37
Michael Valentine moved through the rooms of the top floor of the Ex Libris building methodically. Every area of the apartment had been torn apart; no drawer was left unopened, every cupboard had been searched. The intruder had come in through an airshaft vent and exited through a small unalarmed bathroom window. Following behind Valentine, Finn Ryan was horrified by the damage. Valentine ended his survey in the kitchen.
Valentine sat down at the yellow Formica table. “What did you do when you heard the glass breaking?”
“I thought the thing to do would be to investigate.”
“And then you thought again.” Valentine smiled.
“It wasn’t like in the movies. The girl goes out onto the moonless dock to look for her boyfriend and a hand comes out of the water and grabs her ankle. I’m not that stupid.”
“The real thing.”
“After Peter…”
“The glass breaks and…” Michael prompted.
“I turned around, got back into the elevator and went back to the office. I phoned the cell number you gave me.”
“So he never made it down to the office, never got to the computer.”
“No. I was there most of the day.”
“It looks like he did a fair amount of damage, but nothing irreplaceable.”
“What if he comes back?”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen. If he was really looking for something he would have come down to the office.”
“He was trying to scare us?” asked Finn.
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“We’re getting too close to something. We’ve been doing a lot of digging. There could be, probably are, alarm bells ringing.”
“Did you find out anything when you went to your dealer friend?”
“Lots,” said Valentine, and then he told her about what Peter Newman had said and about his visit to Eric Taschen. In turn she told him about her efforts on the computer.
“So what does it all mean?”
“It means that there’s more than one thing going on. The murders of Crawley and Gatty are connected, and so is the third guy I told you about-the one my connection at One Police Plaza told me about, Kressman I think his name was. So far there’s no real evidence but it looks as though they were all involved in some sort of deal to put stolen and looted art onto the open market. I don’t think that particular set of killings has anything to do with you at all. The whole thing with the Michelangelo drawing was just bad timing. I think Crawley would have died anyway.”
“Peter wasn’t bad timing.”
“No, which means that one of Crawley’s partners in crime was worried about what you’d found. Whoever that was hired Peter’s killer and the Vietnam gang member on the courier bike.”
“So there’re two killers out there?”
“Yes. One wants you and that drawing wiped off the slate. The other is interested in the group that Gatty, Crawley and this Kress were involved in-the ring that both Newman and Eric Taschen mentioned.”
“They have to be connected.”
“Yes. Presumably the art is the common factor.”
“The stolen art market?”
“From what you told me about the history of Greyfriars it has to go deeper than that. This Carduss Club is obviously some kind of secret society, like Skull and Bones at Yale, except a little less obvious.”
“According to what I found out they disappeared in 1945 or something.”
“So did Skull and Bones, except they didn’t disappear at all-they just changed their name. Your Delaware-numbered company-they have the least restrictive incorporation laws in the world; that’s why the CIA always uses them for their proprietary companies, like Air America.”
“You don’t think this is some kind of spy thing, do you?” She looked at him carefully, trying not to think too much about what he really was or what his real relationship had been with her father. Maybe that could come later but there was no time for it now.
Valentine’s expression darkened. “No. It’s big, though. The man they just found murdered in Alabama was dealing in hundreds of millions of dollars.” He shrugged. “It’s not hard to get into big money when you’re dealing in Michelangelos.”
“So what do we do now? Detective Delaney must have figured out I wasn’t part of any plot to kill Peter by now. Why don’t we go to the police?”
“It’s not just your boyfriend. Now it’s Crawley, Gatty and Kressman as well. That’s four murders in as many days and millions of dollars’ worth of stolen paintings. Enough motive to keep you in jail for a long time; enough motive to have you killed. Somehow you’ve stumbled on a conspiracy involving a lot of big-time people-people with things to hide and the ability to keep them hidden at all costs. Until we know exactly who those people are and how far the conspiracy goes we stay away from the cops.”
“None of it makes any sense. From what I read, these people were already rich. Why did they want more?”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with money at all.”
