The gallery had been mostly empty when she bought her ticket. A docent at the front desk asked if she wished to have a tour and she had declined, saying she preferred to just look. This one icon stopped her in her tracks and after looking over every detail, she suddenly felt as if she was surrounded by people. She sensed them all about, but was frozen, like in a dream. She tried to break eye contact with St. Nicholas, but could not. She couldn’t see anyone in her peripheral vision, but she heard them, talking, filling the room with sound. They spoke in different languages, this crowd, but there was one tongue which seemed clearer than the others. It was Aramaic. She knew it, but didn’t know how, as she had never even heard of Aramaic, let alone heard it. Then she heard a voice talking to her, but she couldn’t understand the words. The icon let her go, she turned to see the crowd, but was alone. An hour later the fog of time had hidden this memory from her.
It was years later, at a lecture in Syria, she heard a professor read a passage in Aramaic, “The Eye of God can see all and knows when to listen.” The professor explained that this meant God was always watching and knew to which prayers he must pay special attention. Katarina knew that his interpretation was mistaken, that it referred to something else entirely, something specific. The fog which had clouded her memory of that day burned away. Suddenly, she remembered all of it, the people, the Russian Icon, and what they were all talking about. It was the Eye of God, and they told her she would find it. She carried this with her, and now, standing on the cold street, she took strength knowing she was on the right path.
A car pulled up. Patrick opened the door and she got in. “Did you enjoy your dinner?”
“I did. And you?”
“It was fine. Randy will take us to his next amazing hiding place.”
Randy looked over his shoulder, “It is a ways from here and with the traffic, it will take a while, but soon you will be in the presence of the Eye of God.”
She didn’t appreciate his cavalier tone. The showmanship seemed to be mocking the sacred treasure. She leaned back and tried to relax, but she was uneasy. She had good reason to be, as they were being followed.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Arthur and Hans pulled away from the curb after Patrick and Katarina and another car drove past. The traffic was typical for that time of night, and they stayed a ways back. Arthur smoking, with one hand on the wheel, “They don’t’ seem to be in too much of a hurry.”
“Just don’t get close enough that Patrick notices, he is very careful, but don’t lose them either.”
Arthur resented the implication that he didn’t know how to tail someone. It wasn’t the time for a debate with Hans, so he let it go. “So what's the plan for tomorrow?”
Hans rolled down his window, for the fresh air, and said “I have been thinking about that, we may need to move forward without the Garneau collection.”
“So I don’t get my pound of flesh? Is that what you are suggesting?”
“Your original plan was brilliant, while Garneau, Schafer and the Falcon are bidding, we hit them; you robbing Dr. Schaeffer and me taking Garneau’s collection, and then dealing with the Falcon afterward. But if everything you have told me about Garneau is true, he will resist, might even fight back. It isn’t worth the risk.”
Arthur knew he was right, but was still angry at the ‘following’ crack, “It sounds to me like you afraid of a fat old man.”
Hans knew Arthur was trying to needle him, but it didn’t really matter. “With Garneau there, it means that Claude will be too, plus his ‘French Maid’, and the others. Before, it would just be the old cook and maids, far less chance of someone being a hero. There are too many people for one person.”
“You are right, of course, so what are you thinking?”
“It occurred to me that we could take both the Falcon’s collection and Dr. Schaeffer’s as well. As a bonus, we grab the Eye of God, and call it our retirement savings.”
Arthur liked this idea very much, but was distracted. “Are they being followed?”
“Of course, that is what we are doing…what are you talking about?”
“The car that pulled out before us is still on their tail, after three turns.”
Hans looked more closely, but wasn’t sure. They sat in silence, until the traffic slowed to a crawl on Broadway. “You seen that yet?” Arthur asked, pointing at a marquee.
“What?”
“The Pajama Game. Garneau made me go to it with him earlier in the year.”
“I read it got great reviews, but no, I haven’t seen it.”
“I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had read Bissell’s novel, Seven and a Half Cents. I didn’t know they had turned it into a musical, until I was reading the program.”
“Are they turning?” Hans said.
“I don’t know if they will tour, but I would think they might.”
Hans pointing ahead, “No, the Falcon and Patrick, are they TURNING.”
“Sorry, And yes.”
They turned too, as did the car which was following Patrick’s car.
***
Arthur and Hans had fallen behind, when they found the car, and Randy, the Studebaker was gone.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Patrick and Katarina looked at each other. He had a blank expression on his face; she had a glimmer of hope in her eyes. It was obvious she had an idea. Patrick hadn’t faced tough situations before; his planning had always kept him at arm’s length. He thought about how he wished he could just give them the Eye of God and walk away, but that wasn’t an option.
Katarina felt a little bit better, seeing that Patrick wasn’t scared, but she could tell he was at a loss. The situation looked bleak, but she had one skill, better than the rest. She could weave a story. If she did it well, she might be able to keep them alive long enough to escape. She knew the history of the artifact and she knew that they couldn’t kill them until it was found. She hoped they spoke English well enough to understand her, as a good story not understood, isn’t very helpful.
