The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  “Money and a Manet.” He indicated the contents. “Why would Marset have both?”

  “I don’t know. Who were his friends in the SUV?” I asked, but he shook his head, perplexed. The other two Evans-Sterling teams were en route to meet us and help sort out this mess.

  “I have to call the police,” he seemed torn, “but you have a flight to catch on Saturday.” If I were a witness or involved in a large-scale police investigation, I wouldn’t be flying home with Mr. Wilkes’ painting. “There’s no reason why you have to be here, or why you were ever here.” He glanced down at my leg and up at the wire that inflicted the damage. “We can clean this up. Just try not to bleed on anything.”

  “Are you sure?” I didn’t feel right removing myself from the equation. This was not how I was trained, and this wasn’t something I’d normally do.

  “I’ll call Sal and tell him what happened. We’ll let him decide. It’s his show.” He dialed Sterling and filled him in.

  While he was on the phone, the other two teams arrived in the parking garage to meet us. A man and woman exited the sedan, Clyde Van Buren and Clare Olivier. The other team in the van pulled up next to them, and Ryan Donough and Michel Langmire stepped out. Van Buren went to speak with the two men, leaving Clare to stare suspiciously at me. Although, I noticed Donough wasn’t paying much attention to his pals and instead was eyeing me. We had never been formally introduced, but I skimmed through their Sterling dossiers. Donough stepped away from the group and was about to approach me when Jean-Pierre got off the phone.

  “Clare,” he said to her, “this is Ali. She needs a ride back to her hotel.”

  I looked at him, unsure how I felt about any of this. I guess I could take it up with Salazar Sterling myself.

  “Come on,” Clare said in English. Her French accent was much thicker than Jean-Pierre’s.

  I looked at the rest of the crew. They seemed to be in some type of exclusive club I wasn’t supposed to be privy to even knowing about. Even Donough slipped back into his group, lost in discussion over the situation. I followed her to the sedan and got into the passenger seat. After I gave her the name of my hotel, she turned the car around and headed back into the heart of the city.

  “What happened back there?” she asked, her eyes on the road. When I finished my story, she frowned, deep in thought. “I would suggest you get that leg cleaned up. You might need some stitches. See if the hotel doctor can do it for you. Tell him you fell or something.”

  I wondered why the Evans-Sterling employees seemed so covert and hostile. It’s not like they were international spies.

  “You used to work for Interpol like Jean-Pierre?” I tried to get a feel for Clare.

  “I used to be with Interpol but not like Jean-Pierre.” This meant she wasn’t a UC, maybe an analyst.

  “OIO,” I volunteered, trying to put us on an even keel.

  She nodded, glancing briefly at me. “I know. Sterling was pleased you were coming on board for this asset retrieval.”

  Finally, I understood the hostility. The full-time Evans-Sterling employees thought I was invading their territory and stepping on some toes. “This is a one-time only kind of thing. I’m just here to authenticate and retrieve Mr. Wilkes’ painting, and then I’m going home.”

  Clare laughed cynically. “That’s how it always starts. One job that leads to another and then another.”

  “No. I’m on retainer elsewhere. This was just a way to score a free trip to Paris.”

  She assessed my words, nodding to herself and deciding I wasn’t a threat to her job. “D’accord.” We drove the rest of the way in silence. When we got to the hotel, Clare parked on the street, a block away. “It was nice to meet you, Ali…”

  “Alexis Parker,” I introduced myself. Better late than never, I suppose.

  “Alexis,” she repeated. “Clare Olivier.” And people said I wasn’t good at making friends. Obviously, they didn’t know how incredibly personable I could be. “Stick with a simple story, and get that leg looked after. Sterling will call in the morning for an official debrief.”

  “Thanks, Clare.”

  It was just after five a.m., and the night shift clerk smiled as I stumbled into the lobby. I asked if there was a hotel doctor who could come to my room. The night clerk promised she would send him up as soon as she could. One of the luxuries of five-star hotels, the service was excellent.

