“That,” Tate said, “has got to be James.”
Amused, Bernhardt looked at Tate as, behind them, the iron gates swung closed.
“What is he? Samoan? Jumbo Mexican?”
“Jesus, C.B. That’s a racist remark.”
“If you said it, maybe. If I say it, no. Call it vocational screening. This guy’s on our team. I’d like to know something about him. He could be behind me with a gun, let’s not forget. Behind you, too.”
“He’s Indian, I think. Or mestizo, more like it. Central American Indian mixed with Spanish.”
“But he’s
big.
South of the border they’re small.”
“I’m just telling you what I was told.” As he spoke, Bernhardt waved to James through the big windshield of the van, then pointed left, toward the compound’s main garage that connected directly with the house.
“As I understand it,” Bernhardt said, “his parents were guerrilla leaders in South America. James was still a kid when his parents were wiped out in a government ambush. He escaped, and lived with the guerrillas until he was older, maybe a teenager.”
As the van moved slowly forward, Tate said, “James looks like he can really take care of himself. Those eyes—they make you think.”
“Stop beside him,” Bernhardt ordered. “We’ll get out.” Across the circular driveway, he saw Paula getting out of the Taurus, then walking toward them. As they gathered in front of the van, Bernhardt introduced Tate to James. The two big, watchful men exchanged guarded monosyllables.
“Paula and I’ll go into the garage, in the van,” Bernhardt explained, addressing James. “Tate will stay in the Taurus, parked so as to block the garage door. We have walkie-talkies. When we’ve got the van loaded, we’ll give Tate a call, and he’ll move the Taurus.” As Bernhardt said it, Paula gave Tate the keys to the Taurus.
“Yes.” James nodded gravely, then handed Bernhardt an electronic wand. “This opens the garage door.”
“Thanks.” Bernhardt took the wand. “When we’re ready—loaded, with the garage door open—Paula will get into the Taurus. She’ll go first, the lead car. Tate and I’ll go next, in the van. You’ll follow us. When we get out on Benedict Canyon, Paula will turn left, down the hill. She’ll—”
“Excuse me,” James interrupted. As always, he spoke softly, precisely. Repeating: “Excuse me, but I’m supposed to stay with the paintings until we have the money and we return here. Those are my instructions.”
“Do you mean in the van?” Tate, too, spoke softly. “You want to ride in the van?”
James nodded. “In the van. Yes. With the paintings.”
Tate looked at Bernhardt, who looked at Paula—who frowned, then looked carefully at James. Finally Bernhardt said, “We talked yesterday, James. We agreed that you were to take orders from me. And I want Paula in front, then the van, then you, in your car, trailing us. I want to—”
“But we could get separated.”
Decisively Bernhardt shook his head. “No. We’ve got a walkie-talkie for you, tuned to the right channel. You can—”
“Mr. DuBois was very clear. Where the paintings go, I go. Where the money goes, until it gets here, I go. Those are my orders.”
Once more Bernhardt exchanged glances with Paula and Tate. Finally he said, “I’ll speak to Mr. DuBois. Meanwhile, get a car ready. I’m not leaving with the paintings unless I’m covered front and back. Is that clear?”
James nodded. “Perfectly.”
“You’ve got an Accord. Get it ready. I don’t want a limo.”
“The Accord is ready.”
“You’re armed?”
“Yes, sir. I have a Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol and a machine pistol. The machine pistol is in my house.” He gestured. “It’s in a satchel, with two spare clips.”
“If DuBois wants him to stay with the paintings,” Tate said, speaking to Bernhardt, “then it should be the three of us in the van.”
Bernhardt shook his head vehemently. “No. I want James behind us, in the Accord.” He turned to James. “You go back to your house. Take a walkie-talkie with you, and stay put until you hear from me. I’m going to talk with Mr. DuBois about this.”
For a long, impassive moment, the two men stared hard at each other, a grim, silent contest. Then, moving with measured deliberation, James accepted a radio from Paula, and began walking across the circle of the driveway to his bungalow, sheltered in a grove of eucalyptus.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Tate said. “That guy, he’s got his own game going.”
“What about you?” Bernhardt asked, looking at Paula. “What’d you think?”
She was thoughtfully studying James as he walked away from them. Finally she said, “He seems very straightforward, a very simple person. I guess it’ll depend on what DuBois says.” She turned to Bernhardt. “What’d you think?”
