by T. M. Parris
He couldn’t say no. Not if she were asking for his help. He told Zack Quesada would have to wait. Zack was none too pleased. Fairchild would have to make it up to him somehow. But he didn’t have it in him to turn Rose down, though he probably should have done. Their history had been brief, less than a couple of years, a handful of encounters. He remembered every detail of every one of them. Theirs was not an easy relationship. Despite all that, he felt the excitement of a child at Christmas at the thought that he was about to see her again.
Their agreed meet point was the fountain, the Cascade du Château, and when he sauntered up tourist-style, still ridiculously early, she was already there. Leaning on the wall looking out at the view, she seemed relaxed. He had a few seconds to observe her, her figure trim and shapely in lightweight trousers and a red top that cropped at the waist, hair up off her neck and her skin flushed from the sun. She turned and saw him. What was it about those eyes that affected him so much?
He went over and they managed some kind of awkward air kiss. He caught a smell of musk, or sandalwood. The intimacy they’d shared in Georgia, sheltering in a cellar from the deadly Russian air attacks, had evaporated long ago.
“Good to see you,” she said, though he doubted she’d really wanted to reach out to him. They started to walk round into the gardens.
“Last time we met,” said Rose, “you jumped out of a boat to swim back to shore and confront Grom. I have to say I didn’t expect you to survive.”
“I was lucky. His team turned on him while I was there. They let me go and were all set to shoot him. But somehow he managed to disarm both of them and get away. I don’t know how he did it but there were police and agents swarming all over the place and he still got out.”
“It’s something of a trade mark with him. Getting himself out of impossible situations by doing a disappearing act. At least he didn’t claim to be dead this time. It wasn’t entirely luck, though.” Rose glanced across at him. “It was Walter who masterminded the tip-off to Russian forces that betrayed Grom’s real identity. That’s what made them turn on him. If it weren’t for that, you’d be dead.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons.”
Rose may need Walter’s blessing to pursue her career, but Fairchild would never trust the man. Fortunately, she wasn’t going to argue the point.
“Did you never get near enough to him to take a shot?” she asked.
Fairchild had been through these moments in his mind a hundred times.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“So what stopped you?”
“He did. He – made some persuasive arguments as to why I shouldn’t kill him. Well, they sounded persuasive at the time.”
“He played you? He played you? Wow.”
She made Fairchild sound like a manipulator on Grom’s level. Sometimes Fairchild had to remind himself how much Rose disliked him.
“What did he say?” she asked.
No way was he going to tell her that, confess to the insecurities and touch-points that Grom had so easily smelled out. He changed the subject.
“You got out of Russia without any further trouble, I take it?”
“None at all, and it was only when I met up with Walter that he told me why. The boot’s on the other foot now, Fairchild. All the power that Grom had when he was manipulating the FSB inside Russia, those same people are now after him for everything they can get. His life is at risk in any part of the world where there’s Russian influence. And that’s a lot of places. We don’t know where he’s hiding out. We know the Russians want his money. He smuggled a small fortune out of Russia during his time there, but a lot of that has effectively been repatriated already. He’s in trouble. We have a chance to eliminate his power base entirely.”
They were passing through the Ruines themselves, on a mosaic path that led through to the side of the Château that overlooked the port.
“You said we,” he said.
“Grom is my job now. I have a team dedicated to doing whatever we can to disable him. Which includes ridding him of his assets, as much as we can. I’d have thought you’d like the sound of that.”
“Would you?”
He stayed non-committal. Rose seemed fired up, confident. In some ways it was a good post for her. He was pleased at least that the horrors of Georgia seemed to be behind her. It was because of Grom that she’d been put through that experience at all, a deliberate act of malice on his part, and borne out of Rose’s association with Fairchild. But the fact that Rose had chosen to take this role, to bind her fate to that of Gregory Sutherland, made something inside him ache, the same thing that ached at the thought that six months ago he could have put a bullet through the man’s head and ended it all.
“I suppose this task force, and having you head it up, was Walter’s idea?” he said.
“And that automatically makes it a bad thing? He got backing for it, though he had to do a lot of persuading that Grom is a threat. Are you going to try and argue that he isn’t?”
“A threat to whom?”
“To MI6. To British security.”
She sounded like such a Service acolyte. Loyalty to country, unquestioning devotion to the nation that happened by chance to be your place of birth, was something Fairchild couldn’t fathom. But she was right that Grom was a threat. He knew as much from what Grom had said to him by that lake.
“No, I wouldn’t. He carries grudges for decades and has plenty of reasons to bear one against MI6.”
“Right. And he bears one against you as well. Which I think means we’re on the same side. Kind of.”
“You’re offering me an opportunity to help you in your work, then.”
