The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (40 page)

“Where?” Kolosov reached the emergency exit.

“He headed towards the trucks.”

“There’s one leaving now. Stop it! Take it out. Aim low, I don’t want him dead!” Kolosov pumped off several rounds in the direction of the departing vehicle. Others fired off a volley of shots as the truck smashed through the gates that now hung at a crazy angle from their mountings. There was a juddering, metallic whining of the mechanism, and the truck slithered to a halt in a cloud of steam and punctured rubber. It appeared to hesitate, but then, with the engine over revving, it drove off again with the back end bouncing on two flat tyres.

“After him! I want him alive!” Kolosov needed no second shout. The other cars and the truck turned to pursue the crippled vehicle.

Manton ran alongside Kolosov.
Please be alive. Please!

She was.

What he saw, he hadn’t expected. Tamsin sat motionless on the side of a grassy and muddy bank. The rain was streaming through her hair and down her face, into her lap where she had drawn up her knees against her chest.

“You, look after her!” Kolosov shouted as he leapt into the truck that had slowed for him to get in.

“Tamsin, Tams!” Manton reached out for her.

She fell against him and buried her head into his shoulder.

“I’m okay… I’m okay.” She looked up at him, her face white, eyes full of fear. Shaking her head, she whispered over and over, “He let me go, and I don’t know why… I don’t know why?”

He could feel her body begin to shake with sobs.

~ * ~

“Fuck! Holy Mothers! We’ve lost him.” Kolosov bristled with rare fury. Novikov’s truck sat lopsided and abandoned in a lay-by three kilometres from the city centre. Smoke and steam continued to billow in soft spurts from the engine compartment. He turned his rage onto his team.

“I hope your children shit in your soup, you deformed bunch of arseholes! How could you lose him? His fucking truck didn’t even work properly. I can’t believe you’ve let him escape. Holy Mothers!” He turned away, waved his hand, took several deep breaths, and walked away.

Calm down… calm it.
He knew the man would not be found. He was too well trained to fall into any trap, no matter how many checks he put in place.

The rain had got worse, and he gave an exasperated sigh as he heard a text alert coming from his wet phone.
Who the fuck can that be?
He pressed the view button and wiped the screen clear. On one side of the screen, a ‘smiley emoticon’ stared inanely from the screen. It was followed by a short text.

Dasvidania, Kolosov! V.N.

“He’s taking the piss and now he’s saying goodbye! The bastard had us monitored every step of the way. Sweet Jesus!”

He knew he’d never be able to trace the number. It was a certainty it would have vanished off the networks the second it was sent.

It had.

Kolosov sent out a red alert covering every port, station, airport and hospital. In his heart, he knew it was futile. The best chance they had was the wounded Anton Petrovitch, who might break and tell them Berezin’s secrets. He didn’t doubt that pressure might be required.

The rush for paintings by Mikhail Brodsky had skewered the entire operation. Were there more waiting to be found? If so, where were they?

Chapter Fifty Five

Schipol International Airport, Amsterdam, the Netherlands

P
iet Van Rooy, in a state of high anxiety, attempted to appear casual. He sat back in a fat blue armchair in the First Class Lounge, waiting for his connecting flight to Havana. He sipped a large neat vodka, its harshness split only by the infusion of two portly lime wedges. He drank quickly, not feeling the effects of the alcohol.

There was another hour to go before the fight was due to take off. His tattoo had begun to sweat beneath his safari shirt. His foot gave him darts of pain which he hadn’t experienced for years. Sweat dripped down the tip of his nose before plunging to the floor.
If Interpol or the police knew who I was, and they had enough evidence, surely they would have made a move by now?

His gaze flitted across the lounge as he checked out the people coming and going.

Nothing.

He had liquidised substantial assets over the last ten days, upon hearing of the charges being levelled at Petrovitch. His paintings, he was certain, would remain undiscovered in the underground bunker beneath his office. He had arranged for the clandestine removal of The Vermeer and the Rembrandt, to be delivered at a later date to an address of his choosing.

Novikov bungled it, outsmarted by a stupid
policeman and an English art researcher
. It was impossible. He swore that Brodsky’s legacy would become his sooner or later. That, he promised himself.

