Maddy fell into step beside the gallerist. “First you need to promise that you won’t act on this information. I’m taking a risk by coming to you.”
“I’m aware of that. I promise that everything you say will remain confidential.”
“Okay.” Maddy took the plunge. “We think he bought Study for Étant Donnés.” She quickly outlined how they had reached that conclusion, explaining the meaning of the red heptagram. “We’re assembling a dossier. I need to know his background, his habits, his tastes.”
“He’s an oligarch,” Lermontov said, as if this were information enough. “I’ve never met him, but I’m sure that he only wants what is large and expensive. His woman seems more cultivated, but as for Archvadze himself—”
“But that’s what seems strange. An oligarch who bought this painting would have advertised it to the world. Why pay eleven million dollars for something if nobody knows it’s yours?”
“An excellent question. As you say, oligarchs are not known for their aversion to publicity. He must have a good reason for keeping a low profile. What do you know about his politics?”
“He’s Georgian, so he can’t be fond of Russia. He bankrolled the Rose Revolution, which put him on bad terms with Putin’s crowd. They were going to indict him for financial fraud, so he left for New York. Ever since, he’s used his wealth to undermine Russian policy in Georgia and sponsor opposition to the Kremlin, but he’s still one of the richest men in the world. If we can figure out what he’s buying next, it would be good for the fund.”
“Is that all?” They entered the park, taking a path running parallel to Columbus Avenue. “I was wondering if you might be interested for personal reasons. He’s a wealthy man, unfamiliar with the art world, with expensive tastes. Has it occurred to you that he might be in the market for an adviser?”
Maddy blushed at how easily he had read her mind. “I’m here because of Reynard.”
“Of course. And I’m sure that he had no objection to your sharing such sensitive information with a former employer.” Lermontov paused beneath the trees. “Are you satisfied with him?”
“Very satisfied,” Maddy said. It was an automatic response, and she was glad that she had not hesitated. “I like my job. I’m learning the business of art, and how buyers think, which is what I didn’t understand before.”
“It’s still a waste of talent. As much as you try to hide it, you know as much about art as anyone I’ve ever seen, and you have an eye for something elusive that the bankers will never appreciate. Art is nothing like finance. The sooner you accept this, the better.” The gallerist looked out at the park. “People buy art for many reasons, not all of them rational. Let’s assume that you’re right, and Archvadze was the buyer. Have you wondered why he chose that particular painting?”
“It isn’t hard to figure out. It’s one of the most desirable works to emerge at auction in years—”
“Which doesn’t explain why he was so eager to obtain it.” Lermontov sat down on a vacant bench, carefully adjusting the crease of his trousers. “The study is a striking piece, but it wouldn’t be easy to live with. A man buying art to impress others, which is what most oligarchs are doing, might prefer something less grotesque. It makes me wonder if there might not be another reason. This painting is a singular work, after all, and its reappearance raises questions of its own. Doesn’t it seem strange that such an important study could have been lost for so long?”
Maddy sat beside him, the slats of the bench pressing through the back of her blouse. “It may have been displayed before. Early in his career, Duchamp exhibited a series of works in Paris, at a show called the Section d’Or. One of them is listed without a title. Nobody knows what this painting was, but there’s a strong possibility that it was this study.”
“That’s a very important point,” Lermontov said. “If I were you, I would look closely at the circumstances surrounding this exhibition. Do you know what Section d’Or itself means?”
Maddy knew enough French, and art history, to reply at once. “The golden section.”
“But there’s more to it than that. The show was named by Jacques Villon, Duchamp’s brother, who came across the concept in a book by Joséphin Péladan. You probably don’t recognize his name, but at the time, Péladan was one of the leading occultists in France. Among other things, he was the founder of the French order of the Rosicrucians. Another prominent member was Erik Satie, the composer, who became one of Duchamp’s closest friends. You’ve heard of these circles, of course—”
“You’ve mentioned them to me before,” Maddy said. “But I only know that they were some kind of secret society.”
“Sometimes not so secret,” Lermontov said. “You’ve always been an exceptional student of history. I don’t need to tell you that the Rosicrucians were a key influence on the Symbolist movement, which led, in turn, to Dadaism. And they remain active up to the present day, often in surprising forms. Think of the Rose Revolution, which Archvadze claims to have financed. Supporters of the opposition party in Georgia invaded parliament with roses in their hands. Where did they get the idea? These things do not happen by accident.”
As she listened, Maddy recalled that the Rosicrucians had long been one of Lermontov’s private obsessions. Perhaps, being gay, and therefore a member of a group that extended across all social classes, high and low, with its own codes and secret knowledge, he was especially receptive to the idea of similar forces operating in history itself. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”
“I’m only saying that there are currents in the art world, then and now, of which you may not be aware. Some of them influence schools of art, while others may influence a man’s decision to buy a particular painting. In any case, there were probably more pressing reasons for Archvadze to take an interest in this study. His girl, for example. What do you know about her?”
Maddy thought that he was changing the subject too quickly, as if worried that he had been indiscreet. “I know that she’s opening a gallery in London. Although I don’t know how seriously to take it.”
