The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (23 page)

She wished to God she hadn’t said that. Her body went cold and for a moment her vision blurred. Her voice continued steady.

“What I’m trying to say is that this Brodsky affair has altered us both. It’s given us different dimensions. I see things in you I love and admire and I couldn’t hope to aspire to. But you get so focused, you barely know what’s happening around you.” She paused and noticed he’d hung his head down and was pushing his fingers through his hair. “Poor Katherine and Nikita Brodsky, I’m forever thinking about how they died and what it must have been like for them at that moment they were murdered. But you hardly ever think of that or even mention it. You’re unreal at times. It could happen to us. Kolosov told us Novikov’s a trained assassin – for me, that says it all. Yes, I’m frightened. I’m scared, more so for you. Your head is so far up your own arse, reading and researching, you don’t seem to grasp what could happen to you. I do love you. I love you more than anybody I’ve ever known and I want it to stay that way, and for you to stay alive. But the way you’re going on… am I making myself clear?”

He looked up at her, and when he replied, it was flat and strained.

“That’s told me a lot, hasn’t it? What can I say or do?”

“Nothing. I’m staying with you and when we get back, I can only guess at what may happen. Let’s leave it there.”

His head lowered again and he rubbed his hands along the lines of his face.

She said nothing, just counted the seconds that passed between them. It could have been a minute; it could have been two.

He stared hard at her. All she could hear was the sound of the iron and steel of rails, and the interminable turning of wheels drawing them closer to Berlin.

~ * ~

From beneath the grey-coloured sheets, he disentangled his legs wrapped around those of the young man lying next to him. He moved with care to ensure his wound did not stretch or was jarred in any way. A brief examination revealed that after several days of lying low, the strapping and bandage had remained secure, and the two together had helped clot the wound. With careful attention he ensured that he wouldn’t have to go to a hospital or see a doctor, who would have asked too many questions.

Next to him, the naked hard form of the twenty-three-year old chef lay half asleep in an aroma of damp hormones. His fleshy lips were parted, caked with spittle that added an odd sparkle to his lips.

Novikov had had better sex. But in his condition, the young chef’s selfless efforts did not go unappreciated.

He pulled apart the curtains where the morning reluctantly awoke, reminding him of an unpleasant reality. A bunch of stupid cops and two English researchers had made a mockery of him. He would need to hide that information from an unforgiving Berezin. He had little to show for his efforts. The English pair, he guessed from Danilovova’s research, would be on their way to Paris. But exactly where, he couldn’t work out. They obviously planned to locate other relatives or descendants of the Brodsky family.

His thoughts were interrupted by the morning’s newspaper being pushed beneath the door.

The sight of it gave him an idea. He could sense an excitement in its simplicity. It would be daring and not without risk. The more he thought of it, the more he felt his old self returning. Picking up the telephone, he booked a business class flight to Paris.

Chapter Twenty Five

A
t that moment he heard his private phone ring. He knew who it was.

“Novikov, I told you to contact Petrovitch, not me.”

“This call is scrambled. What I have to tell you is better coming from me than him. The news is not good.”

“What?”

“The police are onto me. I don’t know how. In my escape, they got hold of two Brodskys.”

Berezin let several seconds pass by as he absorbed the information. In those moments, the swift tightening of the throat and the rushing sound of blood hammering in his ears were the only physical sensations he was aware of. He struggled to take a deep breath and then managed several more. He spoke in spittle-infused fury.

“For fuck’s sake, Novikov, you’re dumber than a sack load of shit. You’re an expert? You’re fucking useless!” Berezin’s fist clenched tighter around the phone, wishing he could squeeze Novikov out from it and strangle him. “Now you’ve got police crawling all over looking for you, and that could lead them to me! You stupid, incompetent bastard. I want no part of this – you’re out of here!” His phlegm spattered into the mouthpiece.

“Wait, wait! There’s something else you’ll want to hear.”

“Wait? What can there be to wait for?”

“I have important information about Brodsky’s paintings.”

Novikov’s sentence stopped him from disconnecting the call. He paused as the heat began to subside from his face. “This had better be good. If not, you’re out!”

