‘How much?
‘About a hundred thousand dollars.’ She tossed off the amount as though leaving a tip for the waiter.
Jack thought Jesus, but said: ‘Is that all?’ A bad feeling tightened the muscles in his neck. It was the kind of money people did things about. The kind of money to maybe get out of the way of.
‘Well?’ said Larissa.
‘How do you know all this?’
‘The internet is amazing.’
Jack frowned. A muscle twitched in his leg.
Larissa uncrossed hers, brought her knees together and leaned forward on her elbows. ‘Look, last time we spoke —’
Jack held up his hand. ‘Hang on. Answer me something. Why wouldn’t de Groot insure a thing like that?’
She took a long breath, exhaled. ‘Because it’s stolen.’
The words seemed to have an echo to them in Jack’s ears. He listened until they faded.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Larissa.
‘De Groot deals in stolen art?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here?’
Larissa straightened up. ‘Don’t be naïve, Jack.’
Jack thought of Viktor Kablunak. A small ball of fire glowed in his stomach. ‘Naïve would be nice.’
‘Hundred thousand,’ repeated Larissa. ‘A hundred and twenty-two, as matter of fact. Last time I checked the exchange rate.’
Jack watched her face. She did not seem overly concerned about anything. The room was hot but it was all cool façade over on the couch with Larissa.
‘One and a bit, huh? Just like that. You know all about it and you couldn’t wait to come around and tell me.’
‘We’re old friends, aren’t we, Jack?’ She grinned, looked him over.
‘How long have you been working for de Groot?’
‘Long enough.’
‘Long enough that he’d tell you all about his art-smuggling business?’
Larissa Tate rolled her eyes.
‘You know, but the wife doesn’t?’
‘Rhonda?’ she scoffed. ‘I’m an employee of De Groot Finance. Not a marriage counsellor.’
Jack kept his mouth shut, but his face must have whispered something.
‘Don’t even think it,’ said Larissa, raising her voice again.
‘I don’t have to fuck anybody I don’t want to.’
‘That doesn’t mean you haven’t.’
‘No. It doesn’t.’ Larissa scratched the palm of her hand.
‘Have you spoken to Rhonda?’
‘We’re in counselling together,’ said Jack. ‘After the trauma of the heist.’
‘It would pay to be straight with me.’
Outside, the day waned and headed for the horizon, its heat dragging behind like a heavy cloak. Jack’s apartment felt oppressive.
‘You start,’ he said. ‘All I see is curves.’
‘You don’t like them?’
‘I’m the nervous type.’
‘Not how I remember it.’
‘So now it’s okay to flash it about, huh? A moment ago I offended you.’
‘You assumed. But now you know.’
Jack shook his head. ‘What do you want, Larissa?’
She looked down into her lap. Then she flicked her hair and sat up straighter. ‘Money,’ she said.
‘Ah. The ol’ five-letter word.’
‘We need to do a deal, Jack.’
He nodded. At least she did not want to punch him in the stomach.
‘De Groot makes shit-loads of money. Religious art is his speciality. Eastern Europe is being completely ransacked and collectors are flush, willing to pay big dollars. And everybody wants to go to town on the Sergius. They’re lining up for it.’
‘I thought you used to work for a fashion magazine.’
‘I’ve got an honours degree in economics.’
‘Majoring in …?’
‘International banking and being my own woman.’
‘Right. And now you’re specialising in stolen art?’
‘Just this once.’
‘Meaning?’
Larissa stood up. ‘I’ve diverted a little piece off the de Groot stolen-art conveyor belt.’
‘Diverted?’
She looked around. ‘Have you got something to drink?’
Jack pointed to the dining table. His bottle of St Agnes was there.
Larissa got up, walked over and looked at the bottle. ‘My grandmother used to put this stuff in her puddings.’
Jack shrugged. ‘So you know it won’t kill you.’
‘You’re all class.’ Larissa unscrewed the cap and splashed brandy into a couple of glasses. ‘But listen to me, Jack, and you’ll be buying the good stuff.’ She walked over and handed him a drink. She remained standing beside the Eames chair.
‘Cheers.’
