Whirlpool

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “This jumble will never be ready in time,” Hudson said.

  Novikov squinted and tilted his elegant head to one side as he weighed the effect of the display. He’d dealt with Hudson and his arrogance many times over the years, both in the United States and in Russia. Novikov despised the industrialist but was too pragmatic to show it.

  So the Russian ignored what he couldn’t change.

  “Black velvet,” Novikov said to the assistant. “Surely it would not be too much trouble to find truly black velvet here in Los Angeles? This trash has a yellow cast to it. We need something the color of a Moscow night.”

  “It’s Tuesday—” Hudson said.

  “Barely,” Novikov interrupted coolly.

  “—which means that even if you get the exhibit ready for the Thursday morning preview, it won’t be up to my standards. I want a world-class show, not a third-rate Third World pile of crap.”

  Finally Novikov looked up. His pale eyebrow arched in feigned surprise, as if he hadn’t known Hudson was nearby.

  “Do not be agitated,” Novikov said. “The exhibits will be superb. We have an abundance of time.”

  Hudson looked at Novikov’s theatrically perfect features and silky, flaxen hair. Hudson had a real dislike of homosexuals, but not for the usual reasons. He saw homosexuals as competitors. He saw heterosexual males in the same way.

  At a gut level Hudson believed his prick ought to be the only one in use, anytime, anywhere.

  “I’ve a good mind to throw you and your traveling show out on your ass,” Hudson said. “I’m beginning to believe that all Russians are liars and cheats.”

  “Am I to assume that there exists a reason for your sudden chauvinistic anger?”

  Hudson glared at a red velvet wall hanging that had once covered the wall of a small chapel in St. Petersburg. The hanging was now spread carefully inside a hard plastic shell that was being hoisted in place on a south-facing gallery wall.

  “Your countrymen have lost all sense of loyalty,” Hudson said, biting off each word.

  “Why? Merely because the new Russian republic refused to settle for your first offer of reimbursement for the honor of having our exhibit?”

  Hudson gave Novikov a hard look.

  “Surely you know how expensive it has become to stage international exhibitions,” the Russian said calmly. “You certainly have sponsored enough of them in your unrelenting drive to become the principal patron of the arts in Los Angeles.”

  Splotches of color suddenly showed on Hudson’s pale cheeks. “Don’t presume to taunt me. I’m generous when it comes to art and artists, but I’ve broken stronger men by far than you.”

  With an effort Novikov held his temper. For the past hour he’d suffered Hudson’s arrogance and anger, waiting for the industrialist to slip and reveal some guilty knowledge of the Ruby Surprise. Novikov knew Hudson had served Soviet interests over the years as a way of serving his own. Potentially Hudson was in a position to have discovered the true value of the Ruby Surprise and then to have stolen it for his own purposes.

  But Hudson had said nothing to suggest he’d stolen the imperial egg.

  “I would not taunt anyone,” Novikov said. “I am only a patriot. I do not like to hear such attacks on Mother Russia from anyone, not even from the very wealthy capitalist Damon Hudson.

  The flush on Hudson’s cheeks darkened. “I’ve been a friend of the Russian people for years. At times, this friendship has cost me a great deal, both personally and professionally. I’ve spent millions of dollars of my own money furthering Russian causes—including the three million dollars it cost just to get this exhibit.”

  Novikov measured Hudson. The older man looked to be in a fine state of rage. His eyes were glaring, his cheeks were flushed, and his thick silver eyebrows were drawn together in a fierce line. Idly Novikov wondered if baiting Hudson some more would help solve the mystery of the missing egg.

  “Exemplary,” Novikov murmured. “Of course, I understand that you were well compensated for your support of the Russian people.”

  “That support has cost me more than money can repay,” Hudson said bitterly. “And what do I get for my lifelong friendship and sacrifice?”

  Before Novikov could decide on an answer, Hudson spun in place, glaring in all directions, his arms thrown out in disgust.

  “I get a slapdash collection of icons and altar paintings, snuffboxes and cigarette cases, a few marginal socialist realist paintings, and a handful of propaganda posters from third-rate Stalinists.”

  Novikov worked to keep his temper.

  Hudson turned and advanced on the Russian in frank menace.

  “Where is the Fabergé?” Hudson demanded.

  The Russian looked closely at Hudson. If he was concealing guilty knowledge, any normal man would have avoided the subject of Fabergé. But Hudson wasn’t any normal man. His question proved nothing either way, guilt or innocence.

  “The Fabergé is being unpacked and placed as we speak,” Novikov said. “Look around you more carefully.”

  “Not that crap! Where are the imperial eggs? I want them out here where I can see them. Where the press can see them and know that—”

  “Why are the eggs so important?” Novikov cut in casually. “The Japanese cultural press paid them little attention. They dismissed them as garish and of secondary cultural importance.”

  Hudson swept away the question with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “The Japanese think an object has to be a thousand years old and have a slicing edge to be valuable. Americans are more discerning. We recognize craftsmanship and beauty, no matter what the age.”

  “Remarkable,” Novikov said under his breath.

