Ninety-Five Percent

What? They're sure it isn't?

For a moment I locked rigid where I stood.

I hung up and ran for the authentication team.

The Dürer side was proceeding smoothly. Oxford, by contrast, had already stopped. Several of them were throwing black cloths over the equipment, for all the world as if they were packing up to leave.

"What's going on?"

A doctoral student interpreted for me. He wasn't as deft as Jo Sudeok, but he seemed more than capable of getting the meaning across.

"Who's in charge of the authentication?"

"I am."

The man introduced himself as a professor in Oxford's Department of Art History. He was middle-aged, and strikingly sharp in the face.

"Why have you stopped? Has something gone wrong?"

"Because we've reached a conclusion that's more than ninety-five percent certain. I was just discussing with the team whether there's any point in going on."

I couldn't get a word out.

"It does appear to be a portrait painted in the Renaissance. The pigments show characteristics similar to those used in the period, and the canvas is the same. Stage one, you might say, it more or less passes. Which brings us to stage two. Is it a da Vinci?"

The professor gave a small, regretful shake of his head.

"The craftsmanship is excellent, no question. It has an aura. Even without da Vinci's name on it, the painting is more than worthy of being judged on its own. But if you ask me whether this is da Vinci's work... I have no choice but to say it isn't."

"Why?"

"It resembles the existing da Vincis, and yet there are subtle differences in the hand. The color sense goes without saying, and it also contains a number of techniques you simply do not find in his work."

He leaned on that last point.

"Differences in style..."

"There is a particular point ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that is difficult to explain."

I only stared.

"I mean that quite literally. Call it a special domain ordinary people cannot feel. Unless one has mastered art history, one could listen all day and still not understand."

A long explanation, and nothing in it. He looked annoyed at having to give even that.

"Didn't you say an authentication usually takes about two weeks?"

"I was speaking of the minimum time required to confirm a genuine piece. From the moment one is convinced it is a fake, there is no reason to keep looking at it."

He shrugged, as if the matter were closed, and was just about to order the withdrawal.

"Is there no other opinion?"

"Another opinion? I have already explained—"

"I heard you, Professor. I only wondered whether everyone else thinks the same."

"I am the head of this team. What opinion, precisely, could you need besides mine?"

You're the one standing there so immovable. Of course I want to know whether anyone was shut down halfway through a sentence.

I tucked that away, put ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on a bright smile, and asked.

"Is there any view that conflicts with yours?"

Right then, a flinch.

Among the graduate students, a man in a checkered shirt started to raise his hand. A colleague caught the movement, tugged his sleeve, and stopped him.

Hm.

Like most graduate schools—if one can even say most—Oxford's team felt sealed shut. Whether it was the authoritarian professor or not, this was hardly an atmosphere in which anyone spoke freely. I looked at the silent students.

"Then there doesn't seem to be any dissent, just as you said."

"Of course there isn't. I am the foremost authority in this field...!"

"Yes, well. Anyway, thank you for your trouble."

"Even if it has been revealed as a fake, a fee of sorts will still be charged."

I nodded along.

The moment my answer landed, the professor ordered the pullout. While his students packed, he took his coat and left the lab ahead of them. A moment later an assistant snatched up the professor's bag and hurried after him.

Mmm.

Even Chairman Park carried his own bag. And here was a professor using his assistant as a porter.

Honestly.

The students were no better. Perhaps there was a pecking order even among the graduate students. There were quite a few of them, yet the work had fallen entirely to two. One of those two was the man in the checkered shirt who had tried to raise his hand. Watching him labor like a servant, I took him for the youngest. Maybe that was why he'd had no right to speak.

I watched him quietly.

Nearly six foot three. A thatch of brown hair. Shoulders hunched high, back bowed. A red checkered shirt, and jeans faded from washing. He wasn't wearing glasses, but in every other respect he was a textbook nerd.

He kept trying to speak to the colleague working beside him, and the other man plainly wanted none of it. The English was short—too short for me to follow without an interpreter—but whenever the nerd opened his mouth, the answer came back laced with contempt.

"You came out of physics."

"What would you know about art?"

He tried a few more times after that.

"Enough. Just do the work."

At that cold reply, he finally shut his mouth.

Hm.

Physics as an undergraduate, then a master's and a doctorate in art history? And not art history in general, but the narrow field of authentication—and within that, da Vinci, who left so few works behind?

An unusual case.

Then again, da Vinci himself had ranged across science and art. Maybe this was the most correct course of all.

Curiosity got the better of me. I walked straight up to the young nerd.

"Hey."

He blinked at me.

Child or not, I was the client who had hired them. Perhaps that was why a carefulness had settled over his face.

"I wanted to ask you something."

"Huh?"

"What do you think?"

"Th-think about what?"

