"Please!” Like a cop conducting traffic, Mr. O'Nelligan held up one hand. “With Mr. Plunkett's assent, I will lay out the conclusions of our investigation."
He looked at me and I nodded, fully realizing that any forthcoming conclusions were to his credit and not mine.
Mr. O'Nelligan smoothed his vest and commenced. “If this case of ours has a theme, it would be perfection. While recruiting us, Miss Zampino stated her belief that Stuart Worley, who presents himself as the perfect man, had himself stolen the painting from his own gallery. She felt that a perfect man was quite capable of executing a perfect theft. As Miss Zampino is our client, we approached things from that perspective.
"We found that Mr. Worley is indeed an outwardly refined individual. As to whether that refinement has trickled down into his soul, well, such a determination belongs to the angels. I myself harbor doubts. Nonetheless, Worley does come off as rather spiffy. Now, as to the stolen painting, at first glance it might seem odd that a man of lofty tastes would champion a work of such ... limitations."
Noll stirred in his corner. “What did you say?"
Mr. O'Nelligan pressed on. “Mr. Worley admitted to us that he purchased Bursting Skull with the intention of inflating its worth. He was under no illusion as to the artistry of the work. In fact, scarcely anyone directly involved with the case believed that the painting possessed any true merit. Not Worley. Not Miss Zampino or her father. Not even Mr. Noll's paramour.” Maxine tried to interrupt, but Mr. O'Nelligan's traffic-halting palm rose once again. “Let me say that sometimes inspiration comes from unexpected sources. An hour ago, a newspaper flung uncharitably at Lee Plunkett here yielded up an illuminating phrase. An article describing last night's ball game started with the declaration, ‘The unperfect man pitched a perfect game yesterday.’”
"Isn't the correct word imperfect?” Donna Zampino asked.
Mr. O'Nelligan smiled. “Well asked. Actually, either word is proper. But to continue, the concept implied in that sentence immediately seized me. Up to this point, we had been considering the possibility of a ‘perfect’ man successfully executing the theft. We were now presented with a converse concept—that of an imperfect man achieving the perfect heist. This brought to mind someone who could be considered the antithesis of Mr. Worley. An individual who has just in the last twenty-four hours been described as quirky, flawed, a funny duck, and—by his own lover—'the most defective man I know.’ This also happens to be the one person directly connected with the stolen painting who sincerely holds it in high esteem. So, Mr. Noll, why don't you relate for everyone how you broke into the gallery?"
Gilmar Noll widened his eyes. “Me? Why would you—"
"There's no point in feigning innocence,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “I know how everything was accomplished, but I think it best if we heard it from your own lips. Glance out your window, if you will, sir. You'll notice two rather sizable men leaning against a car. These are police detectives who, at my summons, will soon be coming up to search your apartment."
Noll looked out the window, as did I. There they were, a beefy pair indeed. I'd noticed them as we entered but thought nothing of it. So this was the result of my friend's phone call.
Noll turned away from the window and stared at Mr. O'Nelligan for half a minute before answering. “It was fairly easy really, once I decided to do it. Old Zampino was used to me stopping in at the gallery. One afternoon, I told him I was worried that someone might steal my painting. That's when he showed me how the alarm worked, how it went on—and off. I pretended to be distracted and barely interested. That way he wouldn't suspect anything later. Actually, I was paying very close attention."
Mr. O'Nelligan nodded. “Exactly. But don't forget to tell about the key."
"That was a little more difficult,” Noll said. “I'd noticed that Zampino would sometimes take out his keys for some task or other, then place them down on a display case while he puttered around. So I took to carrying a small tin of clay in my pocket for just the right moment. I'd seen it done in a movie. One day, when the old man's back was turned, I got a mold of the front door keys."
"I don't believe it!” Maxine's eyes were opened to the maximum. “You can barely figure out how to use a can opener, never mind planning something like this."
Noll shrugged. “Well, it's true. After I had replicas made, I went back to the gallery a little before closing time and left when Zampino did. As I was going out, I quickly switched off the alarm. Then I came back later, unlocked the door, took my painting, and turned the alarm back on before leaving."
