The Icon Thief

by Alec Nevala-Lee

  And now Ilya had been heard on the wire, offering to trade a package for eighty thousand dollars. It wasn’t hard to guess what might be inside. As Powell reflected on the situation, though, he doubted that the demand for cash was real. If Ilya had been betrayed, he would not be content to be bought off. Which meant that this meeting might be about something else entirely.

  Powell was about to share these thoughts with Wolfe when he saw that she was motioning for him to lower the volume on his microphone. He muted the headpiece. “What is it?”

  “I found out what happened with Archvadze’s attorney,” Wolfe said. It was their first chance to talk privately since the day before. “I got the story from a junior partner at the firm. He teaches criminal procedure at Quantico every other summer, and loves to sound off to his former students, especially the girls.”

  “I’m sure he had no trouble remembering you,” Powell said. “So what did he say?”

  Wolfe kept her eye on the courthouse. “Archvadze went nuts. The door was closed, but you could hear him shouting halfway across the floor. He accused his lawyer of working for the Chekists, of leaking information about his art collection, and generally of being in league with the powers of darkness. Then he stormed out of the office. They haven’t heard a word from him since.”

  Powell studied the figures passing through the revolving doors. “Was he right?”

  “As far as I can tell, the lawyer is clean. His client list includes some shady members of the expatriate community, but if there’s a connection to Russian intelligence, I can’t see it—”

  She broke off. Following her eyes, Powell saw a familiar pair mount the courthouse steps. It was Sharkovsky, his eye patch distinctive from a distance, and Misha, a bag over one shoulder. “What about the art fund?”

  Wolfe inserted her headpiece again. “I’ve looked into it. Reynard is clean as a whistle. No record of financial irregularity. And his business model depends on a sterling reputation. These days, he’s more famous as a trader, but he also runs a public database of art transactions. It’s the industry standard. For people to trust his numbers, he needs to keep his house in order.”

  Powell considered this point as his earpiece was flooded with the ambient din of the courthouse. A moment passed, the echo broken now and then by the thunderous rustling of fabric, before a voice came over the wire: “I see no reason to draw out this transaction any longer than necessary, keelyer.”

  When Powell heard these words, all his attention became fixed on the feed. It was the first time he had ever heard Sharkovsky speak. Based on the transcripts, he had expected something harder, and was struck by the quietly authoritative voice that came over his earpiece instead. When he heard the old man say the word keelyer, he felt another shiver of recognition. This was slang for a hired gun, twisted into something sinister by the Slavic pronunciation.

  As the meeting began, Powell tried to tune out the interpreter’s voice, focusing on the speakers themselves. When the conversation shifted to Assyrian, he switched gears, listening to the translation instead. What he heard was astonishing. Ilya had been one of Vasylenko’s men, but was now convinced that his mentor was a Chekist. Powell saw at once that this gave them an opening. If Ilya suspected the mob of working for the secret services, he would be completely on his own. And if they got to him now, when he was still vulnerable, he might be open to a deal.

  Powell, his mind already working out the possibilities, forced himself to listen as the men prepared for the exchange. There was a pause as the interpreter searched for a word for an obscure phrase. “I’m not sure what they’re talking about,” the interpreter said. “It’s something like—”

  A commotion erupted on the other end of the line. Powell’s earpiece filled with a wild thumping and scratching, as if something were striking the microphone itself. Then, with a whine, the wire went dead.

  Barlow came back on the line, roaring. “What the fuck is going on? Did we blow it?”

  Powell took a step forward, then another. Before he knew it, he was running. Fewer than fifty yards stood between him and the courthouse. Wolfe was sprinting at his side, shouting for pedestrians to get out of the way.

  They were almost at the steps when the emergency exit flew open, clanging against the side of the building. A lone figure stumbled into the light, a bag clutched in one hand. As he stood against the portico, far above the street, his eyes caught briefly on Powell’s own. It was Ilya.

