CHAPTER THIRTY
The next morning, I awoke from a deep sleep and had a hearty breakfast. I took a cab back to the bank and sought out the manager. He welcomed my approach with a cautious smile and a question as to whether or not we might be in for another “interesting” day. I assured him that, God willing, we’d seen the last of those.
I used my code to retrieve the Denisovitch painting from the vault box and closed out the rental. Another tip, sizeable by any standard, to the manager on Mr. Santangelo’s account would hopefully insure discretion in case Sergei Markov returned with the odd question.
Ten hours later, I touched the sandy, salty, gritty, reclaimed soil of East Boston. It felt to me more like the emerald-encrusted Land of Oz. If they were going to do me in now, at least it would be on my home turf.
I grabbed a cab directly to South Station, where I salted away the Denisovitch painting in the locker I had previously rented “just in case.”
Next stop, my apartment. With the time change from Amsterdam, it was still mid-afternoon in Boston. One shower, shave, and change later, I was ready to do business.
I called Mr. Devlin at the office. I told him that if things broke right, I’d have some real pay dirt that he could take to Mr. Santangelo by the following morning. That naturally brought on more questions that I was not quite ready to answer. I cut in with a promise.
“Mr. Devlin, tomorrow morning the rest of the dominos should fall into place. What do you say to breakfast at the Ritz Carlton? You and me. My treat.”
“Michael, how the h —!”
“Great, Mr. Devlin. Nine o’clock. Your signal’s fading. I can barely hear you.”
Actually, you could hear him in Chelsea, but I needed an exit line.
My next call was to Professor Denisovitch’s office just to be sure he was back in safe territory. Helga Swenson’s stentorian tones set the little hairs in my ear vibrating. When I spoke, she recognized my voice and the change was instant.
“May I speak to the professor, Ms. Swenson?”
There was a pause as if my words had startled her. I knew I was not going to like what followed.
“Is he there, Ms. Swenson?”
“Don’t you know? You were the one—”
“Ms. Swenson, I don’t have much time. Are you saying he hasn’t come back yet?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from him since he left for London. Didn’t you—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt. He was flying in yesterday. Could he be at his home?”
“I tried there this morning. Nobody there has seen him.”
“Is there anywhere else? A club? Another office? I don’t know. A relative?”
“No. None of those.”
I held the phone against my head to think for a minute. This was a complication I hadn’t counted on. I also knew there was no time to deal with it at the moment. I could hear Helga’s voice on the line.
“What did you say, Ms. Swenson?”
“Should I call the police?”
Something instinctive inside was giving me the answer.
“No. Not yet. I can do some checking. I’ll get back to you. If you hear anything, call my cell phone.”
I needed time to work this out, and I knew I had nothing like the kind of time it might take to locate the professor. I figured that if he was dead, it could wait. If he was alive and kidnapped, the chances were good that whoever did it would be contacting me or Helga Swenson.
I pulled my thoughts together to focus all my attention on the next call. I got Tony Aiello on his cell.
“Hey, you bum, where you been?”
“Pleasure to hear your voice too, Tony. Have you been well?”
“Yeah. Peachy. What about that picher?”
“I’ve been fine too, Tony. I know you were concerned.”
“The picher, ya bum. What about it?”
“The answer to your question, you art lover, is that I got the “picher” that was in the vault box in Amsterdam. I told you I would. Don’t tell me you doubted my word.”
“You are so full of crap. Get it over here. I’m at—”
“I don’t think so, Tony.”
“What the hell’d you say?”
“I said, ‘I don’t think so.’ You’ve got to listen better.”
“What’re you pullin’, you little bum? I get ahold of you—”
“Tony, I told you once. It’s very important that you and I be nice to each other. It’s important because we have business to do with each other. And it’s not going to happen any other way. Let me repeat. I’ve got the painting. It’s where you’ll never find it. But other people will if anything should happen to me. And that wouldn’t do you any good at all. So to go back to square one, we have business to do.”
There was silence. I could almost hear him choking on his own anger, but business came first.
“So where do we meet?”
“Well, Tony, you seemed to take so well to the Parker House, I’ll make reservations for eleven thirty tomorrow morning. We’ll be at ‘our table.’ By the way, that’ll be reservations for two. You and me. Leave the baboons in the cage.”
This time he answered by slamming the cell phone shut, which was actually music to my ears. This was overtime in the seventh game of the Stanley Cup finals. I needed a big win, and I figured that having Tony distracted by his passion to have me sliced into his next cacciatore could be a helpful edge. Or it could lead to my actually being one of his ingredients.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The flight from St. Petersburg to Moscow is about the length of a flight from Boston to Washington, D.C. It gave Alexei Samnov’s imagination time to fabricate a dozen different reasons for his being summoned to a meeting with the gentleman. None of them offered peace of mind.
When he reached the terminal in Moscow, he followed instructions to look for a limousine driver holding a sign bearing the single name, Alexei. He made contact immediately, and was ushered into a black stretch limousine that was driven beyond the city limits of Moscow and deeply into the open country to the north of the city.
