The Negotiator: A Novel of Suspense

by Brendan DuBois

  The front and rear doors are expensive, solid, and dependable, with deadbolts. There’s no keypad, no alarm system, no stickers on the windows or little signs stuck in the lawn to warn anyone passing by that this little suburban house has something to hide.

  That’s attention I don’t want. Which is why when I’m not working, I’m the perfect quiet little suburban bachelor. I tell everyone who asks that I’m writing a textbook concerning macroeconomics—which should be finished in three or four years—and which makes most people’s eyes roll back in their heads. I’m of a certain age that companionship of some sort is expected, so if I’m asked, I tell the questioner that I’m a widower who had the love affair of a lifetime. Then I make a sad face, and the subject quickly gets changed.

  I give out candy during Halloween, help the elderly couple across the street shovel out their driveway, and twice a year, when the street is closed off for a block party, I volunteer to make my world-famous cheeseburgers.

  Occasionally I invite my neighbors in for dinner. My house is clean and unimpressive. Bookshelves, shiny kitchen, nice furniture, and a wall-mounted plasma television. No gun cases, no mounted heads of killed animals on the wall, and certainly no Guns & Ammo magazines scattered around the coffee table. And when my neighbors are eating, there’s no discussion of politics or anything else on my part that would make me memorable down the road.

  I proudly give them tours of my house, if requested, and I even take them down to the cellar, which has a workbench with a collection of tools, an oil tank and furnace, and a spare freezer.

  All plain, vanilla, and boring.

  Which works perfectly.

  I went inside my home, dropped the mail off on the kitchen counter for later inspection and disposal, and made a quick wandering around the rooms, no set pattern, just random, but I was checking all my windows, making sure the little telltale signs I left there—small lengths of toothpicks—had remained in place. Very simple and very effective.

  All seemed secure.

  I got into the basement, went to the workbench, manipulated the racks holding the hammers and a yardstick. The pegboard swung back, revealing my large, foundation-based safe, and I worked the combination and slid the day’s earnings inside.

  In another minute, I closed everything up, and I had a quick memory of a tour six months ago, when a newly moved-in architect up the street took interest in my house, started lecturing me on its style and shape, and in the basement, started talking about the special foundation and how it was made from local stone.

  He got pretty close to my hidden safe.

  Lucky for him, pretty close wasn’t in the zone where I would have had to have snapped his neck and waste part of an evening finding a place for his body.

  Sounds like a boring life, eh? But I love it. Get up when I want to, eat whatever suits me, read lots of books, watch a lot of movies, and sometimes take continuing education lessons at the local state university.

  But work is always out there, and I’m always ready for it.

  After coming back from a midmorning bicycle ride nearly a week later, I went into the kitchen via the one-car garage and heard a slight hum, followed by a pause, and then another hum. It was my latest iPhone, telling me a message had come in.

  Goody. I was getting bored.

  I took a swig of orange juice from my refrigerator, put the container back in, and checked the iPhone, clicking through a variety of screens until I got to a very valuable and unique app that I was promised years ago would take the efforts of the National Security Agency to track and maybe—maybe—crack.

  I thumbed through, saw two invites for an upcoming negotiation. The messages were sent via text through an email system based in Finland, which went through a series of anonymous email forwarding systems before coming to me.

  This forwarding system was also made by the same woman who made the unique app for my iPhone. I met her once, years ago in Perth, and had never communicated with her, ever again. And it took me nearly six months to earn back the money I had paid her, but it had been worth every penny. Or rand. Or yen. Or Bitcoin.

  The date was set for tomorrow at two p.m., at a private residence in eastern Vermont, where the buyer lived. A drive, then, and reasonably local. Okay. And the item in question was a rare painting. Okay again. And the buyer was flying in tonight to Boston from Tokyo, and would arrive tomorrow at the same time.

  I sent back my affirmative reply, made sure to copy Clarence, and then went upstairs to take a shower. The shower felt good, and when I was done, I pulled the shower curtain open and left it there.

  When I came back downstairs—shaved, dressed, and teeth fully brushed—I checked my iPhone again and saw a reply from Clarence, setting up a rendezvous point and time. I quickly acknowledged that, shut off my iPhone, and then read up for the rest of the day about rare paintings.

  Twenty-four hours later, I was with Clarence as he drove us to the small village of Chester, about ten or so miles away from the Connecticut River, splitting Vermont and New Hampshire into two almost identical halves.

  As we got closer, Clarence said once again, “I thought you didn’t like private homes.”

  “I don’t.”

  “So why the exception?”

  “An additional five percent, that’s why.”

  “Oh.”

  “And if it’s a very rare painting, that could mean a very fine payday for us both.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I was thinking that additional money would be helpful for you, your ex, and your boys, and whatever interests you have.”

  He smoothly navigated his Lincoln Navigator along the narrow country lanes outside of Chester. He said, “Appreciate that, boss, but you don’t have to worry.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “What? That you don’t have to worry?”

  “No,” I said. “That you called me boss. You feeling under the weather?”

  He sighed, ran a hand across his bald head.

