The Painted Messiah

by Craig Smith

  'Thomas!' Barzani shouted, as his face broke into a brutal smile. They hugged one another, both laughing spontaneously. 'What is this I hear from Marcus about you working again? I thought you were living the good life these days!'

  The President asked me to run an errand for him - as a personal favour.'

  Barzani had the look of a man who has just learned that he is the heir to an enormous and quite unexpected inheritance. 'Well, we can't disappoint the President, can we?'

  Lake Lucerne

  Kate Kenyon came up slowly to a sitting position. She could see nothing, but felt cinders beneath her. For a moment, she could almost imagine she was outdoors but the air was too stale. What—? She had not even fashioned the question when she remembered the sting of the dart, the enveloping effect of the drug.

  Julian Corbeau had her.

  But where exactly? Carefully, Kate stretched her arms to either side. Finding nothing, she reached overhead. When that too gave her nothing, she tried to stand. Again reaching out, she concentrated on keeping her balance. It was difficult in perfect darkness, all the more so when she realized she could be anywhere - even at the edge of a cliff.

  'You're awake.' The voice Kate heard belonged to a woman. Somewhere close to her, she thought, but for some reason she could not determine the direction. She was not even sure if the woman was standing or sitting.

  'You are awake?'

  A frightened woman, not the woman who had taken her out. Not Kate's jailer either. 'I'm awake. Who are you?'

  'Nicole North.'

  'How long have you been here?' Kate asked.

  'I don't know. What time is it?'

  Kate gave a dry laugh. 'I didn't bring my watch.' She knew from the tightness of her muscles and the general feeling of exhaustion that she had not been out for too many hours, but some time had passed. Three, four hours? It was maybe sunset, maybe nine or ten o'clock. Maybe midnight. In the dark it didn't really matter, did it? 'How did they get you?'

  'They kidnapped me at the airport this morning. They got me inside a car, and I remember feeling something on the back of my neck, and that's the last thing I recall before waking up here.'

  Here, Kate decided, was probably Corbeau's donjon. Before breaking into his villa in August, Kate had studied the building permits Corbeau's father and grandfather had applied for over the years. This part of the tower, according to the original blueprints, had a single entrance through the basement. The area was designated as a wine cellar. She had dismissed the area as a possible hiding place for the painting because of the quality of the air. It had not occurred to her that Corbeau might actually use his tower as a prison cell.

  'What happened to your uncle?' Kate asked.

  'Nothing. They couldn't find him. How do you know about my uncle?'

  'I'm the person who sold you a painting this morning.'

  For a long terrible moment Nicole North said nothing. Then sobbing quietly, she whispered, 'He's going to kill us, isn't he?'

  'By the time it comes to that, we'll beg him to do it.'

  Zürich

  Malloy was sleeping when his phone rang.

  'Yes?'

  Jane Harrison spoke. 'They got Nicole North.'

  'Who got her?'

  'We don't know yet. What we know is this: Richland called his contact in the Administration; the director just told Charlie to take care of it.'

  'Take care of what?'

  'You're to turn the product over to Jonas Starr. Once he has it, Starr will arrange Dr North's release.'

  'Let's pretend I believe that for a moment.'

  'Dr Starr doesn't want any help on this, T. K.'

  'If I turn the painting over to Jonas Starr—'

  'Not if, when. That's an order, not a point for debate.' Malloy was silent, seething with anger. 'You'll get your payday. Starr has assured us that you will be paid in full. Look, he's got a team of mercenaries with him. They know what they're doing.'

  'What's he doing with a team of mercenaries?'

  'He brought them in.'

  'More likely he was trying to track me and didn't get the job done.'

  'Pass the product to him, T. K., and come home. You've done your part, and I guarantee you your money will be waiting for you.'

  'You know the age of this product?'

  'I know what they told me. Beyond that, I don't care, and neither should you.'

  'Starr isn't going to trade it for his niece, Jane. It's not in his nature.'

  'Call the man and do what he tells you, T. K.'

  'And let North die?'

  'Write this number down.'

  'You call him. I don't want the man to have my number. Tell him I'll meet him at seven-thirty tomorrow at the Rote Fabrik in Zürich.'

  'He wants the painting tonight.'

  'I'm busy tonight.'

  Lake Lucerne

  Ethan Brand took a high point of land that was inaccessible to anyone who had not trained to climb rock. From this promontory he had a narrow view into Julian Corbeau's estate. He could see the front door of the guardhouse and some of the grounds. He and Kate had spent a number of hours hidden in the undergrowth at the top of this rock watching the routines of Corbeau's security detail.

  The first thing he realized was that everything had changed. Formerly, Corbeau's security had been primarily focused on protecting his person from kidnap. He never left his compound without a five man detail, usually via his helicopter. The villa was secured by two guards in his absence. In addition to a ten-foot wall and a motion activated light and alarm system, there were two dogs. Against these obstacles, Kate had designed a plan to bait the guards and neutralize the dogs. From the start the problem had not been getting in safely. The problem had been getting out. For one thing the road around the lake was the sole link between the city of Lucerne and the village of Meggen.

