by Earl Merkel
“Please do not shoot,” he said amiably. “There is no further danger here.”
Nearby, Petra Valova half knelt before the paintings she had propped against the wall. She was staring at some indeterminate point in the distance, her eyes wild in a face battered bloody and her arms spread wide. One of her fingers dangled at an impossible angle, but she did not appear to notice her pain.
Instead, she looked like a mother desperately trying to shield her brood against a threat still unaddressed—one that only she could fully comprehend.
Then I heard a sound that must have been there all the time. It was a woman calling for help, loudly but not hysterically. Under that sound was another: that of a man groaning in pain through clenched teeth.
On the floor, Peter Comstock was being rocked side to side by Marita Travers. Her hands, still bound with the tape, were smeared with something dark. I could barely make out the pool of blood spreading on the floor beneath them.
With the instincts of a trained paramedic, Gil pushed past Chaz and Herndon and knelt beside the two civilians. He disentangled the woman’s arms and gently lowered the man to the concrete floor. An arc of black blood pulsed from a wound, rough-edged and large, in the man’s temple.
As Gil began to work, his face was grim.
“Get an ambulance here, quick,” Gil said, and Herndon spoke into his cellular phone in a voice low and urgent.
I sat on the floor, still half-dazed and unable to move forward. Now I knew, with a terrible certainty, where Mikhail’s final bullet had gone.
April 25
Chapter 46
“So that’s what this whole thing was about?” Mel Bird asked, incredulous. “A damn publicity stunt?”
He sat in a wheelchair near the edge of Terry Posson’s hospital bed; his shoulder was encased in a fiberglass cast that elevated his arm to a right angle from his body. For herself, Terry had raised the bed to a half-propped position. She sat clear-eyed and upright, the thick hospital dressings looking like a lopsided gauze turban on her head. I stood with a shoulder against the wall, leaving Charlie Herndon to shift uncomfortably in the remaining chair, undersized for his bulk.
“In part,” I answered. “Or you could call it an attempt to resolve a fifty-year-old crime. Levinstein wanted to put the Russians in the spotlight with the whole world watching.”
“I still don’t get it,” Bird said. “Okay, these were valuable paintings. But you said the Russians stole what, thousands of paintings? Millions of ‘em?” He shook his head stubbornly. “They were sweating a little bad press, for God’s sake? Why so much trouble to get back nine of ‘em?”
“Money, pure and simple,” Herndon said. He fished in his side pocket and pulled out a page torn from a newspaper. As he passed it to Bird, I could read the headline: RUSSIA TERMS NEW IMF LOAN ‘ESSENTIAL’; SAYS DELAY COULD IMPERIL ECONOMIC STABILITY.
“Basically, Levinstein’s plan was to focus world attention on all the artwork the Russians had looted after World War II—that is, art stolen by the Nazis from Holocaust victims,” Herndon said. “In ‘98, the Russians pledged to give it all back. But they kept finding reasons to drag their feet. This left Stan Levinstein seriously pissed. The Russians claimed they didn’t know what they had, or what paintings belonged to dead Jews? Okay, fine—he’d show the world the bastards weren’t even trying.
“Stanley got in touch with his Mafiya contacts, outlined what he was looking for: world-famous pieces known to have been stolen from Jews who went to the death camps, specified, by name and artist. Pieces the Russians had pledged to return. At first, it had to look like a straightforward snatch job, probably using some inside help. They round up the usual suspects, catch one of the people Levinstein used, sweat him big-time. Of course, the guy talks—gives them an American ‘art collector’ named Levinstein.”
“When they run Levinstein’s name through their computers, all kinds of alarm bells go off,” Herndon said. “Nine paintings—world-famous works that most people thought, or at least had been willing to believe, had been destroyed—are stolen to order. By a guy their files describe as a Jewish activist with an ax to grind and the know-how to grind it in a very creative, very public way. Imagine a press conference where Levinstein unveils all nine pieces and tells the world how he got them.”
