Planned Coincidence: A Thrilling Suspense Novel (International Mystery & Crime)

by Dana Arama

  “When I taught you how to be a professional art dealer, I also transformed a girl into a woman. With whom am I speaking now… the art dealer, or the woman?” An unwanted smile crept up my face and I had to willfully stifle it.

  “The dealer, mon chéri. The dealer.”

  Even the most calming voice couldn’t keep the man in him at bay. “Very well then, I should only conclude that this beautiful woman sitting here beside me is so full of excitement because of me, and I’m taking it as a compliment.”

  Now I could free my laughter. “And when was it ever different? Your effect on me never ends!”

  He pulled my hand gently off the wheel, kissed the back of it, and put it back with the same gentleness. “It’s mutual. You do know that, right? You see; you only needed to ask and I jumped on a plane.” I glanced at him. “Unfortunately, I’m sure that many others are at your beck and call as well,” he added.

  “Maybe,” I replied with a laugh, “twenty years ago, when my belly was flat and my hair wasn’t turning white.” I assumed that this one sentence would suffice as a description of the changes to my body. It was not a lot, but enough for my husband to never want me again. I did not dare to admit it until that moment, while the other significant man in my life was sitting close to me.

  “Perfection is flawed. The flawed, on the other hand, is perfect.”

  I let out an amused moan. “There’s no mistake, my dear, why so many women threw themselves at your feet. Smooth talk and endless charm.”

  “Sometimes it takes a lot of women to replace the only one that you were truly happy with.” I didn’t need to look at his eyes to know they showed everything that could have been between us.

  ***

  Tel Aviv was as inviting as ever. As if it was planned, the drizzle moved on, clearing a spot in the sky for the autumn sun to spread its warmth. I regretted choosing to sit indoors at the restaurant and not outdoors along the bright, warm sidewalk. Pierre sat across from me. He moved his empty plate to the side of the table and put his hands over mine, wrapping them as if they were frail chicks. He whispered seductive love words in my ear. I did not need to listen attentively to revel in them. His melodic French accent sounded like a popular beloved chanson.

  My chair was facing the entrance. Through the glass wall, I saw a black, shiny, large Mercedes cruising by until it reached a standstill at a no parking zone. Out jumped one of Sergey’s two bodyguards. He opened the door and accompanied him inside the restaurant.

  I used to be bothered by the presence of the bodyguards, but I quickly got used to it. Come to think of it, the only time I met him without their presence was when we first met. I always meant to ask him about it, but the question popped out of my mind as quickly as it came up.

  At this moment in time, with Pierre in front of me and Sergey at the door, I still had no idea how haunting this question would come to be for me, and that it would follow me for days to come.

  Outside the restaurant, the parking issues involving Sergey’s limo were resolved. His car pulled over into a reserved parking spot nearest to the restaurant and his driver remained on standby inside. In my mind, I liked to refer to his bodyguards as A and B. They looked like they were forged out of the same template: shaved head, fair skin, tall, masculine. At times, a tattoo would peek from under an elegant sleeve or collar, a souvenir from other occupations, perhaps.

  Pierre was also following what was happening outside. He saw Sergey, his bodyguards, and the chauffeur attending him.

  “I really hope you know who you’re doing business with,” he said. In the past thirty minutes, I had heard that phrase twice. I knew he was genuinely worried. Beneath my calm appearance, I felt nervously alert.

  “As far as I’m concerned, he is just an art loving businessman.” I could recognize an apologetic tone in my voice, and I didn’t like it. “His purchases feed more than one artist, you know,” I added forcefully.

  “It could be a problem.” It was a gentle reminder that my choices were none of his concern. “Money laundering, you know.” His warning was in place and it annoyed me even more.

  “I don’t work for the police or Interpol.”

  “Doing business on the black market can make you an accomplice.”

  “He’s a law abiding Israeli citizen. I’ve no reason to start digging deeper!” I scolded him quietly, but I knew he was right. I wasn’t careful, and now I worried about entangling Pierre.

  Sergey made quite an entrance. As if he was conquering the place, he pushed the door open with full thrust, the bodyguard quickly positioning himself like a watch tower.

  Pierre let go of my hands, stood up and offered Sergey a handshake. Pierre’s small palm looked like it was being swallowed by Sergey’s large hand. Indeed, they were very different; one was elegant, sophisticated, patient and conforming, while the other was rude in both body and soul, dangerous, and dominant. I had a feeling we’d need a lot of drinks to get down to business. Sergey leaned in, kissed my cheek, and then naturally took the seat beside me. His gorilla scanned the place and went to stand guard outside. The driver, too, stepped out of the car, and soon they were both standing outside the door, armed and chain smoking.

  Sergey sat down. A waitress grabbed three menus and walked toward our table. I felt a slight cramp of hunger.

  “Are you ready to order?” she asked. We all nodded.

  “There’s nothing like good food as a means to really get to know someone,” Pierre muttered as he began perusing the menu.

  “Food and vodka!” Sergey exclaimed cheerfully. “But here we order wine!”

