by Eva Hudson
Was it too late to call? What was the time difference? Only one way to find out.
She heard the phone ring once, then twice.
“Nancy Gadd.” It was a nice voice. Friendly.
“Hi, you don’t know me but—”
“Honey, it’s Christmas Eve. Can’t this wait until the new year?” There were the sounds of a party in the background.
“Please, you’ve got to help me.” She wiped away a tear. “I might be dead by then.”
2
Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg climbed carefully out of the black London taxi. The four-inch heels of her new shoes buckled slightly as she stood up: it was three more inches than she was used to. She pulled out a £20 note from her tiny black clutch bag and handed it to the driver.
“Keep the change,” she said.
“You sure?”
She knew her generosity made her look like just another American tourist, but the truth was she had selected the items in her clutch very carefully—a credit card, house keys, security pass, two cell phones, a penknife, her Oyster card and £100 in notes—and she didn’t want the loose change clanking around.
“You have a good evening,” the driver said and pulled away.
Before the cab had driven ten yards down the street, the paparazzi fired off a flurry of shots until they realized Ingrid was not the actress they thought she was. She rearranged the folds of her gray silk dress, brushed out the creases it had acquired during transit—how did attendees at the Oscars get to the Kodak auditorium without getting crumpled?—and crossed the street toward the gallery. An ear-piercing whistle made her stop as she reached the white dotted line in the middle of the road.
“Ingrid!”
She turned to see her boss standing to one side of the photographers. Sol Franklin was waving to her with one hand while the other held tightly to the dying butt of a cigarette. A car—sleek, low, black, expensive—traveling far too fast for Mayfair streets screeched its tires as it swerved to avoid Ingrid before she tottered carefully to the curb.
“You look wonderful,” Sol said as he crunched his cigarette under his patent leather loafer. “We should get dressed up more often.”
“Thank you,” Ingrid said. “You’re looking pretty dapper yourself.” The penguin suit was a big improvement on the corduroy and cardigans Sol usually wore. He had even trimmed his salt-and-pepper beard.
“Pretty dapper? You’re talking like a true Londoner.” He handed her an invite, a cream card, embossed with dark gray type, like a large old-fashioned calling card from a black and white movie. Understated, elegant and unmistakably classy.
Tom Kerrison
Emergent
Neuwirth & Ball Gallery
Burlington Gardens
Tuesday September 3rd 2013, 7pm
R.S.V.P.
“Have you seen Shevkenko arrive?” Ingrid took Sol’s arm to help her balance as they climbed the stone steps to the gallery’s entrance.
“No, but Rybkin is here. Should be a good chance for you to observe the Russian oligarch in his natural habitat.” Ingrid was hoping to encounter some of the super-rich Russians who had been turning parts of the capital into a mini-Moscow. Some were investing in London property while others were taking over British companies, but they were all competing with one another in the galleries and auction houses, pushing up the price of art regardless of whether it was created by an old master or a kid with a spray can.
“And the ambassador didn’t mind giving up her invite?”
“I imagine she minds very much, but she’s still in Estonia.”
When they reached the top of the stairs, the photographers on the sidewalk unleashed a frenzy of flashlights and hollers. A driver opened the rear door of his limousine.
“Is that Keira Knightley?” Ingrid asked.
“Or Natalie Portman? I have trouble telling them apart.”
“Wow, this event is a really big deal, isn’t it?” Ingrid gawped as the movie star posed briefly for the cameras. She thought she had made an effort in her $200 dress and an extra layer of mascara, but she felt like Cinderella in the presence of such sophisticated beauty.
They showed their invites to the doorman whose suit probably cost three times what Sol had paid for his. Or maybe it was just his firm pectorals and youth that made him look like a guest rather than an employee. If it wasn’t for the Bluetooth headset and clipboard in his hand, Ingrid wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he was the star of a string of successful teen movies. He looked them up and down, checked their names against his list and waved them through.
The Neuwirth and Ball gallery was in an old—Ingrid had a hard time dating anything earlier than the twentieth century—classical-looking building. While it retained its original stonework and hardwood floor, everything else in the interior of the vast space was immaculately whitewashed. In front of them, a stone staircase curved up inside a rotunda lined with a succession of enormous, muted canvases.
“Wow,” she said again.
“I told you’d like it,” Sol said. “Bet you never went to anything like this when you worked in the Cleveland field office.”
A waitress carrying a tray of champagne flutes walked past and Ingrid grabbed a couple of glasses, swiftly handing one to her boss. She took a sip, then a gulp. “Actually, that was the last time I went to an art show. A graffiti artist we had under surveillance during a meth factory bust.” Ingrid looked down at her dress. “It was a sneakers-and-hoodie sort of a night.”
“Well, I bet you looked good in a hoodie too.”