  “Listen, you high-nosed son of a bitch, I’ve promised a special viewing on Wednesday for the principal art critics of the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and other important media.”

  “The American art press will come to the trough quite willingly,” Novikov said smoothly. “You do not need to treat them as though they had importance.”

  Glowering like an Old Testament patriarch, Hudson drew himself up to full height and stood over the slight curator.

  “This show is crucial to my reputation,” Hudson said harshly. “Especially now, with that bitch Toth sniffing around, trying to embarrass me by dredging up old news.”

  Novikov barely managed to conceal his surprise at the mention of Claire Toth. She was the last subject he’d expected Hudson to bring up. But there Toth was, as the Americans said, like a turd in the buttermilk.

  26

  Paso Robles

  Very early Tuesday

  By the time Cruz finally put away the cellular and leaned back in the seat, Laurel was on the outskirts of Paso Robles. The sound he made when the seat took the weight of his torso could have been a sigh of relief or simply weariness.

  “How are your ribs?” she asked.

  “Still there.”

  “Would aspirin help? I have some in my purse.”

  He started to shrug, winced, and cursed under his breath.

  “Unless you’re allergic,” she said, “aspirin can’t hurt.”

  “Can you reach behind the passenger seat? There’s a bottle of water somewhere.”

  Driving one-handed, she leaned to the right, fished around, and finally came up with the water bottle. Despite the awkward position, she kept the little rental car in the center of its lane, just as she’d held the lane while the narrow little road snaked through the mountains leading to California’s Great Central Valley.

  She handed him the water bottle and went back to driving.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  He found the aspirin in her purse and swallowed several pills. Then he leaned back again and let the night stream by on either side of him.

  “Better?” she asked quietly.

  “Not as good as a double scotch, but not bad.”

  “Scotch, huh? I like wine, myself. And brandy, if it’s been a really long day hunched over the
worktable.”

  Cruz smiled faintly. Then he turned his head and watched Laurel while she drove, enjoying the play of dashboard lights over her face. Her eyes were catlike, almost pure gold, and her eyelashes threw ragged shadows that shifted with each movement of her head. The lighting emphasized the height of her cheekbones, the depth of the hollows beneath, and the darkness of her lips. Her hands looked almost delicate in the odd light, but she held the wheel confidently.

  If she noticed his close attention, it didn’t make her self-conscious. She handled the car with efficiency and skill, getting the most from it and the road without pushing either one too hard. Her eyes moved constantly but not nervously. She was simply checking gauges, mirrors, and the shape of the road speeding toward her out of the darkness.

  “You drive very well,” he said.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Most women would have thrown me all over the car coming through the mountains.”

  “Most men would have, too.”

  He laughed, winced slightly, and went back to watching her. It was a lot better than thinking about his ribs.

  “Did your father teach you to drive, too?” Cruz asked.

  “Too?”

  “He was the one who taught you to shoot, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. But the driving I did on my own. I took some courses years ago.”

  “Racing?”

  She shook her head. “I just wanted to drive well.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced quickly at Cruz. It was one of the rare times she’d looked away from the road while talking to him. One of the things she’d learned during the driving courses was that you can talk to someone without looking at him.

  But you couldn’t judge expressions that way.

  Cruz looked the way he always did—intent, hard, intelligent, focused.

  “I don’t like to feel out of control,” she said, looking back at the road.

  “What if I insisted on driving now?”

  “It would depend on how well you did. I don’t like driving too fast for anyone’s skill, including my own. That’s why I went to a class that sharpened my reflexes. It also taught me how to drive until I find my own limits, the limits of the car, and the road.”

  “Another control freak, huh?” he said.

  “Like you?”

  “I prefer the term ‘self-sufficient.’”

  “Most control freaks do.”

  Saying nothing, he pointed to a left turn. She made it without asking where they were going.

  “So you like self-sufficiency,” he said. “Is that why you live alone?”

  “Is that a roundabout way of asking why there’s no man in my life?”

  “Why? No. But if there is a man, is he trained for what you’re up against now?”

  “What if I was the one with training?”

  “A male of the species, trained and competent, is a better bet in hand-to-hand combat than a female of the same training and competence, unless you’re talking about falcons or hawks.”

  “Ever heard of an equalizer?” Laurel asked.

  “What if the bad guys have one too?”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “Are you willing to bet your life on it?” Cruz asked. “Are you willing to pit your physical strength and training in violence against mine?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. You are.”

  “I’ve taken care of myself since I was sixteen,” she said in a flat voice.

  “Not against this lot, you haven’t.”

  He pointed to another turn. As soon as she made it, she saw the lights of a small airport ahead.

  “Turn right just past that marker,” he said.

  The road led through an open gate and onto the taxiway of the rural airport. In the distance Laurel saw the sharp, clean outlines of a waiting executive aircraft. It was a substantial plane. Whatever Risk Ltd. did, it was profitable.

  “Park by the plane,” Cruz said.

  She parked but left the engine running.

  He didn’t get out. “I want you to come with me.”

  “What if I don’t want to go?”

  His black eyelashes lowered, making his eyes little more than glittering lines drawn against the darkness of his face.

