by Eva Hudson
“What’s happening?” Marx said, looking at Aslan Demir tripping down the steps.
“Agent Demir works for the FBI’s Art Crime Unit,” Ingrid explained. “He will take things from here.”
“Things?”
Smethurst shook. His career was over. He tried to get words out but couldn’t.
Ingrid bent down, flipped open the case and grabbed two bales of notes. Twenty thousand dollars.
“What are you doing?” Marx demanded.
“Sort it out with him.” She shoved a thumb toward the approaching Demir. “His name’s Aslan, weird guy but very good at his job. He’ll take care of you.” She squeezed Marshall’s arm. He was shivering. “You got the car key?”
“What?”
“The key?”
“Oh, right.”
They jumped in the Audi. The gate was shut, so she sped down the runway toward the terminal building.
“What have you done?” Marshall asked. He looked straight ahead, his eyes unseeing.
It had taken them an hour and a half to drive out to Blackbushe, but that had been in rush hour. They should make it before the deadline. Just.
There was another way. She slammed on the brakes outside the terminal and jumped out. “Come on, Marshall.”
She tore into the building, which was little more than a large Portakabin. The few people in there—trainee pilots and their instructors mostly—looked up in unison. Ingrid waved a bale of cash in the air. “I need a helicopter to take me to London.”
They looked at each other, then back at her.
“Right now. Marshall, show them your badge.”
One man stood up.
“My name is Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg. This is my boss Marshall Claybourne. We work for the FBI and we have an emergency.” It felt good to be back in control.
Marshall showed them his badge.
“This is a matter of life and death.”
The man who stood up walked toward them. “I’ll do it.”
She reached for his hand and shook it. “Thank you, thank you. Where’s your bird?”
“Is that for me?” he said, looking at the dollar bills.
“All yours when we land.”
“It’s this way. I’m Trevor, by the way. He all right?”
They started running.
“Marshall? He’s scared of flying, is all.”
Back on the runway, they ran past the Audi toward a cluster of helicopters parked on a neighboring field.
“I’m sorry,” Ingrid said. “I can’t run in these heels. I’ll catch you up.”
By the time she reached the Eurocopter AS355 the rotors were running. Marshall stretched out a hand and helped her in. They pulled the door shut together.
“Okay back there?” Trevor asked.
Ingrid gave him the thumbs-up and strapped in. After a few words with the control tower, Trevor lifted them up into the sky. Ingrid placed a hand on Marshall’s knee. He looked from her hand to her face, hatred burnishing his features.
“What have you done?” His lips quivered with fury. “I thought you were meant to be an expert at this art stuff? How in God’s name did you not know it was a fake?”
Ingrid blinked slowly. She hadn’t told him. She hadn’t told anyone. “I always knew it was a forgery. I was the one who switched the fake with the real one.”
His face crumpled. “I… Huh?”
“It was always part of my plan. The Bureau’s reputation was so low after Leery was seen to be interfering in the election, I really didn’t want it getting out we had lost, or damaged, the most expensive Picasso on the planet. I didn’t think the Bureau could take the hit, so I commissioned a replica.”
Marshall didn’t know what to say.
“She used a vintage canvas from the same store we know Picasso bought his supplies from—”
“Where the hell do you get that from?”
That wasn’t the question Ingrid had been expecting. “From a flea market. Works by lesser artists from the same era can be bought for a few euros.”
He nodded like he was taking it in. “So where is the real Picasso?”
The pilot turned round. “Where do you want to be dropped? Battersea? Docklands heliport?” he shouted.
“Kensington,” Marshall said. “Can you land in Hyde Park?”
“Negative. Air ambulance only.”
Ingrid reached into her pocket for the other stack of bills. “You see this, Trevor?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“It’s yours if you bring us down in Bolton Square.”
“I can’t do that, I’ll lose my license.”
