TARGET:
BURGHLEY'S
COUNTDOWN
TO TERROR
Nowhere, Nevada, November 22
It was not the name of the place; there was simply nothing else for miles around.
The old Texaco filling station on this lonely, mountainous stretch of U.S. Highway 95, halfway between Vegas and Reno, had stood derelict for close to a decade now.
But tonight, two different vehicles, each arriving separately, had pulled into the overgrown island where gas pumps had once ruled proud. After dousing their headlamps, they drove stealthily on around back, where they were hidden from view of any motorists who happened by.
The Jeep Cherokee had been driven up from Vegas.
The four-by-four pickup had come down from Reno.
Here, in the middle of nowhere, they parked side by side, but facing in opposite directions so the drivers had only to roll down their windows with leather-seamed hands.
Both were alone. And both looked as they had in Macao, human only in form. Jumpsuited and hooded, faces rendered insectile by convex black lenses and strapped-on electronic voice distorters—like Saturday matinee aliens, but lethal as all hell.
The man in the Cherokee was the first to speak. "What have you to report?" His altered monosyllabic words had a metallic, robotic edge.
"Of the ten specialists you requested," came the equally synthesized reply, "all have been contacted. Five have already arrived at the safe house. That includes the first of the four prison inmates. We sprang him just last week."
"The helicopter escape from the Mexican prison yard?"
"That is the one. Ortez. We smuggled him across the Texas border that very same day."
Laughter rasped like a scythe on rusty metal.
"Damn fools are still turning Mexico upside down looking for him!"
"And the three still in prison?"
"We are working on that. The one in Colombia and the one in Turkey are as good as sprung. But the IRA explosives expert is another story. That British prison is like a fortress. I take it there is still no timetable?"
"Not yet, but there will be as soon as our friend in England is freed. Everything hinges upon him."
"Can no one else do it?"
"No!" The man in the Cherokee shook his head adamantly. Explosives experts were a dime a dozen, but the Irishman was the only one he could trust to do this particular job. Donough Kildare was an artist in his trade, and could detonate entire buildings using a few ordinary household materials.
Materials so innocuous that they would pass unnoticed before even the most suspicious and skillful team of arson investigators in the world.
An accident! he would instruct the Irishman. That is what it must look like! That is the conclusion the investigators and analysts and adjusters who will sift through the rubble have to come to! A verdict of accidental death—
—accidental! Nothing less would do, for this explosion was the foundation—the very cornerstone!—of the entire operation. The "accident" had to occur for the timetable to begin!
One fiery chance. That was all the Irishman would be permitted, or else all the intricate plotting and planning would have been a waste, the entire operation aborted.
"It has to be Kildare!" the Cherokee driver reiterated harshly. "There can be no substitute! You must get him!"
The other nodded. "And the target?"
"You do not want to know!" reverberated the reply. "Advance knowledge of that carries an automatic sentence of death!"
Strident amplified breaths punctuated the warning, rasped distortedly. Then: "And the Irishman?" the driver of the pickup asked. "He will be privy to that information. After he has served his purpose, what is to become of him?"
"What do you think? Dead men tell no tales."
The one in the pickup nodded approvingly. "And the ten million he has coming? What happens to that?"
"That is a little bonus we shall split between us two. But remember! You must deliver the goods! The Irishman is the key! Unless you can spring him, the entire operation will be cancelled." There was a pause. "Is that understood?"
"Roger."
"Good. Then we are in agreement. Now, if there is nothing else, we can leave. I will keep in touch by the usual method."
Taking that as his cue, the driver of the pickup started his engine and put the vehicle into gear. Slowly, without lights, he drove around to the front of the filling station. Looked both ways.
Highway 95 stretched empty in either direction.
Cramping the steering column hard to the right, he stepped on the gas. Only after the pickup jumped onto the asphalt did he switch on his brights. Then, chasing the swath of his headlights, he listened to Tammy Wynette stand by her man as he sped north through the night.
