I could see the look of shock deepen in his eyes.
“That’s right. He’s onto you. Between Santangelo and this Russian who’s demanding the painting, your life isn’t worth as much as that phony Vermeer. And think about this. The only thing standing between you and both of them is me. You hear me, Tony? Me!”
He was looking straight into my eyes, and no words were coming out. It was time to pull the trigger.
“I’ve got to move, Tony. In ten seconds, I’m out that door. If I leave without that painting, you won’t have a chance in hell of seeing the sunset. I’m counting.”
I stood the full ten seconds. Nothing moved. I knew it wouldn’t as long as I waited.
I held up my hand and turned to the door.
“Good-bye, Tony. If you know a priest, I’d make a quick confession.”
With every measured step to the door, my heart pounded more loudly. The question was blaring in silence through my mind: Without that painting, what can I possibly trade for Terry?
My desperation nearly reached the panic level when I pulled open the door. I hesitated just long enough to hear a desk drawer open behind me. My first thought was that Tony was going for a gun. Useless as I felt for Terry, I almost didn’t care.
I turned around to avoid being shot in the back and said what I thought was my last prayer. I saw Tony on his feet with his right fist clenched. There was no gun.
He started to say something, but he couldn’t seem to get it out. He threw something that he had in his right hand. I caught it, and felt as if a cement block had fallen away from my heart.
It was the key to the South Station locker where I had stashed the Denisovitch painting.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I was halfway between South Station, where I had picked up the painting from the locker, and my office on Franklin Street, when my cell phone gave me a start. When I heard Alexei Samnov’s voice, I pulled over to the curb on Summer Street to give it my full concentration.
“Mr. Knight, I need an answer. I have to have something to tell — you know.”
“It’s all right, professor. I have the painting.”
I heard a deep sigh of relief. I did not share the feeling.
“Tell me the truth, Professor. If I give it to him, is there a chance he’ll let Terry go?”
He breathed another sigh. This time it was empathy.
“Mr. Knight, I’m afraid not very much. I know this. If he doesn’t get it, there’s no chance at all. Then he’ll come after you.”
Apparently I had gotten Terry and myself into this lobster trap where there was no backing out. The only way was forward.
“So how do we do it?”
“I’ve been contacted by Lupov. It’s typical of him. He likes to do his work in seclusion. Do you know the town of Milton in New Hampshire? It’s just off Route Sixteen.”
“I’ve been past it. It’s on the way to the White Mountains.”
“There’s a farm. It’s on a small road between Milton and Farmington. I can give you directions. He’ll be waiting there.”
“Did he say he’d have Terry there?”
“He didn’t say. He only said look for a barn across an open field. He’ll see you approaching. You’re to come alone and tell no one. If you don’t do this exactly, she’ll die. Those are his words.”
“That wasn’t a question, professor. It’s a demand. Terry is to be there. We make the exchange at the same time. That’s absolute.”
There was a pause.
“I’ll try.”
“No, tell him. No Terry, no painting. And bring me the answer.”
“I’ll get back to you. The exchange is this afternoon. Four thirty.”
The drive to Milton would take close to two hours based on my ski trips to the mountains around Laconia. Before starting, I made one stop at a stationery store to pick up something that I optimistically thought could give me a slight advantage.
I was overwhelmingly tempted through the entire drive to call Mr. Devlin or Tom Burns. I never felt so alone in my life. I was just afraid that they might make some move that would trigger Lupov to do something to Terry. I couldn’t risk it. My only resource for strength and comfort was prayer.
Professor Samnov’s directions were flawless — as was his prediction of seclusion. The barn was in the center of at least five acres of cornfield that had been harvested down to the ground. The sun was setting behind the barn. There was just enough light to make out the large barn door facing me as I came to the edge of the pine woods surrounding the field.
I walked to the edge of the field and stopped. It was just four thirty. I was looking across an expanse of cornfield of about half a football field. Nothing was moving.
I shouted, “Hello.”
It spooked a flight of crows halfway to the barn, but nothing else.
I called again louder. “Hello!”
I saw the barn door open about a foot. I waited another five seconds before hearing a deep voice with a heavy accent.
“Mr. Knight, you’re very punctual. That’s good. I hope for the life of your friend that you followed all of my directions as well. You’ll please hold up the painting.”
I came five feet out into the field and held up the cardboard tube I had picked up at the stationary store to hold the painting.
“Excellent. I’m sure that the painting is in that cylinder because you know what will happen if it is not. You will now walk across the field and place the painting on the ground at this door.”
“Not yet. I’ll see Miss O’Brien in full view before I take a step.”
There was an exceedingly uncomfortable pause before I heard, “Why not?”
The barn door opened a few feet. In the fading backlight, I could see what looked like a female figure in a long coat standing in the doorway. I yelled to her.
“Terry, are you all right?”
There was no response. In a few seconds I heard the man’s voice.
“I’m afraid there will be no conversation. The precaution of tape on her mouth. Now you’ll walk the painting to the barn door.”
