The Painted Messiah

by Craig Smith

  North's real passion appeared to be the NorthStarr Biblical Institute. Since taking nominal control of the institute, she had abandoned her uncle's passion for collecting and had begun retooling it so that many presently considered NorthStarr the premier evangelical think-tank in the country. It went without saying that a fairly substantial publishing concern had developed as a result of the Institute's new direction. The museum was still open, of course, but except for the occasional travelling exhibition nothing had changed since Jonas Starr had passed the directorship to his niece. There was still the hull of an old boat dominating the main floor and a brass cup carefully stored in a transparent high-tech security case. There were tools and scrolls and maps and video clips, all of it like a real museum. Just no crowds.

  Malloy had hoped somewhere in the mass of files to get something about Nicole North's private life, especially her relationship with J. W. Richland, but that secret was too carefully guarded. While it was clear Dr North always managed to have an escort where an escort was appropriate, there was no speculation about her sexuality. She had been married briefly nearly a decade ago but the nuptials had been overshadowed by the groom's terminal cancer. He died a few months later. So far as Malloy could tell there had been no one since. From the context of various articles it was clear J. W. Richland was a family friend, but that was the extent of it. No one had linked the two romantically. Of course, they were not the kind of celebrities who inspired gossip.

  Closing his computer down and having more questions now than when he began, Malloy headed out of the hotel for a walk along Zürich's famed Bahnhofstrasse. With all of the stores closed, the city's most expensive street was virtually empty. Malloy used his walk to reconnoiter the bank of Goetz and Ritter, which was close to the lake. That finished, he grabbed a streetcar, doubling back once to check for a tail, and finally entered the James Joyce Pub just after eleven o'clock.

  The pub's interior came from a Dublin tavern called the Drury, said to be operating in James Joyce's lifetime, though it was not included in Leopold Bloom's journey through the city in the novel Ulysses on June 16, 1903. When the grand old Pub's time had come to an end and it was slated for the wrecking ball, the city of Zürich, to commemorate its most famous literary exile, purchased the interior and brought it to Switzerland. Drinks cost a small fortune, no doubt still paying off the freight charges, but the brass fixtures, mahogany bar, and decorative tiles were to die for. At least that was the opinion of Capt. Marcus Steiner, who insisted it was his favorite watering hole - as long as Malloy was picking up the tab.

  The two men had met over four decades ago, when they were a couple of seven-year-olds. Then as now Marcus was small, inordinately thin, and brilliant. He had dark curly hair and intense brown eyes. His most striking talent was the ability to convey a perpetual look of innocence no matter what he had just done. It had worked then with an angry grocer who was looking for the kid who had stolen his apples, and it still worked inside Zürich's Stadtpolizei. Possessing the face of an honest Swiss, Marcus was nevertheless a born criminal. Being Swiss, he had resisted the siren call of his genius in favour of regular hours and a pension, but to compensate he had chosen a career in law enforcement - if only to be close to the thing he loved.

  Compared to almost any other country in the world, the life of a Swiss policeman was boring in the extreme. In the city of Zürich one homicide a month was excessive. Thieves were known to steal wallets and then stricken by conscience return them by the mail with a letter of apology. Most humiliating of all was the fact that the occasional burglary and auto theft was usually foiled by the ever-vigilant Swiss citizen, leaving the Swiss police officer plenty of time for paperwork. Marcus had told Malloy things used to be even more boring for the police, but in recent decades Switzerland had begun importing a criminal element so that it could persuade itself Switzerland enjoyed the same problems as the rest of the civilized world. Marcus was an amateur pickpocket, a weekend burglar of some accomplishment, and on three separate occasions a contract assassin. On two of his three hits, all of which Malloy had authorized and paid for, he had been in charge of the investigation afterwards.

  Malloy and his friend spent several minutes catching up, including talk about Malloy's upcoming wedding. When it came time for business, Marcus produced a bound dossier on Roland Wheeler. They were seated in one of the luxurious leather booths at the end of the pub. Besides the bartender and waitress there were five other people in the place, all of them smelling of Zürich money and respectability, all suitably removed from their conversation.