North, back to Reno. Back to "The Biggest Little City in the World."
The driver of the Cherokee waited a few minutes before starting his engine. Pocketing his dark shades, he used his night vision and four-wheel drive to bounce around to the side of the old Texaco station. There, he stopped, looked, and listened.
He could see the lights of a northward-bound car approaching from far off to the south, and waited patiently until it had whooshed past. Then, swinging a hard left, he hit the halogens and floored the accelerator.
The Cherokee gobbled up the miles as he headed south.
South, back to Vegas. Back to that garish, neon-painted whore in the middle of the Mojave.
A hundred-and-fifty-odd miles and he would be there.
Book Two
STATES OF
THE ART
Dispute Surrounds Planned Sale of a Holbein
NEW YORK, Jan. 9 (AP)—Burghley's yesterday maintained that it would proceed with the sale this month of a painting whose provenance has come under fire from dealers and auction house experts on both sides of the Atlantic.
The painting, Hans Holbein the Younger's Girl With Flowers and a Spaniel is an I8V4 by 12y2-inch portrait painted during the artist's second stay in England, after 1532.
While many experts say the work was stolen from a castle near Darmstadt after World War II, Burghley's maintains it has sworn evidence that the painting had actually been sold to an American military officer, who has since died, and whose heirs have put it up for sale.
Allison Steele, Burghley's chief operating officer for North America, said that under the law, the seller and not the auction house guarantees the title of a work of art. Sheldon D. Fairey, Burghley's chairman, president, and chief auctioneer, was traveling yesterday, and could not be reached for comment....
Chapter 22
New York City, January 4
Goddammit! Surely somebody in this room is responsible for this disaster!"
The thundering from inside the conference room burst through the closed door like a warning. Kenzie, hand on the knob, fortified herself with a deep breath. Then, willing herself small, unimportant, invisible, she turned the knob and slipped inside.
The mahogany blinds were angled against the wintry sun, and seated at the head of the long table, Sheldon D. Fairey was a commanding silhouette against the cold slats of horizontal light.
"How the hell a mess of this ... this stupefying magnitude could occur to begin with is entirely beyond me ..."
Kenzie soundlessly shut the door and tiptoed to the far end of the conference table, where he and his small, captive audience were clustered.
"... but occur it has, and we are faced not only with a legal and public relations debacle, but an incident which has sparked a diplomatic crisis between the United States and Germany! I find this situation quite intolerable."
His audience flinched, but whether or not he even noticed was impossible to tell. For, like a beast catching a whiff of fresh prey, he slowly swiveled around on the ergonomic armchair from which, thanks to Dina Goldsmith, he was now forced to preside, and turned his flinty eyes in Kenzie's direction.
"Ah, the prodigal Ms. Turner, unless my eyes deceive me."
&
nbsp; Kenzie froze, one tiptoeing foot ridiculously poised in midair.
"How kind of you to honor us with your presence," he said mockingly. "I haven't, by any chance, inconvenienced you by calling this meeting?"
Kenzie flushed brightly. "No, sir. Sorry I'm late."
He waited, but no excuse was forthcoming, which seemed to pacify him. "Please sit down, Ms. Turner."
"Yes, sir." Kenzie lowered her foot and darted the last few steps to the table, where she pulled out the empty chair beside Zandra's and quickly sat down. One look around confirmed her worst suspicions.
This was definitely a power meet. All the big wheels were out in full force.
Allison Steele, Burghley's chief operating officer. David W. Bunker, Jr., senior vice president. Ileane K. Ochsenberg, senior in-house counsel. Eunice Ffolkes, head of public relations. Fred Cummings, the chief comptroller. Plus the crew from Old Masters: Bambi Parker, Arnold Li, Zandra, and now Kenzie.
Sheldon D. Fairey was looking down the table at her. "As I was telling your colleagues, Ms. Turner, I received a call from the secretary of state. You wouldn't, by any chance, be able to venture a guess as to what we discussed?"