  “Then,” he said, “I’d figure you’re too much of a damned fool to save your own life and I would act accordingly.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re a bright woman. You figure it out.”

  27

  Los Angeles

  Early Tuesday

  The Russian workers had watched warily from the corner of their eyes while Novikov and Hudson wrangled their way through the exhibit. Hudson’s temper hadn’t improved at all.

  “Fabergé is what will grab headlines,” Hudson said loudly. “The imperial eggs are what will put my show—and my museum—on the front pages of every newspaper worth reading. So trot the eggs out, sonny, and do it now.”

  “As I have said to you before, the Fabergé eggs are being examined by specialists to see if there was any damage during shipment,” Novikov said in a soothing voice.

  Hudson didn’t buy it. “Where are they being examined? I’ll look at them there.”

  “They will be put in place when the rest of the exhibit is ready. Until then, they will be kept—how do you say it?—under lock and key.”

  “Show me the goddamned eggs!”

  Beneath the curator’s attentive, soothing expression, Novikov was cursing like a peasant. He’d prepared a story for just this awkward moment, but he’d really hoped not to have to use it.

  “The eggs will be in place by this afternoon,” Novikov said. His voice, like his posture, was confident.

  Hudson grunted. “Every one of them?”

  “Except for one,” the Russian said with a dismissing wave of his hand. “It suffered some minor damage in transit.”

  “Which egg?”

  “One of the junior curators has returned with it to Moscow, where it will be repaired and returned within forty-eight hours.”

  “The press viewing is in thirty hours. Which egg is missing?”

  Novikov sighed and cursed the persistent industrialist. “The Ruby Surprise.”

  “Moscow?” Hudson shouted. “Are you telling me the egg is in fucking Moscow?”

  Several of the Russian staff turned and openly stared at Hudson. His own staff didn’t. Hudson’s temper was a fact of employment. All his own workers cared about was that for once Hudson’s wrath wasn’t aimed at them.

  “Jesus Christ,” Hudson snarled. “Why wasn’t I told? I promised those newspaper sluts a national scoop—the first American showing of a long-lost czarist art treasure!”

  “Naturally we wanted it to be in perfect condition for your showing,” Novikov said.

  “So repair it in Los Angeles!” Hudson yelled an inch from Novikov’s face. “Christ knows we have enough wogs on Hill Street to make a new egg, much less repair an old one.”

  Gapan materialized nearby, looking like a rumpled proletarian specter at a decadent artistic feast.

  Hudson glowered at the second Russian, repelled by his seamed, ugly face. Hudson had heard his workers speculate that Novikov and the ugly Russian were lovers. Certainly Gapan was protective of the lithe, elegant curator.

  Novikov glanced once at Gapan, then back to Hudson.

  “Moscow is the only place where Fabergé’s tools and workshop still exist, largely intact,” Novikov said with thin patience. “If there are any marks of workmanship left on the egg, we want them to be indistinguishable from Fabergé’s.”

  “This is outrageous! I’m calling the minister of culture about it. He’ll have your balls—assuming you have any.”

  “Balls?” Then Novikov remembered what the slang meant. He laughed. “Ah, yes. Be assured that I have balls and use them as regularly as you do.”

  Gapan gave Novikov a dark glance.

  “Do not embarrass yourself by
calling the minister,” Novikov said politely. “He is far too busy to be bothered by such a minor matter as repairs to a bit of gold filigree.”

  Hudson opened his mouth.

  Novikov kept on talking. “There are one hundred and fifty-three Fabergé items in this show, none of which has ever been displayed in the West. Surely you are not going to be deprived of your national adulation because one piece is missing for a few hours?”

  Hudson wanted to argue, but the rush of adrenaline was passing, leaving him empty. He closed his eyes for an instant, feeling more spent than he had since he began treatments in Romania.

  “Take advantage of this time to rest and look again at your speech,” Novikov coaxed, his voice low. “The displays will be in place before your Wednesday press showing.”

  Hudson looked into Novikov’s unusual light eyes and felt the world slipping away. The supple tenor voice was like a caress. For an instant Hudson found himself wondering what it would be like to have sex with a man.

  If Novikov was truly a man.

  At a gut level, Hudson doubted it. No man was that beautiful, that…alluring. Certainly no man had ever been to Hudson.

  Smiling like a Madonna, Novikov put his hand on the older man’s sleeve.

  “If you wish,” the Russian said, “I will assist you in giving the journalists a tour. I can reveal to them aspects of several pieces that are more impressive artistically than the red egg.”

  Hudson took a deep breath. With it came the faintly exotic scent of Aleksy Novikov. Hudson shook his head as if confused. Silently he promised himself not to drink vodka again, no matter how stressed he was. He simply had no tolerance for it anymore. It undermined his sense of reality.

  But then, so had Claire Toth.

  Swearing beneath his breath, Hudson gathered the threads of his unraveling concentration.

  “I have a huge investment in this show,” he said.

  “So does Russia, my friend,” Novikov assured him. “It is vital in the rebuilding of good relations between peoples who have been divided too long by a foolish ideology. Is that not correct, Gapan?”

  Gapan looked from Novikov to Hudson, then said something in Russian.