The Painted Messiah

by Craig Smith

  'I'm financing two security teams, one in Switzerland and one here. These people don't come cheaply, Reverend, and neither do I.'

  Richland seemed surprised, but managed to ask politely, 'What exactly do you need?'

  'One hundred thousand advance. Four hundred thousand cash when I hand you the painting.'

  'That's ridiculous!' Richland tried to laugh, but he wasn't doing a very good job.

  Malloy stood up and started for the door. 'I'm sorry I wasted your time. I thought you understood what you are asking me to do.'

  'Now just a minute!'

  At the door Malloy turned back and smiled cordially, ignoring Richland's protest. 'It was a pleasure to meet you both.'

  'You're talking about a great deal of money!' Richland shouted.

  'I'm sure you'll find someone in your price range,' Malloy answered with a condescending smile.

  Nicole North spoke. 'You have a deal, Mr Malloy.'

  Malloy looked at the preacher for confirmation, but J. W. Richland looked suddenly more like the woman's lapdog than a dealmaker.

  Malloy and his fiancée lived in a converted warehouse that faced Ninth Avenue. Empty lots lay to either side and behind it. Two years ago a contact in Europe, using a series of dummy corporations to cover his tracks, had arranged to buy the building and asked Malloy to oversee its restoration and eventually to manage the property. The bottom three floors were still shells, but the platform elevator, original to the building, had finally passed inspection, and Malloy had converted the top floor into a small apartment with a large art studio for Gwen.

  Gwen was a painter, one of the few who actually sold her works for a decent price on occasion. During the lean times, and there had been plenty of them over the past two decades, Gwen had covered expenses waiting tables. As it happened that was how Malloy had met her. A week later, a long dry spell broke for her, and Gwen sold a painting for close to forty thousand dollars. Her stock in the art world had been on the rise ever since.

  Gwen was a short, slender, athletic woman with a boundless reserve of quiet determination and energy. She had an irreverent sense of humour and that rarest of all qualities, at least in modern times, common sense. She had dark intelligent eyes, short black hair, and pale creamy skin. As a Jewish kid growing up in Queens, Gwen said she had been a girl nobody noticed. That didn't seem possible to look at her now. She had been a radical most of her life. Disenfranchised from the power structure and suspicious of everyone who encouraged her toward moderation and responsibility and conformity, especially conformity, Gwen had spent, by her own account, the first decade of her adult life without so much as a passing nod toward discretion. In her thirties Gwen had understood the advantage of the single life, especially for an artist, and settled into a series of comfortable though distant relationships that would last a year or two and then dissolve amicably. Passion came at intervals. At forty Gwen still cherished a bit of the Revolution, but mostly she had come to terms with herself and her talent. She was one of the few people Malloy had ever met who had no regrets.

  Whenever he was foolish enough to try to take inventory of the reasons he had fallen in love with her, the list, no matter how long, somehow failed to capture her essence. She had talent of course and wisdom and a wickedly quick wit. She had beauty, humour, fire, and an amazing gentleness. She was honest, charitable, and still curious about all things new. She had abiding friendships, a point he thought which argued for her integrity, and she could make friends easily, a virtual impossibility for most people at forty. Gwen could be silent for hours at a time, something Malloy loved about her because almost nobody except the occasional agoraphobic had that skill. She was moody when things went well, optimistic when others despaired.

  There was an enduring bashfulness about Gwen's lovemaking, the hint always of a reverence for her passions, but on rare occasions she would summon the extravagant: a confession of historic interest or a fantastic proposition. Once just for the shock value Gwen had led Malloy by his hand into an alley and treated him like a decadent Victorian gentleman. Nothing quite defined Gwen but what he valued most was not a matter of character or beauty or style. It was the way Gwen saw her world.

  She had the ability to find potential where others saw only wreckage. She had looked, for instance, at the hollow shell that was to become the centre of their life and knew at once she wanted it. She could see a face in the street, a beggar, a tramp, a cop, or a workman, and discover beauty where no one could imagine it. Malloy had seen Gwen turn the ravages of old age into a meditation on eternity, and for that alone he could have loved her.