“Then what?”
“Power. I’ve got a thousand volumes down in the stacks about groups from the Knights Templar and the so-called Illuminati all the way through to the Shriners. It’s never really about money. Power and how to hold on to it. Good old-fashioned Yankee xenophobia. People are afraid of change and they group together and try to stop it. China tried to ignore the rest of the world for a thousand years, but even they had to start changing things in the end.”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with this kind of thing, is it?” Finn asked.
“We’re all dealing with it. All the time,” answered Valentine. “The battle between the old and the new has been going on since time began. This is just another version.”
“There were a dozen names on that list of trustees. I only tracked down a few of them. How are we going to know which one is next on our killers list?”
“There’s no way of knowing. We don’t even know if there’s only been the three murders- Crawley, Gatty and Kressman. Peter Newman seemed to think that Crawley’s boss, James Cornwall, had died of natural causes. Maybe he was wrong.”
Finn reached out and wrapped her fingers around Valentine’s hand, squeezing hard. “Okay, like I said before, what’s next?”
“We dig a little deeper. We need to know what kind of stakes we’re playing for, and just exactly who the players are.” He paused. “We’ll have to see my hacker friend.”
“Hacker?”
“Computer freak. His name is Barrie Kornitzer. We went to school together, way back when.”
38
He stared down at the tiny figures on the page, ranged through the trees, drawn and inked and colored so carefully like miniature signposts indicating the spinning out of time from the single frozen moment they represented: here they were safe and alive, without the knowledge that some of them would soon be dead, as carefully erased as they had once been drawn. He stared at them and at the bloody page and suddenly he was in another world, one that had never really been and if it had existed, it existed in a time that had long since vanished.
At six a.m. the attack began. Dawn was a faint purple line and the men moved like dark insubstantial ghosts through the slow, seething mist that rose up off the dew-wet fields. Watching through the gunnery slot of the ruined Panzer, the sergeant saw the blossoming of the first bazooka round and a few seconds later heard the heavy thump of its projectile. Almost instantly the air was full of sound. The first round from the bazooka took out a large section of the abbey tower, but not enough to silence the sniper. The sergeant could hear the flat sound of the high-powered rifle as it searched for a target in the thick screen of trees on the far side of the road. Then the bazooka announced itself again, this time shattering the upper section of the tower, spraying crumbling masonry and roofing tiles in all directions. The tower must have been built of wood originally, wood that was now tinder-dry after centuries of curi
ng. A moment after the second shot from the bazooka, it was a blazing torch. So much for the sniper.
Following the second round from the bazooka, the sergeant could now hear the steady, rhythmic pounding of the mortar as it lobbed its two pound bombs into the entranceway. He pulled back the cranks on both machine guns, manhandled the traverse so the guns both lined up roughly with the barely visible roof of the granary and the main house and opened fire, hot shell casings spewing down around his ankles as the belts emptied in time to his ragged bursts of fire. Every few seconds he paused, traversed the guns a little and then fired again, watching the movements of Reid’s five-man squad as they spread out to flank the farmyard enclosure.
Reid and Pixie Mortimer moved first, slipping out of the woods and running across the dark road at the first shot from Terhune’s bazooka. From the far side ditch they managed to get to the big boulder halfway down the sloping field. The other three, Patterson, Dorm and Teitelbaum, followed on their heels, dropping down into the first of the shallow depressions that looked as though they might once have been drainage ditches or perhaps the ancient remains of some sort of weeping tile bed for sewage.
Not for the first time the sergeant found himself almost dumbfounded by the amount of crap the ordinary foot soldier was supposed to carry. Teitelbaum, the BAR gunner, for instance, carried the gun, sling, cleaning kit, twelve twenty-round mags in a webbing belt, a trench knife, frag grenade, hatchet, sidearm, regulation boots and clothing, plus personal gear amounting to almost exactly a hundred pounds. Even a lily-white officer like Cornwall carried the same as a grunt and more: ammo pouches, clips, binoculars, map case and anything else specific to the mission. In addition to that Cornwall and his arty pals were carrying Thompson submachine guns and the requisite loads for them. It was a wonder any of them could move at all.
