Frame-Up

by John F. Dobbyn

  Sergei bent over to look him in the eye.

  “And you cannot be wrong?”

  Alexei looked at him for the first time since his exposition began. “No.”

  The gentleman at the head of the table broke the tension with a hearty laugh. Alexei’s stomach became unclenched for the first time since the discussion began.

  “That look! That look in Alexei’s eyes. That’s the reason these people opened their pocketbooks to us.”

  “No. It’s actually more than that.”

  All eyes were on Alexei for daring to disagree in the smallest matter with the gentleman.

  “Normal modesty again makes this difficult to say. But it’s a fact. No one else has so devoted a life’s study to the work of this one master. I have — I speak immodestly, but truthfully — the trust of the entire art world. I’m sure these people you mention became well acquainted with my reputation among those who know more about art than they do. You can assure them that nothing has changed. I will stake my entire life’s reputation on it.”

  The look in the eyes of the gentleman became slightly more intense.

  “You will, Alexei, and a great deal more than that.”

  The import of the gentleman’s words were not lost on anyone at the table. It was not the first time Alexei had regretted leaving the secure serenity of his academic niche.

  Sergei poured another glass of vodka while keeping the focus on Alexei.

  “And this imposter, this other painting. Who stands behind it?”

  The gentleman’s attention was riveted on Alexei, since Sergei had anticipated his next question. Bells of caution were going off in Alexei’s consciousness. Nothing of significance occurred in the art world regarding Vermeer that did not come to his attention. He had, in fact, heard the rumor of a recent attestation of genuineness to a copy of the painting in question. He would have dismissed it with all of the others but for the fact that the authentication came from a former colleague at the university, now teaching in the History of Art department of Harvard University.

  Alexei’s respect for the eye and credibility of Professor Leopold Denisovitch gave him pause when it first came to his attention. There could be only one original. Why had Denisovitch compromised himself by certifying a painting that he must have known to be a fraud?

  Some intuitive alarm told Alexei that this was not the moment to place Denisovitch’s name on the table. He looked directly into the eyes of the gentleman.

  “I’ll make inquiries.”

  There was an uneasy pause that was difficult to read before the gentleman said quietly, “Do that.”

  Sergei was riding a crest of confidence in siding with the gentleman against Alexei. “And do it quickly so that we can eliminate this nuisance.”

  Sergei looked with a grin at Lupov who returned the grin at the word “eliminate.” The smile was gone from the gentleman’s lips when he turned his focus to Sergei.

  “This ‘elimination’ you speak of without hesitation. It would certainly be the most self-defeating course we could take. It would be clear to the people who matter exactly who had taken this step and why. I can imagine nothing that would more effectively shatter their confidence in our position.”

  Sergei held the glass of vodka halfway to his lips. He was suddenly frozen by the turn of the spotlight on him. “I only meant — of course, you’re right. We must be … cautious.”

  The word “cautious” forced upon his colleague brought a certain satisfaction to Alexei.

  The gentleman continued in a soft tone, but no one in the room mistook the seriousness behind it. “My dear Sergei, when we began this venture, it was you who brought us to these particular contacts of yours in the financial world. It was you who negotiated a very sizeable loan on the basis of the painting’s validity. It was you—”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “Please!” The tone of the gentleman changed and his look silenced Sergei in mid-sentence. “It was you who committed us to this very significant debt on what now appears to be a fragile confidence in the authenticity of some work of art. We are committed to this debt on your advice.”

  “I know. Please allow me to—”

  “What we shall allow you to do, Sergei, is to explain why I needed to bring this crisis of confidence to your attention. These people are your contacts. Why was this not handled before it ever came to my attention?”

  Sergei all but turned to liquid. He took a large swallow of vodka for stability. When he could speak, he began pouring out meaningless apologies.

  Alexei sensed that the questions asked by the gentleman were more rhetorical than information seeking. There seemed to be more to the gentleman’s accusation than was apparent from the conversation.

  Alexei chose to remain silent, out of the line of fire. He listened as the heartfelt apologies of Sergei seemed to be absorbed by the grandfatherly figure at the head of the table with no effect whatsoever. Something deeper that Alexei could not understand was playing behind the expression on the face of the gentleman.

  Alexei watched as the gentleman glanced at Lupov to his right and gave an all but imperceptible nod. It was received with an equally slight grin on the lips of Lupov, and it crossed Alexei’s mind that he might never see their comrade, Sergei, alive again.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The plane was scarcely in the air after leaving Sergei Markov with his retinue at the landing strip outside of Minsk. For all of the self-preserving insidiousness of Sergei, Alexei felt less secure without him.

  Once they were airborne, the gentleman at the head of the table leaned back in a relaxed posture. He focused the deceptively kind gaze of his soft hazel eyes on Alexei. “This fraud. This second painting. Who do you suppose has it?”

  Alexei tried to put nonchalance into his tone, but he measured every word for possible consequences. “I don’t know. That’s not surprising. If it were authentic, I could narrow it to three people who would acquire it simply to own it. It would be a stolen art object worth much more than a hundred million if you had to put a price on it. Priceless to a real collector for its own sake. But it would be recognizable all over the world. It could never be shown. There’d be no bragging rights, no displaying it. Only three that I know would want to own it themselves on those terms. And could afford it. Any of the three would recognize a fraud.”

