The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (28 page)

“I’ve no idea. His apartment must have been wired or how else would he have got back so quickly?”

“But we never mentioned catching either the train or the time.”

“I’ve no idea. It’s a mystery.”

“What d’you think they’ll do with him?”

“Back to Russia I guess, and the rest of his life in prison.”

“I never realised that the police were watching us that close.”

“Neither did I. Who was that Russian?”

“I haven’t a clue. But whoever, I’m glad he was around.

“Let’s try and calm down and forget about it. We now need somewhere to start our search tomorrow, preferably in the Quartier Tête d’Or. You sure you wouldn’t like something stronger?”

Tamsin shook her head, but continued to star anxiously at the door.

~ * ~

It didn’t take long for her to find and book a reservation at a hotel in the Quartier Tête d’Or, close to the location of France’s largest urban park. He’d heard it contained a zoo, a cycle racing track and masses of joggers, walkers and cyclists. The taxi took ten minutes to reach the Quai Charles de Gaulle where the Hôtel De La Cité Concorde overlooked the River Rhône. From there, they had distant views of several Renaissance and Gothic churches, including the Basilica of Notre Dame de Fourviène-on the hill.

Once in room 213 on the second floor, Manton heaved their bits of luggage up onto the bed.

“I don’t know about you, but all this has left me drained.”

She slumped heavily onto the bed.

“How do you think I feel? So… why don’t we call it a day and get out of here and both go home before we end up dead?”

“You know I can’t do that no matter what. I’m on the verge of cracking this and I’m not stopping now. There’s nothing to stop you from going home and you know that.”

“Well, you know my answer to that, don’t you? Let’s give it a rest until the morning. Can you order a couple of long, cool drinks? I don’t want strange waiters or men knocking on the door. I’ll unpack. Do you want to look at the Brodsky again?”

“Good idea, and yes, I would like to examine the picture for more reasons than one… G ‘n’ T?”

“Better not, a fruit juice is all I want.”

“Not like you. Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

He raised an eyebrow, shrugged and stepped out of the room.

Tamsin stared at the door long after Manton left, wondering if she should tell him, given the circumstances. It could change so many things. She couldn’t admit it to herself… but now it seemed certain. And like many women, she didn’t believe the result that would crystallize her dormant yearning. The Clearblue test had confirmed her intuition. But, she would have to wait to tell him about her pregnancy.

The unpacking didn’t take long and with great care she removed the
Girl of Peace
from its protective wrappings and stood it up against the wall. Jack then reappeared with a large silver tray, with two tall glasses dripping with condensation plus a small bottle of Plymouth, several tonic waters and orange juices, and a barrel of ice.

“You’re not going to drink that lot!”

“Who can tell? We could do with it. Our nerves are shattered so c’mon, settle back and switch on the television for a while.” The ice cubes cracked noisily in the glasses as he tipped the drinks in. He moved closer to her as the picture from the TV jumped into view announcing
EuroNews,
the Lyon-based news channel. The reporter stood inside the Lyon Part Dieu train station, in front of a train, giving a commentary. Behind him, Manton could see a melee of police and ambulances.

“Oh my God.” Tamsin faltered.

“What’s he saying?” He turned up the volume on the remote.

“It seems that the 9:54 left Paris on time and when it arrived here in Lyon at 11:55, a body was discovered. Reports are suggesting he had been brutally murdered. The police have described the murdered man as being approximately thirty-five years of age and of Russian origin. His neck had been broken and a mountaineering pick had been driven into his skull. Police are questioning a waiter working on the train…”

“Holy shit!” he shouted, as Tamsin’s face whitened.

“How on earth…!” Her voice tapered away as he interjected.

“Tell me there is no way he can know where we are. If he does, we’re done for.”

“He knew we were on that train and if he knew that, he could easily know we’re here.”

“How could he? Jack, we’ve got to leave this place.”

He ignored her final remark. “Tracking device or bug, anything’s possible. But whatever we try he’s right behind us.”

“But he’s been nowhere near us to plant one, has he?”

