The Warhol Incident (4 page)

T
he cab dropped me off a couple blocks away from the gallery, and I walked the rest of the way to the proper street. I had my suspicions on which vehicles were being used for surveillance but decided it was best to call Jean-Pierre rather than to surprise someone who may or may not be armed.

“Ali,” he said from behind
and opened the side door of a nondescript gray van. Climbing into the passenger’s seat, I assessed the equipment and vantage point. “It ought to be an exciting night. The guys think the art restorer is moving one of the missing paintings.”

“Why?”
I stared out the window at the gallery.

“Watc
h and see.” Jean-Pierre picked up a camera and snapped some photos as a man exited the building with a large portfolio.

Jean-Pierre and I were sitting in the surveillance van outside Jacques Marset’s residence. Marset was the art restorer employed by La Galerie d’Art et d'Antiquités. The other four Evans-Sterling investigators were in two other vehicles. One was still monitoring the gallery, and the other was parked farther down the street in a black sedan. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, we had been here for two hours, and so far, nothing happened. Maybe Mr. Marset went home and straight to bed.

“Why are stakeouts always so much more exciting in movies?” I mused aloud as I continued to stare out the window.

“Don’t jinx us.”

“Sorry.”
I adjusted the seat into a more comfortable position. “Give me the rundown on why you thought tonight would be so eventful.”

“A
fence I know heard the first painting, a Manet, was being moved out of the country and going up for auction in Luxembourg in three days.”

“Reliable source?”

“I wouldn’t consider him a s
ource otherwise. Anyway,” Jean-Pierre was trying to make polite conversation and kill some time, “enjoying your trip so far?”

“It’s okay.
No sleep. Lots of work. The fun just doesn’t stop,” I responded sarcastically, and he smiled.

“You can sleep
when you’re dead.” Hopefully, that wouldn’t be for a long, long time. My phone buzzed loudly. I pulled it from my pocket and looked at the display. It was Martin, and I pressed ignore. Jean-Pierre watched me suspiciously. “Who was that?”

“No one,” I replied just as my phone beeped
, announcing a new voicemail message.

“No one se
ems persistent.”

“You have no id
ea.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No, just a lonely American tourist I met in a bar.” Martin’s story might as well come in handy for something.

“Slut,” Jean-Pierre teased
.

“He wishes.
What about you? Wife and kids or are you still keeping a girl in every port?”

Jean-Pie
rre smiled but shook his head. “I got out of the business for a reason. Settling down is the plan, but I haven’t made it happen yet. I’m only on step one or two.”

“Intrigue.
Is there a lucky lady?”

“Clare.
” He smiled like a schoolboy with a crush. “She’s actually working for Sal, too. She’s in the other car with Van Buren.”

“Sorry
, I ruined your ideal stakeout fantasy.” My phone buzzed again. Martin, you are killing me. I fished the phone out of my pocket. “I’m going to take this, so I can get this guy off my back.” Hitting answer, I held the phone against my ear, decreasing the volume.

“I am so sorry.
” Martin’s voice was full of remorse. “I never should have left.”

“It’s okay.
The real world came knocking. Those two lonely tourists have lives they need to get back to. We would have regretted tonight.”

“Alex, please.
” He understood the implications of my words. Tonight was an accident based on being in a foreign, romantic city and drinking too much wine. “Stay safe.”

“A
lways.”

“See you when yo
u get home?”

“Have a safe flight.
I have to go.” Disconnecting the call, I blew out a slow breath.

“Think he got the message?” Jean-Pi
erre asked. I nodded. He got it, loud and clear.

“Whoa,” I said, sitting up straighter and grabbing the binoculars.
“We have movement.”

Jean-Pierre was on the radio to the other surveillance team.
An SUV just pulled up, and two men got out of the vehicle, heading straight for Marset’s house. We continued to watch as the men rang the doorbell, and Marset opened the door, allowing them to enter his home. It was almost four a.m. when the men left. The silver briefcase they had been carrying was no longer in hand; instead, they were carrying a large cardboard tube. Jean-Pierre told the other team to stick with the SUV since I was a liability, given my lack of weaponry and my tourist status in the country. The SUV pulled away, followed slowly by the sedan.

