The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (14 page)

Thirty minutes into the flight, he looked across at Tamsin, whose appearance had relaxed.

“You okay now?”

“I think so, nothing that a large drink couldn’t fix.”

“It’s on its way.” The unmistakeable rattle of the drinks trolley caused the usual flurry of passengers shuffling for cash or credit cards. Manton ordered two miniatures of gin and tonics for Tamsin and two vodkas for himself. He couldn’t help noticing that the large lady next to him ordered four miniatures of scotch… neat.

Below the aircraft rolled an endless grey sea of undulating dullness, broken only by intermittent shafts of brilliant sunlight that revealed land.

Tamsin had dozed off. He attempted to do the same but his bladder advised him that a trip to the toilets had become essential.

“Excuse me,” he half whispered to the large lady.

“Of course.” Her smile was sweet and she swung her expansive thighs aside and half stood to allow him to pass.

“Thank you.” Manton moved towards the nearest washrooms at the rear end of the aircraft. A queue had developed. He stood there for no more than thirty seconds when he felt somebody stumble against him. Half turning, he saw the culprit was a tall, grey-haired, scholarly-looking man. He fumbled with a half-opened book between his fingers. Its startling yellow and black cover, entitled
The Vorticists,
caught Manton’s attention more than the man himself.

“I’m so sorry.” Jack had little difficulty recognising the man’s Russian accent. “I was too absorbed in what I was reading.”

“I’m not surprised.” Manton indicated the book and decided he should display his own knowledge. “So, what d’you think of Wyndham Lewis then?”

“You
know
about this artist?”

“I should. The Vorticists had a profound influence on Russian art Kandinsky and others. I studied Russian art at university.”
Am I being pompous?

“Well, well,” said the man, looking back at Manton before removing his glasses. “It never ceases to surprise me the people one can meet on board a plane.”

“What do you do for a living?” Manton asked.

His answer was no surprise. “I’m a lecturer at Moscow State University.”

“What in?”

“My field is eighteenth and nineteenth century Slavonic art.” Reaching into his pocket, he produced a thickly embossed business card.

Professor Grigori Sidorov

Leo Tolstoy Street. Plot7-Bldg.C

Tel.+7495 363-4435

Moscow State University

“Impressive.” Manton put the card in his top pocket.

“And may I ask why you are coming to Russia?”

“I’m doing some research on a few twentieth-century Russian painters, and there’s nothing better than to get up close with their works. I used to work on an art and antiques publication until it collapsed not too long ago.”

“What a small world it seems to be. You may know an acquaintance of mine in that field, an Englishman, Augustus Moss?”

“Good Lord, you know Moss?”

“Yes, I’ve come across him a few times. Look, I may be able to help you in your research. If there’s anything you want to know, just give me a call. What hotel are you staying at?”

“We’re at the Bulvar. It’s not expensive.”

“That’s not far from where I live.”

The queue shuffled forward a few more paces.

“Please, take my card.” Manton handed his own to the professor. “It’s very kind of you to offer your assistance…”

“Think nothing of it.”

With that, the washroom door opened. He gave the professor a polite nod and stepped inside. Minutes later, he came out and the professor had gone.

~ * ~

The dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991 allowed the reforms of Boris Yeltsin to materialise. 1993 saw the rising of a new breed of greedy oligarchs that continued to flourish to the present day under Vladimir Putin’s rule. In that respect, a lot had changed since Manton’s last visit to Moscow.

Other things hadn’t changed.

The mustiness of the air was the same, and the shifting throngs of sullen people moving in all directions remained. Better dressed than he remembered, but like all Russians, unable to escape the vivid gallop of their history. With Tamsin, he sat in the back of a rusty cab looking out through unwashed windows. The streets, as ever, had been renamed. Infinite rows of depressing tower blocks, where Muscovites were crammed like battery hens, stretched out forever. Broken pedestals where once stood proud statues of communist heroes could still be seen, now flanked by the mockery of western consumerism, exemplified by McDonalds, Marks and Spencer and Rolex watches. These were surrounded like sentries by the homes of oligarchs. Apartments as expensive, if not more so, as London’s West End.

