The Colours: A spy thriller packed with intrigue and deception

by T. M. Parris

  “Marseille? That’s Marseille?”

  “Sure. That’s the church of Notre Dame de la Garde. It’s one of the city’s most famous landmarks.”

  “Yeah, sorry, not all of us are walking encyclopaedias, you know.”

  Ollie had really unnerved her. Fairchild looked amused.

  “You know this painting is by Fournier, don’t you?” he said.

  “Really?” Rose stepped closer. Fairchild pointed out the signature.

  “So what does it say about the guy? These people are still very mysterious to us.”

  “He’s a good artist.”

  “Really? This is good? It looks like something out of Dante’s Inferno.”

  “It’s probably supposed to. The crowds, the burning, the suffering. It’s dripping with religious subtext. That’s why I said Chagall. The intensity of this fire is like purgatory or hell. But the way it’s positioned on top of this hill next to the church, that’s a statement. A public event. Like a martyrdom, or a bonfire of the vanities. The juxtaposition of the raging fire and the smoke, the cross of the church, and then the city spread out in the background, very recognisable, it’s a reflection or comment on society at large. I think the person who painted it has strong views about what’s wrong with the world. There’s anger here and bitterness. A sense of futility but also wanton destruction. It’s understandable.”

  Fairchild’s face was inches away from the canvas as he examined it.

  “What’s understandable?”

  “Well, the value of art is so dependent on fashion and current tastes. If this kind of style were the in thing, Fournier could be a leading light. He’s brought something quite new to the genre and executed it amazingly well. But if it doesn’t catch on, that’s it. Galleries and dealers are all looking for the same thing, the next Ai Weiwei or Anish Kapoor. But they also want to limit supply to keep values high. The result is a very small number of rocket-fuelled artists that no one can get enough of, and everyone else is left in the cold.”

  “That might make someone pretty angry,” said Rose. “You said he’s rumoured to be an activist. Maybe the heist was to raise money for some kind of direct action or anti-state terrorism.”

  “Mighty funny way of funding a terrorist operation. There are plenty of more viable alternatives. It’s got to be about the art itself in some way. Maybe he saw the heist as a kind of direct action.”

  “Wouldn’t we know about it already? If it’s meant to be a message to the world, they’d be on social media by now.”

  “Could still happen.”

  “And wouldn’t you just go in there with a can of spray paint or something, instead of making off with the most valuable painting in the world? There have got to be easier ways.”

  Rose lay down on the floor next to the bed. “Speaking of which, I don’t see any sign of their loot here.”

  On the floor was a worn copy of Vincent Van Gogh’s letters. Rose moved it aside, stretched an arm out and felt around under the bed, her fingers reaching right over to the wall.

  “You think he’s going to stash a five hundred million dollar canvas underneath his own bed?” Fairchild said.

  Rose emerged empty-handed. “I guess not. But worth checking for loose floorboards.”

  They did, and found none.

  “Well, what now?” said Rose, standing in the middle of the room.

  Fairchild nodded towards the painting.

  “Marseille.”

  “Seriously? On the grounds that there’s a painting of Marseille on the wall of his room?”

  “Well, there’s nothing else to go on, is there? It’s the only thing here. Besides, Marseille is France’s second biggest city. It’s the next best place after Paris to find buyers. And if they’d tried to get to Paris, I think the police would be onto them by now.”

  He had a point. But the painting wasn’t the only thing in the room. Rose picked up the Letters of Van Gogh. Something flashed in her head, but went away again. Damn Ollie! He’d really spoiled her concentration.

  “We should go,” she said.

  Yvonne had more luck. She established from Mme Boucher that Fournier had shown up a couple of days earlier in an excitable state and Pippin had gone out with him and not returned since. The robbers had moved on, leaving little behind. Fairchild surely knew more than he was saying, keen as he was to get to the gang first. And whatever was troubling her about Pippin was buried too deep in her mind to fathom.

  Chapter 33

  Fairchild left and the other three took separate routes back to the Nice apartment. As soon as they arrived, Rose sat them all down at the table.

  “What did you see, Ollie? Why the phone call?”

  “Honestly, it was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. It was enough for you to make the call. What was it?”

  He sighed. “A guy came past me. Then I thought I saw the same guy again, but wearing a jacket.”

  “The same person with different clothes? That’s an absolute giveaway, Ollie.”

  “But it wasn’t the same person. It was another guy with cheekbones and stubble, like they all have round here.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because his friends showed up. He was hanging around for a while, then two or three people came along, bonjour, kiss kiss, and they all disappeared into a restaurant. That happened when I was on the phone to you. He was just a bloke, as it turned out. It was my mistake.”

  Rose was mentally reviewing her incident with the moped rider. “Did he look at you?”

  “Not in particular. He looked around while he was waiting.”

  “Did he look in your direction?”

  “Well, he looked all around, so yeah.”

  “So he’d have seen if you were on the phone or not.”

  “I guess.”

  “And what about the first time you saw him?”

  “That was the first time. The other guy was someone else.”

