by Peter Corris
Sofya felt her body and brain respond; she felt the tingle between her thighs and the firm, logical sequence in her mind. This is right, she thought. She would go to Moscow before Mikhail and she would take some morphine with her and she would pay Vitalia Bystryi a visit as a dutiful almost-daughter-in-law should.
53
Cochabamba prison, Bolivia, November 1986
Juan La Vita's hair and beard were white, although he was only in his middle forties. Prison food, frequent illness and long periods spent in solitary confinement for breaches of discipline had aged him. The guards called him 'El Chico' ironically but almost everyone in the prison had forgotten about Che Guevara and the time when he and his followers had sent soldiers trotting back into town naked and barefoot.
In recent years he had learned to keep his mouth closed and to stop his hands from forming fists. The publication of his journal brought him little international attention and that only briefly. Worse still was the indifference of the prison authorities. His punishment was three months in solitary, which was nothing and it showed they didn't care. His time on the chain gang, road building, was long past, as was the gruelling labour in the bean fields. Now he worked in the prison library. He nurtured the books like babies, smoothing their crumpled pages, repairing their covers, stiffening their cracked spines. Sometimes he typed out whole chapters and glued them into the books to replace pages that had become illegible from having coffee spilt on them or, in the case of legal and philosophical books, from being underscored and written on.
Quiet and scholarly, as well read as the prison library system permitted him to be and outwardly acquiescent, he remained 'El Chico' in his heart.
"I am a revolutionary," he had lately told a young prisoner who was checking out a translation of Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls.
"Me too, man," the young man replied. "When I get outa here I'm going up to Nicaragua and join the Contras. Kick out those Sandanista bastards."
Juan handed him the book sadly. "Be careful. Some of the pages are loose."
The prisoner winked. "Bet it's the pages where he screws the girl in the sleeping bag. I heard about it. That's what I wanna read."
"You don't have to borrow it to do that. You can do it right here in a minute or two."
Another wink. "I wanna read it at night, man. In bed. You understand?"
Juan understood. He had travelled the whole length of the prisoner's sexual road—from fierce celibacy to frantic masturbation, desperate homosexuality and final indifference. Now los maricons left him alone, respecting his grey hairs and his usefulness as a gaolhouse lawyer. Juan prepared appeals and parole applications; he petitioned officials and would-be employers; he wrote to wives, sweethearts and children. Some days he was so busy he forgot to eat and almost forgot that he was in prison.
He had the correspondence with Wade Phillips on his desk and he glanced through it again in between checking books.
Dear Señor La Vita [Phillips had written]
Our investigations confirm Mr Cromwell's credentials and the authenticity of his story. Allow me to congratulate you on this good fortune after the hardships you have endured.
Juan had responded by authorizing Montague Cromwell to dispose of the painting 'to the greatest advantage of the joint owners' and signifying his willingness to have funds lodged in his name in a bank of his choice. He had received several telegrams from Montague Cromwell, a letter from Georgia Gee and an options proposal from Lou Faraday. Ben Cromwell had written to him about Kobi Clarke, but Juan remained uncertain about Vanuatu, as no atlas or encyclopaedia in the library recorded the name. He noted suspiciously that all details of the Russian connection were vague in Cromwell's account. These bloody capitalists are probably cutting the Russian out, he thought, and he wrote making it a condition of his agreement that the proceeds were to be divided four ways. Montague Cromwell's reassurance was endorsed by Wade Phillips.
The flock of correspondence had occasioned a summons to an audience with the prison governor. "What's all this?" Raoul Hoja was a lazy, impatient man nearing retirement. He wanted peace and quiet in his gaol and no black marks on his record.
Juan shrugged. He had never learned respect for authority, which had caused him trouble in his youth but was now regarded as an eccentricity. "A small inheritance," he said. "Nothing."
"A painting, ingles?"
"A religious work." All the correspondence had been worded cryptically and Juan doubted that the prison boasted a person of sufficient education to discover its true import.
Hoja waved an envelope bearing the Amnesty International sign. "And this? You are a terrorist, not a prisoner of conscience, whatever that is."
Juan shrugged again. "Definitions vary, jefe."