"Yes, sir. It's got to concern the Holbein."
"Very good." Fairey smiled a little, or rather, bared some teeth. "I was informed," he sighed, "that the German ambassador has lodged an official complaint over the sale of a stolen national treasure. Also, that at the general prosecutor's office in Frankfurt, the German Cultural Institute has filed a criminal charge of theft against person or persons unknown."
"Ouch." Kenzie winced.
"Ouch, indeed." Resting his manicured hands on the tabletop, Fairey laced his fingers and looked down, ostensibly inspecting his knuckles. "Tell me something, Ms. Turner. You were one of Mr. Spotts's bright young protegees." Raising his head, he once again glanced at her and made eye contact. "Would you be so kind as to tell us how you, personally, would rectify this appalling situation?"
Kenzie didn't hesitate. "Well, that's easy enough," she said. "We don't really have a choice, do we? I mean, that painting should never have been accepted for consignment in the first place. If you'll recall, I circulated a memo last November in which I detailed its shaky provenance, and argued that we either do not proceed with the sale, or at least hold off on it until the provenance could be established beyond all doubt. The memo was cosigned by both Mr. Li and Ms. von Hohenburg-Willemlohe."
"Yes, yes, yes," Fairey said testily. "But that's all water under the bridge. What I want to know is, what course of action would you take now?"
"The way I see it, we are faced with two unalterable facts. One: the painting was accepted for consignment. And two: it's featured right on the catalogue cover." Kenzie picked up a copy from in front of her and held it up. "There's no escaping this. The harm's already been done." She tossed the catalogue back down. "In my opinion, the most we can hope for is to contain the fallout."
"You mean, by withdrawing it from the auction."
"Yes, sir. And publicizing our intent to pursue a further investigation of its provenance. I'm afraid anything less would ... well, to put it bluntly, sir, would give the impression that we deal in stolen plunder."
Fairey grimaced at the last two words. "Well?" he asked, glancing around the table. "Would anyone like to comment on Ms. Turner's evaluation?"
"Yes," Allison Steele said. "Ms. Turner, isn't it possible that you might be reacting with undue haste and alarm?"
Kenzie shook her head. "On the contrary, Ms. Steele. In this particular case, I don't believe we can act hastily enough. And as far as alarm is concerned, I wasn't the one who called this emergency meeting."
There was no refuting that, and an uncomfortable silence hung in the room.
"We have a lot riding on that painting," Fred Cummings, the comptroller, spoke up. "First and foremost, there's the presale estimate of twenty-five million. If the painting's withdrawn from the auction, we lose two-and-a-half million in buyer's commission, and the same amount in seller's." He tapped the notepad with the end of the pen. "That's an outright loss of five million dollars. More, if it would sell above the estimate."
"With all due respect, Mr. Cummings," Kenzie countered, "but I have to disagree."
"Oh?"
"Yes," Kenzie nodded. "You're calculating on the assumption that the painting will reach its reserve price and sell. However, we all know that lots in every auction, even important lots, often go unsold. In other words, you're not talking about a bird in the hand, but about two in the bush. According to my calculations, Burghley's won't suffer any loss if we withdraw the Holbein, for the simple reason that we have no guarantee it will sell."
"True," Cummings conceded. He put down his pen, carefully aligned it with the edge of the notepad, and frowned. "But we must also remember that the Holbein is the star of this sale. Without it, a lot of important buyers are going to stay away."
"Yes," Kenzie agreed, "they might. But I feel that's a risk we're going to have to take."
"Even if it means shrinking the presale estimate from a hundred and twenty million down to ninety-five?"
"Yes."
"Ms. Turner," David Bunker, the senior vice president, said in a plummy voice. "Is it not true that without the Holbein, if other items in the sale go for below their estimates, or some do not sell at all, our actual sales figures could be much lower than the revised estimate of ninety- five million?"
She was beginning to feel like a witness undergoing interrogation. "That could very well be the case. Yes, sir."