"This painting. You don't believe it's a Leonardo da Vinci either?"

"Why are you asking me..."

"You're part of the authentication team too."

"I'm just the junior who does the grunt work. Every important decision belongs to my advisor..."

"I'm not asking you to decide."

He stared.

"I only want to hear one more person's opinion."

"Why... why?"

"I called this team because I was convinced it was a da Vinci. There may be hundreds of billions of won riding on it. I can't hear a few words from a professor and just decide it isn't, and give up on the spot."

"That still doesn't make my opinion important. I don't have any authority."

He looked blank.

"Authority, reputation, title, degree... set all that cumbersome stuff aside. I want to hear what you yourself think. If I hear it and it holds up, we might even go ahead your way."

The young nerd was still wearing that dazed look when a voice cracked over him.

"Martin! What are you doing, standing there instead of packing?"

"I—I'm sorry!"

At his senior's bark, the nerd scrambled back to work.

Martin, was it?

A moment later I held out a slip of paper with the hotel's phone number on it.

"Sorry to bother you when you're busy. If you get a free moment later, please call this number. I very much want to hear an authentication opinion from someone who came out of physics."

I put the weight on that last word.

Martin said nothing. His eyes wavered, narrowing.

Meanwhile, in Germany, Jo Sudeok was in a meeting with an executive from Schultz.

Ordinarily one rushed to the other side's headquarters and sat there to be told things. But Jo Sudeok, convinced he held the initiative, had summoned the executive to him instead. In a quiet hotel café, he put on a thoroughly serious face and asked,

"Why did you ask to see me?"

"Because we never received a complete answer."

"An answer?"

"The figure we mentioned before... was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it not to your satisfaction?"

"Ah. It isn't that."

"Then why are you insisting on the auction?"

"That is a question of method, more than of money. We prefer the most transparent kind of transaction, and so..."

"And if some preposterous person wins the bid?"

Jo Sudeok blinked.

"The moment it becomes known that Dürer's last ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠drawing is up for auction, the sort of people who look at art and see money will swarm it. And they will talk. Win it, no matter how. Once it's in hand, it is guaranteed to make money."

Jo Sudeok had nothing to say to that.

"Do you mean to drive Dürer's last drawing onto a speculators' table? Is that respect for the work?"

Well, now. That was a dazzling little speech. They had said a specialist in the field was coming, and the man had certainly greased his tongue.

"I understand what you're saying. Even so, I can only give you an answer of principle..."

"And if we were to bet a sum large enough to break that principle?"

"...Pardon?"

"If the amount were certain enough to shatter the principle you hold—what would you do then?"

Jo Sudeok was spending every ounce of effort on keeping his face still when the man went on.

"We will provide a sum worthy of Dürer's last drawing. So stop the tug-of-war with other groups, and sign here."

Jo Sudeok was silent.

"We will not go higher than this. I say it plainly: today is the final negotiation. The moment you leave this table, we will put the matter cleanly out of our minds."

He was drinking water, buying time, when the other man drove the number in like a wedge.

"Forty-five million marks."

The dollar exists. It is the international standard. Why, in heaven's name, marks?

And so Jo Sudeok had to rattle the abacus in his head at speed. In won: one, ten, hundred, thousand, ten thousand, hundred thousand, million... ten billion, a hundred billion—

Ghk!

All of thirty billion?

He very nearly spat the water in his mouth into the man's face. And no wonder. It was a full ten billion more than the figure the boss had named.

"Accept or refuse, I would like to hear your answer today, before I go back."

"Of course. You've come a long way. That's only right."

Jo Sudeok exercised superhuman patience and swallowed the smile. Then he went on in the flattest voice he could manage.

"Before that... may I step away and make one call?"

"A call?"

"We may have to cancel the auction we had planned. As a matter of courtesy, I think the minimum of discussion is in order."

"Very well. Go ahead."

The other side had probably guessed, at least, that there was someone behind Jo Sudeok. They'll know I need a sign-off, too. That would be why the nod came so easily.

Affecting a grave dignity, Jo Sudeok made for the hotel front desk. But the instant he lifted the receiver, he punched the number faster than he ever had.

An unexpected voice answered.

What?

At the hour when the authentication ought to have been in full swing, why leave the lab for the hotel?

Jo Sudeok hung up and dialed the hotel. Sure enough, the line had barely rung before a young voice came on.

He had expected a cheer to burst down the line. Instead, about three seconds of silence passed, and then Park Jihoon gave his answer, taking his time.

Jo Sudeok waited.

Ah.

Just how large a number had he been holding in his head, that thirty billion didn't so much as twitch an eye?

"Has something happened? Join you—why the hurry?"

Here another heavy silence came through. Five seconds, perhaps. Then Park Jihoon opened his mouth, weighted.