  Changing into a pair of shorts, I assessed the damage to the top of my thigh. It didn’t seem too bad, but once it was no longer covered by my torn denim, I feared Clare was right. Stitches were going to be in my future. I cleaned my leg and poured one of the mini bottles of vodka over the wound to disinfect it.

  “Damn,” I hissed as the alcohol stung my skin. There was a knock at my door. Checking the peephole, I let the doctor in and told him my story as he assessed my injury.

  “Let’s get that stitched up,” he informed me in a British accent. “I’d say twelve should do it. Are you up to date on your Tetanus vaccines?”

  “Yes.” I wasn’t happy with the diagnosis. It was just a cut, but I let the man do his job.

  “Keep it clean. If it gets swollen, red, or otherwise infected, you’ll need to go to the hospital or your own doctor. Avoid physical activity or anything that might put undue stress on your thigh or rip your stitches.” This was his way of avoiding a lawsuit.

  By the time he left, it was almost seven a.m. Martin must be up and preparing to leave for the airport. I had too much on my plate right now to think about him and the mess I had gotten myself into with the asset retrieval and art smuggling investigation. I climbed into bed and sighed. Why was I acting so damn irrational when it came to everything?

  Five

  “Mr. Sterling, I can explain.” I sat across the conference table from Sterling. He cocked his head to the side, waiting for some elaboration. “Olivier and Van Buren were called off to pursue the SUV, which we believed was in possession of the Manet. However, after they left, Marset exited his house with a suspicious duffel bag. Mr. Gustav and I were the only two people there to give chase.”

  Sterling nodded his head slowly, tapping his fingers subconsciously on the tabletop. “Do you think any of the men involved can identify you?”

  “It all happened so fast. It was dark.” Would I be able to recognize any of them? With the exception of Marset, I didn’t think I could pick either of the SUV’s occupants out of a lineup, so they probably didn’t get a good look at me either. “I really doubt it.”

  “Okay. The parking garage has no surveillance cameras. We can’t identify the SUV, and you can’t identify anyone. So I see no reason why your presence needs to be divulged at this particular juncture,” Sterling surmised.

  I had a bad feeling about this, but I let it go. I wasn’t a federal agent anymore, and with my limited knowledge, I wouldn’t be able to help the Police Nationale with their investigation.

  “What’s going to happen to the recovered painting?”

  Sterling considered if I needed to know this tidbit of information. “It will be re-authenticated and returned to its rightful owner. I would strongly recommend you keep an eye on Mr. Wilkes’ painting and make sure it does not meet a similar fate.”

  I went back to my hotel and changed into one of the few designer suits I owned and curled my normally straight hair, trying my damnedest to look as different as possible. Heading to the gallery, I spent the entire day admiring the art and checking to see if I recognized anyone. The restorer, Marset, was not present, and I was certain he either fled or was in hiding. Clare Olivier and Clyde Van Buren were parked outside as I exited the gallery. Once I was a safe distance away, I called Jean-Pierre.

  “I’m going to change and grab a quick bite. I’ll be back to assist on the surveillance in an hour.”

  “Sterling’s changed his mind. He wants you removed from surveillance,” Jean-Pierre informed me. “We have this covered.”

  I spent the rest of the night in my room, determin
ing the most logical reason why Marset had the Manet and what I assumed to be the buyer’s money for the painting. Was the SUV Clare and Van Buren followed the same one from the parking garage? If it was, something must have gone awry with the trade-off.

  The next morning, I was awakened by my phone ringing. “Is everything all right?” I asked Jean-Pierre.

  “The recovered Manet is a fake. Our independent authenticator finished her analysis this morning.”

  “It explains why the money and the painting were both in Marset’s possession.” My mind was already turning around the facts. “I’m going out on a limb and guessing Marset was double-dipping.” Given his ability to restore art, there was a good chance he could create a realistic facsimile. I wondered if the painting we suspected he sold was the genuine article.

