The Montague Portrait

by Matt Drabble

  ----------

  Vargas stared down at the dead handset, trying to recall the last time that anyone had the temerity to hang up on him. He decided that it was not a pleasant feeling, but under the circumstances he would let it go. Parker was at least showing some backbone; it was about time, and he hoped it would be enough. His own patience was long enough to sustain him, but it wasn’t endless.

  He sat back in his plush leather chair; the piece had been handcrafted over a hundred years ago by a master. A master himself, he made a point of only acquiring the work of other masters. He had always felt an affinity with craftsmen, men who could mould beauty with their bare hands from nothing. His own hands were capable of creating great masterpieces, of moving and shaping lives around the board on which he played. He was a tyrant standing astride a mighty manmade empire that had been born of his own power and talent. His greatest weakness had always been that he was merely human, but his greatest strength had always been that he never let it stop him.

  ----------

  The train rattled along its merry way through the picturesque mountain pass. As they climbed higher, the sloping lush green fields on either side of the tracks slowly gave way to soaring snow topped peaks.

  From her plush seat in their private cabin Charlotte watched the scenic view. It seemed Vargas was a First Class man when it came to providing transport for his employees. She found it hard to believe that Parker was still willing to work for the man, despite his concerns. But Parker’s ties to the case obviously ran as deep as her own. And she could no more turn back now than she could stop breathing.

  She felt strangely comforted by Parker’s involvement and presence; they were not love-struck teens on a giddy first date, with raging hormones and song lyrics. They were two damaged souls bound together to see this thing through to the end, however bitter it might turn out to be.

  Her purpose was clear, to find the Montague Portrait and destroy it for destroying her family. Parker, on the other hand, was trying to find the painting in order to rebuild part of his life and fulfil a promise to his late wife. Charlotte hoped and prayed that if they found it, he would eventually see sense and allow her to obliterate it.

  She looked over at him as he slept uneasily, his breathing shallow, his face twitching with discomfort and pain at whatever images were flashing before his slumbering eyes. After so many years of being sealed shut and boarded against all entry, her heart had opened a crack. She was not a stupid woman; she knew that her emotions could lead to her downfall, but she had little choice. Despite her best efforts to keep him at bay, he had got behind her defences and it looked to her as if she’d had a similar effect on him. She cursed herself for allowing it to happen, but she could do little about it now: they needed each other.

  It was as simple as that.

  With bleary eyes he stirred awake and rubbed the sleep away as he squinted at the bright sunlight streaming through the carriage window.

  ‘Sleep well?’ she asked.

  ‘Not even a little,’ he grumbled. ‘But I’ll say this for old Vargas, he does things in style.’

  She nodded in agreement. As promised the tickets were waiting for them at the small train station. More worrying was a fat parcel with Parker’s name scribbled on the front, full of euros along with a change of tastefully stylish clothes for them both. Wherever Vargas was, he obviously had them under close surveillance.

  ‘Do you know that he’s watching us?’ she asked him, as casually as she could.

  ‘Oh yes. On the phone he said …’ He paused in thought. ‘Well, let’s just say that he said enough for me to know that he’s never far away.’

  ‘Who do you think those men were – back at Pierce’s mansion? Were they his?’ She hated asking this but she wanted to know.

  ----------

  Travis watched her face closely. Vargas had told him several things on the phone, things she needed to know -- if indeed she was innocent of Vargas’s plans. His mind was clouded by his growing affection for her, but every kind thought felt like a dagger in the heart of Amy’s memory. They needed each other, yet he had to make a decision about whether or not he could trust her.

  But he didn’t have a choice: they had to work together, and for now he had to trust her.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘They would have to have been pretty careless not to know that we were under the house when it went up. I mean, he’s paying me a small fortune to find the Montague Portrait. Roasting us alive and burying us under a mountain wouldn’t help his cause any …’ He paused again in thought. ‘I didn’t tell you, Charlotte,’ he said awkwardly as the guilt snapped around his ankles, ‘Vargas said a friend of mine has been kidnapped.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chris, Chris Taylor,’ he said, watching her face closer than ever for any sign of recognition, but there seemed to be none.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a guy I use from time to time to help me, a guy who can dig up information. Vargas told me that there are more players on the board than I know about. He reckons the doctor from the retirement home where you rescued me is involved.’