In his voice was grudging admiration.
“Fast forward to last December,” Herndon said. “Just when they need another massive infusion of cash, the Russian government finds out what Levinstein had done. They were looking at a public relations disaster. So they tried to play it cagey.”
Bird scanned the clipping he still held and looked at Herndon. “No paintings, no loans? That was it?”
“More like ‘no credibility, no credit,’” Herndon replied. “That’s why they told Mikhail the paintings were expendable. Valuable as they were, they were nothing compared to the billions that were at stake. The last thing they could afford was to be caught in a lie—a big lie, on a subject that engendered strong emotions.”
“So Levinstein had the leverage he needed,” Terry said.
“Yeah, but Stanley had no desire to spend the next twenty years in federal prison for smuggling and art theft,” Herndon said. “So he contacted a man he knew as a public official and a neighbor: Talmadge Evans, who brought in Nederlander. Stanley thought he was protecting himself—after all, he never intended to keep the paintings. When he laid it all out for those two, he didn’t know he was giving them the chance of a lifetime.”
“And it came along right when they needed it,” I said. “Santori’s Operation Centurion was closing in on them. Suddenly they’re handed a multi-million-dollar retirement opportunity—one that, if they played it right, looked untraceable.”
“Until the Russians showed up, looking for the stuff,” Gil said. “Must have been a shock for Evans to get a call from the Russian Consulate, asking about the missing artwork.”
“Tarinkoff called the bastard?” Mel’s voice was frankly disbelieving. “How’d you get that?”
“Before we left the Travers place, the FBI found an excuse to confiscate Tarinkoff’s cellular phone,” I said. “Evans’s office number was in the speed-dial memory. It was listed under the name ‘R. Hood’—Tarinkoff’s idea of a joke, I guess. When we looked at the phone records, we found a half-dozen calls to Evans’s office since early March.”
“The slick bastard says he was inquiring about a ‘rumor’ of missing artwork,” Gil said. “A logical question from a cultural attaché, and it didn’t directly implicate him. But Tarinkoff sent a strong signal that he, on behalf of his government, was ready to make a deal for the artwork. Evans considered the opportunity too good to pass up. It meant there was suddenly an immediate market for the paintings—the payoff could come in days, weeks at the most, instead of having to wait years.”
“It was a smart play for Tarinkoff,” I said. “Why not work all the angles? They already had the local Mafiya hoods out looking.”
“As well as their psycho Mikhail,” Terry said. “They had a lot of people trying to get their paintings back.”
“Or to make sure they were destroyed,” Herndon nodded. “Valova came to the United States to keep Mikhail from doing exactly that. She was lucky; Levinstein died before Mikhail could make him talk. But the Russian kept looking. When the house burned down later the same day, Mikhail knew there had to be another person involved. So he started shadowing the investigation.”
“Mikhail followed me back from Stateville Penitentiary on at least one occasion,” I said, and shook my head ruefully. “I thought it was Santori’s people, maybe somebody Nederlander had sent.”
“Actually, destroying the paintings would have been the easiest solution, and maybe the smartest one,” Charlie Herndon said. “She took a big risk coming over here to try to recover the paintings and get them back to Russia.”
“She took a bigger risk at the Travers house,” Gil observed. “Going after a psychopath with a gun. Even if he was he
r psycho, more or less.”
“She took a risk?” Bird said sarcastically. He shot a thumb in my direction. “How about this idiot?” He turned to me. “Something give you the idea that painting was bulletproof?”
It was my turn to look abashed.
“I just took the chance,” I said. “Valova had worked herself into a frenzy. Maybe I got caught up in all the excitement, too. I would have looked pretty foolish if Ms. Valova hadn’t cracked.”
“Like a dead fool,” Posson said, “with pieces of a multi-million-dollar painting stuck all over his body.”
“I was lucky,” I admitted, “but there was a lot of luck in all this, good and bad. Nederlander panicked and pulled the plug on the whole insurance scam. That forced all the dirty cops in the ring to scurry around for new income sources. Plus it forced Nederlander—as well as Evans, as it turned out—to look for a big score to retire on.”