“Either I’m running this or I’m not. I want you in front, and I want C.B. with me, in the van. I also want someone behind us. If I don’t get that, then it’s off. For what we’ve done so far, we’ve been well paid. So the hell with it.”
Tate frowned ponderously. “That’s the way to go, no question. It don’t feel good, we’re out, that’s the only way to handle it. Still…” He let a judicious beat pass. “Still, let’s not lose sight of all that money we could be splitting.”
“What I’m trying to do,” Bernhardt said, “is cover all the bases. I don’t want any surprises.”
Tate smiled tolerantly, and spread his big, muscular hands. They’d had this conversation before.
“Come on—let’s do it,” Bernhardt said. “Let’s do it, and get back to San Francisco.”
G
RAHAM DRAINED HIS COFFEE
cup, glanced at the check, tossed two ten-dollar bills on the table. He looked at his watch, then at Helen’s coffee cup, still half full. Her croissant was only half eaten. As he suppressed an impatient sigh, it occurred to him that Helen did everything slowly. She was a slow, languid person. And, yes, a self-indulgent person.
“I’ve got to make a couple more phone calls.” He gestured toward the lobby. “I want to use a pay phone. You finish your breakfast, and then go upstairs. If anyone calls for me, get a number and say I’ll call back. Okay?”
She nodded agreement, then said, “You look worried. Is anything wrong?”
He drew a deep breath. Then, with exaggerated patience: “There’s nothing wrong, Helen. However, as you might imagine, considering the situation, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Mmmm.” She smiled—a slow, erotic smile. They’d made love an hour and a half ago, and now she was ready to do it again. The situation, she said—all that money—it excited her, stimulated her.
“As soon as you can,” he said, “go upstairs.” He smiled at her, turned away, and walked the length of the coffee shop, then out into the lobby. As he walked, he verified that he had a pocketful of quarters. He chose a phone in an alcove adjoining the registration area. He consulted a sheet of paper and dialed Powers at home. Powers answered on the second ring.
“Is everything okay? Everything’s ready here.”
“Y-yes. All ready.”
“Will you be coming alone?”
“Yes. I’ll be in a camper—a big brown and white camper.”
“Is the camper registered to you?”
“No. I rented it. I had trouble, but I—”
“Can you pick up the bundle and be at the corner of Sepulveda and Vine by nine-thirty?”
“I—yes, I’m sure I can. Sepulveda and Vine, you say?”
Graham nodded impatiently. “Right. Nine-thirty. Stay in your camper until I come for you. Even if you see me, stay in your camper.”
“Sepulveda and Vine…” There was a puzzled moment of silence. “That seems like a—”
“It’s very busy. For something like this, you want lots of people around.”
“I—I understand. Yes.”
“The merchandise is crated. Will the camper be big enough?”
“It’s big. Very big.”
“Good. Then we’re all—”
“I wanted to tell you, I’ve decided to go with you. In the airplane, I mean.”
“
What?
”
“I—there’re a lot of reasons.”
“Is this a trick?” Graham asked.
“N-no. You offered, don’t forget. You told me I could come along. I thought about it all night. And I want to go.”
“Just you?”
“Just me.”
In the study, DuBois pivoted his wheelchair to face the master control panel set into the wall close beside his desk. He waited for the signal verifying that the house had been vacated, then turned to face Bernhardt and Paula, who stood side by side in front of the desk.
“Are we ready?” the old man asked.
“We’re ready,” Bernhardt said. “And I’ve talked to Graham. He’s ready. The only problem is James. I want him to follow us to the meeting place in one of your cars. But he wants to ride in the van, with the paintings. He said that’s your wish.”
DuBois frowned, then shook his head. “Sometimes James misunderstands me. Or sometimes I suspect he
pretends
to misunderstand me.” He turned to the panel again, punched in a sequence. Moments later James’s voice came over the loudspeaker.
“James, I want you to follow Mr. Bernhardt in our car. I want you to do exactly as he wishes. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, that’s clear.”
“Good. Thank you.” DuBois turned back to Bernhardt, asking, “Is that satisfactory?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then we’re ready to proceed.”
“Will you be with us, to open the gallery?”
“Oh, yes.” Dubois nodded as he began maneuvering the wheelchair. Repeating: “Oh, yes, I’ll be with you.”
They’d left the largest for the last: the Picasso, almost four feet wide. The other thirteen paintings were already stacked on edge against the far wall of the garage.
