The Hypnotist

by M. J. Rose

  A car horn blasted on the street below, and the sound wrenched Iris out of the past. She’d left this office and this city and this time and had been living in Telamon’s world, thousands of years before.

  “What happened to Iantha?” she whispered as she wiped tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “The doctors couldn’t stop her bleeding. My wife died because…because I couldn’t protect her…from my own pride.”

  Chapter

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It was just past six o’clock on Thursday night, but there was still a receptionist waiting for Ali Samimi and Farid Taghinia when they got off the elevator and stepped into the wood-paneled hallway. She was wearing a blue shirt and black slacks that showed off her figure in a way that Samimi knew would be immodest in his homeland. As she escorted the two men down the hushed hallway of Weil, Weston and Young, their footsteps fell silently on a rug that Samimi noticed was an expensive copy of a Persian. He smiled to himself at how pervasive they were in America.

  It was late for a meeting, but Lou White had suggested the evening summit because of an all-day meeting out of town. As the two men came in he thanked them for accommodating his schedule. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, gesturing toward his office.

  White’s irony was well placed. Everything here was impressive, from the massive mahogany desk to the wide windows that afforded a bird’s-eye view of Central Park to the wall of undergraduate and graduate degrees and finely carved wooden shelves filled with leather-bound books. The lawyer was equally impressive; he was one of those Superman-looking Americans Samimi envied. Tall with strong features, he had sandy-colored hair and was tanned and athletic.

  It was all so random—where you were born determined your fate. No one could call Lou White at a moment’s notice and drag him back to a country where he didn’t belong anymore, to endure a life he could no longer abide. That was all Samimi wanted—to know he could stay here for as long as he wished.

  “Would you like some coffee? Tea? I have something stronger if you don’t abstain,” White offered, and gestured to the bar set up on the top of the console behind him.

  Since Taghinia was devout, Samimi didn’t drink when they were together, but he looked at the bottle of whiskey longingly. The thought of the Scotch not only made his mouth water but intensified his ire. He wanted to live an authentic life, not this hypocrisy. Hearing his boss ask for tea with sugar, he said he’d have the same. While White called the request in to his assistant, Samimi studied what the lawyer was wearing as if he’d be tested on it later: navy suit, powder-blue shirt and blue-and-gray-striped tie. His dress, manner and surroundings were all designed to instill trust.

  “On the phone you said you had news? Might it be good news?” Taghinia asked.

  His boss was too brusque, Samimi thought. Taghinia refused to engage in the social niceties that building business relationships required, and as a result he never inspired anyone to go the extra distance for him.

  “It is good news,” White said, but instead of telling them right away, he plucked a folder off the corner of his desk, opened it, searched through the first few pages, didn’t find what he was looking for, closed the folder, picked up a second and looked inside that one.

  Samimi wondered if White was deliberately delaying as a power move. The lawyer was a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in New York City; you didn’t hurry him.

  “Yes, here it is,” White said as he scanned the sheet of paper he was holding. “We’ve been able to find out that in the process of removing the statue in question from Persia in the nineteenth century, the archaeologist involved was responsible for the murder of two people. Did you know that?”

  “No,” Taghinia barked. “But what difference does it make?”

  “A great deal. Let me take you through it. The husband and wife who lived in the house above the crypt where the statue was found were killed during the excavation.”

  “There was a cave-in?” Taghinia asked, again impatiently.

  Samimi thought he could detect annoyance in the lawyer’s glance but couldn’t hear anything but the correct inflection in his voice as he explained.

  “No, they were trying to stop the archaeologist from removing anything. The contents of the crypt had been in the family for almost three hundred years.”

  “How does that help us?” Taghinia asked.

  Now, White did frown, and then continued. “Based on property laws at the time, despite the partage system, the Persian government didn’t have the right to the contents of the crypt.”

  White’s assistant, the winsome young woman wearing the blue shirt and black slacks, entered carrying a silver tray. White thanked her and, as she walked out, offered each man a cup.

  “If the artwork was looted, the Metropolitan Museum can’t claim the industrialist Frederick L. Lennox left them a piece of sculpture that was free and clear of previous claims, right?” Samimi asked, unsure what answer he hoped to hear. Everything would certainly be much simpler if this were true. Iran would get Hypnos back, and he and Taghinia would be rewarded for jobs well done—even possibly be given promotions, which could result in job shuffling. Success might mean he’d have to go home. The alternative was a covert, complicated operation that made his palms sweat but might offer him a way to stay in America for good.

  “Yes, that’s right,” White said.

  “That is indeed good news,” Taghinia said.

  “Not exactly,” the lawyer amended.

  “Why?” Samimi asked.

  “Starting in the sixteenth century, harsh treatment was the rule in Persia for the Jews, a situation that didn’t change until early in the twentieth century. The government forced them to wear identifying headgear and a yellow badge and forbade them from relations with Jews outside the country. All over the world, Jews lived in ghettos, but in Iran, those ghettos were high-security prisons.”