"Not in my prison. No trouble, you understand? No inspections, no Red Cross, no television."
Juan nodded. He had difficulty in keeping a smile from his face. Lou Faraday's memo had suggested that he stay in prison long enough 'to maximize the emotion generated by incarceration', but he kept a straight face; signs of amusement in prisoners generated fury in officials. "No trouble," he said. "They ask me if I want to get out and I say yes. What else can I say?"
It was Hoja's turn to shrug. "Your papers say you will never get out." He studied the man standing in the middle of the room. There is something here, he thought. Something to be careful of. Raoul Hoja had not survived thirty years in the Bolivian bureaucracy through luck. He knew himself to be shrewd. He waved at a chair beside the desk. "Sit down, La Vita. Cigar?" He moved the box across the desk.
Juan sat. "Thanks." He took a cigar and put it in the pocket of his denim shirt. "I don't smoke, but thanks."
Hoja frowned. "What do you do with your tobacco ration?"
"I give it away."
Hoja smiled. "Ah, yes, of course. You are a communist."
"I was," Juan said.
"No more?"
"When I get out I'll see."
Hoja shook his head. "It's not smart to be a communist in Bolivia," he said. "It has never been smart."
"I know," Juan said.
The governor flicked his fingers at the door. "Back to your duties, La Vita. You are restricted to sending two letters per month."
That's enough, Juan thought.
Since then he had received another letter from Phillips. It told him of the moves to secure his release, of the approaches made to the Bolivian authorities, of their wish to avoid adverse publicity when the story of the Gulliver fortune broke.
Provided you make certain undertakings, our negotiators expect no difficulties in securing your release in the very near future. Technicalities remain to be resolved and the wheels turn slowly, but events in London are progressing satisfactorily . . .
Juan checked out The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to a man who had tied his landlord to a chair in the flat he rented from him, doused the room in petrol and thrown a match in through the front door.
"Thanks, Juan," the man said. "Are there any fires in this book?"
"I'm not sure. It's a long time since I read it."
"I hope there's some fires."
Juan gave the man the governor's cigar. His eye fell on Phillips's letter: 'make certain undertakings'. Well, he knew they would be made. He would play a different game from Nelson Mandela. He would renounce violence as a means of achieving political change. He would swear it on the Bible and his mother's grave. Then he would be free and very rich. He wondered just how many guns the money would buy.
54
London, December 1986
"The painting's not insured," Jamie Martin said.
Lou Faraday's eyes popped. "What! You're kidding!"
"I'm serious." Jamie looked at Kobi Clarke and Georgia Gee, who were sitting close together on the couch in Jerry's flat. Jerry stood by the window. Rachel rose from the floor where she'd been sitting with her legs crossed. Anger seemed to loosen her limbs and she flowed upwards to tower over Faraday. She shook her fist at Jamie.
> "I knew there was some kinda scam going down here, you bastard. Don't . . ."
"Shut up, Rachel," Kobi said quietly. "If there is something dirty going on, Jamie and Jerry aren't behind it."
Rachel stood in front of Faraday with her legs apart and her hands on her hips. "You hear that? You going to let him talk to me like that?"
Faraday gazed at the solid, impassive figure of Kobi Clarke. "Yes," he said. "The man's talking sense. Shut up, Rachel. What do you think he got us together for? It's the Cromwells, right, Mr Martin?"
Jamie nodded. "I checked every possible insurance company. There aren't that many of them and there aren't many qualified assessors. No attempt to insure 'Harwich Seascape' has been made."
"Montague said Ben had arranged the insurance," Jerry said. "Remember?"
Georgia nodded. "Yes, that's right." Something in Jerry's voice and manner told her that there were undercurrents here. Jerry and Ben Cromwell? she thought. This is going to be tricky if old wounds are still open.
"I need a drink," Lou Faraday said.
It was eleven a.m. and the only alcohol Jerry had in the flat was a bottle of Algerian red. She opened it and poured six glasses. Faraday drank half of his measure and stared at the wall.
Kobi Clarke sipped the wine and shuddered. "God, get me back to Sydney. Well, it's pretty obvious what they've got in mind."
