Marked for Revenge

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  She saw him up ahead, quickly approaching another crossroads in the maze-like market. Luckily, an aggressive salesman grabbed his arm and was pestering him to buy something, which slowed the art dealer down long enough for her to catch up. Sweat poured down her face as she jogged toward him, hoping the salesman’s pushiness would distract from her approach.

  “Hello, madam. Look, please. Good prices.” Another shop keeper tried to grab her arm, but she twisted out of his grip. Unfortunately, the shopkeeper’s yells alerted Ivan to her presence.

  Ivan took off to the left; Zelda raced after him. It was a dead-end street. Up ahead, Ivan was rattling on locked doors, searching for a way out. But there was nowhere to go.

  Zelda shouted, “Where is the artwork? Please, I need to know.”

  Ivan turned to face her. He bent over and rested his palms on his knees. “I can’t tell you just yet. I’ve worked too hard to get everything in place. The art is safe for now. If you leave me alone, I promise you will get it all back. But only if you let me go.” He panted.

  “I don’t believe you!” Zelda pulled out her phone to call Vincent. When she looked at her screen, Ivan charged right at her. He was swinging a heavy glass hanger in one hand, aimed right at her head. She raised her arms too late to block the blow, and the blue glass connected with her temple and shattered. Zelda grabbed at her head, blood streaming through her fingers. She sank to her knees, the pain rapidly spreading through her body. Moments later, she fell forward onto the concrete floor and passed out.

  When Zelda woke up, the humidity and heat made it hard to breathe. Concerned whispers in a language she didn’t understand made her open her eyes to ambulance personnel surrounding her, pulling slivers of glass from her cheek and scalp.

  “Try not to move,” said the only female paramedic, her English accent so thick Zelda had trouble understanding her.

  She closed her eyes and let her mind shut down.

  When she awoke again, Vincent was standing over her, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  65 Bad Luck

  September 24, 2018

  Vincent couldn’t believe his bad luck. Ivan Novak had escaped and hurt Zelda in the process, which was exactly what he didn’t want to happen. He cursed himself for not putting her on the first flight back to Amsterdam the minute their boat hit the shore. Now Zelda was back in the hands of paramedics, and his only consolation was that her injuries weren’t life-threatening. The glass hanger Ivan used to hit her shattered when it hit the side of her head, lessening the impact.

  “Luckily for you that your skull is so thick.”

  “Ha ha,” Zelda mumbled, her speech already slurred by the painkillers the paramedics had administered. They sat at a café table while the ambulance personnel were busy filling in the insurance forms. One of Zelda’s hands held an ice pack to her head, the other to her jaw, both swollen and bruised from the hit. Vincent was relieved she didn’t slip into unconsciousness for too long, knowing about the previous assault and her long-term stay in the hospital.

  “Where’s Ivan?” she asked.

  “Excellent question.” Now that Ivan knew they were in Marmaris, would he go underground and take the art with him? Or would he try to complete whatever transaction he was planning? Vincent still didn’t know why Ivan brought the stolen art here. “What happened? Did he say anything before he hit you?”

  As Zelda recounted her conversation with Ivan, Vincent felt a growing discomfort. What she was telling him was almost too strange to believe. Perhaps her head injury, so soon after the last, was to blame.

  What did Ivan mean by the art was safe, and they would get it back if they left him alone? That didn’t make any sense. He brought the stolen artwork here to Turkey, a land from which it would be nearly impossible to recover through official channels. If he were planning on returning it, why did Ivan go to all this risk to bring it here?

  “Are you going to go to the hospital?” he asked.

  “That’s all you have to say? What do you think Ivan meant?”

  “He’s not your concern anymore, Zelda. None of this is. You need to take care of yourself, which means you either go to the hospital with these gentlemen or back to your hotel room to rest. It’s your choice.” He felt responsible for her getting injured, but Zelda was an adult and he wasn’t the fatherly type so she could make up her own mind.

  “Hotel. I just need to rest. The paramedics said there’s no permanent damage. Once the swelling goes down, I should feel fine.”

