Frame-Up

by John F. Dobbyn

  “Thank God you’re alive. I wasn’t sure. And the girl?”

  “Alive.”

  “Thank God. How did you do it? You delivered the painting?”

  “Lupov’s dead.”

  That brought silence for a moment.

  “But, the painting?”

  “I told you. Lupov’s dead. We’re alive. It was his every wish that it be the reverse. I have a message for your nameless gentleman. Can you reach him?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be contacting me when he doesn’t hear from Lupov. What shall I tell him about the painting?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. From now on he deals with me directly. That takes you off the hook since you have no information to give him.”

  “But he’ll demand—”

  “Let him. You know nothing because you can’t contact me. That’s your story. That includes any information about Lupov. I’ll give him all the information he needs when we meet. Your only function will be to arrange a meeting between us.”

  I could hear him breathing rapidly and feel waves of fear coming through the telephone. “But if I don’t answer his questions—”

  “Listen to me, Professor Samnov, you’re safe. You’re the only one he won’t harm. He needs you to convince the moneylenders that this Denisovitch painting is a fraud. That’s your life insurance.”

  There was a pause while the logic of what I said sank in. “Then what shall I tell him?”

  “Tonight nothing. You haven’t heard from anyone. I need time to put this together. Can you meet me tomorrow, ten a.m.?”

  “Where?”

  I needed a place that was private but that didn’t look like an arranged meeting place in case either of us was being followed. I decided to go with my theory that the most public place can be the most private.

  “Park Street Station. It’s an MTA station on Tremont Street just down Park Street from the State House. Meet me downstairs by the information booth.”

  Mr. Devlin and I were the first of our trio to arrive at Charlie’s Coffeeshop on Arch Street the next morning. We were both there at ten minutes of eight. We huddled together over Charlie’s steaming good coffee and powdered-sugar donuts and put together what we wanted to say to our invited guest.

  It was five past eight when Billy Coyne came down the steps out of the cold. He thawed out with hot coffee while Mr. Devlin laid out what we’d put together.

  Billy just inhaled the steam rising off of his coffee while Mr. D. outlined the possibility of taking down an infamous, though nameless, international dealer in stolen art, murder, kidnapping, and anything else we could lay at the feet of this no-name Russian gentleman.

  Billy finally spoke through the steam without looking up. “Lex, this is Suffolk County. I’m the deputy D.A of Suffolk County, not Interpol. What’s this guy done that I could prosecute?”

  I made the offering.

  “How about this, Mr. Coyne? Receiving stolen property, the Vermeer painting that was stolen from a Boston museum around ten years ago. How about kidnapping of a girl named Terry O’Brien from her home in Boston? How about attempted murder of both Terry and me near Milton, New Hampshire? You could get the D.A. up there involved. They’re going to be wondering about the body of a Russian they’ll be discovering in New Hampshire. Good for starters?”

  He looked up at me with one of those doubtful looks old trial attorneys reserve for young lawyers.

  Mr. Devlin stepped in for credibility. “We’ve got a witness who can lay all of this on the no-name Russian.”

  “Who’s the witness?”

  “He’s a Russian professor. He can testify firsthand. He may need witness protection. You’ve got an in with the feds, Billy. I’m sure they’re going to be interested in this guy too. This is major league.”

  Mr. Coyne looked at Mr. D. with more credence than he showered on me.

  “Where is this no-name Russian, Lex?”

  “At the moment, anywhere in the world. We don’t know. I doubt that anyone does.”

  “Oh, well that should make it easy.”

  Mr. Coyne looked over at me and then Mr. D. with a slight grin. “I assume you boys plan on paying for these excellent donuts and coffee. Because it looks like that’s all I’m going to get out of this little excursion.”

  Mr. D. leaned over next to his ear. I could just barely hear what he whispered. “Billy-Boy, the donuts are on me, but there’s a price. And it’s nonnegotiable. Otherwise you pay for your own damn donuts.”

  Billy looked Mr. D. in the eye.

  “And that price would be what?”

  “You listen to every word my partner is about to utter. You take that sarcastic, patronizing grin off your face, and you listen. Both ears, Billy.”

  Mr. Coyne looked slowly over at me. The grin, as aptly described by Mr. D., was gone. I had his rapt attention. I laid out in as much detail as I could what I had put together the night before. I was able to put more grit into my voice for knowing that Mr. Devlin had bought into the idea.

  When the three of us walked out of Charlie’s Coffeeshop — separately — the ball was truly in my court, with all of the crushing responsibility that old tennis expression implied.

  At ten o’clock, I started down that interminable escalator into the bowels of Park Street Station. The morning rush-hour crowd had subsided, but there were still the predictable, self-absorbed patrons of the subway moving along the platforms.

  I spotted a heavy overcoat bundled around a tall figure with a fur hat obscuring everything that showed above the coat. I walked over and said “Good morning” to the hat. It lifted enough to let a pair of eyes check me out.

  I led him over against a wall that enabled us to be obscured as much as possible by the steady stream of commuters. We may have been under observation, but I was sure that no one could hear us.

