The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (6 page)

“Don’t ever touch me again. You disgusting, sick bastard!” Her shout disappeared behind the slamming door as she fled his office.

After a sleepless night, she returned to work in the morning prepared to collect her personal belongings and expecting the inevitable envelope on her desk.

She wasn’t wrong.

There were two large, white, quality envelopes waiting, with her name handwritten in blue ink with a swirling flourish. She remembered her complete bewilderment when she had ripped them open. The first congratulated her on being promoted to Senior Researcher with a handsome seventy-five percent increase in her monthly salary. The second was a school registration document for the privately run boarding school, Saint Petersburg International. It was made out in the name of Pavel Korovin, her seven-year-old son.
What on earth?
Before she could think further, a tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts. She swung around to face Anton Petrovitch, wearing sunglasses and carrying a large bouquet of flowers to which was attached an envelope.

“I was asked to bring these to you.” His face had looked like a weathered tombstone. He said nothing else, turned and left.

She recalled vividly her state of confusion that morning. The letter with the flowers was written by him and he had apologised, asking her to forgive him. It said he had drunk too much that day and his behaviour had been out of character. She had accepted his remorse, but he still scared and disgusted her. She remembered summing up, over and over again, all the implications of what was on offer, and what might be expected of her. Pavel never knew his father, Nikolai, who had disappeared shortly after he’d been born, leaving her penniless and earning a living as best she could. She never wanted to see those dreadful days again, but if she refused the offer – that’s the situation she’ll find herself in. The job gave her enormous satisfaction and brought her on intimate contact with works of art that she would never have been able to previously access. What did disturb her, almost as much as Berezin’s physical assault, was her conviction that he stole works of art. Missing or stolen works that should have been seen in museums, she had seen in his storage vaults. There was no way she could prove that. Perhaps this was a gesture, in part, to keep her quiet, or a softening up process for more physical contact. She half-heartedly convinced herself that was not her problem. Besides, who would believe her without evidence? So, she had accepted the offer and the benefits of a first-class education for Pavel. Since that time he had made no demands on her.

Using the lift, she pressed button five, feeling a knot of fear shift inside her stomach. He had not mentioned that incident since, although she had accepted the new post and had thanked him for sponsoring Pavel’s education. He had never told her why, and she assumed it was his expensive way of trying to pacify her. She couldn’t escape the feeling that he wanted to own her. If she could, she would disentangle herself from him. She didn’t see him often, and when she did it was in the company of others, but he never failed to give her a disturbing stare.

Stepping out of the lift, she glanced around the executive suite that led to his office. She found it unbelievably tasteless. He used it to hold staff meetings. She couldn’t help thinking it was furnished that way as a statement of disregard to his subordinates. A thick, magnolia-coloured carpet covered the central area, and the surrounds were of highly polished wood parquet flooring. Fake rococo plaster cherubs and foliage adorned the ceilings from which hung three gaudy glass chandeliers. Around the walls hung prints in cheap frames, mainly of Oriental women or charging wild animals. These she thought had a strong metaphorical message. The guard recognised her, nodded and stood back as she stared at the large brass nameplate that stated

Josef L. Berezin

Chairman & Chief Executive

International Art Sourcing

She rapped on the door with tight knuckles and heard his voice.

“Come in.”

She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Faberge eggs and Art Nouveau glass blended in perfect harmony with expensive paintings hanging from walls, overlooking the best quality handmade Kilim carpeting. She was startled to see fifteen paintings of Russian origin lined up in a row against the wall. More worrying, she recognised them as part of a research project she completed a month ago. An uneasy sensation began to gather in her stomach, like panic in a burning building. They had been stolen.

Outside, clouds of starlings swooped in the half-light of a dusk gathering across the grey waters of the Neva. Berezin had been fixated on the scene, allowing him to muse on why he had been unable to establish a meaningful or lasting relationship with women – to feel not just the joys of a physical relationship but his secret desire for stable domesticity, like his mother had demonstrated since his father, so ashamed of having a son with deformity, had left them. Anna and her son Pavel had ignited in him a recognition, and gave birth to a wave of tenderness that brought with it an awareness of his lack of fulfilment.

