David Lindsey - The Color of Night v5

by The Color of Night (mobi)

  “I thought self-defense was only justified if you didn’t have time to call someone else for help, or to ask for the protection of the law,” she said.

  Strand shook his head. “Look, the only people who know that Schrade is capable of this kind of stalking are the criminals he works with and the intelligence agencies who use him. How the hell are we going to justify a request for protection from him? To the business world he’s a very successful international businessman. We’d sound like the worst kind of conspiracy nuts. Even if they took us seriously, think of the legal struggle we’d be facing trying to pull classified information from intelligence agencies to back up our claim. You know how effective that’s been in the past. That would initiate a complex of legal maneuverings that would consume all of our energy for the rest of our lives.”

  “But we’d be alive, wouldn’t we? He wouldn’t dare kill us with that kind of media attention on us.”

  “That’s right, Mara. But we’d die of natural causes. An inexplicable car wreck… it happens. One of us would contract a rare virus, a seldom seen bacteria… those are not so unusual anymore. A heart attack, even though the autopsy would show no signs of heart disease… it could happen to anyone. Or we’d be found dead in our bedroom, needles and drug paraphernalia scattered around us… you never really know about people, what they’re really like in the privacy of their own homes.”

  Mara didn’t respond. Suddenly Strand couldn’t stand the wet clothes any longer.

  “Look, I’m going to shower. We can finish this later.”

  She nodded. “Sure,” she said.

  When he got out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and took another to dry his hair and walked back into the reception. Mara had turned out the lights and had moved aside the sheets covering the bay windows. The city lights reflecting off the overcast sky threw a glow through the windows as bright as a full moon. She had taken off her clothes and was lying on the mattress in her underwear. She was on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, watching him, waiting. He went over and sat on the bed, the towel he was drying his hair with draped around his neck. He was weary.

  It began raining again. He was dissatisfied. He should have defended himself better, in a more thoughtful way, less stridently. The truth was, not only was he operating out of fear—and was unable to find a satisfactory way to rid himself of it—but also he was wrestling with the discovery that at the back of his heart there was a wound that had begun to fester. He had tried to ignore it, but it was no longer possible to do so. It ached for a healing remedy that was as disturbing to him as the discovery of the wound itself: it ached for the balm of revenge.

  “What’s on your mind?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “Just about everything.”

  “Yeah, I know. But we can work this out,” she said. “I’m not pessimistic about it.”

  “Everything’s going to have to click. The timing. Everybody has to buy into the story. We have to be good, and we have to be lucky.”

  For a moment they thought their own thoughts, and then Mara reached over and put her hand on his bare leg.

  “It’s strange,” she said softly, breaking the silence, “that we met like this, isn’t it, Harry?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He really didn’t. They had met, discovered something in common, fallen in love.

  “It is,” she said, “because this is a strange business, and we’re strange people to be in it.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. Jesus, what a world of confusion. How could he have been through so much and learned so little? How could he be where he was and be at a loss for what to do? Mara was right. For all their sophistication, for all the complexity of their situation, the solution he had arrived at was shockingly primitive.

  “Harry, come on. Lie down.” She moved over as Strand took off the damp towels and put them aside on the floor. He lay down, and she moved over to him and curled her back into him. He turned to accommodate the shape of her, and then both of them were facing the rain. He put his arm around her, and she took it and pulled it to her breasts, drawing him closer still. They watched the rain, listened to the sound of it streaking the windows, like no other sound in the world.

  Strand was comforted by the motion of her breathing within his embrace, with the way she felt. He wanted to be able to touch more of her than was physically possible. He wanted to be absorbed into her.

  CHAPTER 47

  When Strand woke to the gray morning light, his limbs were leaden, his mind unrested. He had awakened repeatedly during the night and had lain awake, staring at the luminous London night sky. He had worried about everything all at once, each concern leading into the next one, forming a long chain of solicitude. He had resolved nothing.

  Outside the bay window the rain had stopped, but the day was thick with mist. He looked at Mara. She was sleeping on her stomach, the covers pulled down to her hips, her long hair fanned out across her bare skin in a filigree of black.

  Carefully laying back the covers, he got up stiffly from the bed. He picked up the two towels and walked out of the room, past the kitchen to the next room, where Mara had put their clothes in a closet. He dressed and went into the bathroom and washed up, deciding not to shave just then. Then he went into the kitchen and started the coffee.

  Folding his arms, he leaned against the countertop and watched the nut brown coffee dribbling into the glass pot. The town house was quiet, but in an odd auditory deceit its empty rooms seemed to echo the silence.

  “How much do you think you slept?” Mara was in the doorway, still in her underwear, holding her dress.

  “Did I keep you awake?”

  “You helped, but I managed to be restless all on my own. I’m going to bathe. There are pastries in that paper bag over there,” she said, and went into the bathroom to shower.