  The police could shut that down in a matter of minutes. The lake was no better. Assuming they could get to a boat, they faced a massive police response.

  Kate's solution had been ingenious. They would wait until the summer fireworks. Then, amid hundreds of pleasure boats sitting at the centre of the lake, they would swim out to an inflatable, access the far end of the lake and return to the centre of the lake, sink the inflatable and climb back into their boat before the completion of the fireworks. With fifty boats on the lake, the police might have resorted to the tedious process of searching each vessel, but the summer fireworks had brought out closer to five hundred. Short of a threat to national security, the Swiss police would not inconvenience that many citizens - no matter how rich Corbeau was.

  They had spent several months preparing for the incursion, not even sure the painting existed. They had risked their lives on the chance, and they had won. Or so they had thought. At some point Corbeau had learned their identities, and all the money in the world could not save Kate from him now. If she was even there, somewhere inside his villa, she was not coming out without a fight. And this time Ethan was not looking at a two-man security detail backed up by a couple of Doberman pinschers.

  Watching Corbeau's villa for only a couple of hours convinced Ethan that he was looking at an armed camp. He had seen a dozen individuals walking from the main house to the guardhouse, but there were possibly twice that number. Certainly there were others in the field. There was always someone coming or going. There was no way to fight his way into the compound. But say he could get in with Lutz's badge and security pass. Say it was possible. He still needed to find Kate and get over the wall. Even then the fight would not be over. After using the police to close off the road, Corbeau would give chase, trapping them in the forest between the road and the lake.

  The only sensible way to handle Kate's kidnapping was to call the police and tell them what had happened. And if he did the sensible thing? The police would need to take a statement. Once Ethan presented himself to the police, Kate would disappear, and Corbeau would make sure Ethan did as well. He could try to convince himself that the police would
be neutral about the whole thing, but he had lived in Switzerland too long to believe it. Corruption as the rest of the world knew it was non-existent in the police force but, at the highest levels, people of wealth enjoyed unparalleled protection. It was unthinkable that they should be paraded before the media like common criminals. Entertaining as that was for the masses, it was bad business for a country that provided safe haven for billionaires.

  The police were out, and a direct assault was out. Worse yet, he was looking at hours to formulate a plan, not days or weeks. He was working alone with only a couple of handguns, two silencers, and one extra clip of ammo. In his lonely vigil it was easy to imagine the ferocity of Corbeau's vengeance against Kate. The hard part was resisting a doomed assault on the front gate.

  Zürich

  Malloy stepped into the alley and followed the curving cobblestone lane up the hill to the nearest road. He found Max and Marcus Steiner waiting for him. 'How are the accommodations?' Marcus asked him.

  'Can't complain.'

  Marcus laughed quietly. 'Given the reputation of your host, I expect you mean you don't dare.'

  'How did things end at the airport?'

  'Everyone is on the same page. A career diplomat stationed in Paris spends a couple of days in Zürich before flying back to the States. A group of neo-Nazis target him as an American who works with the US government, and they kill him. These days they don't even need a reason. The important thing is not the story, Thomas, but how they knew you were going to be on that train.'

  'Best guess is Roland Wheeler pulled a double-cross. The only thing better than twenty-five million is twenty-five million times two. Sell it, steal it, sell it again.'

  'How did Wheeler find out?'

  'I think the buyers gave him my name and he set up an audio surveillance on my room.'

  'It's possible, I suppose. Wheeler started his professional life in Hamburg. Two of our hitters - the guys with Mohawks - were heroin addicts operating in downtown Hamburg.'

  'Not exactly the kind of fellows who would be running in Roland's circle.'

  'There was a Berlin accountant in on it too. Wheeler has a number of clients in Berlin. Perhaps there is a connection through him.'

  'What do you have on the Brand Books fire?'

  'The investigation is ongoing, but they've got what looks like three people dead inside the building. So far the cause of death is unknown, but they should have autopsy reports by tomorrow morning. A man was found shot to death outside the building, just beyond the back door. It looks connected to what was going on inside. There are three entry wounds. They think probably nine millimetre.'

  'We need to follow that up. If Brand was involved with Wheeler on this, it could be that Wheeler turned on him.'

  'You really think Wheeler was behind the attack at the airport?'

  'He's the thief in the crowd.'

  'You might be right. He disappeared after the meeting this morning. The people at his gallery don't know where he is. He hasn't touched a credit card or used his cell phone all afternoon.'

  'How long have you been watching his house?'

  'Max called in two off duty Zürich patrolmen about three hours ago.'

  Max spoke as he drove. 'I checked with them just before we picked you up. The place looks empty. They haven't seen a soul.'

  'Are we going to have any trouble taking a look around?'

  'He has a silent alarm,' Max answered. 'When the patrol car shows up, our people badge them and tell them we have it. Meanwhile, we go about our business.'

  'The only problem,' Marcus added, 'is if we take something. The moment Mr Wheeler files a complaint our people are going to have to explain themselves. If it comes to a showdown between a couple of policemen and Roland Wheeler, Wheeler is going to win.'