“She has certainly been serious about promoting herself to those who matter. Some of us even wonder if she might be the driving force behind Archvadze’s acquisitions. Who knows? She may have asked him for this painting. Her birthday is coming up, I believe. He’ll want to celebrate it in style.”
It took her less than a second to draw the obvious conclusion. “Will there be a party?”
“If you were an aging oligarch with a pliant young girlfriend, wouldn’t you jump at the chance to express your love? I hear that his house is quite marvelous. I imagine that he will do his best to fill it.”
Maddy clutched the bench’s iron armrest, no longer seeing the other faces in the park. Then, relaxing, she smiled sweetly at Lermontov. Reaching out, she gently straightened the knot of the gallerist’s tie, which was slightly askew. “You don’t suppose you could get me an invitation?”
“The art world helps those who hype themselves.” Lermontov waited for her to finish smoothing his tie, then rose, motioning for her to remain seated. “If you want my advice, you’ll look at the Rosicrucians. I’m not the first to draw a connection between them and Duchamp. And if you understand them intimately, when you do meet Archvadze, you may find that you have something to talk about.”
He offered her a neat bow of farewell, a gesture as polished as the tips of his shoes, then headed back to the gallery. Maddy remained where she was. If there was a party, she would attend it. The Rosicrucians were one thing, but there was another society, remote but not so secret, that wielded substantial power in its own right. The art world had its own rituals, its own ceremonies and passwords, and as far as she knew, she was still a member.
12
On a sleepy block in Sheepshead Bay, a woman in scrubs and white clogs emerged from a brick row house, her hair tied back in a graying bun. Her house, like the others lining the street, was shaped like an antique cash register, its red m
etal awning peering out over a narrow porch. Locking the door behind her, she went down the steps, then headed up the sidewalk to the train.
Powell was parked at the corner. As he watched the woman ascend the platform to the elevated track, he scraped a blank key across a triangular file, like a chef running a knife along a sharpening steel. He had already filed it down until nothing remained but a row of five notches, cut to their deepest setting, and now took additional shavings from the key’s tip and shoulder.
He waited until the train had come and gone. Then he blew on the key, slid it into his pocket, and emerged from the sedan, tucking the file up his sleeve. Although the day was warm, he had gloves on both hands. Crossing the street, he made for the row house, glancing up and down the deserted block.
When he reached the house, instead of going up to the porch, he headed around to the side, where a set of concrete steps led to a second door. Through a dusty pane of glass, he could see into the kitchen beyond. He took the bump key from his pocket, inserted it all the way into the lock, then withdrew it one notch. Straightening his arm, he let the file up his sleeve slide into his hand.
A sharp tap against the key was all it took. Going inside, he closed the door behind him, then paused to listen. The kitchen was silent. Dishes had been stacked in the drying rack by the sink, the fixtures old but clean. The refrigerator droned quietly. Opening it, he saw cubes of raw meat, probably lamb, marinating on the top shelf.
He went into the darkened parlor, the boards creaking softly beneath his feet. Thick rug, heavy furniture. A Siroun cross above the television. Against the far wall, a curio was filled with decorative plates and photographs.
Powell took a closer look at the pictures. The first was of a baby with a wide fissure on its upper lip. The next picture showed the same child at the age of three or so, his cleft palate repaired, leaving a faint scar. Other photos depicted the same boy at various ages. The last shot was of him as a teenager, standing beside his grandmother, his shoulders in an adolescent slump.
Turning away from the photos, Powell checked the rest of the floor, then went downstairs. At the foot of the steps, a rock poster had been taped to a closed door. System of a Down.
Entering the bedroom, he saw that more posters covered the walls, along with cutouts of pinups and action stars. A stereo was surrounded by stacks of pirated discs. There was a pile of textbooks on the floor. The bed had been made, its sheets black, its pillowcases clean but faded. It seemed far too tidy for a teenager’s room, which meant that the boy’s grandmother had accessed it freely.
In any case, there was no harm in checking the obvious places. Powell looked under the mattress, then searched the dresser, feeling under the drawers and beneath the sheets of contact paper. He was about to try the closet when his eye was caught by the heap of textbooks, which struck him as out of place. The boy in this room had not been especially studious.
Examining the books, he found that the thickest volume had been hollowed out. Inside, a rectangular compartment disclosed a disposable lighter, two joints in a plastic bag, and a folded piece of paper. Removing these, he observed that the inside of the compartment bore a number of dark scratches, as if it had formerly contained something that had rubbed against the pages. He put the book to his nose. Inhaling, he caught a whiff of old gunmetal and grease.
He turned his attention to the piece of paper, which had been torn from a racing magazine. When he unfolded it, he found that it was a photo of a pickup truck the color of a fire engine, a double eagle emblazoned on its ample hood. An old man was leaning against the truck. It was Sharkovsky.
Powell studied the photo for a moment, then refolded the page and put it back into the compartment, along with the lighter and plastic bag. Satisfied, he returned the textbook to its former place, then headed for the door.
