by Earl Merkel
The Russian’s attention was focused, mockingly, on Evans.
“Ah, yes—your associate.” Mikhail snapped the fingers of his free hand and spoke as if discussing a forgotten detail. “A very accommodating man. In fact, I drove here in the vehicle he…loaned to me.”
He addressed Tarinkoff.
“I would not concern myself excessively about any evidence”—his voice sneered at the word—“or about any associate. Before I left him, the gentleman—a Mister Nederlander; I am pronouncing it correctly?—was quite eager to provide me all the information I needed. How he killed the thief Sonnenberg and the girl at the insurance company. Even what he called ‘torching’ the Jew’s house: an apt expression, to be sure. I’m sure that he was surprised to learn I had been there earlier that very day.”
He turned toward Evans. “Did you know he lived quite well for a humble policeman? I was quite impressed when I went to his house—for the steel box he kept in his attic. The one with the Polaroid pictures, yes?”
Mikhail stared at Talmadge Evans, enjoying the look in the older man’s eyes.
Then he turned to Tarinkoff and spoke in a voice that was disinterested, almost bored. “There are no longer any photographs or any other documents that involve this matter.”
Santori’s voice was no longer reasonable.
“Listen to me, Tarinkoff. Evans is going to jail—maybe even to death row. You want things quiet, and your government wants back its paintings. Okay. But if there’s a bloodbath in this room, all bets are off. Look, we can handle all of this.”
“How are you going to handle me, Ron?” I asked, and Tarinkoff stared at me dolefully.
“You’re easy to handle, Davey,” Santori said tightly. “You want to protect Ellen, don’t you?”
Now it was my turn to stare.
“Oh, she’s cooperated nicely so far,” Santori said. “She even agreed to take a little Florida vacation, all expenses paid by Operation Centurion—right after we had her play that little phone prank on you. But you don’t want to get the government annoyed, Davey. Life can get very difficult, especially for a woman like your ex-wife.”
If ever I felt rage—hatred, even—it was at that moment. That may explain, at least partially, what happened next.
“The Donnatello! What…what is this?” Valova’s voice, coming from the circle of light behind the Russian cultural attaché where she had moved to better study the Italian master’s work, was shrill with outrage. She had turned the painting facedown and was staring at what seemed to be the reverse side of the canvas.
Anatoli Tarinkoff turned to look over her shoulder.
“Ah. I recognize the distinctive style of Mr. Comstock,” he said and glanced at the artist. “When the compulsion to create possesses you, sir, it must be quite irresistible. You appear to simply seize any available surface for your work.”
Comstock said nothing; it didn’t appear that he could. The artist was fixed on the painting Valova still held, and his face looked aghast. But close beside him, Marita Travers answered instead.
“For an art attaché,” she said, “you clearly know nothing about artists.”
It was a mild rebuke compared to the expression on Petra Valova’s face.
“You…you ignorant Philistine!” she spat at Peter Comstock. “You dare to…to pollute works of genius!” She placed the painting on the table, reverently turning it so the original work was uppermost. Only then did she return her fury to Comstock.
“How many?” she demanded. “What other priceless masterpieces have you vandalized?”
Marita answered for him.
“Peter completed three masterpieces here,” she told the Russian curator in a deceptively sweet voice that did not match the steely glint in her eyes. “The painting he’s doing on the big canvas is a…a work in progress.”
“Not the Cézanne!” Petra Valova almost shrieked, and her eyes swept madly through the pieces she had leaned against the wall, as if she could somehow have put it there without realizing. “What have you done with it?”
“It’s upstairs,” said Marita, a scornful twist to her lips, “you hysterical little harpy.”
Mikhail spoke up, amusement in his voice.
“Did I not mention this?” he said. “I am sorry. This man scribbled all over a number of your precious paintings.” He winked at Tarinkoff but again addressed Valova. “I believe they are hopelessly ruined, are they not? This is but one more argument for simply piling all of them together and striking a match.”