  “Okay, let me walk you back.”

  After Zelda signed a few papers, they slowly ascended the hill back to their hotel. Once he tucked her into bed, Vincent returned to his room and grabbed his binoculars. He hoped for the best as he opened the balcony door, knowing Ivan would have had plenty of time to leave town by now. If he were lucky, Ivan had gone back to the yacht and called his buyer to finish their deal. But when would his buyer arrive?

  He looked to the marina, focused in on the last pier and let out a yelp. The Sunset Dreams yacht was motoring out of the marina. “No!” He zoomed in on the boat’s deck, hoping to see the art dealer on board. Instead, what he saw made him grab his camera. He zoomed in again on Luka Antic, standing at the railing next to an older Turkish man, both with glasses in their hands.

  As Vincent snapped away, capturing the men laughing and toasting, he felt as jubilant as they appeared. Here was Luka Antic on the same boat as the stolen artwork! This was the perfect opportunity to recover the stolen goods and finally see the crime boss arrested. Vincent’s frustration mounted when he remembered that he had no contacts in Turkey. Worse yet, because Turkey was not a full member of the European Union, the chance of getting Luka extradited was virtually nil.

  His contacts at Interpol were excellent, but would they be able to help him here in Turkey? He considered who he could call and how long it would take them to respond. Too long. By the time they got here, Luka could be halfway down the Balkan Peninsula.

  He decided on Greece, instead. The captain of the YOLO told him the Greek island of Kos was only a forty-minute ride from Marmaris. Vincent bet Luka’s yacht would cross into Greek waters shortly after they left Marmaris Bay and entered the Mediterranean Sea.

  He searched online for the Greek Coast Guard and dialed. After several attempts, Vincent was connected with an English speaker. He identified himself as a detective and explained how he was working with the Dutch national police and that a yacht leaving Marmaris Bay contained forty pieces of artwork stolen from Dutch museums. The Greek agent quickly confirmed his story and offered the Coast Guard’s full support.

  “Excellent. How soon can you pick him up?”

  “Once he reaches the Aegean Sea and Greek waters, so probably within an hour. Assuming he isn’t heading to another port further down the Balkan Peninsula, instead. We’ll watch his progress and pounce as soon as he’s well within our territory.”

  Vincent put his hand over the phone and cursed silently. “Thank you. I look forward to hearing from you soon.” He hung up, knowing he couldn’t wait that long. There were too many variables and what-ifs. Luka was right there on a vessel full of stolen artwork. As long as the authorities stopped the Sunset Dreams while both were on board, there was no way Luka’s team of lawyers could talk his way out of this mess. Vincent couldn’t let him slip away again.

  He had to keep track of the artwork, at least until the Greek Coast Guard could board his vessel. But even from his excellent vantage point, he would lose sight of them as soon as they went out to sea. Knowing he had only one choice, Vincent raced out of the hotel and down the hill to Bar Street. He jumped aboard the first unmanned fisherman’s boat he saw and sped toward the yacht cruising ahead of him. To his relief, none of the tourists snapping photos along the waterfront blinked an eye, and no belligerent Turkish fishermen cursed him.

  As stupid as it was, stealing a boat was the only thing Vincent could think of to track he artwork. If the Sunset Dreams turned right at the mouth
of Marmaris Bay, it would sail into Greek waters within the hour, but if it turned left, the yacht might be heading further down the Balkan Peninsula and dock at another port in Turkey. In that case, he would need to call Interpol and see what they could do.

  With the bay full of boats, he hoped to stay far enough behind Luka and his companion that they wouldn’t notice him until it was too late. The yacht was much faster and more responsive than his trawler, but Vincent was able to cross through the maze of parasailers, banana boats, Jet Skis, party ships, turtle expeditions, and lumbering sailboats with ease.

