After assuring himself that Tom was clean the security man got him a Coke, told him Michaelson would be with him in a moment, and vanished into another area of the vast space.
“I bought this place for the view.”
“It's a good one.” Tom turned to face his host, who was standing a few feet behind him.
Michaelson was young, not much older than Tom, if that. Despite his obvious wealth, he didn't appear to be pretentious—just the opposite. His wardrobe was a Nike workout T-shirt and a baggy pair of jeans over which hung his ample gut. No belt, no socks, no shoes. His hair was straggly and he sported a couple days’ growth of beard. In one hand he held a slice of cold pizza and in the other a Sprite—his version of the breakfast of champions.
“I got a good deal,” Michaelson said through a mouthful of pizza. “The building, I'm talking about. I own the whole pile of bricks. Bought it off a dot.com competitor who hung on too long.” He swallowed and chugged from the Sprite can. “That's the secret. You can't be greedy. Bulls make money, bears make money, but hogs get slaughtered.”
Sounds familiar, Tom thought. Too damn familiar.
John Michaelson was a geeky computer entrepreneur who had hit a grand slam home run almost on the scale of Michael Dell or Mark Cuban. He and two partners had started an Internet information company in their dorm suite at Rutgers, and in less than five years they had sold it to Yahoo! for almost three billion dollars. Michaelson's cut had been a third. Since then he had raced sports cars, bought and sold two minor league baseball teams, put together a three-thousand-bottle wine cellar, dated MTV starlets, and become an eclectic, serious art buyer.
“Lucky break you caught me,” Michaelson said. “I was going to Paris this morning. Delayed my flight. An advantage of owning your own airplane. But I do have a lot on my plate, so this can't take long.” He gave Tom a lupine smile. “I couldn't resist after you said the magic word—Diane Montrose.”
They sat at a massive granite dining table. Tom put his empty Coke can to the side.
“Nobody's had a whiff of Diane in a coon's age,” Michaelson said. “She folded her tent after that woman was killed down in the jungle in Central America.”
The woman who was killed was my mother, Tom thought with a heavy heart. And I've had more than a whiff of Diane, he also thought, flashing back yet again to that insane, magical night.
But that was all he had. What he needed was information about her, and this man, he hoped, could provide it. If he struck out here, the investigation he and his brothers had undertaken would be seriously stalled, if not detailed
“So,” Michaelson said. “Why do you want to know about Diane? And what?”
Tom skirted the first part of the question. “Did you buy art from her?”
“Yes, but indirectly,” Michaelson answered, swigging down some more soda. “She's not a dealer, she's more like an agent. She would buy art for me and other collectors. At auctions, through private sellers, the usual. She has a great eye and a good sense of value. Her clientele list was excellent, particularly for someone who wasn't that old. I'd show you some of the stuff she got for me, but I keep my serious art at my place in the Hamptons.” He smiled. “Here it's fun and games. Out there, I try to act like a grown-up.”
Tom didn't know how much time Michaelson was going to give him. He had to cut to the chase, hopefully without scaring the man off. “Some of the stuff Diane bought from you. Was any of it pre-Columbian art?”
Michaelson leaned back in his chair. “We might talk about that, but you've got to answer my question first. What's your interest in Diane?”
Tom stared at him. “She burned me on … let's call it a transaction. I'm trying to find out how legitimate she really is. Or was. So I can figure out where to go with my problem with her.”
Michaelson smiled. “Join the party. Like I said, she had the eye, but she was a world-class confidence man, too.” He leaned forward. “We're in the same boat, I can see that from the sour look on your face.” He thought for a moment. When he spoke again it was clear he'd decided that he and Tom were kinsmen to Diane Montrose's machinations. “I did buy some pre-Columbian stuff from her,” he admitted. “Actually,” he amended, “I was going to, but she went to ground before we could finalize the deal, so technically, I never did.”
“From that place where the woman was killed?”
Michaelson put his soft drink can down. “This is a ticklish matter. I don't know if I should be talking to you about that.”
“Because technically it's illegal?” Tom asked.
“More than technically,” Michaelson answered. “People have gone to jail for selling it.” He snorted, like a bear shaking off an aggravating swarm of flies. “Not that I personally give a shit about taking stun out of backward-ass countries. If they're so lame down there they can't secure their own borders then the stuff ought to get out. Better in a good collection or a museum than buried in the mud where no one's ever going to see it.”
Tom nodded, as if silently agreeing.
“I could tell you of an ugly incident I heard about between Diane and one of her other clients about art from that region,” Michaelson said.
“Can you give me a name?” Tom asked. This might be it—a direct link between Diane and La Chimenea.
Michaelson shook his head. “Yeah, but then I'd have to kill you.” He smiled. “Seriously, no names. But what I can tell you is damn interesting.”
Tom didn't want to reveal how antsy this conversation was making him. “Whatever you can tell me I'm sure will be helpful,” he said as calmly as possible.
Michaelson got up, walked to a huge built-in refrigerator the open kitchen, and got himself another Sprite. He walked back to the table, lobbing Tom another can of Coke. They popped their tops and drank. Michaelson put his drink down.
