Chapter 6

FOUND AND LOST

Monday came and went and Green had not yet heard from Galway. The translation may be taking the professor longer than he had anticipated, he thought. But he didn’t mind, for he had his hands full with the preparation of the new catalogue.

On Tuesday morning, almost one week after he had first called, Alfonso Lopez de Burgos was back at Green’s shop. In the intervening time his hotel room had been broken into and he had spent three days in Hamburg on business. He was in a rather somber mood, contrasting with the expansive customer that had walked into the shop six days earlier with an ancient book in his briefcase.

As he had insisted on seeing Green in private, they were in a small room next to Green’s office that was used on such occasions. The Spaniard was over six-feet-three and built like a weightlifter, dark-eyed, with a balding head and an immaculately trimmed thin moustache. He was wearing a gray pinstripe business suit and shiny black shoes. Green invited him to sit down in a large armchair next to the window, while he took a seat on the couch opposite him. A couple of chairs, a shaky table on which sat a coffeemaker, a file cabinet, and a low bookcase completed the furnishings in the room, which Green used mostly as a place to read and relax.

The book dealer had prepared a plan of attack. He would confront de Burgos with the mutilated spine and ask for an explanation without directly accusing him of wrongdoing. He would then argue that the loss of the last part negatively affected the value of the manuscript—the opening salvo in the bargaining battle that would certainly follow.

But Sr. de Burgos’ unexpected move preempted Green’s well-planned offensive: he had decided to come clean about the missing half of the book. There was one condition attached, though: Green had to promise not to divulge what he was about to hear. “You can count on my complete discretion,” Green assured the Spaniard, but he quickly added: “Unless, of course, there is some criminal activity involved.”

“No, no, nada criminal, nothing criminal,” said de Burgos emphatically. And then he asked: “Are you a religious man, Mr. Green?” The question took the book dealer by surprise. “Well, yes . . . in a sense I suppose I am.” This half-hearted admission seemed to reassure his client, for he immediately began to talk. Here is the story he told Green.

On September 27, 1997, an earthquake hit the region of Assisi, in central Italy, badly damaging the magnificent thirteenth-century basilica and convent of Saint Francis. Somewhere in the bowels of the lower church, the crumbling of a wall revealed a hidden chamber, where various relics and religious objects, together with old church records and a small collection of ancient books, were found. Most of the documents were in very poor condition, but a few items had been relatively well preserved.

Fra Benedetto, the convent’s chief archivist and librarian, believed that the objects had been deliberately walled up in order to protect them, probably back in the fourteenth or fifteenth century. In those times, Assisi and the neighboring Perugia were bitter enemies, and the Perugians had on more than one occasion captured and sacked their rival city, destroying and burning many of its treasures.

Benedetto then decided to sell some of the ancient books to raise money for the reconstruction of the basilica and the restoration of its precious frescoes, the work of the medieval Italian masters Giotto and Cimabue. Only those manuscripts that he deemed of no historical interest for the Church or the Franciscan order were to be put up for sale. The entire operation was to be conducted privately and in secret, for the friar was acting on his own, without having sought permission from the Order’s higher authorities. Benedetto felt that his action was inspired by the founder of the Order himself. According to a story, Saint Francis was praying one day at the neglected church of Saint Damian, in Assisi, when he heard a voice from the crucifix summon him: “Francis, go repair my house that thou seest is all in ruins.” The impulsive young Francis then secretly sold some silks from his father’s warehouse to finance the repair project and so fulfill the Lord’s wishes.

But there was an even more important reason for not having an open sale: the ownership question. The fact that the artifacts and documents had been found inside the church was not automatic proof that they belonged to the Fraternity. Trying to establish their ownership through the proper channels could mean having to wait a long time. It was not until 1929 that the Holy See was officially recognized as the owner of the centuries-old Franciscan Archives through a concordat—a pact concluded between the Pope and the secular authority. The chain of ownership prior to that date was not clear.

Fra Benedetto really had no choice but to embark on a covert operation. The game was worth the candle—or, in this case, a new dome for the basilica was well worth some circumventing of proper procedure. He prayed to the Lord, asking for His understanding if not His forgiveness, and went ahead with his scheme.

Benedetto confided his plan to Fra Ignacio, his longtime friend and current treasurer of the Order. Fra Ignacio was a Spaniard from an old aristocratic Spanish family; he was also Sr. Lopez de Burgos’ elder brother.

