by Gerald Elias
‘Would tomorrow morning be acceptable? Nine o’clock?’
‘I’ll be here. I hear you Japs are the punctual type.’
‘We don’t wish to waste anyone’s valuable time.’
‘Virtuoso performance, Yumi,’ Jacobus said, after she hung up.
‘Piece of cake. Good thing you also taught me how to improvise.’
‘What if he had insisted on who your supervisor was?’
‘I would have given him your phone number.’
‘It’s out of order.’
‘Exactly.’
When Boris Dedubian arrived from New York City, they had a quick lunch, then spent the rest of the day rehearsing and reviewing the details.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Saturday, January 14
Foot-high plowed snow had turned black and icy along the curbs. Snow that had gone unplowed formed a slippery slurry on the street and sidewalks, so there were few cars and even fewer pedestrians. Jacobus and Nathaniel, along with Lieutenant Brooks and Minerva Forsythe, sat in the refitted cargo area of a white, mildly dented van with a faded Kendall and Sons Heating logo on its exterior. Another van, inside of which was a squadron of heavily armed, uniformed G-BAT agents, idled at the corner. Across the street was the nondescript, cinderblock office of Prime Transport, located on an industrial side street in East Boston, spitting distance from Logan Airport.
Jacobus had never been to East Boston before.
‘What’s it like?’ he asked Brooks.
‘You know how they call Boston the Athens of America?’
‘Yeah.’
‘East Boston is the other part.’
A chauffeured, black Mercedes limousine pulled up in front of Prime Transport, from which Yumi and Boris Dedubian emerged. Dedubian, tall and regal, wore his usual custom-tailored Savile Row suit and silk tie. Yumi had bought a black, wool business suit for the occasion that was tight enough and short enough to show off all the important curves, but severe enough to show that she meant business. Crossing the street, her black patent leather high heels made exclamation points in the slush.
They walked up four icy steps and rang the doorbell. Boris Dedubian carried an empty violin case, ostensibly intended for the violin whose purchase they were about to negotiate. Embedded within the case’s handle was the audio connection to the van. Yumi carried an attaché case, filled with the cash Forsythe had surrendered to Lieutenant Brooks as the downpayment for her redemption.
Jacobus’s stomach tightened when he heard Yumi and Dedubian buzzed in. Before entering, Yumi was to bend down to wipe the slush off her high heel, and while doing so, surreptitiously insert an unnoticeable shim into the doorjamb. It was all Jacobus’s plan, and even though everyone had gone along with it, now he was beginning to regret being so vengeful that he was being fast and easy with his friends’ lives. Brooks had warned them that Primo would use his physical presence to intimidate – his square-shouldered, linebacker build; his hairy, powerful hands; his square, protruding chin. He would be in your face and challenge you to back away, and if you did, the game was over.
Yumi’s voice, tinny and distant through the audio link, interrupted his thoughts. It was too late to go back.
‘I am Hitomi Sato,’ she said. ‘May I present my business card.’
Yumi had designed a traditional card, Japanese on one side, English on the other, very formal and official looking. With Nathaniel playing the part of Primo, they had practiced the traditional Japanese method of exchanging meishi, a much more ritualized and meaningful ceremony for the Japanese than for Westerners. Yumi held the card in both hands, English side up with the text facing Nathaniel. They had gone through every possible scenario, from Primo being impressed to Primo calling in his henchmen. It wasn’t that Yumi didn’t know the ritual. It was to get the butterflies out. To make sure her hands didn’t shake and her voice didn’t quaver. The preparation had had all the intensity of a dress rehearsal for a Carnegie Hall debut. And since Yumi, the violinist, had experienced that, Jacobus concluded she would also survive this ordeal.
There was silence in the office of Prime Transport. Presumably Primo was examining the business card. A light, flapping sound through the wire caught Jacobus’s attention.
‘What’s that?’
‘They’re being patted down,’ Brooks said. ‘His men are checking for weapons and bugs.’
‘Who’s he?’ Primo finally said with undisguised suspicion and menace.
