The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (21 page)

“Is this what you are looking for, Mr. Manton?” She opened up the covering folds and with almost religious reverence, removed two paintings. “My mother kept them for me, I remember, but I didn’t care for them. That’s why I stored them away. Looking at them now, I still don’t.”

“May I?” said Tamsin, taking hold of one picture and holding it up to the light and showing Jack.

“My God.” His voice faltered. “What quality – this is amazing, there is no deterioration. No doubt whatsoever they’re by Brodsky. Read what it says, please, Tamsin.”

“This one says ‘
The Leather Tanners
’
and is numbered thirteen, dated 1930.”

He looked at it with awe. Through lines and colours, Brodsky depicted workers overwhelmed by mechanisation.

Tamsin held up the other, more abstract in appearance.

“This is called ‘
The Door Left Open
’
.
It’s numbered twenty-nine and dated 1939.”

It looked like a long tunnel wrapped in allegoric imagery with the suggestions of light glowing from an indistinct somewhere.

At that moment and without a sound, the barn doorway darkened, filled with the unmistakeable silhouette of a large man.

~ * ~

Kolosov, using the Porsche’s radio, sent out a call for a backup car with four officers to follow him in the direction of Golovchino, and to switch off all sirens. His destination was the home of Ilya and Maria Bromovitchova, and he didn’t want to think about what he might find there.

Although Danilovova’s computer records had shown the last known whereabouts of many Brodsky family members, he remained certain that most were long gone or moved on elsewhere. Maria Bromovitchova, according to Katherine Danilovova and Central Records, still lived there and had been the daughter of Sofia Charkova, Mikhail Brodsky’s sister. Maria had to be an ideal starting point.

Turning these thoughts around in his mind, he received another call from HQ. Tamsin Greene had hired a green Honda Civic from Opodo Car Hire at the airport and had been captured on CCTV with her partner Manton. Kolosov’s pleasure increased further when, at the same time, a report arrived that the Civic and its occupants had stayed overnight at the Gorky Motel close to Golovchino. He didn’t doubt that his actions would unravel the mystery of Katherine Danilovova and Nikita Brodsky’s deaths. He prayed to God that there would be no more.

~ * ~

Saint Petersburg

The morning began to stretch itself across the sky like a waking tiger.

Glancing at the clock, he could see it was almost six. From between the gap in the curtains, he saw the elegant skyline of St. Petersburg extended from horizon to horizon in a cloudless sky. The region had the potential for relentless humidity. Not that weather conditions concerned Josef Berezin as he dragged his misshapen foot across a thick carpet. There had been times when he would have joyfully struck off his foot with a sharp axe. But today, he had no such thoughts. He continued to digest the information from Novikov’s late-night phone call, and the rare gratification that the course of his life continued to move upward, just as he had planned.

What a sensation it would be when those conceited art experts find out what masterpieces he possessed.

But nobody knew.

Not Interpol, the MVD, or any of the art theft agencies.

One day, when the time is right, he vowed to reveal his collection to the world.

Looking out of his window, he could see directly into his secret garden that few had seen.

An early morning sun the colour of fresh grapefruit, threw its rays on an enormous mass of bronze, mounted on a plinth, situated in a secluded area of the garden. The work had been stolen, and it had been rumoured that industrial pirates had melted it down into countless pieces of scrap destined for the Chinese electronics industry. That was far from true. But the fabrication served. Henry Moore’s prodigious
Reclining Figure
had been his since he had it stolen in December 2005.

All he required now was the phone call from Novikov giving him the news he longed for.

~ * ~

Golovchino

All four stopped talking and turned around. A soft breeze blew through the barn’s entrance. The sun’s brightness behind him obscured the identity of the unexpected visitor.

He’d been crouched low behind the farmhouse window all along, listening in on their conversation. As he had expected, Manton and his woman were persuading the Bromovitch’s to search for Brodsky’s paintings. He waited until they had moved out to the barn and located what he also wanted. So far, it had been effortless. Inching forward but keeping the sun behind him, he stepped towards them. He sensed their bewilderment.

“It’s Kostya, our postman,” said Maria, shielding her eyes.