The word on the street was that Diane had a connection down at that place where the woman was killed, who was smuggling artifacts out. Awesome stuff, millions of dollars’ worth of antiquities. It's also been said that her person down there was one of the archaeologists who was working on the site. I don't know about that but I could believe it, because it would have to be someone who had sterling access and wouldn't normally be suspected of stealing.” He paused. “On the other hand, it easily could have been someone in the government down there, they're incredibly corrupt. One of those two options, most likely.” He took a drink from his can. “Doesn't matter,” he continued. “She had an ironclad setup, supposedly.” He scowled. “But then that woman was killed and the shit hit the fan, because Diane didn't get the artifacts out.”
“So the deal between this friend of yours and Diane was never completed?” Tom asked.
“That's correct. Or any other deals Diane had in the fire.” Michaelson's tight grimace was not one of mirth. “The problem was that in this particular instance her client had given her a quarter-million dollars up-front money to pay bribes and whatever other grease she had to apply. But when Diane got back to the States, she didn't pay the client his money back. She took off into the wild blue yonder. And nobody's heard diddly about her since.”
Tom managed to control the emotions he was feeling from what he had just heard. It's you, he thought, looking at his host. You're the fish she didn't pay back. Michaelson was trying to distance himself both from the attempted theft and from looking stupid by being ripped off by Diane, but his clumsy body language had given: him away.
“That's tough,” Tom commiserated, playing out some line. “Did this friend of yours try to find her?”
Michaelson shook his head. “Not yet. He's been tool busy, and a quarter of a million isn't going to break him, he drops that in a weekend in Vegas. It was the principle of the thing,” he said darkly. “The betrayal. He'll catch up with her sooner or later,” he added ominously. “ ‘Cause he's one of those guys who under his good-natured facade doesn't put up with being burned.”
He finished his Sprite and crushed the can in his fist, “Diane's gone underground,
but she'll turn up. They always do. Sometimes they don't turn up alive, but eventually, they turn up. Even Jimmy Hoffa's going to be accounted for someday.”
Your threat isn't very veiled, Tom thought. I can understand why Diane wanted to lose herself and invent a new personality.
Michaelson glanced at his watch. “I've got to get going.”
He walked Tom to the front door. They shook hands.
“Sorry I wasn't more helpful,” Michaelson said.
“It helped,” Tom said. “I'm sorry you didn't feel okay about telling me the name of the collector Diane screwed out of that money.”
Michaelson smiled. “Like I said …” He put his fore-finger to his temple, cocked his thumb.
“I understand that,” Tom told him. “Completely.”
“How are you doing?” Clancy asked, when Tom called him from his hotel room.
Tom slumped onto his bed. “Diane was in cahoots with someone down there who was helping her try to smuggle artifacts out. A person in a position of authority, who could pull it off without being challenged.”
“Who told you that?”
“A collector who buys on the black market. Diane was smuggling artifacts out for him when mom was killed. With all the hue and cry that went down around mom's being killed she never got the goods out. The collector had advanced her a lot of money on the come, and she didn't pay him back.”
“That explains the name change and all the other hush-bush stuff she's been doing,” Clancy said.
“That's right,” Tom agreed. “What really ripped it was this rich guy heard from good sources that her partner was an archaeologist.”
“He said dad's name?”
“No names were mentioned. But who else could it have been?”
“You think mom found out?” Clancy asked.
“How could she not have?” Tom answered. “Dad could never keep a secret from her. She would have busted him,” he declared somberly.
Clancy was silent for a moment. “And was killed for it?” he finally said.
“Can you think of another possibility? Why else would he have constructed such a fabric of lies? All the money he lost, the huge life insurance policy? What else could it be?”
“I don't know,” Clancy replied. “But there's no turning back now. We have to find out what happened down there. No matter what.”
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Clearing customs had always been laboriously time-consuming at the San Diego International Airport, where thousands of non-Americans, particularly those from Mexico and Central and South America, passed through daily, but with the new security measures in force, conditions resembled a densely packed, teeming-with-humanity Calcutta train station. Outgoing passengers were thoroughly checked to make sure they weren't carrying anything, be it a nail file or a Coptic cross with a pointed shaft, that could be used in a hijacking.
Those entering the country, especially foreign men who fit one of dozens of profiles the government had instituted to weed out anyone the slightest bit suspicious, were rigorously scrutinized. They were often body-searched and their baggage was gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Even items as innocuous as foot powder were confiscated, and their carriers were questioned. If they didn't come up with the right answers they could be taken into custody by on-site INS in FBI agents, and roughly interrogated. By now, it was well known south of the border, and also in Muslim countries, that if you were coming to the U.S. as a foreign visitor you had better be squeaky clean, or you could be kept in seclusion for months, denied access to your family or even a lawyer.
