The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (18 page)

“You people are nothing but robbers and thieves.” Nikita could not suppress his anger.

“And you are not?” Tarasov paused in front of a framed painting hanging from the timbered wall before lifting it off and examining it. Turning it over, he saw its title as
Girl of Peace
1928.
It depicted in abstracted terms, a girl holding a palm leaf and dove feathers amid a cubist array of blocks and buildings. In one corner on the back, a purple coloured number
10. “What is this painting?”

“You can’t have that. It belonged to my father and was given to him by his nephew.”

“That would be Mikhail then.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“That’s obvious, Nikita, he signed it, hasn’t he?” He pointed at the left corner signature. Nikita’s relief evaporated with Tarasov’s next words. “I was hoping it might be.”

“What do you mean by that? I absolutely forbid you to take it. It belongs to our family,” he shouted, snatched it back and moved against the wall. “Who are you? I don’t believe you are from the FTO.” Feeling a knot in his belly, he angled his body away from Tarasov.

“Nikita Brodsky, you are observant, too observant for your own good. Nothing personal, I assure you. I am so sorry.” From beneath his jacket he produced a pistol, and without hesitation, squeezed off one single sharp shot, drilling his trademark… a neat hole through the centre of Nikita’s forehead.

Brodsky crashed to the floor without a sound, a look of startled surprise was his last ever expression. A table lamp hit the floor behind him.

Stepping across his body, Novikov removed the painting from the dead man’s grasp, dislodging its nameplate. This one would be finding its way up to Josef Berezin in Saint Petersburg. Shrugging half-heartedly, he calmly closed the door.

The vacant space left on the wall glowed under the warmth of an afternoon sun.

~ * ~

Tamsin drove the green Civic slowly into the main streets of Prokhorovka. Manton half-opened the window, allowing a warm blast of air to swirl in. The town looked spotless with litter bins distributed at frequent intervals. Flowers and shrubs blossomed from arrays of baskets and pots. The town, he thought, had an antiseptic air, like it was possible to eat breakfast off the pavement. The many war memorials supplied evidence of its pivotal role against the Nazi invasion. The centrepiece of the town stood dedicated and overlooked by the vast memorial on Hill 252.2, a strategic point for the thousands of Russian soldiers who had lost their lives in the area.

“I feel like we’re intruding,” spoke Tamsin.

“I know what you mean, but we’re not stopping, we’re looking for the address of Nikita. All it says is Nikita Brodsky, New Farm, Prokhorovka.”

“I think we’d better stop and ask, don’t you?”

“You’re right.” She pulled over and stopped the car. “You stay there.”

The first person she spoke to had no idea. Next, she stopped a woman with a small child walking along past the shops.

“That’s funny,” she said. “You’re the second person to ask me that today.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he looked like a government official.” She pointed in the far direction. “Straight down for ten kilometres, you’ll come to a crossroad signpost. Turn left and the road turns into a dusty track, eight hundred metres ahead you’ll see the farm. You can’t miss it.”

“Okay, thank you.” Tamsin smiled and got back in the car.

Within ten minutes, after driving alongside flat fields of dark black earth, they were in front of the flaky gates of New Farm, its name carved boldly on a wooden plaque. Behind the gate stood a red and blue tractor.

“It looks deserted,” said Manton.

“We won’t know until we try.”

“Oh, will you look at this?” The gate creaked open, revealing a stone path leading up to a two-storey farmhouse. The exterior looked weatherworn and neglected. Wooden shutters hung from several wide windows, and steps led up under a gabled porch area. For a moment Manton paused, holding Tamsin’s back. “Listen.”

They stood motionless, the air hung heavy, humid, made alive by the sounds of humming bees and calling birds.

“It’s too quiet.” He shouted, “Hello?”

Nothing.

All that could be seen was rusting machinery covered in moss and cobwebs, broken water troughs and nearby, a pair of black-eyed pigs snouting into the dirt. Overhead, a solitary crow sat brooding in a tree.

“I think you’d better let me.
Zdravstujite
!”

There wasn’t a sound.

“Could be out in the fields.”

“Try the door.”

Manton hit the wooden knocker with short raps. “C’mon, answer,” he whispered. Nothing.