“No, it’s not. It’s someone else. Where’s Kostya?” Ilya spoke with sudden sharpness.

“Kostya’s been taken ill, so I’m your postman, Erik, until he recovers.”

“Okay, Erik. Kostya usually leaves mail in the box on the front gate. When you come again, just leave it there please. What have you got today? More bills?”

“There’re a few bits and pieces.” Erik fumbled deep inside the large postbag. “Ah… here we are.” His hand emerged, holding a PSS pistol that pointed at Tamsin’s head. He switched into English. “You, Miss Greene, move over here… move slowly and carry both paintings, one in each hand. You, Mr. Manton, please turn around and kneel on the ground.” He gestured that both Maria and Ilya do likewise. He noted the alarmed expression on Tamsin’s now pallid face as she shot a terrified look at Manton. “Just do as I say and you will survive. Manton, be quick… and you two peasants, down now!” His voice, switching into both Russian and English, left no uncertainty as he savoured the familiar pleasure of prey being subjugated.

“Do as he asks, Tamsin. I recognise him. It’s Professor Sidorov!” A blow to the side of the head sent him reeling with a loud gasp onto the ground.

“Please do not speak until I ask you.”

He turned to look at Tamsin, enjoying the whiteness that now shrouded her face. Before she could turn to Jack, now sprawled halfway on the ground, Novikov pressed the gun barrel hard into her back. He pulled her hard towards him, absorbing the texture of her hair and body perfume. He removed the paintings from her shaking hands and dropped them with care into the large postbag. His arm wrapped tight around her throat, yanking her closer to him with force.

“Let her go!” Manton spluttered. He realised all their lives were at stake. “Take what you want but let her go.”

“Did I ask you to speak?” He glared at Manton and fired a shot that spurted up a plume of black dirt inches away from Jack’s thigh.

“Don’t you shoot anybody else, whoever you are. There’s no need for anyone else to die!” Tamsin’s jaw had set into a fierce lock. “Whatever you want those paintings for, take them and leave us!” Wrenching her neck from his grasp she stared straight into his eyes.

He said nothing, paused a fraction as if thinking, then pressed the gun harder into her spine and dragged her backwards, ignoring the rhythmic rotor
whomping
sound of a low-flying military helicopter.

~ * ~

Kolosov ordered the Porsche and the other vehicle to park behind a dense clump of tall beech hedging near the farmhouse. He spotted a Honda Civic and a black BMW. According to the Bureau, the BMW plates were unidentifiable and there was no known driver or owner. The car didn’t exist. He slipped out, and with Nikolai and the other two officers, weapons ready, snaked low in the direction of the barn.

Novikov experienced a rare moment of indecision. There were more paintings to be found and the existing line of enquiry ended with the Bromovitch connection. The only way forward was to take the woman as a hostage or obtain the remainder of Danilovova’s research from her or Manton. It took him a second to decide. He moved the pistol from Tamsin’s back and placed it up against her head.

“I could take you with me, but that could get messy. Whoever has it, I want Danilovova’s research data, now!”

She swallowed hard as she flashed an urgent look across to Jack, the tendons of her neck pulsing. Novikov was pleased to see him nod with vigour.

“Give it to me now. I give you ten seconds or you, Mr. Manton, will be sorry. Of that I can promise.”

Tamsin turned her head and speaking in Russian, said, “Is it worth killing more people just for a few paintings? If it is then you’re a criminal fool. Take it. It’s inside my jacket.” She was wearing a blue, military-style jacket with ample pockets and zips.

“No, wait!” Manton shouted out.

“Don’t be stupid, Jack!” Tamsin raised her voice to a bawl. “We could all end up dead. And for what?”

“Your woman has sense. She sees what you do not. Do as she suggests.”

Jack fell silent.

Tamsin felt a large hand rummage with practised ease for the document.

Then, he stopped as fast as he had started.

Still gripping her, he swung her in front of him, turning around at speed.

“What was that?”

Behind the noise of the low-flying KA helicopter, he heard something. A car… two cars. Then, he spotted a flash of blue and white dash behind a bush.

Police!