  35

  Ilya had considered the bag in Sharkovsky’s hands, which was within his reach at last. To disappear would require nothing but silence, exile, and cunning, but now he saw that such an escape was no longer possible. He looked into the vor’s one good eye. “Why are you telling me this?”

  In response, Sharkovsky only lifted the patch, revealing the eye of a vulture, rheumy and unfocused. “Because you took this from me. Before we parted ways, I wanted to take something from you in return.”

  Ilya rose from the bench. Before he could make another move, Misha stood as well, their faces only a few inches apart. Sharkovsky, still seated, lowered his eye patch with a sigh. “Don’t be a fool. Even if you could kill us now, it would not take back what has already been done.”

  Looking at Misha, Ilya found himself thinking, strangely, of how easy it must have been. Breaking the flue would have required only a few strokes of the hammer, and with such accidents common among the old, the police would not have been inclined to draw out their investigation.

  For a second, an iris seemed to open on his past, threatening to swallow him whole. Then his head cleared, and he saw that the old man was right. He would accomplish nothing this way. Even as he made his decision, he heard himself speak in a low voice. “How do I know there isn’t a tracking device?”

  Sharkovsky’s smile broke his face into many discrete planes of flesh. “Once our business is concluded, I see no reason to follow you.”

  Ilya sat down again. His head was light, but his hands retained something of their old competence as he opened his own bag and removed a device the size of a transistor radio, with a liquid crystal display and a retractable antenna. It was a radio frequency counter that he had bought the day before, following a habit of caution that now seemed to belong to another lifetime.

  He turned on the counter, forcing himself to focus. After the display had tested its segments, cycling through each mode in turn, he held the antenna against the satchel, sliding the range switch to its lowest setting.

  Ilya examined the display. The counter was picking up waves of random noise, but it was weak, the result of other devices, such as cell phones, in the neighborhood of the rotunda. The bar graph that registered signal strength indicated that there was nothing in the bag itself. He switched the range to another setting and scanned it again. There was still nothing.

  A second later, he paused. Looking at the counter, he saw that it had picked up a signal strong enough to fill eight of the ten bars. According to the display, its bandwidth was too low for a cell phone, but well within the range of a listening device. Then he saw that the antenna was no longer pointing toward the bag, but aimed at the vagrant on the opposite bench.

  For the first time, he noticed that although the redhead’s clothes were dirty, his nails were neatly trimmed. Beside him, Sharkovsky glanced between the display and the man in the denim jacket, his predatory mind making the connection at once. “Hey,” the vor said. “Hey, you fuck—”

  The man’s head jerked up. A twitch of uncertainty crossed his face. “Excuse me?”

  Sharkovsky rose, fists balled, radiating a joyous rage. “You like what you’re hearing, suka?”

  The man stood, startled, hands rising in an instinctive gesture of defense. “Wait—”

  Before he could finish, an object that had been hooked on his waistband fell off and shattered against the floor, a pair of alkaline cells flying in opposite directions. It was the battery pack for a wire.

  Ilya turned to the vor, warmth spreading across
his face. “You brought the police.”

  Sharkovsky looked back, his one visible eye vibrating back and forth. “I did nothing. It must have been you—”

  Ilya did not press the argument. Picking up his own bag, he headed for the rotunda, seeing that the satchel was already back in Misha’s hands. He could feel his depth of field narrowing, contracting into tunnel vision, and fought it, knowing that he had to remain intensely aware of his surroundings.

  It was fifteen quick steps to the rotunda. When he saw the emergency exit, he froze in midstride. A moment ago, it had been unguarded. Now a marshal in blue was blocking his best route to the outside world.

  The marshal’s eyes met his own. For a fraction of a second, Ilya took in isolated details of the scene: the guard’s holstered gun, the silver in his hair, a spot of food on his tie. Then his attention locked onto the four yards of tiled floor that stood between him and the only way out.