  He still nurtured the pleasant illusion that Gwen had found that same kind of untapped potential in him. At the time they met Malloy was a forty-something pensioner waiting for a call he was beginning to think might never come. Certainly, he imagined the better part of his life finished. Gwen taught him to believe it was still before him.

  He entered the apartment as usual through Gwen's studio and was somewhat startled by the sight of a naked man sitting in a broken-down second empire loveseat. This was Rudy, one of Gwen's regulars. Rudy was a year or two past sixty. He possessed a surprisingly good build, and despite his best efforts had not quite erased the last traces of what had once been an extremely handsome face. He had long dirty grey hair and a three-day beard. Gwen and a second artist had taken positions in front of him some fifteen feet away. Gwen was seated and working with a stick of charcoal on a large sketchpad. She wore jeans and her favourite NYC sweatshirt. Malloy could tell by the way she barely glanced at him she was having a good session.

  'It's not what you think, Tommy!' Rudy cackled. 'She just wants to look!'

  'That's how it starts,' Malloy told him, as he stepped behind Gwen. She had three completely different poses of Rudy in various stages of completion tacked on a corkboard. They were all good, but the fourth, the one she presently sketched, had something special about it.

  In this one Gwen included less anatomical detail in the groin. At the same time the sketch suggested a sexual potency missing in the other drawings. Rudy didn't have the classical features of horn and hoof, but Gwen had somehow captured the essence of an aging satyr. The power of it was in what she didn't show. Like most genuine accomplishments, it wasn't something that just happened because of a simple omission. Expression lay in the ambiguous shadows. A bit like his own work, he thought, but he could never quite explain it that way to Gwen.

  The truth was he had never been completely honest about his work. She understood bits and pieces of it. She knew that he spent a good deal of his time tracking information, but not what he did with it or the people he watched most closely. It might have been awkward had she asked, but Gwen gave him space. Only once had she ever commented about his secretiveness. 'I'm never going to know if you're seeing someone, am I?'

  It was supposed to be something of a joke, but like most humour there was a good deal of truth in it. Sometimes he wanted to tell her everything, a lifetime of caution tossed to the wind, but the old instincts stopped him. He compartmentalized his life. There was Gwen here. There was work there. His secrets had finally ruined his other relationships and even an early, misguided marriage, but Gwen was different. She accepted his silence about certain matters as part of his essential being.

  After he had examined her sketch, Malloy walked around to see what Paul Sorrento had done with the same model. Paul had helped broker the sale of the painting Gwen had sold right after Malloy had met her. He routinely shared the cost of a model with Gwen, especially the males if it happened that Malloy was going to be out for the morning. The sketch Paul presently worked on focused entirely on Rudy's penis, a compact masterpiece of disembodied detail. His first sketch lay crumpled on the floor, a study of the same. Malloy looked at it, but could not see the flaw. Of course he wasn't Paul Sorrento. The artist gestured toward the sketch he presently finished. 'A hundred dollars for this one, T. K., if you want it.'

  'I'm sure you'll find someone who can apprec
iate it.'

  'I don't doubt that. I just thought you might want to broaden your horizons.'

  Rudy laughed until he choked. 'Hey, Tommy,' he wheezed, 'if you don't tell anyone, you can have the real thing for fifty!'

  Malloy smiled at the old man. 'You'd tell, Rudy.'

  The best painting Gwen had ever done was an oil portrait of Rudy dressed in an out-dated tuxedo. Wearing a white tie and tattered black jacket, Rudy had seemed a study in contradictions as he posed for Gwen. When she had finished the painting, it was magnificent. In it Rudy was a man who had fallen and in doing so had lost his last fear. The old man's cold eye neither begged nor offered sympathy.

  Gwen had sold it for seventy thousand dollars. Malloy thought she had let it go too cheaply. She said she might decide to do another, just for him. Edvard Monk was famous for duplicating his best pieces. Why couldn't she? Malloy didn't know why she couldn't, but he knew she never would. The light would never be quite the same. Rudy would be a month or two older. He would scowl differently, tie his bowtie more carefully. Gwen knew it too. He thought it was the reason she had suddenly decided on a full figure painting. In this composition Gwen had achieved a visual mix of age, poverty, and Eros, something of the king of the tramps in his all-together. 'If you're not careful,' Malloy told the old man, 'you could become famous.'