"Just as we surmised,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Now, if you would please produce the painting."
"But it's mine. Mine!” Noll's mouth twisted into a foolish pout.
Mr. O'Nelligan spoke as if addressing a toddler. “It would save us all some trouble if you produced the painting straightaway. Can you do that for us, Gilmar?"
Noll pressed his fingers to his eyes as if suppressing a headache. After a moment, he stepped into a side room and returned holding a large canvas. The photograph we'd seen earlier had been bad enough, but to behold Bursting Skull in all its sputtering glory was almost too much to take.
"It was under the bed,” Noll said.
Maxine looked appalled. “We were sleeping over it all along? You stupid creep!"
With a robust scream, she grabbed an empty wine bottle off a table and flung it at Noll's head. He narrowly dodged it, dropping his painting in the effort. The bottle struck the window pane and exploded the glass.
Mr. O'Nelligan glanced out the window. “Well, that certainly got the attention of the constabulary. They're on the way up."
Noll stared down at his creation, not bothering to retrieve it. “I had to have it back. We belong to each other."
Donna Zampino now stepped forward. “You took my father's life."
Noll shook his head. “I only took my painting."
"No. You took his life. His heart gave out because of his sense of responsibility. If not for you, my father would be alive."
She pressed in on Noll and raised her hands. No one else moved. For a moment I wasn't sure if she was going to strike him, strangle him, or tear into his eyes with her long fingernails. Instead, she did something far more unsettling. She took his head in her hands and, drawing it down to her lips, kissed his brow.
She said softly, “May my father forgive you."
This had an effect no less jolting than had she struck him outright. The failed artist shuddered and groaned and quickly pulled away from the woman. An insistent rapping now came from the hallway. Noll turned toward the sound and extended his arms, wrists upturned in anticipation of handcuffs. It was a gesture both theatric and pathetic.
Maxine wrinkled her nose. “What a sap I've been. What a big, dumb sap."
Then she sashayed off to answer the door.
* * * *
With one thing and another, it wasn't until the next evening that Mr. O'Nelligan and I were able to sit together in my office and debrief.
"How did you figure out how Noll did it?” I asked.
"I didn't."
"Pardon?"
"Motivewise, Gilmar Noll had risen in my mind as a likely candidate for the theft, but frankly, I feared he was too inept to fit the bill.” Mr. O'Nelligan paused a moment to stroke his beard. “Then when I saw that newspaper article, I took it as a sign, of sorts, that my theory was correct. Sometimes an unperfect man can conjure up a perfect outcome. In truth, though, I wasn't at all positive how Noll enacted the theft. When we confronted him, I simply played the part of a confident interrogator and fooled the fellow into revealing all."
This really delighted me. “You conniving old thespian!"
He gave a little nod. “Thank you. Although, in the end, some might see the resolution of this case as itself imperfect. It was, after all, born of a dream, a ball game, and a bluff. Deduction took a back seat to intuition."
"Whatever works. We did our job—or, rather, you did our jo
b—and we'll be paid for it. Surely, you're going to accept compensation for this one."
"Surely, I am not,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “I'm just grateful for the chance to exercise my aging cerebrum. However, if you wish to stake me to a repast this evening, washed down by a pot of strong tea, well, I would probably acquiesce to that."
"Three or four repasts,” I insisted. “And a barrel of tea."
"Moderation, Lee Plunkett. Always steer towards moderation."
The phone rang.
An excited Italian accent greeted me. “Did you hear? The Yankees won the World Series today! My father must be so happy."
For a fleeting moment, I pictured Giuseppe Zampino atop some very high bleachers, the mists of heaven swirling about him. He had a rose in one hand and a bag of peanuts in the other.
"That's great,” I said. “Look, I'm sorry the case didn't work out the way you expected. Stuart Worley wasn't the guilty party, after all. Plus, he'll get the painting back once it's not needed for evidence."