“Come on, Fairchild. It’s as much in your interests as mine to see this man sent to ground for good. More, in some ways. He killed your parents, others as well, and he tried to kill you. You think he won’t try again? He won’t let it rest. He hasn’t run out of steam. He can regroup somewhere, build support again. He knows how to get people on side. As long as he has resources. With no money it’s a hundred times more difficult. The longer we leave him in exile to recover, the bigger the threat he’ll become. That’s why we’re being proactive.”
“And how proactive are you really prepared to be?”
They’d stopped at a viewpoint. The rectangular Port of Nice was below them, boats lined up neatly along the jetties, the surrounding streets grid-like in pink, yellow and orange, hills rising up behind the town.
Rose knew what he was asking. “It was difficult enough making the case for going after his assets. There’s no way we’d get clearance for that.”
She didn’t spell it out; they were in a public place after all. Assassination, was what he was talking about. The Service had the capability, they both knew it.
“You know he could come back even without money,” he said. “He’d find a way. Only one thing will stop him.”
“He doesn’t represent anything like a clear and current enough threat. We have rules, Fairchild, criteria. The bar is very high for such things. Besides, it’s not as easy as all that to carry out. As you know.”
She was having a dig at him, and she was right.
“I wouldn’t make the same mistake again,” he said.
“I’m not offering you that opportunity. We’re not expecting him to be here, anyway. This isn’t for you to go your own way, Fairchild. If you want to help us, you’ll need to stick to what we agree. We work as a team.”
“I see. So I’d be part of this team?”
“Yes. You’d be part of the team.”
He looked out over the port before turning back to her.
“Yellow dress, four o’clock,” he said. “Shorts and a striped shirt, camera, directly behind us. That team?”
She didn’t let her gaze move off his face.
“Very clever. I’m just following standard procedure.”
“Standard procedure? You brought watchers along for a meeting with me in a public place. What did you think I
might do to you?”
She looked at him blandly. He regretted the question. There had been times, after all, when they weren’t on the same side.
“I have no idea who you’re working for,” she said. “You might be working for him, for all I know. You two had a nice chat last time you met, and then he got away. Or you could be working for the Russians. You’re a mercenary, Fairchild. You go where the money is. Don’t be surprised when people treat you like one.”
“I can’t be a part of a team if you don’t trust me.”
“I needed to take some precautions. There’s a lot at stake here. I’m asking for your help, Fairchild.”
It must pain her to ask him for anything. She had to be desperate. Or being leaned on. Walter, probably.
“Why are you doing this, Rose? Of all the postings, all the places you could go, after what happened in Georgia, why take this on?”
She tensed at the mention of Georgia; she didn’t want to think about that, but he needed to ask. He carried on.
“You don’t want to work with me. You never did. I was a means to an end, that’s all. After Russia you could have gone anywhere, taken the opportunity to make a clean break and hear nothing about Grom again. Or me. But you didn’t. You chose to go after him. The man who did what he did to you, quite deliberately. Yet when it’s all over and he’s in the wind, you turn round and start hunting him down? What is it that you want, Rose?”
He’d said far too much. They set off back through the gardens, walking in silence. Eventually she spoke, her voice husky, holding back.
“I was asked to do this. I’m well placed to do this. And I will do it, for the Service and for my country. And yes, for my career as well. I’m not the kind to go and hide somewhere. I wouldn’t be in this job if I were. We have a choice here. We can all pretend he doesn’t exist and wait for him to regroup, or we can take the fight to him and do what we can to prevent it. Which is it, Fairchild? What are you going to do?”
She stood to face him, colour in her cheeks, eyes accusing. So much anger and passion but controlled, withheld. For good reason. While he’d been prevaricating and rudderless, she’d thrown herself in, directing her energies fearlessly at the person who’d probably caused her more hurt than anyone else in her life. Fairchild would never deserve her.
And he couldn’t refuse her, either.
Chapter 11
“So what is it you want?”
How grudging he sounded. He couldn’t even bring himself to be gracious.
She started them walking again. “We think Grom has a Monaco residency permit under a false name. We’re working to get the name. It must have an address associated with it, in the principality. I understand you have interests in real estate there.”
“If it’s a property my people manage, that will be straightforward.” He was assuming Rose was asking for access to search the place. “If it isn’t, that will be more complicated. But not insurmountable.”
There was more. Rose’s voice was flat now, the energy gone.
“We also think he owns a piece of art that’s being stored in the Monaco Freeport. Quite a special piece of art. You’ve heard of the Portrait of Theo?”
Fairchild turned to her. Everyone had heard of the Portrait of Theo.
“Walter tells me you know a thing or two about art,” she said. “I know what’s in the public domain. If you can enlighten me any further…”
Oh, she hated asking for his help. But he did know something about this.
“I was at the auction, as it happens,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “The auction?”
“I was in New York at the time and heard all the hype, so I went along. But I can start at the beginning, if you want.”
She shrugged. They turned for another circuit of the garden. He began.
