The Jaded Spy

by Nick Spill

  “Call me when you hear more.”

  Later in the afternoon Colin came back with the full-size print. Grimble oversaw it mounted in the same frame, with a note indicating the original painting was out of the exhibition for conservation work.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Wiremu and Rawiri sat in Ricky’s kitchen while Moana boiled water for tea.

  “What happened?” Wiremu asked. He had slept in his black security clothes. He looked a mess.

  Rawiri shook his head. “Beats me.”

  “Can you tell me again, what you saw?” Moana asked.

  “We waited till all the guests and workers had left, as planned,” Wiremu began. “Then we went inside. The two other guards had gone, but it looked like they were still there, cos we were. The night watchman had checked out those two and gone upstairs. We went to see if anyone else was in the gallery. The main doors were supposed to be locked but weren’t. We walked upstairs and around the main gallery until we came to the Cook painting. The frame was there but the painting was missing. Gone!”

  “And?” Moana was impatient.

  “We left as quickly as we could. Didn’t wanna get blamed for stealing the painting. Walked across Albert Park to Princes Street, across to Grafton Road and here.”

  Rawiri said, “You’re leaving out the bit about the Kiwi Tavern.”

  “Oh, yes. Once we got to Symonds Street we took a detour and paid a visit to the Kiwi. It was near closing time. Our alibi. Lots of people saw us. Needed a drink or two to deal with what happened, you know?”

  “What about all your great plans to win over the people and gain the initiative for land rights?” said Moana. “We were going to issue a declaration for the Monday papers.”

  Wiremu ran his hands through his hair and looked nervous at being interrogated by his little cousin.

  “And you were security for Captain Cook, even if you were going to steal it. How could you let someone else grab it? Do you have any idea who?” Moana had the Sunday papers spread out on the kitchen table. “Nothing about the painting. That’s strange.”

  “Maybe they don’t know it’s stolen yet?” Rawiri offered.

  Moana threw up her arms.

  “We did see everyone who went in, didn’t we, Wiremu?” Rawiri said.

  “Yeah. Here’s the tricky part. They also saw us. So the cops will be looking for two extra Maori security guys.”

  “Will your friend give you up?” Moana asked.

  “Nah, he’s cool. He’s with the cause. No way is he going to name us, or his partner. They’ll deny there were two more Maori. He’s solid. But we saw that Inspector Grimble. He didn’t even recognize me. I turned away as soon as I saw him coming, shit, it was like a nightmare seeing him again. He doesn’t know you, Rawiri?”

  “Nope. I’m just another Maori.”

  Wiremu thought for a while. “They would have seen only two Maori security guards. We were dressed the same and we were never near them. I think we’re all right.”

  Moana frowned and kept her mouth shut.

  Wiremu stood and left the kitchen. He came back with a small package wrapped in black plastic. “I was scouting for a safe place for the painting.” He started to rip the tape off and dropped three black notebooks onto the table.

  “Shit! What are they?” Rawiri picked one. Moana picked another.

  Wiremu leafed through the third. “Well, it’s not drugs!”

  “You thought it was hashish?” Moana asked.

  “It did cross my mind.” Wiremu stared at pages of drawings, numbers and small spidery writings. “I don’t understand. Do you?”

  “And you had a university education.” Rawiri replied.

  “In prison. No need to rub it in.”

  “You mentioned it.”

  “Where did you get them?” Moana asked.

  Wiremu stood and went to boil water for more tea. “I got them from under Mel’s house. They must be Henry’s notebooks. He hid them for a reason. And I think I know why.”

  “What?” Wiremu asked to Rawiri’s smile.

  “If we haven’t got the painting, who has? We saw everyone who went in and I think everyone who left. If the authorities don’t know who stole it, why can’t we go ahead with our plan anyway? We can claim we have the painting, right?” Rawiri broke into a full grin.

  “I see where you’re going,” said Wiremu. “No one knows we don’t have it, other than the people who actually stole it and they’re not going to correct the police and say ‘Hey! That dumb ass Maori didn’t steal it, we did!’”

  Moana clapped her hands. “You might just be right. We can make the call. We can exploit the situation. Yeah! Maori land rights!”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Mark Rose sat on his sofa and admired his new acquisition on the opposite wall. He would have preferred a full-length portrait of Captain Cook, but he was happy with three-quarters. A frame would make it more important, but the Captain with his telescope and hat surveyed Mark’s living room as if he was about to discover it for England and lay claim to Mark’s cat-piss smelly sofa. He felt pleased as he rolled himself a cigarette. He had scored a major coup, way beyond a student prank.

  He recalled how during Graduation Week when students pulled stunts, his caused a press sensation. The mayor had declared he had an open-door policy. Mark, dressed in a stolen white lab coat, with a few tools from his toolbox and a clipboard, walked into the City Council building. When he was outside the mayor’s office, he unscrewed the door, walked to the elevator and right out the building with the entire door. It got heavy by the time he arrived at the Student Union building. He hung it from the ceiling in the cafeteria. The name plate on the door read: THE MAYOR. He resigned from the Young Communist Party and was elected Student President. His slogan was, “I have the open door of the Mayor.”

