“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Glass.”

“Hello.”

“I am Li. Please come in.”

I step inside, followed by Kaiser, who with the driver brings in the aluminum flight cases. After they set them down in the granite-floored foyer, Li says, “I must ask that you leave any weapons with these gentlemen.”

She says this as easily as another hostess would ask for our coats.

“I’m not armed,” says Kaiser.

“Me either.”

“Please forgive this imposition.”

The driver’s Caymanian assistant walks in with a black wand and sweeps it over the length of Kaiser’s body. Then he scans mine and nods to Li, who smiles at us.

“If you will follow me, s’il vous plait? Your equipment will be taken to the proper room.”

Kaiser shrugs and follows the soft-spoken apparition.

Our journey through de Becque’s mansion is an education in understated elegance. There’s a Zen-like simplicity to the spaces and to the furniture that adorns them. All lighting is indirect, and the few visible beams fall upon paintings spaced at tasteful intervals. I don’t know enough about art to recognize the works, but I have a feeling that someone who knew what she was looking at would be suitably shocked.

Our destination is a large, high-ceilinged room with a massive wall of glass facing the harbor. It’s furnished with pieces of Southeast Asian provenance, but the theme isn’t overdone. Beyond the glass wall lies an infinity lap pool, one of those indigo things, which seems to bleed right into the sea beyond it. In the distance, a dozen boats ply the waters of North Bay, and as I watch them I realize a man is standing at the lower right edge of the glass, watching me. I didn’t notice him at first because he stands with the same stillness and self-possession exhibited by the woman who met us at the door. Of medium height and deeply tanned, he has piercing blue eyes and a full head of close-cropped silver hair.

“Bonjour,” he says in a soft but masculine voice. “I am Marcel de Becque. I was just recalling happier days. I trust your trip was not too bumpy?”

“It was fine.”

He walks forward and, before I know what he’s doing, takes my hand, bends, and kisses it with courtly grace. “You are far more beautiful in person, ma cherie. I thank you for coming.”

Despite the strangeness of the situation, I feel my face flush. “This is my assistant, John Kaiser.”

De Becque smiles in a way that lets us know he will play along with this fiction, but also that he recognizes it as such. Then he waves his hand toward the wall to my right, which holds a large display of black-and-white photographs. Most of them appear to date from various phases of the Vietnam War, and each is clearly the work of a master photographer.

“Do you like them?” de Becque asks.

“They’re remarkable. Where did you get them?”

“I knew many journalists during the war. Many photographers as well. They were kind enough to give me prints from time to time.”

Not all the photos are of military subjects. Several are studies of Vietnamese men, women, or children; others show temples and statuary; still others groups of khaki-clad men with the stateless look of war correspondents. On closer inspection, I recognize several photographers: Sean Flynn, Dixie Reese, Dana Stone, Larry Burrows. The best of the best. Capa is there too, the archetype of them all, his rakish grin giving him a youthful glow even in middle age. As I move to the next photo, my blood goes cold in my veins. Standing alone by a stone Buddha is my father. Jonathan Glass.

10

Unable to find my voice, I lean closer to the photograph on the French expatriate’s wall. My father is wearing a Leica on a neck strap and carrying a Nikon F2 in his hand, the same camera I own today. That means the photo was shot in 1972, the year that camera was released and also the year he supposedly died.

“Where did you get this?” I finally whisper, pointing with a shaking finger.

“Terry Reynolds shot that in seventy-two,” says de Becque. “Before he himself disappeared in Cambodia. I knew your father well, Jordan.”

He says my name with a soft “J.” I straighten up and try to maintain my composure as I speak. “You did?”

De Becque takes me by the elbow and leads me to a table, where a bottle of wine and three glasses have been placed. He pours a glass of white wine, which I drink in two swallows, then offers one to Kaiser, who declines. De Becque pours for himself and takes a small sip.

“Only in moderation,” he says. “My liver is trying to tell me something.”

“Monsieur-”

He stops me with an upraised hand. “I’m sure you have a thousand questions. Why don’t you photograph my paintings first? Then you may return here and satisfy your curiosity.”

My face feels hot, my throat unable to open.

“Please,” says de Becque. “There is time.”

“Tell me one thing first. Is my sister alive or dead?”

He shakes his head. “Je ne sais pas, ma cherie. That I do not know.”

Photographing de Becque’s paintings is a simple exercise, technically speaking. Before we left New Orleans, I made a list of equipment, which Baxter sent FBI agents out to procure. The main piece was a Mamiya medium-format camera shooting 5 x 5 film negatives, which gives superior image quality without compromising portability. The difficulty is the human factor. Kaiser does his best to follow my orders in setting up the lighting, but it’s clear to Li – whom de Becque sent along to make sure we don’t get too close to the canvases – that my “assistant” has never handled a softbox or barn door in his life.

I’m not in top form myself. The prospect of picking de Becque’s brain about my father is so tantalizing that it pushes my concern for Jane almost out of my mind, and makes the simplest tasks – like attaching strobe heads to poles – difficult. Kaiser is soon distracted by other things. The bulk of de Becque’s art collection is displayed in three large museum-style rooms, and his Sleeping Women are merely part of it. The rest date from several different periods, according to Kaiser, who has apparently given himself a crash course in art history over the past two days. The majority date from about 1870 to the present, and include several pieces by the Nabis. Kaiser moves methodically through the rooms, memorizing what he can, once returning to me to whisper that some of the paintings might have been stolen by the Nazis during the Second World War. He asks Li if we can photograph the entire collection, but she demurs, saying that de Becque specifically restricted our activities to the Sleeping Women.

I shoot the paintings with a thoroughness bordering on compulsion, but I try not to look too hard at them. In one sense, each of these women is Jane to me. Yet there’s no denying their remarkable power. Unlike the painting I saw in Wingate’s gallery, the women in these canvases are saturated in color rather than surrounded by it: vivid blues and oranges highlighted with whites and yellows. Two are lying in bathtubs, posed much like the woman in the first painting I saw in Hong Kong, but their faces are less defined than hers. If I didn’t know these women might be dead, I would believe them asleep, for their skin fairly hums with light.

But I do know.

The man who painted these images sat or stood before petrified human beings, absorbing the hard metallic odor unique to sweat produced by terror. Unless the women were already dead when he painted them. How long could he have stood that? Staying in the room with dead women while they decomposed? I’ve photographed a lot of corpses, and close proximity with them isn’t something easily endured. But perhaps for some people it’s no hardship. Perhaps for some it’s actually pleasurable, though after a while, even a necrophiliac would have to be driven off by the smell alone. Or is even that a naive assumption?