Stella walked up to her father and lightly kissed his cheek.
“Hi, Dad. An hour and a half, okay?”
“And what’s so important for you to do then? Do you have a date?” he asked in a kindly but irritated voice. This was a discussion they had had innumerable times. It usually started with some disparaging comment about her choice of profession—working in a police laboratory wasn’t her father’s idea of a successful career for his daughter.
“Yeah. With a good book and my bathtub.”
He sighed.
“Do you even understand how condescending that sounds to me? Don’t you know how hard I—all of us are working for all this? The least you could do is to smile and act a little friendly, at least this one evening. It can’t be all that hard.”
Stella sighed.
“Okay, okay, I’ll stay on.”
After a full hour’s worth of kissing cheeks and smiling, Stella was dead beat. She wasn’t made to stand this much uninteresting human contact in a single day. She turned to the paintings to escape further platitudes, at least for a moment. She stood for a long while watching a Picasso all in shades of gray, for one of his pieces a strange but surprisingly anatomically correct portrait of a young woman named Françoise, if the title was to be believed. If she had happened to have an extra 50,000 dollars she would happily have made a bid for it, but considering her police salary she ought to be happy if she managed to put that much aside during her entire working life. She straightened the frame minutely; it had slipped slightly to one side. Earlier in the day she had helped her brother Nicholas hang the pictures. Even if she didn’t work here she enjoyed helping him create the exhibitions, and he enjoyed having her there. It had almost become a tradition. She loved art intensely. Loved the craft of it. Was fascinated by the hours of single-minded energy and pure love given by artists and artisans to their work, by the combination of deep sorrow and exultant joy coexisting in a truly successful work of art.
Nicholas came up to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Someone named Carl Andreasen wants to talk to you. He’s at the entrance. Isn’t he your boss?”
With a worried frown, Stella looked searchingly towards the door. Yes, that was Carl, all right. A tall, gray-haired man with a crew cut and a lined face wrapped in a gigantic scarf he was trying to untangle himself from.
“Yes, it’s him. What the hell is he doing here?”
She wove through the throng of visitors and reached him.
“Carl. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
Stella caught her father’s disapproving glance from the opposite end of the room.
“Okay. Come along,” she said, pushing him ahead of her, away from the nosy, curious glances of the guests. Carl looked more like an aging soldier turned homeless than as a guest slightly late for the party.
Stella turned, snatched a second glass of champagne and brought Carl up to the library before he had time to object. She gave him the new glass and pointed to a chair. Carl sat down and Stella took the chair beside his.
“I never knew you were playing daddy’s girl during weekends.” His voice was scornful and he put his glass down without touching it.
“So now you know.” Stella smiled, amused at his lame attempt at provoking her. He usually did better. She and Carl were joined by a love-hate relationship to each other. She thought his thinking too traditional and formalistic, though despite that a good policeman. And he, as far as Stella could tell, considered her a troublesome pain in the ass who ought to keep her mouth shut, do as she was told and not stick her nose where it had no business to be—but despite that a good forgery expert. “Now tell me what you need my help with that’s panicky enough for you come looking for me yourself even in a place that’s so obviously uncomfortable to you.”
“I want you to go to another cocktail party tomorrow. I hope that’s not overtaxing your talents.”
Stella raised her eyebrows but said nothing. He sighed and went on.
“We have a guy who’s worked undercover for a long time in a smuggling ring. He’s finally been invited to a party given by the head of the organization, an informal auction of what we believe to be illegally imported works of art. Our guy needs a girlfriend.”
“Doesn’t sound too hard. Don’t you have lots of boobsy police officers who could help you out? It’s been a long time since I did any police work outside the lab, as you very well know.”
“It isn’t your police field experiences I’m interested in. I want you to do what you do in the lab. Take a look at the art and tell us what it is and whether it’s genuine. So simple even an academic like you ought to manage.”
“But—if the guy you’re after is in the antiques business, he might know who I am. I might blow your whole operation.”
“I grant you your daddy is pretty famous. But I don’t think my guy has gotten his stuff from your auctions.”
She drank some champagne and gave him a searching look. He was far from as biting as usual. He must be really desperate. She was far from certain that it was quite as simple as he made it out to be, but the idea of doing something outside of the lab for once sounded like fun. She gave him a brief nod.
“But what has your undercover guy been doing? I don’t believe it’s mainly about antiques. In that case you’d either have talked to me about it before, or your guy would know enough about it for you not to need me.”
Carl looked vexed, leaned back in his chair and swung his foot.
“Mostly it’s about drugs. And weapons. The antiques are just a sideline.”
Stella watched him carefully for a moment. What he’d just said wasn’t the whole truth either. She shrugged her shoulders.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Good girl.”
Stella followed him to the door—she didn’t want to risk his starting to talk to any of the guests. A cold gust of wind, full of dancing snowflakes, sneaked in when she opened the door for him. Stella shivered and looked thoughtfully at her boss when he crouched down against the wind and slowly disappeared into the darkness.
“So what did your boss want on a Saturday? I imagined police forgery experts only worked weekdays.” It was Nicholas.