The sun had been down for hours by the time the limousine pulled into the courtyard of a walled stone villa overlooking Lake Rybinsk. Alexei was greeted as “Professor Samnov” by the attendant staff and shown to a guest suite where he was invited to refresh himself before dinner.
Within half an hour, he returned to the main hall and was shown to the main dining room. He had no idea of whether to take comfort or alarm from the fact that the massive table was set for two.
He was seated at the side of the table, a short distance from where a setting had also been placed at the head of the table. Wine had been poured at each place, and a bottle of excellent vodka was chilling beside the table. The allure of easing with fine wine or vodka the tensions that were playing havoc with his entire nervous system was more than countered by his sense of velvet-clad danger that would require his clearest mind.
Alexei was scarcely seated when the door at the far end of the room was opened to admit the gentleman who had summoned him. The gentleman approached with a smile and a warm, welcoming clasp of arms. Uniformed servants seated them, and the hospitality began with a vodka toast to Mother Russia. It was unthinkable not to drink, but Alexei did so mostly in pantomime, taking in as little liquid as possible.
Throughout the dinner, conversation was light and general on three favorite subjects of an educated Russian — art, music, and warfare. The gentleman appeared to be enjoying both the meal and the company. Alexei tried to appear the same.
When the last dish was cleared and vodka was once again poured, all attendants withdrew from the room. The gentleman leaned back in his chair, his glass in hand. Alexei had observed the “gracious host” side of the gentleman, but at the same time, he took note of the fact that the gentleman had actually not consumed a drop more vodka or wine than Alexei.
The subtle shift in tone when the gentleman said, “Alexei, my friend, can I trust you?” sent a
chill to the very base of his spine.
The question jolted him. He knew he had to respond quickly.
“Of course. What would make you—?”
“I don’t think so.”
Alexei was stunned, but recovered as quickly as possible.
“What have I ever—?”
The gentleman held up a hand that froze the words in his throat.
“By now you must at least surmise my intolerance for disloyalty, Alexei. Yes?”
“Certainly.”
“Shall we say that most men would not survive one instance of even wavering loyalty?”
“But I never—”
The gentleman cut him off with a wince as if pained by Alexei’s words. He reached inside his pocket and tossed a stack of photographs that splayed across the table in front of Alexei. Without sorting them, he could see that they recorded every minute of his conversation with Professor Denisovitch at the London club.
Alexei merely stared at the photos, unable to speak. He had made what appeared to be the fatal error of underestimating the tentacles of the gentleman in trying to warn his friend. He had nothing to say. He could only resign himself to whatever manner of death the gentleman had in mind for him.
“Alexei, look up at me. I said that of most men. I think perhaps you made this one mistake out of loyalty to a friend. I admire your loyalty, and your bravery. I find them both too useful to extinguish.”
The gentleman leaned forward, closer to Alexei. He spoke in a more quiet, but harder tone.
“But only if they’re both directed to me. Do you take my meaning, Alexei?”
Alexei wanted to say yes immediately, but fear of what it might commit him to stilled the word. The gentleman leaned back and took the slightest sip of vodka.
“Take your time, Alexei. This time your commitment must be complete. Don’t speak lightly with any room for wavering later on. I can assure you that there will be no such dinner as this ever again.”
Alexei wrestled with every possibility. If he failed to commit now, he would most certainly be killed in a way that would set an example. The death of his friend Denisovitch would be equally certain. If he committed now, he would at least buy time, possibly for both of them.
Alexei looked into the eyes of the gentleman and he nodded solemnly.
The gentleman smiled. He shook his finger and his head in the same slow motion.
“No, Alexei. What you are thinking would only delay the inevitable. You see, you are in fear. When a man is in fear for his life, I can read his mind, because he has only so many possibilities.”
Alexei looked into his eyes.
“What more can I do than to commit my loyalty to you?”
“A great deal more, Alexei. You can commit your loyalty to me without a single thought of wavering. To have you do that, I must give you only one possible path to follow. Listen closely.”
The gentleman straightened away from Alexei to remove any bodily suggestion of weakness.
“Your friend, Professor Denisovitch, is in my hands. Actually he is in the hands of my employee. I believe you met my associate, Lupov. Lupov is an extraordinary individual. He has no conscience whatsoever. If it became necessary to subject your friend to Lupov’s ministrations—”
He held up his hands as if words could not express the thought that would finish the sentence. He paused to let that idea generate whatever unspeakable terrors it might engender in Alexei’s already stimulated imagination.
Alexei merely said in submission, “What is it you want me to do?”
The gentleman took a deep breath and smiled at what he sensed to be complete capitulation.
“Now that divided loyalties are out of the equation, we can begin to make sense with each other. You’ll be going on a trip. You’ll strike a bargain with someone who apparently shares your affection for Professor Denisovitch, someone who has been causing me unnecessary aggravation. This aggravation will stop immediately. You’ll see to that.”
“You mentioned a bargain. What do I give in exchange?”
The gentleman broke into a jolly, full-face Saint Nicholas smile.