An echoing voice booming across the intercom cut through his thoughts.

“This is the first call for passengers on KLM flight 464 to Havana, Cuba. Passengers, please make your way to Gate Thirteen.”

He was in no hurry. A feeling of relaxation passed through him. He stood, gulped down the remainder of his vodka, collected his flight bag, and began the short limping walk to the departure point. The comforts of first class air travel had their attractions. From the number of people heading towards the gate, he calculated that he would have a spacious area to himself. Looking through the huge glass windows, he could see the greyness of the early morning autumn matched equally by the tarmac, and the dull clouds sputtering across the sky. He looked forward to sunshine, warmth, cigars, and a bottomless bank balance. He had plans of setting up an international art foundation, a place where he would be able to store his existing collection, and the inevitable acquisitions that would arrive. It was a pity about Petrovitch.

“Josef Lavrentry Berezin, stop where you are and turn around.”

The throaty bass voice spoke in Russian and sounded like the hard edge of a spade. Forgetting he was Piet Van Rooy, he froze and turned around. Five armed Interpol policemen surrounded him, all holding automatic weapons. The man who had spoken to him stepped forward from behind his men. He was dressed in black, and a matching overcoat hung off his shoulders.

“You!” Berezin gawped in disbelief.

“If you hadn’t stopped, we might have made a mistake. Your response was classic.” Kolosov looked him up and down and read out his rights. “You are being arrested on charges of murders, inducement to murders, rape, robbery, larceny, and conspiracy to corrupt and illegally bribe government officials, judiciary, policemen, and to pervert the course of justice. That is just for starters.”

Berezin found his voice choking. “How did you find me?” His hands shook. He knew his life was finished and there could be no way forward.

Kolosov stood back, stroked his chin with a thoughtful look in his eyes, pausing before he spoke. “I’m not at liberty to tell you all that. I’ll tell you this. Your man, Anton Petrovitch, is not in the best of health. In the line of his recent duties, he received some unpleasant bullet holes. It was touch and go for him. Poor man. Knowing what he knows of prison life, and the thought of spending the rest of his days labouring and probably dying in Siberia, he felt obliged to tell us things. We told him that in our Russian constitution, we have Article #141-FZ. The Americans call it Plea Bargaining. A shorter sentence, and not in Siberia. I’m afraid he took the offer, Berezin.”

Kolosov paused once more, and Berezin’s thoughts went to his secret store of stolen art.
The office bunker is impossible to locate. They’ll never find it.

“I know what you’re thinking Berezin. But through Petrovitch, we located the people who built your bunker. Not difficult to open once you find the button. Mikhail Brodsky’s missing works were a step too far for you. You got too greedy and made mistakes.” He turned away and snapped out an order. “Take him out of my sight.”

Chapter Fifty Six

Poland, The City of Siedlce, eighty-eight kilometres east of Warsaw, autumn 1998

F
or a while, a time we have little memory of, a time before he would know the thing they called ‘growing up’, a time before soldiers cut it short, he once played along the gentle green pastures and waters that surrounded his home city of Siedlce. With swift movements of his right arm, he skimmed stones across the placid surface of a watery outcrop, watching them bounce up to eight times before sinking. In two years, he would celebrate his Bar Mitzvah, the beginnings of a man.

His memories, of which we cannot know, would disintegrate into forgotten vaults, and be replaced by the cacophonous sounds of cattle trucks, and the shrieks and wails of women and children overridden by harsh German voices.

You Polaks, Yiddish pigs! Raus! Raus!

The pain of the whips, the dog bites, the beatings, the cold biting into and consuming the marrow of his bones, and the ever-present threat of whether that day you lived or died… had never left him.

Alesky Borchovski lay dying in his bed.

The intervening years had been both good and bad for him, and he had never recovered full health. He had neither bitterness nor resentment for what he suffered at Lublin. Life was what it was. If you were to ask him, he would tell you that he wept for the pain of others. He knew the drama was about to end, and the curtain to make its final closure on his performance. When he closed his eyes to go to sleep… he knew they would never reopen.