  ‘Really? What would a guy like that have to do with all this?’

  Travis tried to convince himself that her questions were all genuine, but deep down he knew that no-one really knows anyone.

  ‘His name is Dr Gabriel Lochay if you please. Apparently everyone has some kind of poetry to their monikers – no Dr John Smiths here,’ he said with a bitter grin.

  ‘And where does he fit into all this?’

  ‘Honestly, I have no idea, but if we accept or at least think that it was not Vargas’s men at the B&B or at Pierce’s, then they must belong to Lochay.’

  ‘But we don’t know what they want from us,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘We know one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Travis stared hard at her. ‘They’re not taking prisoners.’

  ----------

  Night fell fast around them as the train rumbled along its Italy-bound journey, the carriage lights casting a warm glow into the darkness. Taking a break from death defying, Travis and Charlotte were enjoying the welcome relaxation of a scrumptious dinner.

  Another couple sat comfortably within their surroundings, their conversation flowing with ease as they ate their meal naturally and casually. Only their eyes told a tale of true intentions as they watched the couple two tables down. Their instructions were crystal clear and not open to interpretation. Travis Parker and Charlotte Goode were to be kept safe and free from harm. It was not their first assignment, and they had yet to fail, for failure meant that you simply did not receive any further assignment: you were retired.

  The woman flirted with her companion; she brushed his arm and stroked her hair, flicking it aside in a well-practised manner. The warmth from her smile and words never once touched her eyes as she kept a constant vigil at her post. She wore a blood red clinging velvet dress and had a Glock 26 Gen4 pistol strapped to her thigh.

  Her smoky eyes suddenly darted past the couple they were tasked with watching, to two men further down the dining carriage. The men looked awkward and unnatural, and ill at ease amidst the luxurious surroundings. Their loose untailored suits had an off-the-peg look to them. They were also dining, but their meals remained largely untouched. They both couldn’t keep their eyes off Parker and Goode’s table.

  The woman nudged her male companion lightly under the table in a well-rehearsed manoeuvre. She tapped the table lightly twice to indicate that there were two other foxes in the henhouse. He scratched his left ear to indicate acknowledgement, then yawned in question.

  As the senior member of the team she pondered the threat level and decided on what response to take. Their instructions were clear: to eliminate any potential threat with prejudice. There were to be no chances taken. With a beautifully lacquered crimson nail she gently rubbed across her throat as though scratching; the order was given, and two fates were sealed.

&n
bsp; ----------

  Travis said a silent thank you to Vargas; at least his humour hadn’t led to a double bed in their carriage. The settings were comfortable and under different circumstances he could see himself enjoying the journey. There were two single beds with a small en suite bathroom, as well as a plush seating area that was dominated by a large window to watch the world drift by.

  The gentle rocking motion of the train should have been a perfect accompaniment, but he couldn’t sleep. Across the bedroom compartment from him, Charlotte was sleeping deeply; for once her face was relaxed and settled. Softened by the low light, her features were peaceful and pretty without her standard defences raised.

  He got out of bed and pulled on his suit trousers and shirt. Thinking that a stretch of the legs would help to soothe his racing mind, he eased himself out of the compartment and into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

  Swaying with the motion of the train, he wandered down towards the dining car, thinking that a nightcap would be just the ticket. The prospect of a little alone time was actually appealing. Over the last couple of years he had existed almost exclusively alone, but ever since his fate and Charlotte’s were melded together, he’d had a constant companion.

  The dining car was empty except for the barman, staring distantly into space and wishing his night away. The man was in his twenties and despite the hour was smartly dressed in full uniform. ‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ the barman said.

  ‘Good evening,’ Travis replied.

  ‘Ah, welcome, how may I help you?’ the barman said in excellent English.

