The Hypnotist

by M. J. Rose

  That Thursday evening, before Talbot put more Semtex in the carton, he checked to be sure the box hadn’t been tampered with and that the stash of explosives hadn’t been discovered. Everything looked intact. The tape he’d put down last night hadn’t been touched.

  And then he heard what sounded like footsteps. He stopped to listen. Someone was heading this way. He stole a second to look at his watch. What was going on? The security patrol for this area wasn’t expected for another half hour.

  The footsteps echoing on the marble floor were getting closer. He wasn’t going to be able to put the rest of the explosives in the box, get it closed up and slide the carton out of the way in time. He was going to have to improvise if—

  “You still here?” The guard sounded cautious, but was he also suspicious?

  Talbot finished tying his shoelace, then looked up. On his right was the carton filled with over three pounds of Semtex, enough to blow up more artwork than he could even calculate. On his left was his lunch pail. Leaning on the carton, he rose to a standing position, careful to slouch in a nonthreatening way.

  “I got all the way downstairs and realized I didn’t have my cell phone. I came back up to see if it was here. I’d moved these cartons around this afternoon and the phone must have fallen out of my pocket then.” He held it up.

  “You leaving now?”

  “As soon as I straighten up. Put this stuff back where it was.” Talbot’s heart pounded as he lifted up a second carton and put it down on top of the one he’d been filling.

  “I’m going to have to wait for you,” the guard said.

  “No problem. You have your job to do and I have mine,” Talbot said as he shoved both cartons back into the shadows. “Albertson would be furious if I left anything out of place. He’s practically an old lady like that.”

  The guard smiled.

  Talbot purposefully moved a few more boxes around and then glanced up. The guard didn’t seem to be paying any attention. Talbot’s heart settled down to an almost normal rhythm. Wasn’t it time to set this plan into action already? What were they waiting for? Every night he and the other four men met on a private Internet message board at midnight to await orders to proceed.

  Once they got the communiqué, on the following day each of them was to create an excuse to stay behind when the first rush of workers left. One would go to the bathroom. Another would get a phone call from his wife. A third would trip and sit down to nurse his ankle for a few minutes. A fourth would stop to help him. A fifth would take longer than was necessary cleaning up a mess. After the construction site cleared out, all members of the team would convene in the storage area and unroll the suicide belts they’d smuggled in. Made of canvas, each had holders for ten two-inch cylinders of Semtex. The men would connect the cylinders with red detonating cords. All it would take to fire the det-cords was the electrical impulse from the ring voltage of a cell phone. Not set to a predetermined time, the plan here was to wear the pretty ornaments for all to see and guarantee that if anyone was thinking of being a hero, they changed their mind. The goal was to get the sculpture out of the museum, not start a holocaust.

  Done rearranging the boxes, Talbot stood up. “I’m ready.”

  The guard looked around, gave a cursory glance to the cartons, the walls, the tarps, the tools, the worktables. “When’s all this going to be finished?”

  Talbot thought about the two answers he could give. The one the man expected would be the date the museum had set for the renovation to be completed by; the other was his guess of a much closer date that was going to bring this job to a very different and disturbing kind of end.

  Chapter

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Paris, France

  After three intense days of negotiating, on Saturday afternoon Darius Shabaz’s lawyer contacted the FBI and agreed to their terms: his client was willing talk to them in exchange for leniency, but only if they would come to Paris. Seven hours later, Lucian and Matt Richmond were on the last Air France flight out of Kennedy Airport. They arrived, groggy and needing showers, early Sunday morning and took a taxi to their hotel on the Left Bank.

  “Who made these reservations?” Lucian asked as the cab approached 9 rue de l’Université and he saw the hotel’s name in brass letters on the marble lintel of the front door.

  “Someone in the office, why?”

  “Its name…” Lucian pointed to signage that read Hôtel Lenox.

  “Yes?”

  But the cab had pulled up in front and there was no time to explain.

  While Richmond paid the driver, Lucian grabbed their luggage out of the trunk. It wasn’t until after they’d checked in, dropped their bags in their rooms and met up again downstairs for coffee that Richmond had a chance to find out why Lucian had been surprised by the hotel’s name.

  “Frederick L. Lennox was an industrialist and a founding member of the original Phoenix Club. Elgin Barindra has found quite a bit of correspondence from him to Talmage. I think copies are on your desk somewhere.”

  “I haven’t gotten to that stuff yet…”

  Lucian laughed. “You never will. Your desk is like a black hole.”

  The waiter arrived with café au lait and croissants. While Richmond stirred in two heaping teaspoons of sugar, Lucian continued his explanation in between sips of the hot coffee.

  “Lennox wanted to examine the Sanskrit list of Memory Tools that the Memorist Society owned and he planned on going to Austria to see it. There’s no correspondence confirming whether or not he ever did, but we do know he bought a sculpture found in Persia that he believed contained a Memory Tool. He bequeathed the statue to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “Are we talking about the same sculpture Darius Shabaz wanted?”

  “Might be. Lennox donated over a hundred pieces to the Met, all of them from the Middle East.”

