“What is it?” Nick asked.
She glanced to her left. There was a café across the street, just east of the Four Seasons, and it had tables outside. A man in an off-the-rack suit sat at one of the tables facing the hotel and reading a newspaper. He had a buzzcut, and he was staring at the hotel. He also touched his ear.
“Crapity crap,” Kate said.
“That can’t be good,” Nick said.
“Starke was tailed and is under surveillance by cops of some kind,” Kate said. “This could be a setup.”
Kate walked to Madison Avenue and then around the corner down to Fifty-seventh, keeping her head low and staying in the middle of the crush of people on the sidewalk. On the way, she passed an old Crown Vic idling at the curb with two men in suits sitting in the front seat.
“Crapity crap crap,” she said.
“How much worse is a crapity crap crap than a crapity crap?” Joe asked. “I need a scale.”
Nick turned to Joe, who was on the couch, his MacBook on his lap, his screen split into thumbnail images of the dozens of feeds from the hotel’s security cameras.
“Relax, everyone,” Nick said. “There’s no reason to panic.”
“Yet,” Willie said.
Boyd took his piece of toast, went into the bedroom, and returned carrying a Louis Vuitton valise, which he handed to Starke. “This should do.”
Starke sat down on the couch and unzipped the valise. Inside was the Rembrandt self-portrait, the smallest of the three stolen masterpieces. He knew in an instant that it was genuine and congratulated himself on having the good sense to strip when he’d been asked. Otherwise, he might have missed out on what was sure to be the biggest deal he’d ever make.
“This could be a fake,” Starke said.
“Nobody knows that better than you. I’ve seen the Bong Chan-Wooks you’ve been selling as Pollocks. Good stuff.” Boyd gathered up Starke’s clothes. “You can examine the painting while I get dressed.”
“Why are you taking my clothes?”
“You’re less likely to run out of here with the Rembrandt if you’re naked.”
Boyd went back to the bedroom and closed the door. He tossed Starke’s clothes on the unmade bed and whispered to Nick, “What do I do now? I need some direction here.”
Asking Starke to strip was pure improvisation on Boyd’s part. He was reacting to Kate’s suggestion that the meeting might be a setup. The original plan was for Boyd to let Starke take the Rembrandt with him and authenticate it as a token of Mundy’s goodwill. Boyd would call him later that night on the throwaway cell to set up the meet at a warehouse in Astoria to complete the transaction. But now Boyd was onstage without a script and had no idea where the story was supposed to go.
“I’ll let you know in a minute,” Nick said. “In the meantime, get dressed. Wear something casual.”
Kate reached the corner of Fifty-seventh and Madison Avenue and saw a man admiring the shoes in the window of the Geox store on the opposite corner. She saw another man across the street, outside of Turnbull & Asser, pacing as he talked on his phone but keeping his eyes on the entrance of the Four Seasons. She recognized him. He was an FBI agent out of the Manhattan office.
“The FBI have surrounded the hotel,” Kate said. “This is bad.”
“It’s not so bad,” Nick said. “I’ve been in worse situations than this.”
“It doesn’t get worse than this.” Kate turned around, walked smack into a man in a sportcoat and jeans, and discovered that she was wrong. It could get worse. Much worse.
“Kate?” FBI Special Agent Andrew Tourneur stared at her in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”
As much as Nick wanted to listen to what came next, he didn’t want Boyd, Willie, and Joe to hear it.
“Cut off Kate’s earbud now,” Nick told Joe.
“Okay, okay.” Joe tapped a few keys on his laptop, but he clearly wasn’t happy about it. “Done. What don’t you want us to hear?”
“It’s the other way around. I don’t want her hearing what we’re doing.”
“Why not?” Joe asked.
“What she doesn’t know she can’t reveal, intentionally or otherwise,” Nick said. “And we certainly don’t want the FBI listening in on us if they get hold of her earbud.”
It was a lie. He didn’t want his crew discovering that Kate was an FBI agent and that he was a fugitive on their Ten Most Wanted list.