Ignacio went along with Benedetto’s plot and proposed to sell the ancient books with the help of his brother Alfonso, a devout Catholic who traveled extensively on business and in whom he had complete trust. The idea was for Alfonso to offer the books for sale one at a time and at different places so as not to arouse suspicion, and to claim that the document had been acquired by one of his ancestors so long ago that no record of ownership was available. The reputation of the Lopez de Burgos family, which for more than seven centuries had given its country generals, ministers, and ambassadors and the Roman Catholic Church archbishops and cardinals, would help to establish Alfonso’s credibility—or so they thought.

The plan had not worked as smoothly as they had imagined. Alfonso had indeed managed to sell four of the five valuable books. But what he didn’t tell Green was that, except for one shop in Madrid, respected antique dealers were not convinced by his “it-was-in-the-family” story and, sensing some foul play, had declined to buy. The Spaniard had then been forced to deal through middlemen of questionable reputation who were buying in the black market on behalf of anonymous collectors and who would offer only a fraction of the estimated price of the manuscript.

“And how much money have all these transactions brought in, if I may ask?” interrupted Green. He reckoned that the Pythagorean parchment in his custody could easily fetch three hundred thousand pounds. If the rest of the items were of comparable value, the total take could be close to a couple of million.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” replied the Spaniard, and he quickly resumed his story as if to fend off any further questioning.

The fifth and last book was a special case. The last eight pages were written in a different language—Greek, he thought—and contained what he took to be some geometric illustrations or artwork. Just as Green had conjectured earlier, de Burgos had separated them from the rest of the book by cutting the spine lengthwise, thus obtaining another “book,” this one with samples of medieval art, that he hoped could be sold separately and increase his total take.

What de Burgos had done was not unusual. It was well known in the trade that some careless or unscrupulous individuals would not hesitate to tear off beautiful pictures or illuminations from valuable books, often with disastrous results for the integrity of the original document, expecting to reap a bigger gain by selling them separately.

Knowing what he did about the contents of the Pythagorean manuscript, Green was puzzled by the fact that a historical account should end with a series of illustrations. Were these mere decorations designed to render the document more attractive, or were they an integral part of the story being told? And why the change of language, from Arabic to Greek? It was not unusual for Roman volumes to include commentaries in Latin of a Greek text for the benefit of those who could not read Greek. Was the Arabic text a commentary of the Greek here too? He would have to ask Galway about these things, but at present his more immediate concern was the fate of the missing pages.

“And where is that second ‘book’ now?” he asked.

There was a long silence before an embarrassed de Burgos answered, looking away from Green: “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Me lo han robado. Someone took it from my hotel room. Last Thursday afternoon, when I got back to my room, I noticed that my suitcase had been opened and searched. I don’t usually keep any valuables in it; all documents related to my trade—I’m in the security systems business—I carry with me in my briefcase or my laptop at all times.” He told Green that he had left the mutilated book in his suitcase, inconspicuously buried in a pile of brochures, magazines and various other papers, thinking it would be safe. But it was gone. “Desapareció. And only someone who knew what it was—and what it might be worth—could have taken it.”

“Did you report the theft to the police?”

“No, I didn’t, not even to the hotel management, and you can understand why: I would have had some explaining to do. Besides, I don’t think the police—or anyone else, for that matter—can help me get the parchment back. It’s gone forever, Mr. Green, and I dread the moment when I break the bad news to my brother. I’m so ashamed. I should never have tampered with the book, but I did and was punished for my greed.”

Green wished he could believe the Spaniard’s story. But did it really matter? Occasionally, he had asked vendors to sign a document declaring that a book is offered “free from any legal encumbrance,” that is, assuring that they own it and have a right to sell it. This provided him with a degree of legal protection. But the man had admitted that the book was not his. On the other hand, if he was telling the truth the Franciscan Order could lay claim to the volume, presumably with success, giving them the right to sell it. Then, an affidavit from either Fra Benedetto or Fra Ignacio as the Order’s representative would suffice, and it could be kept confidential if they so wished.

There was still another question. Ordinarily, Green would try to pay as little as possible when purchasing a book and then make a profit, as large as possible, when he sold it. That was simply how the laws of the market worked, how a profitable business was supposed to be run. But if the story he had been told was true, this was no ordinary commercial transaction. The Catholic Church was involved, and the money they expected to collect would go toward a worthy cause. How could he then offer de Burgos, who was not aware of the Pythagorean manuscript’s true nature, a sum well below what he was almost certain to get for it? How could he so shamelessly take advantage of the situation? He decided he couldn’t.