A few days after Tom Gaines had learned the connection between Diane Montrose, his father, and the world of stolen art, a friendly, good-looking, well-dressed Latino in his mid-thirties, whose English was fluid and cultured (he had studied at Stanford University), was coming through this port of entry, a passage he had taken dozens of times over the past several years. His name was Mario Ernesto Rodríguez. He came from a wealthy, well-connected family. His firm, which manufactured automobile parts on contract from General Motors, Toyota, BMW and DaimlerChrysler, had a large office in Carlsbad, in northern San Diego County. As vice president in charge of distribution, he came and went almost like a commuter.
Usually, he sailed through customs. He traveled light, because he kept spare clothes and accessories at the apartment his company maintained near the office. He came, did his business, and went home, usually within forty-eight hours.
This time, his schedule was different. The company was holding a series of meetings stretching out over a week with their automaker counterparts, first here in California but then in Detroit as well, so he'd had to bring a larger bag to hold his cold-weather clothing.
The other difference was that the customs agents manning the checkpoints were new. None of the faces were familiar. These agents had been rotated in from Texas, as part of a recent policy shift in Washington to insure tighter border security. Familiarity, such as Rodríguez had with the old agents, could breed laxity, which could lead to disaster.
Even so, this would not be a problem. His papers were all in order, and it would be obvious to anyone looking at his passport that he was a regular on this circuit. In addition, he was carrying letters from the American companies he did business with, which signified his legitimacy.
Slowly inching his way, now only a few more people from the head of the line, Rodríguez impatiently looked at his watch, which he had set for U.S. Pacific time. He bad a dinner engagement with a colleague from Toyota's American design division, and with this heightened security in effect he was going to be late. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and started to speed-dial his appointment's office number.
There was a tap on his shoulder. Annoyed, he looked up. A customs agent, another new, unfamiliar face, had come up behind him.
“You'll have to turn that off, sir, until you clear customs,” the agent told him, politely but firmly.
“I'm late for an appointment,” Rodríguez explained, flashing a smile. “People are waiting for me. I need to let them know.”
The agent shook his head. “I'm sorry, but you'll have to turn it off. Otherwise, I'll have to take it from you.”
Rodríguez turned the telephone off and jammed it in his pocket. “Do I look like a raghead terrorist to you?” he muttered in Spanish, under his breath. He picked up his suitcase and pushed it forward—he was one person away from the head of the line now. Finally.
The agent's hand gripped his arm at the biceps. “Come with me, please.” The voice was low, but urgent.
“What for?” Rodríguez asked, trying to twist away.
The agent pointed toward his expensive-looking leather suitcase. “Is this yours?”
Rodríguez nodded. “Yes.” That was obvious—he had just moved it.
“What else belongs to you?” There was no politeness in the agent's manner now.
“My carry-on.” Rodríguez held his garment bag up for the agent to see.
The agent let go of Rodríguez's arm and picked up his bag. “Come with me.”
Rodríguez held his ground, rubbing his arm where the agent had been squeezing it. “This is a mistake,” he said indignantly. “Is Agent Holloway in charge today? Please get him. He'll identify me. I can't be delayed, it's urgent.”
“Holloway's off.”
The people behind Rodríguez, watching this, started talking to each other, a low buzz. They also began backing away.
“Then Agent Shapp.” Rodríguez's voice had taken on a pleading tone. “He'll clear this up. I'm an important businessman. Look at my passport. You'll see.”
“Shapp's on vacation. Please come along. If you're cooperative, this won't take long.”
“Get your supervisor,” Rodríguez said harshly, as if talking to a civil servant in his own country.
The automatic, a huge S&W, was out of the agent's holster.
“Come with me. Now.”
It was humiliating, being treated like a common criminal. At lea
st they let him call his dinner companion and explain his tardiness, once they had checked his passport and other credentials. Still, they had to search his luggage and put him through a pro forma interrogation. Once the process started, it had to be completed.
This was all explained to him by Special Agent in Charge Wendell Tucker, who was a buddy of Shapp and I Holloway.
“Sorry about this inconvenience,” Tucker apologized to Rodríguez in a thick Texas twang. He spoke in English, which Rodríguez had assured him he was fluent in. “You use the word ‘terrorist’ these days, even kidding around, your ass is in deep grass.”
Yes, I understand,” Rodríguez answered. “It was stupid of me to say that. I should have been more sensitive. God knows, I'm glad you guys are on the ball. I wish the security in my own country was half as good.”
They were in a windowless holding room. Rodríguez sat on a hard plastic chair. Across the room, his suitcase was open on a table. A woman agent was carefully looking through the contents, one item at a time.
“How much longer will this take?” Rodríguez asked politely.
“Couple more minutes,” Tucker drawled. He was leaning against the wall, next to Rodríguez. “She's new at this,” he confided in a low, friendly voice. “She goes by the book. I don't want to discourage her, you savvy?”
Rodríguez nodded. “Of course not.”
He sat back and waited, feeling better. So he'd be late. There was still plenty of time to have a fine dinner.
“Chief?” the woman called.
Tucker looked up. “Yeah?”
“See you over here a sec?”
Tucker smiled at Rodríguez. “Excuse me.”
He walked over to the woman agent. They conferred for a moment; she did the talking, keeping her voice low. Tucker listened. Rodríguez, watching them, felt a stab of nerves in his stomach.
Fallen Idols Page 33