“So now what?” Willie said. “Johnny Cash knows we have the Rembrandts. You can’t let him walk out, and you can’t let the feds come in looking for him.”
“Johnny Cash?” Nick asked.
“You know, the Man in Black,” Willie said. “Starke. It was a joke. I’m trying to lighten the mood, considering you’re all screwed.”
“And you’re not?” Boyd said.
“You’re inside, surrounded by feds,” she said. “I’m outside. I can just drive away whenever I like.”
“You’d do that to us?” Joe asked.
“Hell yes,” Willie said. “The instant I see them move in, I’m gone.”
“It won’t come to that,” Nick said. “The Man in Black is what’s going to get us out of this.” He turned to Joe. “Can you erase all of the hotel’s surveillance footage for the last forty-eight hours?”
It occurred to Nick that if the FBI went back and looked at the hotel’s surveillance footage, they’d see him and Kate together in the lobby bar.
“With a click,” Joe said.
“Perfect,” Nick said.
Kate hadn’t seen Andy in two years. He was from Montana, the son of a rural county sheriff, and wasn’t comfortable unless he was wearing Carhartts. She’d told him, back when they were dating, that he’d made a mistake joining the FBI. He should have joined the U.S. Marshals Service instead. They’d have let him wear jeans and cowboy boots to work. But Andy told her he wanted to hunt big game, not chase fugitives, escort prisoners, and protect witnesses, so it had to be the FBI.
“I’m on vacation,” Kate said. “Experiencing the Big Apple.”
Andy took her by the arm and pulled her into the doorway alcove of the Coach store at the corner of Madison and Fifty-seventh. He yanked his earbud out and jammed it into the pocket of his jeans. He didn’t want his team hearing this. “I’m offline. I want to know what you’re really doing here.”
“Seeing the sights,” Kate said.
“This New York trip is about Fox, isn’t it? It’s always about Fox with you.”
“Don’t start in with me about that. I had enough of it while we were together.”
It was one of the things that had ruined the relationship. Andy had complained that Nick was all she thought about, and that it was like she was seeing another man. And it was true. Kate found Nick to be more interesting at a distance than Andy was up close and personal.
“I heard about you going rogue in China and getting suspended,” Andy said. “I also heard you got hurt. Are you okay?”
“Yep, I’m fine. Good as new.”
“That’s a relief. Now answer my question. Why are you here?”
Boyd came out of the bedroom dressed in a white silk shirt and khaki slacks and carrying some brightly colored folded clothes. “Okay, Julian,” he said. “You know the Rembrandt is genuine, and if you don’t, you shouldn’t be in this business. So do we have a deal, or do I find some other dealer to make outrageously wealthy today?”
“I’m in. I have a client who’ll gladly take all three and at the price you proposed.”
“Do you have the money?”
Starke nodded. “Once I’ve seen the rest of the paintings, I can access the money online and send it wherever you want it to go.” He knew that within an instant of his transferring the money to whatever account Mundy gave him, the cash would be broken up into smaller amounts and bounced all over the globe, from account to account, making the trail impossible to follow. “But don’t think about double-crossing me after the transfer. My client has a very, very
bad temper and a long reach.”
“I’m sure he does, or he wouldn’t be able to afford what I have to sell. Besides, what’s the upside in burning him? I’ve got no intention of retiring. I may want to do business with you both again.”
“That’s good news. If this works out, my client has a shopping list.” Most of the paintings on it were impossible to get. The Mona Lisa was item number one.
“I’ve never done work for hire before, but I could be open to considering it.” Boyd set the clothes down on the couch beside Starke. “Put these on.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“Black is all you ever wear, so that’s what people expect when they see you. If we put you in something colorful, and get rid of that goatee, nobody will recognize you when you walk out of this hotel.”
“Why do I want to be unrecognized?”
“Because I just pulled off the biggest heist in Canadian history and I’m taking you to see what I stole. I don’t know if you were followed, and neither do you. If you have a tail, we’re going to shake it.”
