The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (30 page)

“Excellent. But whatever happens, Anton, there must be no connection with me in any way at all, whether complimentary or not. My reputation is at stake. The last thing we both need is the police sniffing around asking questions.”

“You know me well enough, Josef. I will ensure your wishes are carried out exactly as I know you desire. Trust me, I was hoping you might make that suggestion.”

“So be it, Anton.” Berezin gave a nod and felt his blood pressure stabilize.

~ * ~

Tamsin linked her arm with Jack’s as they set off, walking in the direction of the Eglise St-Pothin on the Place Edgar Quinet. She looked at her watch, it read five past six. An evening sun enveloped her with soothing warmth. She hoped that the warmth wouldn’t evaporate into something colder after their meeting with Leonid Brodsky. Jack’s excitement was obvious and it needed no explanation. She knew he’d dreamt and lived for a moment like this. It came from the possibility of hope being realized.

“How far is it?” she asked, looking up at him.

“According to this map, about ten to fifteen minutes’ walk.”

“Did you bring our passports?”

“Yes, I did. He seemed very suspicious and they might help.”

“With any luck, he won’t question anything.”

“He was as suspicious as a pig being led to slaughter.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“What about the camera?”

“Yes, it’s here.” He tapped the large front pocket on his safari jacket. “Hey look, the church is over there.” He pointed to an elegant triangular pediment topped with a cross, the entire facade supported by eight Doric columns. “Oh
very
neo-classical. Well, Monsieur Brodsky has some smart neighbours. I wonder what his place is going to be like?” Jack had another glance at the map. “The Rue Bugeaud and the Rue de Créqui intersect, and his apartment should be on the corner somewhere.”

The quietness of the area draped across streets like a recent death. Traffic was non-existent, and buildings, whose architecture spanned three-centuries, glowered with protective malice across mini-squares and the cobblestones of a past generation.

“This is creepy, but look, there it is.’ Tamsin pointed to an unremarkable looking building with a rickety steel staircase adhering to the wall and winding itself upwards like a black funeral ribbon. “He would have to live at the top, wouldn’t he?”

“C’mon, let’s get going,” Manton said, his eyes glowing with a look similar to a religious experience.

Their footsteps echoed on the metallic staircase like gunshots in a cave. Soon, they stood close to the door and Jack gave it three hefty knocks. She noticed that the curtains parted, and through a small slit, the semblance of a face peered out at them for several seconds. Then the door opened, still attached to a solid steel chain.

Two watery eyes stared out at them from behind a pair of framed oval glasses. The man’s face looked flushed and that continued to the top of his bald head, smooth as a new-laid egg with a few tufts of grey hair dotted in surprising areas. He said nothing, retaining a blank, uncomprehending stare.

Tamsin smiled as best she could and spoke in Russian. “Hello Mr. Brodsky, we spoke earlier. I’m Tamsin Greene and this is my colleague, Jack Manton. Please check our passports.” She handed two UK passports to him. He reached out a bony hand, which trembled slightly.

“Are they okay, Mr. Brodsky?”

He peered hard at their photographs, then his eyes darted up at them. She looked at Jack and like him, looked surprised when Brodsky smiled and spoke, full of character and in Russian.

“Forgive me, please. One can never be too careful. You are most welcome.” He unlatched the chain, gave the semblance of a bow as his arm swung with theatrical grace gesturing them inside.

Whoever said vodka was not detectable on the breath got it wrong
, thought Tamsin as she moved inside past Leonid.
Well, he does have Russian ancestry.

The apartment looked small, unclean, and the aromas of chicken soup and fishy roll mops permeated the air. Jack’s eyes swivelled around, hoping he might spot a painting on the wall. All he could see hanging from the washed-out walls were hand-woven Jewish fabrics, and an assortment of Hamsa hand bells that looked as if they’d been there since the place was built.

Draped across the back of a chair hung a faded towel spotted with brown stains. A plastic suitcase, with its lid open, sat on the floor leading to a bathroom smelling of cheap soap. A dusty table dotted with bric-a-brac, together with a large bottle of Grey Goose vodka and four empty glasses dominated the room. The apartment had a bourgeois sense of the familiar, it seemed that nothing threatening could ever happen.

