night for several years. It wasn’t even developed for this use. But the application that was developed for me will certainly enable the restoration of these famous paintings that have been discolored over time to their original colors. In fact, if all goes according to plan, we should receive the newest applications for our next project. But now every minute counts, so I’ll take over the painting.

"That’s wonderful! Incredible news! Now, this is the second van Gogh painting that we’ve finished together. Two more private collectors have contacted me since the word got out concerning the method we use to restore faded colors in these old paintings. And that fascinating stereo-duplicate picture that we pre-delivered to the collector who ordered it! On top of it all, it’s a perfect match to the finished restoration. That’s more than fantastic.

Perhaps one day I, too, will have an original Vincent van Gogh painting, Lisa. Or even a whole collection. I’m certain of it! My whole life long, I have longed for that, but on a professor’s salary, even with my work on the side, I’d never have enough money even if I lived five hundred years.

How quickly the professor changed as the completion of the work neared. He went about his work with such concentration on the priceless painting that he completely shut off the outside world and appeared to have sort of a snarl on his face. He was fearsome in those moments. If someone disturbed him when he was in the middle of a tricky section he would here a temper tantrum. In the last few days, he has acted like an idiot. Maybe there is actually truth in the rumor that years ago he did away with his own wife… thought Lisa as fear began to tighten its grip on her throat.

However the elderly university professor’s undeniably world-class knowledge of the paintings and his professionalism dampened Lisa’s fear. She accepted the risk and fervently supported the work of this secretive, great authority, despite his questionable past. With self-confidence, she got down to work on the painting – time was running out.

She swept her eyes over the remaining tiny, unfinished section with devilish intensity as she employed the new technology which had been developed for her own individual use. It allowed her to reach a state of inspiration in which the vibrations of her eyes, the rays of light and the reflection of the paint on the brush all harmonized. With incredible speed, the brushstrokes swished together. The professor watched with astonishment as her hand made precisely executed movements as he leaned on the shoulder of the white marble statue. The torso of the female figure was turned sideways at a sharp angle to her shapely legs which elegantly pointed the way toward the massive carved oak doors. Glancing toward the doors, the restorers’ imaginations took over as they pictured the image of the dissatisfied collector standing there with a stopwatch in his hand and a threat on his face.

Lisa and the professor had started their work at four o’clock in the afternoon. The restoration of the painting had now continued into the late evening. The midnight deadline gave them great incentive to get the painting finished, and surprisingly, the fast pace of the work seemed to help the quality as well.

The only light source in the hall was a blue LED light by which they worked because of the way the light reflected the true colors of the painting. It left the rest of the room in half darkness and in a mystical, other-worldly sensation of what the room had been witness to in the centuries past.

Lisa had become drowsy after the long hours of concentrated work she had put in on the canvas. Her thoughts had become saturated with her imagination and she alternated between giddiness and dizziness. Steadying herself, she looked toward two immense bookshelves. As if in real life, she saw a notably tall, grey-bearded man step out from behind them surrounded by three very young university girls dressed in white. The girls’ faces had a very worried look and were strained, as if weighed down with responsibility. Their natural beauty was frighteningly marred by the tenseness which bound them up. One of the girls carried a large album made up of yellowed, crinkled-edged sheets of paper in uneven sizes bound in a thick, brown binder. Her long, damp hair partly covered the codex which she held tightly to her breast. Lisa noticed a page that looked like it was about to slip out, but she held her breath and remained in the distance. She saw that the edge of the paper was darkly inked with a large number eight, which took up half of a page. Suddenly, the vision of a wave of foaming water overtook her line of sight and washed over the previous vision, wiping it out completely. She turned her attention to the professor for a moment and settled down. But she was not entirely confident in her state of mind, so she got up to have a look to confirm that what she saw happened only in her imagination. As she walked over to the bookshelves, she was blown away to find a clump of long, brown hair in the middle of a perfectly circular puddle of water on the shiny granite floor of the library

Lisa picked up the clump of hair and the whole scene played out before her eyes again at the speed of thought. She desperately tried to squelch the vision out of her thoughts, but it remained there. The university library which had now stood for over two hundred years, became the site for Lisa’s vision of the perverse actions of the professor with each of his accompanying students. Lisa closed her eyes so tightly that all she was aware of was the bluish-purple spots that she pressed into her eyes. She was overcome by the horrifying fact that she had been closed in a room with her mentor and co-worker that had been the scene of criminal acts. She recalled the rumors that had been spread without any basis in truth about him.