‘May I present Mr Boris Dedubian?’ Yumi replied, unperturbed. ‘He is a highly respected violin expert and will inspect the violin. Here are his credentials. His phone number is on the cover letter in case you would like to call his office.’
‘You didn’t say anything about bringing a so-called expert,’ Primo said.
Jacobus, in the van, held his breath. Nathaniel began to say something, but Jacobus put his index finger to his lips, intent on hearing the words they had practiced.
‘Surely you wouldn’t purchase merchandise of any kind without being entirely certain what you are buying,’ Yumi said. ‘We feel the same way. As your President Reagan recently stated, “Trust, but verify.” If you are confident the violin is authentic, this will be a mere formality. You have nothing to be worried about.’
‘Like hell I don’t!’ Primo barked. ‘I know what you’re trying to do. You’re just trying to Jew down the price. Get the hell out of here.’
‘I’m sorry we have wasted your time,’ Yumi said. ‘We wish you success selling your violin. Elsewhere.’
With that, Jacobus heard Yumi and Dedubian turn to leave. This was the crucial moment. Jacobus had forewarned her that as much as Primo wanted his two-and-a-half million, he would believe the deal was for real only when he was convinced she would walk away from it.
Dedubian’s involvement had been crucial. Jacobus had not believed Forsythe’s contention that the reason Primo hadn’t insured his violin was out of concern for personal privacy. And clearly, with the deaths of Borlotti and Falcone, and with Forsythe’s efforts to stay clear of him, no conclusion could be reached other than that Primo had somehow discovered the violin was a fake. Jacobus had needed to find out how.
Dedubian had called his colleagues worldwide. He was well aware that violin dealers have not shown themselves averse to occasionally denigrating a rival’s opinion about a certain violin in order to achieve a competitive edge, even though a violin dealer’s reputation could be ruined by a single mistaken opinion of an instrument. But when a multi-million-dollar scandal is afoot, dealers circle their wagons. Word spreads through the grapevine quickly and accurately.
In this case it hadn’t. No one had heard of Borlotti, ironically, until his disappearance was in the news. They knew nothing of his violins, including a fake Stradivarius. Dedubian had to dig deeply into his network to unearth the crucial information.
Dedubian learned that Primo had quietly taken the violin to Taylor Bradford, a well-known violin dealer in Boston, for an insurance appraisal. Clearly, Forsythe had not been convincing enough to dissuade him from seeking insurance. Primo’s choice of Bradford had nothing to do with his Boston proximity but everything to do with family relations. Bradford’s brother-in-law, Kevin Connolly, was the Speaker in the Massachusetts House of Representatives.
Bradford examined the violin and determined it was not original. Primo was not happy to hear this and showed him the certificate.
‘Yes,’ Bradford said. ‘The certificate may be original, but so what? Borlotti is a nobody. You would need someone with an international reputation to corroborate it, so in itself it’s not worth anything. In any event, even if the certificate is original, the violin is not. In my opinion.’
After that, Primo swore Bradford to secrecy, which he was able to do because Primo threatened to expose certain idiosyncrasies in the state budget having to do with Connolly’s district if the violin’s uncertain origin became public knowledge. But the strength of the violin fraternity was too strong. Trading future favors, Dedubian prevailed
in overcoming Bradford’s fears. Bradford had sworn Dedubian to secrecy, which lasted as long as it took to call Jacobus. The only critical thing for Jacobus was that Primo, who made no further attempts to insure the violin, knew it was a fake.
Jacobus heard Primo’s office door open through the audio feed. One more step and Yumi and Dedubian would be out. It would be over and they would have to go back to square one.
‘I tell you what?’ Primo said. ‘Have your Mr Doobie here take a look. If he says it’s for real I get my three million. If he says it isn’t, he still writes a letter saying that it is and I let the two of you walk out of here intact. That’s the deal.’
‘If Mr Dedubian says the violin is authentic,’ Yumi said without hesitation, ‘we will pay you an amount with which you will be totally satisfied. I can’t speak for Mr Dedubian more than that.’
‘What does Doobie have to say?’ Primo asked.
