Authors: James Twining
The Double Eagle (15 page)
CHELSEA, LONDON
8:00
P.M.
H
arry Renwick lived on a wide, tree-lined street. Broad brick houses with tall windows and high ceilings climbed four stories into the sky. Station wagons and SUVs nestled bumper to bumper with weekend Ferraris and Porsches.
Tom had pulled on his best suit for the occasion, a merino-and-cashmere mix that was light and yet sat well on his square frame. In the end, knowing Renwick as he did, he had decided to wear a tie, although the unfamiliar collar rasped against his neck. Suits weren’t really his thing.
He stepped out of the cab and checked his wrist, a Tank from the 1920s, which Tom still regarded as Cartier’s best period. It was gold and solid and squat, the Roman numerals elegantly spaced out on the oblong face. It was eight o’clock. He was right on time.
“Come in, come in,” exclaimed Renwick as he threw the door open, Tom’s face reflecting in its gleaming black paint and polished brass.
Renwick was still wearing the same white linen suit, although he had taken the jacket off, revealing his shirt’s threadbare elbows. Tom shook Renwick’s hand and then handed over the bottle he was holding as he stepped onto the hall’s marble checkerboard floor.
“My dear boy!” Renwick exclaimed, his face beaming as he unwrapped it. “A Clos du Mesnil and an ’85, too. You really shouldn’t have.”
“I know,” said Tom, smiling. He was feeling much more composed now after the initial surprise of that morning’s events. More than anything now he was intrigued. The FBI’s involvement suggested that the Agency was not behind this approach, which had to be good news. And the fact that they hadn’t just had him picked up suggested that they needed something from him that might give him some room for maneuver. Even if he still didn’t really have a clue what they wanted.
“Well, let’s get this opened right away,” Renwick continued as he led Tom through to the sitting room. “Now I hope you don’t mind, but I invited someone else to join us tonight. Thomas, meet Jennifer Browne; Jennifer, meet Thomas Kirk.”
Tom had frozen in the doorway as he had glimpsed Jennifer rising from her chair on the other side of the room. He glared at Renwick angrily. What was going on? Was Harry working with the Feds?
“Good evening, Mr. Kirk.” She glided toward him as if they’d never met before, a cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.
Tom gave her a tight smile as they shook hands.
“Miss Browne.”
“Come, come. No need to be so formal. We’re all friends here,” Renwick chided. “Jennifer works at the FBI in America for a friend of mine. Apparently he thinks I might be able to help on a case they’re investigating. It’s awfully exciting.” Renwick grinned. “Anyway, she’s only in town for a few days and I thought you two might get on.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Uncle Harry,” said Tom, forcing a smile and feeling slightly guilty. Perhaps he’d been a bit too quick to judge Renwick. It was more likely that he was an unwitting pawn in whatever game the FBI was playing rather than their willing accomplice.
“Drinks, anyone?” Renwick exclaimed. “How about you, my dear, what will you have? A glass of champagne? Excellent.” Renwick removed the foil wrapper and the wire cage from the bottle and gently levered the cork out until it came free with a repressed hiss.
“Glasses? Bugger. Hold that, will you, Thomas, and I’ll go and get some. And an ice bucket, of course. Never forget the ice bucket.” Handing the open bottle to Tom, Renwick swept off to the kitchen.
“Even for you guys this is pretty low,” Tom hissed, rounding on Jennifer.
“You think this is some sort of game?” Jennifer shot back indignantly. “Just so you know, this is your life from now on. Wherever you go, wherever you turn, we’ll be there. Your world’s about to get a whole lot smaller.”
“You got a problem with me, fine. But Harry’s on the outside. He’s got nothing to do with any of this. I won’t let you drag him into my life.”
“He’s not even really your uncle, is he? Your whole life is a lie.”
“That’s irrelevant.” Tom took a step toward her until they were only a few feet apart. “I’m warning you, keep him out of it.”
“Well, if you play ball with us, it won’t ever get to that, will it?” Jennifer glared defiantly into Tom’s eyes.
Renwick strode back into the room, clutching glasses and a champagne bucket.
“Well, you two certainly seem to have broken the ice.” He chuckled. “Excellent.”