“Enter Levinstein,” Bird said, “and the rest is history.”
I grinned widely. “Or it will be. Len Washburn’s been laughing like a bastard all day. He’s promised his publisher a hell of a book out of this. Kellogg is filling him in on Sam Lichtman’s deathbed statement and providing documentation that backs it up. That should light a fire under Ron Santori’s career, when the book comes out.”
“Until then, Ronnie should be a happy man,” Herndon said. “He’s got a whole platoon of Justice Department lawyers busy. Evans is trying to make a deal; he’d like to avoid a potential death penalty. He’s offering to give up a whole raft of your aldermen, building inspectors, contractors—there’s even a mob tie-in he’s dangling in front of the legal boys. They’ll be writing up charges until next Christmas. And he’s got a ton of crooked cops to cook for dessert.”
“I hear the State Police is patrolling Lake Tower,” Mel Bird said.
Gil nodded. “Should be a lot of vacancies on the police force when you two get out. Including on the detective division.”
“What about Trombetta?” Bird asked me.
Herndon answered first. “He’s down as a confidential informant—that’s a step up the immunity ladder from just being a ‘cooperating witness,’” the FBI agent said gruffly. “I don’t know if he’ll save his shield. But I don’t think he’s going to jail, if that’s what you mean. Hell, if that bastard Tarinkoff gets a free ride, Trombetta probably deserves one too.”
“Story in the paper today said he was a hero,” Bird remarked sarcastically. “Tarinkoff, I mean. They said he grabbed the gun and saved Davey’s ass. But how come they didn’t have anything about gazillions’ worth of stolen paintings?”
“Because they didn’t know,” I said quietly.
“Decision from Washington,” Herndon said, and his voice was curiously flat. “They decided it would be inadvisable, particularly at a time when—and I quote—‘the Russian government is moving toward an equitable resolution of the trophy art issue.’ Translated, Washington and Moscow made a deal.”
“All that happened, they still don’t have to give it all back?” Bird was incredulous. “Or even admit they have it hidden away?”
Herndon shrugged, and I looked away.
“But the pieces Levinstein got out of Russia.” Terry paused and looked around the group. “What happens to those paintings now?”
All eyes turned to Herndon. The FBI art agent’s oversized shoulders rose in a shrug.
“That’s a damn fine question,” he said in his deep voice. “You see, there’s been a kind of…complication come up.”
Chapter 47
“So who do you think the paintings belong to?” asked Marita Travers, her voice icy. “I assume there’s some question, since you say they have not been turned over to the Russians yet.”
I looked out the window, marveling at the view that was being wasted on the majority of us locked inside an FBI conference room.
Outside, it was a beautiful April afternoon, and I could see a slice of Lake Michigan framed by the skyscrapers. A sailboat, made tiny by the distance, wove through the sparkling waters on the gulled-out wings of its sails; in aspect, it appeared like a bird sculling through a field afire.
I had gained a new appreciation for art and for the passions it engendered.
Beside Marita sat Peter Comstock, his head swathed in a thick gauze turban that covered the grove across his forehead. The bullet had skimmed along the bone of his skull, nicking the temporal artery; an eighth of an inch difference in trajectory would have left the world one abstractionist poorer.
“That is, in a legal sense, an interesting question of international law.”
The speaker was one of a well-dressed trio, all men, who sat together on the long side of the table. They were, of course, lawyers—one each representing the Justice Department, the Treasury Department and the State Department.
Justice continued. “The paintings in question were stolen by the Nazis, then by the Russians, then by this Mr. Levinstein, and finally, Ms. Travers, by your husband and his police chief. I assume there are heirs of the original owners somewhere. And of course, the Russian government also wants them back.”
He shook his head in what I was certain was not sincere sorrow; for any lawyer, such a tangled web of potential litigation was tantamount to lifetime job security. “I suspect there will be no shortage of claims for the courts to decide on the legal issues involved.”