  “No, feeling fine,” Clarence said. “It’s just that … yeah, I’m worried about the future. Always worry about the future. You think this will be a good payday?”

  “Rare paintings don’t get bought for a hundred bucks and Starbucks coupons,” I pointed out.

  He grunted in appreciation, looked at the hand-printed directions. I don’t trust having printed-out directions from computers, because they always leave a trace. The land was mostly farms, with a few homes scattered in, ranging from mobile homes that were no longer mobile, to suburban-style Cape Code homes, to houses just a bit bigger and better. We turned on a road called Timberswamp, and went on for another mile.

  “Okay, this looks like the place,” he said.

  Clarence slowed and turned right. There was a nicely paved driveway, with flanking stonewalls going off to the left and right. A simple granite post had the numeral 19 carved in, painted black. There were a few birch trees and oak trees, and a nicely trimmed lawn. The driveway widened into a two-space lot before a two-car garage. No other vehicles were visible.

  The home was old, made in the simple late 1700’s or early 1800’s Colonial style. Two story, with a peaked roof and shrubbery around the foundation. Clarence turned and backed in, so that the front of his Lincoln was facing out. He put the SUV in park, switched off the Lincoln’s big engine.

  “You ready?”

  “I was going to say I was born ready, but I don’t want to raise expectations.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He unbuckled his seatbelt, leaving his dangling set of keys with a scratched round plastic Red Sox logo hanging from the ignition. That way, no matter what happened, we always had the ability to get the hell out of Dodge if the bad guys showed up, hitchin’ to do us harm, without worrying who had the keys.

  Clarence got out first, and I followed him.

  “Nice place,�
� he said.

  “I like it, too.”

  The door opened and an older couple bustled out. Both wore baggy khakis, and the gentleman wore a light blue pullover sweater while the lady wore a bright red cardigan. They were smiling and their faces were tanned and slightly worn, like salt-of-the-earth Vermonters who were just so happy to make your acquaintance.

  “So glad you’re here,” the man said, stepping forward, extending a hand. “Did you have a problem finding the place?”

  “No, not at all,” I said.

  “George,” the woman said. “Invite them in. They must be tired for driving in all the way from Massachusetts.”

  I instantly felt a flare of suspicion at her statement—how the heck would this grandma know about us coming from Massachusetts?—and then that flare was extinguished by embarrassment. The way Clarence had parked his Navigator, the red-and-white plate for the fair Commonwealth was quite visible to anybody looking on from the house.

  “Sure, Beth, that sounds fine,” George said, waving us forward. “Come along, now.”

  Clarence followed George and Beth into their house, and I kept a step behind him. I had on black shoes, gray slacks, white shirt, and blue blazer. Clarence had a two-part gray suit, also with white shirt and no necktie, and it was its usual baggy style. We were trying for up-scale country fashionable, and not to be modest, I think we both nailed it.

  Inside was a small foyer, with a narrow plain wooden staircase leading upstairs. To the right was a kitchen and dining room, and to the left, a living room with built-in bookshelves crowded with books that I was instantly envious of.

  Clarence and I halted, and George waved a hand to the stairway. “Come this way, up to my office,” he said. “Beth? Could you bring us some refreshments?”

  “Absolutely, dear,” and she went off to the kitchen, and George led us up the narrow stairway. The walls were plain yellow plaster, with small-framed etchings of New England landscapes. Our footsteps were loud on the wooden risers. At the top an open door to the right led to a master bedroom, and we went to the left, to a book-lined office.

  George led the way, sat behind a wide mahogany desk. There were two plain wooden captain’s chairs, which Clarence and I took. Behind George were two windows overlooking the rear yard and woods, and behind the two of us were similar windows. I spared a glance as I sat down. I could make out Clarence’s Navigator, parked in the driveway.

  “I appreciate you coming here,” George said. “Would you like to take a look at the painting now?”

  “Certainly,” I said, looking at my watch. It was five minutes until two p.m. “Your buyers have ten minutes to get here. Have you heard from them?”

  “That I have, that I have,” George said. A sound of footsteps and Beth came in, holding a wooden tray with three ceramic mugs of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies. The cookies had an elaborate swirl of sugar on the top, looking like maple leaves. We each took a mug and then Beth left. George munched on a cookie and sighed. “Damn, that woman makes the best cookies. Fresh out of the oven today.” He wiped his hands with a paper napkin and stood up. “May I?”

  “Go ahead.”

  George got up from his chair, went to a near bookcase. One of those large black zippered carrying cases for artwork was leaning up against the case. He picked it up with both hands and brought it over to the desk, pushed aside the plate of cookies, and put the case down, zipping it open. I went over as he flipped the case open. It was large, just over five feet square.

  I looked down, looked back up at George, and then down again.

  “What?” he asked. “Is there a problem?”

  I couldn’t talk, couldn’t move, could hardly breathe. It was a large framed painting, filling up almost the entire carrying case. It was old, depicting a dramatic seascape. A small fishing boat with a tall mast was in danger of being swamped in a storm. Men at the bow of the boat were shown struggling with lines of rope coming down from the mast. At the stern, almost being washed away, another group of frightened men were gathered around a bearded man in robes. The colors were white and blue and black, and I couldn’t believe they were within my reach.

