The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (29 page)

A three-week bender, coming to an end one evening, caused the thought of his mother, Gabrielle, who died three years before his father, himself aged seventy-five, back in 1985. During that sobering up period, he began reading through his father’s old letters, which he’d discovered in a large trunk wrapped in a thick black ribbon. He’s discovered that his father, Lev Brodsky, had never married Gabrielle.

Leonid Brodsky experienced no shock, no surprise. It mattered little in God’s grand scheme.

~ * ~

Manton had read his two emails and Tamsin translated Kolosov’s Russian. It expressed concern and implored them to take utmost care and vigilance, and to inform him of everything they knew or planned. Steps had been taken to replace the slaughtered agent.

“What do we tell him?” whispered Tamsin.

“Tell him where we are and what we’re doing. Tell him everything, and that we’re scared shitless about this man Novikov. He seems invincible.”

“We still don’t know if he knows exactly where we are or what our plans are.”

“Just tell him the need for protection is urgent.”

“He knows that.”

“I expect he’ll tell us to contact the French police. Fat chance.”

Tamsin wrote a reply to Captain Kolosov. Manton opened up Moss’s attachment before whistling out loud. “Oh wow! Come and look at this.” She read it through. “The fox is now indeed in the henhouse. If that doesn’t get a response, nothing will.”

“That settles it. Both Kolosov and Moss will get a regular report. Agreed.”

“Agreed. It could be crucial to our survival.”

“Great, so, let’s look for Monsieur Leonid Brodsky. I’ll put the painting away before we start.”

~ * ~

Novikov, using a fake German passport bearing the name of Otto Bergmann, checked in at the inconspicuous hotel
Le Cinque Ports
on the Avenue La Lacassagne. It was a certainty that the authorities, both Russian and French, would be looking for him.

Ignoring the dripping sink tap, he paced across the stained carpet of his cheap room, attempting to formulate a workable strategy that would keep him close to Manton and away from the police. Manton had proved to be obstinate and lucky, but he needed him alive at present to locate any surviving works of art. It didn’t take long… he’d heard them and knew they were looking for Leonid Brodsky.
They have not been as careful as they should have been. Big mistake. What do I do now?
He thought for some time.

His concealed listening device had been packed away into Manton’s suitcase, making hearing anything they said difficult, almost impossible. Unless they took the painting out again, he would be as deaf as a tailor’s dummy. He decided to leave it for a few hours until they’ve finished calling all three listed L. Brodskys. That was worth a shot.

~ * ~

The morning didn’t have a cloud in sight and the temperature had begun climbing into the mid-twenties. Leonid Brodsky enjoyed the freshness of the air of the Parc de la Tête d’Or, before leaving and heading back to his apartment. He had always considered his morning walk good for his health. Weeks of being without alcohol slopping around inside him helped his determination to keep what little money he had. He told himself that a drink or two would set in motion the process of opening his wallet. Experience had taught him that this ‘clean’ period never lasted, and it wouldn’t be long before the demons would get to him once more.

Breathing in the fumes of the road traffic, he headed south, proceeding in the direction of the Rue Bugeaud where he had a one-bedroom apartment in an aged building close to the Eglise Saint-Pothin, on the Place Edgar Quinet. He thought his building had been neglected or rejected by the developers, but he forever thanked his father, Lev Brodsky, for leaving it to him.
Without him, what would I have done? Where would I have lived? A red tent on the Canal St. Martin or some foul state home, hemmed in by criminals and drug addicts?

Reaching the back of the building, he paused before picking his way up the stairs. He hated the staircase
.
Without fail, it made him breathless as he began ascending a series of steel steps on the way to his rooms on the third floor. Once outside his door, he calmed down, unlocked the door and heard the telephone ringing.

“Damn it. Who can that be?” Stepping over detritus of cans and bottles, he reached the phone before the answering machine cut in. As had been his custom, he never said his name, only the number.

Tamsin spoke in French. “Hello, my name’s Tamsin Greene. Would that be Monsieur Leonid Brodsky?”