She heard whispering sounds that were coming now from the direction of the painting. Lisa pressed the palms of both hands over her ears and did not dare even once to look at the old man, bent over the painting, concentrating on the restoration work. She did not want to hear the questions about the origins of his unusual behavior. Lisa lifted her eyes to the enormous, two-story high oak bookshelves, on them precise rows of thick, antique books under whose weight the shelves groaned. The blue LED light which somehow lit the whole room, reflected off the gold-embossed letters on the thick book bindings with an eerie silkiness. The elongated, sonorous chords of an organ swelled in the background and the golden letters on the book’s bindings started to peel off as if children’s stickers. They seemed to swim in the air, attracting and repelling one another to finally form themselves into intelligible words, then into intelligible sentences. The words swirled around the fresco-painted ceiling, bouncing off and then again back to the bookshelves that had moved into a circle, gliding by them and gaining speed, spinning around a six-foot tall globe that Lisa had taken refuge behind. Then they sped off and melted away gradually like fog burned off by the sun while another, more noble source of light blindingly beaming from the diagonal point of intersection in the Vincent van Gogh painting took over and exceeded all the effects of the previous vision.

Something’s bothering me. Something doesn’t seem right.

What’s wrong, Lisa? I noticed last night that something was troubling you greatly. What has happened? The professor asked, looking over his glasses.

I don’t understand this. The painting isn’t as alive as it was yesterday. In the past few days it has naturally come to life, but today here it lies, if I may say, lifelessly.

What are you talking about, Lisa?

Professor, is this actually the original painting that we’ve been working on all along? I don’t know how to put it, you’ll probably think I’m off my rocker. Yesterday it was as if I saw several pollen spores break out of the tiny spaces in the weaving of the canvas, become enlarged and sail around the room. I was certain it was a figment of my imagination caused by lack of sleep. All that happened just after the final colors had been applied and the painting sparkled in its renewal. Today, however, I don’t see that sparkling or any movement in the painting.

You have been working too hard. You need some rest after all these weeks of work far into the night. The professor said, somewhat anxiously, as he turned to go to the storeroom which was always kept locked, jingling his keys in his hand. I’ll do the next restoration by myself. I won’t accept any more work until after you have completed your exams. Go home to Paris as soon as possible so you might prepare properly for them. Tomorrow, Mr. Pole, our famous and renowned art collector and owner of the painting, will be coming by personally to take it home. I’m sure he will be very, very pleased with it. You must accompany me to the inauguration of the newly restored painting. You know, you owe me the pleasure of a dance. You are just as lovely as my one time student and colleague at the university, Rose. Yes, your mother was my favorite student. He continued, sighing. And tomorrow, don’t forget the log of the restoration.

Absolutely. Thank you once again, Professor, for your confidence in me and for allowing me to take part in this work. I’ll be preparing myself at home in Switzerland. My stepfather has built me a studio in the building housing his laboratory. I love being there.

Lisa, I can’t keep this to myself anymore. In these past few days I’ve felt a far stronger attraction to you than I ever did years ago, to Rose. I can’t resist my desire for you. If you say no to me, I won’t be able to work together with you in the future.

Professor, please don’t do this! You know quite well that Vincent van Gogh is my one love said Lisa as she ducked under his outstretched arms which he had placed on the wall on either side of her head. "No, please, no! Don’t do this! The professor took hold of Lisa’s white lab coat which she slipped out of, revealing her youthful, sun-bronzed shoulders in her low-cut sundress.

Lisa couldn’t believe what had just taken place. She gritted her teeth and tossed her head, shaking her long brown hair behind her back, her baby-blue eyes and child-like face, drenched with the innocence of a hurt and betrayed child

The professor turned around in his rage, without the slightest feeling of shame, and with short, shuffling steps went to the storage room, acknowledging Lisa’s rejection.

