Frame-Up (28 page)

I started to ask a follow-up question, but Terry put her fingers on my lips. “Not tonight, Michael. This is our night, right here in fried-clam heaven.”

She replaced her fingers with her lips. It was our first really meaningful kiss, and I couldn't have thought of a question if it was the answer to final Jeopardy!

The waitress with a North Shore accent thick enough to make it a foreign language stood behind us holding two plates of steaming hot fried clams. The smile on her face said she would have waited all night.

I wanted to remember that table at that restaurant at that moment, because I knew more surely than I knew the license number of my Corvette that a major recalculation of my priorities had just taken place. Of everything in this world that matters to me, Terry had just moved to number one.

“Terry—”

“Michael.”

“Terry, I'm serious.”

“I know, Michael. So am I. Your clams are getting cold.”

“Terry, this has nothing to do with John or this case or anything beyond you and me. I'm serious.”

“Michael, didn't you hear what I said? I'm serious too. If we're falling in love, and I certainly hope we are, our love won't cool. The clams will.”

It was ten minutes of ten when I walked down the three steps that led to the slightly below ground-level outdoor patio of Paul's Coffee-house on JFK between Harvard Square and the Charles River. I'd been there more times than I could count with classmates — both college and law school.

Like Big Daddy's, it breathed nothing but happy memories. The coffee was rich, the atmosphere was European, and then there was Paul. He was a short, dark Spaniard with a smile that always said to his customers, “Thank you for coming home.”

He loved good coffee, some of us students, and anyone whose life was devoted to classical guitar. He had a quick invitation for any of his patrons who spoke a word while his artist of the week was playing — an invitation to go to any other coffeehouse in Cambridge.

I stood quietly at the entrance while a young guitarist with Gypsy features in the far corner spun magic out of the strains of the Concerto de Aranjuez. Paul's eyes were closed as he leaned against the coffee bar on the side. I knew better than to speak or move or sit or do anything that would break the slender thread of the moment.

I scanned the crowd of about eight scattered in silence among the dozen tables. Markov had apparently not arrived yet. My stomach unclenched for the moment.

When the guitarist finished, I waved to Paul, and took a seat at the empty table closest to the door. Paul brought me a latte with a double shot of espresso and steamed milk without my asking.

“So, Michael,” he nodded his head toward the guitarist, “when have you heard better?”

I put on a thinking expression for a couple of seconds. Paul gave me the smack on the side of the head that I half expected.

“Never! Admit it or I take back the coffee. You can go where they wouldn't know a guitarist from a torero.”

“Never, Paul. I admit it. You shouldn't assault your customers. It's not good for business.”

“To hell with business. His name is Garanto. He just came to
this country from Malaga. I heard him there. I talked him into coming over.”

“And paid his passage, right?”

He waved the thought aside as too unimportant to consider. “Who cares? Besides he'll pay me back out of his earnings.”

“As a guitarist in coffeeshops? Right. That should be about the turn of the next century.”

Paul grabbed me by the back of the neck.

“Michael, what are they doing to you? You used to be a musician. Are they turning you into a capitalist?”

“No, Paul. I'm just distracted.”

I scanned the crowd again and saw no familiar face.

“Who are you looking for, Michael?”

“No matter. He's not here.”

Paul, always physically expressive, hit his forehead with the butt of his hand.

“Of course. I nearly forgot. The gentleman at the table over there. He asked if I knew you. He wanted me to tell him if you came in. Should I tell him?”

“I looked at a tall, balding Russian-looking man in the far corner. He was kneading the fiber out of a paper napkin with the fingers of both hands.

“Thanks, Paul. Would you ask him to come over here?”

I could see the man rise and move with a quick nervous step to my table. I held out my hand, which he grabbed quickly. I nodded to the other chair at my table.

“Mr. Knight. Thank you. I wasn't sure you'd come.”

He smiled with a nervous laugh that only elevated the tension.

“I'm here to deliver a message.”

He was speaking English, but the accent made it sound more like Russian.

“And you are?”

“I'm sorry. We've never met. My name is Alexei Samnov. I don't know how to begin so you will believe every word I say. It is that important.”

“Perhaps you could tell me how you picked this coffeehouse. Do you know Paul?”

“No. No.”

He used the shredded napkin to wipe the beads of sweat that were forming on his forehead. He leaned close enough to whisper and fortunately spoke slowly.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Knight?”

I nodded.

“Professor Leopold Denisovitch once told me about this place. I thought you would know it.”

If he lacked any part of my attention before, he had it now.

“What about the professor? Is he all right?”

His hands came up in a gesture of frustration and apparently deep concern.

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Perhaps you'd better give me the message. Is it from him?”

“No — no.”

He scanned the immediate area and moved even closer.

“I am also a professor of art history. Professor Denisovitch has been my friend and my colleague for many years. We are both experts in the work of Vermeer. He recently became involved with a group of people who involved him in something against his will. He's a good man.”

“I can save you the anguish, professor. I know about his authentication of the fraudulent Vermeer.”

“Ah. I see. I also became involved — in a similar business. It involved authentication of the original of the same painting. The problem is that Professor Denisovitch's painting is causing certain financiers to doubt the authenticity of the original. This is causing concern for the man with whom — for whom I was working. He's a very dangerous man.”

“If his name is Sergei Markov, I've met him.”

“Ah. You've met Sergei. No. The gentleman of whom I speak is by far more dangerous.”

His sincerity sent a new rush of chills coursing the length of my spine.

“What's his name?”

He just shook his head and raised his hands.

“Everyone has a name, professor.”

“I suppose so, Mr. Knight. But no one I have ever met knows his. He is simply referred to as ‘The Gentleman.' ”

That seemed a dead end, so I moved on.

