The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (32 page)

“I have orders to deliver bread to a Leonid Brodsky, who I am told lives here.”

“Sorry, but no one is allowed up unless Monsieur Brodsky agrees, and even then, we are to accompany you there and back. If he doesn’t agree, you will be arrested and taken for questioning.”

“You’d better call him then.” Novikov stepped back, and the smell of fresh bread drifted from the interior of the van.

The gendarme fumbled for his mobile. “That smells good.”

“Help yourself. Call your colleague over.”

“I will. Alain,” he called out. “Fancy warm bread?”

Alain began walking to the van.

With a thankful smile, the first gendarme began to lean deeper inside the van, ready to grab a few sticks of bread. Novikov stood behind him holding an eight-inch hunting blade…

Five minutes later, his footsteps resounded across the rickety staircase, the metal steps full of fancy patterned and drilled holes that engineers love to display. Across his back, he’d hung the large bread bag stuffed with warm breads… and his selected weapons. He stood in front of the door, and he noticed the darkness. Not a light could be seen. Not from the window, or from the door. Lifting up his gloved hand, he gave the door an urgent knock.

Chapter Thirty Six

T
amsin glanced frantically at Jack. “Oh my God, who is it?”

“Grab the phone and be ready to dial the police when I say so. Who is it?” he shouted with a stiff, dry voice.

The voice from behind the door, sounding like a four-acre field, spoke strong, slow, and in Russian.

“You’re not going to believe it. It’s Kolosov.”

“What?”

“Yes, it’s Kolosov.”

“What. How on earth! I don’t believe it. What’s he saying?”

“He needs to speak to us, and he has the Brodsky paintings with him.”

“Jesus! Look through the security eye piece.”

Tamsin moved to the door, placing her eye on the opening. “Yes, it’s him alright, and he has two large bags with him, plus two even larger men.”

Manton stood next to her, secured the two large metal security chains, and inched open the door. He squinted out with apprehension.

“Yes, Captain?” He couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say.

“Mr. Manton, it really is me, and I need your advice – please. If it helps, my two men are both from Interpol, and they will stand outside. Okay?”

Jack stepped back, and slid off the two securing chains. “Come in, Captain.”

Kolosov nodded at the two men, strode in, deposited the two bags on the carpet, and pointed at them. “Are these paintings by Mikhail Brodsky or not?”

“He let you take these away?” Manton looked askance, but pulled out two and placed them up against the wall.
Iron Horse
and
End Game.
He didn’t need to look. “Without a doubt they are by Mikhail Brodsky, and as you must now know Captain, worth considerable sums of money on the art market.” He placed a shaky hand on the frame. “Where’s Leonid Brodsky?”

“He’s safe. Two armed guards are in position at his apartment. I need you to check what’s here. When you’re done, I suggest we all go back to Brodsky’s apartment and discuss what we do with this consignment.”

“Captain, I’ve looked at these paintings for an hour or more. I don’t need to look anymore. Believe me, they’re genuine. So, shall we go?”

“What about these?” Tamsin held up the box of letters still bound in black and yellow ribbon.

“Leave them here. They may give us clues to any others that we don’t yet know of.”

Ten minutes later, Manton leant back in the spacious Citroën. He found the events difficult to comprehend. He looked across at Tamsin, who sat close to the window with her head resting on the glass. Between them lay the two bags of Brodsky paintings. Kolosov and the two Interpol men sat up front. Tamsin broke the silence, speaking in Russian.

“Captain, you know much more about this than we do, don’t you?”

He lost his distracted air. “Yes, but if you hadn’t supplied me with what information you had, I would be no nearer. When you can, check your art and antiques newspaper. There’s a lot going on, and a big smelly rat is being flushed out.”

Tamsin turned to Jack and translated.

He looked relieved, and gave a slow smile. “Good old Moss. We must check on IAS when we get back to the hotel.”

“It looks like it.”

Kolosov leant forward, and this time spoke in English. “We are here.”

Jack stared out of the window, recognising the Square and the old iron staircase. His senses jumped at the sudden and urgent change in Kolosov’s booming voice.

“Where are the guards? There’s nobody here. Fuck! You two stay here with agent Alain, and do not get out unless I tell you!” He leapt from the car with the other man, and with guns ready, they sprinted towards the deserted staircase. The sound of shaking iron and steel reverberated across the square as they took the steps two at a time.