  “That’s what I’d do,” Jean-Pierre replied. “Sterling wants to move the timetable up on your retrieval. Make sure you are at the gallery at three p.m. today. Evans-Sterling security will meet you there. The painting will be authenticated on-site, and you will escort it back to your hotel. Just make sure it doesn’t leave your sight until you deliver it Saturday to our people on the other end.”

  “Will you be at the pick-up today?”

  “I’ll try to swing it,” he said before disconnecting.

  At least it was Friday. I’d catch my flight tomorrow morning and deliver the painting to the Evans-Sterling investigators at the airport. I tried to think optimistically instead of imagining all of the things that could go wrong between now and then. Looking at the clock, I realized I could sleep for a couple more hours and rolled over, trying to quiet my mind and the incessant nagging feeling that things weren’t as simple as they should be.

  It was almost noon when my phone rang again. I reached over and picked it up, assuming it was Sterling or maybe Jean-Pierre. Unfortunately, I was wrong on both accounts. I needed to learn to check the caller ID before automatically hitting answer.

  “Alex,” Martin’s voice broke through the last traces of sleep, “I thought I’d call and see how you are.”

  “You should be asleep. It’s practically the middle of the night,” I scolded him, not wanting to have any type of conversation.

  “You’re flying back tomorrow, right?” Martin was using his professional tone.

  “Yes, why?”

  “There’s a meeting set with our security equipment firm for Monday. Since I’m updating some office space for Guillot and our contract is almost up anyway, I thought you could come in and consult on the most cost-efficient ways to upgrade our security. I remember how much you complained about the low-resolution surveillance cameras.”

  The entire reason he had me assess the security of the Paris branch of Martin Technologies was to see how capable I was before asking if I would do the real job. It was amazing how frequently Martin liked to test his employees’ qualifications. “Let me guess. The Paris office was a dry run.”

  “It needed to be done. Your report and recommendations were well-formulated and most helpful.”

  “Monday?”

  “Yes, Monday at two o’clock, conference room three, next to my office.”

  “I’ll see you then,” I replied, ready to disconnect.

  “Hang on.” He stopped me, and his tone shifted. “The other night…”

  “Nothing happened. Let’s just leave it alone for now.”

  “See you Monday.” Things were back to business as usual.

  * * *

  The pick-up of Mr. Wilkes’ painting went off without a hitch. The painting was authenticated by the independent third party hired by Evans-Sterling. The armed Sterling employees secured the painting in its box and locked it in the cargo compartment of their vehicle, giving both me and the painting a ride back to my hotel. Jean-Pierre handed over the briefcase once we parked. I decided against using the hotel’s safe to store the painting for fear I would have to go through the hassle of re-authentication. Instead, I placed it in my room and decided to babysit it until the morning when the same set of security guards would escort me to the airport. Luckily, it was a small painting that easily fit into my carry-on bag. It would never leave my sight.

  Jean-Pierre watched as I packed. The painting was neatly rolled into a tube, and the tube was placed inside a reinforced briefcase. My clothes for the morning were left out, along with a few necessities, but everything else was packed and ready to go. It felt strange having to pack for a flight, keeping in mind certain things such as bag size and weight, when my trip over had been so easy and carefree. Working for Martin spoiled me. First, it was a private jet and a five-star hotel. Next, I’d probably need to hire a chauffeur or maid.

  “It was good seeing you again,” Jean-Pierre said. “We had some wild times on the first go-around. Do you ever miss it?”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted, thinking about working at the OIO for Mark Jablonsky, running ops, arresting people. “But when I think about all the red-tape, the long hours, and never knowing where I was going or when I was coming back, it wasn’t worth it.”

  “You didn’t feel like you were making a difference,” Jean-Pierre filled in the blanks.

  “Not really,” I said. He chuckled at my response. “I realize playing fetch with a painting isn’t making a difference either, but…”

  “The hours are better, and the pay is pretty damn fantastic. And for the most part, you probably aren’t going to get shot or killed.”