“I told you there were about a dozen paintings at large. I’m close to getting hold of at least six unknown works by this man, Brodsky. If I can’t, then you may rid yourself of my services. Is that not worth it?”

Berezin’s skin tingled at Novikov’s unexpected news.

“Is this bullshit? What about the police?”

“It’s not bullshit. I’m reverting to disguise and the police will have no idea what I look like. For you, it’s a question of being patient. For me, it will mean keeping my sights on the two people who will lead me to them.”

Berezin swallowed hard. The proposal had its attractions.

“Novikov, listen very carefully. I’m less than impressed. If you locate and acquire what I want, my opinion may change. Whatever happens, you do not know me nor have you ever heard of me.
Poinyal
?”

“
Ya. Poinyal.
”

“Disguise is useful but not infallible. If
I
have your fingerprints and DNA stored on my database, so may the police.”

“I don’t doubt that for one minute. I’ve a long history.”

“All you need to do is find the paintings you say are out there, plus, the two you failed to acquire. Then, we have a deal.
Ya?
”

“Agreed.”

“One last thing, Novikov.
Never
ever call me here again. You deal only with Petrovitch and will report back to him as he requested.”

Before Novikov could reply, the line went dead.

~ * ~

Paris, France

The 2,485 kilometre journey had not been romantic. The fifty-one hour journey caused Manton stress that would have ruined a monk’s pretentions to sainthood, even though the twelve-hour interval in Berlin had been without incident. A check on his laptop didn’t show Brodsky’s works at any museum or art gallery, including the Neue Nationalgalerie and its impressive array of twentieth-century European art.

They had taken a trip up the Fernsehturm’s
204 metre TV tower and the Brandenburg Gate, but the circumstances and Tamsin’s earlier declaration, curtailed any real enjoyment.

She displayed all the apprehension of a turkey seeing winter snow beginning to fall. Whenever anybody drew close to them, he would feel her tension. It seemed as if she feared a potential assassin or an Interpol agent or secret policeman in every face they met. His own fears matched hers, but he forced himself to appear calm.

He sensed she was glad to be back on the train, especially when it rolled into the Gare de l’Est. So far, his decision to switch from air to train travel had avoided the real threat of the killer. Gathering up their luggage, he stepped down from the carriage and onto the platform, and couldn’t refrain from scanning everybody in sight. Tamsin stuck to him like a wet shirt as they made their way to the waiting taxi rank. She had booked a room at an inexpensive Latin Quarter Hotel, The Cluny Sorbonne, in the Rue Victor Cousin. He had little idea how long they would be staying there.

Within ten minutes, their cab drove into the main thoroughfare of Paris’s nightmare traffic.

“Are you sure he’s going the right way?” He heard her whisper, her hand cupped over her mouth.

“How would I know?”

“I’m sure we passed that building before.” She pointed to a large white building with fluted colonnades.

“No, we didn’t. Look at him! Does he look anything like our postman killer? At five feet five and a hunchback, I doubt it.”

“Not yet.”

Manton saw the driver’s eyes darting at them in the mirror, and hoped she hadn’t seen. It was only when the Citroen turned into the quietness of Rue Victor Cousin and the reassuring sight of the retro-looking hotel with its faded blue art-nouveau exterior did he feel her relax.

“Happy now?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a pain, but it’s all a bit scary at the moment.”

“I know. C’mon, let’s check in.”

They slid out of the taxi, paid the driver, all the while glancing in every direction to see who could be close by, as if expecting Novikov to be lurking on every corner or standing in a nearby doorway. All they could see were illegal street vendors selling souvenir junk, food and other items.

Tamsin hesitated, pulling Jack back level with her.

“I don’t like this. He could be anyone of those guys. He’s supposed to be a disguise master, isn’t he?”

“Look, he has no idea where we are, and he hasn’t got a time machine to perform a quick-change routine. C’mon, forget it for a moment, will you?”

He began steering Tamsin towards the door, but not before she gave a startled jump as a man selling sad faced clowns gave her a smile and a very low bow.

“Oh my God,” she whispered vehemently.