His chest heaving, Kolosov slithered to a halt on the top landing, with agent Duval close behind him. Duval was a dark meat-cleaver of a man, seconded by international co-operation to train officers in firearm techniques.

Brodsky’s front door hung open. Kolosov yelled, “Monsieur Brodsky!”

No reply.

He yelled again as he crashed through the open door, and stooped into a crouching firing stance, with Duval turning sideways to cover him. He found himself in a black void, unable to see anything.

“Let’s have some light!”

Duval, using his flashlight, located a switch. “There’s no one here.”

“Monsieur Brodsky?” Kolosov, his chest tingling, inched his way forward. He swivelled his head sharply to the left and right, before coming to halt in front of a cracked tile floor glistening with fresh blood stains. The place had been trashed and broken – chairs, tables, wall decorations and ornaments lay scattered everywhere, and in the air lingered a faint smell of mustiness. Above, he could see the attic was open, and the ladder looked intact. An awful intuition passed through him.

“We’re too late.” Gingerly, he climbed upward and peered in at the top, not expecting a positive outcome. Duval guarded the ladder area.

“Nothing. There’s nobody here.” Left remaining were the four glasses he’d spotted earlier, one half full and the depleted remains of a bottle of Grey Goose. He climbed back down and located the phone, but could see that the wires had been cut.

He scoured the apartment for clues. There weren’t any. He looked at Duval.

“Brodsky’s been taken. God help the poor bastard!”

Chapter Thirty Seven

M
anton thought they were heading back to the hotel. He realised he was wrong. The car screeched to a halt at 200, Quai Charles de Gaulle, Interpol’s impressive HQ.

Kolosov stepped with authority from the vehicle. “Everyone out and follow me.” He swept them through security without checks, and soon opened the door to a spacious office. “All of you sit down, please.”

Manton and Tamsin carried the two heavy bags of paintings around their backs. Jack looked with apprehension at Tamsin, who shrugged her shoulders. He guessed she enjoyed the feeling of security when Kolosov was around.

Kolosov pulled out a chair, sat down with a soft thud, and jabbed the edge of the desk with his briar. “Please, listen to what I have to say. I have to be back in St. Petersburg tomorrow for a day or so, and that means we now need an urgent plan of action. Novikov has taken Brodsky, and he appears to know every move we make. That, I suspect, comes from you two. You’re bugged.” He gave them a questioning look and pointed his pipe at them both.

“But, we checked everything, Captain.” Tamsin gave an exasperated huff.

Kolosov tapped the stem of his pipe hard on the table, and replied in a sharp tone. “Not well enough, Miss Greene.”

“Look, Captain, we haven’t been near him. As far as I know, he doesn’t know where we’re staying. The only thing that connects us is the painting.”

“Precisely – it has to be there somewhere.”

“But we went over it time and time again.”

“If it’s there, I shall find it. Now, hand me your room key, your hotel is only a few minutes from here. I shall bring the painting back here. He will also guess that you have the eight paintings, and my guess is, he will use Brodsky as a bargaining chip. Neither is a guarantee he will let any of you survive. There’s little doubt he’s linked with my prime suspect, who has been acquiring whatever valuable works he can get hold of. At the moment, he wants the works of our own indigenous artists. I just need concrete proof, and that is what I intend to get.

“Please, be very careful with that painting, Captain.” Manton pushed his key across the desk.

Kolosov picked it up. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll not be long.”

Twenty minutes later, which seemed like an eternity, the office door reopened. Manton was relieved to see Kolosov walk in carrying
Girl of Peace,
wrapped in a muslin cloth.

He set it down on the desk, and proceeded to unwrap it. But not before he had placed his index finger on his lips and shaken his head, signalling for total silence. Jack looked across at Tamsin who nodded.

Before he started, Kolosov opened up the desk drawer and removed an eyepiece, a long thin letter opener, and finally a pair of tiny tweezers. He then began a thorough and laborious examination, covering every millimetre of the back of the painting, before turning it over. After a few minutes, Kolosov looked up, still with the eyepiece. He shook his head, mouthing the word, ‘nothing’.

