The Icon Thief

by Alec Nevala-Lee

  “Which means that he left some tools behind.” Powell turned away, his eyes passing across the desk, the chair, the shelves. Donning gloves, he looked inside the wastebasket, sifting through the wads of paper.

  Finally, he went up to the bookcases. He checked behind each of the volumes, pulling them away from the shelf five or six at a time. Then, going around to one side, he saw a gap of several inches between the shelf and the wall. Reaching inside, he felt his fingers close around a leather strap.

  He pulled the parcel out from behind the shelf. As the others gathered around, he set the bag on the desk and opened it. Inside, as he had expected, lay a portable drill with a saw blade, along with the rest of the thief’s tools, which he set on the desktop one by one. As he poked a finger through the hole in the bottom of the bag, it struck him that the thief had brought nothing except what he intended to use.

  Powell noticed the police chief standing nearby. “The witnesses. Are they still here?”

  “For now.” The police chief picked up the drill, hefting it in his hands. “We’re keeping them apart until we decide what to do with them. Technically, they’re guilty of criminal trespass. If you want to talk to them—”

  “I do,” Powell said. Turning aside from the desk, he consulted his notes, reviewing what the witnesses had said. There were aspects of their accounts that didn’t make sense, and if he was going to figure out what had happened here, he would need to sort through their stories while he still could. He closed his notepad and turned back to the others. “All right. I’ll talk to the girl first.”

  27

  When the door of the guest room opened, Maddy had been waiting for over an hour. Instead of the intimidating figure that she had been dreading, however, the man who appeared was unassuming, even tweedy, with a pair of blinking blue eyes. His air of harmlessness was only increased by the badge that he gave her for inspection, along with a worn business card that read ALAN POWELL.

  Maddy glanced up from the badge. “It looks like you’re one of the Thundercats.”

  Powell smiled. As he sat down, she caught a whiff of acrid smoke. “No, just a copper from London. I know you’ve already given a statement, but I’d like to clarify a few points.” He looked at his notes. “When you saw the thief emerge from the study, he was carrying nothing but a package?”

  “That’s right,” Maddy said. She expected him to ask what she and Ethan had been doing in the bedroom, but instead, he asked her to tell him about the man she had seen. As she replied, describing the thief in the same terms that she had used with the police, her apprehension began to slip away.

  “You also say that you saw a photographer take a picture of Archvadze,” Powell said. “You’re sure that this was the same man?”

  “Fairly sure,” Maddy said. “I didn’t get a good look at the photographer, but he was wearing a brown suit and black plastic glasses.”

  Powell noted this down. “Did the man in the bedroom have any tattoos?”

  The specificity of the question made her wonder if the agent had someone particular in mind. “Not that I noticed.”

  “All right.” Powell closed his notebook with the air of a man who was winding down a conversation. “I’ve been told that you live in the city. You must have spent almost three hours on the train to get here.”

  “I thought it would be worth it. A friend put me on the guest list. It’s important for me to attend as many of these events as I can.”

  “Because of your job, I take it. According to your statement, you work for an art fund, along with the other witness. Did your firm take an interest in the painting that was stolen tonight?”

  There was no point in denying this, since her presence at the auction had been widely reported. “Yes, we bid on the painting. But—”

  “But you weren’t willing to pay eleven million for it. What was your final bid?”

  “Seven million,” Maddy said. “We felt that the winner significantly overpaid.”

  “Yes, it seems that way, doesn’t it? Especially now that the painting is gone.” Powell pointed toward her purse. “I notice that you have a camera. Can I take a look at the pictures?”

  Maddy saw that her camera was visible through the purse’s open mouth. “Don’t you need a warrant for that?”

  “Under most circumstances, you’d be right,” Powell said. He lowered his eyes, as if studying a flaw in the tabletop. “American law is not my strong suit. However, I believe that in a search incident to arrest, an arresting officer may search the arrestee, as well as any containers in his or her possession. According to the courts, these containers may include digital devices.”

  It took Maddy a second to understand. “You’re threatening to arrest me? For what?”

  “Criminal trespass. Even if you were invited to this party, the scope of permission did not extend to private rooms in the house. If we decide to place you under arrest, we can take a look at your camera. Of course, if you choose to cooperate, we may not be inclined to go so far.”

  After a tense pause, Maddy reached into her purse and pulled out the camera. “Here.”

  Taking it, Powell switched it on and went through the photos on the preview screen. “You were taking pictures of the art on the walls. You must have been interested in Archvadze’s collection.”

  “I’m interested in anyone who buys art,” Maddy said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Not at all.” Powell set the camera down. “Did you know that Archvadze had bought this painting?”

  Maddy felt the beginnings of a headache gathering behind her eyes. “Yes, I did.”

  “But that fact was never made public. I hear that the buyer’s identity was something of a mystery. So how did you know?”

  “We narrowed it down,” Maddy said, realizing that there was no point in holding anything back. “There aren’t that many oligarchs who could have bid on the painting. When we looked at photos of the bidder at the auction, and saw the symbol of the Georgian Air Force on his cufflinks, the rest was easy.”

