Frame-Up (21 page)

“All right. Remember, the next plane to Boston.”

“I'll be on it. Just one small detour.”

“Michael, where the hell are you going now?”

“Boston, Mr. Devlin. And straight to the office. As soon as I get back from Amsterdam.”

That seemed a propitious moment to hang up.

My next call was to Tony Aiello. There was one card I needed to get on the table. He answered graciously as always.

“Yeah. What?”

“This is Michael Knight. Is that you, Tony? May I call you Tony?”

“Oh yeah. Call me Tony. Like we're old buddies. How's about I call you son of a bitch, you little bastard. What'd you do to Benny?”

I had to cover the phone piece to prevent choking on a laugh. It had to be for Fat Tony that the phrase, “piece of work,” was invented.

“Benny? I haven't seen Benny since yesterday. Besides, he's the least of your problems.”

“The hell he is. That little shyster's spendin' my money runnin' all over Paris. He says you sent him there.”

“Paris? I've never been to Paris in my life. Well, the good news is he's probably eating very well. I hear there are wonderful restaurants in Paris.”

“Well that just tickles the ass off me. That bum's gonna pay back every dime if I have to skin him alive.”

“You've gotta do what you've gotta do. Meanwhile, there's something I need to know. This painting I'm after. Why do you need it?”

“You got cement in your head? I told you once. It's none of your business.”

“Yes, I heard that. See, here's the thing. I'll be dealing with some
very intelligent, very dicey people. When they ask questions, if I look like some gofer, you won't get your painting, and I won't get to live. Let me make it easy. This much I can figure. John set up some kind of deal where you acquire the stolen Vermeer. I assume at a good price. You borrow money, a lot of money, using the painting as security. Professor Denisovitch authenticates the painting, which satisfies the lenders. The painting is kept in a vault with two codes. You have one. Actually I have it from John. The lenders have the other code. Am I on track so far?”

There was silence for a few seconds before Tony came back in a whisper.

“Are you sure this line ain't tapped?”

“No. But what the hell's the difference? Where I am, I can't just drop into your office, and I need some information.”

“That's another thing. Where are you?”

“I'm out of town. Here's what I need to know. Why do you need to get your hands on the painting?”

“To sell it, you schmuck. What the hell do you think, I'm gonna start a museum?”

That was what I needed to know. He obviously couldn't repay the debt. He had to use the security to square it with his lenders. That told me a couple of things. One was that John McKedrick apparently never let Fat Tony know that the painting was a fraud.

Holy mackerel, John. How many games were you playing?

My second guess was that if Tony couldn't come up with what must have been a horse-choking wad of cash to pay off the lenders, he was in seriously deep and dangerous waters — a fact that could give me more leverage than I thought over Tony.

“How much do you need to raise?”

“More than you'll ever see, wise-ass.”

“Come on, I need to know what we're playing for. If it's as much as I think, you're not dealing with some low-level Mafia loan sharks. This is big time. Probably international. Give me a number.”

I heard him mumble something that sounded like “sixty.”

“Sixty what?”

“Mm-nn.”

“What? Speak up.”

“Million, asshole.”

That number staggered even me.

“Okay. That's what I needed to know. I'll be in touch. And Tony—”

“Yes. Mikey.”

“I'll do what I can. I know it's important. But there's something even more important.”

“Yeah, what?”

“That you and I be nice to each other.”

I gave him time to get out six words before cutting off the line. The five words were, “You little son of a bitch.”

My plane touched down early the next morning at Schiphol Airport, outside of Amsterdam. I had left the professor in my room at the Chesterfield in London to eat, sleep, and generally hang out inside the hotel for the day or two I might be gone. A chance meeting on the street with the boys from Belarus could be his final social encounter.

The travelers' advisory service at the airport put me into the most expensive hotel in Amsterdam, the Amstel Intercontinental Hotel, a truly five-star operation, luxuriously covering a city block beside the Amstel River. I wanted to present an up-scale address to the financiers I was about to deal with.