He heard the door close with a sharp click, and turned around to watch her advance toward him. He sensed his desire for her, but suppressed it. What was paramount was that she made a major miscalculation in her research, and that was not forgivable.

“Come here, Anna.” He waved his hand at her.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Please, examine these.” He gestured to the paintings stretched around the walls of his office. “Take your time.”

She took her time, stopping often, picking up a painting and examining it.

“You recognise them?”

“Yes, I do.”

He could smell her fear cutting through the scent of her expensive perfume, and saw the slight tremble of her hands.

“It’s as I told you, Mr Berezin, all the artists are here, Shiskin, Ropin, and Aivazovsky.” Her voice cracked.

“Where is Brodsky? I particularly wanted him.”

“I don’t know.”

“You told me in all certainty there would be works by Brodsky in this collection, didn’t you?”

“I said I wasn’t certain, but it could be possible. I don’t know. How could I?”

“You got it wrong, Anna, very wrong. I’m disappointed with you. This is a gross error. You’ve missed a dazzling opportunity and in doing so have disappointed and infuriated me. Your incompetence has cost me money.” He pressed a red button beneath his desk and shuffled across towards her, as he watched her expression shift.

“Don’t touch me!”

The door opened behind her, and without a sound, the dark presence of Anton Petrovitch slid in.

~ * ~

Later, from the windows, Berezin watched the snow falling on the icy streets of Saint Petersburg down below. In the dusky light arose a honey-coloured hue, highlighting icicles glittering like the chandeliers in his meeting area.  But Berezin didn’t really see the view. His mind was busy thinking about an intriguing report that had been passed down to him.
 

Chapter Six

Perth, Australia, 26 March

M
anton shifted in his seat as Hartley the auctioneer announced lot 275, a pair of paintings that an aproned porter held up for the bidders to see, moving the pictures around one-by-one for all to view. His stomach gave a hollow lurch, causing him to take a strong intake of breath.

His gaze had never left the paintings,
although now his concerns shifted to the dangers of other bidders. There had been some serious bidding for what quality there was, notably a rare and early pair of bronze Arab racehorses by the French animalièr sculptor, P J Mêne. The winning bid of four thousand dollars had come in over the phone. That the auction house had unexpectedly attracted some global attention raised his nerve levels to a new height. There were no reserve or commission bids left on lot 275. He’d noted a girl on one of the phones nod at the auctioneer. That meant someone else was interested.

“A pair of unusual paintings here.” His voice boomed across the packed saleroom. “The artist unknown and believed to be from the 1930s and of European origin. Nice lot this, who’ll start me off at three hundred?”

Not one hand was raised.

Hartley glanced around the room. “C’mon, you lot, let’s say two hundred?”

A solitary arm rose without enthusiasm from the back of the room.

“Two-twenty anyone?”

Another hand went up.

“Two-fifty?”

The bidding moved up to three-fifty.

“Are we all done at three-fifty?”

A bid from the phone took it to three-seventy.

“Are we all done?”

Manton raised his hand, taking the bid to four hundred.

The phone bid went to four-fifty.

The bids continued leapfrogging each other and Manton guessed somebody else liked them or had a good idea of their value. He began to feel uneasy. An unnatural calmness descended in the room and the focus of attention had shifted between him and the telephone bidder.

“Nine-fifty on the phone.”

Manton pushed it to a thousand.

The bidding continued and now went upwards in hundreds. “On the phone, one thousand-one-hundred.” He turned to Manton.

“Twelve-hundred.” He raised his catalogue attempting to look casual.

“Thirteen-hundred on the phone.”

Manton kept with it step-by-step. “On the phone, one-thousand nine-hundred.” He knew his limit had arrived. A hot sweat broke out behind his neck. He couldn’t afford to go beyond the next marker, when the bids would increase two hundred at each bid.