  He did not hesitate. Lowering his head, he plowed into the guard’s center of gravity, knocking him off his feet. That should have been enough, but something took hold of him as he collided with the other man’s body, a savage despair awakening after days on the run, and before he could stop himself, he lashed forward with the heel of his hand, breaking the guard’s nose with a neat snap of cartilage.

  There was a meaty thud as the marshal hit the ground, clutching his face. The courthouse boomed with screams. Without slowing, Ilya pushed aside the stanchions and flung himself against the panic bar. An instant later, he passed through a portal of white light and emerged on the other side.

  Behind him, the door swung shut. For a heartbeat’s pause, he stood on the edge of the terrace, high above the square. The guards would flood out of the courthouse soon. If he went down the steps, he would be in their line of fire.

  A metal railing separated the terrace from the ground twelve feet below. Ilya couldn’t remember what the ground was like on that side of the building, but it was too late to wonder about this now.

  He jumped. A weightless moment and then he was rolling on grass, angling his bag to protect the canvas as he rose to a sprinter’s crouch. Across the narrow street stood the federal courthouse, its lower half hidden behind blue plywood. He ran for it, clambering up the chain link fence, the wire rattling and quivering. As he threw himself over the top, he heard the seams of his jacket rip open.

  Pain blossomed in his left ankle as he fell to all fours, eye to eye with the concrete. He forced himself to his feet. Around him, the construction site was deserted. He ran parallel to the courthouse, feet clocking against the pavement, heading for the sheltered side. Behind him, the fence rang. He glanced back just long enough to see a man in glasses hauling himself over the gate.

  Rounding the corner, he saw a pyramid of tiles stacked against the plywood fence. He climbed it, tiles falling and shattering, and seized the upper edge of the barrier. Splinters bit into the palms of his hands as he pulled himself over, landing badly in an alley by a church.

  When he saw where he was, he had no choice but to laugh, two muffled detonations blooming in his lungs. At One Police Plaza, a hundred yards away, officers were milling around the concrete block of police headquarters, an inverted ziggurat covered by a grid of windows. He did not think that anyone had noticed his sudden appearance, but knew that he could not remain here for long.

  Ilya limped around the front of the church. A sign pointed him toward a gift shop in the basement, which could be reached by an outside set of stairs. Descending, he entered through a side door and found himself in an empty auditorium. Another sign pointed to the men’s room.

  Going into the bathroom, he locked the door, his ankle sending out periodic calls of pain. His jacket and shirt, soaked with sweat, went onto the countertop. Opening his bag, he withdrew the tube with the painting and slung it across his shoulders. He put on his shirt and Windbreaker, checking to make sure that the harness was invisible, and stuffed everything else into the garbage.

  As he worked, he thought of what Sharkovsky had said. It had never been his intention to run, only to bide his time until the right moment came, but now he saw that it was no longer possible to wait.

  He watched himself in the mirror until he was satisfied that he no longer looked like a hunted animal. When his hands were steady again, he went out into the basement. Then he headed back to the Five Points.

  36

  When the gallerina unlocked the door of the Lermontov Gallery, Maddy brushed past her without a word, heading for the office at the rear. The gallerina followed close behind, heels clicking against the floor, protesting this invasion of her sacred space. Maddy tuned her out. She couldn’t remember if the gallery had a security guard, but supposed that it probably did.

  Lermontov was at his desk, going over a stack of index cards with a blue pencil. As she entered, he set the cards aside. “Yes, my dear?”

  Maddy shut the door, stranding the gallerina in the hallway. “I need to talk to you.”

  After what seemed like the briefest of internal debates, Lermontov rose from his desk, went to the door, and opened it. The gallerina was waiting outside, a look of indignation on her perfect face. “It’s all right,” Lermontov said. “I’ve been expecting her. You can go back to work.”

  Closing the door, he turned to Maddy. “I was wondering when I might see you again. How can I help you?”

  Maddy handed him the tabloid that she was carrying. The paper was turned to an inside article, which she had seen entirely by accident, about yesterday’s altercation at the courthouse. Below the headline was a screen capture from a security video, showing the man who had assaulted a guard and fled the scene. The image was grainy and blurred, but she had recognized his face at once.

