Maddy followed him through the sliding glass door, sidestepping a pile of empty bottles. “How many people are here?”
“It’s been a pretty good weekend,” the manager said. “Maybe forty or so. Last week we had more than sixty—”
Inside the house, backpacks and jackets were heaped in the corners, and every surface was covered with cans and cigarette butts. They went upstairs to one of the bedrooms, in which five beds were wedged side by side. A male guest was passed out, snoring. The air smelled faintly of amyl nitrate.
“You’re lucky,” the manager said. “You’ve got a space of your own.” Stepping over a mound of dirty laundry, he slid open the closet door. “Plenty of privacy. You even have your own light.”
Maddy peered inside. An inflatable mattress was rolled up in one corner. “Perfect.”
From her purse, she took two hundred dollars, a cash advance from her credit card, which she handed over with a touch of regret. The manager smiled. “I’ll let you get settled, then. Any questions, I’ll be outside.”
He left the room. As soon as she was by herself, Maddy entered the closet and slid the door shut. She hung up the garment bag containing her dress, a Nicole Miller obtained at great cost from a Nolita rental boutique, then opened her pack, removing a sleeping bag wrapped around a large mirror. She knew from experience that it was important to bring a mirror of her own.
As evening fell, the women lined up for the bathroom, preparing for the shuttle buses that would ferry them to nearby clubs. After changing into her dress, Maddy arranged for a ride with another guest, a banker in boat shoes who had persistently sought her attention. She had been worried that he would make a pass, but as they drove toward Archvadze’s estate, he seemed much more interested in peppering her with questions: “So you know this guy personally?”
Maddy sensed a barely concealed hunger in his casual tone. “Nope, just on the guest list. Looking forward to meeting him, though—”
“Yeah, I’ve heard some great stories. He’s stepped on quite a few toes around here. I don’t know how much he paid for that mansion, but these guys will shell out a lot for the right area code.”
“I’m not surprised,” Maddy said. “You say he isn’t popular with the neighbors?”
“He’s too Coney Island for this crowd. In the old days, you’d never see him south of the Montauk Highway.”
They turned onto Gin Lane, where a pair of lamps marked the oligarch’s driveway. The hedge was huge and monolithic, the wall of an ostentatious recluse, both discouraging and inviting the eyes of the world. As the car slowed, Maddy turned to the banker. “You can drop me off here.”
The banker seemed visibly disappointed. “Well, maybe I’ll see you again tonight?”
Maddy favored him with a neutral smile. When she got out, the banker did not drive off at once, as if waiting to see if she would make it inside. Maddy, who was wondering the same thing, approached the security guard at the entrance. “Hi there. The last name is Blume—”
The guard passed his flashlight beam across the clipboard in his hands. “Madeline?”
“That’s right.” The guard crossed her name off the list and stood aside. Looking over her shoulder, she waved at the banker, who gave her a mock salute and pulled into the road, the gravel crackling beneath his tires.
Overhead, an unaccustomed density of stars had appeared, as if the rich also qualified for a more impressive sky. As she rounded the arc of the driveway, which was curved to hide itself from the street, she entered a garden populated with copper beeches and oaks, trophy trees with their own provenances, each lit splendidly from underneath. A free-span tent had been erected at the center of the grounds, surrounded by countless pots of white flowers that repeated its shape in miniature.
As she picked her way across the lawn, the hem of her dress brushing the grass, she saw a hundred guests scattered across the garden, which was lit by glass votives and citronella torches in terra-cotta pots. Servers in tight golden vests were circulating with flutes of champagne. Pausing at the edge of the crowd, she plucked two glasses from a passing tray, more as a prop than anything else, but when she raised one of the flutes to her lips, she surprised herself by taking a long swallow.
Before venturing any farther, she fell back on an old trick, and imagined that there was a camera before her eyes. When she had first arrived in New York, she had carried a camera to parties, treating it as a protective shield. On most nights, it hadn’t even been loaded, but it had been a useful symbol, allowing her to observe from a distance. From such a perspective, every party seemed lovely and doomed, as if it were already peopled by ghosts.
