The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (34 page)

Manton, his fists clenched, was rammed hard into his seat. “The way he’s driving, I figure he’s seen too many cop movies.”

“Jack,” said Tamsin, noticing his agitation. “Disconcerting it may be, but if it stops anyone from following us, I’m all for it.”

“That may be, but it’s unnerving me.”

The chic environs of central Lyon had given way to a more depressing sprawl, as they shifted closer to the Quartier Pavillionaire. Duval swerved to avoid potholes in the road, his passengers sliding about on the backseat. Soon, the car was brought to a rapid halt outside a ring of shabby buildings alongside a grassless park.

“We are here. The door you want is over there.” Duval pointed from the open window, and indicated a dark doorway recessed on the ground floor. “I’ll wait here for you. If you are gone too long, I shall come and find you.”

Tamsin stepped out of the sedan, followed by Manton. She looked around an arena-type concourse. “Not quite the Ritz, is it?”

“More like 1960s South-East Moscow.” Manton waved his hand towards the black polythene sacks of rubbish piled in untidy heaps amidst an army of cockroaches.

She glanced down at her notebook. “Number thirteen, that doesn’t sound promising. Thank God it’s not a Friday either.”

“I can see it from here.” He led her towards a paint-flaked brown door with a black letterbox and key lock. A worn plastic plaque bore a scribbled note:
hors service –
out of order. “Now, there’s a surprise.” He cracked the letterbox hard against the door.

A short while later it swung open, releasing an aroma of coffee and fresh bread. Tamsin stepped forward and suddenly gasped. The woman in front of her was of slight build. She looked, thought Tamsin, around her own age, and possessed of a simple beauty. Dark hair hung unadorned around an elfin face from which shone two dark green eyes. Ruby earrings of a deep colour matched the lustrous ruby pendant and chain that covered her throat. She had a thick black boa draped around her shoulders, giving form and elegance to her slenderness.

“May I help you?”

Tamsin turned to look at Jack, who looked as quizzical as she. The woman’s voice, mellow and soft, had spoken in English. Tamsin attempted to disguise her surprise, but stuttered a reply.

“Err… yes, I’m Tamsin Greene, and this is my partner, Jack Manton. We are looking for Liliya and Valentina Normova, or Brodsky.”

“You won’t find Liliya here, she died some years back. But I’m Valentina. Dr. Valentina Brodsky. Please step inside. I have been expecting you.”

Novikov stared as the medics loaded Brodsky’s body onto a trolley inside a dark blue body bag, before they placed it into the back of the ambulance.

Later that day, Novikov parked the bread van out of sight but close to the hotel, watching as Manton and his woman climbed into a car driven by a man dressed in black. He was an agent, no doubt about that
.

He started up the van and proceeded to follow, making certain he always remained out of sight several cars behind. He easily matched the agent, using all the customary drills and procedures. Novikov didn’t think he’d been spotted, and the man’s procedures had been predictable. This operation had, he believed, become crucial.
If I don’t succeed here, I shall vanish faster than mist in a wind. Where the fuck are they going?
He parked a distance away from their car and watched as Manton and the woman got out and headed for a doorway. He surmised they weren’t here for a reunion. Every move they made had everything to do with the paintings. This call would not be any different.

Reaching inside his denim jacket, he checked his lifesaver. It was reassuringly loaded next to his shoulder.

The vibration of his cell phone annoyed him. He peered swiftly at the screen.

“Shit! It’s Petrovitch
.
”
He switched off the phone.

~ * ~

Tamsin’s eyes narrowed and she looked at Jack with a bewildered expression. He raised an eyebrow.

“Follow me,” smiled Valentina, walking into a small living room before turning to face them. “Please, sit down.” She indicated two sofa chairs.

Manton made a quick visual survey, hoping to see what he had come to find. He remained disappointed. The room had a touch of cultural deliberation, with a selection of Byzantine icons and Russian Kazak Rugs. Russian roots, he thought,
are
hard to remove
.
He eased himself onto the sofa together with Tamsin, as if a bomb was about to explode.

Tamsin spoke first. “Excuse me, Madam…”

“Not Madam, nor Mademoiselle, please. My name is Valentina, but you may call me Doctor. But as I know why you are here, you can call me VaVa, if you wish. It’s what my close friends call me.”

