by Eva Hudson
“Look into it,” Demir said.
“Kinda busy right now, baby,” she said. “In the past week it’s been to Malta, Nice, Kiev and Sozopol.”
“Where’s that?” Demir asked.
“Black Sea. Bulgaria. Gotta be a hire plane, not one he owns.”
“Agreed,” Muscles said. “There are only two days you enjoy owning an airplane. The day you buy it and the day you sell it.”
Twin lights emerged from the heavy gray clouds. Marshall put a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “Ready?”
She shrugged him off. “Of course.”
The eight-seater landed, spraying plumes of water behind its wheels. Within seconds, Natalya’s phone rang.
“Silence,” she said to her colleagues before answering. “Natalya Vesnina.” The background hum was so loud Ingrid put a finger in her other ear.
“Can you hear me?” It was Leo Marx.
“Yes, I can hear you.”
“Is this on?”
“I can hear you, Mr Marx.”
“Vesnina, that you?”
“Yes, this is Natalya Vesnina.” The back-and-forth was making her even more nervous.
The engine noise subsided as the plane slowed at the end of the runway. “That’s better. Ya hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Great. You got it?”
Well, that was to the point. “Yes, I have the painting. Do you have the money?”
“Why don’t you climb aboard and find out?”
Ingrid continued to watch the progress of the Cessna Citation as it neared the hangar. She signaled to the other agents to move away from the window. “I will not do that, Mr Marx.”
“Listen, I don’t know what sort of commission you’re on to sell this thing, but I’m figuring it’s not less than twenty percent. Am I right?”
Ingrid said nothing.
“So in a little while, you’re going to have a million dollars you won’t be paying tax on, you’ll be extremely rich, so we are going to do things my way, okay?”
Ingrid gripped a seat back to steady herself. “You tell me how you would like to proceed, and I will listen.”
Marshall was mouthing something at her. He wanted her to put the call on speaker. She turned away from him. A muscle in her jaw started to twitch. An airport car drove along the tarmac toward them. Border Agency officers, she presumed.
“Hang on.” Marx put his hand over the phone so she couldn’t make out what he said. “Pilot tells me we’re not going to the terminal building. What’s going on, Vesnina?”
A sharp spike of adrenaline. She had to think on her feet. “I did not want to go through Customs and Excise,” she said, her brain speeding ahead of her mouth. “I thought maybe you would not want to either.”
“You didn’t come from London?”
“No, I arrived this morning from…” She was already tying herself in knots. “Well, perhaps it is best I do not tell you where I collected the painting from.”
“So what? We do the handover on the runway?”
“And neither of us were ever in the country.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Can you see out of the front of your plane?” she asked.
“Wait a minute.” A background of chatter halted. “Yep, yes, okay, I can see.”
“Ahead of you is a hangar, yes? It has Maynard Aviation on it.”
“Yes.”
“And can you also see inside it a Gulfstream jet?”
“Um, yes, yes, I can.”
“That is my plane. Join me.”
He hung up and his plane moved closer to the hangar.
“What’d he say?” Demir asked.
Ingrid explained to her colleagues.
“So now what?”
“He is going to park next to us,” she said.
“Then what?” Marshall asked.
“Honestly,” Ingrid said, totally forgetting the accent for the first time, “I don’t know. But stay out of sight. Get away from the cockpit.”
Ingrid watched the Cessna come to a halt and gave the pilots a wave. “Agent,” she said to Muscles, the qualified pilot, “planes can’t reverse, is that right?”
“No.”
“So if I park my car in front of Marx’s plane, he can’t fly off with me in it, can he?”
“Um, no, no, he can’t.”
“But you can’t move the car,” Beyoncé said, flicking her hair. “Because you just told him you flew in here this morning.”
“But one of you could?” Ingrid said.
“Or even better,” Agent Nyberg suggested, “we get our guy in the control tower to make sure the Border Agency parks strategically.”
“Good idea,” Marshall said, as if it had been his.