  “Professor Samnov, is that you in there?”

  He mumbled, “Good Morning.”

  “Time is short, professor. I have some very serious things to say. First, did you hear from your mislabeled gentleman?”

  “Yes. He asked questions. I told him I’d heard nothing.”

  “Good. Professor, listen to me. I’m going to ask you the question of your life.”

  He slowly raised the hat above his face. After stealing glances in all directions, he focused on me.

  “How would you like to be free of him? How would you like to free the world of him?”

  His eyes widened in a mixture of disbelief and fear. I might have hit him with his very first inkling of the possibility of turning on the one who had become his puppeteer. He knew better than I what a conscienceless beast we’d be taking on.

  He still just stared.

  “I’m guessing you’re a good man who made one mistake and got sucked in beyond your expectations. My bet is that you’ve hated every waking moment — and maybe even yourself ever since. Just nod if you’re hearing me.”

  He nodded with a vigor that told me he was saying more than that he heard me.

  “Then it’s time to break free — maybe even make amends.”

  The momentum continued, as did the nodding. Now the tough part. I gave it to him all at once, which could have been a mistake.

  “I want you to meet with a district attorney. He’ll want you to give a statement under oath that he can use to get a grand jury indictment against your gentleman. If the case comes up for trial later, you may have to testify in person against him.”

  His eyes opened as wide as the circle of his mouth. The fear in his eyes ran soul-deep.

  “Listen to me, professor. You’ll have protection. You’ll be taken into the federal witness protection program. You’ll have a home, a completely new life here in the United States. No one will ever find you.”

  He was still frozen with fear, and I could understand it.

  “There is no hiding from him. He knows everything. He can do anything.”

  “Professor, only God knows everything and can do everything. This is just
a man. He has weaknesses.”

  I could sense his mind racing behind the eyes that just stared into a vacuum.

  “Professor, if you help, we can put him away. He’ll never hurt any of us again.”

  His body just tilted back until he was leaning against the wall. He needed time to take it all in. I gave it to him, with one final jolt.

  “Keep this in mind, professor. If we do what he wants, if I give him the painting, and you swear that it’s not the original, he’ll kill us both. That’s a certainty. He leaves no loose ends. You know that in your heart. I’m offering you the only way out.”

  He was looking me in the eye now rather than staring into space. He finally spoke. “I guess there’s no other way.”

  “Then I’m ready to trust you, professor. I’m going to place my life in your hands.”

  His voice was steadier now.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  I walked him to Billy Coyne’s office.

  Billy took both of us into a closed-door session with the United States Attorney. From there, the carefully coached professor made telephone contact with the no-name beast, and all hell broke loose.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The phone call between the professor and the gentleman was even more turbulent than I expected. The speakerphone broadcast it to the few of us in the room. It was all in Russian, which put the words beyond my understanding, but the heat flowing through the wires could have boiled water.

  The professor stuck to the script. He reported that all he knew was that he had contacted me after my meeting with Lupov, and I still had the painting. I fully expected that the “gentleman” on the other end of the line would be unlikely to receive bad news graciously, but I could not have predicted his ferocity.

  The professor was severely shaken. If Billy Coyne and I had not been in the room, he would have crumbled. He kept looking to us for the reassurance that we provided with profuse nodding.

  The professor signaled that the gentleman was asking about Lupov. When the professor said that he had heard nothing, the tirade started all over again. Not only did he not have the painting, but his obedient servant, Lupov, was not responding to commands.

  I was actually enjoying it. Each blast of Russian profanity from the so-called gentleman signaled a wound to his sense of omnipotence. I could read the moment when the professor stopped answering questions, and gently took the first step in our offensive. I assumed that he was telling in Russian that I had left a message. The message, as we rehearsed, was that I was willing to deliver the painting, but only to the gentleman personally and alone according to my instructions.

  I expected an outburst of refusal. I was not disappointed.

  The professor then relayed my follow-up message, i.e., that I had secreted the painting with instructions for its destruction if I disappeared or suffered any harm. If the gentleman had the faintest expectation of having the painting in his hands, it would have to be transferred my way.

  There was a pause on the line. I knew he was weighing his options.

  The four of us in the room looked from one to the other. Only Billy expressed a prediction with a “no chance” shake of his head.

  Shock spread around the room when the gruff voice came through the phone with what sounded like a question. The professor responded by relaying my precise directions for the personal handover of the painting.

  The following morning, I was back in Amsterdam. I knew I could push the gentleman so far, and no farther. I had to pick a hand-off location that he would be willing to risk. My first choice would, of course, have been Boston Police Headquarters off Cambridge Street, but moving from the sublime to the possible, I had chosen a coffee-house beside the Herengracht, one of the main canals in the center of Amsterdam. It was small — about eight tables — but there was a regular flow of locals in and out, particularly attracted by the selections of marijuana openly offered on the menu.