  “So you came here to see the rest of his collection. That’s why you took the photos?”

  “Yes. An undiscovered collection is always of interest. But the fund had nothing to do with this. No one knew that we were here. I didn’t even know that Ethan was at the party until I saw him here tonight.”

  “In other words, the two of you decided, independently, to come out to Southampton, without telling anyone else what you were doing.” Powell paused. “You can see why this interests me. Archvadze’s purchase of this painting was a closely guarded secret. Only a few members of his inner circle were aware that it was here. Your firm seems to be the only other player in the market, besides the auction house, that knew he was the owner. Did you tell anyone?”

  Maddy decided to sidestep the question. “We had no incentive to do so. Once we had the name, we were better off keeping it to ourselves.”

  “I can see why,” Powell said. “If you know a collector’s name and purchase history, you can establish a position in works that he might be interested in buying. I’ll assume, then, that you might have had an interest in acquiring other works by Duchamp. Correct me if I’m wrong, but such pieces would be worth considerably more if this painting was stolen. Is that right?”

  “Maybe,” Maddy said defensively. “But it’s only been a week since the auction. We haven’t had time to build up a meaningful position. If we were trying to influence prices with a theft, we would have waited.”

  “You know what? I believe you.” Powell rose from his chair and headed for the door, where he paused. “There’s one other thing I want to make clear. I expect it might be useful, for someone in your position, to know something that nobody else in the art world knows yet. There might even be an advantage in withholding information from the police. But if I find that you’ve been less than honest with me, I promise that you won’t have the chance to profit from it.”

  Powell left the room. Once he was gone, Maddy realized that the back of
her dress was soaked through with sweat. Sliding her camera back into her purse, she felt an unexpected mixture of anger and shame.

  She waited there, alone, for another twenty minutes. Then, finally, the door opened. It was Ethan. He seemed tired, but when he looked at her, his eyes retained something of their old brightness.

  “Come on,” Ethan said. “Powell says that we can leave. I’ll give you a ride back.”

  Outside, the sounds of the party still floated across the garden. Ethan went around to the rear of the house, where two parking attendants were sharing a cigarette. He handed a ticket to the nearest valet, who reappeared a moment later behind the wheel of his car, a white Honda Fit. “I can drop you off,” Ethan said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Where are you staying?”

  Opening the passenger’s side door, Maddy was about to reply when she saw a figure in a linen suit wandering helplessly among the remaining guests. It was Griffin. Before she could slip out of sight, he noticed her, mouth falling open with surprise, and began to shuffle in her direction. “Maddy?”

  She ducked into the car without a word. Closing the door, she gave Ethan the address of the share house, watching through the windshield as Griffin halted and stared. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  They drove off. Maddy looked over her shoulder as Griffin’s soft shape dwindled in the car’s taillights, then turned back around in her seat. As they went through the main entrance, leaving the endless hedge behind, she felt as if she had contrived a miraculous escape. Then she heard herself say something that she had not intended to speak aloud: “I don’t want to go back to the share house.”

  Ethan guided the car onto Gin Lane. He did not look in her direction. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s depressing.” Maddy tried to catch his eye. “You’re staying in town?”

  “Not exactly. I found a room half an hour from here. If you want to stay with me—”

  “I do. Otherwise, I’ll end up on the floor of a closet. I can’t handle that right now.”

  As they passed along a row of streetlamps, Ethan’s face alternated between light and shadow. When he spoke again, his tone was neutral. “Okay. We’ll swing by the house to pick up your stuff.”

  They drove in silence until they reached the share house. Although the driveway was still packed with cars, the windows were dark. Maddy slid out, saying that she would only be a moment, and ascended the front steps. Going upstairs, she got her things, doing her best to ignore the muffled sound of intercourse in a nearby room, and was back in less than a minute.

  For the rest of the ride, they said nothing. They drove for half an hour, midnight edging toward early morning, until they reached the inn, a sandstone cube north of the Montauk Highway.

  Upstairs, the room had a bed, a sofa, and a desk with a laptop. Ethan’s suitcase was on the coverlet, his street clothes laid across the arms of a chair. “I can take the couch, if you want to give me your sleeping bag. You can have the bathroom first. Sorry I can’t be a better host—”

  “That’s all right,” Maddy said. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. In the mirror, which gave back three walls of unforgiving whiteness, she saw a girl in an overpriced dress, now sweaty and rumpled. When she tried to recall what the point had been, she found that she couldn’t remember.

  She changed into pajamas, brushed her teeth, and scrubbed the makeup from her face. When she emerged from the bathroom, her dress over one arm, she saw that Ethan had unrolled her mummy bag and was lying on the couch, half inside the cocoon, his shirt and tie removed.

  Without reflecting too much on what she was doing, Maddy draped her dress over the back of the chair, went over to the couch, and straddled Ethan’s body, placing both hands on his chest. His eyes met hers, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and he smiled. The nylon of the sleeping bag was slippery between her thighs as she leaned down, her hair falling into his face, and kissed him.