  “Indeed…” Pierre stretched this one word out as if he wanted it to contain all of the world’s contempt for Sergey, and then went back to the menu. The hunger I felt earlier was gone. The feud between these men was more than a cock fight over the one and only hen in the pen. It was an alpha showdown between two strong males with two distinctly different styles. I could have been amused by it, had I not been stuck in the middle with a need to make this deal happen.

  “If neither of you mind, my choice is not wine nor vodka, but an intriguing cocktail.” I grinned at the waitress and asked, “What can you recommend on this fine winter day?”

  Discussing cocktails brought some form of agreement between them.

  It required two cocktails each for us reach a relaxed atmosphere. I felt a pang of hunger again. “This place is known for its wine cellar,” I commented. “We’d better order the food and then select the perfect wine to go with it.”

  “You’re right, my dear. This is, of course, the proper way to do it.”

  I gave Pierre a quick look. No! I thought. Don’t do this, Pierre! With this one condescending sentence, he managed to erase all those years that shaped the woman I am today and bring back that girl from Or-Ye’Hudah. Was this his way of punishing me for the choice I had made?

  Sergey leaned back comfortably in his seat and set his menu aside. “You already know what I like. Just order for me whatever you want.” I knew that the implicit intimacy in Sergey’s words would not slip by Pierre’s ears. His empty look made me feel like a habitual liar. I felt a sudden need to apologize to him.

  Three courses later, we started talking business. On the table were an empty wine bottle and three glasses thirsty for a refill. The waitress stopped by our table to sweep the crumbs off the white tablecloth. I took the opportunity to order another bottle of wine.

  Sergey placed his huge palms on the table. “Let's see what you have for me.”

  “Gabriella went over the initial details with me. I understand what the general dimensions of the sculpture should be. I have gathered some relevant information here. In all the photos you’re about to see, the sculptures vary in size between seventy centimeters, the smallest, to one-fifty, the largest. As you will notice, the styles vary as well. I have an interesting collection of popular sculptures from around the world. All you have to do is make a decision.”

  While he was talking, Pierre took his ph
oto catalogue out of his bag and placed it in front of Sergey, who, in turn, took out a fancy leather case out of his jacket pocket. He opened it slowly and took out a pair of reading glasses. He put them on, adjusted them, opened the catalogue, and started flipping through it. “What about the cost? I can’t see prices anywhere!”

  You could see a vein starting to pop on Pierre’s forehead moments before he put on a polite smile. This was the right time for me to intervene.

  “Let's go over the sculptures first and leave the price for later. As you may know, the price of a piece of art depends on the artist's hunger, the number of copies he made and, of course, the level of excitement the buyer shows for it.”

  I knew that neither of them needed a lesson in such things, but it was important that I stop their conversation before it became a showdown. I moved my chair to face Sergey and started flipping through the catalogue’s pages with him.

  “I like this one.” He placed his hand on mine and stopped me from continuing. His heavy palm lingered on mine. It felt unpleasant. I quickly pulled my hand out. I noticed a look of discontent move quickly across Pierre’s face before he leaned down to pull out a small laptop from his bag. “What number do you see there?”

  “Fifty-nine thirty-three,” I replied, reading from the catalogue.

  “The price ranges from fifty thousand to sixty thousand Euros. It depends on the metal composition. This sculpture is available in two sizes; the largest is one meter tall. The smaller sculpture is about twenty centimeters.”

  “What do you like about this statue?” I stared at Sergey without budging and got his full attention.

  “I will say what I don’t like: the fact that it’s too small to put in the lobby. It may, perhaps, suit my house. I need something far more impressive for the entrance. Keep going.”

  It was difficult not to feel disappointed. Sergey’s dry but informative description was so different from the bursting creativeness that colored the air between us while discussing Mikayeal’s painting.

  Then I felt as if we were having our souls massaged together. I wanted to believe that the strong attraction I was feeling was rooted in our souls bonding, and not just in my body being magnetized to his.

  Now, he seemed different, less attractive. I thought his language barrier might be the reason. His English sounded awkward compared to Pierre’s and mine. He continued to slowly browse the catalogue. “Try to connect with what you are seeing. Maybe something in the composition speaks to you,” I suggested in Hebrew. Did he try to follow my advice, or was I just imagining it?

  “This one,” he suddenly said. “Without a doubt, I feel a connection to whatever this is!”

  I took a look at the photo. The composition was interesting. It could have been the cords of a harp, or the bars of a cell. The two hands could have been playing music or breaking out of jail. It seemed to me that this piece revealed more than Sergey intended.

  “Seven-six-seven dash forty-eight,” I read aloud. I anxiously waited for Pierre’s response.

  “Sorry, this sculpture was the last one of this series and it sold last week.” A pretentious look creased his face.

  “So talk with your sculptor. I want one of these.” Sergey’s voice wasn’t angry, but he did sound like someone you would not want to say ‘no’ to.

  “I’m almost certain he won’t agree to add another item to this series. It would be easier to try and obtain it from a previous buyer, for the right price, of course.” The wine we ordered arrived and was being poured into our glasses.

  “Tell him he will make another one,” Sergey replied before gulping his wine provocatively, with no finesse, as if to warn Pierre. “Artists! For the right price they’ll sell even themselves.”