  The gentleman’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Alexei’s caution quotient rose to the next level.

  “And what of people like us? People who would buy it to use as collateral. They could be fooled?”

  Alexei shrugged.

  “Speak frankly, Alexei. People like me?”

  Alexei knew he was on thin ice. He also knew the gentleman was no fool.

  “Yes. It happens. Particularly if the authenticator has a reputation.”

  The gentleman smiled. Alexei anticipated being questioned further on the source of the authentication of this new painting. He quickly shifted ground, giving more than he had hoped to expose.

  “I believe the painting in question is in Amsterdam.”

  That brought a smile and raised eyebrows.

  “Oh you do? This painting you’ve never heard of.”

  “The use of a stolen painting like this as security to borrow money, it’s not a simple matter. You know yourself. If the debtor defaults on the loan, the creditor has to be able to get money for the painting or it’s no good as security. That generally means selling it to the insurance company that insured it without being prosecuted for possession of stolen property. That’s a delicate business.”

  “As we know, Alexei. So?”

  “There are not many that would make a loan of this sort. We can exclude the people we’re dealing with. They could be fooled by a forgery, but they’d know there can’t be two originals of the same painting. The others I’ve heard of work out of Amsterdam. They’d want the object close by, perhaps a vault requiring two signatures, the owner’s signature and the moneylender’s. It’s a guess.”
>
  The gentleman closed his eyes and appeared to be in repose. Alexei knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Do you have names?”

  “No. It’s all rumor. I deal in art, the real thing. I have no interest in the rest.”

  The gentleman’s eyes opened a slit.

  “And yet, dear Alexei, you were quick enough to join our little caravan.”

  Alexei felt the sting that returned periodically when he let himself realize that he too was misusing the thing he cherished most. He nodded.

  “This once.”

  The soil of St. Petersburg felt reassuring beneath Alexei’s feet. He walked through the blowing snow to his car and drove to his office at the university. It was getting close to midnight. All of the other faculty offices were in darkness. He kept his coat on while he dialed a number. The voice on the other end of the line was that of a secretary.

  “This is Alexei Samnov. You’ll be kind enough to tell Professor Denisovitch that I’ll be in London on Tuesday. The club. He’ll know. Ten a.m. London time.”

  “Did you want Professor Denisovitch to call you there?”

  “No. I want to see him there. He knows I would not call if it were not — tell him I want to discuss with him a certain concert.”

  “I’m sorry. Should Professor Denisovitch call you back to confirm?”

  “No. I don’t need a confirmation. I need him there. Tell him — just tell him to be there.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  We had five days to pull something together before Dominic Santangelo began painting the town with “family” blood. I had no real proof of who it was that sent Vito Respa to shorten my lifespan, and even less of a clue as to why. On the question of who, Anthony Aiello, Santangelo’s subboss, was at the top of my shortlist. I figured Benny Ignola was involved, but it was unlikely that he was trusted to make policy for the organization.

  Much as I hated to admit it, Benny was right about one thing. It was time he and I talked. My first move after we got back to the office from our meeting with Mr. Santangelo was to make a phone call to Benny’s office.

  His secretary took my name and managed to enunciate in nasal East Boston English without missing a beat on a wad of gum, “I’ll see if he’s in.”

  That meant he was in. Benny’s suite of offices was composed of a room with two desks — one of them formerly John McKedrick’s — and a broom closet for the secretary/receptionist/pizza retriever. I was sure she was waving hand signals to Benny while she was snapping her gum in the phone. The next sound I heard was Benny’s incredulous tone.

  “Who’s this?”

  “A voice from the dead, Benny. You’ll be tickled to death to hear he missed me.”

  It was cards on the table time. No fooling around.

  “Mikey, is that you?”

  “Would you believe it, Benny?”

  There was a pause just long enough to tell me that old Benny was knocked off balance. That meant that he had been in on the play by Vito Respa and was stunned to find me still on the planet. It was time to throw him another curve.

  “You screwed up, Benny. Obviously. Now it’s make up time.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “I know you don’t, Benny. You’re in way over your head. The good news is that your wish is coming true. You and I are going to have a meeting.”

  The pause meant that a meeting on my terms no longer had the appeal that it did when he was calling the shots.

  “Why—?”

  “Because if you give me one second of grief, the next voice Fat Tony Aiello hears will be mine. In your worse nightmare, you couldn’t imagine what I’ll tell him. On the other hand, I bet you can guess the kind of misfortune he’ll order up for you. Do you need to think about that, or can we just get to where I make plans and you say yes”?

  Pause. He was being pulled along faster than his brain cells could connect. The worst thing I could do was to slacken the pace.

  “One half hour, Benny. You and me. You hear me?”

  I could hear the little wheels spinning in his devious mind. Would a half hour give him time to set me up for another attempt at the job Respa botched? I thought I’d head him off at the pass.