Ingrid leaned forward. “You’ll be a hero. You’ll save a girl’s life, and when there’s an investigation, Agent Claybourne and I will tell everyone we didn’t give you a choice.”
He checked his instrumentation.
“It’s twenty thousand dollars, Trevor.” She placed it on the seat next to him. “And the best dinner party anecdote you’ll ever have.”
“Doubt that. Two tours in Helmand.”
“Fair point. But you’ll be on the front page of this afternoon’s Evening News.”
“Getting arrested.”
“Saving a life.”
He didn’t reply.
“How long does it take to get to London?” Marshall asked, his voice fracturing.
“About fifteen minutes. Twelve is my record.”
“That’s a damn good hourly rate, then,” Marshall said. “Land in Bolton Square. My kid sister’s life is at stake.”
Trevor looked round. “How old?”
“Nineteen.” Marshall stared out the window, his body stiff with tension. “She’s being held hostage.”
“I’m not trying to be unhelpful,” Trevor shouted over the rotor and engine noise. “But if I land somewhere like that, there could be all sorts of unforeseens.”
“Like what?” Ingrid asked, suddenly aware how tightly she was gripping the handrail.
Trevor checked something on his instrument panel. “Like there’s nowhere to land, maybe there’s a protest in Hyde Park, maybe a bomb’s gone off, dunno, thing is then I have to go back to Battersea and arrange the permissions. You’re better off going to Battersea and getting a bike.”
Ingrid reached out and took the stack of bills back.
“But I’ll give it a go.”
She replaced the money and looked out the window. Was that Richmond Park already? She turned to Marshall. His jaw was tight; his whole body was rigid. He really didn’t like helicopters.
“I’m thinking,” she said, hoping to distract him, “that if we land in the square itself, it’s going to bring some heat. People are going to film it on their phones. It’ll attract a crowd. Bring the police probably.”
He snapped his head in her direction.
“We give Shevchenko an audience, we give him a hundred witnesses, we make it harder for him to misbehave.”
Marshall’s head was swaying. He was biting his lip. “I don’t know, Ingrid, maybe we’re just raising the stakes, making Shevchenko crazy?”
“Marshall, listen to me.” She put a hand on his arm. “In about ten minutes’ time you’re going to see Carolyn. You need to be ready for that, you hear me? You need to be the brother she wants, the brother she needs.”
He raised a finger to his eye and sniffed.
“We’ve got to be calm, okay?”
He refused to look at her.
“Shevchenko has a private army. They’re armed. Berettas mostly.”
“Jeez, you really need to tell me that?”
“I know you’re scared, but you’ve got to prepare, Marshall. I can give him the Picasso, that’s not a problem. And when he sees the crowd Trevor is going to pull, he won’t try to get away with anything. You’ve got to believe me. This will all work out.”
Marshall couldn’t keep his head still.
“You’ll feel much better when we’re on the ground.” She turned to the pilot. “How much long
er?”
“Six or seven, assuming we’re landing in the square.”
She gave Marshall’s knee a squeeze, then looked at the view. She recognized landmarks only Londoners would know. The Crystal Palace tower, an apartment high-rise with wind turbines buried inside its upper stories, a confluence of railway lines that could only be Clapham Junction. On the other side of the chopper, Marshall would have the tourists’ view of the river, the parks, the museums. She’d gotten to know the city so well. She had no idea why, but something told her she was saying goodbye to the place, that this was somehow her farewell tour. Her thoughts drifted, stretching out below her like cobwebs to places she remembered from investigations.
There was a loud bang.
“What was that?” Marshall looked nervously at the pilot.
“Just the braking mechanism,” Trevor shouted. “Okay, let’s do this. These notes had better be legit.”
Ingrid wasn’t about to tell him where they came from.
“Get ready,” he said, “we’ll be on the ground in ninety seconds.”
Ingrid dug her fingers into the seat. Just breathe, she told herself.
“Hang on a second,” Trevor said. “You see that?”
Ingrid craned her neck and looked down at the ground.