“Fuck!” This was not expected. With a quick look across at the Bromovitch’s and Manton, all crouching in the dirt, he let loose two shots in their direction, intended to keep them where they were. As he shoved Tamsin away, he whispered, “Expect me back.”

She fell to the ground and curled instantly into a foetal posture, her arms across her head.

A police officer crashed through the barn door, brandishing his Grach pistol to no avail as a bullet sliced through his shinbone, sending him spinning to the dirt screaming in pain. The second officer entered at a different angle.

Novikov dashed sideways towards the doorway, coming up behind the advancing man and smashing the butt of his pistol on his head with ferocious force, sending him sprawling unconscious on the floor.

He knew there would be more.

Crouching low, Novikov charged through, colliding into Eltsin. His shoulder struck Eltsin’s forearm before he could take aim, spinning him backwards in an awkward arc, sending his shot blasting uselessly into the air.

He continued running, zigzagging across the yard. He spotted Kolosov running in the same direction to provide backup.

The Captain flung himself to the ground, legs wide apart. He aimed and the sound of two shots discharged in rapid fire reverberated.

The first one missed, but the second bullet passed through and exited the upper part of Novikov’s left arm, and buried itself in the mud. He had to ignore it. His training surfaced faster than an attack dog.

Novikov dived to the ground and returned fire with a barrage of shots. He saw Kolosov roll for cover out of his line of sight. He knew the policeman would be radioing for more backup and this was not a time to be hanging around.

Banging in another clip, he roared off several more shots. Still running in a low zigzag, he reached the BMW and dived in as two men raced toward him. Firing up the engine, he dropped the clutch and with dirt spraying and tyres screaming, he roared away from the house.

Five miles away, he took stock… he had failed to obtain the itinerary. The police would be searching for him, and worse, he had dropped the postbag containing the paintings. Then, the pain from the wound kicked in. He bit down on it. The bullet had torn through his flesh and taken a small chunk of bone from his shoulder blade. He had to attend to it. Blinking back sweat, he knew that any bullet wound left untreated was potentially fatal.

~ * ~

Kolosov’s voice rang out, echoing around the confines of the barn.

“Everyone, please stay right where you are.” He waved his pistol in the direction of the crouching people. “Nikolai, call an ambulance for Sergei and put out a call on the BMW.”

Sergei lay where he had fallen, obviously in pain.

“You, Andreev, keep these people covered.”

The other policeman nodded. Kolosov turned to Tamsin, who had stood to brush herself down. He could see her tears as she used the back of her hand to wipe them from her dirt-stained face. That’s when he noticed. In her other hand, she was clasping the blue and white postbag.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he spoke in Russian and Tamsin translated for Jack, “I am Captain Kolosov of the Russian police and Interpol. You will soon understand what this is about. Mr. and Mrs. Bromovitch, Sergeant Eltsin will take you back into your house and he has a few questions to ask you. You won’t find it difficult. Please, don’t worry.”

The gentleness of his tone surprised Manton. Once they had left, Kolosov sat down on a large wooden box, took out his briar and tamped down the tobacco, but didn’t light it. He gazed at them both with eyes pitted, black, like a dog guarding a bone. Jack looked at Tamsin who rolled her eyes. He knew she’d guessed it could be a lengthy session. He sensed that Kolosov was gathering his thoughts, deciding on a strategy.

The pipe remained unlit. The sun’s rays rolled lazily upwards to the rotting wooden beams above.

Tamsin gave a small shrug and Manton placed his forefinger to his lip. He scrutinised the stocky Captain and was somehow reassured. He guessed he was in his late forties and that he had been in the force most of his working life. Dark brown hair with frosty touches hung a shade longer than regulation length down his neck. His thoughtful posture was a perfect parody of Rodin’s famous statue. Small furrows bracketed around his mouth. Manton watched, mesmerised, as Kolosov lifted his head to fix him with an intense stare. He spoke English with an American accent.

“Jack Manton, Tamsin Greene, does it come as a wonder to you both that I know who you are and what you are doing here?”

Manton looked across at Tamsin’s dazed expression and shook his head.

“Tamsin Greene, I know you were in communication with Katherine Danilovova concerning the artist Mikhail Brodsky. Tell me.” He paused. “What did you think of her when you met her?”