At the sound of his voice they both jumped apart and stood awkwardly as Renwick poured them each a glass. He then ushered them to the right-hand sofa while he sat on the one opposite. In between them, a low blue silk divan covered in auction catalogs served as an impromptu coffee table, while the large marble fireplace had been filled with dried flowers.
“Business must be good,” said Tom, straining to make his voice sound relaxed and normal, indicating the room around them.
Although simply furnished with modern mushroom-colored sofas and sea-grass matting, the sandstone walls had been carefully hung with a collection of paintings and sketches—an Old Testament prophet, a beatific Madonna clutching a cherubic Christ child, a papal portrait, its subject frozen in martial pose, and a mythical scene of bacchanalian abandonment, to name but a few. Not to mention, of course, that Tom had immediately recognized the hand of van Eyck, Rembrandt, and perhaps even Verrocchio in several of the works. It was a staggering collection that would have sat well in the Renaissance gallery of any major museum.
“What, this? Most of it’s new to me, actually,” Renwick said, looking around him dispassionately. “I inherited the house from a relative a few months ago, gave it a lick of paint and bought some new furniture. He was in shipping or something. Made a fortune after the war. Anyway, I don’t know how he lived here because it was full of junk. I sold most of it but some of it was worth keeping.”
“I can see that,” said Tom, appreciatively.
“In fact, I’ve got a chap coming round here tomorrow to look at that one there.” He pointed at the papal portrait at the far left side of the room. “It’s always been attributed to the school of Titian. But I have a suspicion that it may have been painted by Titian himself.”
“Really?” Tom stood up and approached the painting with an appreciative look.
“And what are they?” Jennifer pointed at the luridly painted masks that had been hung over the mantelpiece.
“Ah. Now they
are
mine.” Renwick’s voice was immediately energized. “I collect them. They’re Japanese Noh masks.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Noh was a form of Japanese theater that emerged in the Muromacho period,” Renwick explained. “The plots are always simple and serious and very symbolic, the costumes elaborate. The masks are worn to show stylized characters or emotions, much like in ancient Greek theater, and also to let the same actor play several characters. I’ve been collecting these since I was a boy.” Renwick’s eyes shone brightly, his voice vibrant.
“How old are they?”
“Well, the oldest one I have is that one.” He stood up to point at a white mask decorated with golden horns and bulging eyes, its mouth drawn into a white-teethed demonic grin. “That’s from about 1604 when Noh was adopted as the official theater of Japan under the protection of the ruling samurai class and the shogun. The others date from the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.”
Tom let his eyes flick over some of the other masks. A smiling mandarin, eyes scrunched in laughter, a neatly clipped beard and moustache decorating his dimpled chin. A worried-looking Japanese youth, forehead creased, hair thinning, eyes narrowed in surprise.
“Now I hope you don’t mind, my dear,” Renwick boomed to Jennifer. “But we’re eating in the kitchen. The dining room still looks like a bomb site.”
He showed them into the kitchen, a wide stone-flagged room with a rustic-looking wooden table in the middle of it, set for three. French windows along the right-hand wall gave out onto the garden and these were slightly ajar, allowing the smell of the honeysuckle that grew up the side of the house to seep in. Granite-topped cherrywood units ran along the left and facing walls, punctuated by a gas range—a huge mass of cast iron and dials and pipes—and a deep Belfast sink, which was already piled high with pans and dishes.
They sat down, Renwick at the head of the table, Tom and Jennifer opposite each other.
“Now, if I’d known earlier you were coming I would have done something special,” Renwick apologized.
“This looks wonderful,” Jennifer protested.
Tom looked at Jennifer angrily. He knew that this intrusion into his life was some trick, some underhanded way of showing him just how far they could go—would go—to get what they wanted.
She was wearing a fitted black jacket over a white blouse, her long legs sheathed in flowing black silk trousers, the material fluttering around her ankles. Tom noticed that as she talked the tip of her nose twitched in sympathy to the movement of her lips, like a small rabbit.
Despite everything, that made him smile, which only infuriated him further.
10:09
P.M.
S
everal hours later, Jennifer’s cheeks glowing a little from the wine and the heat from the stove, they went back through to the sitting room for coffee. Once they had all helped themselves, Renwick settled back into the sofa and smiled benevolently at Jennifer, who had parked herself next to him and opposite Tom.