The thought crossed her mind that maybe Arthur and Hans had been able to keep up. That gave her hope. Had they even noticed the other car following her? It was a fifty/fifty proposition, at best. What she needed was to bring in Henry. He’s smart, but can I get him a message? And what should that message be?
The car slowed to a stop and the driver got out at a pay phone. The man in the passenger seat said something to them in Greek. The tone was not threatening, it was calm, but the smile afterwords was unnerving. The driver got back in and they started off again.
Katrina looked back and there wasn’t anyone behind them, so it seemed that Arthur and Hans had not kept up. The car turned twice and then pulled into a deserted parking lot. There were two more cars and a truck. There must have been eight guys standing around, but she couldn’t tell if there were more in the cars. They were taken out of the cars at gun point and forced into the back of the truck. The sound of a lock told them that their captors weren’t taking any chances of them jumping out of the back.
This was a break. Katarina could talk to Patrick and get on the same page.
***
Henry’s mood had been dampened by the news that Katarina was involved. Mike hadn’t mentioned that she was the Falcon. Henry didn’t see any point in denying it and told them Katarina’s history and her knowledge of art. He wasn’t sure when she had gotten involved in the world of stolen art, but it seemed obvious to him that she was the Falcon.
“Maybe she just works for the Falcon?” Celine offered, feeling Henry's pain.
“It's possible, but my gut tells me otherwise.”
Professor Brookert, “So where are we at? It seems like we have fulfilled our contract with Dr. Schaeffer, but we still don’t know who killed Mickey.”
Mike, “We also know of a crime about to be committed, namely selling stolen merchandise. It's likely there are three other murders which were part of this deal. Maybe we should call the chief and put an end to thi
s, let them sort it out downtown.”
“You might be right, Mike. I want to catch the bastard who killed Mike, but waiting until I have proof, might be a mistake. He's dead. I've accepted it and all that's left is to lock up the killer. There's only one concern and that is Dr. Schaeffer, I don’t feel right about letting him get caught, even if he is guilty of buying stolen art. Are you okay with that, Mike?”
Mike wasn’t okay with it, but he understood Henry, and his loyalty to his friends. It didn’t surprise Mike that Henry would be as loyal to his clients, too. He had learned that from Mickey. “No, I understand.”
It was decided they would all be in the office by 7:00 a.m. Henry needed to sleep on his plan.
***
Patrick looked at her, “You have an idea. I can see it.”
“We have been doing business a long time, my friend. I'm not going to sugar coat it; I think our chances are not very good. Once they realize we don’t know where it is, they won’t have any reason not to put us both down.”
“You make us sound like dogs.”
“To them, we are lower than dogs. You have their ‘Eye’ and they want it back.”
“I’m starting to rethink my decision to handle this piece.” Patrick was nervous, losing his game face, and turned to humor, feebly.
Katarina’s mind, working like a world class chess player, “As long as we offer the hope of recovery, they'll not risk losing the ‘Eye’, by killing us. If they believe there is a chance of delivering the ‘Eye’, it will keep us alive. It's not a priceless artifact to them; it is the center of their way of life. They've been searching for it for years. This may be the closest they've come to getting it back.”
Patrick felt inadequate for asking, “What is this thing? I thought it was just a really old, and priceless, watch.”
“If we live, I’ll tell you all about it. I'll need you to follow my lead.”
Patrick nodded and she leaned back, closing her eyes. He considered himself a master tactician, but couldn’t imagine how she planned to deliver it. If they lived, he wouldn’t wait around for the story, he was retired from the stolen art business.
***
Henry drove past his apartment, but decided to go to his house instead. Her smell would still be on his pillow, and that would just cloud his mind. He crossed the bridge and was home before he knew it. His brain was on autopilot. Henry knew he would need to confront her, he knew she had either killed Mickey or knew who did. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the thought of her sharing his bed, after having killed his mentor, or her going to the wake knowing who had.
She wasn’t the smart, funny, beautiful woman he knew from before, she was just a woman. He tried to figure a reason he could accept, but he knew why, greed. The conversation he would have with her, started to play in his mind. Henry grabbed a beer and sat down at his kitchen table. Henry could hear her excuses, her justifications, her blaming someone else, or her admitting it and begging for mercy. None of the stories had a happy ending.
Henry thought about what Mike had said and though he wanted to feel sorry for himself, he knew he couldn’t. Tomorrow, they would let the captain know everything. Henry needed to figure out how to bring down Patrick, stop the auction, keep Dr. Schaeffer out of it, and get Katarina to confess or give up the person who killed Mike. There were enough cops who loved Mickey that simply storming the auction would net everyone involved. He was sure that could be arranged. But how could he keep his client out of the fray? In fact, he needed Dr. Schaeffer to let him in on the location of the auction.
