The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (13 page)

Munroe didn’t doubt it.

Walking hand-in-hand with forgeries came the problem of theft and murder. Wealthy collectors didn’t want anybody to know that they had been duped or misled, wittingly or unwittingly. He recalled Eric Hebborn, a master forger who was found murdered in a dingy Roman alleyway. Sources revealed that he was about to give the game away and reveal a whole series of works he’d produced. That would have spelt disaster for a number of rich collectors who’d spent millions.

The Nazis stole more art than anybody else on the planet… and even they had been fooled. Hermann Goering himself had acquired a Vermeer
Christ and the Disciples at Emmaus.
Experts had declared it the most wonderful example of Vermeer’s art. Later, it was found to have been painted by the masterly Dutch art forger, Han Van Meegeren. Since then, the art expert’s game had undergone a drastic re-examination. No longer could just the eye, provenance or gut feeling be enough to guarantee authenticity.

What chance did these two have?
He couldn’t help thinking the Russians had made the whole business more tricky than it should be. Other forgers, like Elmya de Hey, had proved adept at producing superb versions of Picassos, Modigliani and Kandinsky. The new breed of Russian oligarchs who knew nothing apart from the painter’s names had snapped these up. They overcame these problems by waving vast vaults of ready cash at the market. Vladimir Putin himself had donated an Aivazovsky that had since been declared a fake. The avant-garde, twentieth-century Russian painters, including Brodsky, were too easily faked. Their works were recreated in a manner no different from building battleships – from blueprints to assembly with steel and rivets. Design and materials used varied throughout the decades, and could easily be found or replicated.

He walked around to his long worktable. On this, in five volumes, rested the C
atalogue of Fraudulent Art Works
, produced by the Russian Government. He’d scoured it in its entirety and received a few shocks, but they were confined to the nineteenth-century landscapes the Russians were fond of, such as Dubovskoy and Rylov. What he was looking for wasn’t there. Next, he turned his attention to a thirty-page analytical report produced by the laboratory. It covered both the Brodsky works inch-by-inch.

It was the second time he’d read it through. He wanted to make certain. He didn’t want to damage the reputation of his employers or undermine his own prestige with an attribution that proved to be downright wrong because of the ingenuity of a fraudster.

“Extraordinary and unmistakeable,” he spoke out loud. “These moments are rare. Mr Manton is a lucky man indeed.” He sat back, sipped and savoured the unique flavour of his drink and breathed a sigh of relaxed contentment.
All we need now is to put the icing on the cake.
He knew that a precise provenance would make the paintings soar even more in value. Where they were found, who bought them originally, where that person bought them from and so on, as far back as it was possible to go. The tattered label on the back was a start. Could Manton find out more?

~ * ~

“That should do it. What d’you think, Tamsin?” Manton gestured around the room and fell back into the sofa next to her. He’d raided his bank savings and spent more money than he would have liked on a comprehensive security system that included double locks on all doors and windows. He had also installed a CCTV system that monitored all callers and passers-by on a wide-angle circuit. Coupled with this, an intruder and unauthorised alarm circuit, visible by a large yellow box fitted on the exterior front wall and linked to the nearest police station, completed the arrangement. “As safe as a virgin in a room full of eunuchs, eh?”

“Impressive, but I can’t help thinking it’s a bit late in the day.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But I’m not leaving anything to chance, especially since I’m often away.”

“I still can’t get my head around what that burglar wanted. There was cash around and he ransacked the place without me hearing a thing, and left with nothing. It doesn’t add up, does it?”

“Look, we’ve been through this a thousand times. The only conclusion I can make is that it must have had something to do with those paintings. My personal details were stolen in Australia and a week later we get burgled. There’s got to be a connection.”

“That’s scary.”

“It is. There’re a lot of people out there who are doing exactly as I do, scouring the worldwide art market. I say right now, we shut up about it for a while and have a couple of drinks.”

Tamsin moved across to the drinks cupboard and pulled out the gin. A few minutes later, they sat back and let the alcohol do its work. The phone rang. He glared at it with suspicion.