“Please take a seat.” Leonid pointed to two shabby armchairs in each corner of the room. Jack, worried that he might sit on something he shouldn’t, sat down as if a whoopee cushion had been placed there. Leonid switched into fluent English, while Tamsin had that fixed smile on her face that appeared whenever uncertainty presented itself.

“Well, my English comrades, it is not often I meet people like you. For me, this is very special.” He moved across to the vodka and began to pour into three glasses, causing Jack to raise his eyebrows, and shake his head at Tamsin. “So, before we start, let me give you a traditional Russian drink and a toast. My father told me there’s a saying in Russia, ‘Only problem drinkers don’t toast before drinking’.”

Manton knew to refuse would be the height of discourtesy. He stood together with Tamsin, and accepted his well-filled glass.

“
Budem Zdorovy,
” said Leonid, his voice ascending a few octaves. “Let’s stay healthy!” He raised his glass and touched the others before he swallowed his in one fierce gulp. “The empty glass is for your absent friend.”

Manton took a small mouthful of vodka. He heard what Leonid said, raised an eyebrow and looked at Tamsin. “Some quaint old Russian custom?”

“Never heard of it before.”

He noticed the worried expression flicker through her eyes. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…”

Leonid’s voice cut her short. “My new comrades, a toast to you.” Manton could see he’d refilled his glass, and without enthusiasm he returned the salute. He knew that Tamsin’s thinking would be no different from his. “‘Comrades, now that’s a word I haven’t heard since my father died. You have come to see my uncle’s paintings. I have found them for you. They are very old now. For a long time, they were buried under blankets in my attic. We will go and see them, and if they are as you said, you will tell me how much, yes?”

Manton put down his vodka. “Let’s see them first, but I can’t promise you anything.”

“This way my friends.’ Holding his glass, he moved across the room to a small passageway, and pointed towards the ceiling. “My attic.” Reaching for a nearby pole with a hook attached, he fitted the end into a small brass ring on the panel and with care, pulled on it, opening a door and letting a small ladder drop down. He picked up his drink and began climbing the steps, balancing his glass between his hand and the ladder rail. “Follow me, please.”

“Lead on, Macduff.” Jack climbed the shaky ladder, pushing Tamsin in front of him as they followed Leonid. The attic was illuminated by a small bulb fixed into a back rafter, illuminating a stream of grubby light battling to penetrate the unwashed skylight mounted on the roof above. He could see the dust particles swirling from the fifty-year-old, threadbare carpeting, as if in protest at the invasion. The area had been well used. Jewish artifacts – cups, bells, and menorah – sat amidst Soviet military flags and political insignia.

“Looks like your entire life’s up here, Leonid.” Manton pointed at the numerous crates, boxes, trunks, and fabrics that had been placed in neat rows around the walls. The orderliness seemed out of character for Leonid.

“Please call me Leo. Yes, my father was very particular. I’ve had no need to be up here since he passed away. I found the paintings, together with bundles of notes, letters, and photographs, all in this large trunk. Please, you are welcome to look.”

A hefty wooden trunk had been pulled out from a row further back, and Leonid banged it hard with his fist. Manton experienced a flutter in his stomach.

“Are you certain about this, Leo?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Here goes. I’m finding this scary.” Manton pulled up the lid tethered by two brass chains. Tamsin knelt down next to him. The contents matched Leo’s description.

“I can’t bring myself to look.”

“If you can’t, I will.” Tamsin reached in and counted each of the wrapped frames. “We’re slightly out on our count. There’s eight here. There’re also bundles of letters, photographs, and other bits all wrapped in black and yellow ribbons. Take a look, please, Jack.”

“Didn’t I tell you, comrades? Please, you must look.” He took another large pull on the vodka.

Manton moved closer, looked in, and reached for the first work. With nerves tight as a scout’s knot, lifted one of the frames up, as if he held a sacred relic from a Pharaoh’s tomb. He began to remove the covering, and for the first time in over seventy years. the paintings saw the light of day.

Chapter Thirty Four

C
hecking his watch, Novikov calculated that he had another hour before his mission.

He began his Qi Kong breathing exercises, closed his eyes, and prostrated himself back-first on his bed. Twenty minutes later, the time had arrived.