  I hedged on this fact. Since I started out in the private sector, I had taken three hits to the vest, and last night involved some bullets flying in my general direction. “Well, realistically, that’s how it should be.”

  “Tell me about it,” he retorted derisively. We spent the rest of the evening exchanging crazy stories from my days at the OIO and his days at Interpol. It had been a long time since I thought about my old life and the real reason for leaving it all behind.

  “Have a safe flight, Ali. You just have to deliver the painting, and then you can wash your hands of this whole mess.”

  “True.” I smiled. “You stay safe. Clare’s a lucky woman, but don’t put your life on hold for too long. There are no certainties in waiting.”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “Planning on following your own advice?”

  “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach,” I quoted.

  He looked confused. “You Americans have such odd sayings.”

  * * *

  That night, I twisted and turned. Sharing old war stories had brought back memories of my final days at the OIO. Mark Jablonsky had put me in charge to coordinate the infiltration of a warehouse thought to be used for the import and export of contraband. It was meant to be harmless, but as the first two-man team breached the perimeter, a booby-trap went off. Two agents were lost that day.

  After finalizing the paperwork, being cleared of all culpability, and dealing with the mandated psychological evaluations, I stormed into the director’s office and handed over my letter of resignation and my badge. It was one thing to be in the field and have your life threatened or even your partner’s. It was something else entirely to give the command that sent men to an early grave. There had been countless hours of reassessing and searching for something that had been missed, but in the end, none of it mattered. They weren’t coming back, so there was no reason why I should either.

  Mark offered to have me reinstated, but the consequences far outweighed the benefits. Eventually, he gave up on his crusade to turn me back into a federal agent and instead helped secure the job with Martin, and I had been private sector ever since.

  My flight the next morning from Paris to London went as planned. Evans-Sterling security escorted me and the painting to the airport. I checked in and kept sight of the briefcase the entire time. Once I got to Heathrow, there was a delay. I was sitting in the airport, the briefcase on my lap, reading a magazine when an announcement came over the intercom that due to bad weather, all outgoing flights were cancelled until further notice. Crap, I thoug
ht miserably. With the briefcase in hand, I decided to have some lunch and wait out the storm. Lunch soon turned into dinner, and dinner turned into wishing I left two days earlier when Martin flew home.

  Settling into a chair far away from other travelers, I called the Evans-Sterling office back home and filled them in on the impending delay. They agreed to keep an eye out for my new arrival time in order to meet and take possession of the painting whenever I managed to fly home. Since I didn’t feel like calling Sterling with the news, I dialed Jean-Pierre and informed him of the delay. They had a few new leads on the missing paintings, and hopefully, the entire situation would be resolved soon. Once again, he insisted that I not worry about any of this but just get home and move on to whatever my next job was going to be. It felt odd playing only a small part in such a large-scale investigation, but I wasn’t investigating. My job was asset retrieval and delivery only. Maybe I should be working for UPS or FedEx.

  Finally, the storm passed and flights resumed, setting me back almost sixteen hours. Sunday morning, I arrived home completely exhausted, jetlagged, and ready to be free of the painting. The Evans-Sterling people were at the airport and took delivery. I was unburdened and relieved to be home. Retrieving my luggage from baggage claim, I went outside to hail a cab. Parked in the pick-up zone was a very familiar town car with an even more familiar driver.

  “Miss Parker,” Marcal, Martin’s personal driver, greeted, “need a ride home?”

  “Marcal, why are you here?” I asked, exasperated. I peered into the car suspiciously, hoping Martin wasn’t waiting inside.

  “Mr. Martin sent me to pick you up. He had other business to attend to, but he thought you might like a ride.”

  I was too tired to argue, so I lugged my bags into the car. “How did you know when I was arriving?” After all, I was delayed sixteen hours.

  “Mr. Martin gave me your flight number.”