Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “That wasn’t why I was congratulating you, Mr. Karpenko.” Sasha looked puzzled. “I just wanted to say how pleased I am that you’ll be our next MP.”

  “You know the result?”

  “It was announced on the radio a few moments ago. After three recounts, you won by twenty-seven votes.”

  34

  ALEX

  Boston

  “I’m sorry to say that Anna was spot on,” said Rosenthal. “More than fifty of the pictures are copies, and remembering your own experience with the Warhol, it’s not difficult to work out who’s got the originals.”

  “And she’s probably sold them all by now,” said Alex. “Which means the bank can never hope to recover its losses.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Rosenthal. “The art world is a small, close-knit community, so if a painting from the Lowell Collection were to appear on the market, it would almost certainly be recognized immediately. And we’re not talking about one painting, but over fifty. However, now that Mr. Lowell is dead, his sister may well feel confident enough to dispose of them, especially if she believes her only other source of income is about to dry up.”

  “Which it most certainly is,” said Alex with considerable feeling.

  “Then the first thing we have to do is find out where the paintings are located.”

  “Tucked safely away in Evelyn’s villa in the south of France would be my bet,” said Alex.

  “I agree,” said Anna. “Because if they were in her apartment in New York, Lawrence couldn’t have missed them.”

  Rosenthal’s next question took them both by surprise. “How well do you know Mr. Lowell’s butler?”

  “Not that well,” admitted Alex. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you have any idea where his loyalties lie?”

  “When it comes to the Lowell family,” said Alex, “you have to support either one faction or the other, as I found out to my cost fairly early on. But I’ve no reason to believe he’s not a member of the home team.”

  “Then with your permission,” said Rosenthal, “I’d like to ask him a couple of questions.”

  “I can’t see why not,” said Alex, ringing the bell.

  Caxton appeared a few moments later. “You called, sir?”

  “Actually, it’s me who wanted a word with you, Caxton,” said Rosenthal. “I was curious to know if Mr. Lowell’s sister ever stayed at the house while he was serving in Vietnam.”

  “Regularly,” said Caxton. “She treated it like a second home.”

  “And were you always around during those visits?”

  “No, sir, not always. Once a month my wife and I like to visit our daughter and grandson in Chicago for a weekend. Sometimes when we returned on a Sunday night, it was clear that Mr. and Mrs. Lowell-Halliday had visited the house in our absence.”

  “How could you be so sure?” asked Alex.

  “There would be beds to make, tables to be cleared, glasses to be washed, and a lot of ashtrays to be emptied.”

  “So they could have been here on their own for at least forty-eight hours?”

  “On several occasions.”

  “That’s very helpful, Caxton,” said Rosenthal. “Thank you.”

  “It’s also most important, Caxton,” said Alex, “that this conversation remains confidential. Is that understood?”

  “In the twelve years I served Mr. Lowell,” said Caxton, “he never found it necessary to question my discretion.”

  “I apologize,” said Alex. “That was tactless of me.”

  No one spoke until the butler had left the room, when Anna said, “Well, that certainly put you in your place, my darling.”

  “Actually, it was rather reassuring,” said Rosenthal. “He would never have considered delivering such a rebuke if he had any intention of contacting Mrs. Lowell-Halliday.”

  “I agree,” said Anna. “But if Evelyn did take several of the pictures to the south of France, how can we prove it?”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Rosenthal. “One of the paintings she stole was a Rothko that measures about six feet by four. That isn’t something she could carry on board as hand luggage.”

  Rosenthal rose from his chair and began pacing slowly around the room. Anna, who had become quite used to this habit, glanced at Alex and put a finger to her lips.

  “In my opinion,” Rosenthal eventually said, “you could not move a painting of that size without the help of a professional art courier, especially if you were sending the picture overseas, as there would have to be export documents and other paperwork to complete. There are only a handful of such specialists on the East Coast, and only one of them is based in Boston.”