Joan Jett pulled off one headphone. “I’m patched in. You want to listen?”
Demir nodded, then flicked his hand like a conductor. Jett flipped a switch.
“Border Agency not required. Repeat, Border Agency not required… Sir, you will not be able to disembark without due process… Change of plan, control. We now intend to refuel and get airborne again.”
Everyone turned to Ingrid. “Call him,” Demir said.
The phone slipped in Ingrid’s sweating hand. Had Marx intercepted their conversations just as Joan Jett had done to theirs? “What should I say?” At the periphery of her vision, the Border Agency car approached. She selected the most recent number in her phone and dialed. Marx picked up before it had even rung. It was all happening too quickly.
“So I’m not getting a good feeling about this, Miss Vesnina. I’m going to need to see the painting, and also need to put eyes on you.”
Ingrid breathed in slowly through her nose. “What is giving you this ‘bad feeling’?” It was possible she was overdoing the Russian accent. The Border Agency car came to a halt on the runway about thirty yards from the Cessna.
“You seem to have a lot of sway here, getting the tower to send us over here. There’s a car on the blacktop… this has the hallmarks of a setup.”
Ingrid’s jaw trembled. She needed to get a grip. She tightened her pelvic floor and deliberately lowered her shoulders. Mountain pose: it was the first yoga move she’d tried in a week. “How can I reassure you? Tell me and I will do it.”
“I take it you’re not alone in there?”
She had to come up with an answer. “No, of course not. I can do many things, Mr Marx, but I do not know how to fly a plane.”
“And the people in that plane. Who are they?”
“I will tell you if you give me the names of the people in your plane, Mr Marx.”
He didn’t answer.
“Whose car is that parked outside?” He sounded pissed off.
Ingrid had to think fast. “From where I am, I cannot see a car.”
“It’s a huge fucking Audi. Whose is it?”
Ingrid scanned the questioning faces in front of her. “My friend here says it is his.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes, I have someone here who just wanted to spend time with Les Prêteurs, to hold it. You understand this craving, don’t you?”
“Who’s the friend, Natalya?”
She’s already used the male pronoun. She looked at Demir and his sidekicks. The only one who looked like he could have an interest in art was Nyberg, but there was a chance Marx would recognize him. She would have to go with Marshall. “A businessman. Someone who collects, but not at your level.”
“What’s his name?”
Ingrid had started slouching, so she pulled herself upright. “If you like, he could leave. Would that reassure you? He can drive away right now.”
The pilot of the Cessna killed the engines, and Ingrid’s body relaxed a little. There’s a reason sound is so often used in torture and interrogation.
“May I make a suggestion, Mr Marx, to address your concerns?”
“What’s that?” He sounded distracted. Was he looking at a monitor? Did he have access to the license plate database?
The twitch in Ingrid’s jaw deepened.
“This is my idea, Mr Marx.” She drew in a slow breath. “We will meet on the runway. I will be with my friend, and you will also bring a friend.” She was making it sound like kindergarten. “You will inspect the painting, I will count the cash, and when we are both happy, we will return to our jets, and my friend here will return to London.” She pointed to Marshall, whose mouth formed a surprised O. “No weapons, no threats, no unpleasantness.”
“But it’s raining.”
“Then meet me just inside the hangar, where it is dry. How does that sound?”
The line went dead.
“Hello? Mr Marx?” Nothing. “He hung up on me.”
“What’s happening, kid?” Demir asked.
Ingrid winced at his inappropriate epithet. “You heard what I suggested, but I do not have a clue if he will go for it.”
Joan Jett pushed past Demir and grabbed Ingrid by the collar. “Microphone,” she said before Ingrid could respond.
“What about the passports?” Beyoncé asked.
“Not happening,” Muscles replied. He leaned out of the cockpit. “They’re opening the door.”
