The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (35 page)

~ * ~

For a paralysing number of seconds, they all looked at each other.

“Who’s that?” asked Manton.

“It must be Duval,” said Tamsin. “We left him out there. He said if we were too long, he’d come looking for us. I’ll answer it, and I’ll tell him we’ll be a while yet.”

“Ask him in,” Valentina replied.

“We’d rather he stayed outside guarding us. It’ll be okay. Leave it to me.” She walked down the passageway before she unlatched the front door. She hadn’t expected the tall bread delivery man in denims, with a bag of bread slung across his shoulders. She was suddenly staring down the barrel of a large pistol.

Tamsin’s hand shot to her mouth. She attempted a scream but no sound came from her throat, only a painful gasp that accelerated the blood draining from her pallid face. She knew who he was.

“Well, well, this must be my lucky day, just the person I wanted to see.” A thick hand reached out and grabbed her, clamping hard over her mouth. The bread bag dropped to the floor as he pressed the gun against her head. “Be still and make no sound, and you won’t be hurt. If you scream, I can promise you and your friends in there will suffer. Do I make myself clear?”

Tamsin, wild-eyed, nodded. Before she could comprehend, a savage strength was propelling her inside a vehicle. Nausea assaulted her entire body. He removed his hand from her mouth and she gagged on a scream, believing every word he had spoken. Her world began spinning into an inky blackness, as a wedge of cloth, soaked with what she recognised as the sickly sweet-smell of chloroform, was stuffed into her face. She began to struggle, flailing her arms and legs in all directions.

I’m dying… can’t breathe…

Tamsin saw her mother, and her father back in Spain, waving at her with broad smiles. But she struggled…

I’m not going there… no… no.

Her protests became weaker… her struggle for clarity over… several seconds later, she felt herself sink into the thankful embrace of darkness.

~ * ~

Manton’s thoughts interrupted the genteel flow of artistic conversation.
She’s been a while out there.

“Excuse me you two, I’m just going to see what Tamsin and Duval are doing.” The door stood open, and on the floor, he could clearly see her pink scarf lying next to a large, blue bread bag stuffed with loaves. She had disappeared, and so had Duval. In the distance, speeding away, he could see what looked like Duval’s car vanishing into the traffic flow. Parked nearby, was an old bread delivery van with its door hanging open.

He broke from his stunned senses, yelling, “He’s got her!”

Moss and Valentina rushed to his side.

“What’s happened?” Moss gasped.

“She’s gone and where’s Duval? I hope this is not what I’m thinking!”

“This
is
worse than I dared imagine,” Valentina blurted out.

Manton sprinted desperately over to the van, and began to rummage through it at speed. He found nothing. Running his hands through his hair, he shouted out, before grabbing hold of Moss in an unbreakable grip and yelling hard into his face.

“Holy shit! What the fuck am I going to do now? That Russian bastard’s got her! Answer me, somebody! Answer me!”

Moss’s quiet voice gave him the answer.

“He wants an exchange. Tamsin’s life for the paintings.”

“My God, what am I supposed to do?” he exclaimed with a wide-eyed look. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. I should have told Kolosov!”

“Calling him would be a good place to start,” Moss spoke quietly.

Chapter Forty One

T
amsin blinked. Her eyelashes scraped against a tight blindfold. Her senses out of kilter, and she knew she had been drugged.
Nothing appeared to be working as it should. She struggled to frame coherent thoughts, going back to those final seconds before he had snatched her. She was able to work out that the journey could not have been far.

In the background, somebody was tapping on a computer keyboard.

Fear threatened to overwhelm her. She had to focus. Keeping calm could save her life, and that of the life in her womb. The blindfold remained tight, and her wrists were bound behind her back. She could feel the duct tape stretching and pulling on the skin of her face, arms, and legs. Next, she attempted moving, and realised she was lying on her side. Her legs shifted a fraction, but she sensed they were bound around something heavy, a table or bed end. She had no way of knowing, and a wave of vomit rose inside her. She kept it down.