  “Do you know them?” asked Alex hopefully.

  “I most certainly do, but I have no intention of contacting them, because immediately after taking my call, he would be on the phone to his client to let her know I’d been making inquiries.”

  “But he might be our only lead,” said Alex.

  “Not necessarily, because another company would have had to pick up the packages when they arrived in Nice, and then deliver them to Mrs. Lowell-Halliday’s villa in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. It wouldn’t surprise me if whoever that was had no idea of the contents, as that’s a secret Mrs. Lowell-Halliday wouldn’t have wanted to share with anyone else, including the IRS.”

  “But how do we find out who was collecting the paintings without alerting half the art world?”

  “By making sure we remain at arm’s length,” said Rosenthal. “And I think I know exactly the right dealer in Paris to assist us. May I use the telephone in the study?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Alex, as Rosenthal poured himself a large whiskey and left the room without another word.

  “What’s he up to?” asked Alex.

  “I can’t be sure,” said Anna. “But I have a feeling he’ll be twisting a few arms, which is why he doesn’t want to be overheard.”

  Rosenthal didn’t reappear for another forty minutes, and when he did, although he needed to refill his glass, Anna thought she detected the suggestion of a smile.

  “Pierre Gerand will call back as soon as he’s tracked down the courier in Nice. He says it’s likely to be one of three, and all of them would want to retain his business. Meanwhile, Monty Kessler will set out from New York first thing tomorrow morning, and anticipates being with us around midday.”

  Alex nodded. He would have liked to ask who Monty Kessler was, but had already learned when, and when not, to question Mr. Rosenthal.

  * * *

  When Alex came down to breakfast the following morning, he found Rosenthal halfway up the stairs, placing little red or yellow stickers on each picture on the wall.

  “You’ll be glad to hear, Alex, that there are still seventy-one originals left in the collection, including some of the finest examples of Abstract Expressionism I’ve ever come across. However, I’m in no doubt that fifty-three are copies,” he said as the telephone rang.

  “Long distance from Paris for Mr. Rosenthal,” said Caxton.

  Rosenthal walked quickly down the stairs and took the phone. “Good afternoon, Pierre.” He said very little for the next few minutes, but never stopped scribbling on a pad by the phone. “I am most grateful,” he said finally. “I owe you one.” He laughed. “All right, two. And I’ll let you know the moment our shipment has left New York,” he added before putting down the phone. “I have the name of the French courier,” he announced. “A Monsieur Dominic Duval, who over the past five years has delivered a large number of different-sized crates to Mrs. Lowell-Halliday’s residence in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.”

  “But if Pierre phones this Monsieur Duval,” said Alex, “won’t he contact Evelyn immediately?”

  “Not if he wants to go on working for Pierre, he won’t. In any case, Pierre has already told him he has an even bigger consignment lined up for him, as long as he can keep his mouth shut.”

  * * *

  “There’s a
large, unmarked white van coming up the drive,” said Anna, as she looked out of the front window.

  “That will be Monty,” said Rosenthal. “Caxton, would you be kind enough to open the front door for Mr. Kessler? And be prepared for an invasion of professional art thieves.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Shortly afterward, a small fat balding man marched into the hallway, followed by his six associates, all dressed in black tracksuits with no logos, none of whom would have looked out of place in a boxing ring. Each carried a bag full of the equipment required by any self-respecting burglar.

  “Good morning, Monty,” said Rosenthal. “I appreciate your coming at such short notice.”

  “No trouble, Mr. Rosenthal. But I have to remind you that as it’s Saturday, we’re all on double time. Where do you want me to start?” he asked as he stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the hallway, and looked around at the paintings with the fondness of a doting father.

  “I only want you to pack up the ones with yellow stickers on their frames. And once you’ve done that, I’ll tell you where they have to be delivered.”