The pleasant female voice slipping down the line didn’t sound like she was about to try and sell him something.

“It is. What do you want?” He filled his voice with a hostile suspicion developed from years of dealing with unwelcome callers. His strategy faltered at what the woman said next.

She spoke in Russian. “
Dobroye utro Gospodin Brodsky. Vymenya panimayete?
”

Leonid started. He hadn’t expected Russian to be spoken. An unknown woman had just said, “Good morning, Mr. Brodsky. Can you understand me?” He understood every word. How could he ever forget? For a moment, he experienced a delightful ripple of pleasure, as if he could smell the sweetness of new mown hay and the forest winds of Russia blowing through him. Just as his father had spoken of, and he’d only ever seen twice. His father had drummed into him since he was a small boy, to never forget his roots. His Russian identity that set him apart from all others.

“
Da! Vas panimayu
.” Yes! He understood.

Back in the hotel room, Tamsin continued to speak in Russian, turned to Jack, and gave him an excited look with a thumbs up. In measured tones, she began explaining what Jack and she were researching and their attempts to trace the whereabouts of the relatives and lost paintings of Mikhail Brodsky. If his father had been Lev Brodsky, Mikhail’s brother, Mikhail would have been
Dyadya
Mikhail – Uncle Mikhail. She explained that Mikhail had achieved recognition as an artist of national and international importance, and his works were much sought after.

“Mr. Brodsky, would you have any paintings by your uncle, or would you know the whereabouts of any? They could be of considerable value.”

The mention of value caused Leonid to halt his suspicions.
What is this woman talking about? Didn’t I own a couple or more of those dreadful things? Didn’t I sell them when I lived in Paris? That happened ages ago. I can barely remember. My father put them away somewhere. Yes, yes, it was the attic
.

“What exactly do you want from me?”

Tamsin repeated her previous question.

“I’m not sure. All things between my father and me were finished twenty years ago. Yes, my father had a brother named Mikhail. If I remember, he wasn’t a good artist, but my father regarded his work as if they were worth something. I never understood that. They were not, if I remember, what I would call art. Art should resemble what it is trying to paint – not a mishmash of coloured lines, blocks and square faces.”

Tamsin ignored his observations and continuing in Russian, asked him again, “Do you know where they are?”

“That is possible.”

“Could we see them?”

“That, I do not know. How do I know you are who you say you are? If these paintings are valuable, how do I know that, and how do I know you won’t steal them?”

“You don’t. Do you remember the names of Nikita and Maria?”

Again, Leonid felt as if he’d been nosedived into the past. Vague pictures, memories and old photographs paraded in fragmented frames across his flickering recollections. He hadn’t heard, thought of, or spoken of his relatives since he could recall. If he had, he presumed they had long died.

“
Bashert!
This must be fate!” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Tamsin let the silence hover for several seconds. “Well, Monsieur Brodsky, can we come and talk to you?”

He couldn’t answer. He sensed a panorama of images and emotions as fresh and welcoming as water bubbling from an oasis. He paused. “Yes. I will allow this. You will come here?” His body shook.

“Of course, Monsieur Brodsky. Is your address the same as in the directory? When can we come?”

Leonid found difficulty in speaking. He couldn’t prevent himself from spluttering. “Tomorrow evening between six and seven, please. The address is the same.” The conversation came to an end and he put down the phone, not feeling convinced he had done the right thing.
What I need is a stiff drink.
He looked down at his hands and they had a discernible tremor. Crossing the room to open his drinks cupboard didn’t require a second thought, as one hand reached out to grip a shot glass and the other a half bottle of vodka.

One hour later, he glanced at the bottle. It was almost empty. Leonid wriggled with pleasure, feeling the old euphoria strengthening his wellbeing, gathering itself like darkness descending.
I can’t remember what those paintings looked like – it must be over
twenty years. All I can remember is how weird they looked. Can they really be valuable?
I could do with the cash, and placed on the right bet, I could increase it tenfold. Well… let’s
see what Mr. and Mrs. Groyser Tzuleyger, a pair of big shots, can come up with
.