“He wants me to play cop for real—do an undercover job. There’s a private auction of illegal antiques of some kind tomorrow night,” Stella said, her eyes still fixed somewhere far off in the wintry night.
“Cool.”
Ali opened the limousine door for her. His black suit was a perfect fit and his smile was broad. He looked just as disgustingly healthy as always, Stella noted, with black curls, slim hips and broad shoulders. Those hips she remembered particularly vividly. They were very attractive when covered only by briefs. Without briefs as well, in fact.
“You look great, as usual.”
“Hi, Ali. Long time. Good to see you.”
Many years ago they had belonged to the same class at the police academy and been a couple during their years of study. But when she decided to go for forensics while he went for investigative work, they separated. Though whom did she think she was fooling? The simple fact was that she had never been able to make any relationship work in the long run. He had been no exception.
“Jump in. I’ll tell you about the party while we go there.” He made an exaggerated bow, helped her into the back of the car and stepped in beside her. Another cop in civilian dress had been given the honorable job of driving them.
“Great. Where are we going?”
“Djursholm. The stronghold of snobbery and wealth.”
“And here I was thinking we were bound for one of the dangerous hoods, given the badly concealed gun you’re carrying under your tux.” She snaked a hand in behind the small of his back to adjust his leather holster.
“Thanks,” he said with an apologetic grin. “Did you see my mike as well?”
She studied him carefully but caught nothing suspicious.
“Nope, all
fine—you’re as handsome as ever.”
“Thanks.”
The sky was inky black when they stopped outside an enormous yellow mansion on a low hill. Stella walked carefully up the sanded path in her stilettos, holding Ali’s arm. She savored the cold air, which brought her the scent of his warm body. He smelled of spice and recently showered skin. She snuck her arm deeper under his. He smiled, but she was very aware that his body revealed apprehension rather than any other emotion. She knew that he was not given to worry. On the contrary, he had a definitely exaggerated belief in his own abilities. Like most males, for that matter. Again, she was convinced that this assignment was far from as simple and harmless as Carl had wanted her to believe. Thick walls of chalk-white snow rose on both sides of the path. Lit torches were stuck in the drifts, their softly flickering light casting dancing shadows on the snow. It had stopped snowing only an hour ago.
“It’ll work out fine,” Stella said in a clumsy attempt at sounding calm.
Ali gave her an amused glance.
“Sure. But be careful with Peter. Don’t irritate him. He’s fucking unstable.”
“Don’t irritate him? How would I do that? I don’t even know the guy.”
“Please, just don’t be yourself. You see . . .”
“Shut up and smile, you mean?” She was amused. A little put off deep down, but she certainly wouldn’t let him see that.
“Right. And show him that magnificent chest.”
“Got it. Smile. Flash tits. Almost makes you wonder why I spent seven years in college to get where I am now . . .”
“Seven!”
“Sure. Police academy, art, a few courses in England—”
He gave her a weak smile, shook his head and raised a hand to make her stop. “Sorry for asking.”
Stella punched his arm.
“Hey. That hurt.”
They had arrived at the house and a grave doorman let them in. They left their overcoats with another strict and unsmiling man. Stella heard a murmur of voices. On their way to the living room they passed a pedestal with a cracked and badly worn urn. Mediterranean. Roughly two thousand years old, she couldn’t be more specific without inspecting it more closely. There were still traces of sand left on it. Beautiful and dignified in its pale patina.
“I understand why I’m here,” Stella whispered to Ali and kissed his neck to make her whisper seem less suspicious. Or actually just because she felt like it. He shivered slightly.
They stepped into the huge living room and the rigidly directed performance began again. A nod here, a glass of champagne there. Twice in the same weekend was definitely too many for Stella. Shallow exchanges of pleasantries conveying nothing, meaning nothing and impossible for anyone to remember. Laughter and charming smiles but ice-cold eyes. Superficiality. Stella hated it, but she was a pro. At least tonight she had a job to do. As soon as the tenth smiling male with a forehead unlined as a baby’s bottom had finished his platitudes and turned away, she pulled Ali over to an object placed on a smooth, white pedestal by one of the walls. The wall was made of glass. You could vaguely distinguish the fluttering torches on the terrace outside, but beyond them was only the impenetrable blackness of night. As she came close to the pedestal, Stella’s heart beat faster. She saw an eight-inch-tall bronze statue. Its surface was black, dark with a satiny sheen, but the details were perfect. It depicted a crowned man sitting cross-legged. His right palm was raised to the viewer. His left rested on his thigh, holding a water pitcher. The almond-shaped, half-closed eyes were inlaid with silver and watched Stella kindly along his narrow nose. The statue was perfect. So beautiful that it stole her breath. She had to stop herself from grabbing it and trying to run off with it. She carefully caressed the curves of the statue and felt that there still were remnants of sand at its hollow base. Fury began to seethe in her.
“Ali, let me introduce you to Maitreya.”
“Mai . . . who?”
“The next Buddha. This is a statue made in the first decade after Christ, I’d guess. Probably dug up somewhere in Afghanistan. And very recently.”