She clinked her glass against his. ‘So. Usual stuff with the stealing and dealing,’ she said. ‘Just another day at the office. But Richard didn’t do the Sergius just for money. He wanted to send a message.’ Larissa drank some brandy. ‘An old rival is on the scene and he’s getting rich very quickly. Too quickly. And Richard’s losing clients.’
Jack grinned. A couple of jigsaw pieces had come together. ‘The Sergius was stolen from another art thief ?’
‘Yep. Which means nobody is going to involve the law, Jack. You understand? It’s like an apple from the neighbour’s tree just fell into your yard.’
‘Doesn’t mean he won’t come around to get it back.’
‘I’ll be gone by then.’
Jack sipped his brandy. ‘This other art thief,’ he said. ‘Guy named Viktor Kablunak, by any chance?’
It took her by surprise. She still looked good. ‘You know him?’
‘My new best friend.’
‘Shit.’
Jack drank a little more. ‘And what about Shane Ferguson?’
She frowned.
‘That’s what I thought. Just so you know, he’s tied up in a chair at Kablunak’s warehouse. He didn’t look too good. Pretty sure he wasn’t feeling any good, either.’
Larissa’s face paled.
‘Which means Kablunak knows all about the …’ Jack pretended not to remember. ‘What’s it called again?’
‘The Sergius.’
‘Yeah. The Sergius. And how Shane sent it to me.’
She chewed her bottom lip. ‘Have you got it?’
‘No. Still on its way.’
A pause. The thoughts sparking her brain worked to brighten her grim face. ‘So we can still do this, Jack!’
‘We?’
~
14 ~
LOIS CAME OUT OF THE BEDROOM, vague, eyes half-open. She stopped and yawned. Licked herself. She walked over and nudged Larissa’s shins and then plopped down onto a cushion on the floor.
‘Still got the fleabag, then.’
‘Lois is a recovering alcoholic. I’m helping her get back on her paws.’
‘I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars.’
‘Not my lucky number, lately.’
‘Fine. Twenty-one thousand. That’d buy a few first editions, Jack. Or you could spruce up the bookshop. Or maybe take a holiday in Positano. I’m sure you deserve one.’
Jack smiled, rubbed his chin. ‘Still leaves you a clean hundred thousand, though, doesn’t it? Sure twenty-one grand is fair?’
‘You don’t think twenty-one thousand dollars is enough for doing absolutely nothing?’
‘Is that what you want me to do?’ Jack stood up, went to the brandy bottle on the dining table and poured himself some more. ‘I want fifty.’
‘You think this is a joke?’
‘No. I think I’m the cheese in everyone’s toasted sandwich.’
‘So why don’t you give me a bite?’
Jack looked at her. She had moved from one-off payment to partnership in the flick of a fringe. ‘Come on, Larissa. Now who’s being silly?’ But the idea still floated on his stock exchange. Just
as she knew it would.
‘Why not?’ She looked around. ‘I don’t see any girlfriends anywhere.’
Jack drank, watched Larissa over the glass. She was doing that dark, smoky, sexy eyes thing again, with just a splash of woe-is-me. He put the glass down on the dining table. ‘You got cigarettes?’
‘No.’
‘So you know Shane Ferguson, huh?’
A pause. She looked disappointed. ‘Yes, from acting. We’re members of the same company in Surry Hills. The Palomino Theatre.’
‘You act?’
‘Don’t look so shocked. I’m actually pretty good.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘We did The Merchant of Venice last season. I was Portia. Got a small write-up in the paper.’
‘Any masked-ball scenes?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Congratulations. Now tell me why Shane Ferguson would send me a stolen Bible in the mail?’
Larissa sighed, heavily. ‘Because they were on to him at the last minute.’
‘What happened?’
‘After the job, Shane was going to grab the Sergius and take off for his shoot in China. Sit on it until I got there. I’d given him a package that looked like the original and he stashed it at the warehouse. Quick one two, done.’
‘That must have taken months of planning.’