The informality of the reception staff helped ease their frayed nerve ending. Yet, they both felt drained. The Brodsky experience contributed to their jaded appetites, turning an excellent meal into an unwanted, pushed-around-the-plate experience that did the chef no favours.

“Jack, I’ve read and re-read this stuff over and over again, and I think there has to be a common link between the family, as fractured as it was. Families have a way of keeping in touch. Lev, we know, came here. Perhaps Elena too, Mikhail’s lover, with his daughter, Liliya. There’s a good chance there are more children, don’t you think? The two pictures you bought in Australia. Who bought and who sold them? Think.”

“I’ve forgotten that.” He paused and chewed on his lip. “Yes, I remember now. They came from the estate of George Mulligan, who bought them a few years back from a Parisian gallery – Galerie Avant-Garde. How stupid can I be?”

“Too much going on – I forgive you.”

He returned her smile but still hadn’t forgotten what she had said to him. At that moment, his phone gave an alert. It came from Moss.

She saw the look on his face as his eyes widened.

“Well?”

“This is lengthy. Give me a moment.”

Tamsin watched as he continued flicking the message backward and forward until he raised his head to look at her.

“What?”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

“I won’t unless you tell me.”

“Moss spotted a classified in AAAD. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“What does it say?”

“Russian oil paintings for sale. Most signed and dated. 1930s era approx. Works by Belov, Dimitri, Brodsky, Kuznetzov et al. Offers Invited. Contact, Révérend Jacque Giuffré. Tel 00+33+1 07973314110.”

“That’s a Parisian code.”

“He says the same ad has also appeared in
The Times
and also in this week’s issue of
La Gazette Drouot
here in Paris. Clovis from Christie’s tried calling the number, but only got a recorded message. So did Moss, with the same result. We must get a copy and see what we make of it.”

“I agree, but our main priority is the Galerie Avant-Garde.”

“You’re right.” Jack paused and looked up at her. “You thinking what I am?”

“I agree with you. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“He’s looking for us.”

“An old trick found in American crime thrillers. Look for someone and flush them out with bait. What shall we do?”

“The Brodsky painting,
Girl of Peace,
if our suspicions are correct, is the only one in his possession. We must get it back.”

“How? He’ll kill us. And we don’t know where he is.”

“He’s here. I’m certain of it. Once we’ve been to the Galerie Avant-Garde
,
I may call this Reverend. Maybe we can work it out from there.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“No. It’s not much to go on. If we find out who’s behind all this, then yes. If Interpol is on the lookout as Kolosov said, any reference to Brodsky in the media shouldn’t escape them.”

“I hope you’re right.”

~ * ~

The following morning, Tamsin was pleased to leave the frenetic activity of the Place du Tetre. They moved away from the café clamour for tourist coffee, Ricard, and the artists plying their wares - a pale shadow of the former glitterati of Montmartre
.
The dome of the Balisque du Sacré-Coeur disappeared from view as they meandered through the comparative silence of Parisian back streets. She continued to scan their surroundings as their footsteps echoed around the narrow cobbled streets, before turning and entering the Rue Simon Dereure.

The street looked like it had been built for a spy thriller and then deserted by its inhabitants. Their destination was midway down the street and easily distinguishable by its bright red and odd turquoise decor among the usual array of galleries, patisserie, and boulangerie that only Paris can provide. Above the door hung a pair of pendant-style lamps. One solitary painting stood in an otherwise bare window.

She heard him gasp as he looked at it.

“My God, a Francis Picabia.”

She nodded, but was perplexed at its shrieking abstractions.

“C’mon, let’s get inside.” She pushed the door open. The small spring bell mounted at the top of the door rang sharply. She felt as if she were stepping into an unknown world of mysteries and that more changes were about to enter her life. She suspected Jack was experiencing the same. The look on his face was like a botanist discovering a new species.

Glancing around the gallery, she guessed that not much had changed since the war years. No chrome, no polished steel or aluminium, just wood, old carpets and the deep, refreshing scents of lavender polish. She knew it couldn’t be from an aerosol. Every piece of art on display, reflecting three decades from the 1920s, was a tribute to understatement. Each piece stood unadorned and proud.