“Here’s what I propose, Sr. de Burgos.” The Spaniard was all ears: maybe there was an honorable way out of his predicament. He had done the right thing by trusting in Green, he thought.

“I would need a written statement from your brother or Fra Benedetto,” Green resumed, “duly authenticated by a solicitor, relating the circumstances surrounding the book’s discovery and laying claim to it. This document should also give you power of attorney to sell it.”

“Sí, sí, es posible. Yes, I understand. I think it can be done.”

Green then explained that not only did he not want to be involved in a crime but he was protecting himself against a commercially unsound operation. “For it is not unheard of for rightful owners to appear some time down the road to claim ownership,” he explained. “Then, a chain of sales between owners and dealers would have to be unraveled, legally and financially, resulting in considerable losses to all parties.”

“So you are willing to buy my book. How much do you offer me for it, then?” Sr. de Burgos was anxious to conclude an official sale and receive the fair market price of the book—or what was left of it.

“Yes, of course I’m interested, but I don’t wish to buy your book.”

“I don’t understand . . . .”

“I’m still waiting for an expert report, but if the manuscript is authentic—and I believe it is; very old parchments are extremely difficult to fake—I propose to sell it at an auction we will be holding in January. That way you’ll maximize your take, and Saint Francis will have his basilica restored sooner.”

De Burgos half raised from his seat and grasped Green’s arm with both hands as he said, “Thank you, thank you very much, Mr. Green.” An expression of relief filled his big round face.

“There’s one more thing I need from you, though.” Something in Green’s voice seemed to suggest that there was a problem. The Spaniard retreated back into his chair.

“I cannot sell publicly an important artifact that came to the United Kingdom without Italian and European Union export licenses,” said Green. “Much as I would like to help you, I’m not willing to risk my reputation to do it.”

His earlier excitement rapidly turning into disappointment, de Burgos stared at Green, who was pondering how to best formulate his next question—or rather how to disguise a delicate request as a question.

“Is there any way your brother could come into possession”—Green hesitated—“Could he somehow obtain the necessary documents? I mean . . .”

“I know what you mean,” interrupted de Burgos with an understanding grin. “I’m sure it can be done; the Order has friends in high places.”

“Very well, then. As soon as you have the affidavit and the rest of the documents, fax them to me and I’ll make the necessary arrangements for the auction.” And, somewhat ill at ease, he added: “My fee for the transaction will be 5 percent of the selling price, which is below the standard commission of 7 percent.”

When Alfonso Lopez de Burgos left David Green Rare Books & Manuscripts Limited’s main shop late in the afternoon, he was again a happy man. Surely, there were still some details to iron out and he had yet to tell his brother about the theft, but thanks to Green he now saw things differently. His glass was no longer half-empty, it was half-full: he considered himself lucky to have lost only one half of the valuable manuscript and had high hopes of getting a considerable sum for the other half. True, he should have been more careful and deposited it in the hotel’s safe, but how could he have suspected that someone would find it in his suitcase and take it away? He had instinctively assumed that the intrusion was connected with his trade—a competitor trying to steal some industrial secret. In the security systems world, espionage was a constant threat and he was used to it. He always carried all his business material with him, and the most sensitive documents were encrypted. But then another possibility had dawned on him: Could it be that whoever took the ancient parchment broke into his room expressly looking for it? It didn’t seem possible. Nobody knew he was carrying a valuable book, besides his brother and Fra Benedetto, of course. Just the same, as a precaution, he had decided that the remaining half of the book would be safer in Green’s shop than with him on his trip to Hamburg.

Back in his office, David Green was asking himself similar questions: Was the intruder after de Burgos’ book? Was someone else on the trail of the Pythagorean manuscript? Why didn’t he ask de Burgos about this? I need to talk to Galway, he thought.

He had entered his office through a connecting door and was sitting at his desk, pondering his conversation with the Spaniard. He pushed a button on the intercom. “Sandra, would you please get Professor Galway on the phone? If you leave a message, tell him it’s rather urgent. Thank you.”

He did not have to wait long. “Mr. Green?” There was an edge to Sandra’s voice. “I’ve just talked to his assistant. Professor Galway’s father passed away and he’s in Cardiff for the funeral.”