  “So you say now. But you didn’t think that at the time, did you?”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Or you’re wrong now. Your Ego has defeated your Id. But your Id could have been right. Tell me about the first guy.”

  Ollie’s eyes went up to the ceiling as he recalled. “Like I said, cheekbones, stubble. Red checked shirt. He walked past. That’s all.”

  “Quickly? Slowly?”

  “Pretty slowly.”

  “And then?”

  “That was it. He walked past.”

  “And the second guy? What was he wearing?”

  “A linen jacket. Our Man in Havana type thing.”

  “Shirt?”

  “Dark.”

  “And you recognised him?”

  “At first I thought I did. But I must have been mistaken.”

  “And you phoned me. And then a load of friends showed up and he disappeared.”

  “Yes.”

  Rose turned to Yvonne. “Did you see anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “Have you seen anything at all, the whole time you’ve been here? Any hint at all that we might not be alone?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Does that mean you have, Rose?” Ollie asked.

  “The day I used the moped to go to the Negresco.” She related what happened. “Just like you, Ollie, I wrote it off. I convinced myself it was nothing. That’s why I didn’t say anything. But my instinct back then said something else. Still does, actually.”

  There was a long silence.

  “If someone is onto us,” said Ollie, “then who? And how?”

  “And why?” asked Yvonne.

  “Those are all very good questions,” said Rose. “We need to tighten up even more. Move out of here, probably. Find a new base.”

  “Report it?” said Ollie.

  Rose hesitated. Yes, was the right answer. But if it got up to Salisbury, it would mean the end of the op. “Let’s keep that in mind.”

  Another silence. Yvonne checked her ph
one.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “What now?” asked Rose.

  “More news. It’s not great.”

  She told them what it was.

  Chapter 34

  After a hurried brainstorm between the three of them, Rose got onto a video call with Walter.

  “Just as you think a painting couldn’t possibly get any more notorious, now this,” she said. “We’ve just heard that the Kremlin has claimed possession of Portrait of Theo. They’re saying it was stolen by Mikhail Khovansky from the Russian people, and they want it back. They’re appealing to Interpol to issue an international arrest warrant.”

  “What does this mean for us, my dear? This brings Russia much closer, does it not?” Walter looked tired, but then he always did on screen.

  “They must have found Grom’s Monaco identity. They’ve caught up with us, basically. They now have sight of his holding companies to see how the money was channelled to make the purchase. And if they know that they’ll know about all his assets, his swanky penthouse apartment, his even swankier yacht.”

  “Ah, so FININT have done some more analysis for you, have they?”

  “They certainly have. They’ve taken his finances apart with a fine toothcomb. As well as one of these super-yachts that’s the size of a small island, he also owns a luxury villa on the coast road, up in the hills. But something else as well, better. It turns out that after buying Portrait of Theo, he took out a loan against it from the auction house. That’s quite common, apparently. It’s a well-established way of unlocking the value in these works of art. Particularly for people who are using fine art to move money around rather than for the love of it.”

  “Well that rather ups the ante, doesn’t it, for our man?” said Walter. “It’s not just that the painting was rapidly becoming one of the few significant assets he had left. If he loses it, he’s lost the collateral on which his loan was based, if my understanding is correct.”

  “Well, usually the insurance will pay out. But the actual value of this one is very subjective. Who knows what it’s insured for? And the insurance company will be looking closely at the circumstances, let’s say.”

  “Trying to find a reason not to pay? I’m sure. Particularly now the Russians have described the owner as a crook and an embezzler. They’ll see it as mighty suspicious that this portrait does a disappearing act like this. But if they don’t pay out, what happens to the loan?”

  “Worst-case scenario for Grom is that instead of a healthy cashable asset, he ends up with a significant liability. It makes it unlikely that Grom himself had anything to do with the heist. But this theft could mean a lot more to him than we thought. It could make all the difference between surviving his exile from Russia with some resources to fall back on, and actually owing money.”

  “These intrepid burglars may have unknowingly performed a useful service for the security of the UK and its protectors.”

  “Well, if we manage to track them down, I’ll be sure to thank them.”

  “How is that going?”

  “We have a lead.” She told him about Pippin and Gustave Fournier. “So Fairchild is convinced we need to focus on Marseille. I think he’s on pretty thin ground, myself. It makes me wonder what he knows that he’s not telling us.”

  “Now, Rose. Just because Fairchild has his own reasons doesn’t mean he’s exclusively self-interested.”

  “He’s doing stuff without sharing. When we got into Pippin’s room, it turned out he’d already been there, but he wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Well, yes, he can be cagey sometimes. But has he asked for any kind of payment for this work?”

  “Well, no,” Rose admitted. And it might have been a problem. Fairchild’s fees often were, particularly to cash-starved government departments that had to battle to be funded in the first place. “But I still expect him to put his own interests first. Do you know anything about this Japanese print of his, that his parents left him?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Odd that Grom has one just like it.”

  “They’re not uncommon, my dear. They were intended to be mass-produced, after all. Fairchild has contacts in Marseille, I presume?”

