by Lee Vance
The man with the notebook turns to Earl and gives him a thumbs-up. Earl takes a phone from his pocket and makes a call. Three long minutes later, Vladimir’s phone rings. He answers, listens, and hangs up. Earl and Vladimir shake hands as Lev flips the safety on his gun and lowers the barrel to the floor.
“That’s it?” I ask. “What happened?”
“The trade,” Lev says.
“What trade?” I ask. “What did you trade for?”
Lev frowns. “No questions.”
The Frenchmen break down their gear while Vladimir and Earl load the paintings into Earl’s truck. Half an hour later, the loading doors close behind the departed tractor-trailer, and the Russians break out in a ragged cheer. Lev and I join the others in the small office, where Vladimir produces a bottle of iced vodka and hands out cigarettes. Russian chatter and blue smoke surround me. Lev insists I drink a toast with him, the fiery liquor burning my throat. I wait for the merriment to subside and then approach Vladimir.
“Can I go now?” I ask anxiously.
“Soon,” he says, looking at his watch. “We go first. You wait fifteen minutes and don’t follow.”
Following’s the last thing on my mind.
“Where’s Andrei?”
“You go to the Ocean View Inn,” Vladimir says, stubbing his cigarette out on top of the desk. “In Montauk. Dr. Anderson is there.”
“Emily’s there?” I ask, surprised.
“Da,” he says. “She will take you to Andrei.”
38
MY HEAD NODS and I jerk awake, checking my watch. Vladimir and the others left only ten minutes ago, but if I sit in this smoky office much longer, I’ll fall asleep. I stagger out into the cold and see the morning sun hanging low on the horizon, the parking lot washed with plum-colored light. Teeth chattering and body protesting, I make my way to Tigger’s car. The frozen metal burns my fingers as I unlock the door, but the engine starts instantly, a good omen. A crystalline rooster tail of snow flies from the trunk as I accelerate out of the lot. I haven’t got many options at this point. If Andrei can’t help me, my choices are to surrender to the cops and pin my hopes on Tilling to uncover the truth, or to finish the job I was too cowardly to complete at my breakfast table.
A flagman waves me to a stop as I approach the airport access road. Braking impatiently, I avert my face, pretending to search for something on the passenger seat. There’s bound to be a picture of me in today’s paper. Three hard taps sound against the passenger’s window, startling me. I look up and see Earl smiling through the glass. He’s still wearing his baseball cap and black sweater, but now he has a gun in his hand. He motions with the barrel for me to lower the window.
“You looked good in a jumpsuit,” he says, smirking. “From what I hear, you’ll be wearing one with a number on the back before too long.”
“What do you want?” I ask, my brain racing. I ease up on the brake pedal, steeling myself to mow down the flagman. I might be able to race clear before Earl can get off an accurate shot.
“An hour of your time. To speak with Mr. Turndale. He’s at his house in Southampton, about fifteen minutes from here.”
“I can’t do it right now,” I say flatly, looking into the barrel of his gun. “I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, lowering the gun. “I didn’t realize you had another engagement. I’m sure Mr. Turndale will understand. Ralph, move away from the front of Mr. Tyler’s car there.”
The faux flagman steps aside, inviting me to proceed with a flourish.
“That’s it?” I ask uncertainly.
“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “Tell you what. I’ll even wait a couple of minutes before I call the cops and give them your license plate. Just to make things sporting.”
Earl grins while I think it over. There’s no way I’ll make it to Montauk if the police know I’m in Tigger’s car.
“The cops might be interested in hearing what you and your boss have been up to,” I say.
“Yesterday,” he says dismissively, “you might have had some leverage. We’re past that now. So make your choice.”
It’s clear he isn’t going to negotiate.
“What does William want to talk about?” I ask.
“I’m sure he’ll tell you. One hour. Yes or no?”
As with Vladimir, the strongest argument for Earl’s sincerity is the fact that he hasn’t shot me yet.
