The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (7 page)

The approach to the Dacha consisted of a specially constructed driveway wide enough to accommodate three vehicles. Two Russian flags fluttered from tall white poles standing alongside the entrance that consisted of a massive wooden gateway patrolled by two armed guards. The driveway led up for three hundred metres through a wooded area, before reaching a small hill overlooking a stretch of water on which a large jetty had been built. The dacha stood at the top of the hill.

It was built in a mock-peasant style, with white walls and curved windows surmounted by wooden beams that ascended to a sloping green-tiled roof. This led to a small clock tower with a black dial inlaid with large brass numerals.

Beneath his dacha, Berezin, dressed in a grey mohair suit with a short camel coat, sat behind a kidney-shaped desk at the far end of a stark and windowless room. Behind him, with folded arms, stood a young man with a lean physique and an expression like a clenched fist. He wore a black, military-style jacket and carried a side-arm pistol. On the other side stood Anton Petrovitch.

The area had been constructed and concealed deep beneath the underground car park, which was accessed by a hefty steel door at the far end. Entry could be obtained only if you had the correct code, which was frequently changed. The internal structure resembled a warehouse. Around every wall were mounted racks of sliding metal shelving, from which protruded a substantial array of picture frames, some of which revealed a glimpse of colour that could only hint at the art it contained. One light was on and it glowed feebly from a red shade attached to the ceiling.

Berezin cracked his knuckles and fidgeted in his seat. Waiting for Novikov was akin to waiting for a time bomb to explode. There was a trait in Novikov’s character that unnerved him. He possessed a hidden power. What that was he couldn’t determine. It seemed to culminate in a brooding mix of suppressed violence, measured aggression, and an underlying understanding of what people’s fears were. He sensed that the man saw through himself more than anybody could or had. It was at moments like this he wondered if he had made a wise choice.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the distinct double-click of the entry system opening the door. Berezin raised his head to look at the CCTV screen. A glance at his watch confirmed that his visitor was right on time. With a soft creak the door opened further. Armed men moved down the small flight of metal steps, and walking between them was Vladimir Novikov. He moved like a stalking cat, looking neither left or right. His eyes fixed firmly on the back of the guard’s neck.

Berezin remained seated and buried his fears beneath a show of false friendliness.

“Novikov, you are on time. I trust your journey was trouble-free. You must be tired. Please, take a seat.” He gestured expansively to the vacant chair opposite himself. “Beluga?” He held up a full-sized, unopened bottle and clinked two glasses against it.

“Not when discussing business.” Novikov’s flat, sour voice caused Berezin to frown. He continued. “Your line of business is full of ostentatious frivolities that have no place in my plain, hard practical world. I have ways of solving awkward problems. You can put your vodka away.”

Berezin felt affronted, as if being dismissed by a superior. Many years had passed since anybody had achieved that. He changed tactics. “Please yourself. I should have known from my research that you have particular habits, shouldn’t I?” He gave him a stare like a detective quizzing a murder suspect, and then poured a substantial amount of vodka into a single glass that he held onto with a tight grip.

“What else do you know?” Novikov asked, his voice hard as a nail on glass.

“All that I need to know. I always like to understand what makes my operatives tick. Do you like my dacha, Novikov?”

“Not much. Far too fancy for a north Russian like me.”

“I guessed you might not. You prefer luxury yachts, don’t you? Especially those down in the south of France.”

Novikov’s face remained emotionless. “What do you want to see me for?”

“I like someone who gets to the point. Let’s say I have a mission for you.”

“I guessed that or I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“Do you like heights, Vladimir?”

“Not in free fall or at the end of a parachute.”

“As I suspected. You may be in for a long trip.” Berezin began to breathe easier. He pulled a fat, brown envelope from a desk draw and waved it at him. He chose his next words with care. “In this envelope, you will find full information and everything you need. It contains visas, passports, return tickets, generous expenses, full instructions and an initial payment of $5000, with more to follow once you deliver the desired result. I chose you because I believe you are what you say you are… dangerous, with a murderous background, and fluent in three languages.” He turned to his guard. “Take this to him.”