They both sensed Sol had said something inappropriate. A fifty-something male commenting on a thirty-something subordinate’s attire, however complimentary, was the sort of small talk that could see him breach the FBI’s code of conduct if it weren’t for the fact that Ingrid knew Sol was about as far from a sleazeball as it was possible to be. They had worked together at the US embassy in London for nearly a year, and Ingrid had formed the opinion that Sol was short for solid: her boss was one of the good guys. So good, in fact, that he knew when he was crossing a line and backed away into embarrassed silence. Ingrid became aware of the sounds of a cello drifting over the chatter of the glittering guests.
“So, if this Tom Kerrison is such a big shot artist, how come I’ve never heard of him?” Ingrid placed her empty glass on a passing tray and picked up another.
“That stuff is meant to be savored,” Sol said.
“I’ll savor this one,” Ingrid smiled and took a sip.
“You really haven’t heard of him?”
“You have?”
“He’s a fashion designer. He’s the big guy at Gucci, or Yves Saint Laurent or Chanel, or… I don’t really know. Famous for shoes, I believe, and he made that documentary a few years ago. Got nominated for some award in Cannes. You must have heard of him?”
“I’m more surprised that you have.”
“I have teenage daughters,” Sol said by way of explanation.
“So he’s a fashion designer, a filmmaker and an artist?”
Sol nodded.
“And he’s brilliant at all three?”
“And that’s why I can’t believe you haven’t heard of him.”
“Hey,” Ingrid said, knocking back another glug, “I’m just a simple farm girl.”
“Well consider tonight part of your cultural education.”
Not for the first time, Ingrid wished she had grown up in a big city rather than rural Minnesota with parents who thought the only culture that mattered was conducted under floodlights. An usher swished past and handed them both a brochure, also printed in a vintage style, featuring a sepia photo of a sculpture of… well, Ingrid wasn’t quite sure what. “Is that a woman?” she asked.
“A pregnant woman. It’s his signature piece,” Sol said. “Apparently it’s already been the subject of a bidding war. So, how are you settling back in? I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk before now.”
Ingrid had been back in London
for six days after taking a month’s leave. She had been home to attend the funeral of an old school friend. “It’s nice to be focusing on work,” Ingrid said.
“How was it,” Sol asked gently, “back home?”
How was she supposed to answer a question like that? “It was odd.”
“I’d thought you would have stayed for Labor Day.”
“To be honest, I needed to make sure I left beforehand. That’s the most time I have spent with my mother since I was a teenager. It was definitely time to leave.”
“But you think it was…,” he searched for the right word, “helpful?”
Ingrid considered how to answer. “I think after so long, knowing the truth, however awful, probably is better than knowing nothing.” Megan had gone missing when they were fourteen, her body only recently discovered in what the press had labeled a House of Horrors.
“And you’re sure you’re ready to come back to work?”
Ingrid nodded. “Especially if this oligarch thing gets green-lit.”
Sol’s phone started to ring in his breast pocket. He fished it out and glanced at the screen. “Louden. Maybe it’s the green light.”
“You better take it.”
Amy Louden was the head of the FBI’s Legal Attaché program at the US embassy in London and Sol’s boss. She was one of those quietly powerful people who could apply intense pressure without ever leaving finger marks: somehow, she had discovered a way to make pretty much everyone do her bidding. Sol wandered back toward the main door where it was a little quieter to take the call.
Talk of home had triggered memories of Megan’s funeral and Ingrid had to quickly blink back the tears. She needed distraction. She headed down a long, wide corridor festooned with what looked like multicolored duct tape. A small card on the wall informed her the title of the piece was Pride. The corridor opened out into a darkened space where a large group of people had gathered. She estimated the combined net worth of the assembled would be a ten-figure number. In the middle of the group, illuminated by a warm single spotlight was the sculpture of the pregnant woman. Up close, it was simply breathtaking. Physically, genuinely, breathtaking. Ingrid felt a slight pressure on her solar plexus, not unlike the sensation of attraction, or fear, or loss.
Carved from marble, she saw the woman had been dismembered: the sculpture had all the components of the human form, yet nothing was quite where you expected it, as if body parts had been found in a heap. Ingrid could not tell if the expression on the woman’s face was agony or ecstasy. It had all the power of a blow to the head and Ingrid felt side-swiped by it. She wondered who in the room had bought it, and if it had sold for seven figures or eight.
“Dobriy vyecher, Agent Skyberg.”
Ingrid recognized the voice at her shoulder instantly. The smell of his cologne made her cringe: Nick Angelis, London’s leading private security consultant.
“Hello Nick.” She turned to face him and was a little annoyed at how good he looked in a tuxedo. The tan, the pompadour, the confidence, the 100-watt smile: how she wished she had resisted his obvious charms a little harder. “Who let you in?”
“Ow. And may I say how stunning you look tonight.” His hand reached up to her neckline and he adjusted the way the silk draped over her left shoulder. “Your, um, scar,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t want anyone to see.”
Ingrid flamed inside as his fingers brushed against her skin: she hated that Nick knew about her scar, hated that they had spent the night together, but mostly she hated that she had enjoyed it so much.
“How long have you been back in London?” Nick’s accent—upper crust, clipped—was an affectation: Nick Angelis, the greatest actor never to step on a stage. Though probably he had done that too.