"So it goes.” Donna sounded downright philosophical. “I wanted the truth and that's what you gave me. But wait! Here's something even more beautiful. I just found out that Worley never did get to see the perfect game on Monday. His tire blew out on a back road somewhere and he wasn't able to find a tow truck until too late. He never made it to the stadium!"
I laughed. “Come to think of it, Worley did seem touchy when I mentioned the game yesterday. Poor little rich guy."
She asked to talk to Mr. O'Nelligan. I passed him the phone. He listened for a while, offering an occasional “I see” or “of course.” After several minutes, he said, “You're very welcome. Good-bye ... Topolina."
He hung up and we sat together quietly. After a spell, we both rose and gathered up our coats and hats.
"Now let's away to close of day,” my friend said softly.
"Yeats?” I guessed.
The Irishman sighed. “No. Merely O'Nelligan."
Copyright © 2009 Michael Nethercott
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Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn
One minor casualty of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the breakup of the USSR was, for a time, the spy novel, so long a staple of the Cold War. As novelist Joseph Finder wrote in a November 2001 New York Times article, “After the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, it seemed that even before the dust had settled the obituary of the spy novel was being written. With the end of the Evil Empire, spies seemed obsolete, and so did the labyrinthine narrative of the intelligence operative, with its tradecraft, safe houses, moles and dead drops."
But as several recent novels show, the rise of Vladimir Putin and the emergence of the FSB (formerly the KGB) as a major force in modern Russia have given new life to the supposedly moribund spy novel. Three new books illustrate the strength and diversity of the resurgent genre with a British agent in Russia, a Russian agent in the United States, and an American detective in both London and Moscow. In each book, chillingly realistic shadow operations and politically driven violence provide grave insights into the Cold War's continuing repercussions.
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Alex Dryden's debut, red to black (Ecco, $25.99), delivers a serious warning in the guise of fiction. The pseudonymous journalist delves into the machinations of the FSB and its KGB predecessors with eerie, convincing details. Dryden has spent more than 15 years as a freelance journalist covering events in Russia and was also involved in security and intelligence matters. That work provided him with firsthand experience and a healthy appreciation for the dangers of presenting his views in a nonfiction format. In a publicity letter written for this book, Dryden notes that “since Putin became head of the FSB(KGB) in 1998, over sixty journalists have been murdered in Russia, and thirty politicians.” For this and other reasons, Dryden decided fiction was his best approach to writing about Putin's Russia.
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Red to Black features a British covert agent, Finn, stationed in Russia with the cover title of Second Secretary of Trade and Investment. Anna, a colonel in the FSB, is assigned to seduce Finn and to monitor his activities. The two embrace their roles, and each other, in a wary relationship that ripens despite an undercurrent of distrust over more than a decade.
The cat-and-mouse game is not only between Finn and Anna, but also involves the spies and their handlers. Finn, sometimes aided by Anna, becomes a rogue agent seeking to document the FSB's nefarious plans to gain economic domination of Europe. As Finn works his network of contacts throughout Europe struggling to piece together enough evidence to thwart their plan, he reveals the massive and deadly reach of the FSB.
Readers will not find pyrotechnics or Bond-style gadgetry here, but they will find compelling reasons to beware of the strength of Putin's Russia and the role the FSB now plays in enforcing its power.
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Brent Ghelfi's the venona cable (Holt, $25) reaches back to WWII for the catalyst that sends a Russian spy to the United States to answer puzzling questions about his own father and the complex network of American and Russian spies that fought a shadow war. Ghelfi's Alexei Volkovoy, Russian criminal and spy, better known as Volk, makes his third appearance (following Volk's Game and Volk's Shadow). The titular Venona cable is a decrypted Soviet cable sent from New York to Moscow in 1943. It helped the Americans and British to identify many Soviet spies—Julius Rosenberg, Kim Philby, and Alger Hiss among them. But one agent, simply labeled Source 19, remained unidentified.
When aged American filmmaker Everett Walker comes to Moscow, searching for Volk and carrying a copy of the Venona cable, he ends up murdered in a warehouse belonging to Volk. Volk is arrested and becomes an unwilling pawn in a game being played by powerful Russian interests. What importance could the cable, long since decrypted, still hold?