  George leaned over. “Is there something wrong?”

  Lots of questions were bouncing around in my mind, but I remembered another rule of mine, which is never, ever inquire as to how a certain item got into someone’s possession. Just accept the fact of possession, and move on.

  “No,” I said. “Nothing wrong. I’d like to take a closer look.”

  He gestured with his right hand. “Go right ahead.”

  I managed to pick the painting up and looked at the back. No fresh paper or canvas was visible, which is always a sign of a forger trying to hide something. I gently put the painting back down on the desk. I took out my jeweler’s loupe from the previous job and gave a quick scan of the painting. The brushstrokes looked old, and they looked legitimate. The color of the paints used was also the right time period—nothing like cerulean blue, which wasn’t invented until the nineteenth century. The condition of the signature was good, too, with no bleeding or other signs that it had been added on after the painting was completed. The craquelure—the pattern of small cracks that develop on a painting over time—also seemed to be in the right locations and in the right amount.

  “Well?” George asked. I ignored him, still letting the impact of the painting just overwhelm me. It was rare during a negotiation that I become intoxicated with reviewing the item for sale, and this was definitely one of those times.

  I shook myself free. Clarence was still standing, cookie in one large hand.“Do you know what you have here?” I finally asked.

  “A very old painting, I hope,” he said, sitting down in his chair. I took one more glance at the artwork and went back to my own chair, picked up my mug of lemonade, took a quick sip.

  “Anything else?”

  “Well … I saw this on the Internet. It looks like it could be what’s-his-name, the Dutch guy. Rembrandt. That’s what I thought the signature said.”

  I nodded. “You’re correct. Rembrandt van Rijn is the painter. This … this piece of art is called ‘The Storm on the Sea of Galilee,’ and was painted in 1633. It’s considered quite rare and valuable, since it’s the only seascape Rembrandt ever painted. It shows the Apostles fishing on the Sea of Galilee, when a storm rises up, threatening to drown them. You can see Christ at the stern, with the apostles begging for his intervention.”

  Next to me Clarence said, “Holy shit. For real?”

  “For real,” I said. “And it’s been missing since 1990 … where it was stolen from the Isabelle Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, along with a number of other valuable artworks.”

  George’s eyes grew wide at that. “How much is it worth?”

  I pondered that. “A lot. But because of its current provenance, the size of the offer is going to depend on the buyer, and what he or she is prepared to offer. It’s a stolen piece of artwork. Very hot, very attractive to law enforcement. Just so you know, your buyer is going to have to be a special person, indeed.”

  George picked up his lemonade mug. “He’s a Japanese collector and businessman. In fact, he should be here right about now.”

  And he tilted his wrist to look at his watch, spilling lemonade all over his desk.

  “Oh, damn it,” he said, standing up. “Beth!” he yelled. “Could you bring up some paper towels? I’ve spilt the damn lemonade on my desk.”

  I heard a cheery voice, “Coming, George!”

  He smiled and shook his head. “What a mess.”

  He lowered his hand, opened a desk drawer, pulled out a pistol, and shot Clarence in the throat.

  Three

  The sound of the gunshot was deafening, and the next sounds came from Clarence, gasping and gurgling, grabbing at his throat, and another shot from George’s pistol blew off a chunk of Clarence’s h
ead, spraying me with blood and brain matter.

  Between the first and second shot, I tossed my mug at George and fell to one knee, slipping out my Sig-Sauer Model P226, rapidly firing off two shots. He dropped behind his desk. I got up, replaced my Sig-Sauer to my waist holster, snapped it shut, and grabbed the wooden captain’s chair and blasted it through the near window, and then I followed it out to the ground, two stories below.

  It was a sloppy escape. I landed in the juniper bushes, slamming my shoulder against the chair, and rolled to the lawn and kissed a good chunk of dirt and grass, hands cut from the broken glass and branches.

  But my plan was to get out of the house, that killing zone, and in that way, the plan was working.

  I got up, retrieved my Sig-Sauer, and raced to Clarence’s Lincoln Navigator.

  All four tires were flat.

  I went around the front of the Navigator as the door to the house flew open.

  Beth came out, wearing a Kevlar vest over her red cardigan sweater, expertly holding an H&K MP5 submachine gun in her hands. She brought it up to her shoulder, but I was quicker—maybe a touch of arthritis in her joints—and I fired off three rounds, knocking her back into the house.

  I opened the door to the Navigator.

  Keys were there.

  Brief miracle.

  I started up the Navigator and got the hell out of that driveway.

  I drove a couple of miles away from the house on the Navigator’s flat tires, found a dirt road, backed in the Navigator, switched off the engine.

  My hands started shaking.

  The right side of my head was wet. I put my hand up there, gave it a touch, brought my hand down.

  Blood and bits of gray-white tissue.

  From Clarence.

  I reached over, opened up the glove compartment, took out a fistful of napkins and a moist towelette. I cleaned myself up as best I could. I got out of the Navigator, took more towelettes out, and wiped down any place I could have touched. I took a series of deep breaths.