The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (33 page)

Tamsin tied back the envelopes as she had found them. Tilting her head back, she let out a sigh and stared vacantly at the ceiling. She now had an address for Liliya, and the name of another painting confirmed.

A sense that the events were closing in surrounded her.

Liliya’s pregnancy highlighted her own, but in a surprising way. She could not but help feel a sense of connection with Liliya, although she had never known her. If her daughter, Valentina, was still alive, then there was a clear connection between them. Mysterious, almost wondrous in the manner it was revealed, in their search for Brodsky’s legacy.

Jack had to know about her condition. She had to let him know how she felt when she discovered the pregnancy, and her feelings for their unborn child. This was more important to her than splashes of paint on canvas.

~ * ~

Novikov glared at his phone ringing. A glance at the screen told him that it was Petrovitch. He answered it.

“What do you want?”

“Our mutual friend is far from pleased.” Petrovitch’s voice cut like a broken bottle. “The police have been here, and the media are running unwelcome stories. All this, we think, is down to your activities. Apart from that, you’ve managed to lose three paintings, which is unforgiveable. In short, you’ve achieved fuck all and cost our employer a lot of money. What can you tell us to restore an almost ex-employee?

“You’re an idiot, Petrovitch. I’m close to grabbing eight Brodsky paintings, a fact that is not in dispute. You can tell Mr. Big that if he persists in baiting me continuously, I might just keep them for another buyer.” He paused, the silence between them burning like a lit fuse. “Understood?”

The reply was hushed, apocalyptic. “Understood. I shall inform him.”

The phone went dead.

~ * ~

The morning run had cleared the clutter in his mind, and coupled with a shower, gave Jack a glow of satisfaction. Rubbing himself down with a thick blue towel, he wandered into the living area.

“Tamsin, did you manage to read those letters?”

“Yes, I did. They were all addressed to Lev Brodsky. I found them poignant, and there were surprises. There were some issues there I’d like to talk to you about.”

He continued to rub the last drops of moisture from his hair. “Hang on a moment.” He put his fingers to his lips before smothering the
Girl of Peace
with several plump pillows, muffling the listening device. “We are being guarded. There’s a man at the end of the corridor, and another at the other end.”

“Novikov doesn’t seem to find anything too much of a problem.”

“We’re being used as bait.”

“That’s true, and the only way this will end is when he bites.”

“Whatever you tell me, I’m updating Moss on developments. What he’s done so far has stirred things up. Just look at the morning paper, Tamsin.” Jack unfurled a copy of
Le Figaro.
The story, with its prominent French flavour, occupied a generous slot on the front page. “And would you believe? On page three, they’ve got a feature headed ‘The Lost Paintings of Mikhail Brodsky’. Wow, there’s even an old photograph of Brodsky himself and one of his paintings. Where did they find that?”

“I read it all online earlier.” Tamsin looked around at him. “I hoped you wouldn’t see it. If you look closer, the respected English art historian is also named. It’s you...”

“Oh… what!!”

“Now, listen to what I’ve got to say. I’ve been reading through the letters. It’s revealing. Leonid had letters from Liliya, Mikhail Brodsky’s daughter by Elena, his partner or ‘lover’ as she would have been called then. How they found each other I’ve no idea, but Elena started contacting Lev before she became seriously ill, and died in poverty when Liliya was in her teens. All she inherited amounted to nothing more than a few sticks of furniture and… guess what?”

“I think I know what you’re going to say.”

“You do. She owned a painting by a father she would hardly remember, Mikhail Brodsky. She named it
Legacy
.”

Manton let out a slow whistle. “Finding that would be sensational, with that provenance behind it.”

“There’s more. Liliya asked Lev for his forgiveness...”

“What on earth for?”

“To survive, she ended up as a prostitute. To cut a long story short, she herself became pregnant and had a child, a girl named Valentina. There’s something about that I want to talk about. It feels important.”

He paused. This information had to remain secret. If the assassin knew of it, there would be more killings.

“Do we have an address?” he asked in a hushed voice, ignoring her last remark.

