Avalanche

by James Patterson

  “Okay. I’ll meet you at the bar. Don’t go anywhere else,” said Robert.

  “C’mon. I go where the night takes me. You can come find me.”

  Her cavalier attitude made his blood boil, but it also made him want her like he hadn’t wanted her in years.

  “Dr. Monroe?”

  Robert is pulled from his daydream. “Yes?”

  The larger of the two Al-Fayed bodyguards stands before him. “Come with me.”

  Outside, Robert gets in the backseat of a Bentley SUV. Twenty minutes later, the car pulls into a parking garage beneath a large chalet.

  “Is this the Sommerset Restaurant?” Robert asks.

  “Change of plans,” says one of the bodyguards.

  The door opens and Robert steps out into a room filled with pristine vintage Ferraris, each perfectly illuminated, each ready. He’s uncontrollably drawn to a long-nosed red 250 GTO. He reaches out his hand to touch the yellow crest on the side.

  “Ah…I see your excellent taste in art extends to vintage cars as well.”

  Robert turns to find a dashing older man with a long black beard, wearing an exquisitely tailored British suit and an Arab headdress.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Abdul Al-Fayed.”

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Al-Fayed. Is this a ’sixty-two?”

  “Call me Abdul. You are close. It’s a ’sixty-three. Only—”

  “Thirty-nine were ever made.”

  “Yes, and a few of them crashed.” Mr. Al-Fayed laughs.

  “And rebuilt to factory specs. It’s…magnificent.”

  “Would you like to drive it?”

  “No, no. But…could you start it?” Robert asks, suddenly full of boyish glee. “I can’t imagine many people even know the sound or the smell.”

  “Yes, of course.” Abdul slides behind the driver’s seat. “Well? Get in!”

  Robert gets in and surveys the round gauges, the gleaming shifter. Abdul primes the engine, turns the key, and the twelve cylinders come to life in an orchestral growl. Al-Fayed revs the engine a couple of times and takes it down to a nice idle.

  “Sublime,” Robert says.

  “Truly,” Al-Fayed responds.

  They are well into the third course of dinner, all served by a private chef in Abdul’s dining room that looks out over the valley, when Al-Fayed says, “I love art too much.”

  “Oh. I don’t think that’s possible. Beauty has its own power. We can feel reinvigorated by that.” Robert rises to look for a second out the window at the gleaming snow and a barn in the near distance emanating soft, sunset orange from the creases around the large door.

  “Yes. But it’s my desire to possess that beauty—that is what gets me in trouble.”

  “How so?” Robert asks as he sits back down and gives Al-Fayed his full attention.

  “You see, I have bought pieces of art of…questionable provenance. One in particular that plagues me. It’s not my fault. People know I collect. They come to me when they have a need for a discreet sale. Really I should have someone of your expertise on staff—full-time.”

  “The important thing is that you love the piece.”

  “No. A false work of art is like a false lover or a false friend. It should be destroyed.”

  “Well, uh…” Robert says, unsure how to respond. “How can I help you?”

  “I have a Modigliani, or so it seems—I need to know if it’s authentic. I hold it in the Geneva Freeport. You will go there tomorrow, fully inspect it, and tell me if I have wasted fifty-seven million dollars or made ninety. And I will pay you for your time.”

  “Mr. Al-Fayed, your generosity is unequaled, but I have plans with my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes—the reason I accepted the invitation from Christie’s. This little vacation is important to us…to rekindle a flame after drifting apart, if you know what I mean.”

  “You would like to win her back? As if her heart was some kind of trophy?” Al-Fayed takes a sip of his drink and surveys the room thoughtfully.

  “That’s one way of saying it. You find that…”

  “Gallant.” Al-Fayed raises his glass toward Robert.

  Robert smiles. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Forgive me for being caught off guard. It’s just the relations you Westerners have with your wives are entirely foreign to someone like myself.”

  “Thank you for understanding. It is very important to her that we spend this time together.”

  “I shall pay you one hundred thousand euros.”

