by Nick Spill
“And we have a strict closing policy, so I fail to see how a painting could have been removed when you said it was. Besides, didn’t you have your own man virtually attached to the painting?”
“I never said when the painting went missing. Tell me about your procedure after the party.”
“We had the two extra security guards at the front, you agreed to, leave at closing time. Ten o’clock.”
“There were four.”
“No, two.”
“No, four. Look.” Grimble pulled grainy photos out of a folder showing two guards inside the doors, and outside in the courtyard the faint outlines of two similar guards.
“We only hired two extra guards. I don’t understand. I don’t see the other two you say are there. Maybe they brought two more we didn’t know about.” MacIntosh used his handkerchief again.
“They’re there, in the background, same build and outline as the two by the door. Go on.” Grimble watched MacIntosh stare at the photos. He had seen the same reaction before, when a suspect was unable to comprehend the evidence presented to him.
MacIntosh coughed and ran his right hand over his mustache. “I’ll talk to the security company. There must be an explanation.”
“Already taken care of.”
MacIntosh lowered his head and did not speak.
“What is your closing procedure?” Grimble asked.
“I walk the gallery and see no one’s in any of the rooms and I release all the guards, floor by floor, starting at the top. I saw your Sergeant Cadd near the painting and told him he could go. And he did, right?”
Cadd nodded.
“Then I go to my office, check to make sure all is secure, and then I leave, locking the front door with my master key. I’m the last to leave, once the night security man arrives. Then he walks the gallery as well, before he has a cup of tea. He does random walks through the gallery, hourly and makes a note at his post. You saw the clipboard, I take it? You and your sergeant had already left, same with the government young man and his girlfriend.”
“Correct. And the night security man, does he have a master key?” Grimble asked.
“No. And he is here till the morning. The first to arrive is usually me. I get his report then release him. It’s all stipulated in our security procedures from our lenders. I think he arrived later than expected last night. He had difficulty parking as it was Saturday night. It happens. I tell him he has to budget more time on Fridays and Saturdays.”
“Is he new to your staff?”
“He’s one of my regulars. Been here forever. Retired copper, like me. Very reliable. I would trust him with anything.”
“How come he didn’t notice the painting was missing? It was perfectly obvious, wasn’t it?”
“You’ll have to ask him. We will, of course, conduct our own full and thorough inquiry and I will present my findings to the director in good time. But we won’t be rushed into making false conclusions.”
Grimble walked out of the office before he could say something he might regret. Cadd followed.
Alexander appeared again with the two photographs enlarged and laid them out on the library table. He handed the inspector a magnifying glass. “I found larger paper and pushed the exposure just enough to show as much detail as I could pull out of the negatives. What do you think?”
Grimble leaned over the two photos and used the magnifying glass to compare the prints. He gave the glass to Cadd.
“You know them, don’t you?” Alexander asked. He scanned their faces, but neither showed any sign of recognition.
“I have to make a call.” Grimble took the prints with him. “Good work.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Alexander called Catelin to update him and receive instructions. He dialed Tsara to tell her he would be working late, and they would not eat together on Sunday night. She said that was fine, she had plans to visit her parents.
The small white government van was parked on Shortland Street. Alexander found the keys on the rear right tire and did not query how Catelin had procured a van so quickly. He scanned the area as he adjusted his mirror. No one seemed interested in him or his van. He drove around the city, working through the manual gears and selected one-way streets until he was sure no one was following. Then he headed to Epsom and Castle Drive.
He parked on Mountain Road and walked to the end of the cul-de-sac and onto the Castle property. Built in the mid-1860s, the Castle was so-named because it had a four-story concrete tower and a castellated turret. The house itself was wooden and had been turned into seven apartments. In the open carport among the other cars and empty spaces he saw Nikolai Raganovich’s car. An immaculate four-door 1973 black Jaguar XJ12 with white trim tires. Easy to spot but difficult to follow, especially with the Jag’s acceleration. He took a photo of the car and walked back to the van. He had not seen the car in Wellington and wondered if it was stationed here in Auckland. If so, who drove it when Raganovich was in Wellington? He looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were building over Mount Eden and it looked like rain.