Next, they went around to the back. It looked deserted, apart from three huge black cats, sitting on bales of straw and staring with menace in their direction. Ignoring them, Tamsin moved forward and looked through the windows before pulling Jack back to the front of the house. Placing her hand over the tops of her eyes, shielding out the light, she leant forward for a moment, before she stepped back with a concerned look.

“I can’t see much, but there’s a broken table lamp on the floor. It doesn’t look right.” She pointed through the window.

He looked. “I see what you mean. We’d better try and go in.”

The main door wasn’t locked and swung wide open as they walked inside. Now on full alert, Manton pulled Tamsin behind him. Ahead, he could see the man’s body lying crumpled across a threadbare carpet. A pencil-thin line of congealing blood leaked from the front of his head. He gasped.

“I don’t believe this. It’s another body!”

Tamsin’s grip on his arm tightened. “Oh my God! Not another.” She averted her gaze.

“Don’t tread in the blood and don’t touch anything.” Shaking his head and kneeling down, he felt the body. It had lost its warmth and had stiffened; rigor mortis was setting in. “This is no coincidence. Whoever did this, has to be the same person who murdered Katherine Danilovova. This is getting more dangerous by the minute. The police will think it’s us.”

“Shouldn’t we call them?”

“I’ve a feeling they’ll be on their way.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s the paintings, isn’t it?”

“Let’s get out of here, fast. Then we can think of what to do.”

“I’m not going to hang around.” Tamsin began to move away.

“Wait, wait! Just a moment.” Manton had spotted the obvious discoloured gap on the wall from which something had been taken. “Look, something’s been removed. It has to be a painting – a Brodsky? Why else would this man be killed?”

“Hold on a moment.” Tamsin crouched down and with great care, picked up a small white plate with black lettering in Russian Cyrillic.

“What’s that?”

Her fingers moved to touch her parted lips.

“I think you’re right. It says “Painting No. 10.
Girl of Peace
1928 by Mikhail Brodsky.”
 

Chapter Nineteen

K
olosov lost count of the times he read and reread Katherine Danilovova’s file on Mikhail Brodsky. He had ascertained that the Russian art cognoscenti had high regard for Brodsky, looking upon him as an icon. His works were now acquiring national value. It was intriguing that a majority believed a number of his paintings were unaccounted for, gone missing since the Nazi invasion.

As yet, he had no hard evidence concerning Danilovova’s murder. Forensics had discovered the bloody footprint came from an unusual Asics trainer, a
Kenyutsu
fencing shoe.
There shouldn’t be too many of those about. An art loving fencer maybe. Greene and Manton possibly. This will need checking out.

Putting down the file, his inclination swung to art theft. Danilovova’s agenda, intended for Tamsin Greene, indicated that she and her partner Manton had found a pair of alleged Brodsky paintings in Australia, and had begun searching in Europe for the whereabouts of others.

Using Danilovova’s analysis, he moved across to the dusty blackboard mounted on his office wall and picked up a yellow chalk. With broad sweeps, he outlined a route leading from Saint Petersburg, southward to Moscow and then branching across and down to Kharkov, across and up to Kursk, Prokhorovka, and down to Golovchino. He studied it with care, before completing it with two thick arrows, pointing westward to France, Paris and branching off to Lyon. His dark eyebrows furrowed… if his suspects were on a mission and making use of Danilovova’s information, this route seemed a natural progression. Interpol had found nothing on them apart from useful background information. It didn’t stack up. An art expert and a Russian language tutor slaughtering an academic… for what? The file had been printed out twice. Who else would have wanted it? Whoever was on that list was in danger. Others had to be involved and art theft and forgery were internationally lucrative.

The time had come for immediate action. Pulling open his desk drawer he picked up his Airsoft pistol and in one swift movement it nestled in his leather shoulder holster. He called up his two officers Bazorov and Eltsin.

“You two get your weapons and a spare driver or two. We’re going for a long ride to Prokhorovka. Make it snappy.” There was a flurry of movement as officers holstered their weapons and moved in haste to the waiting cars. “And!” shouted Kolosov as he ran down the steps, “I want the siren on all the way until I tell you otherwise. Let’s go.”