“I’ll check the painting, but I really don’t know what I’m looking for.” Manton proceeded to examine the painting from top to bottom, back and front. He repeated the exercise again and again, checking the frame and the mounting, running his hand across the work. “I can’t find a thing. There’s nothing here.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“We carry on looking for Leonid Brodsky.”

“What would you do if you were the killer?”

“He has no paintings. It’s a good bet he needs us to know where the paintings are and what our next move will be. He needs us to lead him to possible locations and then…” His voice tailed off.

“Agreed.” She couldn’t disguise the fear edging in her voice.

He gave her a long look. “I keep saying this, but you really should be going home. I’d rather you did that. This is getting too dangerous.”

“I appreciate that, but the answer as I keep telling you is still
no.
I might want to do that, but my main vice, as I’ve been frequently told you in the past, is loyalty… and that’s come what may.”

Two or three drinks later, he turned to her. “Fancy a bath?”

“What’s wrong with a shower?”

“Don’t be silly.”

Ten minutes later he clambered in with the hot water up to chest level. Tamsin dropped her clothes where she stood and climbed in, sitting at the other end, facing him.

She slid forward and placed her long brown legs around his waist. He saw the pointed look she gave him from her solemn eyes. Moving close to him, he felt the thrust of her pubic hair against his genitals before she dropped both hands into the water between his legs and found what he hoped she would.

“You did bolt the door, didn’t you?”

“I did.” He leant forward to kiss her.

Chapter Thirty One

N
ovikov chose an inconspicuous and cheap hotel on the Avenue La Lacassagne, close to the station.

He unpacked his luggage, taking care with his equipment. Events had not gone as planned and had become messy. Where the Russian had come from was not hard to figure out. Manton had been tailed and whoever organised it had been good. It had the distinguishing stamp of the intelligence services. Even he, with his experience, hadn’t seen it. One thing he knew for certain, they would have a backup plan, and once they knew of the agent’s death, it would be put into operation. The newspaper advert had worked well, as he had guessed it would, bringing in responses like flies around a turd. Manton had risen to the lure as he had hoped. Now, the next step was to locate a living Brodsky relative.

~ * ~

Kharkov Police HQ

The unexpected had happened.

Captain Boris Kolosov experienced a horror he could only describe as the closest to emasculation as he ever wished to be. From the
Police Only
video on screen, he could clearly see the corpse of Anton Platonov, broken, spread-eagled across the French railway carriage. His head had angled into an odd position, indicative of a broken neck. It also revealed the small ice pick driven into his forehead between the eyes. Novikov, he didn’t doubt, had struck again.

The ice pick idea had originated from the same weapon use to slaughter Leon Trotsky back in 1940. It had been developed into a telescopic assassination weapon, easily concealed and much favoured by the NKVD. Novikov, he now knew, had been on active service with the Bureau. Manton and Greene would be at his mercy. With urgency, he ensured all details concerning Novikov got passed onto the French police, who he regarded from past experience as being as useful as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest. He also knew that Novikov’s guile, his expertise and skills, ensured he could avoid capture almost at will.

I must contact Manton and get a rundown on all suspects. The first priority is to safeguard my sources.
He punched out the phone numbers in rapid succession, but there was no reply or answer phone message. He sent an email.

~ * ~

Glittering across the waters of the Rhône, the soft morning sunlight caused him to wake early. He looked across at Tamsin who remained sleeping. He let her be.

Five minutes later, he sat at the desk and rifled through the White Pages, looking for the name Brodsky. On occasions, he preferred the old fashioned methods to using the Internet. Finally, he found the surname.
Oh God, there’re masses. This is going to take forever.
Manton puffed out his cheeks, blew a breath of air and reached out for the mug of hot coffee he’d just made. Savouring its black sweetness, he picked up a marker pen and was pleased to see that only three Brodsky names had a first name beginning with the letter ‘L’
.
They would have to make phone calls to begin their search. Tamsin’s role in this area was vital to their success. Her language skills far exceeded his own. She had a far better chance of winning over the suspicions of French people receiving unsolicited phone calls.