  The mayor had to laugh at the innocent stunt. What could he have done? But not Captain Cook. The painting embodied the power of Pakeha dominance, the brave English explorer who claimed New Zealand and brought European civilization to the natives. Mark remembered his New Zealand history and how Cook did not have any religious men on his three voyages, unlike the other European explorers. Cook was more amenable to understanding native cultures and not upsetting them, despite the behavior of his crew.

  Nikolai Raganovich had proposed that Mark remove the painting and take it to his place to be collected later. He had observed the painting was not well secured into the frame. All Mark had to do was to pop the painting out of the frame from the back and walk out with it.

  “There is a small gap between when the last guests and staff leave from the front entrance to when the night watchman makes his rounds through the gallery,” he had whispered to him. “He goes upstairs and works his way down. You can slip out of the downstairs bathroom, grab the painting and walk out the door. Just like you took the Mayor’s door. Yes?” The diplomat had overheard a man with a large Mexican mustache boast to his audience how secure his gallery was, and what his closing procedures were. “I shall reward you like I have always done. And a little more.” Raganovich walked away. He knew that Mark Rose, his longest covert operative, could never resist a daring mission. And they had communicated in plain sight, right in front of a police inspector.

  Mark smiled when he recalled the conversation. He could use the extra cash, but he wasn’t working for money, and it was typical of Raganovich to never mention an exact sum. He imagined Annie would get a kick out of seeing the Captain in his living room, then recalled how another girlfriend had freaked when she saw a 44-gallon drum of gelignite in front of the sofa. He decided to hide it under his bed when she came over after her late shift. Having sex with her and the Captain beneath appealed to him. Captain Cook, from what he read, never had sex with any of the natives in the South Pacific. Now he could at least experience earth-mother Polynesian sex with lots of mattress creaks and nurse’s shrieks.

  Mark had seen Annie leave for work at the hospital and waited until all the g
uests had left before he hid in the downstairs toilet. He found a door inside that opened to a maintenance room where he found a large black plastic bag. He rolled the bag into his jacket. He heard the night watchman open the door to the toilets and check the stalls. Mark imagined the watchman was overweight, as he heard thighs pressing against each other, labored breathing, and slow footsteps. Mark pressed himself against the wall behind the door that the night watchman did not open. When he heard the watchman close the toilet door he opened it to see the lights go out in the corridor. He began his count to a hundred before he made his way to the floor where Captain Cook hung. The gallery was dark as he came to the painting and felt around the frame. He realized he should have worn gloves as he tried to work out how to release the canvas from the frame. Nikolai had told him what to do but it was harder than expected. He played with the gap between the frame and the wall, which was tight. He got no movement with just pressing the canvas back away from the frame, so he pressed the palm of his hand into each corner to loosen it. This didn’t work either, so he slapped the canvas with his palm. That started to ease the nails securing the canvas to the frame. Each slap echoed through the gallery. He looked around but didn’t hear any other sound, so he whacked the canvas again with his whole hand, being careful not to damage the paint or loosen any flakes at the corners. He saw some movement in the frame, so he kept pressing and hitting on the frame until he got one side lose. Then he worked on the other side before whacking the bottom of the frame. He stopped when he thought he heard the canvas split, but it was a noise nearby he couldn’t identify. He waited a few seconds then used the back of his fist one last time to loosen the canvas and ease it out from behind. He slipped the painting into the black plastic bag without damaging the surface. He stepped back to adjust the empty frame so it was level, tucked the package under his arm and took the stairs to the next level.

  He stopped when he heard loud footsteps behind him moving faster than the watchman. He slid into a dark alcove with the painting behind him. The footsteps passed him, and he waited a moment before continuing to the ground floor. He checked that no one was at the front entrance, and casually walked across the foyer and out the unlocked front door. He did not look back. From Kitchener Street he climbed the steps to Albert Park, careful to hold the painting by his side. There were a few students walking through the park who ignored him. Once he had crossed the university and was on Grafton Road, he cut through the Domain to the Ho Chi Minh Trail, across the railway track and up to his back yard off Gibraltar Crescent. He unwrapped the painting and placed it on a nail on his wall. It was a fine addition to his flat and he was sorry he wouldn’t be able to keep it.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Alexander dreaded the call to Catelin but knew he should initiate contact. Perhaps Sergeant Cadd should have slept on a cot next to the painting, if they thought it was so vulnerable to theft. He had assumed the gallery and the Inspector would have worked out all security in detail. He told himself he was not responsible, but he was, and feared he would be blamed.

  “If the painting is already gone, you’d better stay and find it.” Catelin’s voice seemed too relaxed. Alexander imagined he was puffing away on his pipe to calm himself.

  “The police are going to blame the Maori. They always do.”

  “Did you see anyone unusual at the opening?” Catelin asked.

  “Our favorite Russian spy was there. And he knew a lot of people in the gallery.”