The guard walked across and handed Novikov the package.

“Open it.”

Berezin guessed his remarks would tweak Novikov’s professional pride. He watched his face as he opened the seal and read the contents. He noticed only the slightest raising of an eyebrow. But he knew he was hooked. “Are you capable?”

“Are you trying to insult me?”

“Not at all, Vladimir,” Berezin lied. “You accept?”

“I accept.”

Berezin had little doubt that he would. Provided he got what he was asking from Novikov, he couldn’t care less about the dangers involved. Moreover, it was the risk involved that appealed to Novikov’s vanity.

“Good, I’ll leave you to make your own arrangements. Please, go now and give me an initial report as soon as you have made your arrangements.”

Novikov stood and gave a terse nod. “I will not be long.” He turned, and walked out of the darkened room.

Chapter Seven

Earls Court, London SW5

A
lthough he was calling from Australia, Tamsin could detect the level of excitement in Jack’s voice.

“Tamsin, I’ve got them. The paintings are mine.”

“Well done babe, that’s terrific. What are they like?”

“Wonderful!”

“I can’t wait to see them.”

“You’ll love them, you wait and see. I’ve got to get them authenticated by a so-called bloody expert. But if I can’t tell who they’re by, then there’s hardly anybody else on the planet that could. If somebody tells me they’re not by Brodsky, they’ll need their head examined.” He paused a moment “I’ve been thinking…”

She interrupted. “Oh God, that sounds like bad news.”

“There has to be other Brodskys undiscovered, and I’m more than curious…”

“Here we go,” said Tamsin, rolling her eyes skyward. She knew from old that once he got curious about something, no fortune-teller on earth could predict where it would lead. “Spit it out.”

“Yeah, you guessed. I want you to scour through my library and write down every reference to Brodsky you can find. But firstly, I want you to contact every major museum and gallery in Russia, France and Germany, and find out what works they have by Brodsky, on view or in storage, and what numbers are written on the back. You speak languages fluently, and will get results faster than I could.” He paused. “Then, we can begin work on the Brodsky family genealogy; locate survivors, relatives and attempt to locate any unknown works. I’m convinced there has to be others.” There was no reply, just a lengthy silence. “Tamsin?”

“Yes?”

“Babe, I know you’ll do a good job. You’re the only person I know who has the brains and skills to know what I’m after. Nobody else could come close. I trust you like no other, and hey, who knows what we might discover?”

“Frankly, Jack, I don’t really care. Wouldn’t it be better to see what happens with the two you’ve just bought? I’ve better things to do than plough through your dusty books and magazines.”

“Don’t you see? If we find others, we could end up very rich indeed.”

“I don’t really care and it’s too much work.”

“You
don’t
care that we could be rich and free from money worries ever again?”

“Let me think about it.”

Tamsin felt pressured as she put down the phone, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. She was pleased for him, but knew he wouldn’t stop there.
How much longer am I going to put up with him and his obsessive pursuits?
That Jack didn’t behave like any man she had ever known had initially attracted her. But living with it continually had begun to wear away at the gloss. Time had moved on. It was always him first and what he wanted, and her needs second. The breaking point loomed.

She turned, looking up at the mammoth bookcase before she blew a layer of dust off the top copies, sensing an increasing feeling of bewilderment in all areas of her life. She decided that now was not the time for decisions. As if on autopilot, she began scanning the vast volumes in front of her. Not an inch of space remained in the bookcase, and every volume related to some aspect of fine art, mostly from North European and Russian sources. She twirled her hair through her fingers.
Where do I start?

She sat down on the sofa and thought for a moment, not about her task, but again about her love for him. She felt confused by what Jack represented. Neither of them was concerned about marriage, and she had taken refuge in the dream that someday he would become a successful art dealer and they would be together. But, she could see that he was far too unstable to survive on his own with his hit and miss routines. If he sank, she could see herself going down with him.