Manton gave Tamsin a confused look. “VaVa – what’s going on here? First, you speak to us in English, and then you say you’ve been expecting us. You haven’t even asked us why we are here, or what it is we want.”

Her honeyed voice undercut any lingering hesitancy or tensions.

“Mr. Manton, I read newspapers, I watch TV, and I also make my own enquiries. From these, I knew you would find me, and of course I know why you are here.” She paused. “Let me explain. I’m Department Head and senior lecturer at the Ecole Des Beaux-Arts De Lyon.  I teach creative expression through contemporary art. I never met my grandfather, Mikhail, although I meet him through his paintings every day. But my mother, Liliya, used to tell me that even though they parted, there was hardly a day that passed when she didn’t think of him. Sadly, I never met my grandmother, Elena.”

Manton remained silent.

“So you see, I not only have an emotional interest in my grandfather and his sad life, but also in his extraordinary works, which have affected the course of my own life. Your researches have become known to me…”

“Yes, how do you know all this?” he interrupted.

“You will see soon.”

“Do you also know we found eight of your grandfather’s works not far from here? And that I own another two which I found in Australia, and that the police have two in their custody?”

“I know all this. You forgot to include the
Girl of Peace
in your list.”

“How on earth…!”

Tamsin stiffened, as if an ice cube had dropped down the front of her dress.

“What else do you know?”

Valentina got out of her chair and Manton couldn’t prevent himself from spluttering like a damp firework. Before he could muster any recognisable speech, she stood and moved towards the door.

“Follow me, please. It is safe.” She held Tamsin’s hand, and with Jack following, she made her way to a door further down the passageway. She opened the door, stepped aside, and ushered them into a small, darkened sitting room lit by two dim table lamps.

What he saw caused Manton’s heart to beat faster. Hanging on the wall, centrally placed, hung a painting illuminated brightly by an overhead lamp. He knew at once it was
Legacy.
He walked with reverence towards it, as if scared he would offend its sanctity.

“Oh my God, I don’t believe it.”

“You’d better believe it.”

The unexpected male voice froze all movement, and he heard Tamsin gasp. A man sitting in a chair in a gloomy corner rose and moved towards them.

Every nerve ending in Manton’s body switched to full alert, and he pushed Tamsin behind him. Valentina remained where she stood. Her expression disconcerted him. She looked amused.

“Who are you?” Manton half yelled.

“Jack, you’ve texted and emailed me over the last month or two… it’s me. Augustus Moss, at your service.”

He emerged from the gloom with his trademark pink bow tie, waistcoat and goatee beard, as immaculate as Manton always remembered him. He had an enormous grin on his face.

“Holy shit! I don’t believe it! Augustus! How on earth…!” Confusion intermingled with relief rolled over him.

Behind him, he heard Tamsin laughing loudly. “God, Augustus,” she said. “I thought it was our killer.”

Moss walked over and embraced them. “I’m sorry to have alarmed you both, but it was irresistible. You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

“Too bloody right, you bastard.”

“If it hadn’t been for your information, and a very long telephone call with Valentina, I would have been none the wiser.”

VaVa spoke. “Yes, I told Augustus who I was, as it was he who had the original story. I followed all news reports, and it led me to him. What he told me amazed me, and I decided to try and see if I could be of any help to you. I knew you’d find me, but not quite so fast, eh?”

She paused and Manton, unable to speak, beckoned her over as if she had been an old friend, and hugged her.

She stepped back, flicking the end of the boa back over her shoulder.

“I made a commitment to try and help you. By doing so, I give my grandfather’s memory the respect it deserves, and a proper resting place.
Legacy,
” she gestured towards the painting, “is the greatest of his works that I know of. Through it, he remains alive. So, how can I help you?”

Manton looked at Tamsin and Moss, who both nodded. He stood beside the painting, and marvelled at its blaze of rich textured golds, reds, yellows, and blacks. Their symmetry was broken by unexpected natural swirls of colour from which could be seen two faces, a woman and a small child – Elena and Liliya.

An abrupt knocking on the front door interrupted his reverie.