  “But there could be a connection between Hypnos and the Phoenix Foundation? Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “It’s in the notes—”

  “On my desk. I know. I know. Crazy coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, and since no one but Doug and I and your desk know about it, it’s just another coincidence that we’re booked in here.” Lucian broke off a corner of the flaky croissant and ate it. “It really does taste better, doesn’t it?”

  “The coffee, too. So Lennox thought Hypnos was a Memory Tool? Do you think that’s why Shabaz wanted it? We’ll have to find out if he has any connection to Malachai Samuels.”

  Lucian took another bite of the croissant. He needed to think through how to answer and make sure that his response only referenced facts uncovered by their investigation as opposed to information he had gleaned in the strange regression sessions he’d had with Iris Bellmer. In his memories he couldn’t see the treasures in the crypt; he didn’t know if Hypnos was there. He only could see the actions he—Fouquelle—took and the terrified faces of the couple who owned the house.

  “I don’t think Malachai Samuels knew about any of this until Elgin Barindra found the letters from Lennox to Talmage.”

  “Any details about what that Memory Tool is?”

  “Nope, nothing. Malachai must be going crazy.” Lucian couldn’t help himself; he smiled.

  Richmond drained his coffee and observed his partner over the rim of his cup. After a few seconds he asked, “What else is going on with you?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve been working with you for five years. You’re always wrapped up in work to the point of distraction. You use it to keep the demons away. I get that. Lots of us do. I don’t want to pry. But you’re in deeper than usual on this one. Are you all right? Really?”

  “Never better.”

  “You’re holding back.”

  “Don’t you know me well enough to know I’d never hold back anything that mattered to a case we’re working on?”

  “I’m not talking about the case. I’m talking about you. What’
s wrong with you? Have you looked in a mirror? You look exhausted all the time. Worried. You’re always drawing. I know it’s a habit, but it’s habitual. You’re popping painkillers like Tic Tacs. What the hell is wrong?”

  “Other than the headaches—it’s just work. We’re closing in on one, maybe two cases. We’re doing our jobs. We’re rescuing paintings. It’s just work.”

  “Nah. You’ve got secrets, man. More than before, and that’s saying something. And you’re in some kind of trouble because of them.”

  Lucian was tempted. It would be a relief to talk about the strange dreams and drawings, the regression sessions that had opened up horrifying nightmares, to tell him about Emeline and the crazy idea he was fighting—and at the same time embracing—that she and Solange were connected. Matt was someone he trusted, literally, with his life.

  “Let’s get going,” Lucian said, standing up, brushing croissant crumbs off his hands. Now wasn’t the time to update Matt on his personal hell.

  Chapter

  FIFTY-FIVE

  A French maid wearing a simple black-and-white uniform escorted the two agents through the front hall of the apartment on avenue de New York, as if they had come to tea, and brought them into the living room. The purpose of this visit cast all the beauty of the high-ceilinged room with its ornate gilded moldings and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the river Seine in a harsh, ironic light. Under his dirty shoes was a yellow, cream and blue Aubusson rug worth more, Lucian knew, than he made in a year. None of the antique furnishings or paintings would have been out of place in a museum.

  Darius Shabaz stood when the agents walked in, but it was the overweight, balding man wearing thick glasses who waddled over to them and introduced himself as Eliot Waxman, Mr. Shabaz’s lawyer.

  There was no preamble, and any pretense that this was an afternoon tea disappeared as soon as all four men were seated in the club chairs set up around a coffee table. Lucian leaned back as if he were relaxed, as if Darius were just another suspect, not the man who might actually give him the information he needed to solve the crime that had changed the trajectory of so many lives—including his own—and was changing them still.

  “Mr. Shabaz and I appreciate your coming all this way,” Waxman said. “I assure you we have every intention of cooperating and having this move as swiftly as possible to a conclusion we can all live with.”

  Shabaz, who still had not spoken, nodded in agreement. He appeared concerned but wasn’t exhibiting any of the body language of a guilty man.

  “You understand that according to French law, Mr. Shabaz can remain here forever without any worry of extradition. But he’d prefer to return home to California and resume his life,” Waxman offered.

  “I’m sure he would,” Richmond said with only a hint of sarcasm.

  “And he’s prepared to help you in any way he can in order to make that a reality,” Waxman continued, as if he hadn’t heard Richmond’s retort.

  “You understand that we are doing you a favor, not the other way around?” Richmond said, this time with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  “Mr. Shabaz,” Lucian said, directing his next words to the fugitive, not his lawyer, “you’re going to have to help us a whole lot if you don’t want to come home to a very stiff prison sentence.”

  “I bought those paintings completely legally,” Shabaz said adamantly. “All within the past four years and all of them had—”

  Waxman put his hand on his client’s arm, interrupting and stopping him from saying anything else.

  “Would it be possible for me to get some water?” Richmond asked. He and Lucian had discussed which of them would make the request beforehand.

  “Yes, of course,” Shabaz said. “Let me call Suzanne.”

  “Just point me in the direction of the kitchen, that would be fine.”

  Shabaz reacted at first as if he was going to argue but then seemed to change his mind and gave Richmond instructions.