At the Mountain Road intersection he had noted cars, windows and possible vantage points. He shot a few more frames. If he were SIS, he would have a static observation post, a borrowed room with a window facing the Castle to view the spy’s comings and goings, with a tail car positioned nearby, out of sight, but able to spot the Jag once it exited the cul-de-sac. He would have cars positioned nearby, on Clive and Almorah Roads, switching out occasionally. The Russian would never notice. But Soviet spies were supposed to be experts in counter-surveillance and detection, Alexander had read. So Raganovich could ignore any tail he had, unless he did not want to be followed. Alexander’s plan was to blend into the convoy of cars following the Russian. He could imagine the recriminations later when they had lost the Jaguar and blamed each other and suspected the small white van was another Russian ploy. Unless the SIS knew about his van and somehow they were using him.
Alexander did not imagine that possibility then. Later, he would have second thoughts.
But Alexander did have time to think why Catelin had instructed him to follow the Soviet. Did Catelin suspect the Soviet of stealing the painting? What about the two or four Maori guards who were inside and outside the gallery? Grimble seemed to hint that they were responsible for the heist. Why wasn’t he following or searching for the two who were outside the gallery? He presumed he would find out soon enough. He would follow his orders and concentrate on the Soviet spy.
Of all the things he should not do, Alexander thought about knocking on the door of Natasha’s apartment in the Castle. “Hi Natasha! Remember me? You tried to seduce me last year when I was here with my girlfriend. Don’t worry, we’ve broken up, but you probably know this. Everyone else does. Thought I’d drop in and see you. How’s it going?” He would claim he had been visiting someone else in the building. What would he say? ‘Zdravstvuj, Natasha.’ Hello in Russian. It was a stupid idea. What if she invited him inside and the Soviet spy was waiting to grill him? “Welcome, Alexander. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. Don’t mind these electrodes.”
He settled back in the driver’s seat and made sure his rear-view and side mirrors had a clear view of the cul-de-sac. He wanted to conserve his last roll of Tri-X. He would have to get more film on Monday. If Alexander was the Soviet, he thought, he would be devious. The Soviet had left before the gallery had closed. He would have an accomplice steal it for him. He had been talking to Mark Rose.
Despite the dead-end street, Alexander speculated that Raganovich had several options. He could walk over to Glenfell Place and jump into another car, if he had an accomplice. Or he could walk around Mount Eden, take a bus on Mount Eden Road into the city, then another bus to Parnell and visit Mark Rose. That would take too long, if there were buses running, and Alexander wasn’t sure about access to the summit from the back of Castle Drive.
His head ached. He had to keep Mel from interfering with his concentration. Though he did plan to vi
sit her dojo. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be thrown by her and have her sit on him. Nothing like long boring hours of surveillance to get him fantasizing about sex. His mind wandered to images of Deborah. He was in her apartment, across from Winter’s house. He half-closed his eyes as he visualized her, like a Klimt painting, long curly red hair, soft white skin glowing in the golden dawn light seeping in through her window. The faint sound of Erik Satie’s piano music came to his ears as he daydreamed, but then he spotted the black Jaguar, driven by a tall blonde woman in a headscarf. Was it Natasha? If it was, she had lost weight, although it was difficult to tell as she turned left onto Mountain Road. He thought he heard drums before he realized it was raining.
Should he follow her? Or should he wait to see if the Russian appeared by foot or in another car, a car he would not be able to identify, unless he saw the Russian clearly? He couldn’t see anything without his wipers on. He started his engine and pulled out. The terrible noise against the roof of the van gave him a headache and he feared he would lose her before she reached Khyber Pass Road. He had to wait for two cars to pass him before he could follow the Jag. The downpour added to the confusion. Did a SIS spotter have eyes on his white van? Was another car about to follow the Jag? His wipers were on full speed but he couldn’t see anything..