After Felix and the divorce, it wasn’t an enticing prospect. Stability had much going for it as the years advanced. Living on a tightrope continually invited disasters. With that thought, she rationalised that whilst she loved him, hope remained. But she didn’t want that hope resting on her ability to rescue him from one mishap after another.
But hell! I’m the thirty-plus girlfriend of a struggling would-be Walter Mitty art dealer, who thinks that one day he’s going to make it. Should I hold my breath?

But as a man, Jack was a million times better than the treacherous Felix.

Flicking her thoughts away, she started delving for information on Brodsky. She knew that Brodsky had been awarded a scholarship to the prestigious Kharkov Art College. Switching on the computer and waiting for the irritating Windows jingle to finish, she Googled the college but found no mention of Brodsky. Next, she tried the Russian artist’s biography. She scrolled down the entries and found what she was looking for:

Mikhail Brodsky, commenced scholarship, 1924, aged seventeen. Became pupil of Deineka, at Kharkov Academy, eventually heading the contemporary Soviet Workers and Proletariat Art Faculty until Nazi hostilities forced a closure of the college. Captured by Nazis, he is known to have died in Majdanek concentration camp, Poland, in 1943. His known works are found in the major museums of Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Paris. It is believed, currently, that there are a number of missing works.

There followed a list of his exhibitions, and comments from various artists who admired his works, plus a description of his influence on abstract realism. She couldn’t find anything personal written about him.

Nothing.

What about the family?

She sat and considered for a few moments and then, writing in Russian, sent an email to the Director of Kharkov College. Now, all she could do was wait. Meanwhile, she began compiling a list of major museums and galleries in the cities he mentioned, and whatever information she had and needed to get. She printed all the files she would need and transferred them to a memory stick.

~ * ~

Manton, dressed in an olive-green safari suit with a matching soft hat, exited Passport Control and the security checks before walking into the departure lounge. He had at least forty minutes before his first flight call. He licked his dry lips and realised he could do with a drink, several maybe. Once at the bar, he ordered a large brandy. He didn’t drink brandy, but this time he thought he’d earned it. Seated in a comfortable sofa, looking out over the runway, he rolled the glass around in his hand, warming the drink, at the same time running through his mind the sequence of events that had brought him halfway round the world, carrying hope like a child on Christmas Day. He was certain the paintings were genuine. His previous discovery of the Nicholson and now the Brodskys, if verified, would enhance his reputation in the art world. He would be somebody who had the capability to unearth valuable art. That would open up vistas of commissions, TV appearances, consultancies and an end to his money problems.

The discovery gave him a lot to think about. For the briefest moment, excitement caused him to quiver before a shadow fell across his thinking. Brodsky had perished in a Nazi concentration camp. He had suffered, dying far too young, and with courage for the art he believed in. Who knew what brilliance he might have been capable of? The prospect of finding more of his work filled him with intense curiosity. He excelled in research at university, and if he could use that expertise to discover more Brodsky paintings, then that would be reward enough.
Brodsky was an acute observer of life, and people can and should learn something from what he had to say.

He didn’t doubt other works would be found. But where, by whom and when? If his two paintings were genuine, a fact he didn’t doubt, then he would have enough to fund whatever was required to complete the research.

He ordered another brandy and thought of Tamsin. He could feel that she was baulking at their relationship.
What does she expect? She knew what I was I like and I never was the nine-to-five type. I can’t see what she’s beginning to go on about so much of late. She’s worrying me and that’s beginning to make my work more difficult than it already is. I need her, but I’m not going to change my life for that.

The first flight call came across the lounge area, coinciding with the arrival on the runway of a Finnair flight in from Moscow. Draining the last of the brandy with two swift gulps, he ran a hand through his hair as he gave the landing aircraft a disinterested glance.