  “What do you want to know, Agent Glass?” Waxman asked.

  Lucian noticed that Shabaz seemed distracted. Maybe he didn’t like the idea of the FBI agent wandering through his apartment. Well, good; that was the point. He answered the lawyer’s question, but looked at Shabaz. “This is very simple. We want to know why you wanted the sculpture so badly. Why go to so much trouble? Why destroy the paintings? Why not just make a clean trade? And we want the names of the people you bought the paintings from. Plus all of your paperwork relating to those sales.”

  Waxman looked visibly relieved. “And all charges will be dropped if we comply with your requests?”

  “Once your client has answered all our questions and we can ascertain that we’ve been given authentic documents we will discuss leniency.”

  “No. We need to know what you are offering now,” Waxman said.

  Every muscle in his body fought back as Lucian stood up. The last thing he wanted to do was leave without answers, but he had no choice. He wouldn’t be held hostage to his own personal demons or to this officious lawyer. “My partner and I are staying at the Lenox Hotel if you change your mind.”

  Lucian had taken only a few steps when Shabaz said, “I’ll talk to you now.”

  He walked back to his seat.

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know—but I bought the paintings legally,” Shabaz insisted.

  “It’s illegal to buy stolen artwork.”

  “I didn’t know they were stolen when I bought them.”

  “Do not lie to me. Don’t do it,” Lucian said, and turned to Waxman. “If you want a deal for your client you’d better tell him that nothing but a one-hundred-percent honest and full disclosure is going to work.”

  Richmond returned carrying a crystal glass filled with water, and Lucian was annoyed that he hadn’t brought him one, too. His head had been pounding since the plane had reached altitude. He resisted putting his hand up to rub his temple. Not only would the gesture make him look weak, he knew by now it was futile. Nothing helped. Not a damn thing.

  “I don’t have anything to hide,” Shabaz said. “I acted in good faith.”

  “Who did you buy the paintings from?”

  “I bought three of the paintings from one man, and two from another,” he said and then named them.

  Lucian wrote down the names of the two dealers, both of whom had decent reputations. They were now one giant step closer. “And the bills of sale.”

  “All of the paperwork is in L.A.”

  “Can you arrange to have it overnighted to our New York office today?”

  Waxman looked at his client, who nodded. “We can,” the lawyer responded.

  “Why destroy the Matisse? Why not just offer the paintings in exchange?” Richmond asked.

  “I needed the Met to know how serious I was.”

  “Why was that?” Lucian asked. “What is so important about Hypnos?”

  “I didn’t want it going to Iran or to Greece. Its value is so much greater than anyone realizes.”

  “What right do you have to it?”

  Shabaz looked at Lucian as if he was stupid. “It’s mine. Hypnos is legally mine. It’s my inheritance. It belonged to my ancestors.”

  Lucian hesitated for just a second, rocked by the implications of the revelation. He saw Richmond glance at his partner as if asking why he hadn’t followed up yet. Quickly he threw out the next question.

  “Can you explain that?”

  “My ancestors were Jewish and lived in Persia. The sculpture, along with two dozen other treasures, was buried under their house until the late 1800s when a French archaeologist stole it. Looted it. Sold it to an American industrialist. Took what belonged to my great-great-grandparents and destroyed everyone’s lives.”

  “Hosh and Bibi?” Lucian’s voice came from far away and as he heard the names he was as surprised as everyone else was.

  “Yes,” Shabaz said, astounded. “How do you know?”

  Richmond was staring at his partner.

  Th
e words had just slipped out. What had he done? Lucian struggled for a plausible explanation. “The museum’s compiled a history of the sculpture,” Lucian said, hoping his rationale would pass muster. “Who it belonged to, what its provenance was, that sort of thing.” His mouth had gone dry. Without thinking, he reached out and took Richmond’s glass and drank half the water down. No one seemed to notice, least of all his partner, who’d never wanted it in the first place. Lucian was almost positive the Met’s history only contained the name of the archaeologist who’d sold the piece to Frederick L. Lennox, but he didn’t have time to worry about his egregious error now.

  “Do you know a man named Malachai Samuels?” Richmond asked.

  “I don’t think so, no,” Shabaz answered.

  “You seem pretty sure.”

  “I don’t know the name.”

  “What about the other objects in the crypt?” Lucian asked. “What about them? Are you trying to get them back, too?”

  “The other objects? Four clay pots, two gold bracelets, one pair of gold and rough ruby earrings, two elaborate pearl and gold necklaces, three large oil jugs and a gold pitcher. Every one of them predated Christianity, all from either ancient Rome or Greece and all of them hidden in the ancient crypt under their house in the Persian ghetto. Over the past twenty years I’ve spent whatever I had to buy them back.”

  “To what end?” Lucian asked.

  “I grew up listening to my grandfather’s story of exile from his homeland and his struggle to begin again. At first they were a series of adventures, myths to inspire a young boy to push himself, to fight whatever came his way and never fear the unknown. Over time I became obsessed with the carnage and loss my family suffered, which changed their destiny and ruined them.”