  Alex watched with admiration as the seven men fanned out and went about their task with efficiency and skill. While one of them removed a picture from the wall, another covered it in bubble wrap, and a third placed it in a crate ready to be stacked in the van. Mr. Rosenthal had faxed through the exact measurements the previous evening, and another team had worked through the night to have the crates ready in time. All of them on double time.

  “They look as if they’ve done this before,” said Alex.

  “Yes, Monty specializes in divorce and death. Wives who need to remove valuables after their husbands have left for work and before they return in the evening.”

  Alex laughed. “And death?”

  “Children who want to move paintings and furniture that they agreed with their parents wouldn’t be mentioned in the will. It’s a thriving business, and Monty is almost always on double time.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I need you to go to the bank and make sure everything is ready by the time Monty and his team turn up, which should be around four o’clock this afternoon. There’ll need to be someone waiting at the back door to accompany Monty to a secure vault that’s large enough to house seventy-one paintings. Once that’s done, please come straight back to the house.”

  “And will the van also be returning to Beacon Hill?”

  “Oh yes. After all, they will only have done half the job.”

  “Then I’d better get going.” There were several questions Alex would have liked to ask Mr. Rosenthal, but he accepted that “need to know” must have been his family motto. As Alex left the house, the first picture was being loaded onto the van.

  “And what would you like me to do, Mr. Rosenthal?” asked Anna.

  “Double-check the inventory, and make sure they only pack those paintings with yellow stickers. Our real job won’t begin until they get back from the bank, when the remaining fifty-three pictures will be loaded onto the van and taken to New York.”

  “But they’re only copies,” said Anna.

  “True,” said Rosenthal. “But they still have to be returned to their rightful owner.”

  * * *

  “The Warhol’s stowed safely in the hold,” said Anna as the plane lifted off. “Has the rest of the collection arrived in Nice?”

  “Yes,” said Rosenthal. “I called Pierre Gerand again as soon as I got back to New York on Sunday night. He’s one of the leading abstract dealers in Paris, and an old friend who’s familiar with the Lowell Collection, as his grandfather sold three pictures to Mr. Lowell’s father when he was touring Europe in 1947. I told him that a large consignment of paintings was on its way to Nice, and asked him to arrange for Monsieur Duval to collect them and store them until we arrive. He phoned back yesterday to let me know that Evelyn and Mr. Halliday were spotted boarding an Air France flight for Boston that morning. That’s when I called to remind you not to forget the Warhol. So by the time we touch down in Nice, everything should be in place. Pierre and Monsieur Duval will meet us off the plane.”

  “So now all we have to do is get the rest of the collection back,” said Anna.

  “Which will be no small undertaking. At least we’re in the hands of professionals. But should we fail…”

  “Alex tells me the bank will go bust and we’ll be broke.”

  “So, no pressure,” said Rosenthal. “Mind you, I could always offer Alex a job as a runner at the gallery. He’d be rather good at it.”

  “Or he could have my job, as you’ll need someone to fill in for me when the baby is born.”

  “No, he’s not that good,” said Rosenthal, as the plane reached forty thousand feet and banked toward the east.

  * * *

  “How much notice do you have to give?” said Ackroyd.

  “The bank’s statutes require fourteen days,” said Fowler, “so I was thinking of sending letters to all the directors this morning.”

  “But the moment Miss Robbins opens the mail, she’ll be alerted and tell Karpenko about the emergency board meeting, and if he’s half as bright as you say he is, it won’t take him long to work out what we’re up to.”

  “I’d thought of that,” said Fowler, “and intend to send Karpenko’s letter to his apartment in Brooklyn. Now that he’s taken up residence in Boston, it will be lying on his doormat until he returns.”

  “And the motion to replace him as chairman will have been passed before he has a chance to do anything about it. So why don’t you post those letters, Ray?”

  * * *

  Anna emerged from the plane soon after they’d touched down in Nice, and was greeted by a warm evening breeze. She wished Alex was with her to share her first visit to France. But she knew he couldn’t risk being away from his desk for even a few hours.