“Is the message from him?”

“Yes.”

I wanted at the very base of my being not to hear it, but I opened the door.

“What's the message?”

“He has Professor Denisovitch. That's what I'm to tell you. Actually his man, his agent of violence, a man named Lupov, has the professor. The gentleman is aware of how you helped Professor Denisovitch in London. He knows you have feelings for him. I'm to tell you that the professor will suffer more than you could ever imagine if you do not do what he commands.”

I could sense how passionately Professor Samnov detested his role as messenger. At the same time I could feel a steel vice tighten around my own heart.

“What does he want?”

“The painting done by Professor Denisovitch. He knows you have it. Once he gets it, he can have me demonstrate why it's a fraud. Nothing else will satisfy his financiers.”

I sat back to try to get a few clearing breaths of air. I had just given the key to the locker containing the painting to Tony Aiello. How in the world could I get it back? And if I did and gave it to this so-called gentleman, what were the chances that Professor Denisovitch would live through it anyway?

I asked my coffee companion that last question. He shook his head.

“I'm sorry. I give you an honest answer. There's little chance either
way. When the gentleman has the painting, there's no reason to allow Professor Denisovitch to live.”

I could read in his eyes everything from fear to deepest shame. My own fear was becoming engulfed in sympathy for him. He seemed too good a man to be forced to deliver such a message. Unfortunately, it emphasized the truth of every word he had whispered.

I was at a total loss for a next move, or even a response. In a way, that gave me a decision.

“Professor Samnov, you can give this answer to your so-called gentleman. I have no answer. When I do, I'll give it to him.”

He closed his eyes. He looked as if he had taken an arrow through the heart. I didn't envy him the task of taking that answer to the big shot. On the other hand, I didn't envy Professor Denisovitch, or myself either.

“How do I get in touch with you, Professor Samnov?”

“I'll be in touch with you, Mr. Knight. I'm sure the gentleman will have more to say. Please excuse me.”

He was on his feet and through the door before I could get in another word.

I fell into bed that night more unconscious than asleep. My last thought was that if God should grant that I awake in the morning, I had no clue as to what I would do beyond brushing my teeth.

My first stop at about eight thirty was the office and a heart-to-heart talk with Mr. Devlin. It helped to have another person share the pain and indecision, but it would be asking something superhuman to expect him to come up with a solution.

I knew instinctively that his first concern would be for me. I was right. He wanted to throw the whole affair, outside of the specific defense of Peter, into the lap of Dominic Santangelo and let the chips fall, or explode, where they may. It was tempting, but it would be abandoning Professor Denisovitch and opening a bloodbath between the don and his traitorous lieutenant, Tony Aiello.

We sparred with each other over the “right” thing to do until nine thirty-five. At that moment, the game changed forever, and the stakes went up a hundredfold.

The phone rang. Mr. Devlin answered it and handed the receiver across the desk to me. Julie was transferring a call.

One would not need psychic powers to be frozen by the tone of Professor Samnov.

“Mr. Knight, the gentleman has responded to your message. Professor Denisovitch is dead.”

I just held the phone in silence.

“There was a news report early this morning of an unidentified Russian found dead in Amsterdam.”

“If he was unidentified, how do you know it was Professor Denisovitch?”

“The manner of death was described. It's the signature killing of Lupov. Something he devised for the purposes of the gentleman. There's no point in being more graphic.”

Now I was completely baffled. If the professor was the leverage this beast was using to get the painting, the threat just evaporated with his death.

“Then it's over.”

“It's not over, Mr. Knight. He is still demanding the painting.”

“Or else what?”

The next words I heard produced the most pure panic I have ever experienced. By the time I had subdued the driving urge to scream at the top of my lungs and gathered what wits I could summon, I began to see my next move with crystal clarity.

I got up as deliberately as I could and walked to the door. With every step I willed myself to be in rational command of my emotions.

I knew that Mr. Devlin was sensing my barely controlled panic. I could hear his voice in the background, but the words weren't penetrating until I reached the door. I was finally able to hear him and understand.

“Michael, tell me. What is it?”

I stopped just long enough to answer. I knew exactly what I was going to do, and nothing and no one in this world could stop me.

“Michael. What?”

I stunned myself with the calm deliberateness of my answer. “He has another hostage.”

“Who?”

“He has Terry.”

I was driving on autopilot, just pointing the nose of my Corvette through the snarls of traffic and tourists around Faneuil Hall toward the North End. I felt cold as steel and single-minded as a bull in full charge. If I allowed myself one rational thought, I'd have taken a U-turn at any intersection.

I slowed down to a merely dangerous rate of speed on Salem Street. I spun the car hard to the right on Prince Street and skidded to a stop halfway onto the sidewalk. The total lack of a legal parking place was not even a consideration.

I had no idea where Aiello might be, but I figured the Stella Maris Restaurant was my best bet. Tom Burns had tracked Benny there twice, which indicated that Aiello probably called some back-room his office.

It was about eleven in the morning. Fortunately, they had just opened for lunch, which mooted the passionate option of kicking in the front door. I headed straight for the bartender who was halfway down the bar that extended along the entire right wall.

There was a scattering of overstuffed male bodies that looked to me like Aiello's soldiers clustered around several tables. I caught sight of a couple of the familiar goons who had accompanied Fat Tony on his first excursion to the Parker House. Before I knew it, they were on each side of me at the bar.

I looked straight at the bartender.

“I need to see Tony Aiello. Now.”

The one on my right put on a smug grin and pushed closer until he was practically leaning on me.

“You need to see Mr. Aiello, do ya? You're the creep from that place uptown. I think you better haul your ass out of here, cuz Mr. Aiello didn't say nothin' about no appointment with you.”