“The Emperor Constantine, he did it in Constantinople, I know that much.”
“Yes, Constantinople, center of the Eastern Roman Empire, was called the Second Rome. It’s now Istanbul. For centuries there was a pope in Rome and a patriarch in Constantinople with some cooperation between them. But around the eleventh century the Great Schism occurred, in which the church of the West and the church of the East went their separate ways, maintaining their separate traditions.
“An Orthodox tradition is that a painting existed of Christ. It was made during the lifetime of Christ by a painter sent to the Palestine by a king in Edessa.”
“Where’s Edessa?”
“Southeastern Turkey, not too far from the Syrian border. It’s in the northern part of Mesopotamia, that region between the rivers called the cradle of civilization.”
I was an expert on Mesopotamian art. That was the field of interest for the museum where I had been curator. But a Christian religious object wouldn’t be considered Mesopotamian art just because it was located there.
“They believe that this Edessa Image is actually a portrait of Christ?”
“There are various traditions about it, going back to the time of Christ, but yes, they believe the icon is a portrait of Jesus. For centuries it was carried as a banner at the head of Christian armies of the Byzantine Empire when its capital Constantinople was still a Christian realm.”
“What’s it painted on?”
“Cloth.”
“Where’s it now?”
“My dear, that’s the question of the day. It’s been missing for centuries. Nevsky wants it.”
“How did it go missing?”
“That’s something you will learn during the course of your fieldwork.”
In other words, he was clamming up until we reached an agreement about my participation … whether I was returning to New York or hiring on. I already knew the answer to that: I had agreed to listen to the proposal. As soon as I satisfied that requirement, I was on my way back home to get Morty and myself a place to live and restart my life. But I had to at least hear him out … and put up a pretense that I was interested.
“I take it Nevsky has hired you to find this missing icon because it would make him a big deal in Russia, even bigger than he is now?”
“It was the symbol of the power and might of imperial Russia, the validation that God was on their side. During the days of the czars, Russian armies carried a banner of it at the head of their armies, though they only had a copy of it, made in medieval times. And since that copy wasn’t made from the original, no one knows if it even accurately reflected Christ’s image. They won’t know that until they find the original.”
“So your job is to find the original painting and give it to Nevsky so he can impress his church members or make himself czar of Russia, or something like that. Is that it?”
He made a face. “My dear Maddy, your voice simply reeks with sarcasm. We have a client who wishes us to make a search for an antiquity dating back to Roman times. We have each done this exact thing many, many times. It is how we make our living … which up to recently was a good one for both of us. The fact that there’s some prior history between us—”
I gagged. Loudly.
“Or that the client’s motives might be political, are none of our business.”
“Give me a reason why I should work with you, someone who I hate and fondly hope that someone else will finish murdering.”
He started to say something and it went into a sputter, his face turning redder before he got control back.
I grinned—I’d scored a point in our verbal match.
“A million of them, my dear, a million dollars for each of us if we find it.” He locked eyes with me, raising his eyebrows. “A million for tracing it to a probable possessor. Another million dollars each if we are able to actually obtain it for him.”
I sucked in a breath. He had scored big. A million dollars each. Maybe two million apiece. Enough to put me back in the running. But even as significant as the money was to me, it wasn’t much for finding an item that was literally priceless. In a world where paintings by Renaissance masters could auction for more than a hundred million dollars and some Chinese vases for fifty million or more, the value of an actual painting of Christ would be … impossible to calculate or even imagine. The word “priceless,” used to describe very rare and valuable objets d’art, would be an inadequate description of its value.
“How would Nevsky buy it?” I asked. “It has to be worth billions.”
“His church has the money.” Lipton shot me a glance. “Besides, how he gets it is not our business.”
Uh-huh. Lipton was saying that a guy with a private army doesn’t have to pay retail.
“Is the painting mentioned in the Bible? Described?”
“Not in the Bible itself, but in reliable historical records that you will be reviewing.”
“How could it be validated? There’s nothing to compare it with.”
He shrugged. “The same way we validate other antiquities that are thousands of years old. Examining the materials and workmanship, doing scientific tests, consulting historical records. The big difference between a religious object that arouses powerful emotions and a marble statue is that the religious object will incite passion and hate based upon its mere existence regardless of what experts have to say.”
“In other words, if the painting can be dated back two thousand years to the Palestine and looks like a young Jewish male, and there are no solid claims that it isn’t a picture of Jesus … Nevsky will call it what he likes. Is that about right?”
“Possibly. But you’ve left out the most important part—finding it. And, my dear, disabuse yourself of finding it and jacking up the finder’s fee a couple dozen times. You’d be too dead to spend the money. Nevsky is not someone who can be crossed.”
I smiled sweetly at him. “Double-dealing is your game, not mine.”
He sighed. “I should have gone into politics or the stock market, where it’s not a crime to make a profit by less than orthodox means.”