  As they approached the mouth of the bay, Vincent heard sirens approaching fast. Did the Greek Coast Guard dare to enter Turkish waters to arrest Luka, he wondered. Puzzled, he looked around, searching for the source. Behind him, two patrol boats were tearing out of the marina and heading straight for him. Oh shit, Vincent thought. Could they have seen him take the boat?

  Vincent slammed his fist into the wheel. “Damn it!” he cursed aloud. Luka Antic was getting away—again.

  As the marina’s police boats circled his, Vincent raised his hands in the air. Two heavily armed officers boarded his boat. When one grabbed his arms to handcuff him, Vincent noticed the yacht began speeding up. His heart was in his hands as the Sunset Dreams exited the bay, its bow already veering to the right toward Greece. Vincent sighed in relief. There was still a chance that the artwork would be recovered, and Luka Antic would finally get his due.

  66 Ivan’s Final Message

  September 24, 2018

  Ivan stood on the bridge next to the marina, his eyes almost unable to believe what he was seeing. Vincent de Graaf stole a boat and was tearing after the Sunset Dreams. “No!” he screamed involuntarily, attracting the attention of a father and son fishing close by.

  He was so close to finally exacting his revenge, and he couldn’t let that detective or Turkish authorities screw it all up by arresting Luka Antic. Ivan ran to the marina and waved down the first guard he saw.

  “A Western man just stole one of the fisherman’s boats—there by the lighthouse. He’s speeding away!”

  Ivan pointed at Vincent’s boat, and the guard followed his finger until he was positive which one the art dealer meant. As soon as he locked onto the fisherman’s boat, he yelled into his walkie-talkie and raced toward two Turkish police boats moored close to the marina’s entrance.

  Satisfied they would deal with Vincent in time, Ivan ran back to the bridge to watch the chase. As soon as he knew Vincent was out of the way, he would make his final move. Ivan squeezed the railing tightly, praying the police caught up with him before the detective could climb aboard. Vincent couldn’t arrest him, but if either Luka or his buyer sensed anything was wrong, the deal wouldn’t go through, and all his work would have been for naught.

  He watched as the police’s patrol vessels easily caught up with Vincent and enclosed him, effectively cutting him off from the yacht. Tears of relief streamed down his face as Luka and his associates sailed on without attracting any attention from the authorities.

  Ivan wiped the tears away and walked to the nearest bench. His heart was about to explode. As he pulled out his phone, his hand shook so badly he had to put it back in his pocket for fear of dropping it. He closed his eyes and thought of his beautiful Marjana.

  The doctors couldn’t agree if it had been a suicide or an accidental overdose. Whatever the official cause, Ivan knew it was the loss of her perfect hands that lead to her death.

  In the beginning, having her working for Luka was ideal. At fourteen, Marjana’s talent was already apparent, and by joining Luka’s team of forgers, Marjana was paid royally to paint while she improved her already incredible skills. And he got an extra commission out of the sales of her copies, which was always appreciated. By merely practicing her craft daily, her painting improved so dramatically that she was soon able to reproduce a small Rembrandt that could fool local experts. Luka had big plans for his organization and needed an extra impulse of cash. Thanks to Marjana’s skills, he was able to have his thieves steal Old Masters, pieces none of the other artists in his stable were able to copy properly and make a mint off her forgeries. Within two years, she became his golden goose, and his organization expanded exponentially. In turn, Luka treated her like a queen, even allowing her to paint her own works and sell them through Ivan’s gallery under her name. Their lives were perfect until she got accepted into art school.

  She was determined to stop forging and concentrate on becoming a real artist. She refused to believe that any self-respecting artist would also forge another’s work. When Ivan confessed that some he represented did occasionally copy pieces for him, she turned on him in a way he never expected. She said he was as sick as Luka, a perversion to the business. And from that moment on, she refused to accept his calls or answer his emails.

  If only she had been satisfied with her life. After the London School of Arts accepted her into their master’s program, there was no talking sense into the girl. Marjana convinced herself that even Luka would understand why she could not let this opportunity go. Ivan knew better.

  Luka got wind of Marjana’s plans as he always does. He had the courtesy to warn her first, making it clear that there would be dire consequences if she tried to leave.