“Why I should think that would be obvious, Alexei. Just what will please you most. The life of Professor Denisovitch.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Eleven thirty is too early for the regular set of bankers and lawyers to have lunch at the Parker House. A spotty group of tourists, whose schedule is topsy-turvy anyway, might drop in, but it was a likely time for privacy in a public place.
I waited behind a newspaper in a chair at the far end of the classic lobby to see the lumbering bear that was Fat Tony Aiello come up the School Street steps and turn left toward the dining room.
He was a total surprise package to Frederick, the maître d’, who winced at the thought of Tony’s becoming a regular. I followed close behind and signaled Frederick for a table at the far end of the dining room.
Frederick forced a smile in my direction and asked tentatively, “And will you be expecting others, Mr. Knight?”
“No, Frederick. Our party is complete.”
“Very good, sir.” He meant it as he had never meant it before.
We sat. Frederick beat an anxious retreat. Tony grabbed his napkin before the waiter could lay it in his lap. He glared at the busboy pouring the water until the poor kid could barely hit the glass.
“Good morning, Tony.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Where’s the picher?”
“It is a lovely day, Mr. Aiello. Reminds me of a morning in Amsterdam. You wouldn’t believe the tulips.”
That brought him scrunching his entire obesity so far to the right that he nearly toppled his chair. He was now close enough to whisper at the top of his lungs.
“Listen, you little bum, you don’t know who ya playin’ with here.”
I stayed put and kept the tone restrained.
“Sure I do, Tony. I’m dealing with a man who’s so far under water he can’t even send up bubbles. I met those boys you owe all that money to. They could grind you up for Russian meatballs.”
“They’re Dutch, ya jerk. Ya been over there, you don’t even know that?”
I looked him dead in the eye and dropped my voice. He had to lean in to hear me.
“Take this to heart, Tony. The Dutch members of the crew may be a threat to your economic well-being. The Russian contingent would take out your tonsils from the other end for a small fraction of what you owe them. And lest there be doubt, that gang of trained apes you depend on would be history in the first wave. This is the varsity team.”
He had no comeback for the moment. Now, he looked me straight in the eye. I took that as an invitation to talk business.
“According to the deal John McKedrick put together, the money was loaned to you on the security of the painting that was in the vault in Amsterdam. You can’t repay the debt. So your only leverage to keep them from taking the debt out of your flesh is having that painting to sell.
His teeth were clenched so hard that the words came through muffled. “So where’s the picher?”
“That’s where the business part comes in. I’ve got the ‘picher’ that was in the vault.”
He seemed to relax slightly.
“So turn it over.”
“First a question. What will you do with the painting if I hand it over?”
“What the hell business of yours?”
“Have you even thought about it? Are you going to sell it? How? What do you know about selling stolen paintings? You don’t even know who these people are. Who’s going to deal for you? Benny?”
“That’s my business. Your business is to hand it over, which you better do fast, or you’re not gonna live to see another lunch with this here fine dining. You hear me, wise-ass?”
“I hear you threatening the one person who has the key to your survival. Let’s be clear about this. If I should have an accident of any kind, that painting goes into the hands of the police. Then you are really up the creek. You’ll be
explaining ownership of a stolen painting to the police, and a hell of a lot more to those boys across the pond. You may not love me, Tony, but you sure as hell need me.”
I took a long drink of ice water.
He finally spoke in a tone that was not overheated.
“What do ya want? I’m just askin’.”
“This is the way it’s going to be. I don’t give a damn about your temper or your bloated sense of power. I have the painting. Without it, you don’t want to live through what comes next. That means I get to make some serious demands. Do we agree?”
He grabbed his napkin and wiped the sweat off of his lips.
“What demands?”
“The only thing I care about is Peter Santangelo. You set him up for the murder of John McKedrick. You got your stooge, Mike Simone, to cop a plea to the bombing for a light sentence in exchange for implicating Peter Santangelo as the one who hired him to do it.”
“You’re guessin’. You don’t know nothin’.”
“I know the whole Santangelo indictment smells like you’re calling the shots. Little Anthony Tedesco over in Revere all of a sudden gets the courage to rat on Sal Marone for extortion. You and I both know the extortion money flows into your pocket, and it’s been going on since The Pirates’ Den was built. Why does Tedesco squeal now? Because you told him to. It puts Marone in a position to deal with the D.A. He can give them your boy, Three-Finger Simone, as the bomber so Simone can trade with the D.A. for Peter Santangelo. Just like dominos. And you set up the whole thing.”
Actually that was all guesswork. I was deeply in need of some confirmation from the red-faced buffalo sitting to my left as a basis for my next move. I got none.
“So. I’m sittin’ here listenin’, ya mug. What do you want? A round of applause?”
“No, Tony. This isn’t a show. Time is short. Your turn at bat. You either confirm or deny. If you confirm, we talk about what it takes to keep you alive. If you deny, or sit there like a lump of pizza dough, I leave. It’s your call.”
He shifted around like his shorts were riding up. This was not the way he was accustomed to being treated. I wondered how long I’d get to live if I didn’t have that painting.
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