  Robert swallows hard, lifts a shaky hand with cocktail to his mouth, and finishes off his drink. “Okay. First thing in the morning.”

  Chapter 14

  Robert gets a little lost in his thoughts standing outside the Olden Hotel. Small A-shaped pine trees twinkle, adorned in white Christmas lights. Green wooden shutters display intricate carvings. Three painted garlands of flowers across the white facade lend a hint of spring in the middle of winter. His son, Marcus, might say that it looks like a giant gingerbread house. But for Robert, he can feel the history, a few hundred years of hospitality, of people coming in to escape the cold and meet their friends by the fire.

  Inside, nothing disappoints—from the warmth of the fire to the red-cheeked patrons. He makes his way to the Pinte bar. The intricate wood carvings on the ceiling and crown molding are evidence of craftsmanship rarely seen.

  Robert sees a crowd of young, beautiful people huddled together at the bar and spots Eugenio in the center, talking to the bartender. The bartender hands Eugenio a wine sack. Eugenio puts the spout to a woman’s mouth and the chant starts. “Eins, zwei, drei, g’suffa!” Robert realizes suddenly that the woman is Ali. Eugenio lifts the sack above his head. Still, every drop goes in Ali’s mouth. “Zicke-zacke-zicke-zacke, hoi hoi hoi!” Eugenio brings the wine sack back to Ali’s mouth and lifts the spout. The crowd cheers. Ali wipes her chin, then waves her hands in triumph.

  Eugenio spots Robert, runs over, and throws his arm around his shoulder. “The professor is here!” he yells to his friends as he drags Robert to the bar.

  Ali is clearly a bit drunk, still lifting her arms like a prizefighter after a big win. She drops them around Robert’s neck and gives him a big, sloppy, wine-flavored kiss.

  “Oh!” Robert says over the thump of the music. “This is the girl I remember from college.”

  “Where have you been hiding this beautiful woman?” a drunken Eugenio barks at Robert’s ear.

  “He knocked me up!” says Ali. “We were barely out of college. Now we live in the suburbs! Fucking Connecticut! Can you believe that?”

  “Connecticut,” says Robert.

  “You should move to Gstaad!” Eugenio says. “Everything is better in Gstaad!”

  “I see that,” Robert says with a hint of irony.

  “Let me introduce you to my friends! This is Gabriella!”

  “Ciao!” she says to Robert before kissing him on both cheeks.

  “Look at her fucking boots!” drunken Ali says to Robert and points. They are thigh-high, plush, chocolate-colored leather. Gabriella shows a little skin between her short dress and her high boots. “I want those fucking boots,” Ali declares.

  “This is Vincenzo,” Eugenio says.

  “Ciao!” says Vincenzo and extends his hand with the palm facing down.

  Ali grabs Robert’s cheeks and turns his face toward hers. “Vincenzo is wearing a four-piece suit,” she says seriously. “I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”

  Robert smiles at Vincenzo. “Nice to meet you.”

  “We need to learn from these people,” Ali says, and lifts her glass in their direction.

  “Don’t embarrass them, Ali,” says Robert.

  “Nonsense!” declares Eugenio. “To the professor! Kanpai!” He downs his drink and slams the glass on the bar. “A drink for my friend. What shall you have?”

  “Bourbon.”

  “Bourbon!” Eugenio yells at the barten
der. “Where did you learn to ski like that?”

  “Dartmouth. I was on the ski team with Ali.”

  “No wonder you beat me to the bottom! We must ski tomorrow! I demand a rematch!”

  “I’ve got to go to Geneva tomorrow.”

  Ali frowns. “What? This is supposed to be our vacation!”

  “I’m being paid—handsomely. Believe me, you’ll thank me later.”

  “I wanted to ski with you.” Ali shrugs her shoulders with an exaggerated frown.

  “What is this trip?” Eugenio asks.

  “I’ve got to inspect a painting at the Freeport.”

  “Who’s the artist?”

  “Modigliani.”