“Two thousand.” His heart began sinking.

“Two thousand from the floor,” shouted Hartley, turning towards the girl holding the phone. She spoke at speed into the mouthpiece, looked back at Hartley and shook her head. Her bidder had withdrawn. A rush of pleasure and an awareness that his shirt was sticking to his back caused Manton to clench his fist until his knuckle’s turned white.

The sound of the gavel coming down and the ripple of applause from the room struck him more sweetly than his first girlfriend’s kiss. With a flourish, he held up his 117- registration card. He didn’t hear the auctioneer announce the next lot. The lot was his! He knew they had to be authentic, and once verified, would represent a substantial income. Guaranteed to rid him of his debts forever.

~ * ~

The sun began dropping across the sky like a discarded blood orange as Novikov eased the black BMW over the eight lanes of Moscow’s Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge, navigating northwards towards St. Petersburg. He looked at his watch. It was six fifteen and darkness had draped itself over the city. It was a journey he never enjoyed. A long drive of ten hours in the bad mid-March weather had made him decide to stop overnight. He was in no hurry. Josef Berezin had again requested his presence, but this time at his Moscow dacha situated in the exclusive Serebryaniy Bor area. He was due there at three o’clock the following afternoon.

He owed Berezin a certain gratitude. Berezin had bequeathed him back his powers. These were powers he enjoyed. They could alter, like a game of roulette, the lives of those who were unfortunate to be at his table. Cruising with ease, the new car gave him a sense of importance, as policemen waved him through traffic queues and passers-by looked twice at the tinted windows, some attempting to see inside.

As he sped onward, he thought about Berezin, the sort of man he was, and how he became what he’d become. He exemplified the New Russia. He was a major criminal hiding behind a facade of respectable conservatism. Novikov’s researches had revealed little, but Berezin’s desire for beauty and aspiration in art were indisputable. That didn’t fit alongside the paradox of his varied and often perverse sexual appetites. Novikov regarded those he considered attractive as similar to a cirrhotic liver. He realised that one could not exist without its opposite. That didn’t mean he had to like the man… he didn’t. Each balanced the other, a manifestation of the complex nature of the universe. He could never enjoy or understand Berezin’s attraction to women. He himself much preferred his own sex. Yet, he thought, his theory of opposites worked as both he and his paymaster operated well together, employing minimum communication, with no questions asked and total amorality.

Once, for a Russian to make anything of himself, he had to get a posting overseas. Those times had changed. Novikov realised that Berezin, like a Russian football club owner, had become enviably rich in the transformation. He slotted into a dark dimension where few questions got asked and he understood the shifting nature of Russian society. Berezin, he surmised, had his own very private and secret agenda. That he had thought about, and assumed it had been bred from some deep and long-festering grudge about something. Whatever that was, it wasn’t his concern.

The prospect of another assignment gave him a feeling of relaxed pleasure. In his own private way, he was proud to play a small part in the Russian social revolution. Since his discharge from the SVR, the Foreign Intelligence Service, Berezin had revitalised his trade and rescued himself from being left out to graze like some old, battered warhorse.

The car continued on its rapid progress northward, its lights cutting through the woody panorama along the M10, linking Moscow to Tver. The twinkling city lights, traffic signals and road signs faded behind him. Woods frequently surrendered to vast frozen fields that shivered and froze in a late winter’s grip, patiently waiting for spring’s embrace to melt away winter’s cruel clutch. The speedometer flicked between 100 and 130 kmph. The silver bark on trees flashed like strobes cutting through the darkness. He activated the wipers as large globules of sleet splattered across the windscreen.

Ninety minutes later, a sign appeared:
Tver 5 km.
He’d decided to spend the night at a local hotel in Tver about 160 kilometres from Moscow. The thought of that brought memories of warmth, good food, vodka, and a willing male partner for the night. But that had been two years ago. If he was lucky, he might still be working there. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty then. He hadn’t even known his name and at the time it seemed unimportant. They’d undressed like kids tearing off paper from birthday presents.