In minutes, he was on the road the road to Kursk and Prokhorovka. Danilovova’s research indicated that Nikita Brodsky, the nearest living relative, could help fill in some awkward gaps. On the journey, he placed a call to Interpol and the Federal Bureau; dealing with cultural issues, the
Rosokhrankultural
that had now begun to involve itself in thefts of indigenous art.

~ * ~

Prokhorovka

Striding across the spacious reception area of the Hotel Projorvskoe, his footsteps echoed across the wooden floor. Beneath his arm, wrapped in old editions of the
Trud
newspaper, he carried his major trophy,
Girl of Peace.
Once inside his room, he dropped his prize onto the bed like a discarded Christmas toy. Art had interested but never enthralled him, although he knew more about it than most people would have guessed. Using the agreed protocol, he placed a call to Petrovitch.

“Petrovitch speaking.” The answer was curt, unfriendly. “You have good news?”

“Indeed.” He paused for effect. “I have something special for Berezin.”

“It had better be good.”

“It is.”

“Stop fucking around. What do you have?”

Novikov glanced down at the picture, and only then did he notice the nameplate missing. That could have consequences, but he had no intention of telling Petrovitch. He gave him full details from the back of the picture: name, signature, date and the number painted on the back of the picture.

“I shall tell him. You can get more?”

“Yes.”

“You are to keep it safe and undamaged, and you are
not
to courier it anywhere.” There came a pause. “I’m to instruct you that for every picture you acquire, you will receive a bonus payment. Now, photograph the painting and send it to me immediately.”

Before Novikov could answer, the phone switched off.
Skinny cunt.
Pacing stiffly around the room, he gave an impatient sneer, picked up his mobile, photographed the painting and sent off three images to Petrovitch. He walked to the window, opened it and noted the smell of the poplar trees drifting in on a warm breeze. It hadn’t been a bad day’s work. He sat back in a large armchair and the thought of Petrovitch caused him to emit an exasperated sigh as the recent events percolated through his mind. Now was a good time to check up and listen in to Manton and Greene.

Activating the equipment, he bent his head close to the receiver, and plugged in the earpiece. At first he assumed he had a loose connection, and pushed hard on all the leads and those on the USB ports. Nothing came through. From his earpiece came a background hiss, broken by intermittent bursts of static.

“
Chto za huy
!” his voice whispered urgently. He rubbed quickly at the back of his neck before stabbing at the keys with increased vigour… nothing.
Either they’ve found it or it’s been dislodged in some way.
He suppressed a flush of anger by taking slow steady breaths. If there was a malfunction for whatever reason, it meant a change of plans. Old-fashioned surveillance procedures would be needed. If Manton followed through on Danilovova’s notes, he knew where he’d be heading next, providing he wasn’t apprehended by the police on suspicion of Danilovova’s and Brodsky’s deaths. He’d never had an operation fail and these two amateurs had no chance.

He checked his watch. His guest, the pretty, muscular male chef he’d spoken to earlier, was due in thirty minutes.

Chapter Twenty

Golovchino, Russia, Christmas Day 7 January 1948

W
inter was long and hard. One of the worst in living memory. Outside, a blizzard continued to rage. Every so often, the wind would drop and in those moments she swore she could hear the bell pealing from the Orthodox Church. Snow fell from the dark grey sky, adding to the white panorama surrounding the village. Scraping away ice encrusted onto the window, she could make out snowy embankments imprinted with the tracks of rabbits and fox. The water in the barrels had turned to oval blocks of ice. The wind whined through uncountable cracks around the cabin. Trees and shrubs that had been planted to protect the wooden structure, bent in supplication under the snow’s weight.

The war had been won, but for Sofia Charkova, not much had changed.

Dressed in a thick shawl and heavy layers of skirts, she had a long fur wrapped around her head. She chewed on a mound of dark, dry rye bread. When she finished, she made the sign of the cross before placing more logs on a fire that struggled to blaze and filled the room with a scent of charcoal and pine. The samovar would take a while to heat up. She picked up the small cot that held her baby daughter Maria, and placed it on the stove that was barely warm. Taras, her husband, lay buried, his senses deadened beneath a thick fur from which protruded a greasy jacket, whilst in his hand he held a woollen hat. The floor beside him was strewn with cigarette butts and empty bottles of vodka. Years of disappointment had left him a heavy drinker.