He tipped the final remains of the vodka into his empty glass, before lifting back his head to swig down a large mouthful. He heard the phone ringing.

Chapter Thirty Three

O
utside the vast window of his apartment loomed a black void broken only by the circles of yellow illumination coming from the cars and road lights that gave an added elegance to St. Petersburg. Berezin was uneasy. He glanced at the Russian regulator ticking away time on his wall. Eight o’clock at night, with his medical record, was not a time to allow his blood pressure to ascend into the severe stage four scale. The events of the past week had caused his stress levels to climb dangerously upwards. Lying in bed helped his body relax, but he was unable to stop his head from thinking of the paintings that were tantalisingly approaching his grasp. For the third time, he scrolled down his laptop screen to view the advance issue of the English publication,
Art Auctions and Art Dealers.

As he read through, he opened the drawer of his bedside table and withdrew a phial of sodium nitroprusside, rolled up his shirtsleeve and proceeded to infuse himself by injection. From experience, he knew that the drug would reduce his soaring blood pressure and maintain his heart in the realms of the safe and normal.

He looked at his watch, leant back his head, closed his eyes, and waited for five minutes until he sensed normality returning, and his heart decelerating from its myocardial pattern.

He didn’t want to read reports like that. It could have unwanted spinoffs. He didn’t see anything in the report that could lead back to him, in spite of his previous mistakes. Novikov claimed to be a professional, but what he had achieved so far was way off the mark. How the police knew about him may have been by sheer chance, due in part to this mysterious English researcher. Something had to be done about him. Petrovitch would have to arrange for Novikov to be removed from the frame somehow.

The sodium nitroprusside had cut in and with that, he felt his anxieties decrease.
Who knows? I could even assist the police and Interpol with my knowledge of art, and point them in various directions… further away from me.
Another five minutes on the nitroprusside was as much as anyone could take. He knew from previous experience that his blood pressure would disappear under the floorboards and so would he.

The intercom on the outside door gave a short, soft buzz.

“Who the hell is that?” He switched on the CCTV camera. Petrovitch was standing outside.
Just the man I wanted to see.
“Anton, press the entry button and come on up.”

As Petrovitch made his way upwards, Berezin propped himself upright and arranged documents and papers in an orderly fashion around him, and kept the computer switched on. He poured two glasses of vodka. Within minutes, his aide was standing at the foot of the bed.

He wasted no time on formalities. “What news, Anton?” He handed him the vodka.

Before speaking, Petrovitch took a large gulp on the drink as if to allow its initial hit to take hold.

“Our man is in France somewhere. It seems he thinks he’s located what you are looking for.”

“Much better. How many and do you have a delivery date?”

“Not entirely, six or seven maybe, but all will be wrapped up in a week at most.”

“Anton, as usual you are doing well. Whatever happens, you must continue to keep the pressure on him. What’s your assessment of it all?”

Berezin knew Petrovitch well enough. To be asked for his appraisal was a compliment of the highest order and one that he knew he would appreciate.

Petrovitch responded, pulling himself straight up and adding a deeper tone to his voice. “I’ve had to kick arse and he clearly resents dealing with me and not you. The kicks have been hard enough and he’s now moving with more urgency. He told me that what you want is almost in his hands. A delivery date, he says, is imminent. I’m not convinced he is the best man for this job. He has made too many mistakes. I think he should be removed,” he concluded with a sweep of his hand and a positive nod of his head.

Berezin looked thoughtful. “Results at last. I look forward to seeing them. Your assessment follows my thoughts along the same lines. When you next speak to him, Anton, I want you to tell our friend that something has to be done about the interfering Englishman – a permanent solution. Our friend knows who he is. He’s created enough trouble, understood?”

“Perfectly. It was what I was going to suggest.”

“Our man got sloppy. When his task is completed, and the goods are in our hands, I think he will need to be silenced, permanently. Achievable?”

“I know just the man. I’ve used him before.”