I spoke to Mikhail, though my words were meant for other ears.
“You’d really destroy them?” I said. “Irreplaceable masterpieces, burned to ashes. Priceless artwork, going up in flames. That would certainly be something to watch.”
“Yes,” Mikhail said, “perhaps I shall have that opportunity. You, I fear, will not.”
I shot a quick glance at the curator. With widening eyes, Valova had taken in the scene and understood: except as it served our own interests, the paintings were meaningless to anyone else here. They would be destroyed without compunction.
If she did not act first.
But Valova was both frozen and frantic, torn between her need to stand guard over the pieces down here and an overwhelming compulsion to verify the safety of the remaining painting. She looked past Tarinkoff at the gunman, who stood watching as if deeply amused by the spectacle he had helped orchestrate.
“You!” she ordered, a slightly unbalanced Czarina imperiously commanding a lowly footsoldier. “Go up there and find it! Bring it here, immediately!”
Mikhail threw his head back and laughed.
It was not quite a mistake—more a lapse, or perhaps simply a momentary oversight born of overconfidence. Whatever it was, it was possibly the only one he might make. I did not wait for him to correct it.
The instant Mikhail’s eyes left the little conclave, I dipped, low and fast, and threw myself in a sideways roll toward the wall. When I came up, it was with one of the paintings in a two-handed grip. It was the Michelangelo, and I held it in front of myself like a shield. I edged sideways, toward the light switch near the base of the stairs. It seemed a very long way away.
It was less a plan than a prayer.
Mikhail pulled a mock-terrified face.
“And that does…what, my deluded little friend? Am I now to cringe in horror, to drop this”—he made a slight movement with his pistol, now aimed at the midpoint of the canvas—“and surrender to you?”
Mikhail smiled, and I saw his knees flex slightly as he settled into a shooter’s stance. “I think not.”
To the side, there was a sudden commotion and a woman screamed something in what might have been Russian. From the opposite side, in my peripheral vision I saw the bulky figure of the artist begin to move toward Mikhail: too slowly, too awkwardly to cover the distance in time.
The gunman seemed not to have heard or seen anything. His attention was elsewhere, as was that of his target.
Even at that distance, I could see his fingertip begin to flatten against the trigger, and involuntarily I tensed against the bullet’s impact.
• • •
Outside, Charlie Herndon listened to his joints pop as he squatted behind a thick bush. He cursed, softly but with a heartfelt intensity.
The thin foliage offered no protection as such; the Kevlar vest he had taken from his car’s trunk was designed for that. When the vests had been issued, the FBI quartermaster—a former Marine gunnery sergeant—had assured Herndon that it would stop a handgun bullet. “Or at least,” the quartermaster had said, straightfaced, “slow it down enough so it don’t go through and ruin the other side, too.”
Around him, the sights and sounds of a suburban night added a surreal touch to the situation. The vibratto nightsongs of a million crickets reverberated through the air. Herndon could see the flitting specks of nocturnal insects in their ceaseless orbits around the streetlamp a dozen yards away. Further down the street, only an upper window�
��probably a bedroom, the FBI agent guessed—glowed in an otherwise darkened house. Even here, despite what he suspected was underway inside the Travers residence, the appearance was one of domestic normalcy. The vehicles, parked in the circular drive in neat alignment with the curbing, only added to the air of genteel prosperity. Surely, it all seemed to insist, nothing untoward could happen here.
Herndon twisted his wrist, trying to read the luminous dial of his watch.
“It’s 10:38,” Chaz Trombetta said in a low voice. He had arrived minutes before, materializing from the shadows so quietly that he had momentarily startled the FBI man. In his hand was the heavy .45 Army Colt nobody could convince Chaz was antique.
Gil Cieloczki too knelt alongside, not knowing exactly why he had come, but unwilling to be left out of the endgame that appeared so close. All three men stared at the Travers mansion, each of them wondering what to do next.