Volk is soon sent on a mission to the United States to determine whether his father, Stepan, who defected to America in 1974, was patriot or traitor. Was he on a mission for his country—an agent of the Russian military intelligence (GRU), or not? And if he was, did he remain true or not? The U.S. ONCIX (Office of the National Counterintelligence Executive) agrees to help Volk, and understanding that unusual decision becomes another part of Volk's mission.
It doesn't take Volk long to realize that official cooperation in the U.S. doesn't mean that someone isn't anxious to see his mission fail, even if it means killing him. The Venona cable's last secret still may hold the answer to which spies were loyal and which were double agents. Soon Volk is on his own and on the run in America, desperately trying to survive long enough to learn the answers and earn the right and means to return home. Ghelfi provides plenty of action, and his deadly hero, despite being from the opposition, should earn plenty of American fans.
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LONDONGRAD (Walker, $25) by Reggie Nadelson takes a New York City detective on a perilous journey from his home turf to a dangerous London and on to a violent Moscow. As with the previous two novels, Londongrad illuminates the classic spy dilemma of who can be trusted, even among those supposedly on your side.
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Nadelson's Artie Cohen, a Moscow-born NYC cop, has appeared in seven previous novels, but in this latest adventure, Artie is not merely off the books; despite his resistance, he is also being recruited as a spy.
While on vacation, Artie discovers the body of a young woman murdered, wrapped in duct tape, and tied to a children's swing on a broken-down playground. Worse is to come as he learns that the victim was not the intended target; the real target was someone much closer to him, the daughter of his good friend, flamboyant entrepreneur Tolya Sverdloff.
Tolya, owner of nightclubs in New York, London, and Moscow, is both wealthy and reckless, convinced that his wealth provides immunity for his careless tongue. His daughter, Valentina, is a beautiful photographer and an activist with a foundation looking after girls abandoned or abused in Russia, unafraid to challenge an authority unused to being chall
enged.
Artie goes to London as a favor to Tolya and finds himself enmeshed in the coils of the Russian underworld while searching for the killer. The search eventually takes him to Moscow, plunging him into a whole new world of trouble.
Nadelson, a journalist and documentary filmmaker, paints vibrant pictures of the Russian community in New York and of the burgeoning Russian community in London, where rich Russians brought their wealth and crime. He evokes a Moscow transformed into a modern European city, but one where the old KGB has been replaced by the similarly ruthless new FSB.
Artemy Maximovich Cohen, better known simply as Artie, is at home as a New York City cop and as a member of NYC's large Russian community, but here he entertainingly demonstrates just how effective he can be on his own in foreign lands.
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ALL POINTS BULLETIN: Holiday mysteries offer creepy cheer this winter; in Carolyn Hart's merry, merry ghost (HarperLuxe, $24.99), Bailey Ruth, a kindly spirit, offers help to a needy boy at Christmas. * IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE MURDER (Five Star, $25.95) is the third in Jeff Markowitz's Cassie O'Malley sleuth series set in New Jersey. * A pair of siblings endure a tragic, suspicious car accident on winter vacation in Canada in Vicki Delany's WINTER OF SECRETS (Poisoned Pen, $24.95) * Anne Perry charts a young girl's quest to discover the truth of her uncle's mysterious death in A CHRISTMAS PROMISE (Ballantine, $18).
Copyright © 2009 Robert C. Hahn
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Fiction: BOUDIN NOIR by R. T. Lawton
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Hank Blaustein
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I had loved Josette ever since she first showed me how to pick a fat merchant's pocket on the busy streets of Paris. And no doubt she would have loved me in return, had it not been for that damned Chevalier, the one we called Remy. He was a thief, a trickster, and a well dressed popinjay, who had no right to deprive me of her affections. No matter that she was nineteen at the time, and I a mere several years younger. Someday, I swore, I would make an end to Remy for having robbed me of my dreams. I would find a way to turn the tables on this fallen son of nobility and see how he liked it. Then my sleep would be much more at ease. Or at least without his constant interruptions.
AHMM, December 2009 Page 8