  ‘Brandy, large one,’ Travis answered, figuring that it was the fat envelope from Vargas that was paying for it anyway.

  ‘May I recommend a Courvoisier Napoleon Cognac?’ the barman said, viewing the bulging envelope.

  ‘Why not, I’m not driving.’ Travis smiled at his own joke as the French barman looked on quizzically.

  He took the large brandy glass and retired to the back of the carriage. He swirled the glass to warm the brown liquid as he had seen people do on TV. His thirst, which had been dormant since their escapades began, was now back and sticking its nose above the parapet. He knew he wasn’t far away from diving back into the bottle headfirst, and made a conscious decision to stick with the single glass.

  The carriage doors swung open at both ends and two men walked in, one at each end. They seemed casual and innocent enough, but Travis’s warning radar went off with a deafening screech. The longer he had stayed sober, the keener his senses had become. He looked for an exit, but the two large men were blocking both ends of the carriage.

  ‘Bonsoir, messieurs,’ the barman said, greeting the new arrivals.

  Both men ignored him and moved menacingly forward. Travis was trapped between them both.

  ‘Messieurs?’ the barman said.

  One of the men smoothly drew a glistening black revolver. Travis could tell immediately by the elongated barrel that it was equipped with a silencer. Without hesitation the man lifted his arm and shot the barman in the face. Travis turned away from the mess that a moment ago was a kindly French face but had now exploded out the back of the man’s head as he slipped to the floor.

  Travis looked around desperately for anything he could use as a weapon. But the designers of the First Class carriage had obviously not considered that life and death struggles might go hand in hand with the soufflés. Despite being a non-smoker he had a lighter in his back pocket. He deftly dipped a linen napkin into the highly flammable brandy glass and prepared to light it. Neither of the two men had spoken a word despite one of them committing a brutal murder.

  Bracing himself for the impending conflict, all he could hope for was that the two men had orders to take him alive. That thought vanished as the second man produced a weapon identical to his partner’s and raised the gun with only one obvious intention. Just as his thoughts turned to at least taking one of the bastards with him, the doors slid open again at both ends of the carriage.

  He swung his head quickly to take in both the newcomers. One man, one woman, and his heart sank as neither of them looked like a saviour and both would no doubt end up on the floor beside the barman. His assumption was quickly shattered as the new couple exploded into action.

  The woman smiled disarmingly at the man with the gun and it gave her just enough of a window. She stepped into his space, not giving him enough room to fully swing his gun towards her. Grabbing his elbow with one hand she slammed the palm of her other hand upwards.

  Travis couldn’t help wincing as the sound of breaking bone shattered the eerie silence. The man dropped to the floor and the woman slipped down behind him. She wrapped her right arm around his neck and drove her knee into the back of his head. In a flash the man’s neck was broken and he pitched forward – stone dead. Just as the dead man’s companion started to rush forward, the woman’s partner pulled out a wicked looking blade that glinted under the soft lighting. He stepped forward and in a smooth expert motion he thrust the knife into the man’s chest and jerked it up. The man collapsed to the floor as soundlessly as his companion had.

  Travis leapt to his feet hoping to take advantage of the gap in the killing and make his exit.

  ‘Easy, Mr Parker,’ the woman said.

  He laughed incredulously. ‘Easy? I’m taking it anything but easy, flower,’ he said, clenching his fists but knowing that he was seriously outmatched.

  ‘We’re here to look after you, Mr Parker.’ Her voice was seductive and husky and she smiled with perfect teeth.

  ‘Who sent you? Vargas?’ Travis demanded.

  ‘We do indeed share the same employer, Mr Parker, and I can assure you he has your best interests at heart.’

  ‘Oh, tremendous! Now I can sleep easy,’ he yelled, angered by her calm demeanour. ‘Except for those three dead bodies!’

  ‘Might I suggest that you retire for the rest of the night while we clean up the mess,’ she said, smiling warmly and totally ignoring his tirade. ‘Oh, and it’s probably best if we keep this a secret. I’m sure Mr Vargas would not welcome any unnecessary delays in the performance of your duties.’