It was also easier to get an immediate room during the high tourist season at a hotel that drained the bank account than it would be at an economy hotel, and I didn't particularly mind that it was Dominic Santangelo's bank account that was being drained.

My first move was to scan the phonebook for a Jan Van Drusen. There were a few. Then I checked for a Van Arsdale who had the same business address as a Van Drusen, since the professor thought they were partners.

Bingo. There was a match. I called the number. I gave my name, and asked the female voice that switched in an instant from Dutch to English for Mr. Jan Van Drusen. She asked, “To what was it in reference?”

I noted that this linguistic foreigner was sharp enough to place the preposition before the noun instead of at the end of the sentence,
and realized that if this was the level of intelligence of the receptionist, I'd better be hitting on all cylinders.

“Would you tell Mr. Van Drusen that I'm only in town for the day. I represent the American gentleman who owns a certain painting by Vermeer. I'm staying at the Amstel Intercontinental. It would be in both of our interests to meet as soon as possible.”

She politely put me on hold and was back in thirty seconds.

“Mr. Van Drusen would be happy to meet with you at your convenience, Mr. Knight.”

“Good. I can come to his office directly.”

“Mr. Van Drusen would be pleased to send a car for you.”

“Thank you. That won't be necessary. I'll be there shortly.”

The car idea was probably a courtesy, but a little paranoid voice was repeating my mother's warning against getting into a car with strangers.

The address of Van Drusen's office was on Herengracht, between Leidsestraat and a street that I couldn't pronounce if I had three tongues. As the professor suggested, it was on a canal, which is as much help as saying “look for the fish somewhere in the water.” There are over a hundred canals. Everything in Amsterdam is on a canal.

I got a map of the city from the concierge and followed his advice on the best route to walk there. I asked how long it would take. He said with a big, good-hearted grin, “About twenty minutes if you make it at all.”

I grinned back and took to the street, wondering if he just had strange speech patterns. In thirty seconds I realized that he knew whereof he spoke. I waded into the automobile traffic with the certain conviction that they couldn't show this boy from Boston anything he hadn't survived on his home turf. What I soon learned was that the car traffic is just a distraction. It's the bicycles in barbaric hordes that will leave treads right up your back.

Against all odds, I found the address, an impressive white marble three-story office building facing the canal. The inside offices
carried through the theme of tasteful opulence. Mr. Van Drusen's suite of offices was on the second floor, all facing a view of the canal and its interesting variety of aquatic traffic.

The receptionist created the same impression as the building, as did everything about the office. You sensed before even meeting Van Drusen or Van Arsdale that you might lose your shirt in a business deal if you were not on top of your game.

Mr. Van Drusen met me at the door to his office with a smile and a warm handshake. He was tall and well proportioned with one of those faces that seems to smile even when it's at rest. His hair length suggested that his attention would be on the business at hand rather than on himself. His suit and silk shirt were equally understated, although I could tell from the tailoring that the ensemble represented enough to pay off my Corvette.

He introduced Mr. Van Arsdale, whose proportions around the center were more indicative of the allure of Dutch cooking. He looked a bit like the Michelin Man.

I liked the fact that both proceeded to drape their suit coats around the backs of chairs. They were ready to play.

“Play,” however, as I'd heard about the Dutch, began with strong coffee and chocolate pastry. The conversation was light, witty, and unfortunately, time-consuming — a commodity I couldn't afford to spend lightly. Much to my regret, I had to break the mood.

“Gentlemen, I'm going to be direct. John McKedrick set up an arrangement with you that involved the loan of a considerable sum of money.”

They each nodded with a smile, but the glint in their eyes said that they were fully tuned in. With the exception of myself, there were no rookies in that room. I hit it again for emphasis.

“A considerable sum of money.”

Again they nodded.