Chapter Forty

K
olosov bent forward in front of his computer. He’d spent the last sixty hours compiling lists of every known major work of art that had disappeared over the last two decades. He couldn’t help thinking that Josef Berezin might be behind many of the thefts. Eltsin sat opposite him.

“Nicolai, we’ve tightened the net around that misshapen bastard from St. Petersburg. I’m convinced that he’s been behind a whole spate of thefts. But how do we prove it? Why was his errand boy Anton Petrovitch in Boston during the New Year and up to March in 1990, the time the Vermeer and Rembrandt were stolen? Then in Spain in ‘95, Denmark two years later, Oslo a year later, and recently London, where Moore and Hepworth items were stolen? All these dates fit into a pattern of international art thefts. Why is he now off to France? The timing links it with the Brodsky affair. But Berezin is well connected, has friends in high places, so he’s not going to be seen as being directly involved in anything. I need to find out if Novikov is working for him. If he is, we have him…”

The strident rings from his desk phone broke his thoughts. He grabbed at it.

“Kolosov.”

A brisk female voice replied. “Captain Kolosov, this is Celestyn Durrand, the Chief Accident Officer from the Red Cross Hospital in Lyon.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Captain, we picked up a road casualty accident victim earlier today, who was dead when we arrived at the scene. His neck had been broken. He had no ID, and the only thing we found on him was an Interpol Police card with your name on it. Could you get to the hospital mortuary and hopefully supply an ID?”

Forty minutes later, ID confirmed, Kolosov guessed he knew what a non-swimmer would be feeling in a sinking boat. Novikov had lost a major bargaining chip, and he’d be looking for another.

~ * ~

When Novikov left his van, he’d made his decision. A dead agent would be less of
a problem than a live one taking shots at him
.
He carried his bread basket slung over his left shoulder, adjusted his beret, lit a cigarette, and as casually as he could, began the short walk towards the parked car where his prey sat reading a newspaper.

He felt strange. For the first time in his career, he will be directly confronting another trained agent. The possibilities began to play out. The last thing he wanted was a
gun battle out in the open
.
He found himself considering if the man wore a bulletproof vest, and if not, how it would feel to be shot. Unpleasant, surely. It had
to be quick, and it had to be a headshot.

He gauged the number of paces needed to reach the vehicle, and from where he could pump off a killing round. He placed one hand beneath his denim jacket, firmly gripped the gun butt, prepared to draw in an instant.

“Shit!” He hissed with venom as the driver’s door swung open without warning. Nobody appeared, but he heard a loud voice shout out at him.

“Stop there. That’s far enough. I have a gun pointing straight at you.”

“Pardon, Monsieur?” He spoke to a person he couldn’t see.

Duval emerged from the passenger side and crouched in a firing position.

“You followed us from the hotel. I’m not stupid. You thought I hadn’t seen you, but I spotted you right from the moment we left. Now, drop that basket slowly… lower it to the ground, turn around, and keep your hands raised where I can see them.”

“Monsieur, I don’t know who you are or what you are talking about. You are mistaken. I’m the local bread delivery man. Ask anyone, they will tell you.”

“Just do it.”

Novikov performed his practiced Gallic shrug… “
Mais oui
, Monsieur.” He began to turn, and dropped the basket, but at the same time, he grabbed a large bread roll which he hid swiftly under his jacket.

Duval moved in closer, one hand on his gun, and the other holding a set of handcuffs. “Now, bring your hands down and put them behind your back, nice and easy.”

Novikov began to obey. “Monsieur, I forgot this one.” In one movement, he reached down and threw the roll to the ground, looking like a grenade as it rolled past the basket.

Duval swung his head in the direction of the roll. That was enough. Novikov spun around in the opposite direction, his gun whipped out of its greased holster, fingers tight around the trigger, and pumped off two flame spurting shots. Before Duval could react, the two shots had struck him, one in his left temple and the other in his ear.

Novikov watched him slump to the ground like a bull in a slaughterhouse, oozing blood and brains onto the soil.

There had been no witnesses, of that he was certain. He hauled Duval’s body into the boot with little difficulty. He removed the key from the ignition, holstered his gun, and turned to walk towards door number thirteen.