By the end of the painting’s unveiling ceremonies I will have decided whether or not we will work together again on another restoration. His voice still retained a threatening tone. Several empty picture frames came clattering down.

In any case, I’m sorry about what happened to your mother. We worked very well together.

Both of them looked toward the noise of the huge globe, which stood several yards away from them in front of the bookshelves, spinning, and the sound of retreating footsteps between the rows of bookshelves.

Lisa moved beyond the previous unpleasant experience almost immediately. Her night had already provided her with other experiences which left her without explanation and without logic. She couldn’t fathom what was going on.

Lisa just nodded her forgiveness. After this late-night, unpleasant and embarrassing turn of events, they remained in silence and did not take their eyes off the slowly drying painting, experiencing a feeling of timelessness as the minutes wore away.

They were living through an historical moment which took away every bit of exhaustion that had accumulated through the long process of the restoration. The many decades of experience and the use of modern technology had been kneaded together and raised by the curiosity of youth and the thirst for action. Perhaps years ago Lisa’s parents had worked together as a couple in a similar way for a decade when her stepfather, a scientific researcher, and her mother, a renowned art historian and fine art restorer, started working together on their own discovery.

Lisa felt an unexplainable feeling of love which she herself could not put her finger on, toward whom it wanted to be directed. Over the past seven years, these paintings with their strange, mystical influence had captivated and enslaved her in the deepest way.

After the last touches were made on the painting, the professor began to act very strangely and would not let Lisa even get near the painting again. She could look at it only from a distance.

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, their exceedingly eccentric and famous art collector did indeed appear at the gigantic, creaking door with his threatening look, just as, in their nervousness, they had imagined him in the previous hours. The only difference was that he arrived with three other gentlemen, presumably his personal security force.

Now, now, dear Professor. I had requested that the painting be completed for the unveiling ceremonies which will take place tomorrow evening, said Mr. Pole in a deliberately restrained tone of voice. In an entirely unrestrained manner, however, unmindful of his eighty years, he leapt across the room in three steps to the painting like a gazelle and leaning over it appeared to be inhaling every possible bit of information and stimulus to all his senses. His eyes repeatedly swept over the canvas and his nose followed in circles, breathing in the rising scent of fresh paint. He leaned ever closer to the canvas. When he had finished this quiet five-minute ritual, he held his ear to the painting as well, as if he could absorb something more from the canvas, some kind of sound.

Be careful, don’t touch it! The paint is still quite fresh. I wanted to call you, but because of the hour… It is entirely completed, even so… it still needs to dry a little more. Couldn’t you put off the unveiling for a day or two?

The whole thing be damned! Maybe I should speak to my wife’s parents, to put off her birth for a day or two, hmm? Don’t screw around with me, Professor. A contract is a contract. You have overstepped the time limit agreed to in the contract. I have a new man who’ll take care of everything, including the finishing of the restoration. I’m not a fool. I always have a ‘Plan B’ in the event that the restoration is not completed on time. Take it away, Ron.

A few minutes after midnight, the collector, in the company of his three security men, quickly, but with practiced organization and undisguised pleasure, took possession of the painting from the professor. The grey-bearded, cigar-smoking collector’s eyes virtually beamed when he looked at his painting. He likewise, was in love with it and gripping the frame, he held it closely to his eyes, then extended out his arms to look a bit further away, but never let it out of his grip. He was in absolute awe of it.

The returning of the painting to its owner, in almost ritual fashion, took all of fifteen minutes. Mr. Pole allowed precisely that much time to examine the painting, giving up his cigar for that time, allowing no chance for a stray cigar ash falling on the canvas.

The elderly man had planned the formal unveiling of the restored painting to take place at his family’s estate outside of the city, which he had inherited on the occasion of his wife’s seventieth birthday.

Indeed, this picture has taken on a new life. Superb work. Thank you. Mr. Pole said with undeniable feeling. But as you know, the contract specifies the circumstances of the time limit. He closed the conversation and with the gesture of a man accustomed to getting what he wants, patted the professor on the shoulder.