  'Fame get me my next drink, will it, Tommy?'

  Paul Sorrento glanced up from his sketch. 'Fame can get a man all the drinks he can handle, Rudy.'

  Paul Sorrento knew what he was talking about, but Rudy wasn't buying it. He broke his pose as he laughed. 'There's not that much booze in the whole world, Paul!'

  'We're about finished,' Gwen said. This was a not-so-subtle hint for Malloy to leave them alone. He was disturbing the model's tranquility. 'Another ten minutes, I think. Are you good for ten more minutes, Rudy?'

  Rudy put himself back into position. 'You got the money, honey, I got the time!'

  Malloy walked back into the apartment. Inside his office he snapped on his computer screen and began working up an e-mail for Captain Marcus Steiner of the Zürich city police. Even though they both had secure locations, Malloy employed certain preset code words. It didn't pay to be careless in Malloy's business, even among the good guys. He had learned that in Beirut. The bulk of the letter was straightforward. Malloy said he needed basic information on Goetz and Ritter of Zürich and a full dossier on an art dealer named Roland Wheeler. Marcus Steiner had been one of Malloy's key agents when Malloy worked in Zürich. He had also hired on for some dangerous work over the years, most of which involved protecting the interests of one of Zürich's local crime lords, who just happened to be the source of almost all of Malloy's intelligence- gathering outside the world of Swiss banking.

  Once he finished the letter, Malloy called a former colleague. It was a workday for government employees, and Gil Fine answered his desk phone on the second ring. For a number of years Gil had been an analyst at Langley. At various points during Malloy's career they had worked with each other, though rarely on the same side of the ocean. As Gil Fine and Malloy had talked fairly extensively only a few weeks ago about a fugitive financier Malloy was tracking, they were caught up with their personal news and moved quickly to the point of Malloy's call.

  'The J. W. Richland?' Gil asked. He seemed taken aback by the request.

  Malloy laughed. 'Can I hear an Amen?'

  'What's this about, T.K.?' Gil wasn't laughing.

  'Richland needs a favour, Gil. I've been elected to perform it.'

  'I can give you public record.' Even that much did not make Gil particularly happy.

  'That works. I just want a little background on the guy. I also need something on Jonas Starr and Nicole North. Apparently Starr is a relatively well-known archaeologist. North is—'

  'Gorgeous.'

  'That's the one.'

  'Too bad you're getting married. She's single and worth several billion. That's with a "B" as in Boy, am I rich!'

  'I thought I smelled money. She's not as single as she looks, by the way. I'd bet my pension she and Richland have something going.'

  'You know Richland is terminally ill?'

  'Read his book, Gil. The old boy is appealing the verdict.'

  Gil laughed cheerfully. 'I did read it. It's not half-bad! Listen, I'll download what I have on them, but if you need more—'

  'I'll have Jane Harrison ask your boss for it.'

  'Are you working for the Iron Maiden again, T. K.?'

  'Jane owes me a favour, Gil. If I need it, I'll call in my marker.'

  'I'd be careful if I were you. Jane has a selective memory. The way I understand it, she only remembers the favours she does for others.'

  It was Malloy's turn not to laugh. 'Jane has always done right by me.'

  'That's because you always made her look good. Cross her and see how she treats you.'

  Gwen slipped into Malloy's office and kissed the back of his neck as he was finishing up with Gil. 'A good morning?' he asked when he was off the phone.

  'I think I decided what I want to paint. If I can get the light right, it could be nice.'

  'The one I saw you working on at the end?'

  She nodded, smiling. 'I didn't think you would like it. The others were more realistic.'

  'The others caught the image. The last got hold of his soul.'

  Gwen smiled at his observation, but didn't respond. She pretended to value his opinion about art, but they both knew he was a Philistine. 'How was your morning?'

  'I talked to some people about a job.'