‘Look, it was simple and perfect and everything was covered, trust me. The guys he was working with were casual. Anyway, I don’t know what happened exactly, but they were on to him at some point and followed his cab to the airport. Luckily Shane noticed the car. He gave the driver a bunch of fifties and asked if he could send a package for him. Obviously not to his home or mine. He’d remembered you from the night of the job and some book they took off you. The address of your shop was in it.’
‘From Russia with Love.’
‘That’s the one. He called me on the mobile and let me know. I assumed he’d just gone to China.’
‘And here you are.’ Jack looked around his flat. Larissa had set it all up sweet: for herself. ‘How did Shane get involved with the guys doing over de Groot?’
‘He knows one of them, and they swung him on board.’
Larissa scratched an eyebrow with her little finger.
‘Why’d he do it? You talk him into it?’
‘Moi?’
‘Yeah, Ms Moi.’
‘Fifteen years of trying to be an actor has got him into serious debt. He’s thirty-five, broke, and not very talented. He wanted the quick fix. Nothing to do with me.’
‘And what about you?’
Larissa shrugged. ‘No more working for the man, Jack.’
‘You would have trusted Shane with the Sergius?’
‘What was he going to do with a priceless stolen Bible? Put it on eBay?’
Jack poured more brandy. He held up the bottle for Larissa. She came over with her glass. She stood closer to him than was necessary.
‘So Shane was your ticket.’
‘He was my in.’
‘And you were going to take care of the rest?’
‘That’s right. Everything hooked up nicely.’
‘Except now I’ve got the Sergius.’
Larissa nodded. She bent one of her legs so that the knee brushed him. She kept her eyes on his face.
Jack gazed over the smoothness of her neck, the milk-and-honey skin, the softness of her full lips. ‘I’ve already told you,’ he said. ‘It’s not here.’
‘We could wait for it together?’
‘It’s only a one-bedroom flat. And Lois has got the couch.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
She tilted her head back. They kissed. Slowly. Longingly. It was a nice change from Jack’s recent work as a human punching bag. They kept kissing. They got better at it. Jack was full of mixed emotions: but for now, at least his lips knew what the hell was going on.
~
15 ~
WEDNESDAY MORNING. Instead of Larissa, there was an old book beside Jack. And a note: I’ll call later. Thought you might like a couple of interesting facts! Jack picked up the book: The New Banbury Dictionary of Saints and Sinners, edited by Stefan Williams. He sat up a little in bed. Second edition, 1975, Banbury Cross Press, Illinois, USA. Fifteen dollars, written in pencil on the title page. No dust jacket, just the threadbare, cloth-bound boards, faded to pale ochre red, the corners frayed and a little squashed. Title and author stamped on the front and spine in dull gold lettering. Yellow-cream end papers, and glued onto the rear inside sleeve, an old yellow library loan pocket — catalogue number 823.89, R746h, Pepperdine University Library, Malibu, California 90265. Note to borrowers: overdue rate: 25c per day. Total fine cut 50% if paid when book is returned. A stamp indicated that at some point the book had ended up at the Tecolote Bookshop, De la Guerre Studios, Santa Barbara. And now momentarily with Jack Susko, via Larissa Tate, Sydney, Australia. Even inanimate objects got to see more of the world than Jack did.
He flipped it open at the bookmark. Page 217.
Sergius the New, monk; b. 1322, Smolensk; d. 1396, Zargorsk; cd. 1443; f.d. 15 January.
Named Boris at birth, Sergius the New suffered a childhood of great poverty and hardship. The family was poor and moved around frequently, often forced to flee surrounding villages due to the father’s mental illness and the horrible stigma attached to his condition. The city authorities eventually arrested him and placed the unfortunate sufferer in a sanatorium in 1329: to survive, the mother was thus forced to give some of her eight children away. Boris, the youngest, was left on the hard stone steps of the Monastery of the Holy Ghost, where he soon entered the order.