  Travis left the couple dragging dead bodies as he wandered back to his suite, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Charlotte stirred as he opened the door. ‘What have you been up to?’ she said, her voice thick with sleep.

  ‘Well, in the grand scheme of what we’ve been through so far, it’s been just another normal restful couple of hours, I guess.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SECRETS AND LIES

  As the train pulled into Florence, Travis finally relaxed. Whatever his guardian angels had done with three bodies, including one of a railway employee, there had been no pounding fists on his carriage door by the Gendarmeries. There had been no screeching brakes that brought the train to a halt while a search for the missing three men ensued; they had all simply disappeared. He had told Charlotte everything that happened, and then had to restrain her from charging the dining car to demand answers.

  They had no luggage and were able to step quickly from the train, avoiding the rest of the struggling passengers. Travis looked for Vargas’s bodyguards, but could see neither the man nor the sultry woman on the crowded platform.

  All he had was the name of the Teatro Comunale di Firenze, an old opera house from the 1800s, and a promise of answers that lay within its ancient walls. Along with the money and clothes that had been provided for them at the railway station in Lagrasse, had been a new phone. It was a Smart phone in all senses of the word and he had used the Wi-Fi on board the train to find out more details of their destination.

  He learned that the opera house was originally built as an open-air amphitheatre, the Politeama Fiorentino Vittorio Emanuele, which was inaugurated in May 1862 with a production of Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor. After fire caused its closure, it acquired a roof in 1882 and reopened in April 1864, but it wasn’t until 1911 that it had both electricity and heating. In May 1961, the modernised
theatre re-opened and became more closely associated with Italy's first and most important music festival, the annual Maggio Musicale Fiorentino which had begun in 1931. The photographs of the building were stunning and Travis felt the history flowing in waves from the small phone’s screen. It seemed to him an appropriate setting from which to learn all about the Montagues – and hopefully the portrait.

  Travis flagged down a taxi and found that his smattering of Italian was only just enough to avoid getting ripped off by a greedy driver on the make for tourists.

  The scenery flashed by tantalisingly, but they had no time for sightseeing. Time was already growing short and Travis could only picture what might be happening to Chris – a man whose only crime was to help against his better judgment.

  Everything still seemed to hang on the quest to find that bloody painting. Vargas wanted it, and Lochay seemed to be determined to stop them from finding it. As the car whisked them through the busy Florence streets, he went over in his mind what they knew about the Montague Portrait.

  The artist, Benedict Worthington, had apparently been certifiably insane and had mixed his blood with the paint he used for his masterpiece, before taking his own life. Delaney at the retirement home had a tale of Hugo Montague’s supposed possession and murder, as of course did Charlotte. There were dead bodies stacking up and they had only just escaped death at Pierce’s mansion. It was a dangerous enough path without stopping to think about what might await them at the end, if they ever caught up with the painting. Just what would happen if the stories were true? What if the painting was somehow possessed and really did lead men to commit unspeakable crimes? And most importantly just what the hell did Vargas want with such a monstrosity? And where the hell did Dr Gabriel Lochay fit into the picture?

  Travis sat calmly and allowed his mind to probe at the corners of the puzzle. Vargas was undoubtedly desperate to find the painting and obtain possession, while Lochay seemed to be doing everything possible to halt their search. If the assassins at the B&B, at Pierce Barnes’ villa and now on the train were sent by Lochay, then just what was the doctor so afraid of? Vargas told him that Dr Lochay wanted the painting for himself, and yet he seemed more hell bent on stopping Travis and Charlotte from finding it. Then according to Vargas, Chris had been seized by Lochay. All he could think of to protect his friend was to stay out of reach of Lochay. If Lochay was unable to threaten him with Chris’ life, then surely that would keep Chris safe. For the time being he had no collateral; only The Montague Portrait seemed to hold any value. If he could find the painting, then maybe – just maybe – he would have something to bargain with.