“How do you know that?”
“It hasn’t been professionally cleaned. There are still traces of sand on it, and there are scratches made by the clumsy fools who dug him up.” She slid a fingertip across a deep scratch. It was impossible for her to understand how anyone could do something like this. It was an insult to the country, to history and to the present.
Stella saw Ali stiffen and look at someone behind her. Probably the famous Peter. She put on her most simpleminded smile and slowly turned around. Behind her was a tall man with an almost unbelievably huge stomach hanging from a body that seemed to suffer under its extra weight. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored gray suit and the hand holding his champagne flute was adorned by numerous golden rings. He looked at her, or rather at her plunging neckline, in the same way a cat looks at a herring before sinking its teeth into it. Stella pushed her chest out some more. After all, that was her task tonight.
“Ali, I see you’ve brought a little tidbit along tonight.”
Ali gave a hearty laugh and put his arm around her waist. He seemed impressively at ease in this kind of situation, Stella noted.
“Absolutely. This is Stella, my girlfriend.”
“So nice to see you at last.” Stella held her hand out. He took it, pulled her close, and kissed her cheek instead. He smelled of liquor and expensive cologne, with a vague undertone of acrid sweat.
“I see you’re admiring the statue. Are you going to bid for it, Ali?”
“It seems Stella has fallen in love, so I probably don’t have a choice.”
“It’s adorable. Is it Indian?” Stella chirped in her most naïve and imbecile voice.
“You might say so. This little baby is around two thousand years old. It won’t be cheap.”
“Oooh, is it really that old?” Stella said with what she hoped was a surprised look and leaned closer to the statue. So at least he knew what he had, she noted.
“Oh, yes. There aren’t many in this little shithole country that can compete with this collection,” Peter said, then turned to Ali. “So what happened yesterday, did you get anywhere?”
“It’s beginning to come together. They wanted us to talk about the last details tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
“Business on a night like this?” His eyes were suddenly hard; then he began laughing. “Why not? Tonight is all about great deals anyway, isn’t it? Just remember to leave Stella with me when you abandon her for business. I’ll take care of her, okay?”
Stella smiled and preened a bit while suppressing a sudden urge to throw her champagne in his face and respond with a couple of impolite words. She really appreciated the fact that normally her work didn’t entail meeting a lot of people, she thought. She just wouldn’t be able to handle that.
“How do you think he gets hold of things like these?” Ali asked her when Peter had walked off. Their eyes followed him as he moved away among his guests, like a good-natured absolute ruler among his subjects.
“Afghanistan has been more or less systematically plundered of its art objects during the last decade. Items like these are being sent abroad to finance the war. If he is in direct contact with people in the country and doesn’t need any go-betweens, he’s probably gotten treasures like this one very cheaply.”
Ali sighed deeply. Stella took another look at the beautiful Maitreya. “The problem is that it’s almost impossible to prove. A real auction house couldn’t sell things like this, since we demand documentation of provenance. But how are we supposed to prove that it hasn’t belonged to his family for a century? All he needs to say is that the paperwork was lost, or destroyed. Nobody can prove anything at all.”
“Disgusting. At least I’m happy that we’ll soon have enough to get the bastard for other things.”
“His drug deals?” she asked.
“Yes. That’s what I’m going to talk to him about later. With just a litt
le luck he’ll make me an offer. They’re going to give me a job with the organization. We’ve beaten about the bush long enough.” Ali glanced back at Peter. So this is what scares him, she thought, and almost immediately one of the waiters came up to Ali.
“Adam wants a word in his office on the upper floor.”
“Back soon,” he said to Stella and nodded at the waiter.
“Good luck,” Stella said, squeezed his forearm slightly. He responded with a warm glance, then gave her a long, hard kiss. She responded. A little surprised, but why not, she thought.
“How about reliving some old memories later tonight, Stella?”
“Sounds fine.”
He nodded and she studied his back while he disappeared toward a large, curved staircase. When he was gone she turned to the next pedestal. She spent a long time looking at the objects for sale. The room contained a veritable general store of epochs, religions and styles, with the fact that she felt convinced that most of these things had been dug up by clumsy idiots somewhere in Afghanistan during the last few years as their only common denominator. She also studied the buyers and realized that she recognized some of them. They were accomplished collectors, knowledgeable in the history of art. She kept as far away from them as possible. The risk of any of them recognizing her as Emmanuel Rodin’s daughter was small but real—and if any of them whispered something about it in the fat man’s ear, the entire operation would break down. She sent Carl an angry thought. When Ali had been gone an hour, Stella began feeling restless. She went out on the terrace and took a deep breath of the painfully cold air. A waiter offered her a fur-lined blanket, and she gratefully wrapped it around her shoulders. A small group of people was outside, smoking in the flickering torchlight. The quiet was music to Stella’s ears and she lowered her shoulders, trying to relax. Her cell rang in her purse. She walked farther out on the terrace to escape other guests possibly listening in, and took out her phone. The display told her that the call was from Ali’s cell. She put on her wireless headset and answered.
A Darker Shade of Sweden Page 31