The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (31 page)

Kolya lunged at Novikov. He was too slow. Novikov swung to his left, sidestepped him, and smashed the gun’s butt into his temple, sending him spinning backwards onto the writhing body of his doomed comrade. He noted the trickle of blood running from the agent’s temple. That enjoyment curdled when a miniature long-range transmitter and camera rolled out from beneath the fallen man.
Fuck! All this has been sent and recorded, but to whom?
He brought his foot down on the equipment with a splitting crunch, scattering pieces like a discarded jigsaw.
I’ve been seen.
People began running over, but one sweep of his gun and they backed off, running in the opposite direction in panic.

He knew whoever the recipient on the other end of that device was, wouldn’t waste time.
I’m a marked target!

~ * ~

Manton had arranged the paintings in order around the central area. Tamsin stood next to him, unable to believe what was right in front of her. The shabby confines of Leonid’s attic caused the paintings to look as out of place like a clown at a funeral.

She looked at Manton as he stood over the paintings. He glowed like a sun surrounded by eight beloved planets. The finest of Mikhail Brodsky, lost to the art world for seventy years or more. Leonid, sitting on a nearby chest, broke the spell. But not before hauling vigorously on his vodka.

“Jack,
Gants gut, eh?”

“Oh yes, Leo,
very
good indeed.”

“Much
gelt
?” His fingers rubbed energetically together.

“I can’t say, but possibly. We need an expert to verify their authenticity. Would that be okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You would be professionally and legally protected. A friend of mine is a Russian art expert at Christie’s in London. I am certain he would be happy to come here to check these out. He would, of course, work with Christie’s here in France, so you need not worry.”

“You can do that?”

“Yes.”

Tamsin exhaled. One hurdle had been cleared. In the distance, she became aware of the unmistakeable sound of French emergency and police vehicles, becoming louder and heading towards the neighbourhood.

“Listen, is that the police?” Her fears were galvanised by and drawn towards the empty glass that had somehow acquired a malignancy of its own. Like a magnet, she found herself drawn to it.

“That reminds me,” interrupted Leonid. “Your friend should be here shortly.”

“What…?” Tamsin blanched. The ring tone of Manton’s mobile broke up anything else she could have said. She trusted her intuition… and she knew. She could see that Jack, distracted by the phone, hadn’t heard Leonid’s remark.

He opened up the phone. “It’s Kolosov. What does he want?”

Tamsin didn’t have to ask. She experienced a rush of terror.

“Captain Kolosov, what can I do for you?”

Kolosov’s voice bellowed. “Get out of there fast. Novikov is close to you. One of my agents is down and another injured. The police are on their way now.”

The thought of abandoning the prize of his life galvanised his breath into short sharp bursts, and his agitation increased.

“I’m not leaving these paintings here!”

“If you don’t, Manton, you will be arrested and thrown, without charge, into the Lyon-Corbas jail. Brodsky and his paintings will be under twenty-four-hour guard, and only when these matters have calmed will you be allowed out.”

“I’ll take my chances on that, Captain.” Manton’s nostrils flared and he bunched his fists.

“For God’s sake, Jack, canvas and paint are not worth dying for,” bellowed Tamsin, and she began pushing him towards the ladder.

“Tamsin. No!” He disengaged her with a forcible shove.

“Mr. Manton,” Kolosov’s voice said with urgency. “We need you alive. I have evidence of related art thefts around the world over the last two decades or more. Without you, my case might not amount to much. You are needed alive.”

“Please, Jack, do as he asks.” Tamsin implored, throwing a disturbed glance at the doorway.

Spinning lights from police cars flashed across the rickety building and its decaying staircase, like splash marks of blue liquid running down the walls. Inside, Leonid remained steady on his large trunk. He stared at the paintings, as he emptied his glass.

Chapter Thirty Five

O
utside, the weather looked menacing. Berezin’s breakfast, untouched, was getting cold. It had been five minutes since Petrovitch had walked off after delivering unwelcome news.