This man was delusional if he thought robbing a world-class museum and spawning a wave of murders was only “less than orthodox.” That was like calling genocide racial cleansing.
“Why did he come to you?” I asked.
“I had dealings with him before my own life melted down. He commissioned me to track down several icons that had been stolen from Russia during World War II, taken by the German invaders. Nothing as significant as the Mandylion. As I’m sure you know, the Russians are particularly fond of the paintings called icons; there’s even a black market in them. And they have a lack of fondness for the Nazi invaders who vandalized Europe and took the loot back to Germany. I found the icons for him.”
“And he got them back?”
“Nevsky is not a man to refuse.”
“How did he get them back?”
“Mostly he paid a fair price to the current owners.”
“What happened when a fair price didn’t work?”
“A very stubborn German collector got one testicle removed by former KGB types who are part of Nevsky’s cadre of storm troopers. He turned over the icon to keep his other ball.”
My turn to give a big sigh. A million dollars wasn’t worth losing whatever Nevsky had whacked off of women when he wanted something they had.
“I’m on the next plane back to New York.”
“You’ll be a fool if you are. The German’s father had been an SS officer during the war. He had brought the icon back from the invasion that cost millions of Russian lives. It was war booty and Nevsky is a firm believer in doing unto others as they do unto him. He’s not crazy—he exercises violence with great caution and only when it’s deserved.
“If we treat him right, he will pay exactly what he promised. He’s only dangerous when he’s crossed. And,” he said, cutting off my rebuttal, “I can assure you, my dear, that double-crossing the man is the farthest thing fr
om my mind. I not only need his money, but a safe haven. He can pave the way for me to live in Russia and get away from this land of sand and sun. I’m already practicing the language.”
I shook my head. My instincts were to walk away—run away—from Henri and his Russian collector, and that was even without taking into consideration that someone had already tried to murder me.
“If you walk away, you’ll lose a quick and easy twenty thousand.”
I stopped and faced him.
“Wait a minute. You said that I got the money regardless of whether I took the job.”
“The other twenty thousand.”
I caught my breath.
He raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t I tell you about the second payment?”
“Henri—you are a—”
“Yes, I am—I admit it, guilty as charged. It’s not necessary to remind me. I really do plan to change my ways, become a kinder and gentler person. Perhaps the cold, clear air in Russ—”
“Stop it. I’m freezing my tush off on a ski slope in the desert and I’m losing patience with mind games.”
Lipton edged closer. “No games, Maddy. We are both in desperate need of reinventing ourselves. You got twenty thousand dollars for coming to Dubai and hearing a proposition. The proposition includes another twenty thousand up-front if you take the assignment.”
“Define ‘take the assignment.’”
“The Edessa Image disappeared centuries ago … but left an historical trail. For the other twenty thousand, you commit to spending a week retracing the Image’s movements. That’s all. If we can actually find it, we’ll hit the jackpot. If we can’t find it, you’re another twenty thousand richer.”
He raised his eyebrows. “But I’ll understand, my dear, if your many other wealthy clients are keeping you too busy to earn twenty thousand dollars for taking an all-expenses-paid week of rather pleasant activity.”
Bastard. May he burn in hell—over and over. Twenty thousand more. Right now it sounded like a million, but I reminded myself that the last time I took a job when I was hungry, I ended up fighting tomb raiders in the jungles of Cambodia.
“Where exactly are we tracking it?”
He shrugged. “A town in Turkey, for sure. We won’t know where the trail will lead you until you begin your research.”
“Where do you fit in all this?”
“Unfortunately, despite my desire, I won’t actually be working side by side with you. I’m too old to do the legwork, which is why you will be getting the lion’s share of the rewards.”
I smothered a burst of laugher. The only lion’s share I’d get would be the trouble if anything went wrong. He wasn’t doing the legwork for one reason: he couldn’t show his face in most places without risking arrest.
“Cash up-front? All expenses paid?”
“You can have your money in cash here in Dubai or wired to your New York bank. All hotel and air will be prepaid. In addition, you’ll be given a couple thousand for incidentals and reimbursed for any extraordinary expenses.”
He raised his eyebrows again. “You might want to open a Dubai bank account. It would keep your U.S. tax agency from finding out about the money.”
“Thank you, but I pay my taxes.”
I lied, of course, but I didn’t want him to think I was at his level of corruption. I cheated on taxes only out of necessity.
My heart had started pounding at the mention of another big payday, but I forced myself back to reality. I would hear him out, but only pretend that I was going to join the quest. Twenty thousand more for a week’s work sounded like a gift from heaven, but it came with too much baggage, including some very nasty people who wanted Lipton dead.
We walked for a moment in silence before he looked at his watch. “It’s time we left to meet our client.”
“Good. My feet and hands are freezing.”
He shuddered as we left the ski slope. “I hate going back outside even for a moment.” He shot me a look. “If you want to get together this evening for cocktails, we can do so at my favorite nightclub.”