“Here.” Holding one end of the crate, walking backward, Bernhardt moved toward the van. “Let’s put this in first.”
Paula nodded, took a fresh grip on the crate. Painstakingly they maneuvered the crate between the open rear doors of the van and the closed door of the garage. Bernhardt set the crate on the floor of the van, got into the van, and slid the crate across the steel floor to rest on edge against the sidewall. That done, Paula was able to hand the other paintings up to him while he remained in the van, carefully stacking the crates. Fifteen minutes later the precious cargo was compactly loaded and securely roped. With all the paintings stowed, there would still be room for at least one person, plus the driver and passenger, in front. Bernhardt jumped down from the van, closed and locked the two rear doors. Paula had come to stand beside him as he tested the doors. She carried her saddle leather shoulder bag, with her revolver inside. Her expression was solemn. Bernhardt glanced at his watch.
“Ten minutes after nine,” he said. “I’m supposed to call Graham at ten. He’ll be in a phone booth, so I’ve got to be on time.”
“Before we leave,” Paula said, “I’ve got to go pee. Sorry.”
Bernhardt smiled, turned toward the door that led to the house. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is. I’ll tell DuBois we’re going, and I’ll meet you back here.”
As Bernhardt walked across the deck, the solitary figure in the wheelchair remained motionless, staring out across the city west toward the ocean. Yet, certainly, DuBois was aware of Bernhardt’s presence. If the body was infirm, the old man’s senses were still acute.
When Bernhardt was standing beside him, DuBois said, “Tell me, please, the exact chronology. Be very precise.”
“We’ve got the van loaded. We’re ready to go. After you and I talk, I’ll use my walkie-talkie to contact C.B. Tate.”
“He’s your enforcer. Your muscle.”
Amused by the other man’s attempt at street jargon, Bernhardt smiled. “Yes, sir. He’s waiting in my car. The Ford Taurus with the two guard dogs in back. In fact, the car is blocking the garage. When Tate hears my order, he’ll move away from the garage door, and signal James to open the door. Then—”
“Excuse me, but you must give that order to James. He won’t take it from a stranger.”
Bernhardt nodded assent. Then, resuming: “We’ll travel in a caravan. Paula’ll go first, in the Taurus. Tate and I, in the van with the paintings, will be next. James will follow us, in your Accord. He’ll use his remote control to open the gate for us and close it behind us. We’ll drive to Santa Monica, where I’ve rented a house with a large double garage. Tate and Paula will take the van inside, and close the door. They’ll have the dogs. James and I, in our separate cars, will stay outside, and wait until Graham arrives. He’ll—”
“How will Graham know where to find you?”
“I’ll call him between ten and ten-fifteen from a phone booth. I’ll tell him the location of the house I rented. When he arrives, I’ll let him drive into the garage.”
“You’ll all be armed, I assume.”
“Yes, sir, we will.”
DuBois nodded, gestured for Bernhardt to continue.
“Graham is concerned about the possibility of forgery, so I’ve told him he could open two crates and check the paintings. While he’s doing that, we’ll check the money. Then—”
“That’s nonsense. Graham can’t possibly know whether a given painting is a forgery. Authenticating a painting requires an expert. And it takes time. Weeks, sometimes.”
“Nevertheless, I felt it was a legitimate request.”
For a moment DuBois remained silent. Then: “You’ll need tools to open the crates.”
“I took a hammer and crowbar from your workshop. They’re in the van.”
DuBois nodded silent assent, waved for Bernhardt to continue.
“If we’re all satisfied,” he said, “we’ll make the actual swap—the paintings for the money. That should be about noon. At that time I’ll open the garage door and tell James to unblock the driveway. Graham and his people, whoever they are, will leave first, with the paintings.”
“Where will he go?”
“I’ve no idea. He’s been staying at the Beverly Hilton, but I wouldn’t expect him to go back there. I’m sure his company—Consolidated—will take over once Graham has the paintings. If I were planning their operation, I’d have Graham drive under guard directly to the Santa Monica airport, where there’d be a chartered jet waiting. They’d transfer the paintings to the jet. A few hours later, they’d be in New York.”
“The critical time,” DuBois said, “is after Graham learns the location of your house. The negotiations have taken several days. Quite possibly, during that time, Consolidated could have assembled a task force. Once they know the location of the house, they could simply overwhelm you, take the money, take the paintings, all of it.”