Frame-Up (23 page)

He hissed in a whisper. “No police.”

I ignored him and said to the waiter, “Would you bring another wine glass?”

I looked in his general direction, still avoiding the indignity of looking up. “It's an invitation. Sit down. This wine is better than anything you'll taste in Mother Russia.”

He slowly took a seat. His eyes were fixed on me like a goalie watching a forward on a breakaway.

The waiter brought a glass and poured from the crystal carafe.

“Try it.” He slowly took the glass. I reached over and gave our glasses a salutary clink.

“Your health.”

And mine too, I added in silence.

He poured that ambrosia into his thug-like face as if he were tossing down a shot of vodka. I doubt that he even tasted it. On the other hand, who cared? I had him in a position to talk face-to-face.

I slowly opened my suit coat and reached with my thumb and forefinger into the inner pocket. He stabbed his hand inside of his coat at one of the bulges as expected, but I moved so slowly that he went no further.

I took out my cell phone with two fingers, flipped it open, and handed it across the table to him.

“Call him. Do it now. Do you see that maître'd over there? Tuxedo? By the desk? If I should get up to leave with anyone like you or your boyfriends, he'll have the police meet us at the door.”

My wine-tasting companion watched as I gave a hand signal to the maître'd that everything was cool so far. He signaled back that he understood, but continued to keep an eye on us.

I wish I could say that I had actually been clever enough to foresee what was happening and had prearranged the whole signal code with the maître d'. Unfortunately, I'm no Spencer. I did, however, on the way in, give him an enormous tip, enough to induce him to stay alert to my every desire. I'm sure the hand signals baffled him as much as they did the thug at my table, but he did his best to give back whatever response the crazy American at table two wanted.

My luncheon companion seemed perplexed enough to sit tight.

“Shall we do this without anyone spending the night in a Dutch jail? You know his number. Dial it.”

He was on shakier ground than I was for the moment. I think he welcomed the chance to put the situation into other hands. For whatever reason, he dialed a number. I took back the phone.

A voice answered in gruff Slavic syllables. I didn't understand a word of it.

“Mr. Markov, I presume.”

What sounded like a Russian curse came through the muffled mouthpiece.

“A pleasure to talk to you too, Mr. Markov. I'm enjoying a glass of excellent wine with your trained ape here. He seems to want me to leave with him. That's not going to happen. Do you want to keep playing spy games or can we act like adults?”

There was a pause filled with raspy breathing. I knew he was using it to get a grip on a temper that he was not used to keeping in check.

“Let me make this easy, Mr. Markov. I want a meeting with you as well, let's say out of the hearing of your partners. We have a few things to discuss that might well be kept between us. Am I making sense?”

I noticed a distinct shift in the direction of civility.

“A meeting is what I had in mind, Mr. Knight. My associates there in the restaurant are merely there to offer you transportation.”

“I see, Mr. Markov. You're the soul of generosity. I think, on the other hand, that we'll do this differently. I suggest that we meet this afternoon at three o'clock. Is that convenient?”

“That would be excellent. May I suggest—”

“No, Mr. Markov. It's my turn to do the suggesting. I have your phone number in my cell phone now. I'll call you at quarter of three.”

He didn't jump at it, but after a bit of thought, he agreed.

“One last thought, Mr. Markov. I have something you want even more than you can imagine right now. No more games or I close the shop. Are we absolutely clear on that?”

“And what do you have that is so important to me?'

I was thinking of Professor Denisovitch whom I was sure Markov believed to be dead, but I wasn't ready to play that card yet.

“Let's meet at three. I hope you like surprises. I'm going to hand the phone back to your gentleman's gentleman here. It would definitely grease the gears if you would instruct him to pick up his playmates and take the whole troop back to the home.”

I handed the phone across the table. I could hear a flood of Russian coming through the receiver that could blister the paint on the Kremlin.