  We had set the meeting for two p.m. I arrived at one forty-five. I took the table against the far wall, just as the professor had specified on the phone. There was a young couple that looked like a reincarnation from the sixties at one table and an old man in work clothes nodding off at another table with smoking apparatus in front of him and a simple smile on his face that indicated that he was in his own world. This was just how I remembered the coffeehouse.

  Within minutes, another group of young people took a table at the front and placed their order. I was clearly the only one in the shop who had come for coffee.

  At five minutes of two, a couple of men who looked more Slavic than Dutch came in, looked around, and took a table along the side. I tried to catch an accent, but they were silent, morose types — which also said they were not Dutch. I could feel a tightening of every muscle in my stomach. I sensed that the gentleman was already weaseling around my demand that he come alone.

  At exactly two, an older, rotund man with a cherubic face and white whiskers that could get him work as Santa in any mall appeared at the door. He was just as the professor had described him.

  Without hesitation, he walked directly to my table and took a seat. His smile would charm any child who sat on his knee, but as I looked past the smile into his eyes, I had no desire to climb into his lap.

  I opened with a testing jab at his anonymity.

  “Is there any name I should call you by during our conversation?”

  He smiled and summoned the waitress.

  “Choose any name you like. It will be a short conversation and quite likely our last.”

  He ordered an espresso, and after looking for my nod, made it two. When she left, his voice became low and coarse.

  “Mr. Knight, you have no idea of the immensity of the mistake you’re making in disrespecting my wishes. You’re younger than I thought. Perhaps that explains your willingness to forfeit your life for what I assure you will amount to nothing.”

  I looked him directly in the eye and reached slowly into my suit coat pocket. I removed the cell phone that I had already used to connect to Billy Coyne. I held it in plain view, which cut off his monologue in mid-intimidation.

  “You’ll hand that to me.”

  “Well, maybe not, whatever your name is — Listen, I’ve got to call you something. Marvin. How about if I call you Marvin?”

  The smile had totally vanished and a bit of redness was beginning to color his flawless complexion. He started to speak, but I leaned forward and cut him off.

  “No, Marvin. It would not be a good idea for me to hand over the phone. Let me explain something. This phone is connected to someone who has direct access to the painting that brought us together. If we should be disconnected, or if I should say a particular word, he will immediately incinerate the painting. Poof! There goes your financial security. I hear you’re called “The Gentleman.” Shall we begin again and speak like gentlemen?”

  He had that look that Harry Wong gets when he has the first inkling that I might have him in checkmate over a chessboard.

  The gentleman settled back in his chair while the waitress brought our espressos. When she left, he spoke in a restrained voice.

  “You speak of a business deal, Mr. Knight. I assume you want something. What is it?”

  “I’ve discussed this with your messenger, Professor Samnov. Incidentally, you both surprise me. You both speak English very well. He in particular has practically no accent. How do you manage it?”

  I could see impatience welling up in his eyes. He had not come for chitchat. “The professor has been educated all over the world. He’s something of a linguist. So am I. Now can we get down to business? What do you want?”

  “Now that’s complicated. My primary interest is to be free of you entirely. I’ll admit I’m at a loss as to how to accomplish that. Right now, I have the painting for protection. But after that—”

  While I spoke, I reached into my left pocket and took out something that I thanked God I had had the presence of mind to obtain in the first place. As I r
eached for the bowl of sugar for the espresso, I “accidentally” dropped the solid object with a thud on the table. My eyes were glued on his, and what I saw — or didn’t see — sent chills of alert rampaging.

  I reached for the object and clumsily knocked it off the table. It hit with another thud and rolled across the floor toward the front door. Now I knew what I needed to know. I pressed one of the numbered buttons on the cell phone, and sat back in the chair. I addressed my companion in a sentence that I dragged out unmercifully.

  “The Dutch … I find … and you may not agree … but then you may … make … an excellent … cup of espresso.”

  The look on his face expressed irritation at my irrelevant observation. His puzzlement was short lived. Within seconds, a squad of uniformed officers flooded into the coffeehouse. They placed every one in the room under arrest, including me and the staff, saying something about a hard narcotics raid. We were all placed in handcuffs and loaded into separate police vans waiting at the curb.

  I was loaded alone into the rear van. As soon as the door closed, I got the ear of the ranking officer.

  “The one at my table, he’s an accomplice. That’s all. Hold him. But he’s not the one. The one you want is the fat old man at the middle table. He’s in old work clothes. He’s the one. Guard him with your lives. He’ll be the subject of extradition as soon as possible.”

  The following afternoon at about two, I was once more grateful to be landing back on American soil. After scurrying through customs with just an overnight bag, I caught a cab under the deft and swift guidance of a driver named Carlotta. She had me at the office of the United States attorney in the federal building faster than I could have gotten there from my office.

  I joined a familiar gathering of Lex Devlin, Billy Coyne, Andrew Styles, the U. S. attorney for the District of Massachusetts, and, to my pleasant surprise, Professor Samnov.

  The entire room was in a cautiously jubilant mood — even the professor. The gentleman had been caged. The local Amsterdam, police, acting together with members of Interpol, were holding him in custody under maximum security.