Teitelbaum and Dorm set up the BAR on the edge of the ditch, Patterson covering them with booming rounds from his Russkie 71. So far the sergeant had only seen small movements in the front yard of the farm below, but by the time the abbey tower was alight there was a full range of fire from the house and outbuildings. Pausing to listen, the sergeant heard nothing but rifle fire and scattered bursts from some sort of light machine gun, probably an MP43 or the larger M34. With Terhune and the others pounding it in from the front it looked as though it was going to be easy pickings unless the Krauts had some kind of secret weapon in those trucks.
With covering fire from the BAR, Reid and Mortimer moved out from behind the boulder. There was a burst of fire from the upper floor of the farmhouse and suddenly Pixie was down, his legs cut out from beneath him as though he’d stumbled over a wire, his chest torn open by a stitch of rounds, half of his forehead and most of his brain demolished by a second firecracker string of shots from somewhere else. Reid didn’t pause even for a second. As Mortimer went down the Indian threw himself forward into the grass and rolled his way under the old battered farmhouse wall. The BAR swept over the upper floor of the house and the sergeant could see Reid pulling out a boxlike Russian M28 mine and smashing down the arming fuse. He scuttled away to the left, keeping to the wall but putting as much distance between himself and the demolition charge as he could. There was a heavy crumping noise, a blast of dirty brown smoke and masonry from the wall and then a hole the size of a pair of barn doors appeared.
The sergeant pulled back on the traverse handles of the twin machine guns and watched as the smoke cleared. Through the newly exploded opening he could see into the farmyard, the trucks visible and unharmed in the shadow of the main barn and the winter livestock shelter beside it. To the right of the shelter there was a wagon shed and from the dark doorway he could see bursts of fire. Three, maybe four men in Wehrmacht uniforms went running across the cobbled courtyard, trying to reach the safety of the house. There was the chattering roar of the BAR, the Russian 71 and the Pah-pah-shah in unison and the Germans went down in a sliding heap like someone running a scythe through wheat. From somewhere closer in there was the sound of Terhune’s bazooka and the crack of the two-inch mortar, rounds going into the roof of the livestock shelter and the wagon shed. The sound of cracking timber, fire and exploding glass was added to the general thunder. The sergeant could feel the taut flesh of his cheeks, pulled back into a deathly smile. Letting the barrels of the twin machine guns cool for a moment he glanced down at the radium dial of his Grana Dienstuhr service watch, taken off the wrist of a dead Kraut on D-day in the town of Courseulles-sur-Mer. It wasn’t quite five past. The whole thing had taken less than four minutes. As the sounds of the fighting faded the sergeant could hear the faint sighing in the branches of the trees off to his left. A last round from the mortar went off and something rattled deep in the guts of the old dead tank. Distantly he could hear the sound of someone weeping. It was done. The sergeant boosted himself out of the tank, sat on the edge of the turret and lit a cigarette. There was a little pause as people gathered themselves together and then a man wearing a distinctive black SS uniform stepped out into the gap in the wall carrying a scrap of white rag on the end of a splintered stick of wood. The man hesitated and began walking forward. Cornwall and Taggart, the tall skinny officer who served as Cornwall’s second-in-command, came out from behind the boulder and began walking down the hill toward the German.
The sergeant thought about things for a moment, then dropped down off the tank and headed toward the SS man, cutting off Cornwall’s approach and meeting the man first, the Colt automatic heavy in his hand. The German was short, pale, and wore steel-rimmed glasses. There was a smear of ash on his cheek. The holster on his belt was unsnapped and empty. He was wearing the single oak leaf collar tabs and three green stripes of a Standartenfuhrer, a colonel. He looked more like a bank clerk.