The city had its lure and he couldn’t escape it. The black drapes of time hung across the city.

~ * ~

The sound of shoes scuffling across the wooden floor of the Bulvar Hotel’s foyer caused the receptionist, Olga Dimitrivitchova, to glance up from her magazine. Moving towards her was a tall man, slightly bent over, wearing a creased short brown overcoat and a stained tie. As part of her daily routine – and to crack the boredom – she would attempt to guess the occupations of their guests.
This one has to be an academic, a teacher of some sort. He reminds me of the tutors we had at university.

“Good evening, sir.” She gave him her training manual smile.

He ignored the politeness, coughed, and gulped with a bulbous throat movement.

“I believe you have an Englishman staying here, Mr. Jack Manton? I have a package for him. I wonder if you would check for me.”

“I can answer that for you now. Yes we have Mr. Manton. He checked in earlier with his partner. What can I do for you?”

The forbidding lines of his colourless face, to her surprise, opened like an old iron gate to reveal a row of perfectly straight white teeth. “I’m Professor Sidorov from Moscow University. I would like you to make sure Mr. Manton receives this package, please.”

He handed it over. Clipped to it she could see a card with his name on it.

“Of course, Professor. I’ll make certain he gets it. Would you like me to call him now?”

“No, that won’t be necessary, but thank you.” He engaged in another fit of coughing, turned, and proceeded to shuffle from the building.

Olga congratulated herself.
I knew he had to be an academic and I’m not often wrong.
She picked up the phone and put a call through to Manton’s room.

~ * ~

Manton pulled hard on the cord that held his dressing gown closed and with his other hand, he picked up the package, delivered by the hotel staff five minutes previously. He noticed the Professor’s card attached to the front.

“It’s from that Professor I told you about on the plane. I wonder what’s in it.” Pulling at the seal, he opened it and was confronted by the same yellow book he’d seen him reading on the plane,
The Vorticists
.

“How kind of him. Look, Tams.”

She sounded dubious. “I wonder what he’s after?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

“Don’t be stupid. He’s like all academics around the world. He just wants to share knowledge. What’s wrong with that? I’m impressed.”

“Well, you can thank him later, but don’t get involved. You’re too gullible.”

“Oh shut up, Tamsin. There’s something about your mistrust of others that really annoys me.”

Her eyes glared. “Not half as much as your naivette. Anything that smacks of culture or Russian roots and you’re all over it like a love crazed teenager licking his lover’s boots. You should just see yourself!” Her exasperation with Jack’s preoccupations had begun to simmer once more.

He retorted, his voice ascending with an angry ring. “Well you’re part Russian and I didn’t hear you complaining when we first got into bed!”

“You bastard! That’s the sort of arrogant remark I’d expect from you.”

“Oh piss off. You asked for it.”

“The only pissing I’m going to be doing is all over you. Now, fucking shut up and leave me alone.” She got into bed and turned hard to her side facing away from him.

Chapter Fourteen

L
ate on their second day in Moscow, they experienced a typical Russian summer weather – humid, shirt-sticking damp, as if the entire city needed anti-perspirant.

Tamsin couldn’t deny Moscow was not without its attractions. Its public buildings stretched out across the city, a picturesque panorama of museums, art galleries, spires, and Red Square. It was as if the Czars still retained an invisible grip.

Manton had made notes on all the Brodskys that were known. Once more, she noticed his total absorption, the manner with which he scrutinised each work, and his total lack of awareness of anything else around him. It confirmed her uncertainties about him – whether she could continue to commit herself to a person who lived in another world; the nebulous and rarefied characteristic of academia. It was true, she loved him. But he lived life as if he were balanced on a tight piano wire – too sensitive and forever a short step away from disasters of all kinds, not just for himself, but also for those connected to him. She decided that this was to be the last adventure. Whatever the outcome will be, disaster or triumph, it could be the end of the road.

