The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (38 page)

“Move over towards her, Manton, and turn around and face the wall. Do not move until I tell you.” Novikov walked back to a covering position behind a piano mounted on the stage. “The first thing,” he continued, “that the man sent to collect these paintings will see, is you two. Distraction is a wonderful surprise.”

Manton moved closer to Tamsin.

He saw her move. He positioned himself facing the wall, close to the long box. He whispered across to her. “Can you speak?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know what he intends, but I don’t have a good feeling about it. A man called Petrovitch is about to arrive. Tamsin, be brave.” She made no reply, but he saw a slight movement from her head, and he heard her mutter before letting out a long sigh. “How are you making out?” he whispered.

She replied in half tone, half mumble. “The pain is killing me, both my arms and legs feel paralysed.”

“Can you bend your legs a fraction? It might help release the tensions.”

“I’ll try.” She attempted a small wriggle. “Jack, you’re right.”

He closed his eyes and didn’t reply.

“Why don’t you answer?”

“I wanted to hear you say it again.”

“… Jack.”

“What?”

She continued to whisper. “There are some things you need to know. I’m not certain we’re going to make it alive from here, but I have to tell you I do love you, and I also hate you for all this. But, I don’t regret what we’ve achieved. I made up my mind to leave you, but…”

He interrupted her. “Tamsin, you don’t have to say any more. I could see it coming, but this is not the time or place…”

“I’m very proud of you, and it’s so sad, Jack… the more so as we may never see our baby.”

He couldn’t respond to what she said. An explosion of emotions ripped through him.

He stuttered a low reply. “Oh my God! What a time to tell me. Why now? Tamsin, somehow or the other I have to get you out of this.”

He couldn’t tell her he didn’t know how.

Chapter Forty Seven

K
olosov, his face creased with concern, looked at the framed photographs of the smiling faces of his parents staring out at him across the desk, and turned them around so that he couldn’t see them. The only sound came from the irritating ticking sound of the wall-mounted clock. He stood up to leave his office.

At that moment, the door burst open, and a breathless Eltsin crashed in.

“Captain, Computer Ops have got a fix on Petrovitch, a full earful. We know where he is and what’s going on. You better get down there fast!”

Fifteen minutes later, Kolosov and his lieutenants were inside the large Citroën, charging down through the Boulevard de Stalingrad at an illegal speed. Two other police vehicles followed close behind in tandem, plus a truck full of armed Interpol officers.

“This is taking too long,” snapped Kolosov.

“I’m doing the best I can,” Eltsin replied with annoyance, as he attempted to go through the traffic at maximum speed. The city was recovering from a power cut, and the roads were full.

“If we find Petrovitch, we find Novikov, Manton, and his woman.”

~ * ~

The rain speared down harder than before.

Petrovitch, followed by Golub, moved towards the academy entrance. His stomach twisted in pain. The black leather coat flapped wetly around his legs. Above, lightning sparked, illuminating an unnaturally dark sky, followed by cascades of thunder. He pulled his Russian combat hat down lower. Following him with a subservient diligence, Golub, in dark wrap-around shades, looked every inch the Mafia soldier of the Tambov Gang. As good as Novikov thought he was, his man had all the abilities to deal with whatever he threw at them.

He moved on up the steps, allowing Golub to push open the heavy plated glass doors for him. He turned right into the corridor, and ignored the empty classrooms, focusing his mind on his forthcoming prize. A trickle of sweat slithered like a worm below his waist. Golub said nothing. Petrovitch knew he would do what he had to.

Chapter Forty Eight

T
he entrance to the sports hall confronted the two men. Golub’s eye began twitching, and Petrovitch sensed he was preparing for what’s to come. He gave the required knocks and recognised Novikov’s voice.

“Come on in, but do it nice and easy.” The door squeaked on its hinges. Inside, complete darkness was not what Petrovitch had been expecting.

Both men stepped inside and reached for their guns. “Where are you, Novikov? Switch on the lights.” He swung his gun around in an arc, and heard a low curse from Golub.

“Who’s the heavy with you, Petrovitch?” His voice cut through the darkness.

“He’s here to assist me in carrying what I can’t. How can you see him?”