  Strand walked back into the main room and got the two tea mugs off the floor, then took them back to the kitchen and washed them. When the coffee was finished, he poured a cup and went over to the scaffold table. He sat on a paint bucket in front of the computer and clicked it on. There was e-mail from Howard.

  HS… FYI

  The new arrangements are acceptable. And firm. No changes. He said: “Impress upon him the gravity of the consequences that will quickly follow should he fail to make this meeting.”

  There it is. Take it seriously.

  BH

  Strand stared at the monitor: “the gravity of the consequences that will quickly follow.” He had no doubt in his mind that the grave consequences were his ineluctable future regardless of whether or not Schrade got his money. If Schrade thought for a second that Strand believed he could avoid Schrade’s wrath by handing over the money, there was no end to the self-delusion that plagued all of them. Schrade’s menace blurred all other influences affecting Strand’s motivation.

  He flipped off the switch and stood up.

  It was difficult not to feel paralyzed by the knowledge that Schrade’s intelligence apparatus was as good as those of most governments. On the other hand, Strand had been in intelligence work all his life, and he knew that no intelligence organization was ever as good as it needed to be. He reminded himself of all the times he had not been able to find his targets, of all the times they had evaporated when he was most sure of their whereabouts, of all the times they had maneuvered themselves away from his agents and disappeared into an oblivion from which they had never again returned.

  Remembering these old failures brought back into realistic focus the truth of Schrade’s reach, a truth that was all too easily thrown out of focus by the swelling fear that one felt in the face of his rampant violence. No one, however, not even Wolfram Schrade, was omniscient. If you had enough money and reasonable good luck, you could evade the surveillance of even the best organizations. Sometimes for a long time. Strand’s professional experience gave him an edge. He just had to keep reminding himself.

  He took a sip of coffee. It was time to start wo
rking out the procedures that would propel them into Schrade’s orbit.

  “You’re going to have to take the drawings to Carrington Knight yourself,” Strand said. They were sitting on paint buckets, facing each other from either side of the makeshift table. Mara had finished bathing and was still wearing a white dressing gown, her wet hair wrapped tightly in a towel. Her coffee mug sat next to her half-eaten croissant.

  “I obviously can’t do it,” he said. “You can use the identity on one of the passports I got from Darras. Carrington will be thrilled with the collection. And with you.”

  Mara flicked her eyes at him.

  “There won’t be any problem with Carrington,” Strand added. “He can smell the real thing all the way across Mayfair.”

  “And what’s the odor of the real thing?”

  “Carrington knows. It’s as distinctive as a pheromone to him.”

  “A pheromone.”

  “Do you have any problem with this?” Strand asked. “We could think of other ways to do it. But this would be best.”

  “No, I don’t think I have any problem. It’s just a straightforward offer to sell, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “Oh. Well, let’s talk about that.”

  “There will be two difficulties,” Strand said. “One, to make sure that the offer for the drawings will be made first to Wolf Schrade. We want Schrade to come to London to look at them. Period. Other collectors would quickly buy them as a lot. We don’t want Carrington to do the easy thing and offer them to the first available client. The second thing: You have to convince Carrington to keep you, the seller, anonymous. If he makes the mistake of describing you to Schrade…”

  Mara nodded. “Okay.” She thought a moment. “Maybe we can resolve both of these problems by the way I present myself to Knight.” She stared off toward the bay window, toward the ashen light. Then she turned back to him. “Let me think about it. We don’t have to decide right this moment, do we?”

  “No, of course not. But there’s another problem. All your documentation for the provenance of the drawings was still at my place.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to come up with some forgeries to replace them. Carrington’s not going to offer these to Schrade without documentation. I would’ve had to do this anyway, even if they hadn’t been destroyed, because we’ve got to make sure the paper trail is obscure enough that Carrington can’t easily confirm any of it. If the time is short, if the sale is dependent on a quick negotiation, he’ll forgo his own provenance check and just rely on the documentation rather than risk losing the sale. Also, this way it won’t lead back to you. We have to come up with a new owner for the drawings.”

  Mara sipped her coffee. Then she put down the mug and stood and took the towel off her head. Bending over, she fluffed her hair with the towel, then quickly straightened up, flinging her hair back out of her face. Preoccupied, she walked toward the bed, folding the damp towel, matching the corners precisely.

  Strand said nothing. She had a lot to think about. He had no doubt she could play the role, run the scam. After all, she had already proven her abilities in that regard. Nearly their entire relationship had revolved around a scenario in which she had expertly demonstrated how capable she was at deception. Her thoughtfulness now was interesting. He guessed that after Mara had been pressed into service by the FIS, she’d been surprised to discover that she had a considerable ability—and liking—for undercover work. He also guessed that, in her innermost being, she must be confused by this. Maybe she had been more insightful than either of them had realized last night when she’d said that this was a strange business and they were strange people to be in it.

  She came back to the scaffolding table and sat down. “We have a lot to do and not much time,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you get the forgeries done, if we come up with the right background? I mean, do you have time?”