  “This business is quite different from how you describe it.” A pretentious look creased Pierre’s face for the second time. He detested his present company, and I knew him enough to see that he was being cautious with his words only because of my presence as an intermediary. “A true artist will use a mold to create a limited amount of pieces, sometimes even just one. He’ll stop if the mold develops even the slightest defect. He will simply refuse to continue using it and either shatter it to pieces or melt it…”

  “I don’t care how or from where. I want this one in my lobby!”

  “You’re aware that buying it from a third party doubles the cost, sometimes even more?” I asked cautiously. “You’re creating a demand for the piece. I’m sure you can find other pieces in here you could connect to.”

  Something in my voice managed to calm the air again. Sergey was flipping through the catalog again and Pierre settled back comfortably in his seat. He had only two hours left before he needed to head back to the airport, and he wanted to make every minute count. I also looked at my watch. It would take me more than an hour to get Pierre to the airport. I was trying to figure out how much time I’d have left for pleasure.

  Sergey received a phone call. He, too, was looking at his watch, listening with a smile. He then smiled at me. Not a smile like the ones he had lavished upon me in the past few weeks. It wasn’t seductive, or complimentary. It was frightening. It made me feel like the smallest circle in the center of a target, looking straight at the arrow about to hit it.

  I knew he wanted me. I knew my presence aroused him, that he had to stop himself from moving his hands across my body. I trembled. I could not discern the difference and resolved to not let my personal feelings influence the situation. His agenda was apparent throughout the rest of the meeting. Three medium sculptures and an open order for the piece he loved, which he would buy “no matter the cost.” I calculated my bonus and knew my husband would be satisfied. Pierre had come and would leave, but the money came as well, and it would stay. Whatever happens after this meeting is over, I thought, will be my secret.

  It would take years before I came to realize how wrong I was.

  ***

  On my way back to Tel Aviv, I called Dan. “Hey, honey.” His voice echoed rather cheerfully inside the car.

  “You’re in a good mood. Anything you want to share?”

  “Terrific news. We finalized the deal. The money’s in the bank.”

  His joy was contagious. “Does this mean the stress is over? Are we back to normal?” Traffic was beginning to thicken as I got closer to Tel Aviv. Cars going well over the speed limit were coming in from all sides. My concentration was on my driving, but I did pay attention to the conversation.

  “Honey, we’re self-employed. Our stress doesn’t ever go away. We only have periodic relief. I did manage to get us a thick security blanket for future rainy days, though. Listen, there are still some loose strings I want to go over with my dad, and I’ll head out early.”

  “Yeah, you should. There’s heavy traffic everywhere, and I’m sure Robbie would love for you to give him some last minute advice before taking Hurricane for a ride.”

  “I’ll gladly give him that.”

  I was waiting for him to ask about my meeting, but the wait was too long, so I just gave it away. “We finalized the purchase.”

  “Honey, whatever you made today, it’ll all go toward paying the gallery’s debts. It’s like a drop in the ocean.”

  I felt my cheeks burning. I knew my face was flushed with blood. “First of all, the gallery didn’t have any deficit this month. Secondly, we closed a deal worth two hundred and eighty thousand Euros and my dealer fee is three percent. It doesn’t seem like a drop in the ocean to me.” I was upset that I was so offended by his attitude. It was not a nice feeling. I felt like a little girl at a grown-ups’ party.

  “Sure, honey, whatever. Gotta run. We can continue this later tonight. You can tell me all about it then.”

  “And I want to hear about how you secured our future. Kiss Robbie for me and tell him I wish him luck.” With one push of a button I hung up and went back to feeling like a successful woman, the way the men I had lunch with earlier today had made me feel.

  I reviewed the meeting in
my mind. In the end, Sergey did not disappoint. As I predicted, he did purchase the pieces based on an emotional connection. Was I the only one able to detect any emotional depth hiding under that tough exterior he showed to the world? I think that aspect was clear to me from the day we had our first conversation. We had stumbled upon each other coincidentally. It was an unexpectedly rainy day and Tel Aviv was as it always is: a city without parking. My Lexus was still in the shop for maintenance, so my reserved parking spot was the only one vacant as far as the eye could see. Before I could stop him, his car was already parked in it and he was stepping out. I stood there, totally shocked by his audacity and by how quickly this large man could vanish somewhere into the building across the street.

  An hour later, upon returning to his car, he caught sight of Mikayeal's painting. He stood in front of the glass window, blocking the light. I raised my eyes from the pile of documents spread all over my desk, walked over to the door, opened it and invited him in. I could sense from a distance he was falling in love with the piece. As Sergey descended the three steps into the gallery, his eyes were still locked on the painting.

  “The colors…” he said, his Russian accent amplified by his deep voice, “… they’re the essence of Mother Russia’s morbidity.”

  “This is very true, sir. The artist, Mikayeal, also feels this way.” I wanted to add a few more words to encourage him to buy it, but he looked at me and said, “I’m taking this home with me today!”

  He was so decisive and dramatic about it, I couldn’t help but smile with all my heart. Every art piece I sold was a huge success for these young artists whom I considered as my children.