He ignored the question. “You’re a liar. You must think I’m stupid. I could place a bullet into each of you right now. One smart arse move… and you’ll both be dead.” He reached behind him, switched on the lights, and put down his night vision monocular.

The unexpected influx of light dazzled Petrovitch. More unforeseen, came the sight of a female figure, tied and spread crucifixion-style onto a climbing frame with the figure of a man pressed to the wall. Petrovitch’s disorientation was complete.

“Put down your weapons,” Novikov’s voice commanded, bouncing from every corner of the hall.

Petrovitch couldn’t see where Novikov could be. He looked across at Golub, and saw the sallow pallor of his fleshy face. A bullet, silenced by a suppressor, whined into the door behind them.
Thwack
! Shards of deadly wooden splinters scattered around them.

“If you don’t both do it now, the next will be in your heads. Do it!”

Petrovitch stooped forward, dropping his Beretta to the floor, nodding at Golub, who did the same.

Petrovitch realised he’d been taken by surprise, and experienced a rare sinking feeling.
I hope Golub’s got another gun somewhere or we’re fucked
. It had taken only one simple act, and Novikov had overturned his plans, outsmarting him with ease.

The sound of the opening bars of
L’ Internationale
being played on a piano confused him further. Up front, on the stage, he saw exactly why. From behind the piano, Novikov emerged, placing his pistol on the lid, but with a fully automatic 9 mm Ruger pointed straight at him.

“Tovarich Petrovitch and comrade, no doubt from the Moscow Mafia, I presume. I’m disappointed. I had hoped for something better from you, Petrovitch. You’ve tried, but you’re just not good enough. Now, where’s the money?”

“It’s in the case.” He indicated the large, black flight bag that he held.

“Drop it nice and easy to the floor, and then slide it towards me.”

Petrovitch dropped the bag and propelled it in Novikov’s direction. The bag got halfway to him.

“Stop there, that’s far enough.”

Petrovitch saw Novikov move forward and raise his pistol.

“I could kill you two where you stand, but there’s no sport in that.”

“What do you mean?” faltered Petrovitch.

“You will see soon enough. There are a few little things you need to know. Those two over there have been the source of my troubles, but now no longer.” He made a small gesture with his gun. “An English art historian, Mr. Manton, and his colleague, Miss Greene.” Without removing his gaze, he shouted across the hall. “Manton, turn around and walk towards me, no tricks.”

“Do as he asks, and don’t do anything stupid,” whispered Tamsin.

Manton spun around and began walking towards Novikov, feeling as if his heart was in his mouth.

The heavy rain spattered hard on the windows.

He thought about what he’d done five minutes before. When the lights went out, he’d knelt in front of the long box and opened it.

It contained what he had hoped it would.

Inside, he’d fumbled and identified fencing masks and kit, with two unbuttoned sabres tapering down to a fine point. Facing the wall, he’d placed them in front of him against the wall, but had no idea how he could use them. It remained essential that Novikov’s attention did not waver from Petrovitch, his accomplice and, of course, the case.

“Open it,” demanded Novikov, pointing at the case in front of him.

Manton said nothing. He just knelt on the wooden floor and looked at the locks. The thought had crossed his mind that the bag could be booby trapped with an explosive. The same thought had not escaped Novikov, who had taken several steps backwards, standing behind a vaulting horse. He glanced up at Novikov, grasped the brass locks, and with apprehension… moved them both sideways. Throwing his head backwards with his arms across his face…
Clack!

The brass clips securing the lid sprung open without an explosion.

“What now?” asked Manton, aware that his hands were shaking.

“Empty it, but don’t stand up.”

Where’s Kolosov? If he doesn’t find us soon,
it’s going to get messy.
He upturned the case and thumped the bottom of it hard with a clenched fist, watching in amazement as thick bundles of banknotes held together with elastic bands tumbled out onto the floor.

“Give me a bundle.” Novikov stretched out his hand, and Manton picked out a bundle and handed it to him. Novikov scrutinised it, but not for one moment did he let his gaze wander from Petrovitch or his backup. “Now, count it.”

“All of it?”

“All of it, and tell me how much is in each bundle.”