Tamsin looked across at Jack, as his eyes flitted back and forth nervously watching Kolosov’s explorations.

Kolosov had reached the bottom right hand corner of the frame. He peered closer, adjusting the eyepiece. Without a word, he picked up the letter opener, and with considerable care, began lifting up the corner of the frame. He reached into the corner with the tweezers, pulling out a minute, circular sliver of metal. Jack could just make out two golden dots on the surface.

He gave a suppressed gasp, and could see Tamsin standing with her hand pressed hard to her mouth. Kolosov repeated his gestures for silence. Placing the bug down, he covered it with a thick coat, and indicated they should go to the outer office. Once inside the other room, he closed the door silently behind them.

“Now we can speak.”

“It’s so small, no wonder I couldn’t spot it,” said Manton.

“Good Russian technology, eh Mr. Manton? Now, this is what I need you to do.”

“I think we’ve done enough already.” Tamsin’s voice had an uncomfortable edge.

“What can we do?”

“Novikov is capable of things you would find impossible to believe. We are going to put that bug back in the frame where we can use it to our advantage. Novikov wants the paintings, but as yet, he doesn’t know where you’re staying. When he does, he will attempt to make contact. We are going to make it easier for him to do this. This is what we must do…”

~ * ~

Manton was apprehensive, but maintained a calm expression as he stepped outside the doors of the Hôtel De La Cité, prepared for his morning run and thankful for some fresh air. Tamsin watched him depart, followed by agent Duval, who stood near the doors together with agent Alain. Both Alain and Tamsin would remain at the hotel. Manton was thankful for Duval’s presence, even though he would only be tracking him in his car. He expected to be around for forty minutes at most.

Kolosov’s main plan had been activated, and both Manton and Tamsin had ensured that their conversation sounded normal. They mentioned where they were, and discussed their concern for Leonid Brodsky. The media had reported his disappearance, linking it to the discovery of two slaughtered gendarmes, tangled in the sewage overflow system of the nearby River Yzeron. Police were looking for a suspect of Russian origin. Manton had also downloaded Moss’s front-page feature on the mysterious worldwide art thefts, again hinting at a shadowy company located in Russia. The story had just broken, and he could only hope and pray that the global media would latch onto it.
With all this pressure, surely we can crack this whole thing open, provided that crazy lunatic Novikov doesn’t get to us first.

“We all set then?” Jack spoke to Duval and pointed to his waiting car.

“I’ll follow you.”

Manton turned to remind Tamsin to remain in the hotel. “I need you to check those letters.”

A sense of dejection passed through her as she watched him jog down the stone steps. In spite of what had happened, he was as relentless as ever in this pursuit. In some ways, he was as ruthless as the killer pursuing them. Both driven, they had much in common.

And, there was still the pregnancy.

Lev’s letters had been bundled in chronological order, delineated by a coloured tag. The first batch came from his sister, Sofia. Tamsin tugged on the tiny, tight knots of yellow ribbon. As she loosened it, she caught a faint aroma that reminded her of autumn trees in a forest.

She read through, taking care not to damage the paper or envelopes. Some contained pressed flowers and leaves. The letters were mostly of family concerns; her marriage, and the birth of Maria, congratulating Lev on the birth of his son, Leonid. Throughout, Tamsin was aware of a sadness regarding Mikhail, and the wish that one day they would all meet up again and be a family once more. Sofia never gave up hope that he would be found alive.

A few letters formed another batch, and they were from Maria to her
Dear Dedushka…
expressing her hopes that they could meet one day. Letters from Leonid always ended up the same way, asking for money, and thanking him for the last sum his father had sent.

Tamsin began to feel as if she knew the family intimately, but the last three letters she found were a revelation, and confirmed Katherine Danilovova’s research. They came from Elena. She wrote of how she missed Mikhail, and regretted that she had parted from him. Their daughter, Liliya, was growing fast and often asked after her papa. She, like Maria, wished for the day they could all meet again. She still had the painting Mikhail had made of them both,
Legacy.
Liliya, at an early age, had become pregnant, giving birth to a daughter named Valentina. The correspondence came to a halt at this point. Attached to it was a note from Lev saying that Elena had died suddenly, leaving what possessions and money she had to her daughter, Liliya, and Valentina.