  Malloy had led Gwen to believe he had worked with the State Department in Zürich, specializing in finance. Boring work for the most part, he had told her. Nodding toward the black nylon satchel he had set beside his desk, she remarked, 'You did more than talk.'

  'A little travelling money.'

  Gwen seemed surprised, but not particularly upset. 'Travelling where?'

  'I need to take care of some business in Zürich. A couple of days there and then fly back,'

  Gwen blinked in surprise. 'This is sudden.'

  'A lot of money and not much work. I couldn't really turn it down.'

  'What kind of work?'

  'Same-old-same-old. Talk to the bankers. Try to figure out what they're not telling me.'

  'Maybe I could come along. You know ... see my man in action?'

  'It would put you to sleep. How about another time, when we can do some sight-seeing?'

  'Have you got a lot to do between now and when you take off?'

  'Not a lot. Why?'

  She tucked her hands between his legs. 'I was hoping to get some practice in this weekend.'

  'Practice?'

  'You know. For the honeymoon.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Caesarea Maritima

  Spring AD 26.

  Caesarea Maritima would have been impossible to anticipate, Pilate decided as his fleet sailed into the city's magnificent harbour for the first time. It was Roman in every detail, but nothing like Rome: Rome had grown over centuries; Caesarea had been built seventy years ago from a plan. At its centre Rome's streets were wide and straight. There were large plazas, harmonious entryways, and colossal statues at every turn. Beyond the centre the streets followed old footpaths. They were crooked, narrow and muddy. Whole blocks were filled up with tenement buildings, one street after the next, until even the sunlight could not penetrate through to the ground more than an hour or two a day. This left the pervasive stink of decay and mould. In Caesarea everything was clean and freshly scrubbed. Every road in the entire city was straight and broad enough to allow two chariots to pass - the Roman ideal. It was a city built on principles - not caprice and certainly not history. Nothing of importance had ever happened in Caesarea.

  From the mouth of the harbour the temple of the divine Caesar Augustus dominated the cityscape - honouring the city's namesake and making friend and foe alike conscious of its Western character, despite its location in the heart o
f the Orient, some sixty miles north of Jerusalem. There was an amphitheatre - which even Rome did not have. It was used expressly for gladiator events and this enabled the circus at the edge of Caesarea, unlike the Circus Maximus in Rome, to be used exclusively for races. A theatre was under construction and by all accounts it would be the crown jewel of a city devoted to classical ideals.

  Pilate watched with interest as his flagship came in closer. The harbour had no natural features but had been created by two enormous walls reaching out to embrace part of the sea. Not only did they protect hundreds of ships, they also enabled a number of vessels to be loaded or unloaded simultaneously.

  Sending his personal bodyguard forward to secure the dock before he stepped from the flagship, Pilate waited patiently for the last of his fleet to unload its cargo - two centuries of native Italian troops to reinforce the fourth cohort of the Fretensis Legion, then occupying the provinces of Syria and Judaea. Once these had secured the harbour alongside his bodyguard, Pilate sent his wife ahead of him to be received by the city magistrates. Finally, he was ready to disembark from his battle-ready trireme. The scarlet robe that he wore was too warm for comfort this late in April, but its gravitas lent him confidence as he strode down the gangway emulating the senators that he had seen leave their ships when he commanded the harbour at the imperial island of Capri.

  Two years past his thirtieth birthday and a veteran of some fifteen years of military service, first as a cavalryman in the wars against Germania and then as a tribune in the palace guard under the command of the empire's rising star, Aelius Sejanus, Pilate carried himself with confidence. He had curly black hair and a deceptively cheerful face. Physically, he had lost the first elasticity of his youth while gaining a good deal of weight, but he compensated for this with greater physical strength and an older athlete's skilful management of his resources.

  A crowd had gathered to observe the new prefect's arrival, but Pilate noticed no one other than Valerius Gratus. Pilate would have recognized his predecessor by the equestrian's scarlet robe he wore, of course, but he knew the face as well. It was lean and cunning, the very image of the statues he had seen of the man in Rome some years ago. The two men knew each other's revered families, but they had never met. Gratus, a good ten years older, had endured the past decade in his post in Judaea.