“Where do
you think they’re going?” I posed the question as he pulled out the radio and called the third team, who was still waiting at the gallery, to give them instructions on how to assist Clare and Van Buren.

“Could be anywhere.
We’ll try to keep a tail on them between the two cars.” He was contemplating something when there was movement at Marset’s. The art restorer exited through the back door, a large duffel bag in hand, and went quickly down the alley. He stopped at the opening and looked around cautiously, eyeing our van suspiciously.

“We have
a runner.”

Marset
made us and ran back down the alley and leapt the fence, making our ability to follow in the van nonexistent. I opened my door, preparing to give chase. Jean-Pierre was a few seconds ahead of me, and we ran down the alley after our suspect. Jean-Pierre leapt the fence in one fluid motion; unfortunately, I had to jump and climb to get myself up and over. If only I had longer legs, I thought wistfully as I continued to run full-out down the avenue.

Marset w
as still in sight but had a decent lead. The avenue split, and Jean-Pierre signaled that I go right in the hopes of heading off the suspect. Turning the corner, we entered a parking garage from two different angles. I ran up the ramps while keeping a watchful eye on the stairs. Jean-Pierre was gaining on him. On the fourth level, Marset exited the stairwell and ran into a cluster of parked cars, disappearing into the darkness.

“S
hit,” I muttered. Jean-Pierre emerged and looked at me. Unfortunately, neither of us knew where Marset was. The radio in Jean-Pierre’s jacket squawked, and a woman said something in French about losing the vehicle, making us oh for two tonight.

C
arefully walking through the rows of cars in search of Marset, tires screeched from the floor above. The SUV flew down the ramp, heading straight toward us. Throwing myself flat against one of the structural pillars, I reached instinctively for my gun.

“Dammit.
” I was in a foreign country with no firearm. Things could have been better. The SUV stopped, and Marset ran from his hiding spot toward the back door. Jean-Pierre lunged, knocking the duffel bag away. It skittered across the pavement, sliding to a stop next to another of the pillars. The two men struggled on the ground. Jean-Pierre was unable to get a good grip on Marset, who continuously wormed out of the hold as he tried to reach the discarded duffel. I maintained a close eye on the SUV, quickly running through my options for detaining its occupants.

The two men sitting in the SUV
seemed entirely untroubled by this unfortunate series of events. One barked orders to Marset in bored-sounding French, and the other exited the SUV, brandishing a pistol. He looked at me and fired. I dove to the next support pillar and ducked behind it. Why was I stupid enough to think chasing after some smugglers was a good idea? The struggle continued behind me, and I peered around the pillar, knowing I was going to be of little help. Jean-Pierre managed to kick the duffel bag farther away from the man and was now taking cover behind the parked cars as the gunman fired at him. If I could just reach the bag and distract them, Jean-Pierre could get clear. Playing decoy had to be my least favorite idea, but it was the only one I had. Staying low, I ran from my hiding spot to the bag and shoved it hard enough to slide across the asphalt and drop to the level below.

The solo gunma
n turned and fired at me. His aim left a lot to be desired, but it was France. Guns weren’t nearly as prevalent here, thank goodness. Running in a zigzag pattern to make myself a more difficult target, I headed for the parking barrier, hoping to take the same path as the duffel. As I leapt over the barrier wall, my leg caught on the rusted wire, and I landed splayed on top of a parked car. Quickly rolling off the hood, I came to rest in a crumpled heap on the ground. The car next to me provided a place to stow the duffel bag, and I crouched between the two closely parked cars, hoping the SUV and its occupants wouldn’t be able to locate me or the bag. My thoughts returned to Jean-Pierre on the floor above. Was he okay? The tires screeched again as the SUV drove past at breakneck speed and continued down the ramp and out of the garage.