As he was about to leave, he paused and looked back at the bedroom. In the yard outside, the weeds had grown above the level of the basement window, staining the sunlight the color of grass. Something in the green quality of the light reminded him of a room on the other side of the ocean, in another house where the lawn had long gone untended. He lingered there for a second longer, allowing himself, for once, to think of home. Then he turned and went softly upstairs.
Outside, the day had grown cooler. Powell left the house through the kitchen, locking the door behind him, and went down the concrete steps. As he headed back to the car, he dropped the triangular file into some bushes by the curb and tossed the bump key into the street. Then he removed his gloves.
He was about to unlock his driver’s side door when he heard the low sound of footsteps behind him. Before he could react, someone pressed a hard metal object against his spine. “Don’t move.”
Powell froze. Then he recognized the voice. “Hello, Wolfe. How did you find me?”
He turned around. Rachel Wolfe was standing there, a pocket flashlight in one hand. She looked pissed. “Your transponder. Most of the new vehicles have one. Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
Unlocking the car, Powell motioned her into the passenger seat. There was a folded newspaper lying on the dashboard, which he handed to her as they sat down. “Take a look at this.”
Wolfe studied the paper. It was a local Armenian weekly, opened to a headshot of a boy in his teens. A gold chain encircled his neck. On his upper lip was a cleft palate scar. “So what?”
“I keep an eye on the Russian and Armenian papers,” Powell said. “Usually, all I read are the obituaries. If there’s a picture of a young guy wearing a flashy chain, odds are it was a hit. This one is slightly different. Missing persons case. His grandmother says he’s been gone for days. I don’t know what happened, but Sharkovsky had something to do with it.”
He told her what he had found. When he was done, Wolfe only shook her head. “Why didn’t you come to us?”
“I didn’t think you’d take it seriously,” Powell said. “And don’t tell me I was wrong.”
Wolfe sighed. “You know, this is exactly the sort of thing that got you in trouble back home. Breaking and entering aside, you aren’t supposed to be conducting investigations on your own. The terms of the exchange program are clear. You’re here to advise, to consult on cases involving global organized crime—”
Powell broke in. “I’m here to get you a warrant. That’s the only reason the Bureau agreed to embed me at all. They knew it would be easier to get a wire through FISA, so they flew me in to make the case for the foreign connection. Now that they’ve got their wiretap sorted, they’re throwing me away.”
He knew it would be hard for her to refute what he was saying. The day before, a federal court had approved their warrant application. Phones in the names of Sharkovsky and four others would be placed under electronic surveillance, along with landlines and pay phones at the club. Because privacy guidelines discouraged the sharing of wiretaps with foreign agencies, however, it had been decided that Powell would have no access to the wire that his own testimony had secured.
At last, Wolfe spoke again. “They aren’t throwing you away. They want you to work with the police on the dead girl. That’s why I came looking for you. The autopsy results are in.”
Although the dead girl was far from the first thing on his mind, he still felt a trace of reflexive curiosity. “What do they say?”
Wolfe reached into her purse, taking out a notebook, and opened it to the most recent page. “It looks like she was strangled. There’s bruising and discoloration below the left breast, and two of her ribs are cracked. As I see it, she was lying on the floor, faceup. The killer wrapped his hands around her neck, nearly straddling her, and pressed a knee against her chest to pin her down—”
“Yes, that’s one possibility,” Powell said. “What about the date of death?”
“Based on the condition of the body, she had to have been dumped during a hot, dry season. And they found fragments of green almonds in her stomach. You don’t see them in most stores, but they’re available at Ru
ssian markets for three weeks each year, usually from late April to early May.”
She turned to another page. “The scan also revealed that she had breast implants. The police were hoping that the serial numbers would let them trace her through patient records, but when they excavated the chest, they found nothing but a yellow compound the consistency of bread dough. It’s an injectable alloplastic, formerly used in breast implants of a particularly unsafe kind. Illegal in this part of the world, but available, until recently, in Russia and Eastern Europe.”
Powell weighed this information. “So let’s say she was a dancer and prostitute at the Club Marat. She was killed by one of her clients, maybe in the rooms above the club, and Sharkovsky’s men hid her body under the boards.”
“That’s my guess as well,” Wolfe said. “But we need to tread carefully. If the police start sniffing around the club, Sharkovsky will alter his pattern, so we need to make sure that they don’t jump the gun. Barlow says he’ll feel better with a liaison in place. That means you and me.”
“A liaison.” He looked out the windshield at the hot, drowsy street. Louis Barlow, the assistant special agent in charge of the criminal division, was a veteran agent with a reputation as a shrewd investigator, but he had shown limited enthusiasm for the foreign angle now that its purpose had been served. Powell, who knew exactly how it felt to see an investigation stall and die, sensed that he was being sidelined, but was also aware that there was nothing to be done.
In any case, the dead girl gave him an opening. It wasn’t much, but it would do. “All right,” Powell said. “If Barlow wants me to stick with the dead girl, I will. And I’ll keep the police in line.”
Wolfe opened her door. “Fine. And I’ll see what I can find on the Armenian kid. But we’re doing it my way, not yours.”
She got out of the car. Just before heading over to where her own sedan was parked, she bent down to look at Powell. For an instant, he caught a glimpse of something steely behind her habitual reserve.
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