Not long after, legend tells us, he was discovered in the Scriptorium during a particularly cold winter’s night, sleeping by the fire. (The Scriptorium was the only room in the entire monastery that was heated.) The subsequent punishment he received, particularly brutal and reserved for only the most heinous of sinners, was forty-two lashes with the branch of a frozen birch tree. It is said that at the height of his pain and delirium, God appeared to him: He instructed Sergius to illuminate the Bible, ‘... with the light of the glory of He who sits upon the throne of the world and is worthy.’ [Theo. Ecc. II. et. iv. 7] Sentenced to further punishment for mouthing such blasphemy, Sergius was reprieved in the eleventh hour, after the abbot was visited by God in a dream and instructed to return Sergius to the Scriptorium and have him taught in the art of illumination. It is said the abbot was shown a vision of the Great Fires of God’s Wrath. God’s wish was thus duly executed.
Sergius the New became renowned as a young monk for the straightness of his lines, drawn freely and without technological aid, with either his left or right hand. Controversially, the manuscript paper was set on an angle across his scriptorium desk. (This eventually became standard procedure.) Other innovations included a cushion, made of hessian and filled with warm mulch and straw, that added nearly three hours to a monk’s productivity; and inserts cut into the heavy oak of the scriptorium desks, for the secure placement of ink pots, which resulted in so significant a reduction in the rate of accidental spillage and manuscript damage that Sergius was called before the Bishop of Smolensk and praised before a gathering of abbots. This led to his appointment, in 1354, as Grand Scribe at the Trinity Monastery of Zargorsk, where he would spend the remainder of his life and also complete God’s Work: culminating in his masterpiece, the illuminated Holy Book that has since become known as the Sergius Bible. It took fortytwo years to complete and was finished on the very day of his death in 1396.
In 1621, Sergius the New was pronounced patron saint of arthritis sufferers. The Vatican investigated the Sergius Bible in 1967, after a succession of miracles were attributed to it by those who read its pages. It was pronounced a Holy Relic in 1974.
Jack closed the book, dropped it onto the bed beside him and slid back down under the sheet a little. The Sergius Bible. He thought about what it would feel like to hold. All one hundred and twe
nty-two thousand dollars’ worth of it. All six-hundred-plus years’ history of it. And he wondered — if he asked nicely — would Viktor Kablunak maybe lend it to him for the weekend?
~
16 ~
THE WORLD WAS LIKE A GIANT FAN-FORCED OVEN. Thick, serious clouds had already started to pack the sky on the horizon, climbing up and up on top of one another, pressing the lower clouds into a shadowy grey. Humidity squeezing out of them, like wringing a sponge.
He sat down for breakfast at a café in the QVB, bustling with tourists. Bright and shiny, except for Jack. Checked the menu but only had the appetite for a long black and a croissant. He lingered with the paper, got into Susko Books late. Crossed York Street, glanced up at the clock on Town Hall: 10.40 a.m. As usual, there was no crowd waiting impatiently for him to open up.
But there was some fresh graffiti, on the wall beside the steps leading down to Sydney’s finest-quality book emporium. It said: LET IT GO. When Jack unlocked the front door and stepped inside, he wondered about his chances. As he looked around the place, he did not think they were very good.
Susko Books was all over the floor. Rifled. Ransacked. Ravaged. The anger swelled in Jack’s chest like a heart attack. A few aisles had been spared, but the rest had been roughly cleared. The counter, too, was a mess of papers and invoices and bills, dumped out of the expanding files that were stored underneath. The drawers of the filing cabinet under the desk were pulled out and drooping off their runner-grooves like a couple of emptied pockets. Spilt wine always looked like more than had been in the glass, and Jack now knew the same was true of books. He gazed around, silent, a little amazed to see just how many books there were. As though he had never sold one in his whole life.
Viktor Kablunak? But his boys had already been around. And it was clear that Kablunak was going to injure Jack if he did not deliver the Sergius to him. So who? The same party that had broken into his apartment? Who else knew about the Sergius — and, more to the point, who else knew that Jack had been sent the thing? Shane Ferguson naturally did, but Jack seriously doubted this was any of his work. Then there was Larissa, but she had Jack as an alibi for the whole night gone. Maybe she had told somebody? Maybe Richard de Groot himself ? Jack could visualise his bodyguard Lewis going to town on his bookshelves, looking for the Bible. But why would Larissa tell de Groot? She was attempting to steal the thing from him, after all …
The Black Russian Page 8