Starke thought Mundy was being paranoid, but he didn’t argue. His clothes and goatee weren’t worth the millions he’d be squandering now, and perhaps in the future, by making a stand over this. He stood up.
“Let’s do this,” Starke said. “I hope you have a proper straight razor and a black badger brush and not one of those obscene disposables.”
• • •
Kate sighed with resignation. Andy knew her well enough to see through a lie, so she decided her best shot was to stick as close to the truth as she possibly could.
“I saw the news about the museum robbery in Montreal, and it felt like Fox to me. So I took the red-eye here to shadow Starke on the chance that Fox might contact him to move the Rembrandts.”
She hoped her story sounded just crazy enough, and in line with what he knew about her, to ring true. And, she thought, he had a big psychological incentive to believe her. It would give him another chance to rag on her about chasing Nick and stick her with another implied I told you so.
“My God, Kate. It’s only been a week or two since that mess in China. What’s wrong with you?”
It worked. She was getting way too good at conning people. “It’s not me, it’s Fox. He’s the one who hit the museum. What was I supposed to do, just sit back and let him get away with it?”
“You aren’t the only agent in the FBI.”
“I am the only one who can catch Fox.”
“You don’t even know if he did it. Even if he did, there are a thousand art dealers in this world that Fox could use to broker the paintings. Why did you pick Starke?”
“Why did you?”
“I’m not chasing Fox,” Andy said. “I’m building a case against Starke for selling tens of millions of dollars’ worth of forged paintings to collectors around the world. We’re sticking to him, hoping he’ll lead us to his forger. So what put you on to him?”
“Starke’s name came up once in the course of investigating another robbery that Fox pulled off,” Kate said. “It’s a long shot, but I figured given the proximity of New York to Montreal, it was worth spending some of my vacation watching Starke.”
“It’s not a vacation, Kate. You were suspended for going rogue while pursuing Nicolas Fox. And now you’re doing it again, crashing right into the middle of a two-year investigation. If the brass finds out about this, your career in the FBI is over.”
Starke came out of the elevator wearing a yellow T-shirt, white slacks, and flip-flops. He carried the Vuitton valise in one hand. Boyd carried a suitcase. He took Starke’s free other hand.
“What are you doing?” Starke said, reflexively trying to pull his hand away. But Boyd held tight as they headed for the Fifty-eighth Street exit.
“You came in here a black-clad goateed heterosexual. You’re walking out of here a clean-shaven brightly dressed gay man with his wickedly handsome boyfriend. You might as well be invisible.”
“So why does it feel like everyone is staring at me?”
“Maybe they are,” Boyd said. “But they aren’t seeing Julian Starke.”
As soon as they stepped outside, Willie pulled up to the curb in the Escalade. Boyd opened the door for Starke, patted him on the butt as he got inside, then climbed into the car after him and closed the door. Willie headed for Park Avenue and turned right at the corner.
“You’re right, Andy,” Kate said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. But here I am.”
And there were Nick and Joe. She could see them over Andy’s shoulder, walking out of the Four Seasons. Nick was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, the standard-issue disguise for celebrities everywhere. But while that might be good enough to keep a sitcom star or big screen superhero from being recognized, it was pitiful cover for a fugitive. He also carried the silver case that she knew contained the covert operative’s tagging kit.
Andy was hands on hips, looking at something in the distance. This was just one of his many behavior tics. Kate called it his thinking spot. He was deciding what he should do about her.
“Well?” Kate asked. “What’s it going to be?”
He looked at her and shrugged. “This isn’t my problem. You’re on vacation, seeing the sights of New York. You were strolling down Madison Avenue, back from a walk through Central Park, when you just happened to run into an old friend. We spent a few minutes catching up and you went on your way. How does that sound?”
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“As long as you don’t mess up my op,” Andy said, “and promise me you’ll keep on walking and not show up anywhere near Julian Starke again.”