Have I been raped?
No matter how hard she tried to connect with her intimate self, she could feel nothing.

The tapping sounds on the keyboard stopped. Alarm flooded her as she heard heavy footsteps moving towards her, causing floorboards to creak.

In frozen terror, she feigned unconsciousness. She knew he was there. She sensed him close, bending over her. She could smell his warm alcohol breath. Something hard and sharp poked her ribs, not once but several times, each poke getting harder. Her body bucked, and a mute and muffled scream came from behind her gag. She heard a low, short laugh, and the blindfold was ripped off, causing her a moment’s blindness.

It was then she saw him, Novikov, standing back and looking down at her. She flinched as he reached towards her, but what happened next came as a surprise.

“As I thought, you are awake.” His voice was flat as if he was suppressing some other emotion. Was it an attempt to reassure? His hands cupped around her face. “I don’t want to hurt you. I mean that.”

Fear dissolved beneath his strong touch… she didn’t know why. She thought she was about to faint, but she didn’t. Her eyes remained open, staring back into his inscrutable face.
I’m not going to give in. I’m not going to break, whatever he does or says. I’m Tamsin Greene…
He continued holding her face in his hands, staring into her eyes. After half a minute, he whispered, “Mamma, you are so much like my mamma…” The rest of his words dissolved into inaudible Russian, and she couldn’t believe there were tears in his eyes. He withdrew, bowed his head, and moved away. Tamsin, now more disconcerted, swivelled her eyes in an effort to figure out her surroundings. It looked familiar.
I’ve been here before!
This is where Leonid Brodsky lives!

He approached again, and this time he carried a small syringe.

“Looks familiar, does it?” he said, waving his hand around the room. “It’s a shame he is no longer with us. And this is the last place the police will look. I’m not going to harm you.” He grabbed her shoulder with a steely grip, and jabbed the needle into her upper arm. “I need to go out for a while, so it is better you sleep.”

She slumped back into the pillow, and before unconsciousness enveloped her, she knew for the time being he wanted her alive. She still puzzled at his odd reaction towards her.

~ * ~

Berezin shuffled around his spacious office, holding a large glass of neat vodka.

Even thoughts of the two ‘escorts’ he booked for the evening failed to soothe him.
The paintings are almost in my grasp. I trust Petrovitch more than that baboon Novikov. I have to secure the ownership change. I want, I need those Brodskys. I must have them.

Reaching for his phone and ignoring his own instructions, he called Novikov.

He answered at once. “I told you not to call me. This call can be traced.”

“I doubt it. You’ve seen too many films.”

“What do you want?”

“You know full well what I want. So… when and where?”

“When I’m good and ready.”

“How long?”

“Tomorrow or the next.”

“Petrovitch will make the collection.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Listen, Novikov,
I tell
you
what to do. You… do not tell me.”

“I’ll tell
you
something, Mr. Berezin.”

“What?”

“As I told Petrovitch, things have changed. Or has he neglected to tell you? My fee has now gone up. It stands at $100,000. No cash, no paintings, and I’ll find another buyer. I’ll call when I’m ready.”

~ * ~

An amused outburst swept across Kolosov’s team, who were listening to the interchange.

“Well, gentlemen, I knew I wasn’t wrong. There you have it, a pair of thugs about to commit an enormous heist, prepared to double-cross each other, and they don’t have a clue that we now know everything they’re doing. It will only be a matter of time before we locate Novikov.’

He looked around his office and at his team of four officers, all trained in SWAT-style procedures. They stared back at him, and he knew he had to make some swift decisions. His team looked confident, and if his theories proved correct, he would net one of the biggest individual art robbers of all time. Records dug up from airline flight passenger lists revealed, that a man ID’d as Anton Petrovitch, Berezin’s aide, appeared to have been in a number of locations when and where major art robberies occurred: Paris, London and Boston. Now, activity was centring on Lyon. A coincidence? Unlikely.

“Men, each of you is to assemble your own team. No more than four officers each. When you have, report back to me within twenty-four hours. Let’s go!” He slapped the edge of his desk hard. A bustle of moving bodies scattered papers across the floor.