It had been almost fifteen minutes since they had seen any movement against the backlighted curtains of the downstairs windows. The FBI dispatcher had patched Herndon’s cell phone through to the Hostage Rescue Team’s helicopter.
Even now, they were still at least five minutes away.
The HRT team leader confirmed what a dour Herndon had already guessed: even when they deployed, it would take at least another five minutes before they would all be in position to do anything useful. So Herndon, Gil and Trombetta had crept noiselessly over the manicured lawn and past carefully clipped ornamental shrubbery. The front door of the house was only a few yards away.
They said to stand by, Herndon grumbled to himself with ill grace. So I’m goddam standing by, and some mutt inside there is the one who’s really running the play.
The thought made him bristle anew. For the third time in as many minutes, he checked the action of his sidearm and waited.
Through the cellular phone he held shoulder to ear, he had listened to the terse, cryptic reports as other elements of the FBI mobilized. Herndon had briefed his SAC on the situation then asked for and received confirmation of his status as senior agent at the scene.
Soon there would be more than a dozen men, armed with automatic weapons and dressed in black jumpsuits, surrounding the house. They would await only the word to begin an assault. Presumably, Herndon would give that word—though at this moment he had not the slightest idea what course of action was possible, let alone advisable. And, he reminded himself, right now his strike force consisted of a possibly corrupt cop, a fireman—and one pissed-off Special Agent less than two years from retirement.
Still, he mused, irritably, it is good to be king.
From somewhere deep inside the house, he heard a noise. It sounded like a single note struck from a muffled bass drum.
“Gunshot!” Trombetta hissed near his ear.
“Oh, shit,” Herndon said, and ordered his stiffened knees to push him upright as he spoke into the phone. “Team Leader, this is Herndon. We have shots fired in the house. Repeat, there’s a shooter inside. We’re going in.” Without waiting for a response, he stuffed the cell phone deep in his side pocket.
He started forward. “Cieloczki, stay here. Trombetta, you’re watching my back,” he growled without turning his head. Chaz Trombetta, grateful but determined not to show it, just nodded grimly. He moved forward, a few steps behind the FBI man.
Gil Cieloczki watched them edge, quickly but cautiously, toward the door. He definitely did not want to follow them; there were any number of very good reasons to stay where he was.
Then the other two men were on the entryway. Gil watched Herndon rise and turn his back to the door. His leg swung forward, smashed back. The powerful mule kick shattered the doorjamb, and the two officers pushed past, guns drawn.
Gil waited another moment. Then, muttering something that might have been either a curse or a prayer, he rose from the lawn and followed.
• • •
“Let go, you insane cow!” Mikhail shouted—for reasons he himself probably did not understand, in English.
It had all happened in an instant; the sound of his single shot still echoed from the concrete walls. Petra Natalia Valova had pushed hard past Tarinkoff and lurched forward, her hands outstretched. “Nyet, piristán’!” she screamed, just as the pistol fired.
And then she was flailing madly at her countryman, a wordless wail on her lips.
The woman fought like a wildcat, digging her fingernails into the wrist just above Mikhail’s gun hand and hanging on with both hands. She had slapped Mikhail’s pistol at the instant of its discharge, and then it was if the demons of hell had been loosed on him.
Mikhail could not have known if his shot had struck the painting—which was, to the Russian, merely old paint on older cloth. More urgently, he did not know if he had shot the lunatic who had stupidly hidden behind it. He did not know what the others in the room were doing, or were about to do.
All he did know was that he must remove this shrieking madwoman from his arm.
The two figures lurched across the concrete floor, crashing against one of the naked light bulbs that hung from the raftered ceiling. The light swung wildly, creating moving shadows that only added to the chaotic confusion of the meleé. Mikhail was the stronger, but Petrova’s strength was fueled by a raging desperation. She clung, limpet-like, to her adversary’s gun arm.
Mikhail thrashed sideways, the movement whipping the pistol barrel against Valova’s temple. The impact unlocked her grip slightly, enough for him to peel one of her hands from his wrist. He was not gentle; with an audible crack, one of the woman’s fingers broke under his grip. A sudden hard jerk freed the hand that held his gun.