Through this imaginary lens, she scanned the crowd. Guests were clustered in loose handfuls across the lawn, the dark shapes of society photographers scuttling quickly from group to group. The women were dressed in that season’s chiffon or satin sheaths, while the males ranged from older men in navy blazers, their buttons made of real mother-of-pearl, to younger figures with smartphones and cabala bracelets, sleeves rolled up in the Italian style.
Feeling the indifferent pressure of the crowd’s eyes, she took a moment to savor her solitude. A second later, she saw a face that she was obliged to approach. Griffin, the critic who had added her name to the guest list, was standing near one of the tent’s upright supports, his long white hand clutching a gin and tonic. She was about to head in his direction, still bearing two flutes of champagne, when she felt something like a vulture’s claw close tightly around her upper arm.
She turned. Standing before her was a gaunt figure in a trapeze dress, the neckline cut to show off a fashionably prominent clavicle. The apparition gave her an alabaster smile and released her grip. “Haven’t seen you here in a while. I was beginning to wonder if you’d given up on us—”
Maddy leaned in for an air kiss, the feminine movements brisk and precise, as if the two of them were crossing sabers. For a second, she was unable to place her assailant’s face, but after mentally restoring a few wrinkles to that unnaturally perfect forehead, she recognized the wife of a distressed asset manager who had been one of her gallery’s most reliable clients, and who had just as reliably withdrawn his business at the worst possible time. “Lovely to see you. Is Max here?”
A line of white teeth appeared, straining the tendons on the throat below. “Oh, you’ll never find him at one of these things. Ever since the Blue Parrot closed, I can’t get him out of the house—”
“A shame,” Maddy said. Over the woman’s shoulder, she could see Griffin shifting awkwardly in place, and sensed that she had to move quickly. “So how is he doing these days?”
The woman made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, don’t ask me to explain what goes on at the office. Although he tells me that this is a fine time for distressed.” She fixed her glittering eyes on Maddy’s face. “And you? I read somewhere that you were working for one of those new art funds—”
“You can’t believe everything you read.” Looking at the woman’s heightened brows, which had frozen her face into an expression of perpetual surprise, Maddy had an uncomfortable glimpse of her own future. She raised the two champagne flutes in her hands. “In any case, I’d love to catch up, but I should probably be off. My friend will be wondering where his drink is.”
“Of course,” the woman said, blinking at the glasses. “Delightful to see you again.”
Maddy smiled brightly, then continued on her way. As soon as the woman had turned aside, her eyes resuming their scan of the crowd, Maddy discreetly tossed the contents of one of the flutes onto the grass at her feet. She deposited the empty glass with a passing server, then closed in on her target.
Griffin, fortunately, was still alone. When she tapped him on the shoulder, he turned, his face, already reddened into a beacon, lighting up even further. “Maddy. So glad you could make it. You look lovely—”
She found herself encircled in a sticky hug, which she did her best to return. “Thanks so much for the invitation.”
&n
bsp; “My pleasure.” Griffin released her and stood back, swirling the ice in his glass. In his nearly shapeless linen suit, he looked to her like a creature from a Tenniel illustration. “I despise these things, but it’s a critic’s obligation.”
“What about our host?” Maddy asked, relieved to have made it this far. “Is he here?”
“Yes, he’s right there.” Griffin motioned, his glass sloshing, toward a circle of guests standing near the string quartet. “I spoke with him a minute ago. Would you like to meet him?”
Maddy studied the group, which consisted mostly of older couples, the local royalty whom Archvadze clearly wanted to impress. Standing among them was a strikingly beautiful woman in a lilac dress with a brocade belt, her long dark hair gathered up in a flawless chignon. It was Natalia Onegina. A man in a sharkskin suit stood beside her, his back turned.