Yet, a deep furrow creased his forehead. He was concerned. Novikov held Tamsin Greene as his ace card. He didn’t want another death
.
But, nothing could be done until the suspects made a move.
 

Chapter Forty Two

“
S
o, what are you two going to do?” asked Manton, his voice quavering.

“I’m sticking around. Somehow, I’m part of this story, and I intend to see it through to the end. Anyway, you might need help,” Moss said, attempting to sound reassuring.

“I’m worried more about Tamsin than my painting,” Valentina spoke. “What’s going to happen to her? How can she escape?”

“I wish I knew. I’m hoping and praying that Kolosov is two hundred percent on the ball. If not, I fear the worse, and that isn’t something I want to be discussing.” Manton paused and looked at them both. “I would be honoured if you came back with me to the hotel. It’s guarded, and you can see the works that have caused all this mayhem. I should be hearing back from Kolosov or that bastard Novikov soon.”

As he spoke, Manton struggled to push away fears about what Tamsin could be going through. A small vein pulsed on the side of his head, and he allowed his anger and concern to surface and set like a solid iron bar. “I don’t know how,” he said, clenching his fist until the knuckles went white, “but she must be saved, even if I have to die trying.”

~ * ~

It was nine thirty. Novikov peered with caution from behind the tatty laced curtains, and looked out onto a dimly lit deserted street. He welcomed the silence. It gave him time to establish his plan which would allow him to vanish, change identity, and establish his future, far from the reach of the world’s police forces.

He dropped the curtain back into place, and looked across at Tamsin, still bound and restrained.
I like her. There’s something about her. She’s pretty, tough, and has a quality that could persuade me to like women more. I don’t want to harm her. I really don’t… too much of her reminds me of mamma!
Accessing France Télécom’s
website, he located the phone numbers and geography of all the Cabine Téléphoniquesa
,
public call boxes, throughout Lyon. Next, he accessed all the nearby colleges, schools and universities.

Forty minutes later, he’d made his choices.

Tamsin struggled for awareness. How long she’d been there, she had no idea.

Nothing had changed.

The silver tape still clung to her body, and the only visible light came flickering from a worn out looking table lamp in the corner of the room. Her hands and legs remained as before. Her head throbbed with pain that stretched from temple to temple, fuelled by the fear of what might happen to her. She needed water to take away the dryness of her mouth… and her thirst. On her other end, there was an urgent need to empty her bladder.

No sign of Novikov.

The room looked as sad and as shabby as she first remembered it, when they first met Leonid Brodsky.
God, how did I get into this mess?
Jack must be feeling crucified, and I know exactly what’s going on in his head.
She arched her neck back, and began flexing and stretching her fingers, attempting to bring blood flow back. Nausea threatened from behind the unforgiving gag around her mouth. She struggled for fresh air.
Don’t panic.
She continued repeating the phrase over and over like a mantra. It worked. A semblance of calm began to enter her system.

There were no hidden nail files, sharp objects, or a cavalry charging to remove her restraints. This was no movie.

Prisoner… No escape. God help me.

Her clothes, damp with excessive sweat, clung to her body.

Two months ago, I was drinking spritzers in a London pub.

She then heard the sound of a key unlocking the door, and she watched with dread as the doorknob began turning, and the door opened. Her fear turned to incredulity.

A tall woman walked in, blonde hair hung shoulder-length, and her makeup looking immaculate. A simple navy-blue trouser suit completed the picture of a modern businesswoman. She walked in and gave Tamsin a faint smile, revealing a set of perfectly white and even teeth.

From that, Tamsin recognised the woman as she moved towards her… except it wasn’t a woman. Vladimir Novikov had a talent for reinventing himself.

~ * ~

Approaching his room, he saw that two agents had been posted at each end of the corridor, and now an extra one stood guard outside his door. He acknowledged the men and ushered VaVa and Moss into the room. The two bags containing Mikhail Brodsky’s paintings remained where he had left them earlier.