And then I crashed heavily into the pair of grappling Russians, and the force of my impact sent the three of us scuttling across the concrete floor. As one, we careened off a wall and spun back into the middle of the room. I struggled to reach Mikhail’s gun hand as the Russian struck the screaming woman with a tight fist.
As Petra Valova was knocked free of the scrum, Mikhail twisted the pistol toward me.
But my hand chopped hard at his arm, striking the knot of muscle alongside his elbow. As the brachial nerve spasmed, Mikhail’s fingers opened and his gun fell away. He half turned to retrieve it, and I lunged onto his back. My weight dragged both of us to the floor, the Russian on the bottom facedown.
I moved up into the chokehold, elbows gripped in the opposing hands, clamping against the sides of Mikhail’s neck. In response, the Russian dropped his chin into his chest, using his jaw to partially block the pressure on his carotid arteries.
It was not enough. He bucked under me with the panic of a man feeling his consciousness begin to slip, and I knew that white-hot shooting stars were swimming madly on the fringes of his vision. He had only seconds before he would pass out.
I clung to his neck like a murderous monkey.
But with an urgent strength fueled by his own desperation, Mikhail pushed hard against the floor until his arms levered his torso upright. From close behind, I could feel his labored breathing rasp against my ear.
With a great effort, Mikhail smashed his head back into my face, hard—once, then again. The Russian’s head smashed solidly into my cheekbone, and the second blow took me alongside my jaw. The double impact sent twin thunderbolts of pain flashing across my vision. I felt the gunman slip from my grasp, and I tumbled bonelessly to the cool concrete. Above, the naked ceiling rafters spun sickeningly in and out of focus.
Mikhail came to his feet, gasping, looking right and left for his pistol.
During the few seconds it took for my vision to clear, as if from a distance, I heard the voice speak—a soft undertone, the words in an unaccented English.
“Is this what you need?”
When I could finally push my upper body from the floor, the gun was in Anatoli Tarinkoff’s hand—held loosely, but not inexpertly. As Mikhail held his own hand out for the weapon, I could see that he was breathing hard. But now it was not only from his exertion. His f
eatures were those of a man trying hard to ignore the alarm that his instincts were suddenly, urgently sounding.
The light glared from above and behind them, and the two figures were almost silhouettes against it. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I could see the consulate official’s lips moving. Mikhail did not respond; he just stared at his countryman, standing as still as death.
Upstairs, there was the sudden crash of glass and splintering wood. Then the sound of rushing men, moving room to room and shouting in an unmistakable drill, filled the air. Mikhail’s head snapped in the direction of the stairwell door.
When he turned back, Tarinkoff’s grip on his gun was no longer casual.
“Anatoli.” It was Ron Santori’s voice, and it came from where the agent had flattened himself near the heavy packing crate. He slowly rose to his feet, and an unspoken communication seemed to pass between him and the art attaché.
“I am sorry, my friend,” I heard Tarinkoff say, with a philosophical shrug. “But we must salvage what we can. After all, I have diplomatic immunity.”
He turned toward Mikhail, a movement not unlike that of a serpent coiling.
“Sadly, you do not.”
And then Tarinkoff shot Mikhail once, in the forehead.
A mist of blood and pulverized bone jetted from the back of the Russian’s head, iridescent in the harsh backlighting. He stood motionless for a heartbeat, then collapsed into himself. The body that had been Mikhail twitched furiously for a moment, its heels bouncing on the concrete floor, and then was still.
The echo of the shot was still ringing in the room when Charlie Herndon kicked through the door. He was flanked by Chaz Trombetta, and both were training their weapons into the room. Behind them, I recognized Gil Cieloczki, his face tense with the moment.
Anatoli Tarinkoff raised both his arms high, the pistol dangling from one finger, hanging by its trigger guard. His face bore a casual welcoming smile that was inappropriate in the event.