I would rather spend a night drinking Drano than having cocktails with him, but I was still playing nice.
“Some place that serves snow cones?”
He sighed. “Better. Literally, it’s a giant igloo. All ice inside.”
“You are joking?”
“Not at all, my dear. It’s a trendy nightclub with the temperature of a meat freezer.”
“Bizarre.”
He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Not bizarre … Dubai.”
The Price of Vanity
In 2008, an Abu Dhabi license plate with only the number “1” on it received a fourteen-million-dollar bid at a charity auction.
The new owner is from a family that made its fortune in real estate.
The previous record was nearly seven million dollars for a plate with the number “5” on it.
Both Dubai and Abu Dhabi are sheikdoms in the United Arab Emirates.
14
Stepping outside felt like going from a blizzard to a volcano. I could feel the dry air pinching my cheeks as we walked toward the limo, but the heat felt good.
I asked Lipton if it was safe to speak in the limo.
“Of course not. A man as cautious and paranoid as Nevsky will have us bugged. However, I carry a bug blocker in my briefcase that I’ll turn on. It neutralizes electronic eavesdropping. Had it for years.” He got a sad expression and shook his head. “My dear, you’d be surprised how utterly ruthless art dealers and collectors can be when they’re chasing the same piece.”
I kept myself from bursting out with a loud laugh at that coming from the most successful art crook on the planet.
I took off my cold shoes in the car and wiggled my feet in the plush carpeting. I still had my ski jacket on and was glad no one had asked for it back—Lipton had the air-conditioning turned on to the comfort level of a polar bear on an iceberg.
“I’m not sure I understand what’s expected of me,” I said, once he had the bug blocker on. “Tell me more about this image and how I’m supposed to track it down, so I won’t look stupid meeting the client.”
He shook his head. “The only thing you need to do is make vague listening responses to questions from Nevsky or his staff. You are never … never”—he glared at me—“to disclose our method of investigation or the results. In fact, other than this brief meeting so that Nevsky can see his money is being well spent, you must leave him absolutely to me.”
In other words, Nevsky wasn’t to be trusted. Given the chance, he would grab the prize himself and leave us out of it. Which wasn’t an unusual reaction from collectors. Sometimes they tried to squeeze the dealer out of it because they were greedy and other times just because they were feverish to get their hands on something really rare.
Of course, my “partner” was also a person who, given the opportunity, would grab the prize and keep it to himself.
I was swimming with sharks.
Lipton cleared his throat. “You understand that there may be ways we can slightly increase our commission if the right opportunity presents itself.”
So much for honor among thieves.
“Didn’t you just tell me the man would be dangerous to cross?”
He stared at me, his facial flush on fire. I imagined dollar signs spinning in his eye sockets like slot machine reels. He was a real contradiction: He left the impression of a mild-mannered university professor … right up to the time discussions turned to money.
He suddenly grinned. “Naturally, I wasn’t thinking of anything unethical. Perhaps just a bonus for a job well done. A little extra that we both desperately need and deserve.”
What I desperately needed was to get on a plane home. I wondered how Morty was doing with his sitter. I kept worrying that Morty would push the sitter over the edge … and to the microwave.
“Tell me more about what’s expected from me,” I said. “I’m still not getting it.” Which, of course, was
his plan.
“Unlike the artifacts you usually deal with, you’ll find that a religious object means different things to different people. In this case, people who wrote about it are separated by centuries, not miles. I have arranged access for you to scholars who have studied the Image. The most important thing you can do in your research is listen.
“Listen,” he repeated. “Scholars who have stuck their noses in books for decades often cannot see the forest for the trees. You must see the whole picture, and that will come from listening—a remark during an interview of an old scholar who hasn’t had his head out of his work for fifty years might well give us the clue we need.”
His explanation told me exactly nothing. In other words, Lipton still wasn’t going to reveal anything to me, either, at least not until it was absolutely necessary.
Lipton leaned closer to me and dropped his voice. “When you find out something, you tell me, not Nevsky or his daughter. We don’t disclose anything until our fees are in our hands.”
“I take it Nevsky isn’t a man of his word?”
“No, he’s very much a man of his word. He says he wants the Edessa at any price. But as they say in war, loose lips sink ships. We may not be the only ones searching for the Image. Nor would I trust the good Lord himself when it comes to money.”
I didn’t see anything wrong with not handing over our results until Nevsky handed over the money. In fact, I would be sure and not hand over anything to Lipton until I had my own money in hand. If I really was going to take the assignment. Which I wasn’t.
I couldn’t wait to see his face when I looked him in the eye and told him I was going home.
“And he wants the quest kept secret. No wagging tongues.” Lipton gave me one of his looks. “Remember those icons Nevsky had me hunt down? The previous art dealer who searched for them gave the story of the quest to a magazine to get some free publicity.”
“Nevsky wasn’t pleased?”
“Someone cut out the man’s tongue.”
The Shroud Page 9