“You mean you no longer have me under surveillance?”
“That was an unfortunate oversight. It won’t happen again. And I believe I have apologized enough for that.”
Yes, but not for anything else.
“You here on business or pleasure?” she asked.
“The former.”
Ingrid glanced around the room to see who might be employing the skills of Fortnum Security Services. She identified a senior vice president of the World Bank, an American actor who had been a member of the eighties Brat Pack, a Saudi prince and the wife of one of the more prominent Russian oligarchs who called London home. “I’m guessing you’re here to look after Mrs Ivanov?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“No, but you haven’t let her out of your sight the whole time we’ve been talking. Is she the buyer?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment.” He grabbed two glasses of bubbly from a passing waiter’s tray onto which Ingrid placed her empty glass. He handed her a flute of champagne.
“Za vashe zdorovye.”
“Zdorovye.”
“You know, if you came and worked for us, there’d be many more nights like this. The Met, the Bolshoi, private views in the Hermitage,” Nick said. “The remuneration might not buy you a Tom Kerrison original, but it’ll add a zero to whatever the FBI is paying you.”
“Nice as that would be, it would mean working with you.”
“Your words cut me to the quick, agent. Is that really such a terrible prospect?”
It was, Ingrid thought, it truly was. Her brain tried to dismiss the circling memories of their lone night together, but she found herself looking at his shirt just at the spot where she knew, behind the pressed, pleated cotton, was a medallion he refused to ever take off. She pictured it: a silver figure of Aphrodite resting against his firm, waxed chest. Nick might play the part of James Bond, but underneath the shirt were the tattooed reminders of his days working in restaurants and the military before his employment by MI6. Her knowledge of his tattoos, and of their intimacy, created a feeling of pressure at the base of her throat, and she suppressed the urge to retch. “Some of us choose to serve,” she said, trying to salvage her dignity. “If I was interested in money I would never have joined the Bureau.”
“Maybe not tonight, but some day.” Was he talking about the job, or another liaison? He spotted something over her shoulder. “If you will excuse me.”
Nick’s hand brushed lightly over Ingrid’s waist as he moved purposefully to follow someone—the prince or the wife, Ingrid wasn’t entirely sure—out of the room and she flinched at his touch. Nick was good-looking, charming, a gentleman even, but his pursuit of Ingrid had possessed an arrogance, a certainty, and a persistence that had made him repulsive to her… until that one night when a combination of alcohol and low self-esteem had defeated her resolve.
She felt a sudden need for air and found her way into a small, overlooked courtyard. In the middle of it was a bronze fountain spewing a plume of golden spray as the water caught the sodium rays of the original gas lighting. Ingrid followed a limestone path through lush foliage. It was so warm it almost felt tropical. In places, the overgrown shrubs and trees cut out the weak light creating patches of total darkness. She spotted a bench, sat down and immediately removed her shoes placing the soles of her feet on the cold stone slabs.
“Are they new?”
Ingrid looked in the direction of the voice. American accent. East coast. Male. She couldn’t see anyone.
“Your shoes? Are they new?”
The man leaned forward, and out of the shadows, and smiled at her.
“Is it that obvious?”
“May I?” He stepped toward her and gestured to the bench.
“Be my guest.”
His bow tie was untied and his top button was undone. He looked like a high rolling gambler who had just lost at the casino. Forties, maybe fifties, rugged, like one of those models in an aftershave commercial that airs in the run-up to Father’s Day.
“You’re not outside for a smoke,” he said, “so… you must be hiding from someone?”
Ingrid didn’t like it when other people played detective, but there was something so warm, so likable about this man, that she de
cided to play along. She nodded.
“A man?” He offered her a cigarette. She declined.
“Embarrassingly, you’re right. One of many bad choices I’ve made recently.”
A playful smile stretched across his lips. “Perhaps you should try girls.”
Ingrid stopped rubbing her sore feet and stared at him. “I did.” What was she doing confessing to a stranger? “Once. Wasn’t for me.”
“I think you should try everything at least once. My problem is that I never stop at once.” He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Even when something is patently bad for me.”
“So who are you hiding from out here?”
“Oh, pretty much everyone,” he sighed. “You know, a little talcum powder would make a difference.”
“Pardon?”
“With your shoes. Stops the rubbing. Well, reduces it anyway.” He fished a silver flask from the inside pocket of his jacket and took a slug.
“Thanks for the tip. How on earth did you find that out?
He looked perplexed, as if she had suddenly started speaking in another language.
“I’m in the trade,” he said deliberately.
“Oh my word.” Ingrid suddenly felt herself prickle with sweat. “You’re not, are you? You’re Tom Kerrison. This is your show! I’m, uh, I’m such an idiot.” She felt herself blush. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”
He nodded slowly. “I’m not very good with all of that. More of a back-room boy.”
“Ingrid Skyberg,” she said, extending her hand. “Your sculpture… the one of the pregnant woman, it’s incredible. Truly.”
He shook her hand, gently but firmly. “Thank you. I am about to become a father. It’s a very personal piece.”