“Yes, but it’s old, and her correspondence came to a halt about ten years ago. We don’t even know if Liliya or Valentina are still alive. Now, what I wanted to say…”

“Do we make a trip?”

“We do, but we have Leonid to think of, and we can’t just leave these paintings here, can we? There’s also something else…”

The brassy sound of the hotel telephone interrupted them.

“Who can that be?” Tamsin glanced at him and saw a crease of concern cross his brow.

He grabbed at the receiver and pressed it to his ear. “Yes?” his voice was hard and flat.

He knew the voice he heard coming through the line. “Manton, listen to me. I know where you are. You know who this is, don’t you?”

“I know who you are.” Manton’s voice wavered as he switched on the loudspeaker for Tamsin to hear. Her face had frozen like a pale ivory mask. Kolosov had told him to expect a call, but he still didn’t feel prepared.

“Of course you know who it is. There’s no point trying to track this call, it’s scrambled.” Novikov made no attempt to disguise his Russian accent. “I’ll ask you a question. You, your woman, or Brodsky… you don’t want to die, do you?”

“No.”

“But you are an intelligent man, Manton, and you know it’s not always possible to have everything you want, don’t you?”

“Where’s Leonid Brodsky?”

“He’s safe, for the time being, but only as long as you cooperate.”

“What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“I want those paintings, and the one you stole from me.”

“Stole? What are you on about? Don’t you mean the one you murdered Nikita Brodsky for? You now intend to finish off the last remaining Brodsky, and anybody else who stands in your way,” he lied. “Your demand isn’t possible. I don’t have them.”

“Don’t get too smart, Manton. You know where they are, as do the police. How you get them to me is not my concern. Lives for paintings is not an unreasonable exchange… is it now?”
An edge moved into Novikov’s voice. “Manton, if you do not do as I ask, there will be more deaths. You and your woman will be my major priorities. Too long, you’ve fucked up my plans. Only because I’ve allowed it are you both still alive. Now, listen well. In exchange for the paintings, you will all be allowed to live, and so will Brodsky. I shall tell you very soon how and where an exchange can be organised. One whiff of a policeman or an agent, and you, her, and the Jew will have breathed your last.”

The phone went dead.

“What do we do now?”

“We have some breathing space, not much, but maybe enough. The police are searching for him, and Kolosov is closing in on the IAS where he suspects a link in all this. How am I going to get around Kolosov? He won’t possibly let the paintings go. What with the international media, art, and antique theft agencies clamouring for the story, Novikov and the IAS are not in a good situation. Kolosov is never going to agree to an exchange.” He smacked his forehead with a desperate slap.

“Don’t you ever stop? Why do we have to do this? If the killer knows of her, won’t that put her in danger too?”

“He’s not going to know. We have to do some things without him, or we can just sit here like sheep before being led to slaughter. It’s time for some initiative of our own. What address did you have?”

He saw her eyes roll as she emitted a deep sigh. “It’s in the Quartier Pavillionaire district, about four kilometres from here.”

“What’s that place?”

“It’s the equivalent of a large council estate in the UK.”

“Okay, we’re going there, and Kolosov need not know why or where.” He took the address from her and Googled it to get a picture. Within minutes, he had it on screen. “I see what you mean. It looks like student accommodation, and it’s in the university area. Grab your coat.” He saw her agitated look and her hesitancy, as if she had something else to say. He ignored it, and she turned and grabbed her coat.

“I’ll speak to Duval outside.”
He called Duval over and spoke to him, telling him they needed some air and wanted to visit an old friend.

“My instructions are to maintain a close watch on you at all times,” responded Duval. “I’ll take you there, and my colleague will remain here. Follow me, please.”

Manton baulked at leaving a potential ten million-plus dollars in two large holdalls on the floor of a hotel room. They were too large for the deposit safe. It didn’t seem like a smart move.