He did not speak another word. He just gazed at the painting, the most beloved work of his extensive collection, as if it had finally recovered from a long illness and was restored once again to perfect health. The professor stood alone silently, smiling and in deep thought, repeatedly stealing glances at the painting. But suddenly, he looked up, realizing that he had left the storage room door half open. His eyes suddenly lit up with a thought as four white silk-gloved hands lifted up the painting on its four corners and moved carefully toward the door with wormlike steps. The professor quickly moved around the little company of men and with outstretched arms he blocked the door.

Not another step forward! he cried out in the echoing hall. Could it be possible that you are not in the winning position, Mr. Pole? In just a moment, I will demonstrate to you that seven weeks of exhausting work cannot be just trampled into the mud. I expected more respect from you, Mr. Pole. Even though you set out quite rigid demands in the contract, I still feel that you are not dealing with me in a correct manner. But, no problem. Give me back the painting. That painting is mine anyway. Just place it back where you took it from.

The eyes of Mr. Pole and his security men met over the diagonal point of intersection of the painting. In their astonishment at hearing the professor’s words, the brilliant painting almost slipped from the cautious grip of their silk-clad hands. Their astonishment was cut short by the old professor’s quick, youthful movement, intensified by his rage, as he ripped the painting from their hands and lifted it high over his head. He moved with short, quickening steps as he turned to go the other side of the hall, moving under the chandelier that hung right in the middle. Lisa covered her face with both hands, as if to avoid being witness to the sight of the professor rushing around with the painting held so high that it almost hit the lowest hanging crystal globe on the chandelier, then turning, the canvas swelling out like a sail, headed straight for the marble statue of the woman sitting on the leading edge of the marble staircase. At the last moment with a correcting turn of his hip, the professor brought the tightly stretched frame down on the lovely, rock–hard head of the beautiful marble lady. The frame cracked, popped and flew in three different directions. At that point it did not much matter that the edges were all dirtied with finger smudges in the fresh paint. All those present in the hall watched as their brains slowed down the action in reaction to their shock, so they saw it as if in a slow-motion film sequence. This gave them the chance to hope that this was not really happening – not here, not now, and especially not to them. The late hour also contributed to the surreal effect of the turn of events – a surrealistic thought seen in the mind of another, not of their own making.

The loud crack of the frame as it split on the marble woman’s head brought them all slowly back to their senses and their slack and weary bodies brought them back to the sad reality of the present dimension. Minutes dragged by as their faces dropped to the floor, looking at the shattered strips of canvas.

The Professor alone was master of the situation and using the slowed reactions of the others to his advantage, he lifted his face, shining with satisfaction and split with a crafty smile and started toward the storage room. The witnesses to the atrocity, slowly coming to their senses, had a quick consultation as to whether or not they should follow the professor into the closed space of the storage room. They decided to wait and see what he was up to. Both the security men put their hands on their guns and leaned forward, looking into the twilight of the store room, curiously following the professor’s next move. The clatter of an empty frame falling, and a short incomprehensible curse in French, and then the old man emerged, elegantly and triumphantly moving towards Mr. Pole, carrying a carefully wrapped painting and draped with white silk. With the same intensity of his previous actions, he deftly removed the wrapping material and then with a cool and refined motion, he placed the totally restored and long-dried painting into the hands of its owner.

"If you please, the original painting. And to your wife, I wish a very happy birthday. Please relay to her my heartfelt wishes. The painting was finished two days ago and it has also now completely dried. Tomorrow you may even touch it.

Thus, Mr. Pole, you see that I have fulfilled the terms of the contract, and you will find my bank account number on line 17 of that same contract. Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure working for you he said as he turned toward the bodyguards, who still had their hands resting on their weapons. I hope we will have the pleasure of meeting again. I will be most pleased to take part in the unveiling ceremony tomorrow evening."

Having just received his new assignment and with the new Hadron-3 Supertablet under his arm, Agent Conley arrived home. The top-secret files he was carrying were the product of three long years of investigation and made finding and using his house key a ridiculously difficult task. This time he leaned against the wall and tried to get the key out but again to no avail. Damn it! he sighed, ringing the doorbell. Sorry, honey, he muttered to his wife, who threw him a half-confused, half-relieved look.