He spotted the Jag as it crossed the Khyber Pass intersection and continued on to Park Road. A dark-colored Chrysler Valiant roared past him and went through a red light, sending a cascade of water against his van. He couldn’t see the driver but heard the screech of brakes. He stopped at the light to make sure no oncoming cars would hit him as he turned right onto Khyber Pass Road. He knew he would lose sight of the Jag and the Valiant before the light turned green but estimated he could intercept the Jaguar if he accelerated to Broadway and made a left onto Parnell Road. He pressed the accelerator to the floor and willed the small white government van to go faster on the wet road.
He couldn’t see the Jaguar ahead of him on Parnell Road. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle but still cut visibility. He had no idea if anyone was following him. He gambled that she would head to Mark Rose’s house on Gibraltar Crescent. He didn’t want to take a direct route, as that would show the van to whoever was following her. He turned off Parnell Road and went around Birdwood Crescent till he came to a place where he could park. He ran down the steps of 8A and through the garden and a line of trees before he came to a path behind the Domain next to the railway line: the Ho Chi Minh trail he remembered from when he attended the University of Auckland.
Once he was adjacent to Mark Rose’s house, on the trail, he found another garden he could walk through and came up on Gibraltar Crescent. No one saw him as he strolled around the bend and spotted the black Jaguar with the white-rimmed tires parked opposite Mark’s address. The street was deserted. He checked his wet shoes and brushed off grass stuck to his trousers. His denim jacket was soaked. He kept in a crouched position as he checked movement from any windows, in case anyone might be watching. He saw nothing and walked almost to Parnell Road where he had an unobstructed view to the Jaguar.
Now he was faced with the inevitable wait. He did not know if Natasha had dropped off the car and walked away, or if she was with Mark. Maybe she was trying to seduce him, just to keep her touch. Or Nikolai Raganovich could be walking into Mark Rose’s house now, from below the street, out of sight. The Soviet diplomat could have used the Ho Chi Minh trail like Alexander and come in the back way.
He spotted a car like the dark-colored Valiant he had seen earlier making its way around the Crescent. Did they know about Mark Rose, or were they cruising through Parnell hoping to spot the black Jaguar? The Valiant parked between two other cars, its wipers staying on. He walked up Parnell Road to Birdwood Crescent and his van, removed his jacket and wiped his face. He drove onto Parnell Road and positioned himself further around Gibraltar Crescent, out of sight of the Valiant, but with a clear view of either exit from the Crescent. There was a turn-off to another side street that lead to a warren of other narrow streets, but they all fed into Parnell Road. It was already dark with little traffic on Sunday night. The Soviet could walk into Mark’s, retrieve the painting, put it in the Jaguar and drive off. Once in a diplomatic bag with seals from the Embassy, the painting would never be recovered. It would be placed in a large crate bound for another Embassy and a circuitous route to the Kremlin. Captain Cook in Moscow. It was an idea Alexander could not grasp. Let alone the idea of the Soviet stealing the Captain. Why would he? Another counter-espionage trick to destabilize the country? Payback for the trial and accusing him of being a spy? He was still here and had not departed quickly like his other spies. Why was he still here? To steal Captain Cook out of the country?
Or maybe it was a false lead and the Maori had the painting and Alexander would hear about it in the morning. He wanted to keep an open mind. There had been four Maori guards, two real and two fake. Had the fake ones stolen the painting? He did not understand what had happened, but made himself comfortable and settled in for a long surveillance in his small white government van.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The dark-colored Valiant roared by at nine o’clock. No more overtime for them, Alexander thought. He waited ten minutes before he started the engine and cruised around the Crescent again. He spotted the Jaguar in the same place and found a better parking space at the apex of the Crescent where he had a good view from the rear window of Mark’s entrance and the Jaguar. He craved a hot tea and a bun, but nothing was open, and his thermos had been broken by the ordinary-looking man in Wellington. If he drank tea he would have to pee, and he didn’t have a milk bottle. But he did have his camera so he played with his aperture and timing and adjusted the focus, ready to shoot when needed.