‘Your concerns are probably irrelevant,’ Dedubian said. His tone, usually so suave and genteel, was stiff and less assured than Yumi’s. To Jacobus, the words sounded memorized rather than responsive to the moment. Wouldn’t have made a great violinist, he thought. He hoped Primo would be so intent on getting his money that he’d overlook Dedubian’s unconvincing performance. He fretted that Dedubian wouldn’t warm to the task. There was a long way to go. ‘We have no reason to believe it is not a Stradivarius,’ Dedubian continued, ‘so why don’t we just take a look at it first?’
‘All right. Let’s get this over with.’
The hollow, wooden ring of a violin landing on a desk or table echoed through the wire and made Jacobus cringe. Forsythe had told the truth about one thing. Primo truly had no idea how to handle valuable instruments and he probably didn’t know the difference between Mozart and Manilow. But then Jacobus reminded himself that the violin was not a Stradivarius, but a fake. Just like the set-up he had devised.
As Jacobus had instructed, Dedubian took his sweet time. He gave Primo a primer in violin history and how to spot forgeries, just as he had given to Jacobus in New York. Make him sweat, Jacobus had said. The more impatient you make him, the more you make him want that money, the less he’ll be aware of the trap he’s in. So Primo learned more than he bargained for regarding every aspect of the age-old debate about the secret of Stradivari’s varnish – ‘some even think there is urine in it’ – the differences between his Long Pattern and Golden Period, and all those great musicians who absent- mindedly left their precious Strads in taxis or on top of cars.
Jacobus, in the van, said to Nathaniel, ‘All this crap about violins and not a word about the sound of them.’
‘You’re thinking like a musician, Jake,’ Nathaniel responded. Even though they were in a soundproof van, he still whispered. ‘With these fiddles you have to think like a collector or investor. The important things are name, authenticity, and condition. Sound is almost irrelevant. You have to channel your inner stockbroker.’
‘Thank you for making my life meaningless.’
‘Miss Sato,’ Dedubian finally said, ‘I find there is some difficulty with this violin. It clearly is the work of a fine maker, has wood from the period, and has the earmarks of an authentic Stradivarius.’
‘What’s your problem then?’ Primo interrupted belligerently.
‘You see, with such a famous maker we have accounted for all the extant violins. We know where all of Stradivari’s violins are. He made hundreds, but we know them all. Who owns them. Who is trying to sell them. What museums they are in. The label in this one says 1708, but we know all the violins he made that year. To suddenly see a new Stradivari out of the blue is … Well, to say the least, it is unexpected. In all honesty, Miss Sato, I don’t know what you should report to your superiors.’
‘You want to see a certificate?’ Primo shouted. ‘I’ve got a certificate!’
‘Certainly,’ Dedubian replied. ‘That would be very helpful.’
A desk drawer opened and slammed shut.
‘Here,’ Primo said. ‘Take a good look.’
Dedubian took a very long look, though from his conversation with Bradford he already knew what he was going to see. Now he was playing his part like Laurence Olivier, though decades of practice in his profession made that habitual.
‘This is a very authentic-looking document,’ Dedubian said at last.
‘I told you,’ Primo said.
‘However, the author of it – this Amadeo Borlotti – is not someone very highly respected in his field. He may indeed be right about the violin, but to be sure we would need to see its provenance – older documents by well-known luthiers or at least previous owners – to corroborate Mr Borlotti’s opinion. So, in effect, what I am saying, and I’m sorry to say it, is that this document, however accurate and however well-intended, is essentially worthless.’
That was the cue for Lieutenant Brooks and Minerva Forsythe to slip out of the van. The agents from the other van emerged behind them. Under Brooks’s strict orders, Jacobus and Nathaniel had to sit tight. If there was going to be any violence, Brooks argued, he didn’t want to have to be responsible for their lives as well.
‘I’ve had enough of your bullshit,’ Primo said, almost cutting Dedubian off. ‘Foreplay’s over. Take it or leave it. I want three million.’
‘I will have to consult my superiors,’ Yumi said.
‘No consulting,’ Primo said. ‘You buy it right now for two-and-a-half or it’s off the market. Final offer.’
Yumi hesitated.