  “What does this have to do with the sculpture?” Taghinia interrupted, yet again.

  White spoke even more slowly when he resumed explaining. “At issue to our case are family property laws. During the time in question, the law of the land stated that if a Jew converted to Islam he became the sole inheritor of the family’s property, and all other relatives were excluded from the will. The husband and wife who died trying to save the sculpture and the other artifacts in the crypt were a couple named Bibi and Hosh Frangi, who had four sons. If all of them had remained observant Jews they would have all inherited the treasures had they not been stolen. Each would have had an equal share in them. But one son, Yoseph, converted to Islam days after the death of his parents—probably to take advantage of that very law—and the house and all its contents became his. Which means if the sculpture hadn’t been stolen it would have been his.”

  “Where is this going?” Taghinia was tapping his foot on the carpet, making a slight but annoying sound that set Samimi’s nerves on edge.

  White continued as if he had not been interrupted, but the cadence of his words slowed down yet another fraction. Samimi was sure Taghinia didn’t notice it—which was so typical of the overweight, bombastic man. God, he wished he could get away from him.

  “We’ve done some research. Yoseph Frangi’s great-grandson lives in Iran today and works for the government as a health inspector. If you were to get him to agree to donate the sculpture to the government of Iran, you would have much more viable grounds to demand that the Metropolitan Museum return Hypnos to you.” White sat back in his chair.

  “How long would all this take?” Taghinia asked.

  “How long will it take you to convince Ilham Frangi to sign over the sculpture to the government?”

  “We don’t even know the man…” Taghinia pursed his lips, and his tapping became faster.

  Samimi knew his boss was reaching the end of his patience, and interrupted. “But let’s say we can take care of that part in days. How long would it take your firm to get us back the sculpture?”

>   “One and a half to two years instead of the three to four we’re looking at without Frangi. But what’s critical to understand now is that if the Metropolitan does their research as well as my firm has, they could find out what we’ve found out and get to Frangi with a better offer. They’re a wealthy institution.”

  “Even one more year of this is not acceptable to our government.” Taghinia stood. “We’ll get to Frangi, but you’ll have to move faster.”

  “The law can’t be rushed,” White responded in his slow, measured voice.

  “It most certainly can.”

  “Before you go, there’s another matter we haven’t even discussed,” White said, ignoring the comment.

  “And what is that?”

  “These archaic laws and the ways that your country treated the Jews won’t win any sympathy with the court system if they are brought to the forefront of the case, and if the Metropolitan gets to Frangi first, then they might be.”

  Taghinia pulled out a cigar and stuck it in his mouth. Samimi thought he detected a slight look of disgust in White’s eyes, but the lawyer didn’t say anything. “I want you to stay here and work this out,” Taghinia said to his second in command. “I have a phone call with the minister I can’t be late for. And when you’re done, come back to the office. We’re obviously working late tonight.”

  Samimi nodded. Working late tonight was code they’d arranged before arriving at the law firm. It meant Samimi was to stay and agree to pursue whatever path the lawyer suggested, but only for show. It also meant calling Deborah Mitchell in the Islamic department of the Metropolitan, setting up another dinner. Taghinia had said it would now be critical for Samimi to be present at the next few museum events.

  Samimi wondered if he’d be too nervous to even enjoy her company in the days and weeks ahead as she unknowingly helped him stage a dangerous and delicate mission that could make him a hero in Iran—or perhaps afford him something he wanted even more.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-SIX

  The harsh afternoon light spilled through the windows, casting everyone in a hyperrealistic glow and drawing attention to every line in Andre Jacobs’s worn and creased face. He stood in his living room on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Ninth Street surrounded by expensive furnishings and a lifetime of memories and confronted the Matisse Marie Grimshaw was unwrapping as if it were a rifle and he were a demoralized soldier about to be executed. As she pulled off the final layer of covering, Jacobs groaned.

  “Mr. Jacobs? Are you all right?” Lucian asked.

  Ignoring the question, the old man walked to the painting, gripped it with his arthritic hands, turned it around and, without being told where to look, bent down to examine the lower left corner, where there was a red circular mark no one at the Met had been able to explain.

  The museum could run all the follow-up tests it wanted. The combined look of wonder and horror in Jacobs’s eyes told Lucian what he needed to know. This had to be the painting stolen from Jacobs’s workshop that day so long ago; the painting Solange had been killed over.

  Jacobs leaned the canvas against the wall, then he stood back and stared at the beach scene, or what was left of it.

  “A fitting memorial…” he said softly.

  Only Lucian and Emeline were close enough to have heard him.

  “A fitting memorial…for my Solange.”

  Lucian saw his shoulders slump and anticipated the collapse, so that he was there to catch Jacobs as he fell. Olshling ran over to help.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Tyler Weil said, punching in 911 on his cell.

  Emeline knelt down beside her father. His eyes fluttered open.

  “Emeline?”