“Stay back.” Ingrid pushed him out of the cockpit to check on the Cessna. The lozenge-shaped door swung slowly on its pneumatic hinge. Fear prickled her skin. This was happening. Right now. Buckle up, kid. “Okay, Agent Demir, what do I need to do?”
Joan Jett reached for her hand. “You need to make sure he doesn’t wear gloves.”
“What are you doing?”
She was smearing moisturizer on her right hand. “It’s a tracer dye. Invisible to the naked eye. But you shake his hand, everything he touches for the next week we’ll be able to pick up.” She was working quickly. “Okay, now say something?”
Ingrid turned to Marshall, who was unusually quiet. “Marshall? You ready?”
“That’s great,” Jett said, checking the levels.
Marshall turned the corners of his mouth down. “Guess so.”
Ingrid passed him the car key then looked at Demir. “So all you want me to do is shake the guy’s hand, give him the painting and take the money?”
“Correct.” Demir looked agitated. His brow was glistening.
“What if it doesn’t look like five million? What if it looks like fake bills?”
He sucked his teeth. “Doesn’t really matter. What we want, darling, what we really, really want, is eyes on that plane. If he invites you on board, go.”
“Due respect, sir, I won’t do that. No one else’s life is in danger here, so I’m not going to put mine on the line.” Ingrid had dropped the accent again and stamped a foot in irritation. She needed to remain in character as Natalya.
“She has a point,” Marshall said.
Muscles indicated toward the cockpit window. “The steps are coming down.”
Nyberg picked up a semiautomatic Ruger carbine and lay down on the floor next to the Gulfstream’s door. It would be impossible for anyone on the ground to see him.
“Right then.” Ingrid’s insides squeezed painfully. Her mouth was parched. She pinched her forefinger to her thumb and summoned Natalya. She glowered at Marshall.
“What?” He looked confused.
“You’d better hand me the painting.”
He did so.
The door opened and cold air flushed over Ingrid. She pulled up her collar, inadvertently brushing a finger over the microphone.
“Be careful,” Jett said from behind her bank of audio equipment.
Ingrid placed a Louboutin on the top step and looked across to see Leo Marx in the open door of the Cessna. He waved. He was dressed more casually than she expected, as if he were about to go for a run with his personal trainer. He also looked like he needed a personal trainer: he’d put on several pounds since the photos she’d studied of him. He was carrying a flight case that looked big enough to hold a million in hundred-dollar bills. There was no way it was the full five.
Marshall followed her down the steps. Another man followed behind Marx. Tall, rakish, a pug-like nose, short gray hair and a dated mackintosh coat. Ingrid recognized him immediately: Timothy Smethurst, the twentieth-century art valuer at Sotheby’s in New York.
“Good morning,” Ingrid said as the two men approached the hangar.
“Miss Vesnina,” Marx said, “this is my associate—”
“I know who you are.” She dipped her head. Both men were wearing gloves, but she shook their hands anyway. “I presume you are here for verification, Mr Smethurst?”
He nodded.
“I am sorry,” she said. “This is my friend John Morris.” She was glad she’d stopped herself from saying John Smith.
“How d’you do?” Marshall said, shaking their hands.
“Well?” Marx said. The wind was scouring the inside of the hangar. He dumped the case. It landed with a thud that suggested it was full. “Shall we do this quickly?”
“Of course,” Ingrid said, “but first, Mr Marx, that does not look like the price we had agreed upon.”
“And that thing in your hand could be a worthless piece of crap.”
“Do you have the five million, Mr Marx?”
He jiggled nervously. “If that thing’s real, they’ll throw the rest out. May I?”
Ingrid had been holding the painting under her arm. Smethurst hadn’t taken his eyes off it. She gestured to the flight case. “Is it locked?”
“No, go ahead.”
Ingrid passed the painting to Smethurst and crouched down to open the case. The first catch moved easily. “It is stuck,” she said.
“It can’t be.” Marx struggled to kneel next to her, clambering down onto his knees with all the grace of a deflating bounce house. He pulled off a glove with his teeth and stretched out for the case.