“You speak English?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in the trucks?”
“They are paintings there. Artworks of value.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Dr. Eduard Ploetzsch. I am an art curator.”
“No.”
“What, please?”
“You’re nothing. You’re dead.” The sergeant raised his automatic and shot him in the face for no real reason at all.
39
The false priest sat in the dusty basement of St. Joseph’s Church in Greenwich Village, sorting through the material brought to him by a put-upon volunteer with the martyred expression of someone who carries the weight of the world around on their shoulders. The middle-aged woman had been digging around through the ancient records for hours now and had a different sigh for each string-wrapped bundle of yellowed manila folders.
This wasn’t the unconfirmed fuzzy-logic trail created by an ethereal trip through the data banks imprinted on the servers of a thousand search engines, it was the faded ink-on-paper truth of real history on documents old enough to crumble in your hands. Going through the files, the priest could almost feel the ghosts of a thousand clerks like the one serving him now and hear the echoed clacking of typewriters and the faint earnest scratching of pens. Boring perhaps, but in the end it was easy enough to find the trail of Frederico Botte through the formative years of his life.
The child, whoever he was and whatever his interest to the red-hats in the Holy City, had arrived in New York City on the Gdynia-America Line ship Batory on June 11, 1946, traveling from the Polish city of Gdansk. There was a slip from the Ellis Island Immigration authorities showing that Frederico was seven years old and traveling with his guardian, Fraulein Ilse Kurovsky, a German national. Frederico’s place of birth was listed as La Grazie, Italy, where he had been under the care of the sisters of the convent of San Giovanni All’ Orfenio. There was no birth mother listed in the appropriate space on the registration form but there was a faintly penciled name in the margin: Katerina Annunzio. Although it wasn’t clearly stated, the false priest could read between the lines: Frederico was a bastard, raised by the nuns at the convent, and then given into the care of the German woman with the Polish na
me.
After arriving in America, it appeared that Frederico had been placed in the care of St. Luke’s Orphanage for two years, then transferred to St. Joseph’s School in Greenwich Village, where he was enrolled as a “scholarship” student. His reports from the school were uniformly excellent, especially in the arts and languages. It was assumed that he would finish at St. Joseph’s and then be enrolled in one of the local seminaries where he would train for the priesthood. However, his records with the parish ended in 1952 when he was adopted by Sergeant and Mrs. Brian Thorpe of Barrow Street in Hoboken, New Jersey. Interestingly, the lawyers who had provided legal services for the private adoption was the firm of Topping, Halliwell amp; Whiting, the same ghostly firm of nonexistent people who had established the mysterious Grange Foundation. It was also interesting, although probably coincidental, that the Grange Foundation was now located on St. Luke’s Place-the same name as the orphanage where Frederico Botte had lived, now presumably transformed into plain old Fred Thorpe.
The false priest felt a familiar tightening in his chest. The circle was closing; it was almost the end now. The clerk reappeared, carrying more files. The man from Rome gave the woman his best priestly smile and asked if she had the New York telephone directory around anywhere.
“Which borough?” she said, and sighed once again.
40
Barrie Kornitzer’s office at Columbia University was located in an obscure late 1880s building tucked in behind the Low Memorial Library. The office was lavish by Columbia standards, with built-in oak bookcases, Persian carpets and several early American paintings-including an early version of Ralph Earl’s Looking East from Denny Hill, a still life by Charles V. Bond and an Edward Hicks farmscape. The desk in the main office was a William IV Rosewood flat top double pedestal partner’s desk with an inlaid black leather writing surface. There was a rumor that the desk had once belonged to the fifth president of the university, Benjamin Moore. It was also rumored that the desk had been loaned to Kornitzer because the University was scared of him. Kornitzer was perhaps the foremost authority on computer hacking in the world, owned the patents and other licensing for the best encryption programs on the planet and was a confidential advisor to several presidents of the United States and Bill Gates. He had also gone to high school with Michael Valentine and was a longtime friend.
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