There was one thing which bothered him, still. It wasn’t just Mickey’s murder, someone had murdered the two Greek guys, and Mr. Brown in his brown suit. He got out his notebook and flipped through the pages. He found the page, Mr. Brown beaten to death in his home. He just couldn’t imagine Katarina beating someone to death. Obviously, it was someone from her organization. Henry didn’t have proof that she was the Falcon, just his gut telling him it was her. It was his same gut which said she didn’t kill Mr. Brown and those two drunken Greeks. Katarina must have a team.
That made sense, he thought. If she was this legendary collector, who had remained anonymous, she would have needed help. She would have needed people to deliver messages, to watch her back, and to make payments. Henry didn’t know what it took to be a world class stolen art collector, but he was sure it wasn’t a one woman job.
For a moment there was slightest glimmer of hope. Maybe a lieutenant had knocked off Mickey? He started to rerun the imaginary conversation again, this time, with a plausible explanation. She didn’t order the hit, it was his decision, and she didn’t approve. He would ask her why she didn’t tell him the truth. The glimmer of hope died, when he realized that there still wasn’t an answer he could accept.
Henry went to bed and slept for almost two hours, until a loud bang, from his basement, woke him up.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Henry was startled and couldn’t imagine what had just exploded. He grabbed the baseball bat in the corner and made his way through his house, turning on one light at a time. On the basement stairs, with his mind a bit clearer, realized it must be the closet. There wasn’t anyone downstairs so he opened the door and lying on the floor was a New York Times.
The date October 16, 1988; thirty-three and one half years from where Henry stood, and he knew it must have a clue. His closet, with its gift from the future, seemed to give him the little extra nudge in the right direction, whenever he needed it. Henry had suspected that the newspapers left this week had been put there from the near future, but he had found them too late. He had been bothered by this, blaming himself for missing a chance to save Mickey.
Henry took the paper upstairs, dropped it on the table, and started a pot of coffee. He had spent enough hours thinking about the how and why of his closet, without coming up with any ideas, that he took it all in stride. He looked at the front page and read a few articles. This was almost as cool as the machine which played movies in color. Reading about the future was exciting, but he couldn’t indulge his desire to think about all the strange things advertised and written about. This paper contains a clue, something which will point him in the right direction and help with the next move.
Henry didn’t expect a huge headline from 1988, screaming ‘Henry Wood Saves Day’ with an article describing what he had done in 1955. It would be subtle. He read a few more articles and nothing. The coffee was finished brewing, so he poured himself a cup, added sugar and cream and sat back down. Out of habit he pulled out the sports section. What he saw next shook him to the core.
He just stared at it. The headline almost stopped his heart. It wasn’t the clue, it was something much worse. Everything he should be thinking about seemed to be nothing but a din of background noise. He read the article, twice, and just didn’t understand. It appears that the night before, in front of 55,983 people, in California, the Los Angeles Dodgers won the first game of the World Series against somebody called the Oakland Athletics, 5-4. His love of baseball and the Dodgers made this the most horrible revelation he could imagine. How could they leave?
The coffee was good. Henry had a hard time getting back to the paper, he wondered if he would live long enough to find out who wins game two and the series. If he did make it to October 1988, he would have to remember to put a few bucks on game one. That made him smile, but only a little. The worst part was living with the specter of their move hanging over his head. He would go to more games this year, just in case. He assumed it didn’t happen for at least 20 or 30 years though, they were just too loved right now, to leave anytime soon. The cup was empty, but he wasn’t up in the middle of the night, to think about baseball. He needed a second cup.
After another 20 minutes of reading he came to an article about the tearing down of a building in the Bowery. This was it. He didn’t know the relevance, but the description in the article sounded like it was one of Randy’s hiding places. The article talked about how the clever hi
ding place looked like it had been created and then gone unnoticed by every tenant since. If they hadn’t been tearing down walls, it might have never been discovered.
Henry decided he was up now. He got in the shower to get ready for the day.
At his apartment in the city, his phone rang again. It was the third call he had missed.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
It was not what Katarina expected. They sat in leather chairs in a large space. In front of them was a table, with a pitcher of water, and a couple of glasses. On the other side of the table sat a gentleman with a white beard, drinking a glass of wine. The floor was concrete, but had a nice Oriental rug on it. There were very bright lights surrounding them. The lights were to overpowering to see the walls. Katarina sensed there were people, beyond the lights, but couldn't tell how many.
The strangest part was that Katerina couldn’t remember being moved from the truck to the chairs. But here they were, the show was about to begin.
“My name is…not important…nor is yours to me. I have only one concern and that is to recover what is rightfully the property of our little organization and right this wrong.”
Katarina wanted to establish some credibility with their captors. She had an idea how she might pull it off, but feared it might blow up in her face. She went for it. She leaned forward and calmly poured a glass of water and then said, “You must be Thorstians.”
The man showed the slightest hint of being impressed. “We are. There are few who have ever heard of us. We like our privacy.”
His tone made her think she might have misplayed the hand, but folding wasn’t an option, so she continued, “I've been searching for the Eye of God for a long time. I didn’t have anything to do with stealing it from you, but I do admit to being interested in buying it. I should mention, my friend here didn’t steal it either. He is merely the broker.”
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