"Is it?" Rachel said.
Kobi put his glass down out of reach. "They're going to steal the painting and dispose of it some way beneficial to them and non-beneficial to us."
"How do you figure that?" Lou said.
Georgia looked at Jerry, who was staring miserably out of the window. "We've been naive. Those security arrangements were only so-so. If the painting had been properly insured the insurers would've insisted on much tighter security."
"Yes," Jamie said. "And now, if the picture's stolen, there's no insurance investigation to contend with. No awkward questions. The Cromwells look careless, incompetent even, but no multi-million-pound insurance company is out of pocket and on their backs."
"No story," Rachel said. "Who wants a story with no ending? We're the only ones . . . whadidya call it, outai pocket?"
"Don't forget Mikhail and Juan," Jerry said. She drank her wine without tasting it. "Jamie and I knew that they . . . Montague and Ben, were up to something. Montague wanted to close the investigation down before it reached you, Kobi. They've never been interested in seeing justice done, or the truth, or whatever."
Georgia stood and moved to the window beside Jerry. "I haven't met Ben Cromwell," she said. "But the way you say his name suggests you knew him pretty well. Is he capable of this—defrauding everybody?"
Jerry thought about Ben's perpetual air of grievance, the half-truths, the drinking, the deceptions. "Yes," she said miserably. "Yes, I think so."
Georgia put her hand on Jerry's shoulder. "Don't worry. It won't happen. Kobi?"
Rachel watched Kobi Clarke respond to Georgia's voice. I could show him shaved pussy with a bow and he wouldn't notice, she thought. The large man in the immaculate dark suit, discreetly striped shirt and plain tie looked like one of the diplomats she'd seen around the UN building on First Avenue. Now he got up from his chair and moved to the centre of the room. He looked intently at Lou Faraday, smiled at Georgia and Jerry and favoured Jamie Martin with an appreciative nod. "Thank you for this, Jamie," he said. "I take it the Cromwells don't know of your suspicions?"
"No," Jamie said.
"Then we have an advantage."
Faraday sounded weary. "Should we go to the cops?"
Kobi shook his head. "I don't think so. The safe thing to do would be to arrange to insure the painting. But it would be very slow and costly. The Cromwells might try to frustrate us. I doubt we could arrange a sale for . . ."
"A year, possibly," Jerry said. "Once the lawyers and insurance people got into it. Montague has arranged an auction for the end of the month. I've seen the brochures—they're flashy and a bit vulgar, but . . ."
"Nothing wrong with that," Lou Faraday said. "Money's the vulgarest thing there is. I don't like the sound of a year wait. Too long. Who knows what stories could break in a year? Billy Graham might get AIDS. You got anything in mind, ah . . . Kobi?"
"Jamie?" Kobi said.
"I thought we might try to steal the painting ourselves, but that's about as far as I got."
"Great for the story," Faraday said.
Georgia laughed. "And substitute a copy."
"Hey," Rachel said, "not bad. What's the thing look like? I can paint. I've done some great stuff on subway carriages."
Everyone laughed and the tension in the room eased. Jerry described how she'd used the key to enter Montague's house and keep tabs on the progress of the investigation. She undertook to go into the house again.
"With me along," Jamie said.
Kobi Clarke made notes on one of Jerry's writing pads. "The auction house must have some insurance arrangements," he said. "Maybe we can find a way to move the cover forward discreetly. It'd also help if we could find out why the Cromwells are playing fast and loose. Any ideas, Jerry?"
Jerry shrugged. "Money for Montague, I suppose. He doesn't care about anything else much, except. . . appearances. With Ben, I don't know. Ben hates the world."
Kobi made a note. "Now, has anybody got any money? I mean several hundred pounds, perhaps a thousand."
Jerry and Jamie said they might have about half that between them.
"You look like you got money," Rachel said.
Kobi smiled. "Thank you, but I haven't. If I don't eat in the hotel where Monty's paying the bill I don't eat at all."
"I've got some," Georgia said, "why d'we need it?"
Kobi tore the top sheet from the pad. "To hire help. We have to start guarding the bloody picture ourselves. Round the clock. Night and day."