  “This is the thief from the party,” Maddy said, knowing that Lermontov would have heard the entire story by now. “The press hasn’t made the connection yet, but I know what I saw. And if what happened at the courthouse is any indication, he’s still trying to move the painting.”

  Lermontov studied the article, handling the tabloid gingerly, as if he had been given a baby to hold. “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s the only reason I can see for going to the courthouse at all. It’s an ideal place for a meeting or exchange. There are metal detectors and security guards, so you know you aren’t walking into an ambush. But it didn’t end well. Which makes me think that he still has the study.”

  The gallery owner handed back the paper. “So what, exactly, do you need from me?”

  “If I can learn why the painting was targeted, I can find out who ordered the theft. So far, the best theory I have is the one that you mentioned the other day.” Maddy paused. “I don’t know if you were serious about the Rosicrucians. But if this is real, you need to tell me.”

  Lermontov glanced away. Following his eyes, she saw that a velvet curtain had been draped across a wall of his office. When he spoke again, he seemed tired. “You mustn’t overestimate my resources. I’m an old man with my own share of private notions. But if I’ve succeeded in this business at all, it’s because I have an eye for market forces that no one else has observed. Look here, for example.”

  He went over to the curtain. With a gesture that struck her as more dramatic than was strictly necessary, he drew it aside.

  “The Origin of the World,” Lermontov said. “Not the original painting, of course, but a copy by René Magritte. This copy appeared in an obscure gynecological publication in the late sixties, and was believed lost, until I found it in a collection in Berlin. Based on what you’ve told me about Archvadze, it’s the kind of thing he might find interesting. I tried to call him about it the other day, but haven’t been able to reach him. It seems that he has disappeared entirely—”

  Maddy looked at the canvas, trying to decide if any of this made sense. It was a replica of a painting by Gustave Courbet, which itself was one of the more notorious works in the history of art. It showed a woman with her legs spread, her genitals depicted with an a
lmost pornographic attention to detail. Her body was draped in a white cloth, her face unseen, so that the eye was drawn inexorably to the thatch of her pubic hair and the slit of her labia. “So just because he bought the study, you thought he might be in the market for another headless nude?”

  “There’s more to it than that. It’s generally agreed that Duchamp modeled the pose in Étant Donnés on this painting. And both works are visible manifestations of a secret current in art history.”

  “I’m tired of your secret currents,” Maddy said. “Show me something real.”

  Lermontov drew the curtain, hiding the picture from view. “There’s no real mystery. I have a theory about why Archvadze is buying, and I can give him what he wants. I’m not an occultist, but if a major buyer is collecting works for esoteric reasons, I see no reason why I shouldn’t profit from it.”

  “But I still don’t understand why a man like Archvadze would care about the occult.”

  Lermontov returned to his desk, waving her into a chair. “He’s an oligarch. And what do oligarchs want? Power. I’m not talking about mystical power, you understand, but the most useful kind of political power. Secret power. The only kind that lasts.” He glanced at the curtain again, as if he could see past its velvet veil. “I know it seems hard to believe. The evidence that anything like the Rosicrucians ever existed is extremely tenuous. For the most part, it rests on a few old rumors—”

  Maddy sat down. “Like the manifestoes. Which could have been forgeries or hoaxes.”

  “Or wishful thinking. Yes. But there was another society in Germany, in the same region where the Rosicrucians later appeared, that really did exist. I’m talking about the Holy Vehm.”

  Maddy recalled that Tanya had mentioned this group in passing. “The Vehmgericht.”

  “So you’ve heard of them.” Lermontov smiled faintly, as if recalling something from his own past. “Secret tribunals tried and executed criminals in the absence of more orderly systems of law. They met in the forest, under a hawthorn tree. The condemned man was either hung by the neck or cut in two, so that the air would pass between the halves of his body—”