Christopher looked at Carl, who was studying him intently, a bemused expression on his face.
“Sorry to have to say this, Christopher, to an old friend, but those who have been party to my confidences and then… and then have forgotten to keep them, have become unwell. Quite unwell.”
Christopher couldn’t believe Carl was threatening him. He moved back toward the door.
“Well?” asked Carl.
“I have to say yes, don’t I?” said Christopher.
Carl slipped the painting into a velvet sack and handed it to him.
Christopher stashed the painting in his room, then went to the drawing room, where the other guests were seated, enjoying conversation over late-night cups of coffee. He sat down. Neither Justine nor the German woman was there. After a few minutes he excused himself. His encounter with Carl had left him feeling raw.
The following morning he knocked on Justine’s door, and when she opened it, he leaned forward and kissed her.
She turned her cheek and looked away.
“Please. Let’s not be children.” He took her hand. “There’s something I need to ask you to do. Can you be discreet?”
“Of course I can. You know that.”
“We need to get a painting back into the States. Can you take it in your cabin baggage? The painting is not large.”
“Why me?”
He used Carl’s line. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you how innocent your face is—and how lovely?”
“What sort of painting?”
“You’ll know when you see it.” He paused. “So you’ll do it?” Justine thought a moment. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
3
RAYMOND KHOURY
I’m seeing him this evening,” Christopher Thomas said into his cell phone as he stared out the glass wall of his office at the marina below. “I’m going there at six.”
“Call me when you’re done,” the voice on the other end said.
The curator demurred. “It’ll be late for you. I’ll call you in the morning—your morning—and let you know how it went.”
A small smile curled up the edge of his mouth as he listened to the silent acquiescence on the other end of the line. He wasn’t being unreasonable. Carl Porter was in France; Christopher was in San Francisco. There was a nine-hour time difference between them, and Christopher knew full well that 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. conversations with anyone were best avoided, especially when they were about something as sensitive as what they were discussing. But it wasn’t just about being reasonable. It was more than that. It was about keeping the upper hand. Keeping control. And if there was one thing Christopher Thomas was good at, it was staying in control. Even in situations that he’d been forced into, such as this one.
“I’ll expect your call at seven,” Porter grumbled back, clearly unhappy with being dictated to.
“Count on it,” Christopher replied before hanging up, his pulse racing with mixed emotions.
He’d hadn’t liked being forced—even threatened—by Porter into smuggling the Botticelli into the United States. Christopher Thomas wasn’t used to being forced to do anything for anyone. But his anger had gradually been superseded by greedy exhilaration at the potential outcome of it all. He stood to make a lot of money from the sale of the painting, and that was nothing to be angry about, especially now, when he needed it.
His eyes lingered on the view outside his office. It was a prestigious view, one that spoke of status, one that only a man who had attained a certain level of success in his line of work could ever hope to have. It was the view of a man who had arrived.
The McFall Art Museum had a prestigious location too, on the northern waterfront of the city, right on Marina Boulevard, and as its star curator, Christopher had a corner office. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind his desk and took in a gleaming white gin palace that was gliding out of the marina down below, his gaze eschewing the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge that stretched beyond and locking instead on two tanned, bikini-clad playthings cavorting on the yacht’s rear deck. The sight stirred something within him, a hunger that had driven him for as long as he could remember, a hunger for bigger and better things. A hunger that, if anything, his conversation with Carl Porter was about to help nourish if he played his cards right.
He watched the yacht drift away, checked his watch, then turned and sat at his desk, taking in the sumptuous world he’d created for himself in his office. Suddenly, it seemed to pale by comparison, despite the cosseting it offered and the wealth of character it presented. It had never failed to impress those who had been invited into its hallowed ground: exquisite chairs and side tables by Frank Lloyd Wright and Michael Graves spread out around his sleek Ross Lovegrove glass-and-steel desk; a grandiose B&B Italia shelving system, housing his perfectly arranged collection of hardcover art books, many of them signed and inscribed for Christopher by the artists whose works they contained; posters of past exhibitions Christopher had put together over the years showcasing the works of some of the biggest names in contemporary art; and the space for rotating works of art borrowed from the museum’s collection—currently a huge self-portrait of Chuck Close that dazzled in its intricate patterns of color—adding to the splendor of the office. It was a splendid place to work, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.
Much more.
He checked his watch again and let out a deep breath. Four hours to go.
He hated to wait, but he didn’t have a choice. He leaned back in his plush Eames desk chair, shut his eyes, and focused on the money that would soon be in his hands.
He arrived early at the restorer’s premises and, as a precaution, parked a block away before walking briskly to the workshop’s entrance, a black leather portfolio held firmly in his hand. The restorer answered the buzzer himself and let him in, the studio’s heavy steel door clanging shut behind him.
“Always a pleasure to see you, my friend,” Nico Bandini said as he shook his hand heartily, “and just in time for a nice little shot of grappa to kick off the evening, yes?”