My tablemate bolted straight up and gave a brusque signal to the two at the next table. They beat a direct retreat.

I'd have finished the carafe of wine, but I had some serious homework to do if I was going to live to keep the reservation I planned to make at the same La Rive for dinner that evening.

I had an hour before my meeting with Sergei Markov, and a couple of phone calls to make for personal life insurance as well as to propel the whole charade to the next level. The most secure place for phoning was my exquisite suite on the sixth floor. I made the calls on my own cell phone rather than the hotel phone, just in case.

First up was a check-in with Mr. Devlin. Given the time difference, I reached him at his condo on Storrow Drive just before he left for the office.

I fully appreciated having three thousand miles of Atlantic Ocean between us. I thought he was going to come through the phone bodily — not an unexpected response since I'd cut him off in mid-sentence when I announced my side trip to Amsterdam

“What the hell are you doing in Amsterdam?”

“It's tulip season. Where else would I be at this time of year?”

I could have said that, but I didn't want to find him expired on his kitchen floor with exploded arteries.

“That's what I want to explain, Mr. Devlin. I think we're making progress.”

I filled him in on my meeting with the two Vans and Sergei Markov. That went well right up to the point where I told him about my offer of a buyer for the phony Vermeer.

“Michael, damn it! Are you smoking something over there? You don't have a buyer. What the hell are you going to do when they call you on it? I don't even want to think about who ‘they' are.”

“It's all right, Mr. Devlin. I do have something to back it up.”

“And that would be?”

“You remember Harry Wong from last winter. He's flying over tonight. He's my buyer. At least that's the story.”

“Michael, that's it. This is not going to happen. Next plane back to Boston. You hear me? I'm still the senior partner of this circus.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Don't give me this ‘understand' business. I want you back on safe soil.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“Damn it, Michael! Every time you agree with me without a fight, I know you're going to do just the opposite.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There. You see that.”

“That's because I think the safest soil is right here till I get this thing put together.”

I was recalling what Aiello and his legions of death might do if I came back without the painting. For that matter, even Benny Ignola was probably ready to do the job himself. And both of them were back on the “safe soil” of Boston.

“It's going to be all right, Mr. Devlin. I think I have it under control.”

That was an extension of the truth so far it could leave stretch marks.

“But I do need your help.”

I could tell he was not thrilled with the idea of aiding and abetting my lunacy.

“Like what?”

“It's important that we push this purchase by Harry to get our hands on that painting. It's in a vault here in Amsterdam, and those three are the ones with the other half of the code.”

“I'm only asking as a matter of curiosity. What is it you want me to do?”

“I need some money. I've got to put up more than Harry's handsome face to put this across.”

“And we're talking how much money?”

“I think I can do it for three million dollars.”

“Oh, well, that's no problem. I'll take it out of petty cash. You are smoking something. I've heard about those places in Amsterdam.”

“You didn't let me finish, Mr. Devlin. I'm thinking you could talk to Santangelo. I'm absolutely convinced that if I can get my hands on that painting in the vault, I can use it as leverage to break open the case against Peter. I can explain when I get back. It's still in the hunch stage, but it's a very strong one. And to be honest, we don't have much else.”

“And exactly how do I sell this three million dollar hunch to Dominic? Again, just curiosity.”

“Like this. He never actually loses the three million. He uses it to set up a line of credit with a bank here in Amsterdam in Harry's name. Harry writes a check for the three million to show his sincerity in buying the painting. He makes it out to two names jointly, Van Drusen's and mine. That works since we're both on the side of the seller of the painting. It would be like money in escrow. It would set Harry up as a serious purchaser of the painting, but they couldn't cash it without getting my signature. If things work out the way I hope, I'll be out of here before that happens. Then Mr. Santangelo can just cancel the line of credit, and he has his three million dollars back.”

There was absolute dead silence on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Devlin?”