This was an easy promise to keep. They were done with Julian Starke. Kate saw Nick and Joe get into the backseat of a taxi. The taxi merged into traffic, headed east on Fifty-seventh, and sailed past them.
“I’ll give your regards to Lady Liberty,” she said, and walked away.
Andy was a nice guy, Kate thought. He was cute, and he could be funny, and he was a great kisser. He was so right and at the same time so wrong. Just like Nick Fox.
The building in SoHo looked familiar to Starke as soon as they pulled up to the curb. Once he got inside the loft, and saw the Willem de Kooning painting on the wall, he immediately knew why. The big-busted, bug-eyed woman lost in a swirl of smeared colors was a fake.
“This is Hugh Sinclair’s place,” Starke said.
“Indeed it is,” Boyd said. “Since he’s out of town for the next fifteen years, I didn’t think he’d mind if I borrowed it for a showing.”
“Were you a friend of his?”
“If I was, I certainly wouldn’t have let him buy so many fakes from you,” Boyd said, gesturing to the numerous pieces of abstract art in the loft. “I read about his misfortune and the properties that had been left orphaned. Homes like this come in handy when you’re looking for safe places to stay or to stash stolen artwork.”
Boyd led Starke into Sinclair’s study, where the remaining two Rembrandts were propped up on easels. The sight of all those masterpieces, and the fortune they represented, almost gave Starke an attack of irritable bowel syndrome.
Nick and Joe had the taxi drop them off at a Starbucks on West Broadway, a couple blocks away from the loft. They could hear the exchange between Boyd and Starke perfectly. Nick got them coffee while Joe got a seat and connected his MacBook to the free wifi so they’d be ready to move the money.
Kate didn’t know if Nick had cooked up a scheme on the fly, or if he’d aborted everything and chosen a clean escape instead, but she knew where the Rembrandts were and that he wouldn’t go anywhere without them. So she flagged a taxi and took it down to SoHo.
Starke took his time examining the paintings. There was no doubt they were real, but he wanted to appreciate them while he had the chance. He got up close to them and sniffed. Old paintings had a scent. He liked to think it was the smell of history, of the centuries that had unfolded around the paintings. These pa
intings had that unique scent. That is the sexiest fragrance on earth, he thought.
Boyd tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. “Are you authenticating the paintings or making love to them? You lick it, you own it.”
Starke turned around slowly. “I am staking my life on the fact that these paintings are real and that my client is getting what he’s paying for. Forgive me if I don’t want to rush it.”
“Really? You think that I happened to have copies of the three Rembrandts lying around and was just waiting for the day when the real ones got stolen so I could swindle a collector? Stop stalling. You have thirty seconds and then I take my business elsewhere.”
Starke took out his cell phone. “Give me a bank and an account number.”
“I’m in the bank and waiting for the funds,” Joe said, staring intently at his screen.
Nick sat beside him, his feet on the silver case, sipping a latte and picking at a slice of cinnamon coffee cake. It was all coming together now. He hoped Kate would make contact before they had to run.
The Escalade was parked in front of Sinclair’s loft. Kate got out of the cab, walked over to the Escalade, and knocked on the passenger window. Willie unlocked the doors and let her in.
“I was wondering if you’d make it,” Willie said.
“You were afraid I got caught?”
“Last I heard through the earbud you met some guy. I thought you might have gotten a room.”
“Old boyfriend,” Kate said. “Nothing more.”
“You can activate Kate’s earbud again,” Nick said to Joe. “She’s with Willie.”
Joe nodded, absorbed in what he was doing. “We’ve got the money. I’m moving it now.”
Nick punched a number into his cell phone.
Boyd’s cell phone rang, though he didn’t need the call from Nick to know the money had been transferred. He’d heard Joe on his earbud. This call was strictly for show. He took the phone out of his pocket, listened for a moment, then put it away again and smiled at Starke.
“Congratulations, Julian. You’re a rich man.”
The Chase Page 21