His increasing anger caused his foot to ache, as without thinking, he began cracking his finger knuckles.
Damn it, damn, Novikov!
He forced himself to gaze at the photographs supplied by his police informant, spread like a cancer across his desk, their implications coursing through him. Novikov could be seen in all of them. Novikov embracing a young man. Novikov standing on a bridge in France. Novikov brandishing a gun. Novikov attacking a Russian agent, and Novikov running through an alleyway.

Novikov has fucked up. Interpol agents are now chasing him. He’s the one who could betray me. He knows more about me than most.
Already the police had been asking too many questions. His contacts couldn’t stop that. Neither could they save him if things got nasty. Worse still and worrying,
Novikov hadn’t called nor answered Petrovitch’s calls.

Clenching his fists, he was aware of a desire to smash everything around him. But the shrill ringing of his desk phone broke the mood.

“Yes?” he barked.

A female voice answered. “Police Captain Kolosov is here to see you, sir.”

“That fat
manda
! That’s all I need. Tell him to wait ten minutes.”

“Understood, sir.”

He stood there for some time. The only sounds he could hear came from his own laboured breathing. He needed time to calm down. He’d forgotten about Kolosov, who had called him days ago to ask if he could pick his brain about prices, and the current events in the art market. It seemed innocent enough, but he’d learnt to never trust policemen.
A policeman in here, snooping around and asking questions, means this is getting more dangerous than it should be.

Kolosov had long ago worked out how to unnerve suspects. Berezin, he thought, needed the treatment. He strode with the sense of a man about to ignite, without hesitation, into Berezin’s office.

Berezin remained seated, his face affecting the bonhomie of a rich man willing to assist if he can. He extended his hand.

“Captain, how can I help you?”

Kolosov wasted no time. “I need some information. Supposing I was an art collector and wished to acquire works that were not for sale, if you understand me, what would I have to do?”

“That’s obvious, Captain. You would arrange for them to be stolen.”

“It seems that a lot of valuable paintings around here have gone missing, and not seen again. Would you have heard or seen anything suspicious? Naturally… with your experience, you might know who could accomplish such things and what the risks might be?”

Berezin’s shirt began to dampen.
Kolosov’s questions are loaded.
He waved his hand expansively across the table. “I wouldn’t know anybody who would do a thing like that. We pride ourselves in keeping a clean vessel here. All I know is that, criminals often get a master forger to fake the stolen picture and ransom back one or the other to the owner. The criminal can then make a double profit, if you understand me.”

“Perfectly. What about the Vermeer and Rembrandt theft from the Gardner Museum in the USA, back in the nineties? Then, a Picasso followed. Who would order such things? Besides, no ransom or insurance claims were ever made. A crank collector somewhere, possibly?”

Berezin lowered his brow, and Kolosov saw a look of caution flicker across his face.

“Great works of art are frequently stolen, but I’ve no idea…”

Kolosov cut him off, pointing the stem of his pipe at him. “What do you know about Mikhail Brodsky’s work?”

Berezin began shuffling a hand in his pocket, as if looking for a missing key, and took too long to clear his throat.

“He’s not important, a minor artist and not favoured by my clients.”

Kolosov nodded, but failed to suppress a sneer.

“Mr Berezin, we are following up on a number of thefts over the years, some with murderous results. Have you ever heard of a man called Vladimir Novikov?” he asked in a distracted manner, as he began to refill his briar, but letting a wad of tobacco fall to the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Berezin, I seem to have made a mess of your carpet.” He knelt down and proceeded to fumble and gather up what he could.

As he guessed, a silence ensued, and he knew Berezin would be performing mental gymnastics as he figured out a response to what he implied.

“I’ve never heard of him. Why?”

Kolosov remained quiet for a moment. He sat back, his stare fixed on Berezin who looked as nervous as a pig in a sausage factory.

“We’d like to talk to Novikov about some missing art. Nothing really serious. Should you come across him, perhaps you could let us know.” He stood to leave. “Mr. Berezin, you’ve been most helpful. If I need to know more, I was hoping I can call on you again?” He smiled like a cobra.