  If only the train had been on time, she would have made it. But three of his men snatched her from the platform before she could board. When they dragged her away and threw her into a van, she refused to let go of the doorframe. When she began screaming for help, the driver panicked and sped away. One of her captors threw the door closed and crushed her hands. Even after too many surgeries and infections to count, she was barely able to hold a pencil let alone paint fine detail, and she never would again. The pills the doctors found in her stomach were a prescription for morphine. That was the only relief Ivan could hold onto—she was in no pain when she passed.

  The day before Marjana was to turn twenty-one, her housemate found her in their bathtub. Was it suicide or an overdose? They would never know for certain. And it didn’t matter anyway. Luka didn’t pull a trigger, but he might as well have. It would have been more humane. Luka ruined her life, and now it was time for Ivan to return the favor.

  His hands steadied. Ivan took out his phone and sent his final message to the world.

  67 The Weakest Link

  September 24, 2018

  Kadir Tekin and Luka Antic watched from the deck of the Sunset Dreams as two police boats circled a fisherman’s boat close by then led it back to shore.

  “What a commotion. Why would a Westerner have stolen such a simple vessel?” Kadir asked.

  “He must have really wanted to go fishing,” Luka quipped. Internally, he was petrified. He recognized Vincent de Graaf behind the trawler’s wheel seconds before he was stopped and boarded. How did the art detective track him to Marmaris? And did he know the stolen art was on board? Luka assumed he did not. Otherwise, Vincent would have screamed bloody murder when the Turkish police stopped him, demanding they search Kadir’s yacht instead. But the police weren’t interested in them at all.

  Kadir watched him closely. “No matter. Shall we step inside? My nephew should have unpacked all of the artwork by now.”

  They descended to the lower deck. In a spacious living room, Kadir’s nephew Taner had hung up all forty pieces. Luka was impressed by the collection Ivan had assembled. He hoped Kadir would be, too.

  Taner smiled broadly when the men entered. “They are magnificent. Congratulations, Uncle. You have a fine foundation upon which we can build a world-class museum.”

  Luka laughed to himself. The boy had spent only a few minutes with the artwork yet had already declared it genuine. Forging the art was a missed opportunity, he realized. Taner probably wouldn’t have known the difference, but Luka was not stupid. His life was far more valuable than whatever their forgeries would have brought him in sales.

  Kadir examined each piece, allowing his art historian nephew to inform him about the mak
er, style, and the piece’s importance in the artist’s oeuvre. Luka could tell that Kadir really didn’t care. He played along anyway, his ego stroked with every compliment. By the time Taner finished his long-winded presentation, Kadir was preening. And why shouldn’t he? According to Taner, this collection showed the progression and development of the world’s most important modern artists. It would most certainly secure the Tekin name in art history books as Kadir desired.

  Kadir was walking on cloud nine by the time they sat down to a celebratory lunch. The two men discussed Kadir’s grand plans for a museum in Marmaris to be opened in thirty years and run by his ten children. A local art gallery had already forged bills of sale for all of the artwork, making it appear Kadir purchased them legally. This allowed him to take full advantage of the loophole in the current Dutch law and guarantee that his children’s ownership would be uncontested. Luka didn’t care about the specifics as long as it made Kadir happy enough to want to work with him again.

  Kadir was chatting away about the plot of land he’d already secured and his architect’s initial plans when a crewmember entered and whispered into his ear.

  Luka didn’t understand what was said, but whatever Kadir had just learned instantly dampened his good spirits. The Turk turned to Luka.

  “Please, excuse me. There seems to be a problem in the kitchen I must attend to.” Kadir rose and stormed out of the room without waiting for a response.

  Luka shrugged his shoulders. What could the cooks need from Kadir right now, he wondered. It didn’t matter. He had delivered the artwork. When his host returned, he would steer the conversation toward the heroin shipment. His European contacts were eager to see his merchandise, and Luka had promised to deliver the first batch next week. He hoped there would be no delays.