"And you are resigned to the fact that, next to Christie's and Sotheby's, our Old Masters totals for the season might... er ... turn out to be spectacularly awful?"
"That's right."
"The shareholders won't be pleased," he murmured with a vinegary expression.
"No," Kenzie agreed, "I expect they won't."
It was like hearing the voice of doom. In the ensuing silence, there was no sound other than the ominous ticking of the longcase Dutch staartklok between the windows. Then, as if someone was slowly turning up the volume, the harsh sounds of the city filtered through the double- glazed windows: the honks of perpetually gridlocked traffic, the wails of converging sirens, the high-pitched screams of a car alarm, a jet scratching its way across the sky.
Finally, Sheldon D. Fairey cleared his throat, and the noises of the city once again receded. "David's brought up a valid point," he said. "Ms. Turner, indulge me, if you will. What would you tell a roomful of angry shareholders?"
Kenzie locked eyes with him. "Why not the truth?" she said bluntly.
"The truth!" There was chiding mockery in the rich fruity tones, in the strained, unpleasant little smile. "Surely, Ms. Turner, you are not as naive as all that! Unless, of course, shareholders suddenly care more about 'the truth,' as you call it, than about their quarterly dividends?"
"They might care," Kenzie declared, "if somebody told them how our coming out of this crisis—reputation intact—is directly linked to their profits!"
Her face was obstinate, passionate, almost childlike in its shining intensity.
"Pray do continue," he murmured, steepling his fingers and tapping them against his lips.
Kenzie raked a hand through her hair. "I mean, my God, sir!" she burst out, rolling back her chair and jumping to her feet. "Think about it! What's the financial loss from one item compared to Burghley's single most precious asset, its reputation? That—nearly three hundred years of unblighted consumer confidence—is the thing we must protect at all costs, everything else be damned!"
To make her point, she brought her fist crashing down on the table. Then, suddenly aware of how carried away she'd gotten, she blushed and quickly sat back down.
"Sorry," she said in a tiny voice.
"A moment or two longer, Ms. Turner, and I do believe you would have had me bidding for the Brooklyn Bridge."
Fairey no longer sounded angry, and his altered mood seemed to soften the hard, wintry light bounced
back by the table's mirrorlike, calamander veneer.
"Perhaps you should address the next shareholders meeting for me?"
"Thank you, but I'd rather not, sir," she murmured.
Fairey permitted himself a faint smile. "I cannot say I blame you," he said. "At any rate, your impassioned plea has been duly noted. Keeping Burghley's reputation untarnished should be our first priority. Well, then." He looked at the others. "Anyone have anything to add? Eunice?"
"From the standpoint of public relations, I'd have to side with Ms. Turner," said the director of public relations. "Taking the Holbein off the market is certainly in our best interests."
Fairey looked at Ileane Ochsenberg. "What about the legal ramifications? Say the painting's withdrawn from the sale, but further investigation proves it to be plunder. Could we, in any way, be held liable for trafficking in stolen goods?"
"Not at all." Ileane shook her head. "As you know, under the law the seller, and not his agent, guarantees the title to the work. Therefore, under normal circumstances the seller would be held liable. However, in this instance the painting was inherited, and since the person who originally acquired it is dead, there is no culprit to convict. An heir cannot be held culpable."
"Good, good." Sheldon D. Fairey tossed his splendid silver-coiffed head. "Then that lets us all off the hook." Fairey was silent for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Which leaves us with one last dilemma. Our ethical duty to our client." He pursed his lips. "After all, it was one of our employees who accepted the painting for consignment."
"And?" Ileane looked at him questioningly.
"Well, what worries me is, won't withdrawing it from the auction be construed as deserting our client in order to save our own skins?"
"I don't see why it should," Ileane said. "We accepted the painting in good faith, and had every reason to believe that our client had free and clear title to it. It's not our fault that he didn't. Nor is this the first time something like this has ever happened."
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