55
Three nights later Jamie Martin got an urgent call from one of the private detectives he had hired to watch the gallery where 'Harwich Seascape' was stored. He immediately phoned Kobi Clarke. The two men met the detective, a sharp-featured Scot named Livingstone, in a doorway across the street from the gallery.
"What's going on?" Jamie said.
Livingstone pulled his coat collar up against the sharp wind. "It's a wee bit difficult to figure out. There's someone on the roof and there's another couple of laddies around the back. The watchman on this shift likes a drop and he's had a few too many. He's sitting in his bloody car, half asleep."
"How many ways are there down from the roof?" Kobi said.
Livingstone admired a man who could ask the right question. He pointed to the corner of the building. "Just the one," he said. "See there, where you can get from the fence up onto that low section of the roof? It's thirty-foot drops everywhere else. I checked."
"Other buildings?" Kobi said.
Livingstone shook his head. "No way. Carl Lewis couldn't make the jumps. That's where he went up and that's where he's got to come down. There's a skylight on the next stage of the roof."
Jamie clenched his fists inside his overcoat pockets. Like many scholars, he dreamed of being a man of action but, now that the moment had seemingly arrived, he was apprehensive. "What are the other two doing?"
"We'll know in a minute," Livingstone said. "Young Charlie Bow'll be along to give us the drum."
A chunky man in a quilted jacket and wearing a knitted cap appeared from nowhere. His trainers had made no sound on the footpath.
"Charlie," Livingstone said. "These're the gaffers. What can you tell us?"
"It's a torch job, man," Charlie said. His accent was London—West Indian. "Looks like they're waitin' for the geezer on the roof to come down and then—zappo! They've got the gear to blow the wiring and boost the heat."
Jamie was puzzled. "What?"
"Electrical fire," Livingstone said. "It's the modern way. What d'we do, gents?"
A car swished quietly past on the wet street, then another. A few lights
showed in the surrounding buildings, but it was two a.m. and the district was quiet. Kobi surveyed the street carefully. A truck was parked close to where the roof climber would have to descend. Once down he had three choices—left or right along the street, or down the lane that ran beside the gallery.
Livingstone appeared to read Kobi's mind. "He'll go right. He's got a vehicle down there."
Charlie rubbed his hands together and jammed them into the pockets of his jacket. "He can signal the other geezers from the footpath. They're at the end of the lane. A whistle maybe; or a flashlight."
"He'll be carrying something," Kobi said. "A whistle's the best bet. Okay, Charlie, you and me'll be over by the truck. We'll grab him as soon as he comes down."
"What about us?" Jamie said.
Kobi's teeth flashed in the darkness. "He may have a gun. If he does you'll have to improvise. You in, Charlie?"
Charlie Bow didn't know what to make of the geezer with the dark skin and crinkly hair who talked like a professor but looked as if he could kick heads. He nodded. In, man, he said.
Livingstone gripped the sleeve of Kobi's coat. "The important item is what the man on the roof's carrying, right?"
Kobi thought of Mikhail and Juan La Vita, and Georgia. He looked at Jamie who nodded. "Right," Kobi said. "Keep your eye on it but don't interfere unless you have to."
Kobi and Charlie scuttled across the road and crouched behind the truck. After a few minutes Kobi heard a scraping on the roof and a man appeared, briefly silhouetted against the sky. He dropped down onto the low part of the roof. He was carrying something under his arm. Kobi's gestures left Charlie in no doubt as to what they were going to do. The man crept cautiously across the roof, turned and settled himself on its edge. He waited until he was satisfied about his balance, then took a long step onto the top of the fence, pushed off hard and prepared to make what was really a broken leap to the pavement. Charlie and Kobi moved as the man committed himself to the jump. He hit the footpath, nicely bent at the knees and with his bundle safe under his arm.
Kobi's arm locked around the man's neck and cut off his wind. He dropped the bundle and Charlie scooped it up. Kobi forced the man's arms up behind his back and drove him hard into the wall. He yelped as his nose hit the cement. Kobi held him against the wall with one hand and, reaching around, gripped his scrotum with the other.