53
Bolton Square was covered in snow. Fake snow. The film crew had blanketed the place and were filming a Christmas scene. As the Eurocopter neared the ground, they were engulfed in a flurry of white flakes.
The helicopter landed with a bump and Ingrid heaved the door open. The downdraft swirled flakes inside. Ingrid looked over her shoulder at Trevor. “I suggest you don’t hang around.”
Marshall shook his hand before jumping out. He helped Ingrid down, and her heels immediately sank into the soft, clinging snow. Flakes got in her mouth. It tasted like newspaper. The fierce rotor cyclone twirled her scarf round her head. Marshall closed the door and Trevor levitated back into the sky. Members of the crew ran toward them, waving clipboards and shouting expletives they couldn’t hear over the blades.
She took Marshall by the elbow. “It’s this one.”
“She’s in there?” His eyes bulged with disbelief. “She could be anywhere. It’s massive.”
Ingrid elected not to tell him the house was half as big again underground. They ran up the steps of Number 26 and rang the ancient bronze bell. She reached out for Marshall’s hand and held it.
The door was opened by one of the household staff. She looked terrified. She ushered them into the grand entrance hall, and they crossed the vast checkerboard floor. Ingrid’s footsteps echoed like gunshots. She raised her gaze to the balcony, where Shevchenko loomed down over them.
“Do not open your mouths,” he said in Russian.
Marshall turned to her for a translation, but she shook her head. One of the security detail, dressed in black combats, approached.
“Arms up,” he said.
Ingrid outstretched hers, and Marshall, not understanding a word of Russian, copied. They were frisked for weapons. Their cell phones were found and thrown away, spinning noisily across the marble into the distance.
“Where’s my sister?” Marshall said, his voice trembling.
“I told you not to talk!” Shevchenko’s booming Russian ricocheted off the hard surfaces, pounding their ears.
“Where is my sister?” Marshall repeated.
Ingrid stretched out a hand, hoping to restrain him, but the security guard brought his boot down sharply on the back of Marshall’s calf, sending him to the floor. Ingrid felt the urge to speak. She desperately wanted to tell Shevchenko that she had his painting and to release Carolyn. Shevchenko thudded slowly down the curved staircase, and she held his gaze.
“Who is this?” He spat the words out.
“This is Marshall Claybourne,” she said in Russian.
“Who is he?”
“He is the brother of the girl you are holding.”
He flared his nostrils. Marshall got up from the floor. Ingrid willed him to keep his temper under control. Her heart tore at the lining of her chest. She noted Shevchenko had called her ‘Miss’ Skyberg and not ‘agent.’ There was a chance he did not know who her employer was.
The security guard unholstered his Beretta. At the periphery of her vision, she saw other operatives take up positions. Please, Marshall, keep your mouth shut. Shevchenko paced slowly in front of them. He took off his wire-rimmed spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Ingrid held her breath.
“The thing I am trying to decide,” Shevchenko said, “is how you can be so good at your job, yet so very, very stupid.” His face was flushed, his movement stiff to contain the lurking violence in his fists. “I always suspected you were connected to the theft. My first thought was that you were working for Igor Rybkin. He has always wanted that painting.”
Ingrid suppressed the urge to question if that was why he sank Rybkin’s yacht and assassinated his brother.
“Surely, I said to myself, it cannot be a coincidence that less than a week since you moved the Picasso to my dressing room it disappears. Has she noticed, I wondered, that the sensors in the private rooms are dummies? She must be a master thief, if that is the case. But then I still could not work out how you got it out of this building. That remains a mystery.”
Ingrid clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to explain. Beside her, Marshall bristled with fury. She knew he could not understand what Shevchenko was saying, but she was not going to speak unless expressly told to.
“I said to my team, I do not think it is her, although I knew somehow it had to be. So you will explain to me how you took it out of my house.”
She opened her mouth.