What’s all that?! she asked.

Ah, my new case, honey. I’ve got the weekend to look through it…you know, before our trip.

Her face lit up. "What, you mean I’m really going?! Anyway, as I’ve said all along, you can definitely do with my help. I worked hard on that case myself…as an intern perhaps but still… Oh, my poor hubby -- I don’t see why that dusty old affair can’t wait! Anyway, the European delicacy I just made is sure to get your mind back on track. I just know you’re gonna love it there, babes -- you may drag your heels tomorrow but, I guarantee you, once you’re there you’ll be begging to stay…you’ll just never want to come home, I just know it!"

I hope you’re not referring to Ballard -- he’s never turned up since. I’ll tell you right now, though, I don’t like this case one bit…I’ve got a weird feeling about it. Most of all -- and I’m being honest now -- I’m scared for you. I’ve said it before and I’m gonna say it again: you’ll be saving the both of us a load of trouble if you just stay here like I said, stay here with your mother for the time I’m gone and…

"So, what -- no wedding, no honeymoon, not even a single vacation?! No, way, darling! My stomach doesn’t even show and like I’ve said a thousand and one times -- you need me, you need me for this case and it’ll be great and we’ll travel in our free time!"

"Yeah, and…and that crazy serial-killing medieval sect will cook us up a wonderful candlelight dinner, I know! This is NOT how I pictured our honeymoon!"

"Well, if it’s a honeymoon you want so badly, you’ve got to marry me first… Renting a motorboat to New Jersey to wolf down an authentic Italian cappuccino is not MY idea of a honeymoon! I’m going with you, babes, and that’s that. That’s it, it’s final, and besides, I’ve already told everyone down at the Bureau that I’m going. My being on maternity leave and all doesn’t mean that I can’t be by your side, that I can’t help you…"

Without the special docking station that the Hadron 3 Supertablet required, the FBI was unable to do anything. And that was why the first thing Agent Conley did after dinner was head straight to the panic room. The room had been converted some years before when he’d been forced to spend days on end leafing through dozens of boxes of documents. Seeing all that stuff on the screen now -- the graphic photos of crime scenes and the gruesome details relating to each case -- sent a chill down his spine. He was up to his neck in this swamp of new data when his wife, defying protocol, rang to enter the room.

The next day, Lisa showed up late to the closing lunch. As luck would have it, Professor Dannenhoffer had shown up at the scenic restaurant on Huntington Avenue a half hour earlier. He could hardly wait for Lisa’s ravishing figure to appear. Her appearance always filled him with energy the way the whiskey in his glass (his third now) instantly calmed his nerves. He glanced around the restaurant, took a long look at the couple at the next table, fidgeted in his seat, glared at his watch and then at the entrance again. A well-built man in his early sixties, Dannenhoffer had more than the whiskey to thank for his happy complexion: his boyishly rosy cheeks were a product of the 50 laps he’d been swimming every single morning for the past several decades. As he waited for the young lady now, the thought of retirement flashed through his mind like a bad vision. He reminded himself that he had no desire to go into retirement and that that was why he’d taken on so very many extra assignments and responsibilities at the university of late.

Lisa’s arrival struck him like a lightning bolt, filled him with electricity. A huge smile tore across his face as he watched the beaming, chestnut-haired girl approach. Her hair, he observed, was somehow waver and wilder than usual. This led his hungry gaze to her naked shoulders and to her model-like gait: in her blue lace dress, he saw a model strutting toward him on a catwalk. Everyone -- including the puppy-faced waiter -- turned their heads in appreciation, something which embarrassed Lisa to no end. A second waiter, in white, rushed from table to table with a silver tray full of clinking demitasses on his arm.

Lisa had only come of necessity, as a mere formality and nothing more. The clock struck 12:30 as if to embarrass her even further -- let everyone in the restaurant know that she’d been half an hour late. She quickly took the bouquet Dannenhoffer held out to her, then -- without looking at what was in it -- put the little box that was sitting next to it in her purse and sat down. Still haunted by the previous night’s events, she impatiently studied the menu, shut it, looked up at the arrow-straight waiter and then proceeded to order. When her favorite dish -- black clams with garlic and parsley -- arrived, she found she that was too upset to enjoy them. She’d have done anything to have been able to leave the table but was relieved, at least, by the fact that the professor never once mentioned the events of the previous night.