“Perfetto,” Christopher answered with a smile. “Who am I to break with tradition?”
He followed the gregarious art restorer through the high-ceilinged studio. All around them, a small army of craftsmen in white overcoats sat hunched at their workplaces, toiling away like monks in a medieval scriptorium, peering with supreme concentration through their magnifying lenses, painstakingly cleaning and repairing valuable works of art, seemingly unaffected by the heady smell of paints, oils, and varnishes that smothered the loftlike space.
“Busy?” Christopher said, more an observation than a question.
“I’m doing all right,” Bandini replied. “There is always a demand for fine arts, especially when the economy is this good.”
“That’s true, you can always find a buyer when it comes to the arts.” Christopher noted, consciously positioning himself for what was to come.
“If you can even call some of it art,” Bandini scoffed. “People are willing to pay through the nose for some ridiculous polka dots printed up by one of Damien Hirst’s minions.” He shook his head. “The world’s gone crazy, hasn’t it?”
“In more ways than one. But, hey, I’m not complaining. Nor will you when you see what I have here.”
Bandini smiled, then led Christopher into his office, closing the door behind him.
“Hit that lock too, would you?” Christopher asked.
“Of course.” The restorer clicked the lock into place. “I know this isn’t a social call. So what have you got for me this time?”
Christopher set the portfolio on the restorer’s cluttered desk. “Have a look.”
Bandini unzipped the black leather case and pulled out the small package. It was the size of a coffee-table book, wrapped in a sack of dark brown velvet. He reached in and pulled the framed canvas out and held it in both hands, studying it with pursed lips.
Christopher suppressed a smile as he watched the man’s eyebrows rise and h
eard him let out an admiring whistle.
“Provenance?”
“Blue-chip,” Christopher replied confidently. “Private seller. I’ve got all the relevant paperwork.”
“Ah,” Bandini observed curiously, “so whoever buys this can actually hang it in his living room.”
Christopher smiled. Most of what he brought to Bandini were works he’d “borrowed” from the museum’s collection. He’d chosen ones that wouldn’t be missed or replaced the ones that might be with forged copies created by Bandini’s own craftsmen. The Botticelli was different. “They can hang it on their front porch for all I care. As long as they pay enough for the pleasure.”
“What do you think that pleasure’s worth?” the restorer asked.
“It’s a great piece, and it’s unquestionably from the master’s own hand, not from some acolyte in his studio—as I’m sure you can see.”
The man frowned. “Don’t sell me, Christopher. I know what it is.”
The curator shrugged. “Three is easily fair, I think. Might get more at auction. But given the circumstances and in the interest of getting it done quickly, I’ll take two-eight for it.”
Christopher studied the restorer’s face, gauging any microreactions that rippled across his features, looking for confirmation that he’d pitched it at the right price but not really expecting to get it. As expected, the restorer didn’t even bat an eyelid. They’d both done this many times before, and like consummate poker players, they both knew how the game was played.
Bandini stayed silent, his face locked in concentration.
“Doable?” Christopher pressed, his mind processing the cut he’d be getting. “Anything above two point five is yours,” Porter had said. At $2.8 million, Christopher stood to clear $300,000. Tax free.
Not bad for an afternoon’s work.
The restorer pondered the question for a moment, his gaze not moving off the painting he was still studying, then his face relaxed. “Possibly. Actually, more than possible. Probable. I think I have the perfect buyer for it.” Bandini grinned at the curator. “A gentleman from the home country.”
“Botticelli would be pleased.”
The restorer set the painting back down onto the portfolio. “I’ll call him tonight.” His expression turned curious. “So you’re in a bit of a rush to get this done. Any reason I should know about?”
“It’s not me. It’s my seller. He’s got time issues.”
“Ah.”
“So… you seem reasonably confident you can get this done, right?”
“I think so,” Bandini said, his tone now noticeably drier.
“So you wouldn’t mind giving me an advance?”
The restorer’s face curdled. “I thought you weren’t in a rush to get paid.”
“I’m not, but…” Christopher hesitated, brushing the man’s question away while feeling droplets of sweat popping out across his forehead. “You know how it is—”
“Are you having money problems, Christopher?” Bandini asked, dead flat, and eyed Christopher’s bandaged finger.
Christopher slid his hand behind his back. “No, I told you, I’m not,” the curator shot back, slightly too strongly, he thought, a second too late. He dredged up a carefree smile. “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? I just thought that since we both know you won’t have too much trouble offloading it, a small advance wouldn’t be an issue.”
The restorer studied Christopher quietly for a moment. “I don’t do advances, my friend. You should know better than to ask. And you know why I don’t do advances?”
Christopher felt his temples heat up. “Why?”
“Because people who need advances have money problems. And people with money problems tend to get desperate, and when people get desperate, they get careless. And that worries me. It worries me a lot.” Bandini’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve done a lot of business together over the years, Christopher. Should I start worrying about you?”
