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I turned to look him square in the face. I dropped my voice down to a whisper. “Listen to this carefully. I'll say it just once. When you talk to me, you're talking to Mr. Dominic Santangelo.”

He just looked at me with the blank expression of a deer in the headlights.

“I'll say it one more time. I need to see Tony Aiello. Right now.”

He nodded to the bartender, who picked up a phone behind the bar and turned his back to talk.

The bartender turned back. “He says take him back.”

The goon led and I followed through a door at the back that opened into a large room. There were four or five chairs scattered around the room in front of a battered desk. Behind the desk sat the bluberous figure of Tony Aiello, his chair tilted back almost to the breaking point and his feet propped on the desk.

“So now you come to me, smart guy.”

“I have a message from Mr. Santangelo. He says—”

“No, no. That crap don't fly around here. If Santangelo wanted to send a message, he'd send a couple of torpedos that'd make you look like a Girl Scout. You only got in here cuz you got me curious. What do ya want? Say it fast. I'm busy.”

It was down to one-on-one, and all the leverage seemed to be on his side. I needed the painting now, and there was no time to muster the troops.

“I need the painting.”

He looked at me as if I had just said, “I'd like you to give me the Old North Church, and throw in Faneuil Hall.”

A disbelieving grin started to curl his lips.

“The hell you say.”

“I do say. And before you get locked into a decision, this is the situation. There's a man who operates a crime network all over Europe. A Russian. He's so powerful that most people don't even
believe he exists. Believe me, he exists. He just had Professor Denisovitch, the one who authenticated your painting, murdered in a way that would shock even you. He did it because I couldn't meet his demand to give him your painting.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So he's still making the demand. This time he has a hostage that means more to me than anyone in this world.”

He held up his hands in a “So what?” gesture. “You ain't told me nothin' that's got anything to do with me.”

“Then let me do that, because I don't want you to think you're out of the loop. This Russian could make shish kabob out of you. You're not in his league. The entire North End couldn't save you if he decides to come after you. Now get this. If anything even minor happens to the hostage he has now, I'll put him onto the one who has the painting in two seconds. That would be you. Now do you feel included?”

He pushed back from the desk and his feet hit the floor with a thud. The redness around his collar was working its way up his face.

“Listen to me, ya bum. You come in here, in my office, makin' threats about some Russian in Europe. I never even heard of this guy. You think you scare Tony Aiello? You've got another—”

“No, you listen, you ignorant blimp. You're going to find yourself taken apart like a reverse jigsaw puzzle if I don't get that painting into his hands fast.”

I could see those words flash across my mind like subtitles. If I had actually said them, my next conversation would have been with Saint Peter. What I actually said was more in check.

“Tony, this is too serious a business to decide in anger. I know you're a big shot around here. I'm not questioning your power or your reputation.”

That seemed to bring his temperature closer to normal.

“Let me explain something I learned in Amsterdam. This whole painting business was a fraud. John McKedrick and a Russian, Sergei Markov, were in on it together. John met this Markov when John
was apparently your messenger boy to Amsterdam in some business deal. We don't need to go into that.”

“Good. Leave it sit.”

“Anyway, according to their plan, John brought you the idea of getting hold of this stolen Vermeer painting and using it for collateral to borrow a lot of money for your other businesses. We don't need to go into that either.”

“Damn right.”

“So you went for it. Now here's the bottom line. The whole thing was a scam. On you. As I see it, the borrowed money was suppose to be wired into your account. It wasn't. It was transferred into some else's account.”

“Whose? McKedrick's?”

“I don't know. Someone's. John was killed around the same time the money disappeared.”

“That son of a—”

“Here's the kicker. Listen carefully, Tony. The painting, the Vermeer you thought you got — it's a complete fraud. It was painted by Professor Denisovitch. He authenticated it as an original Vermeer. It was just part of the whole scam. It's worth no more than the price of the canvas and paint.”

“Yeah? Says you.”

He was putting on a front, but I could see the truth exploding in his eyes.

“Says Professor Denisovitch. I met him in London. He told me the whole thing.”

“Then let him tell me.”

“Tony, I told you he was murdered by this other Russian, the one who's going to take us all apart if I don't get that painting to him.”

He sat there in a silent funk trying to process all of this. I gave him a minute, but I had precious little time to give. I had no idea of what Terry must be going through. The thought of it turned my brain to jelly, so I tried to focus on what had to be done.

“Tony, I need the painting. Can we get off dead center.”

He looked up at me with an expression like a rock.

“You get nothin'. That picher stays where it is.”

I had to play the last trump I had.

“This is it. You are in one deep pile of crap. You owe seventy million dollars to some Dutch dealers. The only thing you have to back it up is a phony painting that isn't worth ten bucks. You got into this bind to betray, probably to assassinate, the Godfather, Dominic Santangelo. The only thing that's keeping him from taking vengeance on your life is an agreement with me and my partner.”

I could see the look of shock deepen in his eyes.

“That's right. He's onto you. Between Santangelo and this Russian who's demanding the painting, your life isn't worth as much as that phony Vermeer. And think about this. The only thing standing between you and both of them is me. You hear me, Tony? Me!”

He was looking straight into my eyes, and no words were coming out. It was time to pull the trigger.

“I've got to move, Tony. In ten seconds, I'm out that door. If I leave without that painting, you won't have a chance in hell of seeing the sunset. I'm counting.”

I stood the full ten seconds. Nothing moved. I knew it wouldn't as long as I waited.

I held up my hand and turned to the door.

“Good-bye, Tony. If you know a priest, I'd make a quick confession.”

With every measured step to the door, my heart pounded more loudly. The question was blaring in silence through my mind: Without that painting, what can I possibly trade for Terry?