I trusted this snake as far as I could throw the barn, but someone had to make the first move. I was literally dying to get Terry safely in my arms.
I started pacing my way across the open field toward the barn. When I got halfway there, I stopped. I dropped the cylinder on the spot, and I walked back to the edge of the trees. The voice came again with considerably more tension.
“You’re playing with the life of your friend, Mr. Knight. You’ll follow my directions exactly if you expect her to live. This is not a game.”
“No it’s not a game, and you don’t make all the rules, Lupov. I think you need to get this painting as much as I need to have Miss O’Brien safe. I believe your life could depend on it. I think perhaps your so-called gentleman is unforgiving of failure. Now here are my rules.”
I bent down and picked up the identical cardboard cylinder that I had left at the edge of the woods.
“I give you my word, Lupov, the painting you want is in one of these two cylinders. You will walk Miss O’Brien to the cylinder in the middle of the field. You’ll pick it up, leave Miss O’Brien there, and walk back to the barn. Miss O’Brien will walk to me.”
“You’re insane. Why should I trust you?”
I held up the cardboard cylinder in my left hand and lit a Zippo lighter in my right. This was the insurance I bought before leaving.
“You’ll trust me because this cylinder in my hand is doused in lighter fluid. If you make one move to harm Miss O’Brien, this cylinder will turn to charcoal in five seconds. If the painting is in this one, it will be charcoal too. How would you like to report that to your no-name gentleman?”
He looked totally perplexed. He had gone from a pair of loaded dice to a pure crapshoot. I had gone from a hopeless long shot to an even-money gamble. I still hated the odds on Terry’s life, but they were at least improved.
It took thirty agonizing seconds for
him to respond. I had played my last card. There was nothing I could do but wait.
After an eternity, I saw the door creak open wide enough to let two figures pass. In the fading light, I could see that the woman in the heavy long coat was in front. A stocky male figure was immediately behind, holding her by both arms. I still couldn’t make out Terry’s features. It could have been anyone, but that was my gamble.
I sensed to my amazement that the conscienceless violence that had always given Lupov the commanding hand was in a peculiar way working to my advantage. He had probably never known what it was to face someone who had a terrorizing leverage over him. He had no idea how to respond other than to concede and take his chances.
The two figures walked in slow lockstep toward the cardboard cylinder in the middle of the field. I could feel Lupov’s eyes riveted to my face as I held the small flame an inch from the cylinder in my left hand.
When the two reached the middle of the field, I saw Lupov stop and hold the woman with one hand. He slowly bent down and snatched up the cylinder. Now that I had him on command, I pressed it.
“Now let her go. Take that cylinder and walk back to the barn. Hesitate for one second and this cylinder goes up in flames.”
I saw him turn and start to move in that direction. I could see the woman’s features more clearly now. I was almost sure it was Terry. She seemed frozen to the spot. I yelled at the top of my lungs.
“Terry, run! Here, to me!”
I started toward her, still holding the flame and cardboard cylinder in case Lupov turned with a gun. He was halfway to the barn. I could see him ripping apart the cardboard cylinder. I realized that in a few seconds he’d know he had the painting. The one I was holding a flame to was a bluff.
I dropped the cylinder and lighter and started to run to Terry. She still hadn’t made a move in my direction. I couldn’t imagine why.
When I got within ten yards of her, I could see her mouth covered with tape. She was actually running and stumbling away from me. I yelled to her again in case she didn’t understand, but she fell and tried to scramble all the harder away from me.
I caught a quick glance at Lupov. I could see that he had the painting in one hand. He was just standing there grinning. He had something that I couldn’t identify in his other hand. It didn’t look like a gun, so I ran the rest of the way to Terry who seemed to be struggling as hard as she could, tangled in the heavy long overcoat, to get away from me.
I reached her and grabbed her in my arms. I could feel her still struggling to get away. Her face was covered with tears, and she seemed to be pleading and pulling away.
I looked up at Lupov who faced me with a vicious grin. He pointed his hand with the object in it at us. I knew it was not a gun, but I instinctively pulled Terry to the ground as if to avoid whatever it was.
I half expected to hear a blast from his direction in case I was wrong about a gun. When it came, I was dumbfounded. It came from the wrong direction. It came from the woods behind me. I braced for the impact, but none came. When I opened my eyes. I saw Lupov reeling backward with a great, dark hole in his forehead. He was dead before he hit the ground.
I held Terry tight and kept repeating, “It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.”
Her struggling and writhing finally stopped. She just lay on the ground, shaking her head in a gesture I didn’t understand. I held her head steady and worked the tape off of her mouth. When it was off, she just screamed at me to get away, run.
I held her until I could get her to listen to my words and know that Lupov was dead. It had passed.
When it finally sank in, she just lay rigidly on the ground and pleaded with me not to touch her. Her hands were tied behind her, so she couldn’t resist as I worked on the buttons to open the long overcoat that had tangled around her. When the last button gave way, I saw what was terrifying her.
My first move was to run to Lupov to be sure he was dead and to work the thing he was holding out of his locked-finger grip. When I got it away, I laid it on the ground and ran back to Terry.