“That’s Archvadze,” Griffin said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. Follow me.”
He set off into the thick of the crowd. Maddy followed, leaving her remaining glass on a serpentine serving table. As they approached, the clever things that she had planned to say flew out of her head. Her invisible camera had disappeared, and it was only with an effort that she managed to smile as the man in the suit turned around, bringing her face-to-face, for the first time, with Anzor Archvadze.
18
A few moments earlier, on the other side of the estate, a green pickup truck had pulled up at the service entrance. This second driveway, less ostentatious than its counterpart on Gin Lane, was manned by a pair of security guards who had spent most of the evening waving through catering staff, and who now were seated in a parked jeep, sharing a plate of sirloin and piri piri prawns.
The pickup truck slowed to a stop. Biting off most of a prawn, the older guard set its keratinous tail on his plate, wiped his fingers, and got out of the jeep. A heavy flashlight was secured to his belt. He unholstered it, directing its beam toward the truck. On both sides, a logo and phone number had been stenciled in white: SOUTHAMPTON WASTE REMOVAL.
The guard approached the cab of the pickup, angling the flashlight so that it would not shine into the driver’s eyes. Except for a pair of gloves on the seat, the passenger side was empty. “Evening,” the guard said.
“Evening,” the driver replied. He was an older man with graying hair and a mustache, his coveralls faded with use. Despite his age, he seemed wiry and strong. “Here for trash pickup.”
The guard glanced at his watch. “A little early, aren’t you? It’s only nine o’clock.”
“I was told to come now,” the driver said. He had a slight accent, perhaps Russian or Eastern European. “Get stuff from caterers first, then come back at midnight for second load.”
“Okay, let me check.” Lowering his flashlight, the guard took the phone from his belt, pressing the button to talk. As he called the main house for confirmation, he shone his flashlight across the bed of the pickup, which was bare except for a folded tarpaulin. Checking under the canvas, he found nothing. Then he knelt and directed his light under the chassis, which was clean as well. Finally, he went back to the cab of the truck, shining the flashlight onto the empty passenger seat.
“Seems like a big job for one guy,” the guard said. “You working alone tonight?”
The driver shrugged. “They paid for one man. If they pay for more, I bring more. Not a problem. I’ll be out of here soon.”
“Don’t hurt yourself doing it,” the guard said, thinking privately that there was something strange about the arrangement. Normally, these contractors would toss in a couple of undocumented workers for free, but instead, they’d sent an old guy, perhaps the owner, who had to be pushing sixty.
Before he could ask about this, his phone beeped. “Roger,” the command post said. “They’re on the list.”
“Copy that.” The guard stood aside. “You’re good to go. Just follow the driveway.”
“Thank you,” the driver said. Touching the bill of his cap, he eased the truck through the service entrance, heading up the gravel drive. The mansion glowed in the distance, its windows lit brightly from within.
The pickup continued along the driveway until the service entrance was out of sight, then cut its lights and halted. At this point, halfway between the road and the main house, there was no outdoor lighting, and the pickup, which had been painted dark green for this very reason, was all but invisible.
It remained there, idling, for a few seconds. There was a click as the driver pulled the handle of the release cable on the dashboard, popping the hood. Then the hood swung up, rising like the cover of an antique phonograph, and two shadowy figures climbed out of the hood compartment.
Lowering himself to the ground, Ilya helped Zhenya out of the hood, the truck bouncing slightly on its springs. The two men were dressed in identical dark brown suits, black plastic glasses, and shoes with crepe soles. Each had a camera bag slung over one shoulder.
Ilya closed the hood and went over to the driver’s side, where Sharkovsky was waiting behind the wheel. The old man’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “Thirty minutes. No more. Udachi.”
“Udachi,” Ilya said. He turned away, moving quickly across the lawn, with Zhenya falling into step beside him. His glasses had steamed up, so he took them off and wiped them on the front of his suit. Behind him, the truck continued on toward the house, as if it had only paused to get its bearings.