“No, no, no,” the curator insisted. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fine. Pay me when you sell it, it’s not a problem. All right?” Christopher flashed a radiant, magnetic smile that had played no small role in getting him what he’d wanted throughout his life.
The restorer studied him coldly for a long beat, then his face relaxed as if the strings pulling it taut had snapped. “Of course,” he said, patting Christopher on the shoulder. “It shouldn’t take long. Now, how about that shot of grappa?”
Bandini was deep in thought as he made his way back into his office after seeing Christopher Thomas out.
The painting was good, there was no doubt about it. He knew he’d be able to get more than $3 million for it. He might even orchestrate a mini bidding war for it, he mused. A Botticelli of that quality didn’t come up for sale too often. But something else was worrying him.
The curator. He seemed edgier than normal. Bandini could sense it. And edginess, he knew, was a reliable harbinger of trouble ahead. Trouble that was best avoided—or eliminated.
He called his two favored clients, one after the other, describing the work to them and arranging to drive it around and show it to them in the morning. Then he made another call, this one to a man who was definitely not a client and who wouldn’t know a Botticelli canvas from a Banksy print.
“I need you to keep an eye on someone for me,” he told the man. “My… supplier. You know the one I mean.”
“How close?” the man asked.
“Microscopic,” Bandini replied, before filling him in on what he was worried about.
On the way back to his office, Christopher Thomas was buzzing with nervous energy. He tried to focus on the positives. Bandini hadn’t flinched at the price he was asking. Christopher was pretty certain that the restorer would deliver, and soon. He usually did. But the man had also spooked him with his insistent questioning and his probing stare. Bandini, he knew, was no softie. He may have been supremely talented as a craftsman and as a forger, but he was also as tough as nails and worryingly unforgiving. Christopher had witnessed that firsthand.
The museum’s offices were mostly empty now, with only a few of his staff still around, notably those dealing with the Far East and working around the daunting time difference. He stepped into his sanctum and crossed to the small array of bottles sitting on a gleaming art deco tray, where he poured three fingers of Tyrconnell single malt into a fat crystal tumbler. He raised the glass and watched the light dance across the amber nectar within its chiseled edges, then brought it up to his lips, the spicy bouquet of vanilla and oak tickling his nostrils before the liquid slid down his throat—then he heard her voice. In his office, coming from behind him, by the door.
“Where’d you go? I saw you walk out with a portfolio.”
He turned. Justine was standing there.
Uninvited.
“Most people knock,” he said as he turned away, then took another sip of whiskey. “No, actually, scratch that. Not most people. All people. Everybody.”
He heard the door click shut, then she said, “Most people wouldn’t help you smuggle a small fifteenth-century masterpiece past customs either, would they?”
He turned again, in time to see a small, self-satisfied grin spread across her pretty face.
“Actually, scratch that. No one would. So I guess that buys me some dispensation from the protocol, don’t you think?”
He exhaled slowly, then said, “What do you want, Justine?”
“You’ve been avoiding me. I’m getting worried that our little partnership is going off its tracks.”
His eyes narrowed. “Our ‘partnership’?”
“Hey, I carried the damn thing in,” she said as she stepped closer. “I was the one holding the bag. Literally. You made me risk everything for that damn painting.”
“What risk?” he said, scoffing at the idea. “You saw how easy it was. Just like I said it would be. Besides,” he pressed on, his voice taking on a sharper, angrier note, “I don’t remember forcing you to do anything.”
“Where is it?” she asked.
“It’s none of your business.”
“None of my business? It couldn’t be more my business if I’d painted the damn thing myself. We’re partners in this, Chris. Remember that. And like it or not, you’re going to give me my fair share.”
“Or what?” he rasped, feeling his pulse quicken as he set his glass down on the table and looked at her with eyes that sizzled with menace.
Justine felt a surge of paralyzing fear. She’d never seen this side of him before and she gasped as he got up from his chair and came at her with lightning speed, crossing the room in four quick strides and taking her by surprise. Grabbing her with both hands, he pushed her backward until they both came to a slamming halt against the inside wall of his office, by the door.
One of his hands tightened against her neck.
“Before you threaten me, darling,” he hissed, “you need to make sure you’ve got what it takes to see it through.”
She froze as his face hovered inches from hers, his breath heating up her cheeks, his teeth bared at her like those of some kind of Gothic beast, his eyes narrowing as they drilled into hers.
Her lips were quivering. “You don’t know what I’m capable of, Christopher,” she whispered, trying to keep a tough edge to her voice but knowing she wasn’t pulling it off.
She felt his fingers tighten even more around her neck, heightening the fear coursing through her. A vein in his temple was throbbing with mad fury, and his gaze was still locked on her as he edged in closer, his lips now brushing against her earlobe, the prickle of his stubble teasing her neck. “Oh, we both know you’re capable of some very surprising things, don’t we?”
4
No Rest for the Dead Page 5