He set about counting each bundle. Each contained $10,000. When he had finished, he looked up. “It’s done. I’ve counted two hundred thousand in total.”

“Put them on the top here, and then stand back.” He patted the vaulting horse. Once they were placed, he picked up the bundles, then folded them into the ample pockets of his gilet and holdall.

“You surprise me, Petrovitch. I would have thought your boss would have placed a small bomb. He must be learning. You guessed right, there would have been no guarantee that I’d be the one to open the case, because we both know I would have got you to open it first.”

“So, I’ve done my part. Where are the paintings?”

“I told you that I could kill you all before you could blink an eye. But I did say there are a few things you should understand before that happens. Manton, stand up and fetch those two bags of paintings.”

Holy Mother,
I’ve got a very bad feeling about this
. He moved towards the bags, feeling his mind whirling.

“Put them in front of Petrovitch, and then get back to the wall and face this way.”

Manton picked up the bags.
If I can do anything, it has to be soon
. He stared into Petrovitch’s eyes, detecting an unmistakeable look of action about to happen. The other man hadn’t moved and stood statuesque, motionless as a coiled spring.

Manton moved back across the hall to the wall. As he did, he counted the number of paces between him and Novikov.
Just enough.

Tamsin looked shattered, and there could be no mistaking the alarm and terror playing on her face. He turned, facing outwards, and placed his hands behind his back, allowing his fingers to grasp one of the concealed sabres leaning against the wall. Its small pommel, the hilt, its weight, they all felt reassuring and familiar.

“Petrovitch,” said Novikov. “When I tell you, you may check the paintings, but not before.”

“You are letting me take these, with no tricks or shooting?”

“More or less.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You came here intending to kill me. You still do, but I want to let you in on a little secret. First of all, how many paintings can you count?”

Petrovitch looked quizzical. He bent down and counted the protruding frames, then looked up at Novikov. “Ten.”

“Pull out the first two.”

From where he stood, Manton could see Petrovitch pull out
The Girl of Peace
and
Legacy
. He then became aware of an awful realisation forming in his mind.

Oh my
God!

“Stop,” snapped Novikov. “Now, take a look at our English friends over there.”

He halted, reluctant to take his eyes away from the paintings, but turned to look at Manton and the woman.

“Well?”

“You see, without them, I would not have been able to trace these paintings. I refer to the two you have been looking at. Manton, your boss, and the others, thought me ignorant, stupid, and unable to grasp life’s finer things. How unfortunate for you all to make such a big mistake. Apart from the first two, the remaining paintings have been switched. They’re fakes. I realised that as soon as I saw them.”

A surge of desperation scoured through Manton.

He saw Petrovitch’s face contort into a Baconesque horror, looking first at Jack, and then back to Novikov. Novikov kept his gun aimed at them both.

“You fools, look at you all. Now, you and your sad little hit man get up against that door  – move it!”

Petrovitch looked at Golub. Manton, seeing the slight nod of the head between them, sensed trouble was about to explode.

Novikov continued. “I have a gun pointed at you. I have $200,000 dollars, and I also know where those never before seen paintings are being kept. Not a bad position for me to be in, eh? Manton, I warned you… no tricks.”

Chapter Forty Nine

R
embrandt’s the
Storm on the Sea of Galilee
or Vermeer’s
The Concert
staring down at him from their easels, failed to placate Berezin’s agitation this time. His mind was elsewhere, and firmly focussed in Lyon. He never believed the saying that no news was good news. It had been two days since he had heard from Petrovitch. The last he had heard was that he had taken Golub along, as a backup should Novikov get difficult. There were other more worrying news. He’d been tipped off by his police contact of unusual amounts of activity from the Interpol Art Theft Division, and centring on Lyon in France.

Instinct warned him that massive trouble looked possible, and that was the last thing he wanted to be connected with. To avoid it, he decided to execute an immediate plan of action. There were two priorities. The first was to protect his treasures and investments, and the second was to disappear somewhere for an extended holiday. He moved towards his expansive three-door Chippendale Secretaire bookcase, packed with rare, stolen, leather and vellum bound volumes of books, printed since publishing had first begun.