  As Malloy began through the dossier on Wheeler, Marcus explained to him that Goetz and Ritter was exactly what it claimed to be: a small, exclusive, and extremely reliable private bank. For fifty thousand they let you through the front door. For a couple of million, you got personal attention, and for accounts in excess of ten million you dealt with Mr Goetz himself. The bank had remained in the same two families for five generations. Before that, Goetz and Ritter had sold mercenary soldiers to the various monarchies of Europe, making them a great deal of wealth in a country that hadn't very much at the time.

  It went without saying that Goetz and Ritter did not run a perfectly legitimate bank in the American sense of the word. In the late 1990s, following the Swiss banking scandal concerning the lost accounts of the holocaust victims, the American government had negotiated new treaties with the Swiss, obliging Swiss banks to reveal information about questionable accounts, especially those of drug dealers, terrorists, and rich Americans attempting to hide their assets from the IRS. In theory America had finally breached the treasure house of the world's wealthiest criminals. In fact the multinational conglomerates cooperated grudgingly because they were vulnerable to reprisals, while the private banks such as that of Goetz and Ritter continued to operate as they had for the past couple of centuries.

  The Swiss government had written the law. It was up to the banks to honour it. America had continued to pressure the Swiss authorities for more concessions, but so much of Swiss prosperity, twelve percent of its gross national product, depended upon finance that it was a losing battle. The Swiss had a weak central government for good reason. Besides, the Swiss had long ago decided it was foolish to mix money and morality. Voltaire had summarized the attitude perfectly even before the French Revolution and nothing but the interest rates had changed since his time: 'If you should happen to see a Swiss banker jump out of a window,' he said, 'follow him. You're sure to make money on the way down.'

  'Wheeler is another story,' Marcus announced.

  Malloy nodded and continued scanning Interpol reports on the art dealer. He was reading about one of a number of investigations involving stolen art. As with the other investigations it was apparent from the language that the art dealer enjoyed a degree of protection from the Swiss government that would not have been tolerated in other countries. It didn't take much effort to see why. Wheeler had moved to Zürich in the early 1990s, but he had extensive business contacts reaching back thirty years. During that time he had presented the city of Zürich with any number of financial gifts, the total running to something like fifteen million dollars, enough it would seem to make lasting friendships in the circles that mattered.

  'He's careful,' Marcus explained when Malloy remarked on the city's reluctance to cooperate with Interpol's various art theft investigations.

  'You mean by that he doesn't steal from the Swiss?'

  Marcus smiled. He meant exactly that. 'What people do beyond our borders doesn't really interest us, Thomas.'

  From what Malloy could see of the reports, Interpol suspected Wheeler of somehow arranging certain acquisitions and then selling them to collectors, often Swiss, who were not particularly concerned about a painting's provenance so long as it improved the quality of their collection. As Swiss law protected patrons of the arts who had unwittingly purchased stolen property with a five-year statute of limitations, it was a convenient arrangement for all. From the point of view of the
Zürich police, the principal investigatory agency, the missing element was Interpol's failure to link Wheeler to any criminal circles in Europe. How did he come by these paintings? Nobody knew. Was he a victim of others - duped into buying stolen goods? Interpol could not say and the Swiss were disinclined to pursue the matter. In fact, other than loose talk - a friend of a friend speculating on certain acquisitions, they maintained steadfastly that there was no hard evidence linking Wheeler to anything illegal. They could not in good conscience participate in the investigation by authorizing warrants or wiretaps against the man, his family or his business.

  Marcus offered another sly smile. In over twenty-five years as a police officer, Thomas, I have discovered one thing always holds true. Evidence is extremely difficult to find if you refuse to see it.'

  'Doesn't seem to deal in forgeries.'

  'It's art. They all deal in forgeries whether they like it or not, but from what I can tell, that's not his game. He's a specialist. You want Monet, he'll find you a Monet. You want Leonardo da Vinci, maybe he has a couple in his attic he can let you have if the price is right.'