“An hour,” I reply. I can call the Ocean View Inn on Tigger’s car phone and tell Emily I’ve been delayed. “No more. I’ll follow you over.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” he says sarcastically. “Mr. Turndale will be grateful. It might be better, though, if I rode with you. Just to make sure you don’t get lost.”
I hesitate. Objecting will only make him more insistent, but I can’t risk calling Emily with Earl in the car. William can’t learn that I’ve found Andrei.
“Come on,” Earl says, trying the door handle. “Open up. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
I touch the button to unlock the doors, accepting defeat.
“Why’s it so cold in here?” Earl asks as he swings the door shut.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I say. “Feel free to turn on the heat.”
Earl fools with the climate controls for a few minutes and then gives up, shivering violently all the way to Southampton. I don’t tell him about the seat heaters. William’s house is a shingled mansion on an oceanfront street, the drive secured by electronic gates and the front yard screened by high hedges. Earl shows me to a hexagonal room dominated by an elaborately carved wooden desk. Three glass walls front the ocean. The floor’s bare, the half-height bookcases lining the remaining walls empty. Exposed picture hooks and rectangular patches of unbleached paneling suggest absent paintings.
“It looks like William’s moving out,” I say.
“Wait here,” Earl says through bluish lips. “Mr. Turndale will be right in.”
There’s no phone on the desk, and I don’t want to turn on my cell, for fear of being tracked by the signal. I sink into an upholstered armchair facing the sea, my legs aching. White-caps roil blue water beyond the surf line, early-morning sunlight reflecting off the spray. I wonder what William traded for the paintings and why he wants to talk to me. I’m too tired to be scared. My head lolls, the sun warm on my face. Closing my eyes, I drift into unconsciousness.
“Mr. Tyler,” a voice says.
I start awake to see William seated behind the desk, the sun blazing over his right shoulder. He’s wearing a navy turtleneck and a charcoal sweater, his sleeves pushed up to reveal surprisingly powerful forearms.
“Sorry to wake you,” he says, lips curling up to reveal his long yellow teeth. “But I understand you’re in a hurry. Would you like some coffee?”
Someone’s put a serving tray on the desk between us. I lean forward, fill a china cup, and drain it in a single long pull.
“Help yourself to more,” he says. He removes a bottle of aspirin from a desk drawer and sets it down next to the coffeepot. “You might want a few of these also. I must say, you look terrible.”
I refill my cup and then struggle with the childproof cap on the aspirin bottle. William’s solicitude makes me uneasy, but I’m beyond affecting any kind of stoicism. I extract four aspirin and wash them down with the hot coffee.
“To business,” he says. “I have three questions for you. Much as you may dislike me, you’ll answer my questions, because you don’t want me to call the Southampton police. Agreed?”
I tip my cup toward him, conserving my energy.
“Good,” he says. “First. What were you doing with the Russians last night?”
“I found the warehouse address in one of Andrei’s files,” I say, instinctively concealing my access to Andrei’s bank account. “I figured it was worth a look, so I drove by last night, and that’s when the Russians grabbed me. They didn’t want to take a chance on my telling anyone they were there.”
&n
bsp; “What do you mean, you found the address in one of Andrei’s files?” he asks, looking troubled. “What kind of file?”
“It looked like a ‘to do’ list. Call this person, call that person, go to the bank. And the address.”
William ruminates for a second and then shakes his head, as if clearing a dissonant thought.
“Something’s not quite right about that story, Mr. Tyler, but it isn’t worth pursuing at this point. Consider that a warm-up inquiry, more in the way of idle curiosity. Now I’d like the truth. Katya phoned me late last night. She sounded distressed, and demanded we meet. I gather you spoke to her.”
“She called me,” I say warily.
“You told her what Andrei’d done?”
William warned me to stay out of his business. I look toward the door, wondering where Earl is. Another beating and I won’t be able to drive.
“Circumstances have changed since we spoke yesterday,” William says impatiently. “It doesn’t matter to me if you told her. I only want to know how she reacted.”
“She was upset,” I reply, not completely following. “What do you mean?”