“Who’s that?” He picked up the receiver and spoke his number.

A voice spoke, effete and high-blown, like a wind whistling through a chimney.

“Good afternoon. Is it possible to speak to Mr. Jack Manton, please?”

Jack looked over to Tamsin and saw her apprehension. He replied cautiously, almost unfriendly.

“Who wants to speak to him?”

“I’m Clovis Munroe and I head the Russian and Slavonic art department at Christie’s. Mr. Manton recently left with us…” His sentence never got finished.

“You’re speaking to him, Mr. Munroe. What can I do for you?”

“Who is it?” He heard Tamsin’s urgent voice as she moved over to stand next to him, attempting to hear what was being said.

“Sssh,” he mouthed, holding his finger to his lips. “It’s Christie’s.”

A few minutes passed with Manton saying nothing, only nodding with vigour into the mouthpiece.

“Bloody marvellous. That’s fantastic… just as I hoped.” He punched his tightly clenched fist in the air. “You’re certain they’re not fakes and they are by Mikhail Brodsky?”

“One hundred percent. There can be no doubt.”

There was another long pause and he bent lower and lower into the phone, his grip like super-glue.

“As much as that… wow, oh wow!”

More pauses.

“No, that’s not a problem. I’m on it right now. I’ll let you know what I find out. Give me a week or two. No, you hang on to them until I call you and hopefully I can fill in the gaps, Mr. Munroe. We’ll speak again and thank you for that.” Manton put the receiver down as if he was holding a fragile egg, threw his head back, blew out a large balloon of air and ran both his hands through his hair. “Tamsin, come here.” He squeezed her hard and both his arms wrapped around her. “We’re gonna be rich, a couple of million rich. Oh Boy!” He picked her up and twirled her around several times, managing to jump up and down in between.

“Whoa, Tiger, whoa! What’s going on?”

He told her slowly at first, but his voice quickened the more he spoke.

“Here’s the interesting bit. If we can establish more on their provenance, that would push the estimate even higher. Munroe said what I’ve always believed.”

“What’s that?”

“There are about a dozen of his works unaccounted for. Given that once he was in the concentration camp, it must have been unlikely for him to do any more painting. All his work had to have been accomplished either at Kharkov, Kursk, or in the Golovchino areas. Have you still got the flight information, say, for a three-day trip?”

“Oh, here we go again.” He saw Tamsin’s eyes roll upwards and her smile changed to a tight-lipped grimace. “Of course I have. I knew something like this would happen.” She gave a sharp outbreath of exasperation, pulled out the file, flicked it open, and studied it for a minute. “Don’t ask me to make decisions. It’s your baby, you do it.” She thrust the file at him.

He said nothing, nor did he notice her reaction. After a few minutes’ study, he spoke.

“The end of the week, Saturday at eleven, looks perfect. Can you book it for two?”

“No, I bloody can’t. You do it for a change. If you want to make the damned booking for one, that would suit me fine.” She stormed to the door and turned. “You’re not the only one who can waltz down to the pub. I’m off there right now.”

He felt the draught as the door shook on its hinges.
What’s got into her? What did I say?
There was no way he was going to make a booking for one. He comforted himself…
I’ll join her in the pub later.
 

Chapter Thirteen

N
ovikov could hear the muffled sounds of London’s traffic drifting up from the streets below. Through the window, he looked down at the early May sunlight glinting off the soft water of the Serpentine. The wall-mounted clock’s muted strike announced the time as two o’clock, reminding him that he’d been in his hotel room for two hours. Leaning back into the sizeable Paisley upholstered armchair, he placed his arms around the back of his head and with his feet, pushed away the coffee table his laptop was sitting on, together with its built-in listening equipment. Like any central London hotel, his room had been expensive, far better than anything he could have afforded on his Major’s pay when on service with the Agency. He reminded himself that Berezin had paid for this. The news he had for him might, he thought, encourage his generosity further. Any previous doubts about getting too old for this sort of work, he pushed aside. Too old, maybe, for service rules and regulations, but he could still match anybody else in the service if he had to.