  “He’s a diplomat. It’s his job.”

  “Yes, but the person he spoke to the most was a young man, a radical, named Mark Rose. Remember the anti-Vietnam War protests? The newspaper photo of the student with a megaphone? With the long hair and raised fist? Well, I couldn’t hear what they were saying but they had a kind of body language like the Russian and the doctor. You know, old friends who are comfortable in each other’s presence. It looked very odd, at least to me.”

  Alexander thought he could hear the pipe working. “Listen, I want you to follow him. Rent a car, no, I’ll get you a small van. Call me in an hour and I’ll tell you where it is. Here’s his address in Auckland. It’s not a consulate, but he has to register where he stays. He’s with a young Russian woman called Natasha. I can’t remember her last name.”

  Catelin read out the address. It was on Castle Drive, on the eastern slopes of Mount Eden. Oh shit, Alexander murmured.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Inspector Grimble interviewed the night watchman who had arrived at his usual time, just before the gallery closed. The man was at least sixty years old, had a short back and sides haircut, and a thick mustache that looked dyed black as his hair was turning white. He wore a silver rain jacket, and bulbous trousers that made him appear even wider. When he looked at the inspector his eyes squinted so they appeared to close. He had no idea that Captain Cook had been stolen and when questioned about the front door countered it was not unusual for the front doors to be unlocked, or at least one of them, after a party.

  “You never noticed the most important painting in the exhibit was missing?” Grimble tried to keep his tone neutral.

  “It’s dark once I turn off all the lights. Only the night lights are on and I check all the galleries thoroughly, every hour. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Frames, paintings, drawings, sculptures, all the exhibits appeared intact to me. If an artwork was missing I would have seen it. I’m not blind. I might be a slow walker, but I have eyes. I always pay attention to the Goldies. They’re the most valuable.”

  “Do you have your own master key?”

  “No. I get it from the security box and put it back in the morning. Only have it with me when I’m in the gallery. We have procedures. But it can be a little loose, you know?”

  “Is it possible someone else could have locked or unlocked the front doors?”

  “I suppose. Like I was saying, they need to tighten security, but they never listen to me.” He explained that after the two Maori guards, whom he had signed out, had left, no other guests or staff were in the gallery. He started his rounds to check the entire gallery. He always went to the top floor taking the steps, and walked all through the galleries, floor by floor, taking his time as he turned off the lights to each room before moving to the next space. He noticed nothing odd and did not see anyone as he went through the galleries. He also checked the toilets, including the women’s.

  Grimble couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so went out into the gallery, where he bumped into Alexander carrying a folder of black-and-white prints he had just dried. Grimble followed him into the library as the night watchman was leaving. Alexander spread out the 8" x 10" prints on the large table, leaving all the contact prints on a smaller table, including the ones with the Soviet and the inspector.

  “Look.” Alexander stepped away to allow Grimble to pore over the photos. “Nikolai Raganovich. Talking to the radical Mark Rose. Interesting. Almost in front of the painting. You believe it’s a coincidence?”

  Grimble scratched his chin and frowned. “How do you know Raganovich?”

  “I work for the Department.” Not getting a response Alexander added, “And I live in Wellington. We seem to thrive on political gossip and rumors.”

  Grimble nodded. “He’s been here many times and we’ve kept an unofficial eye on him. SIS is supposed to follow him. But they never share or tell us anything and I think they’re always losing him. They weren’t at the gallery last night.”

  Alexander tried to keep a straight face. “Maybe all the extra security kept them out?”

  Grimble leaned into the last series of photos on the table. Alexander had them in chronological order. “These the two you gave me earlier?”

  “Yes. How many security guards did we have last night? I thought two, just outside the door before the girl with the clipboard. I took these before the ceremony. It’s a little dark outside, but looks like two more are out there. You can hardly make them out.” Alexander pointed to the last print. “At cl
osing, there are just two, here.”

  “There were four? They look identical.”

  “Meaning?” Alexander waited for Grimble to speak, but Alexander knew the inspector wasn’t going to share his thoughts with a curator he knew nothing about.

  “You have the negatives?” Grimble asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Can you blow up the last two you did? I want to see their faces.”

  Alexander returned to the darkroom to work on the enlarged prints. What had he missed? Tsara was right. It was like Blow-Up. He thought of Jane Birkin, then he thought of Mel with her long black curly hair. He shuddered as he turned on the enlarger.

  • • •

  The security director, Peter MacIntosh, was the last person Grimble interviewed, in MacIntosh’s own office. Not the best place to question him, but Grimble didn’t want to make another enemy. He sensed that MacIntosh would get upset over any criticism and exhibit the sensitive emotions of the incompetent. Grimble had had enough experience dealing with such men in the force. Cadd came with him as a witness.

  “We have adhered to the most stringent security standards as stipulated by our lenders and Lloyds of London, and they approved our measures, otherwise we would not have been able to mount the exhibit.” MacIntosh wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead with his handkerchief, careful not to disturb his elaborate comb-over.

  Grimble broke the silence. “Go on.”