“Feel free, Captain.” Berezin struggled to his feet and mopped his brow. “I’m in business in the art world and keep a very low profile for security reasons, and my clients choose me for that reason.”

Kolosov picked up his hat and strode out of the office, knowing he had no need to slam the door. He walked without speed down the corridor, pleased in knowing that, thanks to his dropped tobacco, his very own listening and transmitter device was now installed underneath Berezin’s desk. There were too many coincidences attached to Berezin. Plus, the information supplied to his department by a very frightened female, Anna Pavel, a former employee sexually assaulted by Berezin and his colleague, had alerted him to possible felonies at IAS.

Lightning flashed outside his office and thunder rattled across a dark sky. Berezin placed his elbows on his desk, leant forward, and buried his face behind his hands.
It’s a game of bluff. It has to be. He’s trying to scare me. What does he know? Nothing. He can’t. If he had evidence, he would have arrested me. He’s fishing, a few ideas maybe, but he has to back them up. What the fuck has happened to Novikov? Why hasn’t he called?

Direct action, he decided, had now become paramount.
I don’t trust that policeman. He knows more than he wanted me to believe. I’m going to have to move fast.
He pressed the buzzer for Petrovitch, and in two minutes his aide stood beside his desk.

“Anton, you are to go to France and put into operation the retrieval of the paintings and the disposal of Novikov. Take whatever and whoever you need to have the job completed. Understood?”

“I look forward to that, Josef.”

“I thought you might. Oh, one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Both objectives have to be secured. If not, do not return here.”

~ * ~

Manton was confused, so much so that he wondered if he’d had too much vodka. But, he knew he hadn’t. A fairy tale had come true only to be destroyed by a horrific nightmare.

Tamsin sat in a chair staring out of the hotel window overlooking the Rhône. She looked calm, but an air of weariness hung over her like an unloved blanket. Dark rings had appeared around her eyes, adding to her exhausted appearance. Conflicting thoughts and emotions caused her to wonder what she really wanted from Jack. He had been prepared to place their lives at risk for pieces of canvas. If he valued them more than her life…
then it’s time to split.
What he said next compounded her confusion.

“What was I thinking? I was out of order. Obsession on a grand scale, eh? I placed both our lives in jeopardy. I didn’t have the right, but Leonid’s eight paintings around me went to my head. God knows how many millions they must be worth, and I gambled our lives on them.”

“C’mon, I
can
understand that, but it’s shown me how much this quest means to you. I didn’t realise the depth of your obsession, and I don’t wish to be part of it. You’ve always bordered on the manic obsessive, and this incident confirmed it. It’s too much. When we’re out of this, and Novikov is captured, you can carry on where we left off… but without me. You’ve got her instead.” She pointed to the
Girl of
Peace
.

“But…”

A hard rapping at the door startled them both.

~ * ~

A black mantle of starlings dove and swooped across the River Rhône, stretched in the cool of a gathering dusk. The Citroën 2CV bread-delivery van cruised its way across the old cobblestones leading toward the Rue Bugeaud. Manton and Greene’s conversation had told him all he needed to know. Leonid Brodsky held in his tatty apartment an immense wealth.

The square came into view, and he could see it looked empty apart from two gendarmes standing at the bottom of the staircase leading up to Leonid Brodsky’s apartment. It hadn’t taken the police long to place them there. They didn’t look insurmountable, and he thought, if that was the best they could do, then God help them
.

He peered at them to make an essential evaluation. They were of medium height, soft looking, with the bored expressions of a million policemen across the world. They carried standard SP 2022 side arms. They would be easily dealt with. He revved up the 2CV engine to attract their attention, and drove at a creep towards them. He knew exactly what their response would be. Just short of the staircase, he brought the van to a halt, before clambering out with the assurance of a seasoned delivery driver. He walked to the back of the van, adjusted his beret, lit up a Chesterfield, and opened up the creaky metal door to haul out a large blue bread bag that he began stuffing with long loaves. The first gendarme sauntered close to the back of the van. The other waited by the staircase.

“Monsieur, what are you doing?”