  'I just want information. We're not going to take anything.'

  'I was hoping I could appropriate a Monet,' Marcus quipped. 'Do you think he has any he wouldn't miss?'

  Roland Wheeler's property sat on the eastern shore of Lake Zürich in what had once been suburbs. The city had long ago converted the land surrounding his villa into a city park, giving Wheeler an uncluttered view along his shoreline. The house was not especially large by American standards, but it was undeniably grand in the old world manner. It was a two-storey structure of brick trimmed in limestone. It featured a large front portico and a terrace just off the second storey, a steep slate roof and the usual overabundance of Gothic paraphernalia. A small ornamental fence surrounded the property. Otherwise it was easily accessible. Max pulled his Mercedes up to the kerb close to the house and sauntered across the street to talk with the surveillance team.

  'Still quiet,' he told them when he returned.

  Marcus used a lock pick at one of the side doors. It was delicate work that he had long ago mastered. They were inside the house a few seconds later. A security panel greeted them, but they ignored the warning beeps. The furnishings were mostly antique. A great many were sixteenth and seventeenth century pieces. They had the warm, worn look of daily use. Malloy started in the bedroom, checking drawers and shelves for an address book. When he saw the familiar flashing of coloured lights splashing across the interior of the house, he walked to the window. The patrol car had responded within four minutes of the entry.

  One of Max's off-duty detectives greeted them. He pointed toward the house, and Malloy, knowing he was only a silhouette, raised his hand in greeting. They did not get back into their patrol car immediately, but neither did they care to question the word of a fellow officer. The second off-duty cop ambled out into the street, and the four men settled into a comfortable conversation - probably about the weather.

  'You need to see the office,' Marcus said, stepping into Wheeler's bedroom. Malloy followed him without comment. As they went, Marcus began muttering mournfully the names of the various painters Wheeler had hung so casually on the walls of his house. 'Cezanne . . . Gauguin . . . Picasso . . . Kandinsky . . . Klee . . . even my Monet. Do you think he would miss just one little Monet, Thomas?'

  'You can always come back.'

  'How do you say it in America?' He switched easily to English with a pronounced but pleasant Swiss accent: 'I want my instant gratification, and I want it now!' In Swiss German he added, 'What is tomorrow to a kid in a candy store?'

  Wheeler's office gave the only evidence that the house had been searched. The file cabinets had been emptied, the paper burned in the office fireplace. The computer monitor remained, but there was no sign of the computer itself.

  As they were finishing their search of the office, Max entered the room. 'Got something,' he announced in his gruff manner. Both Malloy and Marcus looked at him expectantly. 'You'll probably want to see this for yourself,' he said.

  They found Roland Wheeler's corpse sitting inside a basement cabinet, his thighs pressed into his chest, his heels pushing against his buttocks, his chin settled neatly between his kneecaps. The art dealer still had on the grey suit and scarlet tie he'd worn at the bank. His flesh was cool. Rigor mortis had set in. A bullet had been fired at close range into the back of his skull.

  Marcus considered the corpse briefly before asking Malloy, 'You still think he's the one who ordered the hit at the airport?'

  Lake Lucerne

  October 10, 2006.

  Kate heard the squeak of a steel door opening and saw a faint grey light wash across the cindered floor. Despite her dread she glanced around her prison cell. The ceiling was roughly twenty-five feet above her. As she had guessed this was Corbeau's tower, the lower two- thirds of it to be exact. There were half a dozen chains with handcuffs hanging from the walls and a number of torch holders. Beyond the dark shadows overhead, if she could possibly climb that high across the smoothly jointed stones, a thick stone floor waited. She had been hoping to discover some way out, but there was no exit except through the steel door.

  Three uniformed guards stepped into the room as Kate came to this conclusion. Each man carried a burning torch and a
short-barreled shotgun. As the torches flickered, the shadows of the men danced across the walls behind them. The scene inspired the disheartening observation that in Corbeau's world medieval brutality enjoyed all the advantages of modern technology. She was in a Gothic nightmare, held inside an impregnable medieval donjon by jailers who dressed in corporate security uniforms. A bit of electricity might have made things seem almost normal.

  When each man had placed his torch in a stand, Julian Corbeau entered the room with an oddly unsettling majesty. He was in his mid-fifties, trim, small and unnaturally erect. Ethan's research indicated the man had not spent a single day in military training, but it was hard to believe. He presented himself as the consummate general. She knew collectors from every nation, people with whom her father had dealt over the years, men and women who operated outside the boundaries of law with the arrogance that comes of owning politicians, but she had never seen a man with as much self-assurance as this one. It was as if he imagined himself invested with the powers of a deity.

  Giving North no portion of his attention, Corbeau looked at Kate as if shopping for delicacies. He did not care if she feared him. This was not a show of power. He wanted only to enjoy himself. When it seemed he had, Corbeau glanced in the direction of the guards who had placed themselves along the wall. One of the men stepped forward and presented his weapon as if offering it for inspection. Corbeau took the shotgun and pointed it at Nicole North. It was the