  Once they’d cleared customs and walked into the arrivals hall, a man, dressed in an open-necked floral shirt and a now fashionable light blue suit, rushed up to Rosenthal and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Welcome, mon ami. Allow me to introduce you to Dominic Duval, whom I have chosen to mastermind this operation.”

  When his Citroën joined the early evening traffic heading toward Nice, Duval began to brief his co-conspirators.

  “As soon as Mr. and Mrs. Lowell-Halliday left the villa, I called Pierre in Paris to let him know they were on their way to Boston.”

  “How could you be so sure they were going to the airport?” asked Anna.

  “Three suitcases was a minor clue,” said Duval.

  “It also suggests,” said Rosenthal, “that Evelyn intends to remain in Boston for some time.”

  “I then called Nathanial in New York,” said Pierre—the first time Anna had heard anyone call Mr. Rosenthal by his first name—“to tell him they were on the way, and immediately flew down to Nice to make sure we’re ready for tomorrow’s exchange.”

  “Why so soon?” asked Rosenthal.

  “We have to take advantage of the fact that Thursday is the butler’s day off. Otherwise we’d have to wait another week. And Mrs. Lowell-Halliday might well have returned by then.”

  “Is your team in place?”

  “Ready and waiting,” said Duval. “First thing tomorrow morning I’ll call the villa and tell the maid I have an important package for delivery.”

  “Do we know anything about the maid?” asked Rosenthal.

  “Her name’s Maria,” said Duval. “She’s worked there for several years, and she’s the only one who’s around on the butler’s day off. She’s not particularly bright, but she has a heart of gold.”

  “And as we have a comprehensive list of the paintings that have to be exchanged, we should be able to carry out the whole exercise in less than an hour,” said Pierre.

  “But you can’t pack fifty-three valuable paintings in under an hour,” said Rosenthal. “They’re not cans of baked beans. It’s likely to take at le
ast three or four hours.”

  “We can’t even risk an hour,” replied Duval. “We’ll remove them as quickly as possible from the villa, then drive to our warehouse, which is only seven kilometers away, where we can pack them properly for the flight. Don’t forget, we’ve already got the crates containing the copies.”

  “Impressive,” said Rosenthal, “but I still worry that the maid might be a problem.”

  “I have an idea,” said Anna.

  * * *

  “As it seems I can’t even stay in my own home,” said Evelyn, “we’ve had to take a suite at the Fairmont, which doesn’t come cheap, so I do hope, Douglas, that you’ve got everything set up for next Monday’s meeting.”

  “Everything’s in place,” said Ackroyd. “Although the board’s divided, with your vote, we’ll still have a majority, so by this time next week Karpenko should be on his way back to New York worrying about pizzas, and I’ll be chairman of the bank.”

  “And I can move back into Beacon Hill and remove the rest of the pictures, before the IRS discovers that Lowell’s isn’t even a piggy bank.”

  * * *

  He phoned the villa at ten past eight the following morning.

  “Hi, Maria, it’s Dominic Duval,” he said. “I’ve got a delivery for Mrs. Lowell that needs to be dropped off at the villa.”

  “But Mrs. Lowell isn’t here, and it’s the butler’s day off.”

  “My instructions couldn’t be clearer,” said Duval. “Madame insisted that the package should be delivered before she returns from America, but if you’re in any doubt, please call her in Boston, though I should warn you, it’s two o’clock in the morning there.” His first risk.

  “No, no,” said the maid. “When should I expect you?”

  “In about an hour’s time.” Duval put the phone down and joined the rest of the team, who were waiting for him in the van.

  “And how’s my wife?” he said as he sat next to Anna. She gave him a weak smile.

  Duval drove the van out of the warehouse and onto the main road. He stuck to the inside lane, and never exceeded the speed limit. During the journey, he took every member of the team through their roles one last time, especially Anna, Pierre, and Rosenthal.