  “Yes. I know the people here in London who can do it. If I pay enough money, I can probably get it done in two days.”

  “Okay, then I have some ideas for the woman who’s going to see Carrington Knight. If we get that settled this morning, can you get started?”

  Strand nodded.

  “I’ll go to Paris for the drawings,” she said. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “It is, yes.”

  “There’s not going to be a problem with Léon Gautier releasing them to me?”

  “None.”

  “Okay. While I’m there I’m going to have to buy some clothes. I don’t have the kind of clothes in my suitcase that this woman wears.”

  “There’s another consideration that we might as well address right now,” Strand said. “We want all of this to happen as quickly as possible. I think we ought to put that kind of constraint on the sale if we can, press Carrington to make this happen fast. The point being to get Schrade to London immediately.”

  “Knight’s going to want to keep the drawings.”

  “That’s right. I would too in his situation. Any dealer at this level would. He’s going to have to examine them closely. He can’t offer them to Schrade—arguably his best client—on a cursory examination. They’ll be safe there. He has the best facilities.”

  Mara nodded.

  “But,” Strand went on, “we don’t want to leave the forged documentation with him. We can’t risk the possibility that he’ll discover they’re not authentic.”

  “Then why have the forgeries worked up?”

  “If he asks to see them, you’d better have them. You just can’t leave them with him.” He paused. “You’ll have to play it by ear. See what feels right and play it out.”

  CHAPTER 48

  The rain roared outside. Corsier stood at the windows and looked across at the Connaught Hotel through the downpour and the dull afternoon light. He saw the windows that he thought were in the suite from which he would identify Schrade’s voice and then watch the explosion. The afternoon was so dark, the street lamps had come on and the street below was glistening with rain and glitter from the lamps, the rain running along the curbs like liquid light.

  “All right all right all right,” Carrington Knight chirruped, hustling back into the viewing room with a bottle of champagne and two tall, thin glasses.

  Corsier turned around, his heart slamming against his ribs. Knight, dressed in black, was wearing a Tyrian purple necktie and a simpering smile that had a hint of collusion about it. He set the champagne and the two glasses on the library table on a Victorian silver tray. Then he grinned at Corsier, a gray ferret’s grin, and opened his hands to Corsier, inviting him to proceed.

  Corsier turned to the table and began undoing the first of two leather carrying cases he had had made in France when this moment was only a glorious anticipation in his mind’s eye. He had ordered the cases the same day he’d bought the frames, measuring them right there and then. They were lined with a chocolate velvet that complemented the leather cases. He knew Knight would notice this. He knew Knight would appreciate it.

  Asking Knight to hold the leather case, Corsier reached inside and slowly withdrew the first frame, face up, turning it so that Knight could see it upright from the other side of the table. It was the drawing of the two reclining women.

  Corsier’s eyes were fixed on Knight’s face. Knight’s mouth was slack. His eyes darted all over the picture, tonguelike, tasting every line, every stroke of the pencil, every blush of lilac, the slanted glance, the proud pudenda, his eyes greedy and glittering.

  “Ohhhh… hhhhhh… Claude! Oh! My! God!”

  Corsier let him revel.

  “Schiele! Can you believe this?? Look at this…”

  Knight raised his round black eyeglasses, resting them on his forehead, and stepped back. He shook his head. He came forward, picked up the heavy frame, and took it to the countertop, where he leaned it against the bookshelves.

  Even Corsier’s breast thrilled. In the specia
l lighting in which Carrington placed the drawing, the very soul of Egon Schiele burst into view. The goddamn thing looked—authentic!

  Knight whirled around. “The other one!” he said quickly.

  They went through the same procedures to remove the second drawing from its leather case, and Knight immediately marched it over to the countertop and leaned it against the bookcases beside the other.

  He put one arm across his stomach, rested the elbow of the other on top of its wrist, and put his chin in his hand as he studied them both. He stepped forward, leaned in close, his eyes vacuuming the surface of first one drawing and then the other. He reached up and lowered his eyeglasses to the bridge of his small nose and stepped back, pacing from side to side in front of the pictures, viewing them from different angles. He struck a pose, one leg stretched in front of the other, arms crossed, shaking his head slowly as he marveled, a silver lock of hair falling down over his forehead.

  “Well,” he said finally, raising his eyebrows and turning to Corsier with a look of theatrical amazement, “these are really quite beautiful. Convincing. I certainly have no hesitation to bring Wolf into this. The things just look like Schiele. I mean, it’s a hell of a thing to discover Schieles, for God’s sake, isn’t it?”

  “I could hardly believe my eyes,” Corsier said.

  He decided to grow serious instead of joyous. Knight had always to be tempered. If he were morose or skeptical, one had to pick him up. If he were ebullient, one had to portray studious sagacity. Knight appreciated a certain amount of tension, a certain équilibre.