I am ready
,
and the wound is healing better than I expected.

He slipped his PSS into the shoulder holster, also ensuring that the garrotte was neatly concealed within the inner lining of his jacket. Nestling in a deep pocket was a thick but small plastic bottle. The top doubled as a hypodermic syringe, its needle dipped fully into 100 mg of concentrated liquid nicotine. He attached it to the tip of a telescopic walking cane. He’d used it before, and its death-dealing capabilities have been proven beyond doubt. The victim had displayed some messy initial salivation, and in a little over five minutes, overall respiratory failure completed the objective. It looked like the person had suffered a major heart attack.

He considered using a disguise, but decided that this mission required none. After all, the dead can’t talk. Wearing wrap-around shades and a Panama-styled sun hat, he strode out in the direction of the Eglise St-Pothin. This time there would be no failures. Crossing the Pont Morand over the Rhône, he stopped at the halfway point, turned, and leant on the parapets, pretending to take in the panorama stretching down and across the river. If someone was tailing him, it wouldn’t be difficult to spot. Turning his head, he scoured the people in both directions. Nobody else had stopped, a potential giveaway if he was being followed. All he could see were schoolchildren in crocodile file with their tutors, and pairs of lovers too intent on each other to notice anything. He waited until they had all passed, and then continued in the direction of the Place du Maréchal Lyautey. It was within striking distance of Brodsky’s apartment on the Rue Bugeaud.

~ * ~

His desk was covered in printouts and case records. He was deep into research concerning art thefts. All suspects were being given close attention, but the one he wanted to follow up was the name Manton had given him. He needed to investigate further without raising suspicion. The penetrating rings from his ‘operatives only’ phone made Kolosov start. His brow furrowed as he grabbed the receiver.

“Kolosov.”

“Captain, this is Kolya.”

“Kolya, what news?”

“I’m here with Katya. We’ve followed him over a bridge, and he seems to know where he’s going.”

“Of course he does. It’s the Brodsky connection. Don’t let him see you. I want him alive, and also Manton and Greene. Do not let him near them. Is that understood? I need these three to get closer to my major suspect. Is your equipment in full working order?”

“Perfect.”

“Right, now keep everything switched on, phone and camera. I want first hand evidence of how this Novikov operates.”

“Will do.”

“Do it now. I need to see for myself.” A few flickery blurs later and Kolosov saw the view of the River Rhône struggle onto his computer screen. “Good… keep it that way.”

~ * ~

From a small-darkened alleyway at the end of the bridge, he spotted them from behind a telephone booth, a man and a woman. The lovers he’d spotted earlier. If they were following him, they had been hard to spot. But he noticed something strange about the pair. They always kept the same distance from him. If they were real lovers, they wouldn’t behave that way.
A closer look is required.

He was a tall man with swept-back brown hair, wearing a three-quarter-length zip-up jacket, and around his shoulders hung a small bag. He had one arm around the girl’s shoulder. She had short blonde hair, and wore a light blue trouser suit. Over one arm, she had a folded lightweight raincoat.

Novikov looked up at the sky to check for rain. There wasn’t a cloud in sight.
Why the raincoat?
He inserted the wireless earpiece and activated it. He heard them clearly, and they spoke in Russian.
Agents. Govno! Shit!
He saw them pause as he moved toward them.

He increased his pace, and he could hear their voices increasing with agitation as he drew closer.

Without pausing, he reached inside his jacket and detached the walking cane, flicked it open to its fullest extent with the tip projecting an inch outward from the base. Twenty metres… ten… five… four… three… at that point, Novikov threw the cane down to the ground. He saw them hesitate, hands moving to grab their weapons.

Good. Always attempt to confuse your enemy!

“Not fast enough.” He bent low, and in one swift movement, jabbed the lethal tip into the female’s thigh. 100 mg of pure nicotine shot into her body. Already, he had his foot-long PSS in his other fist aimed directly at the next agent. “Don’t move! If it wasn’t so open here, I’d kill you like the pig you are. But, she’ll be dead in a few minutes.” The woman was convulsing, her mouth twitching and ejecting a bubbling pink, brown froth.