“So, Jennifer. Robert said that I might be able to help with something? Confidentially, of course.” Jennifer nodded gratefully and put her cup down. She had been careful to drink only one glass of wine in anticipation of this moment, and although she had spoken to Renwick for almost the whole meal, she had felt Kirk’s angry eyes on her throughout.
“Agent Corbett—I mean Robert—said you were
the
person to talk to about numismatics in Europe.” Her tone was businesslike now.
“He did, did he? Well, that’s very kind. I suppose it is true to say that it’s my area. I was a dealer for years and years. That’s how we met, you know, on another of his cases several years ago now. I’ve diversified a bit recently into other areas, but one of my clients is a fanatical collector, so I still have to keep up with things.”
Jennifer hesitated. This was a careful balancing act. While she wanted the benefit of Renwick’s insight, Corbett had reminded her she couldn’t afford to give him, a civilian, all the details on the theft. And yet this was also an opportunity to crank up the pressure on Kirk by showing him that they knew exactly what had happened and then seeing how he reacted. It was a fine line to tread. She reached into the zipped compartment of her purse and extracted the protective envelope containing the gold coin, handing it to Renwick.
“Good God.” Renwick gasped. The coin dropped from his hand to the floor and disappeared out of sight. He fell to his knees, apologizing to Jennifer, as he reached under his chair.
“I’m terribly sorry—please forgive me—don’t know what came over me,” he stuttered. Jennifer smiled, noticed Tom looking on with curiosity. He had barely moved in his seat.
“It’s fine. Don’t mention it.”
“It’s just that it was such a shock,” he explained, once the coin was safely back in his hand and he had settled back down. “I’ve never seen one before.”
“Not many people have,” Jennifer said helpfully.
“Seen what?” Tom asked, his forehead wrinkled, straining to see what he was holding.
“A 1933 Double Eagle. A phenomenally rare coin,” Renwick explained to Tom, handing him the coin.
“A twenty-dollar coin,” Tom said, examining it. “Gold. Is it valuable?” He flipped the coin in the air, caught it and then placed it down on the blue silk divan.
Jennifer snorted her disbelief at Tom’s question.
“Only about eight million dollars,” Renwick said excitedly.
“Christ!”
Tom sat forward and picked the coin up again, a respectful look on his face now. Jennifer’s brows furrowed. Either Tom was a very convincing actor or else…? Renwick interrupted her thoughts.
“My client, you know the one I mentioned earlier, he has one. Bought it at auction recently. I’ve never seen it, of course. He keeps it locked up in Paris. I thought that his was the only one, though.”
“If your client is Darius Van Simson, then officially, it still is.”
“And unofficially?” He looked at her quizzically over the top of his coffee cup.
“Unofficially, the U.S. Treasury did hold on to a few other coins. Only they have been…mislaid.” She stared at Tom as she said this and again was confused by his reaction. Sudden understanding swept across his face as if the pieces of a puzzle had just fallen into place. As if he’d only just realized what this was all about.
“Mislaid?” Renwick took his glasses off and flashed her an indulgent smile. “Where were they last seen?”
“This coin was found in Paris. We are assuming that the others are also in Europe.”
“I see.” Renwick rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, Van Simson will be furious when he hears about this.”
“I thought we’d agreed that he won’t,” said Jennifer sharply. “Or at least if he does it’ll be from me. I’ve an appointment with him tomorrow.”
“My dear girl, I won’t breathe a word. But the art world is a very small place, just ask Thomas. Van Simson likes to keep on top of things and he pays a lot of money to get this sort of information first. If he doesn’t know already, he soon will. And believe me, when you pay eight million dollars for a coin that is supposedly unique, you don’t react too well to people pulling one out of their handbag like confetti.”
“Do you know him well?” asked Tom.
“Not really. As I said, he’s a client. I look out for coins for him. And I got him some paintings, modern stuff mainly. But that’s about it.”
“What I need to know,” Jennifer asked, mindful of steering the conversation back to the coin, “is who the likely buyers might be here in Europe. Who would pay to own such a piece.” Tom was studying Renwick as if he was as interested in his answer as she was.
Renwick sucked his cheeks in.
“I really couldn’t say. Your best bet is probably to identify the winning bidders at the large coin auctions over the past few years and focus on them. The most active buyers in the market tend to be institutional. You know, museums, trusts, corporates. Van Simson is the only private collector I know of who could come close to affording something like that.”