I could sense the rumblings of an eruption from Mount Vesuvius. A large part of me would have welcomed enthusiastically a full-scale blow that would have put me on the next plane back to Boston. Another very small part wanted to hang in there to see if Harry and I could actually pull it off. The small part did the talking.

“I really do have some leverage here, Mr. Devlin. They need this sale. It's their only chance to recoup a bad loan to Tony Aiello. If I cut and run now, it could be seriously dangerous even if I come home.”

More silence. Then a calm.

“Michael, I'm groping for words to tell you how much I detest the danger you've gotten yourself into. If you get yourself—”

“I won't, Mr. Devlin.” I added in a Puerto Rican accent, “I'm a tough half-Puerto Rican kid from Jamaica Plain. I've got 'em outnumbered and surrounded. They haven't got a chance.”

I could sense him almost smiling.

“If you can sell that three million dollar idea to Mr. Santangelo, I think I'm on good ground.”

I could hear a deep exhale of resignation.

“I'll do what I can. You be careful, son.”

I could hear the deep pain of worry in his voice. I sorely regretted putting it there, but I have to admit, I thanked God that the man I loved and admired had come to care that much.

A chat with the concierge of the hotel gave me a lead to the safest ground for my meeting with Markov. I knew it would be like jumping into a tank of sharks, and I had no Tom Burns in Amsterdam to watch my back.

I made the call to Markov fifteen minutes before the three o'clock meeting to allow him as little set-up time as possible. I gave him an address anyone native to Amsterdam would recognize — 42 Stadhouderskade.

At two minutes of three, I climbed the steps of the most well-known art museum in Amsterdam — the Rijksmuseum. It was laid out exactly as the concierge had described it. It was just a matter of following the stream of tourists to the large gallery on the second floor where one of the most famous paintings in the world occupies one entire wall.

The Night Watch of Rembrandt is, in one way, a lot like the Mona Lisa in the Louvre in Paris. Tourists who wouldn't know a Rembrandt from a pickled herring find their way to the Rijksmuseum to be able to check it off the list of things one must see while in Amsterdam. The result is a gallery half filled with people standing in awe of Rembrandt's colossal depiction of a company of citizen militia that would, in the United States, have been called Neighborhood Watch.

The room was just what I'd hoped. I could stay hidden in the crowd to see if Markov came into the room alone. It was unlikely
that he or his thugs could pull off anything intimidating in the ebb and flow of dozens of tourists.

At three o'clock, I watched through the heads and shoulders surrounding me as he walked in alone and took a position in one of the corners away from the crowd. So far he was following directions to the letter. I stayed in the crowd for another three minutes to be certain none of his men came through the door.

I let him get to the fidgety stage before approaching him.

“Mr. Markov, quite a masterpiece. That fellow Rembrandt had style, didn't he? Or does your taste run more to Vermeer?”

Markov, whose taste clearly ran more to money than to either one of them, adjusted well. He wore a smile bordering on a smirk.

“Mr. Knight, I'm puzzled. Why are we here? The painting is charming, but you and I could be sitting like two gentlemen in my comfortable suite. Yet here we are standing in a crowded room with sweaty tourists. I could come to believe you don't trust me.”

“Mr. Markov, I believe you and I are about to exchange secrets that we wouldn't tell to another living soul.”

His eyes narrowed into a wary squint and he cocked his head without losing the smirk in a noncommittal invitation to go on.

“I also believe you would slit me from my toes to my hairline if I gave you the chance and you thought you could make a buck on it.”

The grin turned into a throaty laugh.

“On the other hand, in my neighborhood, we survived on sharpened wits and staying two jumps ahead. That levels the field. Shall we do business?”

He spread his hands in a “you go first” gesture.

“Fine. Let me tell you what I know so we won't waste time sparring. You and John McKedrick have been doing business over here for some time. John was dealing for Anthony Aiello. Given the character of Aiello, it was undoubtedly illegal. What was it — drugs, money laundering?”