You’re dissertation, by the way -- what I’ve seen so far of it -- is splendid, Lisa… Completely original and daring while managing to remain deep and thought-provoking. In my own ten years of research I cannot, unfortunately, say the same for my own work…

Lisa glanced quickly down at her cell phone, at the email she’d just received. Attached was a photo of the laboratory hologram, which she examined in detail until the professor spoke again and she looked up.

Oh, and one more thing. I didn’t think the opening ceremony would be a good time to give this to you, so…I know you’re birthday’s coming up, uh…

Oh, thank you! What is it? A magnifying glass? she said, lifting up the instrument.

"Yes, but not just any magnifying glass, my dear! Look for the Codex No. 76 and you’ll find out soon enough!" the professor said mysteriously.

You mean the one that’s in the university library? The art tome?

That’s right…you’re favorite one…the one that’s always given you luck prior to exams…the appendages of which only your eyes have seen.

Professor, just how do you know all this?

Oh, I know more about you than you think, Lisa, he sighed, smiling. Oh, and one last thing, one last thing… Some prominent members of the exam board have taken a keen interest in your research and paintings. He flashed her another mysterious smile, this time without forgetting to devour the remaining smoked salmon on his plate. (Lisa could simply not comprehend how a man Dannenhoffer’s age could eat the entire daily rations of a professional athlete in one sitting…and then order dessert to boot).

You should know that the other two board members -- most likely due to professional envy -- weren’t too hot about the unconventional format you employed for your dissertation…

Lisa looked at the professor incomprehensively, her fork in the air.

Or they may just be annoyed that the foundation no longer supports them…that your mother’s foundation no longer commissions their work. That would certainly explain a lot and that would certainly be a real blow to them professionally. The truth is that my word has carried precious little weight with them till now.

You’ve got to go deeper into Van Gogh’s life…get to know him better, understand him on a deeper level, Lisa said.

"Did, did I understand you correctly when you said that you’d be returning home tomorrow? But just what does that mean exactly, right? I mean for us home is always elsewhere…somewhere else -- the place we don’t happen to be at the moment, right? No matter who or who is not waiting for us when we get there, right?"

Lisa finished her icy mojito in one nervous swig. Maybe, she whispered, nodding with not too much conviction and beginning to get up. She threw her napkin down on the table and said: I’ve got to go now.

On her way out, the professor called after her: "Just in case you’re not at the opening: good luck on the exam!"

Realizing that Lisa wasn’t coming back to their table, Dannenhoffer remained seated, staring into his empty plate and imaging Lisa’s lovely face for as long as he could. Lisa, for her part, got into a taxi and thought about her flight the next morning at 6:30 for New York. She had absolutely no intention of going to the ceremony now. On the way she called Greg, who after months of texting, she’d finally met this very day.

Yes, I’ll meet you in Central park, yes, on the path that leads to the Metropolitan Museum. I’m leaving this place, we fly back tomorrow…I had some problems with my exams. I’ll call you when I get there, bye.

That evening found Professor Dannenhoffer making his way comfortably to a rather large estate outside of Boston to take part in the unveiling of the newly restored painting. The past months’ work, often through the night, played before his eyes as he drove along, and musing about how the approaching evening’s event would come off, absent mindedly changed the channels on the radio in his nervousness.

I wonder if they’ll have that exquisite smoked salmon again, which I adore? I always order it myself, but if they don’t have it tonight, and I can’t have that wonderful flavor, I’ll feel like I haven’t been able to crown this remarkable achievement.

The dark, wooded road helped the professor to calm his thoughts; he had to pay attention to where he was going. Even so, he managed to let his GPS misdirect him onto a dirt road that led him into a field. Damned, foolish old head of mine! he yelled at the dark, moonless sky. He quickly turned around, gunned the engine and roared off into the darkness. He managed to make up the lost time and arrived at the mansion precisely on time.

