The Icon Thief by Alec Nevala-Lee Page A

the Symbolist movement, which led, in turn, to Dadaism. And they remain active up to the present day, often in surprising forms. Think of the Rose Revolution, which Archvadze claims to have financed. Supporters of the opposition party in Georgia invaded parliament with roses in their hands. Where did they get the idea? These things do not happen by accident.”
    As she listened, Maddy recalled that the Rosicrucians had long been one of Lermontov’s private obsessions. Perhaps, being gay, and therefore a member of a group that extended across all social classes, high and low, with its own codes and secret knowledge, he was especially receptive to the idea of similar forces operating in history itself. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”
    “I’m only saying that there are currents in the art world, then and now, of which you may not be aware. Some of them influence schools of art, while others may influence a man’s decision to buy a particular painting. In any case, there were probably more pressing reasons for Archvadze to take an interest in this study. His girl, for example. What do you know about her?”
    Maddy thought that he was changing the subject too quickly, as if worried that he had been indiscreet. “I know that she’s opening a gallery in London. Although I don’t know how seriously to take it.”
    “She has certainly been serious about promoting herself to those who matter. Some of us even wonder if she might be the driving force behind Archvadze’s acquisitions. Who knows? She may have asked him for this painting. Her birthday is coming up, I believe. He’ll want to celebrate it in style.”
    It took her less than a second to draw the obvious conclusion. “Will there be a party?”
    “If you were an aging oligarch with a pliant young girlfriend, wouldn’t you jump at the chance to express your love? I hear that his house is quite marvelous. I imagine that he will do his best to fill it.”
    Maddy clutched the bench’s iron armrest, no longer seeing the other faces in the park. Then, relaxing, she smiled sweetly at Lermontov. Reaching out, she gently straightened the knot of the gallerist’s tie, which was slightly askew. “You don’t suppose you could get me an invitation?”
    “The art world helps those who hype themselves.” Lermontov waited for her to finish smoothing his tie, then rose, motioning for her to remain seated. “If you want my advice, you’ll look at the Rosicrucians. I’m not the first to draw a connection between them and Duchamp. And if you understand them intimately, when you do meet Archvadze, you may find that you have something to talk about.”
    He offered her a neat bow of farewell, a gesture as polished as the tips of his shoes, then headed back to the gallery. Maddy remained where she was. If there was a party, she would attend it. The Rosicrucians were one thing, but there was another society, remote but not so secret, that wielded substantial power in its own right. The art world had its own rituals, its own ceremonies and passwords, and as far as she knew, she was still a member.

12
    O n a sleepy block in Sheepshead Bay, a woman in scrubs and white clogs emerged from a brick row house, her hair tied back in a graying bun. Her house, like the others lining the street, was shaped like an antique cash register, its red metal awning peering out over a narrow porch. Locking the door behind her, she went down the steps, then headed up the sidewalk to the train.
    Powell was parked at the corner. As he watched the woman ascend the platform to the elevated track, he scraped a blank key across a triangular file, like a chef running a knife along a sharpening steel. He had already filed it down until nothing remained but a row of five notches, cut to their deepest setting, and now took additional shavings from the key’s tip and shoulder.
    He waited until the train had come and gone. Then he blew on the key, slid it into his pocket, and emerged from the