Chapter Thirty Eight

L
eonid Brodsky opened his eyes with difficulty, his brain and senses creeping back into fuzzy operation. From what looked like window blinds, a pale light sliced through the darkness of the room.
Holy God, where am I?
He attempted to move but he couldn’t, neither could he speak. Wrists, arms, legs and mouth, had been bound with duct tape. He swallowed a gulp of terror. Then it came back to him. The knock on the door… the man with bread and a gun… the eyes staring like a dead cod… the fist in his face… more blows…
Where are the paintings
?
Who would think those rubbishy daubs would cause all this trouble? My life! I wish I’d known earlier…what a fortune I would have had!

He could feel the crusted, dried blood on his head. He had no idea where he was, yet, he offered thanks for being alive.
Dear God, do I deserve this? What’s going to happen to me? Now, I remember. The police have my paintings. Dear God, I can’t get them.
He commenced reciting his prayer for help in times of trouble. It had never failed him, and its efficacy would now stand its sternest test.

“
Incline Thine Ear, O HaShem,
and answer me,
for I am poor and needy…
”

He recited the full prayer several times. At the same time, he tried to release himself from his restraints, without success. Hauling himself up, he succeeded in jamming the end of the tap into the gap of his wrist tapes. He repeatedly lunged forward, feeling the tape begin to tear and loosen. Brodsky redoubled his efforts.

“God
has answered me!”

After several more lunges, his hands came free, allowing him to tear off the mouth and leg bindings. He took a mighty gulp of much needed fresh air. For a brief moment, he examined himself. There were a few abrasions across his fingers, on his neck, and his throat. He paused and thanked God.

He stood on shaking legs, and stepped gingerly from the bath. Apart from an ache on his temple, he felt no worse for his experience. From beneath the gap at the bottom of the door, a light shone through. He heard a voice, indistinct, as if speaking on the phone. It stopped, and then a shadow passed across the light. He knew someone was approaching.

He looked around and wrapped his hard fingers around a heavy ornamental bottle. Next to the door, he climbed onto the vanity stool, and positioned himself with the bottle raised high. The clatter of a key turning in the lock broke the silence of the room. He saw the doorknob turn. As it opened, it let in a flood of light, revealing the person on the other side as the gap widened. Leonid heard the Russian word ‘
Yob
!’ The man could see he’d gone from the bath.

Unseen, Leonid jumped upwards and brought the bottle down on the man’s head with all the force he could muster. It was enough. With a savage yell, the man collapsed. Brodsky wasted no time. His sixty-three-year-old legs went into full sprint as he exited the room, down a short corridor and a flight of stairs into an entrance lobby. He crashed into a startled occupant before finding himself in the street, with no idea where he was or where he should be going.

~ * ~

Holding the top of his head, Novikov sat up and pulled out two shards of spiky glass from his bloody hair. In pain, he gazed around the bathroom, and could see the wreckage of what had hit him scattered across the floor. Feeling dazed, he recalled that ten minutes earlier he had just been talking to Manton, and now his major bargaining chip had escaped. The bathroom was empty, and his head resounded like a church bell. Other sounds came from his laboured breathing.

With caution, he eased himself off the floor, feeling the warm sensation of blood trickling its way down his cheeks.

It had been less than several minutes, but he knew Brodsky would be well away, and there was every possibility he would bring the police back. It was time to leave and place into operation the next part of his plan. Without Brodsky, the stakes just got tougher.

From outside, he heard the sound of emergency vehicles racing down the Avenue La Lacassagne.

“They can’t be here already!
”
He shot a swift glance out of the window.

Across the avenue, a stationary French sedan had slewed into a broadside position, and blocked traffic in all directions. The emergency sirens came blasting from two SMUR ambulance vehicles, the Service Mobile d’Urgence et Reanimation. From the crashed vehicle, a male driver hung like a drunk from the door, half in and half out of his concertinaed vehicle. Another figure lay crumpled sideways in front of the car. Novikov jolted. The crumpled figure was Leonid Brodsky.

Chapter Thirty Nine

D
uval’s driving unsettled Tamsin as he piloted the unmarked police car through the streets of Lyon. He was silent but alert, his grey eyes forever darting between the wing and door mirrors. Every so often, he would swing into a turn without warning. At other times, accelerating and slowing down, and performing rapid U-turns before regaining his route.