As he approached the luxurious estate, however, he was possessed by an increasing feeling of anxiety as he saw reflections of blue flashing lights in the night sky; ambulance, police, all stopped in the magnificent drive in front of the mansion.

He stepped on the brake immediately and without a second thought turned around.

I don’t understand. How did they find out? Could Lisa have something to do with it?

Meanwhile, a young woman in her early thirties arrived at the mansion. She sang along to the Top Forty with a Russian accent and had the appearance of a professional model. She was the collector’s secretary.

The huge fountain with a statue group in the center was surrounded by the white gravel drive where she stopped and got out of her car. She couldn’t go into the house. It was cordoned off with official police crime-site tape and manned by more than a few officers. As if from nowhere, a very charming young man appeared next to her car. He was wearing a black sport jacket. He addressed her:

Good evening – Investigator Simon Daniels, FBI the man introduced himself as he flipped open his ID which flashed back the colors of the blinking lights.

Good evening – Alexandra Livenda. I’ve organized tonight’s event, she said, taken aback. She slowly got out of the car, arranging her short summer dress.

Please come with me. I have to ask you some questions.

As they ascended the snow-white staircase flashing with bright, blue light at each step, the investigator very respectfully and tactfully introduced the young woman to the peculiar series of events.

This is the second Van Gogh painting which has been restored for a private collector by this particular professor. The problem is that in both cases, a short time after the collectors received their restored paintings back, they were murdered with unusual brutality. The paintings, removed from their frames, disappeared without a trace.

The gardener found his employer here – the investigator indicated the fountain- "he fell headfirst into the fountain from the large, half-circle shaped balcony above it. There were bruises on his head and he was forced to drink some kind of poisonous paint or ink in the last moments of his life, which we found in large concentrations in the fountain. In his hand was a pistol which was undischarged with a full round of bullets in the cartridge. But to get to the point, this was a professional ritual killing. The back of his hand and forearm were painted in black paint with a very complicated and detailed Maori tattoo motif. The murderer took the time to do it. Either he worked for hours on the painting, or he was very accomplished at it and finished it fairly quickly.

But this is terrible! Who could have done such a thing? asked the distraught woman out of a face made wooden with shock.

Continuing- The first collector for whom the professor restored a Van Gogh fell from his Manhattan apartment, on the twenty-ninth floor, again, under very unusual circumstances after drinking a Color Louvre extra concentrated cocktail . His painting also disappeared, but an empty canvas prepared with plaster of paris was substituted in the picture’s frame. On the wall next to the frame the liquid of the cocktail" was thrown at the wall, leaving an image in profile of a running man on the wallpaper. We also found signs of a struggle. And, as I said, the restored painting disappeared, an empty canvas left in its place in the frame. We’ve sent the canvas to the FBI lab for a DNA test. We will have to wait two or three days to get the results. The professor is our prime suspect at the moment. On the guest list, however, is a girl, a Swiss citizen, who worked on the restoration with the professor. Since she didn’t turn up at the unveiling tonight, we’ll have some questions to put to her as well.

If the nasty business falls in the professor’s lap, he’s looking at serious jail time."

As the professor was driving home, he began to feel sick. In spite of almost being on the verge of fainting and the almost uncontrollable speed, he managed somehow to keep a grip on the steering wheel. Then, still far away from the villa where the reception was to be held, he stopped the car, reached into the glove compartment and poured some pills down his throat. Arriving at home and starting to feel better, he put a bag of Garrett Chicago Mix popcorn into the microwave and sunk down onto the bumpy sofa. He flipped on the TV and watched the news. Then, coming back from the kitchen towards the end of the program, he gaped with astonishment at the photo of Mr. Pole, the famous art collector, and his villa. He simply couldn’t believe his eyes: adrenaline and dread flushed through his entire body like a flashflood. He ran into his library, went to the carved oak table and looked at the open Van Gogh monograph, at the painting Vase with Lilacs, Marguerites and Anemones.

Less than an hour had gone by when there was ringing at the professor’s door. He lay there a long time with his eyes shut, just listening to it. His sense of trouble was only confirmed when he opened the door to find a small group of agents standing there. Dannenhoffer found he couldn’t help himself, immediately started talking about the painting.

"It’s all in the