He stood up, ran his hand through the thickness of his dark hair, and moved across to the
Girl of Peace, which
remained standing where he’d left it the previous night. She stared back into his eyes. Enigmatic… cocooned in a wondrous bombardment of colour, emanations of other realities… suggestive of things to be achieved but not yet understood. He loved her, and to part with her as he knew he would have to, swamped him in a momentary melancholia. A rustling of bedclothes behind him made him turn. Tamsin was awake.

“Morning.”

“Morning.” She yawned and stretched, and he couldn’t help but think she looked her best when she had just woken up. Hair everywhere, and a dazed expression… he’d always found it endearing.

“Time to get up. We have things to do. Remember, we whisper when there are names, dates or places, okay?”

She nodded and began to slide out of the bed.

Chapter Thirty Two

L
eonid’s voice soared then descended, lingering on some notes longer than others, stretching the prayer as a token to God. From where he stood in front of his brethren, he experienced the clasp of history, inspiring his voice to echo around the Neo-Byzantine colonnades and the deep solemnity of the Torah Ark. The assembly had packed in, and the women’s gallery jostled with finery, competing with their neighbours.

His
Tallit Katan,
nestled with familiar reassurance around his arched shoulders like a nomad’s tent, a comfort beneath the strands of his white beard. He’d had his
Katan
for many years, and like any well-made prayer shawl, it would last for many more. As
Sheliach Tzibur,
the emissary of the congregation, he’d completed his incantation on their behalf – a prayer asking for the mercy of God. He had heard it said by some, that his voice and the quality of his leading was considered the best in all Lyon, though he never had any serious musical training. Even as a young boy, he knew he possessed that ability. He prided himself on the deep richness and range of his voice when he chanted the
Amidah
prayer for the restoration of the temple,
the house of our lives
. On these occasions, which had ingrained in him a deep love for his faith, he would forget the anxieties of the world. The truth was that he lost himself in the Jewish rituals. The prayers and exhortations required of him rose above the mundane and approached the doors of God. Although he considered himself unworthy to knock.

Walking home afterward, memories filtered into his consciousness. They were not without the accompanying pain. He had visions of his father, Lev, and his mother, Gabrielle, taking him to the synagogue, and the stories they would tell of the Nazi Holocaust and of his never known uncle, Mikhail, an artist and painter. These recollections were not uncommon after his prayers. His life was a paradox. It was this that had prevented him from marrying. It would have been too much to endure. He longed to immerse himself in the religious life, but he understood he lacked single-minded devotion. Failure was his companion.

To communicate with God and uncover the meaning of his existence had always been his life’s ambition. A noble pursuit for any man, whatever his faith. Hadn’t all the wise men and sages said that there were many paths to ascend a mountain, some long and meandering, others short, brutal and difficult? He’d never been certain whether he was treading a path, or if he even had sight of the mountain. He’d battled with the dual nature of his persona most of his life. The other part of his existence he kept secret, hidden from all. Faith had never been sufficient in overcoming his innate and unbridled compulsions. Those compulsions had been his undoing, as they had ruined many men.

He loved to gamble, almost as much as he loved God. To bet money on horses, in fact, races of any kind, football matches, games, any game, outcomes of elections, world events, anything where a contest existed, delivered a rush of excitement that he often thought must be similar to having
real
knowledge of God.

He regretted his paradox and had never been able to resist his urges, but there existed an additional and deeper shame. Now aged sixty-three years, he had been a closet alcoholic since his teenage years. He was prone to drinking benders, lasting for weeks, followed by long periods of abstinence. During the drinking episodes, he would conceal himself from the world, apart from his synagogue duties. But even then, to his great personal shame, he would take his concealed flask with him and drink secretly in the toilets. At home, he would rarely answer the phone or his door unless they were persistent. Often it was only a neighbour checking if he was still alive. The drink he favoured was vodka – enormous quantities of it to get the hit he needed. Both compulsions left him forever short of money.