‘Considering the uncertainty about the violin, I will take upon myself the risk of paying you two million. No more. Even this could put my future with the consortium in serious jeopardy.’
‘If you don’t buy it, it could put your future in jeopardy, period. Two-and-a-half.’
‘That is not possible.’
The silence lasted forever. Jacobus had instructed Yumi that when they approached the endgame there would inevitably be an uncomfortable silence. Under no circumstances should she be the one to break it. If she did, at best the price would be higher. At worst, Primo would smell a set-up. But now Jacobus thought he might have overstated the case. He was certain Primo was about to walk away from the bargaining table.
‘Hey, don’t you Japs buy your sushi with yen?’ Primo asked.
‘What is your point, Mr Primo?’
‘The value of the yen to the dollar changes everyday. Give me the two-and-a-half and wait until the yen gets stronger. Then you can sell the violin for more dollars on top of the appreciation.’
‘You make a valid point in principle, Mr Primo, but to hope for a twenty-five percent surge in Japanese currency against the dollar would be a foolish investment strategy. That could take years, if ever.’
‘All right, then. Two-and-a-quarter. That’s it. Take it or leave it.’
‘Actually, Mr Primo, I’m going to make you a final, generous offer. One million dollars. Take it or leave it.’
‘What did I just hear you say?’
‘I said one million dollars, Mr Primo. Take it or leave it.’
‘I don’t know what the hell—’
Jacobus held his breath.
‘It has come to our attention that you engaged a gentleman by the name of Francis Falcone to burn down the house of, and then to murder Amadeo Borlotti, the very same violinmaker who wrote the certificate for your violin. You then ordered the execution of Mr Falcone. If you decline our generous offer of one million dollars, this is information that would be valuable to the authorities. Worth more, perhaps, than an investment in a bogus violin.’
‘What is this? A frame-up? You got nothing on me!’
‘You think not? After killing Mr Borlotti, Mr Falcone hid the body in a string bass case, which he then transported in a Prime Transport delivery truck to Logan Airport. There it was loaded on to a Prime Transport cargo plane and shipped to Cassalbuttano, Italy.’
‘I don’t know anything about any Mr Baloney Borlotti or any Mr Fucking Falcone.’
> ‘You have no recollection of a phone conversation initiated by Mr Falcone to you shortly before his tragic demise? You were the only one who could have known he was hiding in his yacht, Torch Song. We can play a recording of that conversation to refresh your memory if you request—’
‘Get the hell out of here!’
‘We can share this recording with the police, or we can give you a million dollars for the violin and hand that recording over to you as a sign of good faith. It is your choice.’
He heard the clasps of the attaché case snap open.
‘There is the recording. There is the money. Please count it, Mr Primo,’ Yumi said. ‘If you agree to our terms, it will be yours.’
Jacobus held his breath.
‘OK. Just take the fucking violin and get the fuck out of here,’ Primo said.
In tandem, Jacobus heard Dedubian close the violin case and Primo close the attaché case. With its click, Brooks burst through the office door, followed by the heavy tread of armed G-BAT agents.
‘What the hell?’ Primo screamed.
‘Get your hands up!’ Brooks ordered. ‘All of you.’
‘You’re under arrest, Primo,’ Brooks said, ‘for the murders of Amadeo Borlotti and Francis Falcone. Not to mention the million-dollar fraud you just transacted.’
‘Like hell I did!’
‘Like hell you did!’ said Minerva Forsythe, entering the office. ‘And I’ll testify to it!’
‘You! You bitch! I’ll kill you!’
Jacobus heard shouts and a scuffle and he feared the worst, but Primo and his outnumbered guards were subdued without a shot being fired. He heard Brooks read Primo his Miranda rights and then the wire went silent. Nathaniel helped Jacobus out of the back of the van.
The police escorted Primo into a patrol car, but Jacobus waited at a different one. He met Minerva Forsythe before she was placed in it, to be driven to the DA’s office where she and her newly retained lawyer would continue to negotiate her plea deal. The two-million-two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars she had voluntarily relinquished had already helped her cause. At least as far as the law was concerned.