She’d enjoyed the opportunities of using her fluent Russian directly in its native culture. Acting as his interpreter distracted her from her smouldering doubts about their future together. Her intuition that this trip wouldn’t stop in Moscow proved to be accurate when she accessed her emails that evening. She found a welcome message in Russian. It was sent by Katherine Danilovova, who was aware of their intended visit. She invited Manton and her to visit the following evening. She also wrote that she had discovered information of interest to them.

Tamsin read the bulk of the message to Manton, who commented, “Aah… now maybe we can piece a bit more of this jigsaw together.”

She winced at his predictable remark. But replied to Katherine with a ‘yes’, saying that they would be there and would ring when they arrived.

“Look.” He pointed to a large pad of graph paper. “This is what we’ve found so far. Fourteen Brodskys and all with varied numbers, plus the two I’ve got, that makes sixteen. This already includes
Offerings to Spring, numbered thirty, which we saw earlier.
Tamsin, there are gaps and that means there are up to nine or twelve unaccounted for, if he followed a strict numbering sequence. Could there be any other painting after number thirty? You can see the nine missing numbers on this chart, and I’m hoping there will be more. Let’s hope your tame director can fill in a few. We need a flight to Kharkov for tomorrow morning. We’d get there faster by air. And while you’re at it, see if you can book a hotel room and also hire a car.” He barely looked up as a large glass, propelled with force, smashed onto the floor. “Careful.” He said in a distracted tone, not even bothering to see what it was about.

Twenty minutes later, she called out, “You’re lucky. We’ve got the last two seats available and I’ve managed to get a Mini Cooper at the airport.”

~ * ~

The UTair aircraft touched down to another humid summer’s day in Kharkov.

An hour later, Tamsin wiped a sweaty palm down the leg of her jeans as she drove the red Mini along the tram-ridden length of Lenin Avenue. An outside temperature gauge registered the weather at twenty-five degrees.

“Why are there so many people walking about?”

“It’s June Twelve, Russia Day, and that’s a public holiday around here.”

“That explains it.”

“Be ready for loud bangs and fireworks later. They set off masses, starting about six o’clock this evening.”

~ * ~

Academy of Design and Arts, Kharkov, the same day

God Bless Greene and Manton
, thought Dr. Katherine Danilovova as she offered up an uncharacteristic prayer to a higher power.

She brushed aside a small wisp of grey mane that had dropped down across her face from the hair comb.
How strange,
she thought,
that an English academic could resurrect in me a forgotten admiration for the works of Mikhail Brodsky
. An admiration she thought had died years ago. Since Tamsin’s emails, she had reacquainted herself deeply with the works of Brodsky. She’d conducted virtual tours of his works on the internet in various museums. She had no doubts that in his art, his themes, his composition of colour and structure, laid the heart and the embodiment of Russia’s eternal struggles against natural and manmade adversities, that in his later works blossomed into potential hope and triumph.
How curious. I’ve never contemplated the possibilities of missing paintings.
That thought produced in her a minor panic but also an added excitement that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Katherine Danilovova had come back to life.

~ * ~

Petrovitch’s message had irritated him. Novikov had a rule that when dealing with the sewage inspector, he didn’t expect the minor turds to bob up and have a voice. The message read:

Mr. Berezin is a patient and thoughtful man but he needs a return on his investments. He employed me to see that happens, and if not, why not? How long before he can expect a result? Please respond on receipt.

“Fuck that. I’ll reply to that baboon when I’m good and ready. Right now I’ve got more important things to consider.”

It hadn’t been a good day. His attempts to hack into Katherine Danilovova’s computer had consistently been foiled. Her computer had to be linked into the Institute’s elaborate security firewalls, and an almost daily shifting password routine. He urgently needed to find out what her research had uncovered. To rely solely on his eavesdropping on Manton’s conversations via the bug he’d implanted in
The Vorticists
wouldn’t be quick enough. At this stage of the game, he had to be in full knowledge of all the facts. Direct action had to be undertaken and that meant a visit to Danilovova’s quarters. The prize could be well worth it. A buzz of anticipatory pleasure passed through him.