  Turning the page, Malloy noticed Wheeler escorting a thirty-something Nordic blonde beauty. A typical trophy date, he thought, and was turning the page when he spotted the word Tochter. Tapping the photograph, 'He has a daughter?'

  'Beautiful, isn't she?'

  'Lives in Zürich?'

  'She lives anywhere she wants, Thomas.'

  'Katherine Kenyon.'

  'Lady Kenyon, actually. Papa had the money, little Katie married the blood. On their honeymoon they climbed the north face of the Eiger. The husband and three other men are still up there.'

  'I remember that. That was what? Ten . . . eleven years ago?'

  'Something like that. You'd think an experience like that would keep her off the mountains. The only thing it did was convince her never to climb with ropes. Apparently, Lord Kenyon got dragged over by the other three. Lady Kenyon was able to cut the rope before she joined them. She came down alone - without ropes - and hasn't used them since.'

  'Still climbs?'

  'Swiss TV had a special on her about three years ago. At the time they were saying she was one of the top five climbers in Switzerland, which makes her one of the best in the world. You don't walk away from something like that.' Malloy closed the dossier and slipped it into the shopping sack Marcus had set between them. Marcus brought a holstered Sigma .380 off his belt.

  'Loaded and very clean. I want it back when you leave, if it's possible.' By possible he meant unused.

  Malloy wiped his friend's fingerprints from the holster and weapon, then slipped it next to his spine the way he wore his .380 in the States.

  'I'm assuming your rates haven't changed.' He brought two bound stacks of thousand dollar bills from the pocket of his sports jacket and passed it to his friend under the lip of the table.

  Marcus pocketed the money with satisfaction and listened to Malloy's instructions. When Malloy had finished, he smiled. 'Just like old times. Except we don't kill anybody.'

  'Sounds like you've missed me.'

  'Every cop in Zürich misses you, Thomas. Since you left, the crime rate has plummeted. They'll be talking layoffs pretty soon.'

  Bob Whitefield was sitting in Malloy's darkened hotel room nursing a glass of Scotch when Malloy returned from his meeting with Marcus Steiner. Whitefield was a tall, heavyset man with a quick, watery smile and a soft, nervous voice. He had a couple of chins, a few remaining strands of black hair running across his scalp, and small, perpetually twitching brown eyes. The first time Malloy had met Whitefield was in Paris shortly after the new station chief had summoned him to a meeting. Malloy recalled every word spoken that afternoon. Whitefield was not a man for small talk. He had told Malloy that Charlie Winger wanted all western European field personnel reporting directly to Paris, meaning to Whitefield himself. When Malloy complained, pointing out that he had been reporting to Jane Harrison with some success for a number of years, Whitefield told him, 'You get with the programme, T. K., or you go home.'

  Malloy had answered in conciliatory tones. He understood, he said. That was the way you worked in the agency. Agree, cook the books, file reports with discrete omissions, and do what was necessary. According to Jane Harrison, whom he had contacted at once, the arrangement was temporary. In her vocabulary that meant Charlie Winger was riding for a fall. It was one of the few times Jane had failed to come through for him, but in retrospect completely understandable. Charlie Winger had stormed the citadel like a man with friends above and below. What he wanted, he was going to get. Jane Harrison still had enough of a budget to run her own private war, but she was suddenly reporting to the director through Charlie. With hindsight, Malloy realized it was the beginning of the end of his career.

  Malloy's second meeting with Bob Whitefield was every bit as memorable. Whitefield had told him his expertise was needed at Langley. 'I suppose congratulations are in order,' he had added without the slightest hint of irony.

  This would be their third meeting. This time, at least, there would be no surprises.

  'T. K., good to see you,' Whitefield announced pleasantly, as if Malloy had come for a visit. 'Care for a glass of your Scotch?'

  Malloy settled comfortably in a reading chair and took the Scotch. 'I would have thought a station chief had better things to do than run errands for the big boys.'