  “Modigliani! An Italiano!” Eugenio says and raises his glass to his friends. Robert watches Eugenio turn from their smiling faces to look around the room, glancing at a Korean couple by the door. Eugenio’s friends cheer, but his mood drags. “Modigliani, he died young. But he really did live.”

  “To Modigliani!” Robert says, then takes a tentative sip of his bourbon.

  “For the trip to Geneva you must take my Porsche. It goes two hundred kilometers an hour—IN REVERSE!” Eugenio takes the keys out of his pocket, shows them to everyone, and slaps them into Robert’s hand.

  “You are too kind,” Robert says to Eugenio. “I don’t—”

  “I demand it!” Eugenio replies.

  Ali tries to whisper, but her voice is not quiet. “You’re the only one here that’s sober. You should take the keys.”

  “Good thinking, hon.” Robert kisses her on the forehead and slips the keys in his pocket.

  Eugenio holds out the wine sack with both hands as if he’s the priest and it’s the communion cup. “Professor? Let’s see if you can do as well as the beautiful woman.”

  “No, no, no,” Robert replies, shaking his head and looking down at his brown wingtips. Don’t be boring. You’re in Gstaad, partying with young hip Italians, about to get paid a year’s salary for one day’s work. And the old Ali is back. “BRING ME THE WINE!” he calls out proudly.

  Wild, radiant faces surround him. The wine sack is aimed at his open mouth.

  “Eins, zwei, drei, g’suffa! Zicke-zacke-zicke-zacke, hoi hoi hoi!”

  For Robert, the room goes sideways. The night wears on. He is helped to a banquette, and then to a car, then to his hotel room. He sees Ali with her arms around Eugenio. He sees it all as if in a dream. Some things he is conscious of, some things he thinks he is conscious of…My bicameral mind, my inability to distinguish my consciousness, one half of my mind speaks, the other half listens, but what if the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing…It’s a hallucination. It’s a dream. It’s reality. It’s morning. And they are both gone.

  One of Al-Fayed’s bodyguards stares down at Robert. “Professor. It is time to go to Geneva.”

  In the bathroom Robert finds a note written in lipstick on the mirror.

  “You drank too much! I’ve gone skiing with Eugenio. See you at lunch.”

  He wipes it away frantically with a towel.

  “Let me call my wife,” Robert tells the bodyguard.

  “Put on some pants. Come with me now—we have very little time.”

  Robert gets in the back of the Bentley SUV and they start their journey down the mountain pass.

  Chapter 15

  The Freeport in Geneva is a large, innocuous office building. “I’ve heard of this place. Some say it holds more important works than the MoMA,” Robert says to the bodyguards. Neither one responds.

  “You guys know I have to be back by three? I’m doing a lecture. For Christie’s.”

  Still, no response.

  Inside, Robert is led to a voluminous room with a plush leather sofa aimed at nothing in particular.

  “Wait here,” instructs one of the bodyguards.

  “Sit on the couch,” the other says.

  Four men in periwinkle jumpsuits bring in a large wooden crate and place it ten feet in front of the couch. They begin meticulously removing screws. In a perfectly coordinated move, they remove the front of the crate, then the painting. Two of the four men bring in a stand. The final coat of plastic wrap is removed and there it is.

  At first glance it certainly looks like a Modigliani. The palette is right and the subject, a reclining nude, is right. It’s going to come down to the minutiae.

  “I need more light,” he says to the men in jumpsuits. They bring lamps over to the painting, running long cords this way and that.

  Robert gets close, puts on his magnifying headset. He thinks the brushstrokes are good. “Why,” he wonders out loud, “couldn’t Modigliani have done any cataloging? The busy life of a true Bohemian. Between the absinthe, sculpture, hashish, liquor, women, and painting, when would he have had the time?”

  No one responds.

  “You guys speak English?” he asks.

  One of the men smirks and nods.

  “But that’s what makes it fun. Modigliani’s work is a free-for-all.” Robert inspects the signature, then walks around to the back. “Hey, bring those lights back here.”

  The men in the jumpsuits comply. “Aha. The weave! I feel like Sherlock fucking Holmes,” Robert says triumphantly. The same man smirks but does not move.