“Was Andrei’s theft news to Katya? Or did she already know?”
His voice catches on her name, and everything suddenly becomes clear. The arrogant old prick can’t bear the thought that Katya might’ve been involved in Andrei’s betrayal.
“You’d know better than I,” I reply disdainfully. “You’ve been spying on her, haven’t you?”
“True. But she’s very smart.”
“A chip off the old block?” I ask, unable to resist the jab.
“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair and looking at me shrewdly. “You have been busy, haven’t you, Mr. Tyler? And where did you come by that particular bit of information?”
“What bit of information?” I ask lamely, belatedly realizing that I’ve revealed too much. The caffeine’s worked through my empty stomach near instantaneously, loosening my tongue and making me incautious.
“Don’t play the fool,” William says, staring at me intently. “How did you learn that Katya’s my daughter?”
“She told me,” I reply, trapped by my own carelessness.
William gets up and walks to the windows, hands clasped behind his back as he stares out to sea.
“How long has she known?”
“Only a few months,” I say. “Why didn’t you ever tell her?”
“A détente,” he says cryptically. “An arrangement I regret. And now I’d like the answer to my original question. Did Katya know that Andrei was stealing from me?”
“Of course not. You shouldn’t have to ask that question.”
“True again,” he says quietly, surprising me with his agreement. “It was foolish of me to suspect her.”
He’s silent for a moment, the only sound the surf booming against the beach outside.
“Well,” he says finally, turning from the windows and resuming his seat at the desk. “On to my last question, which is more in the way of a request, or a favor, if you will.”
He must be kidding me. I wouldn’t do him the favor of pissing on him if he were on fire.
“A favor that benefits Katya,” he says, reading my face correctly. “The next couple of weeks are going to be very difficult for her. She’s in for some rough water, and I won’t be there to help her. I’d like you to explain some things to her on my behalf.”
“The next couple of weeks are likely to be very difficult for me,” I say, incredulous at his presumption. “Or haven’t you read the papers?”
“I know all about your problems, Mr. Tyler. I also know you care for Katya. You made that clear yesterday when you insisted on her protection as the price of any deal with me. There’s no one else I care to confide in right now, and you already know most of the story. I’m sure you’ll find some way to communicate with her.”
“What kind of rough water?” I ask, feeling a sense of trepidation on Katya’s behalf.
“Several kinds, actually,” he says calmly. “I transferred my shares in Turndale to a Swiss escrow agent yesterday afternoon, and then released them to the Russians last night, after the Linz paintings passed muster.”
“You can’t do that,” I object immediately. “You’re holding control stock. The minority shareholders are going to go crazy.”
“There’s nothing in the company charter or our governing law to prevent me,” he says, waving a hand airily. “And the minority shareholders will have other things to worry about.”
“Because you have no intention of making good Andrei’s loss,” I say, abruptly understanding his actions. “You’re going to keep the paintings for yourself and let Turndale go bankrupt.”
“Exactly.” He bares his teeth again as he grins. “That’s why it was so important to me to make sure you hadn’t told anyone what Andrei did. I didn’t want the Russians to learn the shares were worthless before the exchange.”
39
ONE OF TIGGER’S FAVORITE TRADING PARABLES is a description of his first business trip to London. He woke up Monday morning raring to get to the office, looked left as he stepped off the curb in front of his hotel, and woke up three hours later in the emergency room at Charing Cross Hospital, a victim of the reversed traffic pattern. A passing truck’s side-view mirror caught him squarely in the side of the head, and would have killed him if the mount hadn’t been spring-loaded. “The more experience you get,” he used to tell our trainees, “the more you’re gonna start makin’ assumptions about how things work. And the more assumptions you make, the more likely you are to wake up in a hospital with your clothes cut off and your wallet gone for a walk.”
Gazing at William’s smug smile, I realize I’ve been guilty of any number of assumptions recently, the most foolish being that William might have been acting to protect his son.
“It’s hard for me to believe that you care very much about what happens to Katya.”