  “No, no, Old Pal Benny. Forget what you’re thinking. You alone. Understand this. It’ll look like I’m alone too. Not true. There will be high-caliber firepower aimed at your scurrilous heart the whole time. If I so much as grimace under a hiccup, you’ll be just an unpleasant memory. Capisce?”

  “Where?”

  “Just so you’ll feel at home, let’s make it the first park bench in Boston Common up the walk from Park Street Station.”

  I knew the spot from Tom Burns’s report of Benny’s meeting with Anthony Tedesco. On a normal day, he probably could have figured out how I knew, but after what had just come before, beginning with a voice from the not quite dead, Benny didn’t know if he was afoot or on horseback. Good time to close. Click.

  As I passed Mr. Devlin’s office, the thought of checking out my next move with him floated through my mind. My experience with his approval rate of my unorthordox plans convinced me that what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.

  I had one other dilemma. I could cruise into my meeting with Benny with nothing for cover except a bluff. It was a publicly frequented spot, and had been since the 1600s when people were welcome to pasture their flocks of sheep on Boston Common. The particular spot I had chosen was the site of the “Hanging Tree,” where the religiously overzealous Puritans treated the crowds of men, women, and children to three or four hangings a week of such “heretics” as Quakers, Catholics, and anyone else who disagreed with them on a point of theology.

  Or I could spend more than a few dollars to have Tom Burns provide the artillery cover I had mentioned to Benny. That was a decision I’d make on the way down on the elevator.

  At exactly eleven thirty, I watched Benny settle his well-padded posterior onto the designated bench in Boston Common. He looked nervous as a cat. I dialed up his cell phone and watched him bounce when the ring zapped his pre-strung nerves.

  “Yeah. What?”

  “Morning, Benny. Guess who?”

  “What the h—”

  “Benny, get a grip. I want you to walk straight out to Tremont Street.”

  I could see him look around to spot what must have seemed like my ghostly presence. He had a grip on the cell phone that must have had its little diodes spinning.

  “Listen, Knight—”

  “Benny, you always call me Mikey. Are we drifting apart?”

  The silence told me he was losing his sense of humor.

  “Do it, Benny. Straight to Tremont.”

  I watched him stand and walk his little crab walk in the right direction. He kept looking back toward the benches around our supposed meeting spot. I thought at one point he made some kind of hand gesture that seemed more than just Benny talking with his hands, but he was so spastic at that point that it could have been nerves — his or mine. When he reached the sidewalk on Tremont, he still had the cell phone to his ear.

  “Now what, smart-ass?”

  “Be nice, Benny. Let’s not let this affect our relationship. Flag down the next cab that comes along.”

  I saw him look back into the Common again before he waved at the cab that was cruising down his side of Tremont Street. The cab pulled to the curb beside him.

  He said into the phone, “Now what?”

  “Get in the cab, Benny.”

  He grabbed open the door and stuffed his little sausage form into the passenger compartment. He was still looking back at the Common and jerking his head at something. When he turned around and saw me sitting in the seat beside him, he bounced about three inches off the seat, smacking his head on the door frame.

  “You son of a—!”

  I let the stream of curses roll over me. What was cracking me up in spite of it all was that he was still saying it into the cell phone.

  “Benny, nice language, an
d you, a member of the bar. You can close the phone now.”

  He snapped the phone and his mouth shut simultaneously.

  “Don’t put the phone away. You’ll be needing it.”

  I gave the driver directions to turn right on Boylston and again right on Charles toward Beacon Hill. I needed a quiet stretch out of traffic to bring off the next piece.

  As we pulled away from the curb, I caught out of the corner of my eye what to my legitimately paranoid mind looked like two bulked-up forms that could have been of the Sicilian persuasion flagging down a cab behind us. I did my best to convince myself that I was letting the demons get a grip on my imagination. At that moment, I needed full focus on the proceedings at hand.

  I asked the driver to get the sports-talk station on the radio and turn the volume up to eight. Once done, I slid over closer to Benny and spoke in his ear.

  “You’re going to make a phone call, Benny.”

  His eyes were like half-dollars and his mouth was half open at this point. I knew I had his attention.

  “The boys in the North End let you play lawyer to keep their scum on the street. But basically, don’t take this personally, Benny, to them you’re an errand boy. Open up your cell phone. You’re about to deliver the message of the week.”

  He hesitated for a few seconds of indecision, but then opened the phone and looked over for the next order.

  “Dial up Tony Aiello.”

  He stared at me as if I had just asked for a direct connection with the Wizard of Oz. A second later he snapped the phone shut.

  “I used to give you credit for smarts, Knight. Not no more. You’re a dead man, and you run around givin’ orders like you’re the king of Sweden.”

  His mouth was closed now, and taking on the definite shape of a smirk. I was afraid of losing momentum. I knew that without Benny on a string, I had no access to the one I needed to contact.

  I noticed that Benny looked back through the window at the cab that was still behind us. I checked it out too, and the sight of the two goons in the cab made everything inside of me freeze. I did my best to keep the confident look on my face, but I was dead certain that the only good news was that I was not suffering from paranoia.