“With all due respect, all this is now much bigger than any questions of legality.”
The speaker was a middle-aged woman who sat between Comstock and Marita Travers. She was past fashionably thin, dressed in a tailored Gucci suit of pearl gray; her eyes burned, twin embers behind tortoiseshell frames.
“Monica Troutman,” she said, rising to her full five feet of height. “Ms. Travers has retained my firm to deal with the…ah, communications-related aspects of this issue.”
Santori groaned, softly. “Public relations,” he said to nobody in particular.
Troutman shrugged good-naturedly.
“In the larger sense, who really owns these works?” she asked, theatrically. “Because of what Mr. Comstock has done, at this moment that is a much more complicated question. As rare and unique as they previously were, they have now become something much different. They have changed, forever.”
“Not necessarily,” Treasury noted drily. “There are restoration experts who can remove Mr. Comstock’s work without damaging the oils on the good side.”
Marita Travers looked horrified, then exasperated. “The good side? You still don’t understand, you baboon. There are—”
“Allow me, Marita.”
Monica Troutman spoke calmly, patently clear.
“This morning, gentlemen, I received a call from the Museum of Modern Art in New York. They assured me that they were prepared to do whatever is necessary—court orders, legal action, anything—to preserve what their staff of curators is terming ‘a uniquely modern, authentic artistic vision!’ Their legal counsel is already preparing the papers to block any attempt to remove or otherwise damage what they are calling ‘the definitive Peter Comstock.’”
She smiled, innocent as a hired assassin.
“Not five minutes later, I received a similar call from the Museum of Contemporary Art here in Chicago. They also swear their unyielding support—particularly since, according to the newspapers, the Art Institute here appears to be on the other side of the fence. The two institutions are notorious archrivals, it seems.”
Behind his large hand, Herndon stifled a very unprofessional grin.
“Since that hour, more than a dozen major museums—here and overseas—have publicly registered either fervent support or furious outrage. Mr. Comstock is being seen as either a vandal or as the most enlightened artistic talent to emerge in decades. The legitimacy of his…uh, most recent works is being debated in every corner of the art world!”
Peter Comstock winked at the lawyers, a serene smile on his face.
“Good God!” State exclaimed. He turned to Herndon
. “You’re the art expert here. Is what this man did ‘art?’”
Herndon sobered, fixed him with a withering stare. “You try to define art. Damned if I can.”
“What Mr. Comstock has done is to invent a whole new artistic concept,” Troutman insisted. “He has created a work of genius—an expression that incorporates as part of its wholeness, even as part of its very being…another masterpiece! This unique work of his cannot exist without the underlying work; at the same time, it is a masterwork that is independent of the older vision! My God—remove his work? You might as well suggest they sandblast the Sistine Chapel!”
Treasury rolled his eyes and looked at his companions. “This is beyond belief!”
The publicity agent grinned hugely and began pacing again. “What any of us might believe is irrelevant, sir. The whole art world is taking up sides on the issue—and they’re all talking about Peter Comstock!”
The government lawyers looked at each other, then at Ron Santori.
“Okay,” Santori said, “what do you want? If we can all agree to keep this out of the public eye—”
I spoke for the first time. “That might be a little difficult. You should turn on the television.”
He frowned at me for a long moment. Then Ron Santori fumbled with the unfamiliar remote control until he found the correct button.
The large screen flared into life, the volume painfully loud.
“—millions in art stolen from Jews, sir,” an amplified female voice blasted from the hidden speakers. “What is the response of the Russian government to accusations that—”
Santori found the mute button.
On the screen of the suddenly silent television, Analoli Tarinkoff’s lips still moved. His face appeared serious, earnest, and completely without guile. The shot widened to include an attractive young woman, pointing a microphone under the cultural attaché’s lips as if it was a weapon. Her face bore the kind of studious impartiality that every television viewer knows is meant to signal extreme skepticism.