“But not yet.” He stretched his arms and extended his fingers. “You might have got away with it had you already lined up a buyer, but when I heard you were selling it in London, then I knew for sure you were the thief. And that is when I decided to make you pay.”
Again, Ingrid held her tongue.
“So I had you followed. Always you went to Cadogan Mansions, and always you stayed there, never to come out.” He flicked her collar. “So we watch you more, and we see that always after you go in, a few hours later someone leaves on a motorcycle. Always.”
Ingrid swallowed hard. Her nose prickled with the threat of tears.
“So we found out where you lived. We found out who you partied with. We found the girl. But never could I find out why you would have this double life. Until we followed you to the American embassy. Then I thought it was starting to make sense.”
Marshall grunted. He took a step forward as if losing his balance. Shevchenko thrust out a hand, pushing Marshall back into line. It seemed to Ingrid the entrance hall was breathing, expanding and contracting, as her vision moved in and out of focus.
“So I say to myself, Vitali, how much do you want your Picasso back? And then I say, Vitali, when do you not take the opportunity to make your enemies pay? So I tell Leo Marx to meet you outside London, and while you are gone, I take the girl you seem to like so much.”
Ingrid flinched. The right side of her face felt numb. He stooped to look her directly in the eye, the force of his breath making her blink.
“And then…” He curled his fingers and contorted his reddening face. “And then you do not even try to sell my painting, you sell me a forgery.” He sprayed her with his spittle.
Ingrid braced herself for a slap that did not come.
“What have you done with my painting?”
Ingrid’s legs were jittery. In a quiet voice she managed: “What have you done with my friend?”
His palm struck her face with such force she staggered sideways. Marshall lunged at him. The security guard raised his pistol.
“Marshall, no! Don’t do it.”
Shevchenko shoved him back onto the floor.
“Stay down, Marshall.” Ingrid eyeballed Shevchenko. “You show me Carolyn and I will show you your painting.”
“How?” He threw his hands in the air. “How?”
She looked up to the balcony.
“Look at me and answer me!” he screamed. Outside, she was aware of a commotion as the production crew shouted over each other.
“I have it,” she said firmly.
“Where? I do not see it.”
Marshall squirmed on the floor. Ingrid cut him a look that told him not to move.
“Bring Carolyn to me and I will take you to your painting.”
“You take me to my painting and I will bring you the girl.”
Ingrid’s breaths were sharp and shallow. “I need to see her, Vitali Shevchenko.”
He turned on his heel and thundered at her: “You will show me what is mine!”
Ingrid looked at the marble floor, then raised her eyes slowly. “My name is Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg, I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I can promise you this building is surrounded. Your painting is safe, and you will get it when you show me the girl.”
Marshall’s face pinched when she’d said ‘special agent.’ He struggled to his feet.
“You give us the girl, we leave and you carry on with your life. You harm the girl, you harm either of us, your life becomes extremely painful.”
“You think I cannot make this all disappear? You, him, the girl?”
She lifted the collar of her coat. “You know what this is?”
His eyes widened with anger. Marshall looked on with disbelief.
“It’s a microphone. Outside this building, and in the mews at the back of your garden, there are police officers who are monitoring this conversation. You just say the word, and I will tell them to stand down. We all walk away. Now show me Carolyn and I will take you to your painting. This is the last time I will tell you. This is my final offer.”
She stared at him. He glared at her, and the two held each other’s gaze, daring the other to blink. Ingrid’s field of vision narrowed. Her ears detected only her own pulse.
He spat at the floor and raised an arm in disgust. “Bring her.”
A member of the security team scurried away. Ingrid did not speak. She kept her eyes on Shevchenko, and the four of them—her, Shevchenko, Marshall and the guard holding the Beretta—stood in the middle of the vast space like dancers poised for the music to begin. The gun in the guard’s hand did not tremble. In the silence that fell between them, Ingrid heard the city outside, its clockwork ticking and whirring as if this were just another day.