  “Yes, he’s checking them out. But I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “Well, fair enough, but do bear in mind that this has all become more risky for us. Operatives for the Russian government are going to be on the ground now in Monaco and around. You need to tighten up and take precautions. You are no longer amongst friends.”

  “Understood.” Rose wasn’t sure they were amongst friends before, but didn’t mention this.

  “The Russian government has shone a gigantic flashlight on our man,” said Walter. “Everyone knows his name, or one of them anyway. Everyone’s interested in the owner of that painting. This is now very much a public event that the world media is going to relish. You don’t need me to tell you that MI6 doesn’t enjoy the glare of publicity. It would be a disaster for us if our interest in this man became known, and in particular the reasons for our interest.”

  The reasons of course were highly embarrassing. A British intelligence officer is discovered selling secrets to the Soviets, then escapes justice to become a major force within the KGB. Not exactly what the Service needed.

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Rose. “Maximum discretion from now on.”

  Walter hesitated.

  “What?” Rose didn’t like his body language.

  “Salisbury might think this is enough of a reason to recall you,” he said. “Not worth the risk to the Service.”

  “Well, he never liked the idea in the first place. I wouldn’t be surprised if he latched onto this.”

  “To be fair, Rose, he thinks like a politician, which he needs to do, since our operations and budgets are ultimately controlled by politicians. The risk of the public becoming aware of Sutherland’s past is, to some minds, not worth taking, given that the threat Sutherland poses is not necessarily immediate. It’s a point of view, Rose.”

  “Well, I hope you’re not telling me you’re pulling the plug,” said Rose. “We’re within a whisker of doing the very thing we set out to do six months ago. We can wipe him out. We can end any possibility of Grom being a threat to MI6. We now have the inside track on everything he’s holding in the area. If we play it right with this portrait, he could have nothing left. Less than nothing. If we stop now, everything we’ve put in over the last six months will be wasted. We’ll be discreet, Walter. We know how, for goodness’ sake.”

  “I’m just alerting you to that possibility, Rose. It certainly wouldn’t be what I want. It’s why we need a subtle approach. Subtle, but effective.”

  “Is that not what we’ve been doing, Walter?”

  “Of course, but it will be more difficult from now on. I have to consider that, and so do you. The stakes have risen for everybody here.”

  Walter was right. Everyone had more to lose now. Desperate, determined people were lining up on all sides. Would they kill to get what they wanted? Most of them, yes.

  Chapter 35

  As Zoe left work that evening, in her mind she was still standing on the sun deck of that yacht. She liked how the day had gone, how her little deception had made her feel. What else could she do? What more? She wanted that buzz of excitement again. That was the thought going through her mind when she turned a corner and a hand closed over her mouth.

  Someone gripped both her arms and wrenched them back. The pain made her cry out. The hand on her mouth tightened.

  “You come with us,” said a voice in her ear, in heavily accented English.

  There were two of them. They lifted and pulled her through a door into the bottom of a stairwell. A tattooed arm thick as a drainpipe pinned her against the concrete. In front of her loomed a wall of flesh, two beefy figures looking down on her, angry eyes in shaven heads. A hand was still clamped over her mouth and she struggled to breathe.

  “Where is Yunayev?”


  His accent was so strong she could barely make out the words. The other guy, the one covering her mouth, shoved her head back. Her skull hit the wall so hard it made her dizzy.

  “Igor Yunayev,” the first man breathed into her face. “Where is he?”

  “Who?” She said it without thinking. The tattooed man shoved her head into the wall again. She felt sick. Fingers tightened on her jaw. He pulled her face forward and stared into it, a cold look.

  “You think we are stupid?” said the first man, who was a foot taller than his stocky partner. “We see you at Yunayev apartment. Then we see you at Yunayev boat. Walk up, go in, look round. We watch. We not stupid!”

  The tattooed man put his other hand on Zoe’s neck and squeezed. She tried to breathe in but couldn’t. Her heart pounded. The hand smelled of sweat.

  “After you go, we talk to man on boat. He say you secretary. Yunayev secretary!” The tall man sounded outraged at the idea. His eyes flashed. “So you don’t mess with us. Yunayev bad man. We look for him. We find him. You help us.”

  His eyes fixed on her. She could smell stale tobacco on his breath. She swallowed to speak.

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  A crack as her head hit the wall, harder this time. Everything went black. A wave of nausea. Throbbing pain behind the eyes.

  “Man on boat say Yunayev coming tomorrow. You say that! You say it!”

  As he said you, the tall guy jabbed her hard in the ribs.

  “You know his plan! You know he come here! When? Where? You tell me where to find him.”

  Four eyes bored into her. Thick sausages of fingers pressed on her windpipe again. She tried to swallow. How could she not have thought of this? Yunayev was a criminal. Not a nice man. Of course he had enemies. And now she did, too.

  Think, Zoe, think. Get yourself out of this. But how?

  “It’s not as simple as that,” she said.

  The tall guy frowned. “Not simple? He come tomorrow. Sound simple to me. When he arrive? Where?”

  The grip tightened on her neck even more. She tried to suck in air but couldn’t. She closed her eyes, dizzy. The voice came closer, quiet and grainy.