My desperation nearly reached the panic level when I pulled open the door. I hesitated just long enough to hear a desk drawer open behind me. My first thought was that Tony was going for a gun. Useless as I felt for Terry, I almost didn't care.

I turned around to avoid being shot in the back and said what I thought was my last prayer. I saw Tony on his feet with his right fist clenched. There was no gun.

He started to say something, but he couldn't seem to get it out. He threw something that he had in his right hand. I caught it, and felt as if a cement block had fallen away from my heart.

It was the key to the South Station locker where I had stashed the Denisovitch painting.

I was halfway between South Station, where I had picked up the painting from the locker, and my office on Franklin Street, when my cell phone gave me a start. When I heard Alexei Samnov's voice, I pulled over to the curb on Summer Street to give it my full concentration.

“Mr. Knight, I need an answer. I have to have something to tell — you know.”

“It's all right, professor. I have the painting.”

I heard a deep sigh of relief. I did not share the feeling.

“Tell me the truth, Professor. If I give it to him, is there a chance he'll let Terry go?”

He breathed another sigh. This time it was empathy.

“Mr. Knight, I'm afraid not very much. I know this. If he doesn't get it, there's no chance at all. Then he'll come after you.”

Apparently I had gotten Terry and myself into this lobster trap where there was no backing out. The only way was forward.

“So how do we do it?”

“I've been contacted by Lupov. It's typical of him. He likes to do his work in seclusion. Do you know the town of Milton in New Hampshire? It's just off Route Sixteen.”

“I've been past it. It's on the way to the White Mountains.”

“There's a farm. It's on a small road between Milton and Farmington. I can give you directions. He'll be waiting there.”

“Did he say he'd have Terry there?”

“He didn't say. He only said look for a barn across an open field. He'll see you approaching. You're to come alone and tell no one. If you don't do this exactly, she'll die. Those are his words.”

“That wasn't a question, professor. It's a demand. Terry is to be there. We make the exchange at the same time. That's absolute.”

There was a pause.

“I'll try.”

“No, tell him. No Terry, no painting. And bring me the answer.”

“I'll get back to you. The exchange is this afternoon. Four thirty.”

The drive to Milton would take close to two hours based on my ski trips to the mountains around Laconia. Before starting, I made one stop at a stationery store to pick up something that I optimistically thought could give me a slight advantage.

I was overwhelmingly tempted through the entire drive to call Mr. Devlin or Tom Burns. I never felt so alone in my life. I was just afraid that they might make some move that would trigger Lupov to do something to Terry. I couldn't risk it. My only resource for strength and comfort was prayer.

Professor Samnov's directions were flawless — as was his prediction of seclusion. The barn was in the center of at least five acres of cornfield that had been harvested down to the ground. The sun was setting behind the barn. There was just enough light to make out the large barn door facing me as I came to the edge of the pine woods surrounding the field.

I walked to the edge of the field and stopped. It was just four thirty. I was looking across an expanse of cornfield of about half a football field. Nothing was moving.

I shouted, “Hello.”

It spooked a flight of crows halfway to the barn, but nothing else.

I called again louder. “Hello!”

I saw the barn door open about a foot. I waited another five seconds before hearing a deep voice with a heavy accent.

“Mr. Knight, you're very punctual. That's good. I hope for the life of your friend that you followed all of my directions as well. You'll please hold up the painting.”

I came five feet out into the field and held up the cardboard tube I had picked up at the stationary store to hold the painting.

“Excellent. I'm sure that the painting is in that cylinder because you know what will happen if it is not. You will now walk across the field and place the painting on the ground at this door.”

“Not yet. I'll see Miss O'Brien in full view before I take a step.”

There was an exceedingly uncomfortable pause before I heard, “Why not?”

The barn door opened a few feet. In the fading backlight, I could see what looked like a female figure in a long coat standing in the doorway. I yelled to her.

“Terry, are you all right?”

There was no response. In a few seconds I heard the man's voice.

“I'm afraid there will be no conversation. The precaution of tape on her mouth. Now you'll walk the painting to the barn door.”

I trusted this snake as far as I could throw the barn, but someone had to make the first move. I was literally dying to get Terry safely in my arms.

I started pacing my way across the open field toward the barn. When I got halfway there, I stopped. I dropped the cylinder on the spot, and I walked back to the edge of the trees. The voice came again with considerably more tension.

“You're playing with the life of your friend, Mr. Knight. You'll follow my directions exactly if you expect her to live. This is not a game.”

“No it's not a game, and you don't make all the rules, Lupov. I think you need to get this painting as much as I need to have Miss O'Brien safe. I believe your life could depend on it. I think perhaps your so-called gentleman is unforgiving of failure. Now here are my rules.”

I bent down and picked up the identical cardboard cylinder that I had left at the edge of the woods.

“I give you my word, Lupov, the painting you want is in one of these two cylinders. You will walk Miss O'Brien to the cylinder in the
middle of the field. You'll pick it up, leave Miss O'Brien there, and walk back to the barn. Miss O'Brien will walk to me.”

“You're insane. Why should I trust you?”

I held up the cardboard cylinder in my left hand and lit a Zippo lighter in my right. This was the insurance I bought before leaving.

“You'll trust me because this cylinder in my hand is doused in lighter fluid. If you make one move to harm Miss O'Brien, this cylinder will turn to charcoal in five seconds. If the painting is in this one, it will be charcoal too. How would you like to report that to your no-name gentleman?”

He looked totally perplexed. He had gone from a pair of loaded dice to a pure crapshoot. I had gone from a hopeless long shot to an even-money gamble. I still hated the odds on Terry's life, but they were at least improved.

It took thirty agonizing seconds for him to respond. I had played my last card. There was nothing I could do but wait.