Naturally, the fingers couldn’t be saved.
Nor, unfortunately, could the pride and reputation of the man who never failed. Facing him across the desk, the senior State Department official, whom some called a four-star asshole, was one of the people who had known Hermod back in the days when the senior official had been responsible for his homeland’s reputation, in other words packing skeletons away in as many closets as possible. Hermod had had a different face then, different eyes, another profession and another life. Many people had known him then, but very few knew that that man and Hermod were the same person. The senior official was one of them. You could even say that in the old days they’d almost been friends.
“You’re getting old, Martin,” said the senior official at last, addressing Hermod by his real name. “Have you thought about retirement?”
“What happens now?”
“We’re tucking away the files for now.”
Hermod knew the Americans were capable of expunging all traces of an operation in no time, so nothing was left but a thin file in a safe at the bottom of a bunker. The contacts, communication channels, phone numbers, addresses on servers, and accounts from which transfers were made would all disappear. Years of operating in a democracy, with nosy journalists and politicians, had taught the Americans the art of “bureaucratic napalm.”
“I’d like to finish this.”
“You screwed up in the Tatras; you screwed up here. Twice you were duped by some commando boy, the second time you almost got yourself killed. I recommend a vacation in some sunny spot. I bet you have a chunk of change set aside.”
“I need to finish this.”
“Go home, Martin. Wherever that may be. For your own sake.”
Hermod realized that the Americans regarded this case as too serious for backdoor operations and that they’d send in their own cavalry to finish the job. But that was bad news for the Raphael hunters. Surgical precision in US military terms was sure to mean heavies with machine guns liberally tossing grenades.
“You’re right,” he lied. “A vacation and a well-earned retirement. I guess I’ve worked pretty hard, haven’t I?”
The senior official shrugged indifferently. Hermod realized the meeting was over.
“Just for old times’ sake. What’s it all about?”
The senior official sighed. “You know I can’t tell you anything, Martin. But for old times’ sake I’ll just say that there are pieces of junk out there, some of them really old, whose reappearance would present a greater threat to national security than you can imagine.”
2
She didn’t like the countryside, but once upon a time she had really loved this house. Traditional, solid, semicircular verandas or ornamental balconies supported by stout columns. It was like a house from a children’s book—its beauty lay in its simplicity. It was a redbrick block set on a stone foundation wall, with dark timber features, door and window frames painted green. The whole thing was topped by a pitched roof with slightly mossy tiles from which two chimneys protruded, one from the stove in the sitting room, the other from a small fireplace in the spacious study that was Karol Boznański’s inner sanctum. The only architectural departure from the classic design was a large terrace, leading outside from the upstairs bedroom.
She did her best to combat her feelings, but it was no use. As they were driving through the cherry orchard that stretched from the gateway to the house, all she could see was that bedroom. Large windows leading onto the terrace and smaller ones overlooking the fields. Plain white walls, the wooden roof beams exposed. A pinewood bed, linen sheets, and those splashes of color on either side—the art albums, notebooks, and novels with business cards instead of bookmarks stacked on the bedside tables. There were always a few novels—a serious one that Karol was supposed to read but didn’t want to, some modern trash with no beginning or end that one of his writer friends had pushed on him, and an American thriller. He was quite capable of staying up all night and postponing a meeting the next morning just because he couldn’t put down Lee Child or Jeffery Deaver.
The touch of linen, the darkness dimly lit by a bedside lamp, the rustle of turning pages, the damp odor of sweat, and the wood burning down in the stove in winter. The warmth emanating from the body wriggling beside her. Why hadn’t it worked out for them? How crazy we failed to make up, she thought.
The cab stopped in the driveway, and they all got out in front of Karol’s house.
“What’s up, baby?” He winked at her as he rattled the key in the lock. “Memories stirring?”
Instantly she remembered why they’d failed.
Soon after, all four were sitting in Karol’s study. Zofia curled her legs under her and squeezed into a corner of the sofa, warming a glass of red wine in her hand. A fire blazed in the hearth, yet it was chilly. She thought of Richmond’s residence, which could be heated by remote control. She felt sick at the memory of their recent adventure.
Thirty-six hours had passed since the events in New Rochelle. They had managed to regroup and get out of the United States in the government plane, along with the minister of foreign affairs. From the airport they had gone to see the prime minister, with whom they’d had a strange conversation. They’d expected the operation to be over, Lisa to be taken back to prison, and the matter to be shelved. Instead, they’d been chewed out for screwing up, then given two more weeks to carry on with the search. Immediately after, they’d left Warsaw and headed for Karol’s farm, twenty miles outside the city. This was the first time since the event that they’d been alone and able to talk to each other. But instead, they sat in silence with glasses in their hands, too exhausted to wonder what to do next.
Karol tossed another log on the roaring fire.
“I don’t like it,” said Anatol. “I don’t like it at all.”
“Don’t worry. I have an extinguisher, just in case.”
“That’s not what I meant. How did you know something wasn’t right, Zofia?”
“We’d been given fake photographs. In that house, on that wall, there really was something that looked like the Raphael, but it wasn’t the actual painting. I realized too late.”