  Whitefield presented his patented watery smile. That depends on how big the boy is. I'd say helping out a friend of the President is worth it. I have to tell you, T. K., I was surprised to hear you agreed to slip back into the harness. I really was. I was under the impression you'd had enough of us.'

  'I always thought it was the other way around.'

  Whitefield seemed more relaxed suddenly. 'As I understand it, Charlie wanted you to have some different experiences so he could bring you up a few rungs on the food chain, and you got a little huffy about it.'

  'I was inside every major bank in Switzerland, Bob. How are we doing now?'

  Whitefield grimaced. 'We're getting up to speed, but it's been tough. With the new treaty in place, the Swiss promise all the cooperation in the world and deliver when they feel like it. When we need to know things, we go to the same people you used in the banks, but they won't work with us, or if they do they give us yesterday's news at tomorrow's prices.' Most of Malloy's contacts, the ones he listed in his reports, were cutouts, not people providing the real information. They looked good on paper, and they took a salary for the tidbits they handed out, but they didn't know very much and provided even less. The people with real information were too critical to risk including in his reports. Beirut had taught him the folly of writing things down.

  'It's a matter of trust,' Malloy answered. 'They'll stick their necks out only if they know what kind of person they're dealing with.'

  Whitefield's expression showed skepticism, but he didn't respond.

  Wanting to change the subject, Malloy stood up, walked across the room, and looked out his window. 'I've been reading some of your reports from this summer,' he said.

  'About Julian Corbeau?'

  'Corbeau is one of my personal hobbies.'

  'Corbeau is everyone's hobby, T. K, at least until we can prove something.'

  Living now in Switzerland with a one million dollar bounty on his head, Corbeau had left America a decade ago under indictment. His interests in the Middle East were both extensive and complex, leading the skeptical to wonder if he might be one of the financial resources of the terrorists, but the Swiss refused to treat him as anything other than what he pretended to be, a legitimate businessman. According to a field report filed by one of Bob Whitefield's operatives, the Americans had finally stumbled across a tangible connection between Corbeau and a prominent neo-Nazi operative who went by the name Xeno.

  Tantalizing as it had seemed, the connection involved only a single meeting with Corbeau's chief of security, Jeffrey Bremmer, in Hamburg. There were no teleph
one intercepts, no follow-up meetings. If the two were presently using cutouts, it was working. Nothing had put Corbeau's organization in direct contact with the man again. What did it mean? For Malloy, it was proof Julian Corbeau was dirty. Any kind of formal pursuit of Corbeau based on the meeting, however, was impossible.

  Corbeau's indictment was for tax evasion and illegal trading. These were not extraditable crimes in Switzerland. As far as the Swiss were concerned, the United States government was engaged in nothing more than harassment. It was their view that any surveillance of Corbeau was unwarranted and vowed they would promptly expel any individual thought to be attempting to monitor Corbeau's business activities. There was more naturally. The Swiss were rarely so blunt that they refused to cooperate, but those points where they did agree to help involved pursuing Xeno, should he ever cross into Switzerland.

  'So what happened this summer?' He meant what had happened that didn't make the reports.

  'We got lucky. We were watching some people in Hamburg and Jeffrey Bremmer showed up.'

  'That much I got. Talking with the neo-Nazi underground. I'm wondering why.'

  'Someone made a run at Corbeau this summer. Didn't make the papers, but he lost three men. A couple more of his bodyguards were wounded. My guess is he wants the people who did it, and he's brought in an assassination team. Whether Xeno is heading it or just running his surveillance, I don't know. This much I do know. Last summer Corbeau had five people around him at any given time. Now, we can't tell how many people are working for him. They're coming and going all the time. One estimate put the number at thirty-to-thirty- five guns.'

  'So he's either going after someone, or he's seriously paranoid. We weren't involved last summer?'

  'Freelancers, presumably, but we don't know. Corbeau wasn't even at his place when they arrived. Corbeau hears about it while he's at a VIP party in the city and sends his security team ahead to take care of the intruders. I'm not sure he was even there for the gunfight.'