As he waited, he realized how fortunate he had been with his surveillances of Winter and the shadow minister’s girlfriend. His current mission might take all night. The Soviet could appear with the painting early in the morning when no one was about, and any vehicle would stand out following the Jaguar. Alexander figured that if the car left, he would lose sight of it and his only option would be to motor over to Castle Drive and confirm it had arrived at the Russian’s apartment. If the Jaguar sped to another destination, he would never locate it. He adjusted his denim jacket over the passenger seat to dry.
Resigned to his new strategy, Alexander thought about Mel, and what an impression she had made on him at the gallery opening. She was unlike Deborah or any other woman he knew. He recalled his last assignment in Wellington, the photographs he had taken of Kathy and her political lover, and what fate awaited them. If he told Tsara what he had done, spying on a friend and turning the photographs over to his boss for political and monetary gain, what would she do? No one stirred on the street, just a black Labrador following a scent and a few cats guarding their territory. When he saw the dog, he thought of Deborah again. “Alexander,” he muttered, “you are worse than a dog in heat.”
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and realized he had not come to terms with what Deborah had told him. How other people viewed him. It wasn’t because he didn’t care, as he had never considered such an idea before. Did he not have a well-developed sense of self, or was he ignorant of his true nature? The whole idea of his self was perplexing. It kept him awake for the rest of the night, parked in a deserted side street in Parnell as it got colder.
Alexander had sunk in his seat and noticed at first light he had a radio underneath the console. He had put his denim jacket on and wound the window up. He half-turned the ignition to switch on the radio. The speaker blasted Bob Dylan’s voice and he adjusted the volume so only he could hear the music. John Wesley Harding. His favorite Dylan album. He could never work out what Tom Paine had to do with the title song, but the melody was catchy and when it finished he realized he was listening to what had once been the pirate radio station Hauraki, now land-based. He turned it off. He wanted to concentrate on the house, but he kept humming the tu
ne to himself.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A large man in an overcoat was carrying a package to the Jaguar. Alexander turned to focus his camera on the figure placing the package in the car’s trunk. The motor drive sounded like an automatic weapon.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Check out the headline!” Henry dropped Monday’s Herald on the kitchen table.
“You actually brought the paper in? What’s up?”
Mel read the headline next to the photo of Captain Cook. “We saw him Saturday night.”
“Yes. And look who’s claiming to have kidnapped the Captain.”
“Do you think it’s your friend, again? He attracts trouble, doesn’t he?”
“He’s your friend. You’re the one who rescued him in the bush. Oh shit!”
“What?” Mel was about to boil water for tea, but saw Henry turn pale.
“Oh no.” Henry ran to the back door. Mel heard noises, groaning sounds, a large cry followed by silence. She waited for him to reappear.
Henry returned to the kitchen, pale and trailing dust. “My notebooks!”
“What about them?”
“They’re gone. Gone!” He collapsed into a kitchen chair and put his hands to his head and his head into his knees. “Fuck! The FBI have stolen them. I knew it. I hid them, but I never knew he would search there. What am I going to do?”
“FBI? Who? What search?”
“I hid them under the kitchen. I thought they’d never find them if they broke in.”
“You mean someone’s burgled my house?”
“It’s beneath the house and how would they know to look there? I mean, nothing’s been touched here, right? No signs of a break-in? None of my albums have been touched. I would know.”
“Shit!” Mel ran her hands through her locks. “It’s my house and you’re worried about your albums? You were the jaded kiwi, but you gave back the Tear. Now you’re the fucked kiwi.”