“What about the two independent expert opinions?”
Zofia swallowed a large gulp of wine.
“They were experts on photography, not Renaissance paintings. And the experts were right. The photographs weren’t fake, they were genuine photographs of a genuine object hanging on a wall. The picture itself wasn’t a fake either, in the sense that it wasn’t painted by anyone as a perfect copy of the original.”
“A print,” said Karol.
“Exactly. I should have spotted it. It’s a copy on canvas, based on prewar photographs of the Raphael. Highly professional, of course, with no halftones. But no different from the kitsch you can buy at a street market for less than twenty zlotys. The idea was brilliant in its simplicity. In the picture, the print looks like a real painting. Especially as the picture was rushed and a little blurry.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, my dear.”
“I’m not your dear.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Dr. Lorentz. How were you supposed to know?”
“You remember our first meeting at your apartment? You had the Wyczółkowski portrait on display, the one you’d brought back from Berlin, stolen from us by the Germans during the war. Of course I was familiar with it; I’d seen prewar photographs and produced catalogues that included reproductions of it, I’d have recognized it anywhere. But seeing it for the first time was a very powerful experience. Just like seeing other rediscovered paintings. It’s a shock when shapes that are so well preserved in your mind suddenly take on colors. The colors change the emotions, the subtexts, contexts, atmospheres, seasons, depths, perspectives, hidden meanings. Black-and-white reproductions are more like counterfeits.”
“For God’s sake, spare us the lecture. We’re lucky to be alive.”
She had a cutting remark on the tip of her tongue but realize
d Karol was right.
“When I saw the Raphael from New Rochelle in the photographs, I didn’t feel emotion. I didn’t feel anything at all—the excitement of the treasure hunt obscured everything else. Though even if only in a photograph, finally I could see what the Young Man really looks like. Why didn’t I feel anything? Because it looked exactly the same as in the prewar photographs. But it shouldn’t have looked like that. The print is old, the colors are distorted, artificial, too faded or too intense. Anyway, even if the print was faithful, after what happened to it during the war, whatever its further fortunes, the painting couldn’t possibly look the same.”
Suddenly she felt sad.
“I’m sorry. I should have spotted it earlier. Something was bothering me the whole time, but it only jumped at me when I saw that Impressionist in Richmond’s strong room, its colors. Those were real colors, real painting.”
Karol opened another bottle and poured them all wine. As he leaned over Lisa, she covered her glass.
“Got any hard stuff?”
Karol smiled and went into the kitchen, then came back with a bottle of hooch and four shot glasses. The well-chilled vodka filled the glasses like oil. Lisa knocked hers back, and held out her glass for another.
“But why go to the trouble of such a big fucking production?” she asked.
It was a good question. Who could have gained from that whole charade? What did they expect to achieve?
“Perhaps it was an accident,” said Zofia. “A rich guy hangs up a print of a famous work of art just for the hell of it, someone happens to notice it . . .”
Anatol waved the notion away. “The longer I think about it, the more certain I am it wasn’t an accident. And the more worried I am. It was all perfectly prepared. They knew we’d be there, and they were waiting for us. Since our meeting with the prime minister I’m even more worried. Something’s very wrong.”
“But she’s given us more time and promised to help,” said Zofia.
“Time for what? We have no idea what to do next.”
Karol fixed his gaze on Anatol.
“Are you trying to suggest that our own country is prepared to let us be killed by thugs? Have you gone crazy?” Karol asked.
“I’m suggesting we consider every option,” Anatol answered.
“Besides, we have a good lead to follow,” added Lisa.
“What lead?” Karol asked.
“We must go to Sweden.”
“Why?” asked Zofia.
“I have a friend there. An expert and teacher. He knows all about fine art.”
“Very nice. Just like me and Karol. If there’s something you don’t know, you can ask us. I’m not risking another crazy adventure on the whim of a thief.”
“I’m the hands, he’s the brain,” Lisa calmly replied.
The three Poles exchanged glances.
“Your accomplice? Partner?” asked Anatol.
“Boss. He prepares, plans and arranges, I go to work.”
“What a fine and moving story. Catherine Zeta-Jones can play you in the movie, and Sean Connery can play him. I still don’t get why we’d go there just to meet another thief. We have one already, and that’s quite enough.”
“He’s looking for a lost collection of fine art. Very old art. Raphael might be part of something big.”
Zofia glanced at Karol, who seemed to understand Lisa better.
“You mean the Raphael might be a part of a large, lost collection that the two of you have been looking for?” he said.
“Twenty years,” she confirmed.
“I’m still not convinced. Who’s this guru of yours? Does he have a castle? A cave? A museum on a rocky island?”
“Sten Borg.”
Zofia couldn’t conceal her amazement.
“The Sten Borg? Are you messing with me?”
“No.”
Anatol had no idea who he was.
“He’s the world’s most famous art expert, but he’s a recluse and an eccentric,” said Zofia. “I’ve tried getting in touch with him a few times. Never had any luck.”
“It fits,” said Anatol. “We should get going as soon as possible. We’ll take the roads through Germany and Denmark. We can get there by car without any border controls. Schengen is a blessing for shady characters like us.”