The listening devices he had secreted in Manton’s place, a total of three, had worked as expected. He now knew exactly what moves Manton would make as he searched for Brodsky’s paintings. The initial news had been revelatory.

At five fifteen Moscow time, three hours in advance of London GMT, Josef Berezin answered his phone. The hushed authority in his voice was not lost on Novikov.

“Berezin speaking.”

“Mr. Berezin, it’s Vladimir Novikov.”

“Yes, I know that. What do you have for me?”

“It is interesting. The two paintings bought in Australia have been confirmed by Christie’s as genuine works by Brodsky. No fakery from what I heard, and worth over a million each if the full provenance or more is discovered. I wasn’t able to access them directly as they were delivered to my target’s premises in London. They are now being held for auction in late November or December. To access them with Christie’s security systems on my own would not be possible. We will have to wait to see who buys them.” Novikov paused, knowing that Berezin was digesting the information. Eventually he spoke. The note of suppressed irritation buzzing in his voice came as no surprise to Novikov.

“You should have moved quicker, my friend. You missed the buyer, who I’m certain you could have persuaded. Now, you miss him on his home ground, and the items are moved out of your reach. Not a good result, is it? You’re saying that I’ve got to hang around until December. That is not what I wanted to hear and not what I pay you for. Am I being clear enough?”

Novikov allowed himself a small moment of uncertainty. He gripped the phone tighter, paused, controlled his voice, and spoke in measured cadence.

“I fully understand, but I have more information that I know you’d appreciate.”

“What?”

“My target is about to fly to Russia in an attempt to discover the whereabouts of up to a dozen unaccounted works by this man Brodsky. What would you have me do?”

The pause was what Novikov had expected. He hoped the information would swing Berezin’s mood back in his favour.

“Keep with him. Let him do the work. When necessary, you know what to do.” He paused. “You understand my meaning?”

“Perfectly.”

“Do you need more funds?”

“Of course. $5000 would help.”

“In ten minutes it’ll reach your account. Report back as agreed. And Novikov?” He paused.

“I’m listening.”

“No fuck-ups or you will be off this mission faster than shit off a shovel. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

“We understand each other.” The phone switched off.

He stretched out his arms and legs and let out a relaxed sigh.
That went to plan. He took the bait. Let’s hope my ideas for Mr. Manton and his woman go as well… no reason why they shouldn’t
.
If I get my hands on the paintings I shall have bargaining power that Berezin wouldn’t believe. This will cost him much more. Rare paintings by sought-after artists command big fees. Interesting to see how far he will go.

A glance at the clock showed his workout hour had arrived. He stripped naked, following his customary exercise routine, finishing, as he always did, with yoga and asanas. Forty minutes later, his sinewy body shimmered with streaks of sweat that trickled down over his marble white and muscular physique. He spent seven minutes in the shower. As he dried off, he allowed his thoughts to revel in lusty contemplation of the olive-skinned rent boy he’d booked for his evening’s entertainment.

~ * ~

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Rollins speaking. I’m your pilot today on this BA flight to Domodedov, Moscow’s international airport.”

Manton ignored the rest of the Captain’s announcement. It had been several days since Clovis Munroe had given him the news on the Brodsky paintings. Swimming through the cool cabin air, wafts of aviation fuel assaulted his nostrils, intermingled with an array of perfumes, body odours and the inevitable bouquet of various brands of hand gels. After the announcement came the usual massive roar from the engines, and the large Boeing commenced its G-force pelt down the runway.

He couldn’t fail to notice the pressure and the fleshy dampness of Tamsin’s hand increasing as the Boeing gathered speed.

“You okay there?”

“I will be when I get off this sodding aircraft.”

He knew Tamsin had never liked flying. So he grabbed her arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze as the metal monster banked sharp to the right to begin its steeper ascent on its four- hour flight to Moscow. He was bunched in the middle seat, next to an ample woman in a flowery dress who smelled of old-fashioned Tea Rose perfume, and looked as if she had stepped off a 1930s theatre stage. He surmised how fresh young grapes attempting to expand must feel, when locked into a vine crammed with old fruit.