Language in the Blood

by Angela Lockwood

  Chapter 25: Pablo

  After two weeks in Paris, I needed to leave. The French police had wasted no time in tracing Rashid’s movements in Cannes and when a witness said he had seen him going to my boat and linked it with my disappearance, an arrest warrant was issued and the story was plastered over the papers.

  I’d been debating whether or not to do something about Rashid before going north so when I finally plucked up the courage to ask Andrei for a favour, I was afraid I’d left it too late. I contacted him, with some trepidation, on a burner cell phone.

  ‘Andrei? It’s me.’

  ‘Cameron, Jesus Christ! You’re wanted for murder! You’re all over the papers!’

  ‘Can I still trust you?’ I asked.

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘No, but it doesn’t look good. A man I’ve done business with was arrested with some jewellery from the murdered woman.’ For the time being I would have to lie to Andrei. ‘Listen Andrei, how much influence do you have in Moscow?’ I asked him.

  ‘I know people,’ he said, cagily.

  ‘Can you meet me in Paris?’ I asked him.

  ‘I am there next week. Usual hotel,’ he told me.

  Andrei liked to stay at the Ritz on the Place Vendôme, so we met there in the lobby the following week. We walked towards the Tuileries garden and found a quiet spot to talk.

  ‘How can I help?’ he asked.

  ‘Could you get a man out of a high security prison in Moscow and out of Russia?’ I asked him bluntly.

  ‘Is this the businessman you want to disappear?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes. I think if we can get him to Afghanistan, he’ll be able to stay hidden,’ I told him.

  ‘Maybe, but it is going to be very expensive,’ he said leaning back on the park bench looking thoughtful.

  ‘Don’t worry, I will make it worth your while,’ I assured him.

  ‘I can have him dealt with in prison, stop him from talking. It would be cheaper and simpler,’ he offered.

  ‘No, Andrei. Don’t worry about the money.’ I pulled out a small canvas. ‘As I said, it will be worth your while.’

  When Hélène had told me she’d once sat for Picasso, I had made enquiries. Picasso told me he had sold the painting he’d done of her in 1923 to a wealthy lawyer in Paris. It didn’t take me long to find the lawyer’s house, but it took a year before I had the confidence to break in and make the painting disappear from his office wall. I’d hidden it in the catacombs, hoping to give it to Hélène for her 26th birthday, but she’d taken her own life a month before. I’d been pleased to find it still in its hiding place in the catacombs all these years later. I’d thought about retrieving it as I saw the prices of Picasso’s work go up and up over the years, but it had been meant for her, so I couldn’t bring myself to retrieve it to just sell. Now there was a purpose for this small painting; a gift intended for one friend could help another.

  Owning a Picasso was Andrei’s dream. Better yet, this one would probably be seen as an undiscovered work as it had disappeared so long ago. Andrei was speechless.

  ‘Where...? How did you get this?’ he stammered.

  ‘It was stolen in 1925, but I don’t think there’s any record of its existence,’ I explained.

  ‘How did you get it?’ he asked.

  ‘Not important. You can say you found it at a flea market and thought it was a fake. You paid fifteen euros for it.’

  ‘So it is real? You had it authenticated?’ he asked, turning the painting over and studying it from all angles.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know who the portrait is of?’ he asked, unable to take his eyes off the canvas.

  ‘It is of Hélène Bruchard. She sat for him occasionally.’ Andrei gave me a quizzical glance. I leaned back nonchalantly, not letting on there was anything special about that. His eyes quickly went back to the painting.

  ‘Wow, it is just stunning! So, I am to understand that if I get your man to Afghanistan you will let me have this painting?’

  ‘If you can get Rashid Lal out of prison and to a safe place, yes, the painting is yours.’

  ‘And are you ok, Cameron? Do you need money or a place to stay? I have a very nice place in St Petersburg if you want to hide out there for a while,’ he offered.

  ‘Nah, I’m ok. I know my way around Paris and I don’t think they’ll find me here. I also have a few other things I need to do,’ I said.

  Andrei gave me a large wad of cash anyway and I took it. I had just promised to give him a picture worth a few million after all. As we parted company Andrei promised he would do what he could, but it would not be easy. Rashid was still being held in Butyrka prison, one of Moscow’s largest but also oldest prisons, awaiting extradition to France. It would be an unpleasant place to be. I’d read that it was very overcrowded and that in summer it could get very hot. Being a Pakistani national in an overcrowded Russian prison would be dangerous and I wanted my friend out of there as soon as possible.

  A week later it was all over the news that Rashid Lal, suspect in a murder case, had – allegedly – just walked out of Butyrka. It was reported that he had taken the place of an Afghan prisoner that was to be released that day and had managed to walk out without the mistake being spotted. There were accusations of prison guard bribery, but no evidence was found and Rashid had since disappeared off the face of the earth. The painting of Hélène now takes pride of place on the living room wall in Andrei’s house in St Paul.