  He kissed her in response, his body radiating warmth and youth, although he was only a year younger than she was. After a few seconds of this, Maddy opened her eyes a crack, peeking through her lashes, and studied his face. Closeness had turned it into the face of a child, a cherub, a boy genius. She rested her chin on his perfect chest. “I think you’re an alien being.”

  Ethan looked back at her, his eyes, as always, serene and opaque. “No. Only a robot.” He paused. “So what does this mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Maddy said. Running her fingers through the cornsilk of his hair, she slid off the sofa and led him by the hand to the bed. They undressed each other under the covers, not speaking. By some unstated understanding, they did not undress all the way. For now, sleep felt like the greater good.

  They lay together in the dark for a long time. When Ethan spoke again, it was with a characteristic lack of self-awareness. “Did Powell ask you if the thief we saw had any tattoos?”

  Maddy laughed, pressing her body against his. “Is that the only thing on your mind?”

  “It just occurred to me. Powell works for an agency that investigates organized crime. And tattoos make me think of the Russian mob.”

  “It’s possible.” She rolled onto her side. “For all we know, it was the Rosicrucians—”

  In response, he only draped an arm across her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she found herself being pulled swiftly into sleep, something she would have believed impossible even an hour ago. It was not an ending she could have foreseen, but unlike the rest of the evening’s events, it seemed sweetly, organically right.

  When she awoke, sunlight was seeping through the curtains of the hotel room. Looking at the clock, she found that it was already morning, and realized that she was alone in bed. She straightened up, sheets gathered around her body, and saw that Ethan was seated at the desk, dressed in his undershirt and shorts. He was reading something on his laptop. “What are you doing?”

  Ethan stirred, as if he had been deep in thought. “Nothing. It’s something that struck me last night—”

  Maddy slid out of bed, goose bumps rising, and padded over to the desk. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she saw that he was looking at an online copy of a scanned book. “What is it?”

  “The Rosicrucians.” Ethan took one of her hands absently in his own. “Your friend was right. When we were talking about Duchamp last night, something stuck in my head, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Now I know.” He looked up, his eyes gleaming. “There is a connection between Duchamp and the Rosicrucians. A real one. And his name is Walter Arensberg.”

  28

  In the early morning, as a gray false dawn crept across the rooftops, Ilya moved quietly through the yards of an unfamiliar neighborhood. He was tired and sore, his legs aching from the effort of walking in the dark, which had made it hard to maintain a consistent rhythm. Although he did not know where he was, he estimated that he was no more than five or six miles from the vineyard.

  Just before sunrise made it impossible for him to look any further, he found what he was searching for. At every home, he had sought out the gas meter, which was usually mounted to one side of the house. At last, in the backyard of a summer home with a garden and enclosed patio, he saw that a tag had been hung on the meter, indicating that the gas had been turned off.

  It was simple matter to break through the rear door onto the patio, and to move from there into the dining room. On the wall by the door, the keypad for an alarm system had been installed, but its liquid crystal display was dead. A flick of a light switch confirmed that the electricity had been disconnected as well.

  A winterized house did have its minor inconveniences. Going upstairs to the bathroom, he found that a cross of masking tape had been laid across the toilet. When he tried the sink, nothing came out of the tap. In the end, he stood in the shower and pissed down the drain.

  Looking for a place to wash up, he removed the lid of the toilet tank. He was about to set it on the floor when he paused. Inside the tank, taped just above the filler valv
e, was a small waterproof bundle. He peeled away the package, shook off the adhering drops, and unwrapped it.

  Inside, nestled within two layers of plastic, was a block of cash. Rifling through the bundle, he guessed that it contained upward of fifteen hundred dollars. For a moment, he weighed it in his hands, then stripped away the rest of the plastic and slid the money into his pocket.

  As he washed up in the tank, his hands growing numb, he studied himself in the mirror. What he saw was not encouraging. His eyes had a wildness, a feral watchfulness, that he had not seen since prison, and the smooth, faceless surface that he had tried so hard to cultivate was gone.

  Glancing down, he saw a spot of blood, no larger than a dime, on the tip of one shoe. It was Zhenya’s. Two points of warmth bloomed on his cheekbones as he reached down and wiped away the smear. The smudge that it left on his finger filled him with renewed resolve.

  He spent the following hour scavenging equipment from the house. In the kitchen, he drew a carbon steel knife from the block next to the oven, guarding its tip with a disc of cork from the bulletin board beside the refrigerator. It went into the holster inside his waistband, where it fit snugly. Even better, in the drawer of a nightstand in the upstairs bedroom, he found a rectangular device, no larger than a deck of cards, that lay cold and heavy in his hand. It was an electric stun gun.

  As he continued his search, he tried to get a sense of his resources. He had next to nothing. His passports were in Brighton Beach. Without proper identification, it would be hard to travel or find a place to stay.

  He needed information as well. If Vasylenko wanted him dead, then the entire bratva could be compromised. Before anything else, he had to find out how deep the poison went, and if there was anyone left to be trusted.

  Ilya glanced at the package that he had propped against the bedroom wall. Here, at least, was a source of leverage. For a moment, he thought about stashing it nearby, perhaps in this very house. Then he decided that he would need to keep the painting close, and that he was not going to remain here for long.