  “Come here. Let me show you something,” says Robert, slipping into professor mode. “This was either painted between 1917 and 1919, or it’s a forgery. Right?”

  The man glances sideways at the painting.

  “From 1917 to 1919, every canvas in Paris is made by hand. After that we get the machine-made canvases. So was this weave done by a machine or a man?”

  The man in the jumpsuit bends to look closely, then shrugs his shoulders.

  Robert takes out his phone and readies it for a photo, but one of the bodyguards snatches the phone from his hand. “No photos,” he barks. “You were never here. You saw nothing.”

  Robert takes out a sketchpad. He draws the weave, folds the paper, and puts it in the breast pocket of his blazer.

  He looks at his watch to see that it’s one. “We’ve got to go back to Geneva, I speak in two hours. Where is Mr. Al-Fayed?”

  “He had an urgent matter he needed to attend to. He will contact you later. When will you have your report?”

  “I…I’m close, but I need to do some research. Call a couple of my colleagues. Can I come back tomorrow?”

  The bodyguard looks at Robert with cold disdain.

  Chapter 16

  The Bentley SUV pulls up in front of the Gstaad Palace exactly at three p.m. Robert dials his phone as he walks through the lobby. “Hey, I’m back at the Gstaad Palace. I’ve got to do my talk for Christie’s, then I’ll be free. Let me know where to find you guys.”

  Standing at the podium in front of a large Christie’s sign, Robert looks out at a small crowd of international elites. As he starts to speak, three interpreters translate his every word into their headset microphones, one whispering in Russian, another in Mandarin, another in Arabic. The sound is sibilant and eerie. He tries not to imagine Ali and Eugenio together.

  At four, Robert has finished his presentation. Mingling with this crowd is the last thing he wants to do, so he slips out the back door and finds a staircase. Ali still isn’t answering her phone, and with each stair his jealousy grows. “Hey, you’re probably still skiing. Give me a call. I’m done. I want to meet you guys.”

  He fumbles for the key and opens the door to their suite. Inside he sends Ali a text—IN ROOM. He hears a bell tone. He texts her again, an exclamation point. The same bell tone sounds. Robert rifles through her things and there it is, Ali’s phone, under a sweater.

  Why would she not bring her phone? Did she forget it—or did she not want to be reached?

  Robert walks through the small town to the bottom of the gondola. The sun has now dropped below the ridge and a damp chill descends from the mountain to the valley. He watches the last few skiers come down the hill, appearing black on gray, indistingui
shable at a distance.

  A half hour later, the trickle of skiers has stopped and Robert sees the ski patrol, men with white crosses on red jackets, finishing their final run. Robert hurries over, nearly slipping several times on the snow. “Excuse me. Excuse me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are all the skiers down?”

  “Finis, kaput, fertig, all done.” The skier crosses his hands in front of his chest. “Tomorrow. You ski tomorrow.”

  Robert walks back to the Gstaad Palace and restlessly paces the lobby, looking around. A Chinese businessman approaches him and begins, “Professor, you, I, talk now?” He has the Christie’s Mandarin interpreter in tow.

  “No. I’m sorry. I can’t. Later.”

  With nowhere else to go, Robert returns to the room and immediately his phone rings. It’s Al-Fayed. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Robert. I trust your trip to Geneva was comfortable?”

  “Yes…”

  “And you found my men helpful?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what did you think of my nude? Is she beautiful?”

  “Yes, she is beautiful.”

  “And…is she real?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. I should know soon. I just have one resource to check…”

  “I must warn you, I am not a patient man, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

  “Of course, sir. You have my…undivided attention.”

  “Very well. Until we speak again.”

  Robert lies on the floor and stares at the rustic wooden beams that crisscross the ceiling. He closes his eyes and the bar scene at the Olden Hotel plays in his mind. Was she looking at Eugenio with desire or fascination? Was I drugged? But then he remembers their tender moments afterward, the black nylons, the serious look in her eyes. But that was before. It was before the Italian. His face feels flush, his eyelids heavy. He slips off to sleep.