Ingrid placed her hand on the catch, forcing him to put his hand on top of hers. “Oh, it seems to be working now.”
She popped the lid, knowing the dye had been transferred to his hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a million dollars in cash, but it was a sight that would never get old. She picked up a couple of packets and tossed one to Marshall. A mix of new and old bills. She was no expert, but they seemed real enough.
She looked up as Marx got to his feet, breathing heavily. Smethurst was shaking his head. Ingrid swallowed hard. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, yes, I rather think there is.” Smethurst sounded like a minor member of the royal family. For all she knew, he was.
Ingrid put a hand on the concrete floor, fearful she would fall. Was he going to call it off because of the gouge?
“What kind of problem, fellas?” Marshall said, sounding like a country boy who’d just stepped off the bus.
“Obviously it’s not my call,” Smethurst said, steam billowing from his lips. “But I would really want more time to verify this.”
Ingrid pushed herself to standing. Her heart burned. “You do not want to go ahead?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“Well, as I say,” Smethurst bumbled. “Not really my call. But this is what’s worrying me.” He pointed out the stamp from the artists’ supplies store in Provence. “You see this? This particular design dates from 1963, whereas Les Prêteurs d’Argent was painted in 1958. So you see…”
Ingrid’s knee buckled. Her entire right leg began to tremble.
“You saying it’s a fake?” Marx asked. He reached inside his jacket.
Ingrid took a step back. Marshall outstretched an arm, anticipating a weapon. Instead, Marx pulled out a phone.
“Yes, I’m rather afraid I am. I mean, it’s a very good fake, an excellent one, in fact. I’m almost certainly only one of a handful of people in the world who would ever be able to tell.” Smethurst looked Ingrid directly in the eye. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t auction it.”
Ingrid glanced nervously at Marx, who was waiting for a call to connect. “Yes,” he said, then held the phone at arm’s length because he didn’t have his reading glasses o
n him. He pressed his finger against the screen. “Can you hear me?”
All Ingrid could hear was the rain on the tin roof and the distant bass of the road, circling her head, making her dizzy.
“Yes, I can hear you.” A heavy Russian accent. Male. Deep.
“The video is working?” Marx asked.
“I can see you,” the voice said.
Marx looked at Ingrid. “I got a call for you.”
He turned the screen toward her. On his phone was a pixelated image of Vitali Shevchenko. Her ankle wobbled, threatening to give way.
“Hello, Natalya Vesnina,” he said, smiling. It took Ingrid a heartbeat to realize he was speaking in English. “Or should I say Ingrid Skyberg?”
The hangar started to spin.
“I believe you have something of mine, Miss Skyberg. Which is okay because I have something of yours.” He moved the phone. He was in the basement office of his house in Kensington.
Ingrid gasped. “No.” She shook her head. “No!”
The image on Marx’s phone showed one of Shevchenko’s security agents grabbing a woman from behind. He had a hand over her mouth.
“Recognize her?” Shevchenko said.
“You bastard,” Marshall said. “You sick goddamn bastard.”
He lunged at Marx and grabbed the phone.
The woman on the screen was Carolyn.
52
“The trade has changed,” Shevchenko said. “My Picasso for the girl. You have one hour.” He leaned forward to end the call and the screen went black.
Ingrid turned to Marshall and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I have the Picasso. The real one. This will be okay.”
He shrugged her off. He couldn’t look at her. She glanced up at Demir in the Cessna and shook her head.
“So you’re not Russian?” Marx said.
“I got fifty-nine minutes and I am not going to spend them on explanations.” Ingrid reached for her phone and dialed Shevchenko. He sent her call to voicemail. “Vitali Shevchenko, this is Ingrid Skyberg. I have your painting. Do not harm the girl. I am on my way.”
She waved to the plane, beckoning assistance. Marshall’s eyes were blank. He seemed incapable of thought. She gripped his shoulder again. This time he didn’t brush her off.