“It’s a surprise to me as well,” he says genially. “But I do. She’s been very loyal. So I’ve provided for her as best I can.”
“Provided for her how?”
“In several ways,” he says. “Our conversation today is one of them. I want her to understand what I’ve done. As to the rest, I’ve lodged certain exculpatory documents with Turndale’s lawyers. Katya will have more than enough evidence at her disposal to exonerate herself of any involvement in Turndale’s demise.”
I slug down two more aspirin with the remains of my coffee. It occurs to me that Andrei’s no worse off than I expected and Katya’s likely in a better position.
“So you traded a bunch of worthless stock to the Russians for a priceless collection of stolen art,” I say acerbically. “That’s quite a coup. Of course, you won’t just have the SEC trying to put you in jail for fraud now; you’ll also have the Russians sizing you for a pine box.”
“Great men leave their mark by performing great deeds,” he says with satisfaction. “And great deeds are rarely achieved without risk.”
“I wasn’t aware fraud qualified as a great deed. Perhaps you’ve confused a mark with a stain,” I reply evenly.
“You’re here to listen,” he says sharply, bonhomie vanished. “If it’s talking you’re interested in, I’ll have Earl call the police.”
I stare silently, wishing I were in a position to give him the kind of beating Earl gave me yesterday.
“As a young man, I decided that my life’s work would be to accumulate an unparalleled collection of art, a collection that would enable me to endow a spectacular personal museum, on the order of the Frick, or the Gardner. I came close to achieving my objective once, but the opportunity slipped away. I eventually resigned myself to the notion that Turndale and Company would be my legacy. Andrei’s theft came as a nasty shock. But then, just when things seemed darkest, fortune smiled on me, and the opportunity I’d missed in my youth reemerged. Turndale and Company will fail, but Turndale House—my museum—will survive.”
“My recoll
ection is that the Linz paintings were stolen,” I say, beginning to wonder about his sanity. “Don’t you think that might become an issue for Turndale House? Say about sixty seconds after you open the front doors?”
“An excellent point,” he says, placing the tips of his fingers together. “Let’s think about my situation logically, shall we? The American government will want to prosecute me for securities fraud, the Russians will be after my head, and—as you implied—any number of private individuals, not to mention Western European governments, will sue Turndale House for recovery of their art. And then there are the Israelis. They seem to get their noses into everything. I’ll need protection from all of them. What would you do in my position?”
“Shoot myself.”
“I despise flippancy,” he says curtly. “Try again.”
“I wasn’t being flippant. That was my best idea.”
“How disappointing. I might as well be talking to Earl, save that his suggestion would have been to shoot someone else. Name an interested country that isn’t afraid to say no to America.”
It only takes a second. “France,” I say, intrigued despite myself.
“Exactly,” William says, treating me to one of his lizardlike winks. “If you’re forced to take a partner, it’s important to make sure your interests are aligned. Imagine how enticing it was to the Gallic mind when I suggested they could simultaneously recover their own lost art, seize control of their neighbors’, and thumb their nose at the United States. Altogether a trifecta, from their perspective. The negotiations were a snap. They even offered me a Légion d’honneur. Sub rosa, of course. As if I’d want a medal from a nation of greasy cowards.”
“The international pressure is going to be tremendous,” I say, caught up for the moment in his fantasy.
“I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Turndale House will be located in Saint Barths, in the Caribbean. It’s technically part of France, but just separate enough so the French can play both sides of the street, simultaneously advocating adherence to international law and ensuring no judgments are ever enforced. There will be a thousand small, irresolvable points, endless discussions of jurisdiction, title, theories of ownership, and so forth—the kind of bureaucratic obstructionism the French really excel at. And all the while, they’ll quietly promote the notion that, after all, the paintings are in a museum, they’re being well looked after, and they’re accessible to scholars. I’ve even agreed to let the hoi polloi in from time to time, although I’d have preferred not to. Small accommodations will be made, token payments, concessions in unrelated areas, that sort of thing. My personal museum will endure.”