“So how would you sell something like this, if you were to have…let’s say…stolen it?” Jennifer fixed Tom with a stare as she said this but he returned it unblinkingly.
“Stolen it?” Renwick paused. “Hmmm. Well, something like that would almost certainly have a buyer lined up before it was stolen. It’s not the sort of thing you can just sell on the open market.”
Jennifer considered the thought that had struck her on the plane flying over. For the coin to have ended up back in FBI hands, somewhere along the line the plan had clearly gone wrong. Maybe this explained it.
“But what if you didn’t have a buyer? What would you do then?”
Renwick shook his head.
“It’s unlikely, but the obvious step would probably be to try and find a fence. You know, someone who would take it off your hands and then try and sell it themselves through their own network.”
A fence? Jennifer nodded slowly. It made sense. Ranieri was a fence. Maybe that was how he’d ended up with the coin. For some reason there’d been no buyer and Ranieri had been brought in to help. But by whom?
“Or an off-site?” Tom suggested.
“Yes, that’s possible, too, I suppose,” said Renwick, rubbing his chin again. “It’s possible, but very risky. Especially these days.”
“An off-site?” Jennifer looked questioningly at each of them. “What’s that?”
“It’s a sort of black market auction,” Tom explained, Jennifer noticing a slight edge to his voice, as if he were forcing himself to be civil. She was glad. She wanted him to feel uncomfortable.
“What do you mean?”
Renwick answered for him.
“Any major artist has a catalogue raisonné, a book put together by experts showing photos and descriptions of every work by the artist in question together with details on the rightful owners. The first step for any respectable gallery owner or auctioneer when asked to sell an item would be to consult these books to see where the piece in question had originally come from. The second step would be to consult the Art Loss Register in London, which records all reported art thefts on its system. Together, they make an open sale of a stolen quality piece almost impossible.”
Nodding, Tom took over.
“One alternative is an off-site, an opportunity to get some of the benefits of an auction without the publicity. There’s a very selective list of approved buyers who get told when and where it’s happening at the last minute. Used to happen a lot, but less so now. The cops have wised up.”
Jennifer nodded and then turned to Renwick.
“What would be really useful, then, is to run through who the likely buyers might be, both at regular auctions and these off-sites.”
“Yes, of course. I’d be happy to help. When would you like to do that?” Jennifer gave a sheepish smile. “Now?” he asked with surprise.
“I’m still running on U.S. time.” Her tone was apologetic. “It’s only”—she snatched a look at her watch—“five-thirty in the afternoon back home. I’d sure appreciate it if we could make a start tonight. I’m on a pretty tight schedule my end.”
“Fine. Of course, if that’s what you want. I’m somewhat of a night owl myself so I’m more than happy to stay up and knock it on the head.”
“Well, in that case, I’m off,” said Tom, yawning. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Another shipment coming in. And you two clearly don’t need me anymore.”
Renwick phoned for a taxi. It arrived five minutes later and he showed Tom to the door, Jennifer standing behind him.
“Good-bye, Agent Browne,” said Tom. “And I hope you find your coins.”
“Oh, don’t worry, we will.” She smiled tightly. “And whoever took them.”
Renwick walked Tom out to the taxi.
“Bye-bye Tom, and do keep in touch.”
“I will, I promise.” The two men hugged each other.
“By the way, isn’t she a great girl?” Renwick whispered quietly. “Full of fire. And beautiful, too. Maybe you should make a move.”
“Make a move? She’s really not my type,” said Tom, laughing. “And in any case, it was you she wanted to meet. You’re the coin expert.”
Tom shook his hand again and climbed into the taxi.
Waving him good-bye, Renwick closed the front door and turned to face Jennifer.
“Right. Let’s get cracking. If you go back into the sitting room and help yourself to a drink I’ll pop upstairs and get my files. This should only take an hour or so.”
“Great.”
Renwick walked upstairs and into his book-lined study, sitting down heavily in the leather chair that he pulled out from under the front of the large mahogany desk. For several minutes he sat there, thinking, until he pulled the phone toward him, lifted the receiver out of the cradle, and dialed a number.
“Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“What is it?”
Renwick sat back in the chair and put his feet up on the desk.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve got downstairs.”