He listened to the driving autumn rain hammering on the roof.
How remarkable that sounds. How magnificent.
He stared up into the sad eyes of Mateusz, his only son and living relative, who had sat with him constantly throughout his illness.

“Come closer, Mat.”

Mat moved nearer, bending his head towards his father so he could hear what he was about to say.

“Bring me that painting on the wall, will you? I would very much like to see and hold it one more time.” His arm stretched out to reveal a faded set of numbers tattooed above his wrist. He pointed his bony finger to the painting that hung in the centre of the flowered wallpaper. It was a work divided into three sections.

Mateusz dislodged it from where it hung, and he noticed that the two side panels were hinged to fold over the central part of the work.

“Stand it close to me, Mat, so I can touch it.”

Mat did as his father asked. As he placed it across the width of the bed, on the back, he saw an inscription written in Russian.
1941 Golovchino.
He looked at his father as he ran his fingers across the surface, and over the purple coloured signature.

“Mat.” Alesky’s voice had collapsed to a rattling whisper. “Hold my hand. This is all I can leave you.”

“Father…”

“Don’t speak, Mat.” He waved his hand for silence. “It was painted by my friend, Mikhail Brodsky, in Lublin. I loved him dearly. This painting was his heart and his soul… as it is also mine. He lost his life, as we all did in some way, at that awful place. Mikhail’s work has become important. Promise me that you will keep it for me until the day you die. To never part with it.” He grasped the collar of Mat’s jacket. “I honour his memory, just promise me.”

“Father, I promise to keep it until the day I die. If I had children, it would become theirs. I promise.” He leant forward to kiss his father.

Alesky closed his eyes for the last time and heard what we could not… a gunshot, the wind’s sudden shriek… and the echoing sound of a wolf howling in the distance.

Chapter Fifty Seven

London, November, the present day

Saturday, two evenings before Christie’s International Russian Art Auction, Valentina Brodsky née Normova waited placidly in the small Lord Byron meeting room of Brown’s Hotel in Albemarle Street. Her guests were Tamsin Greene and Jack Manton. She had little doubt that they would be surprised.

Outside, the unfamiliar red buses and strange-looking London taxis swept past the hotel, as she imagined they had always done since the hotel was built. The familiar flurry of traffic added to her assurances that she had chosen the right course of action.

Just a few minutes past seven-thirty, the uniformed attendant, wearing white gloves, opened the connecting doors.

The first person she saw was Jack Manton, as he walked in with a look of curious apprehension on his face. He looked bohemian, wearing a dark-blue frock coat with an enormous Kandinsky patterned scarf flung around his neck. Chelsea boots and moleskin trousers completed the picture. He glanced nervously at Tamsin who had a tight grip on his hand.

Her pregnancy showed through the silk dress she wore. Through their conversations, Valentina understood that Tamsin’s trauma, although short-lived, had been intense. In those conversations, Tamsin had allowed her access to her very private fears about her relationship with Jack and the future baby. Valentina had argued that a child could tone down Jack’s obsessions, that he should give him a chance. She was pleased to see her with him, and had become very fond of them both. She guessed the battle was almost won.

The rich aromas of fresh Arabica coffee and
potpourri
drifted across the room.

Manton gave a low whistle. Valentina looked elegant, with a red rose in her dark hair, and wearing a simple Dior style dress reminiscent of Marc Bolan, topped by her trademark boa, she possessed a beauty so striking with Russian women.

“Don’t go getting any ideas,” Tamsin whispered.

“I can dream.”

“You dare!”

“I’m so glad you are here.” Valentina greeted them both with a close embrace. Manton detected the subtle scent of Marseille perfume and oranges.

Valentina’s English, with its delightful accent, only added to his admiration.

“You are a lady of some mystery,” he responded.

“You will see. Follow me, please.”

The attendant opened the double doors, pushing them wide with a theatrical flourish. With sweeping gestures, he ushered them into the room first used by Lady Byron’s maid, Sarah, and James Brown, who inaugurated London’s first hotel in 1837. At the back, stood a large French marble fireplace, ablaze with logs. It was topped by a mahogany mantelpiece surrounded by expensive, flocked floral wallpapers.