“We all understand that the security behind the debt owed to you gentlemen is a work of the great master that is clearly beyond price.”

I thought an appeal to their sense of pride in the Dutch master,
Vermeer, might be a nice touch before wading into deep waters. If it had an effect, they hid it completely.

“What might or might not have been disclosed by John McKedrick is that he represented the interests of an American by the name of Anthony Aiello.”

This time the nods meant that they were aware that the loan was, in fact, made not to the suave, sophisticated John McKedrick, but to the overstuffed hood with whom I was now on a first name basis.

“Mr. Aiello's business—”

“Mr. Knight.” Mr. Van Drusen cut mercifully to the chase.

“We're aware in a general way of Mr. Aiello's business. The loan was arranged, as you say, on the basis of very sound security. How Mr. Aiello chose to invest the money is something we don't care to know or discuss. I don't mean to be rude.”

“I can accept the ground rules, Mr. Van Drusen. I do, however, bring you this word. Unfortunately, Mr. Aiello is not in a position to repay the loan and probably never will be.”

Looks were exchanged between the two Vans, which I read as expressing concern but not panic. The intensity level of the conversation just rose three degrees, and I detected a layer of steel beneath the previously jovial hospitality of the two.

“Please go on, Mr. Knight. I'm sure that's not all you came to say.”

“No, it isn't. At this point it is certainly in the interest of both you and Mr. Aiello to look to the security, the painting. May I speak freely here?”

Both raised two hands with the comforting implication of “How else?”

“Good. Frankly, we need to sell the painting. Would you agree?”

Mr. Van Drusen was about to speak, I believe, in agreement, when a door opened at the rear of the office and a third gentleman entered the office. He had the Slavic features that suggested a Russian lineage, and a manner that clearly indicated that he was now assuming control of the other side of the negotiation.

I could feel the gentility of the atmosphere drained from the room. There would be no pastry and hot coffee on his watch. Every sensory alert in my makeup went directly from green through orange to red.

“Mr. Knight, may I introduce Mr. Sergei Markov?”

The security color code jumped from red to ultraviolet without even passing through purple. I remembered Professor Denisovitch saying that it was a Sergei Markov who conveyed the cold-blooded threat to his grandchildren.

I stood to shake hands, but Mr. Markov moved directly to a vacant seat across from me without speaking.

“Mr. Markov, I assume that you're involved in this transaction.”

“You assume correctly. May I assume that you speak with authority to act for this Aiello?”

“Yes.”

“And just how does this Aiello propose to meet his obligation? You come into this office and say he won't repay the debt.”

“I say he can't repay the debt.”

“To us there's no difference. Does he think he's dealing with fools?”

The volume was steadily rising.

“No. Do you?”

The tone was as cutting as I could make it. The jolt produced a pause. I pressed the point, lest he mistake my tone.

“Do you think you're dealing with fools, Mr. Markov?”

He was not off guard for long.

“Frankly, yes. This Aiello is so far out of his depth—”

“You're not dealing with Aiello. I represent his interests, but I'm not his errand boy. Neither was John McKedrick, with whom you arranged the loan. Now, if we're through judging each other, I'll say what I came to say.”

Markov was steaming. I sensed that he dealt in intimidation and had a short fuse when his upper hand was challenged. Mr. Van Drusen came forward to put a firm, but settling, lid on the pot before it boiled over.

“Please, gentlemen. There's business to be done here. I assume you came with a proposal, Mr. Knight. I believe we should hear it. And then we'll decide what course to follow.”

He was speaking to me, but he was looking at Markov, who retreated for the moment into a smoldering silence. I backed off to a businesslike tone with a prayer that I could carry it off.

“Gentlemen, you knew whom you were dealing with when you made the loan. I can't for a moment believe that you had the slightest confidence in Tony Aiello's ability to manage that sum of money to the point of repaying it. He is what he is.”

I noticed that Markov had come out of his pout to the point where I had his full attention.