Karol raised his hands in a gesture of astonishment. “A little paranoid, don’t you think?”
Anatol opened his jacket, showing his gun. “I’ve got another one in my bag, along with some other toys. Like I said, someone was very eager for us to get caught in New York. Not just anyone, but someone very capable of leading us astray who had us in his sights from the start.”
Karol snorted with laughter, but Anatol continued.
“Who was capable of putting a man with a fake ID next to Zofia on the plane. The same man who tried to shoot her in cold blood when it became clear they weren’t going to catch us. I have no idea why, but someone very powerful is eager to get rid of us. Do you really think he’s gonna give up just because we’re hiding out in the Polish countryside?”
3
Anatol emerged from his room in his boxer shorts, toothbrush in hand, and strode off to brush his teeth, once again feeling apprehensive. He was quite tired, slightly fuddled by alcohol, his eyelids were drooping, and his sixth sense was fast asleep.
The whole business had been murky from the start, even without the setups, complex smoke screens, hired thugs, and mysterious assassins. What had happened in New Rochelle was too well prepared. They’d certainly been waiting for them; no other way to look at it. The only reason they hadn’t succeeded was that a guardian angel—Anatol suspected one of his NATO friends who owed him a favor—had warned them at the last second. But he couldn’t figure out why Zofia seemed to be their main target—clearly the assassin hadn’t sat next to her on the plane by accident.
Anatol passed Lisa near the bathroom. She was wearing a T-shirt with a huge picture of Stanisław Lem on it. Karol must have loaned it to her as nightwear.
“Hey, Snake, you wanna be my purple whale?” she asked.
He frowned. “Listen, Lisa, I don’t understand your slang,” he said, pointing the toothbrush at her. “But if you want sex, I’m up for it.”
With a regal gesture Lisa opened the door to the master bedroom, which Karol had given up for her.
4
By the time Lisa and Anatol had had a second roll in the linen sheets, Zofia was still lying on her back, staring into the darkness, waiting for sleep. She didn’t like it in here—she was in the rarely used guest room.
She got out of bed and rested her feet on a thick rug. It felt good to sink her toes into the soft fur, but right now she’d have preferred creaking floorboards, so every step she took was perfectly audible in the study below, where Karol was probably snoring on the leather couch.
Stop being stupid, she scolded herself. Supposing he heard her steps, what would he do? Get on his snow-white steed and gallop upstairs to check if she was all right? “Oh, my darling, why are you pacing around in the middle of the night?” Time to be honest with yourself, dear girl, she thought. You clearly haven’t gotten over him. Does that change anything?
Of course not—considering what your relationship was like and how it ended, Karol Boznański is the last man on earth you’d want to be with.
But it wasn’t all that bad. It was pretty intense, but that was probably a good thing. And we were never bored, on the whole it was great.
Great? A relationship that ends with throwing objects and cursing, you call that great?
All right, don’t exaggerate; there weren’t that many fights until the very end. And let’s be frank: you were the first to throw things and even hit him with a French dictionary.
But didn’t he deserve it after all those lies? Zofia had no answer for that. Didn’t he deserve it, after the things he said in parting? Can you imagine being with a man like that again after hearing those things? Can you really?
No, I can�
�t, she replied without much conviction, then added, nor can I imagine a man who’d put up with what I said to him.
She stood and went to the door. She peeped through the keyhole, but it was dark. She put her ear to the cold wood. The whole house was silent; everyone seemed asleep.
5
The only person who was actually asleep was Lisa, feeling happy and satisfied. She had lived long enough in liberal environments to have learned to separate deep emotional commitment from sexual pleasure. Of course, just like everyone, she liked it when physical intimacy was coupled with love, but tonight she just needed an orgasm that flooded her entire body.
Anatol lay beside his sleeping lover, staring at the roof beams and wondering if he felt guilty of betrayal. Officially he was still married; they weren’t divorced in the eyes of the law, not to mention the church. So it was betrayal. Adultery. But unofficially he was as separated as a man could be. A year ago, when Sylwia had told him she had two pieces of news, he had automatically asked, “Good and bad?” She had replied no, both bad. And they were. “First,” she said, “I have cancer. Never mind the details, but it’s a serious kind, and I’m probably going to die soon.”
Of course his response had been to ramble on about acquaintances who could help, experimental therapies, Swiss clinics, positive thinking, saying they’d give it their all. The classic hysteria of a person in denial. She had shut him up with a kiss and said, “I’ve already looked into all that, and there’s no hope. And I don’t want to die hooked up to a drip bag.”
He had asked if in that case she wanted to go on an around-the-world trip together. She had paused for a long time, so he’d asked, “What’s the other piece of news?”
“I’m leaving you.”
And so she left. He had said he would wait for her to the very end, and that was the last time he’d seen her. He had regularly asked friends from the services to find out how she was doing, looking through her phone bills, email accounts, and the contents of her computer. And from month to month he’d become convinced that if the woman with whom he had shared his life for almost twenty years was missing him, she was keeping it very well hidden.
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