The Icon Thief by Alec Nevala-Lee

keeping a low profile. What do you know about his politics?”
    “He’s Georgian, so he can’t be fond of Russia. He bankrolled the Rose Revolution, which put him on bad terms with Putin’s crowd. They were going to indict him for financial fraud, so he left for New York. Ever since, he’s used his wealth to undermine Russian policy in Georgia and sponsor opposition to the Kremlin, but he’s still one of the richest men in the world. If we can figure out what he’s buying next, it would be good for the fund.”
    “Is that all?” They entered the park, taking a pathrunning parallel to Columbus Avenue. “I was wondering if you might be interested for personal reasons. He’s a wealthy man, unfamiliar with the art world, with expensive tastes. Has it occurred to you that he might be in the market for an adviser?”
    Maddy blushed at how easily he had read her mind. “I’m here because of Reynard.”
    “Of course. And I’m sure that he had no objection to your sharing such sensitive information with a former employer.” Lermontov paused beneath the trees. “Are you satisfied with him?”
    “Very satisfied,” Maddy said. It was an automatic response, and she was glad that she had not hesitated. “I like my job. I’m learning the business of art, and how buyers think, which is what I didn’t understand before.”
    “It’s still a waste of talent. As much as you try to hide it, you know as much about art as anyone I’ve ever seen, and you have an eye for something elusive that the bankers will never appreciate. Art is nothing like finance. The sooner you accept this, the better.” The gallerist looked out at the park. “People buy art for many reasons, not all of them rational. Let’s assume that you’re right, and Archvadze was the buyer. Have you wondered why he chose that particular painting?”
    “It isn’t hard to figure out. It’s one of the most desirable works to emerge at auction in years—”
    “Which doesn’t explain why he was so eager to obtain it.” Lermontov sat down on a vacant bench, carefully adjusting the crease of his trousers. “The study is a striking piece, but it wouldn’t be easy to live with. A man buying art to impress others, which is what most oligarchs are doing, might prefer something less grotesque. It makesme wonder if there might not be another reason. This painting is a singular work, after all, and its reappearance raises questions of its own. Doesn’t it seem strange that such an important study could have been lost for so long?”
    Maddy sat beside him, the slats of the bench pressing through the back of her blouse. “It may have been displayed before. Early in his career, Duchamp exhibited a series of works in Paris, at a show called the Section d’Or. One of them is listed without a title. Nobody knows what this painting was, but there’s a strong possibility that it was this study.”
    “That’s a very important point,” Lermontov said. “If I were you, I would look closely at the circumstances surrounding this exhibition. Do you know what Section d’Or itself means?”
    Maddy knew enough French, and art history, to reply at once. “The golden section.”
    “But there’s more to it than that. The show was named by Jacques Villon, Duchamp’s brother, who came across the concept in a book by Joséphin Péladan. You probably don’t recognize his name, but at the time, Péladan was one of the leading occultists in France. Among other things, he was the founder of the French order of the Rosicrucians. Another prominent member was Erik Satie, the composer, who became one of Duchamp’s closest friends. You’ve heard of these circles, of course—”
    “You’ve mentioned them to me before,” Maddy said. “But I only know that they were some kind of secret society.”
    “Sometimes not so secret,” Lermontov said. “You’ve always been an exceptional student of history. I don’tneed to tell you that the Rosicrucians were a key influence on