  “It’s all right—you’re all right,” she reassured him, and his eyes closed again. Emeline looked up at Lucian and Olshling. “Can you help me get him into his bed?”

  “Are you sure we should move him?” Olshling asked.

  “Yes, this has happened before. He’ll be okay.”

  Together the two men lifted Jacobs, who was far too light to be healthy, and followed Emeline into the master bedroom.

  Sixty seconds after they had lowered him onto the bed, Jacobs came to again. With glassy, bloodshot eyes, he searched the faces peering down at him. “Emeline?”

  “She’s in the bathroom getting your medicine. She’ll be right back,” Lucian said.

  “Can you give us some privacy?” Emeline asked when she returned with a handful of pills and a tumbler of water.

  The two men joined Grimshaw and Weil, who were repacking the painting in the living room. The EMS team arrived less than five minutes later, and Lucian showed the medics into the bedroom. While they worked on the old man, he returned to discover that everyone from the museum had left. Even with the heavy sun beating in through the windows, and despite the painting’s pathetic state, with it gone, some of the light in the room seemed to have gone away. He dropped into a seat at the antique card table and stared out at the same view he’d been mesmerized by twenty years before. The Upper West Side skyline stood proudly above thousands of trees. It was June, and the trees formed a solid green canopy made up of a hundred different shades. He spent the next fifteen minutes dissecting their nuances, mixing the colors in his mind on an imaginary palette. Ultramarine blue and lemon yellow for a dark green. A touch of alizarin crimson to make it olive. Cerulean blue and permanent yellow blue for a forest green. It was a silly exercise, and it failed totally to keep his mind off what had happened earlier in Dr. Bellmer’s office. Only Andre Jacobs identifying the Matisse had managed that feat.

  Lucian didn’t believe in reincarnation. He’d studied it extensively the year he’d been on the Malachai Samuels case. Regressions were only proof of our ability to make up stories, to manufacture dreams. Yes, there was a sense of inevitability to the young sculptor’s pain that seemed to mesh with Lucian’s, but wouldn’t there be? Wasn’t it logical? The drama was a manifestation of his own mind.

  When Emeline finally walked the medics, with their empty stretcher, to the door, Lucian was still sitting by the window, mixing colors in his mind.

  After seeing them out, she sat down opposite him. “His vitals are stabilized. They didn’t need to hospitalize him,” she said wearily. “It was probably just the shock of seeing the painting.” Without looking down at the cordovan-leather tabletop, she found the fancy gold scrollwork along the edges and traced the design with her forefinger. Her hands were so small.

  “You must be relieved.”

  “Yes, we’ve had enough of hospitals for a while.”

  “Does he have a history of passing out?”

  She nodded. “He has very low blood pressure.”

  Lucian was sure that the gin he’d smelled on Andre Jacobs’s breath had contributed to the incident, too.

  “I have some information for you,” he offered.

  “About the e-mail?”

  “I spoke to Broderick before I came over. He had the department put a rush on the trace yesterday, and—”

  “Let me guess. He told you they hadn’t been able to figure out where the e-mail was coming from?”

  “Did he call you?” Lucian asked.

  “No, but I’ve read about how easy it is to send untraceable e-mails.”

  “Just because they haven’t figured it out yet doesn’t mean they won’t be able to get a lead.”

  She looked at him skeptically.

  “They’re really good at this, Emeline. Broderick told me two more letters came in that they haven’t even started working with yet. They could yield different results. The sender only has to make one mistake.”

  She shivered.

  “You read them?”

  She shrugged. “I know you both told me not to, but I couldn’t help it. There’s someone out there. It’s impossible to see the e-mail there and ignore it.”

  “We don’t expect you to ignore it, but the police are monitoring your e-mail now. You don’t have to put yourself through that.”r />
  “Could you stop yourself from reading them if it was happening to you?”

  “No, probably not. Broderick said the message was the same.”

  “I’ll kill you and your father, too.” Her voice trembled.

  “It’s normal for it to get to you.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing…”

  “Okay, but it’s clearly bothering you. What is it?”

  When she didn’t respond, he repeated his request. “Tell me,” he insisted.

  “I think someone was following me today.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon when I left the store to come here.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened? Whatever you remember. Even something you might think is insignificant can be crucial.”

  “I was walking on Madison, from the store here. And I just got this crazy feeling.”

  When she hesitated, Lucian nodded and said, “People say that about being followed. They often sense it first. Go on.”

  “I turned around, but everything looked normal. I figured I was being paranoid.”

  “What else happened?”

  “I kept walking and then, as I passed by a store, I noticed a man reflected in the windows. I walked a little more. The street’s all stores there, so I kept watching. He stayed behind me for another block and a half. I got spooked and stopped in E.A.T, a restaurant on Eightieth Street, to get away from him.”

  Lucian nodded. “I’ve been there. Expensive.” He smiled. “What did the man do? Could you see from inside?”

  “He walked by.”