“Vincent Van Gogh came to the south of France when he was around thirty-five years old. Another of the sudden changes of direction that characterised his life. He was headed for Marseille but had to make an unscheduled stop in Arles and ended up staying over a year. While he was in this part of the world he painted prolifically, inspired by the light and the colours. Lots of landscapes but portraits and interiors as well. Still lives – the famous Sunflowers dates from that time. Almost as soon as he got here he started talking about setting up an artist commune. It was a dream of his, to live with other artists and spend time discussing the finer aspects of their trade. We know all this because of the letters he wrote to his brother Theo. They were close for the whole of their lives. They formed this plan to invite Paul Gauguin to live with Vincent. Gauguin seemed to take some persuading, but was penniless himself so eventually agreed.”
“Theo was in Arles as well?”
“No, he lived in Paris with his family. But Vincent relied on him for money, supplies, all kinds of things. Anyway, Gauguin arrived and they lived together in what Vincent called the Yellow House. Unfortunately, it didn’t go to plan. Gauguin, according to Van Gogh’s surviving family, was a dominating character, and their frequent disagreements pushed Vincent into serious mental illness, resulting in the infamous ear incident.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. Gauguin left Arles shortly afterwards. But before all of that, their artistic discussions included the merits of painting from memory compared to painting what’s in front of you. Gauguin was keen on the former. His work was a step towards Expressionism, the artist using images and symbolism to express an idea or emotion or abstract concept, while Van Gogh was more about trying to encapsulate the essence of what he saw with his eyes. Under Gauguin’s influence, Van Gogh apparently tried painting from memory, but soon abandoned it.”
“And this is important because?”
“It’s important because the painting we’re talking about is a portrait by Vincent of his brother Theo, painted in Arles. It couldn’t have been painted from life because Theo didn’t visit Arles, except briefly when Vincent was in hospital suffering from severe blood loss, after the ear incident. And it didn’t date from that time. It was earlier. He must have painted it from memory. This is why it wasn’t considered a genuine Van Gogh for so long. It’s also atypical in style, freer than the work he did before or after. So throughout its history it was treated as a fake and valued accordingly.”
“So what changed?”
“What changed is that the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam devised a trusted method to determine what’s a real Van Gogh and what isn’t. Often, authentication’s a pretty subjective process, with different so-called connoisseurs having views based on their ‘reading’ of a work. There’s analysis of materials and so on, but it’s not always conclusive. The Museum’s new approach is generally trusted, and they’ve pronounced a number of works genuine that were previously thought to be fake.”
“Including this one.”
“Including this one. Following a house clearance it passed into the hands of a couple of dealers who thought it was worth a try. I was told they paid a thousand dollars for it.”
“For the authentication?”
“No, for the painting.”
“Each?”
“Nope.”
“Christ.”
“Yes. They got it assessed, claiming it could be an experimental piece Vincent did under the influence of Gauguin. Which would make it a one-off, a rarity even among the rarities that are Van Gogh originals. The Museum backed them up.”
“Wow. That must have made their day.”
“It made them multi-millionaires overnight. If they could find a buyer.”
“Well, they did.”
“But they weren’t in a hurry. They went round the globe hyping it up as much as they could. They showcased the verification methods, they even made a film about it, the artist, his relationship with his brother, the influence of Gauguin and Arles, the painting and what’s different about its style. What they wanted was to make it notorious and prompt a bidding war. And when they eventually passed it to the auction house in New York,
that’s exactly what they got. The auction house went full out. They produced a lush catalogue purely for this one item. It detailed the provenance, which no one questioned, the authentication, which no one questioned either, and its significance, which, in the story of modern art is pretty high. They sent the thing on tour across the globe, and fifty thousand people went to look at it. They got shots of celebrities standing in front of it looking emotional, and stuck it all on YouTube. They played on the relationship between the two brothers, and made a whole soap opera out of it, how close they were, how Theo was devastated when Vincent took his own life and died himself shortly afterwards. All that. They milked it for all it was worth, literally.”
“I remember this. It was a year ago now, wasn’t it?”
“Nine or ten months. Even big art sales don’t usually get into mainstream media, but this one did. The coverage was intense. There was nothing the owners or the auction house didn’t do to talk it up. I also heard a rumour…”
He broke off. He was doing a lot of talking. But Rose was taking it all in.
“Go on,” she said.
“The auction house wanted to place it in a contemporary art auction, not an Old Masters category. That’s where the trophy works sell, where the high rollers and billionaires splash out. But they needed a reason to do that. So they commissioned a very well-known Chinese artist to create an original work on the theme of ‘Brotherhood’. This was all through an intermediary of course. The connection only came to light afterwards. The intermediary put it on the market straight away, so they placed the two items in the same category and branded it with a brotherhood theme.”
“They commissioned a new painting purely to inflate the price of an existing one?”
“Well, they deny it. They simply said it was a happy coincidence. But even if Portrait of Theo had sold at the estimated price of two hundred million, they would have earned twenty-five million in fees. And as we know, it sold for a lot more than that.”