“Ali, you okay?” Jean-Pierre called from abov
e.

“
Never better.” I waited three counts before emerging from my cover position in case the SUV returned. Jean-Pierre was on the radio with the other two teams as he came down the ramp toward me. “What the hell did they want?”

“Je ne
sais pas. Marset got inside the SUV, and they drove off. Nice move, playing decoy,” he complimented.

Reaching under the car, I
pulled on the strap of the bag until it popped free from the undercarriage. “You do the honors.” My jeans were ripped at the thigh, and my leg was bleeding. Just my luck. Peering over his shoulder into the bag, the missing Manet was inside, along with a few thousand dollars.

“Money and a Manet.” H
e indicated the contents. “Why would Marset have both?”

“I don’t know.
Who were his friends in the SUV?” I asked, but he shook his head, perplexed. The other two Evans-Sterling teams were en route to meet us and help sort out this mess.

“I have
to call the police,” he seemed torn, “but you have a flight to catch on Saturday.” If I were a witness or involved in a large-scale police investigation, I wouldn’t be flying home with Mr. Wilkes’ painting. “There’s no reason why you have to be here, or why you were ever here.” He glanced down at my leg and up at the wire that inflicted the damage. “We can clean this up. Just try not to bleed on anything.”

“A
re you sure?” I didn’t feel right removing myself from the equation. This was not how I was trained, and this wasn’t something I’d normally do.

“I’ll call Sal and tell him what happened.
We’ll let him decide. It’s his show.” He dialed Sterling and filled him in.

W
hile he was on the phone, the other two teams arrived in the parking garage to meet us. Exiting from the sedan was a man and a woman, Clyde Van Buren and Clare Olivier. The other team in the van pulled up next to them, and Ryan Donough and Michel Langmire stepped out. Van Buren went to speak with the two men, leaving Clare to stare suspiciously at me. Although, I noticed Donough wasn’t paying much attention to his pals and instead was eyeing me. We had never been formally introduced, but I skimmed through all of their Sterling dossiers. Donough stepped away from the group and was about to approach me when Jean-Pierre got off the phone.

“Clare,”
he said to her, “this is Ali. She needs a ride back to her hotel.” I looked at him, unsure how I felt about any of this. I guess I could take it up with Salazar Sterling myself.

“Come on,” Clare said
in English. Her French accent was much thicker than Jean-Pierre’s.

I looked at the rest of the crew.
They all seemed to be in some type of exclusive club I wasn’t supposed to be privy to even knowing about. Even Donough slipped back into his group, lost in discussion over the situation. I followed her to the sedan and got into the passenger’s seat. Giving her the name of my hotel, she turned the car around and headed back into the heart of the city.

“
What happened back there?” she asked, her eyes on the road. When I finished my story, she frowned, deep in thought. “I would suggest you get that leg cleaned up. You might need some stitches. See if the hotel doctor can do it for you. Tell him you fell or something.”

I wondered
why all of the Evans-Sterling employees seemed so covert and hostile. It’s not like we were international spies.

“You used to work
for Interpol like Jean-Pierre?” I tried to get a feel for Clare.

“I used to be with Interpol but not like Jean-Pierre.”
This meant she wasn’t a UC, maybe an analyst.

“
OIO,” I volunteered, trying to put us on an even keel. She nodded her head, glancing briefly at me.

“I know.
Sterling was pleased you were coming on board for this asset retrieval.” Finally, I understood the hostility. The full-time Evans-Sterling employees thought I was invading their territory and stepping on some toes.

“This is a o
ne-time only kind of thing. I’m just here to authenticate and retrieve Mr. Wilkes’ painting, and then I’m going home.”

Clare laughed cynically.
“That’s how it always starts. One job that leads to another and then another.”

“No.
I’m on retainer elsewhere. This was just a way to score a free trip to Paris.” She assessed my words, nodding to herself and deciding I wasn’t a threat to her job.

“D’accord.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence. When we got to the hotel, Clare parked on the street, a block away. “It was nice to meet you, Ali…”