I pulled away all of the folds of the overcoat to expose rows of sticks of explosives. I carefully slid my hand under her back to follow the wires until I felt a small box. I worked with my fingers in the blind to free it from the tape. It finally came loose, and I could pull the wires out of a small radio-controlled detonator.
I carefully untaped each of the cylinders of explosive that surrounded her body under the coat. When the last one came loose, I raced them to the creek just inside the tree line and threw them into the water.
When I got back to Terry, she was shaking all over with chills of cold and shock. I wrapped her in the overcoat and just hugged her until they passed.
I had one last thing to do. I went to Lupov’s body and began a search. I found what I was looking for on the third finger of his left hand. I removed it from the body and picked up the painting where it lay beside him.
I helped Terry to her feet and practically carried her to the car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The ride back to Boston gave me time to think. The heat of the warm car, and the exhaustion from the nightmare caused Terry to sleep most of the way.
In spite of the car’s heat, I had the shakes when I realized what Lupov had planned. Once I’d given him the painting, he knew I’d run to Terry. When we were together, one press of the small garage door opener in his hand would have triggered the detonator connected to the explosives taped to her body. We’d both have been blown across the New Hampshire countryside. Again, Lupov would have left no witnesses.
I thanked God that we were both alive, but I also realized that I had someone else to thank. In fact, this was the third time in three weeks that an invisible guardian angel had stepped in to snatch my life out of the hands of a killer. I was remembering the shooting of Aiello’s assassin, Vito Respa, in Rockport, then the two thugs in the car that was following me on Charles Street, and now the prince of evil, Lupov. I believe in angels, but I’ve never heard of one that works with guns.
On the drive back to Boston, I had time to go through the cast of characters for some clue as to who had been watching my back so efficiently. Each time, the thought process led me to the same unlikely conclusion, and each time I rejected it.
I reached another conclusion that I couldn’t reject. It would be the worst kind of wishful thinking to believe that Lupov’s death was the end of the threat to either Terry or myself. Somehow I had to reach higher. Somehow I had to neutralize the nameless Russian “gentleman” himself. He could hardly afford to leave either of us alive as a loose end, even if he got the painting.
I realized that I was deeply in need of an immediate favor. While I drove, I flipped through my mental Rolodex and came up with Judy Olanski. We were classmates at Harvard Law School and shared an office on law review. Long nights of editing articles and studying for exams, punctuated by slices of lukewarm pizza and reheated coffee, had made us pals of the type who shared Saturday night movies when neither of us had a date.
We had unfortunately let the friendship ties cool since law school. I knew that Judy had practiced law for a few years until our old alma mater had called her back to be a professor at Harvard Law.
I called her old number and thanked God when she answered. I could spare about forty-five seconds of catch-up chitchat before getting to the point. Fortunately that was enough. I could sense that the years had dropped away, and Judy was the old Judy.
“This is not fair, and I don’t know how it fits into your life at the moment, but I need a grandiose favor.”
“A grandiose one, is it, Mike? I don’t know. I’d be good for an enormous favor. But grandiose?”
I gave her the bare-bones facts — just enough to convince her that it was a matter of life or death that she let Terry stay with her for a few days. There was never a question of her answer. She did, however, question my lifestyle.
“Mike, what are you, some kind of James Bond?”
&nbs
p; “Not by a long shot, Judy.”
“I think we need a long talk over a cold pizza, Mike.”
I signed off to concentrate on the road, when it dawned on me that Judy accepted the guest without ever questioning how much danger it would bring into her own life.
Old friends.
I left Terry with Judy and drove to my apartment. I was taking no chance with Terry, but I was willing to run the risk that it was safe for me to go home. I hoped that word of what had happened in the wilds of New Hampshire would not yet have reached the ears of anyone dangerous. I needed to be at home to get what I hoped would be a call from Professor Samnov, since I had no way to get in touch with him.
When I reached home, my first call was to Mr. Devlin. I realized he had no inkling of where I had been since the phone call came in his office saying that Terry was a hostage.
He sounded as if his day had been tortured with worry. His relief at hearing my voice and knowing that both Terry and I were alive poured through the telephone. At the same time, he knew as well as I did that the danger was merely interrupted, not ended.
We planned to meet the following morning at eight o’clock at a small hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on Arch Street, just off Franklin. It was insignificant enough to enable us to ask a third party to join us without the likelihood of being noticed.
I realized that there were two roads to be traveled, and each was demanding immediate attention. First, I knew I’d be hearing from Professor Samnov at any moment. In fact I was counting on it. He was my only thread of connection to the nameless Russian spider at the center of the web.
The second road was the defense of Peter Santangelo. The trial would reach the call of the list for pretrial conferences soon. Soon, however, was not immediate, and before the spider could touch Terry or me again, he was priority one.
It was eleven o’clock at night when the phone ringing brought me out of a dead sleep. Professor Samnov sounded surprised when I answered. I may have been deluding myself, but I thought his surprise was tinged with relief.
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