Although it had not been his idea, Ilya was pleased by the ruse. The truck was a mid-engine pickup, its engine mounted at the center of the vehicle, beneath the seats. For racing, the design provided favorable weight distribution, reducing the vehicle’s moment of inertia and making it easier to turn. More importantly, it left the hood compartment empty, except for the battery, tank, and radiator. And no one ever thought to check under the hood.
The two men walked together across the grass, mirroring each other stride for stride. Before reaching the circle of light cast by the house, they separated. As he turned to go, Ilya caught the other man’s eye. “Udachi.”
“Udachi,” Zhenya said, grinning broadly enough to push the glasses up his cheeks. Then he headed for the tent, the camera bag slung over his shoulder. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the crowd.
Ilya turned to face the mansion, which glowed like a winter palace. It was a labyrinth, but he knew all of its secrets. As he crossed the lawn, he undid the clasps of his bag, giving him easier access to his gun.
Keeping an eye out for security, he made it to the porch. The front doors were wide open. A bay window overlooked the lawn, illuminating a patch of manicured grass. When he looked inside, through the entrance hall, he could see guests in the living room, seated in tub chairs.
He went quickly inside, as if he were coming home. It was five minutes past nine.
19
“Anzor Archvadze, meet Maddy Blume,” Griffin said, his shyness falling away as he assumed the role of art world insider. “Maddy works for the Reynard Art Fund. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Pleased to meet you,” Archvadze said, taking her hand in a warm grip. Up close, he was not nearly as intimidating as his reputation had suggested. His voice was soft, with only the trace of an accent, and his demeanor retained something of the engineer he had once been. “We are very glad you could come.”
“Thank you,” Maddy said, her heart racing. “It’s been a really wonderful party.”
As she spoke, she saw a flicker of boredom in Archvadze’s expression, and knew that she had said the wrong thing. Before the oligarch could turn away, she added quickly, “I was admiring your trees. The conifers remind me of plantings I’ve seen at Alfonso Ossorio’s home. Have you been there?”
At the mention of trees, a light appeared in Archvadze’s eyes. “Yes, I have,” the oligarch said. “One of the saplings comes from Ossorio’s garden at the Creeks. You’re interested in trees?”
“I’m interested in Ossorio,” Maddy said. “My fund owns several of his paintings.”
“I’ve found that many artists are drawn to gardening, especially in such a town as this. The Japanese maple by the gazebo comes from a tree in the garden of Robert Dash, or so my gardener tells me. Of course, the provenance of older trees can be hard to establish—”
Maddy was about to respond when she saw something that drove all other thoughts away. Standing to one side was the bidder from the auction. Tonight, he was more fashionably dressed, but his neck still strained against his shirt collar, and when he raised his glass, she saw that his cufflinks were red heptagrams.
Archvadze followed her gaze. “If you admire the trees, you should thank my assistant, Zakaria Kostava. He is the one who arranges for their care. I have less time than I would like for such things.”
Kostava inclined his head politely, then turned aside. It wasn’t clear if he recognized her or not. “You seem to know your artists,” Maddy said to Archvadze. “I hear you’ve got quite a collection.”
Archvadze turned to his girlfriend. “Whatever she wants, I buy. That is all I know.”
Natalia smiled at this. She was two inches taller than Maddy, with violet eyes and a Persian profile. “Nonsense. You have excellent taste.”
“I have the taste of an old man,” Archvadze replied. “If you look at revolutionists, you see that they always have the most bourgeois tastes in art. Even Lenin was afraid of the avant-garde.”
“Lenin didn’t have your money,” Maddy said. “So what are you buying these days?”
Archvadze glanced at his assistant before responding. “Oh, I prefer something with a history. Art must be allowed to age before its quality can be known. It is the same way with trees, and, perhaps, with men. Natalia, of course, doesn’t agree with me. She only wants the latest thing—”
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