Frame-Up (30 page)

After an eternity, I saw the door creak open wide enough to let two figures pass. In the fading light, I could see that the woman in the heavy long coat was in front. A stocky male figure was immediately behind, holding her by both arms. I still couldn't make out Terry's features. It could have been anyone, but that was my gamble.

I sensed to my amazement that the conscienceless violence that had always given Lupov the commanding hand was in a peculiar way working to my advantage. He had probably never known what it was to face someone who had a terrorizing leverage over him. He had no idea how to respond other than to concede and take his chances.

The two figures walked in slow lockstep toward the cardboard cylinder in the middle of the field. I could feel Lupov's eyes riveted to my face as I held the small flame an inch from the cylinder in my left hand.

When the two reached the middle of the field, I saw Lupov stop and hold the woman with one hand. He slowly bent down and snatched up the cylinder. Now that I had him on command, I pressed it.

“Now let her go. Take that cylinder and walk back to the barn. Hesitate for one second and this cylinder goes up in flames.”

I saw him turn and start to move in that direction. I could see the woman's features more clearly now. I was almost sure it was Terry. She seemed frozen to the spot. I yelled at the top of my lungs.

“Terry, run! Here, to me!”

I started toward her, still holding the flame and cardboard cylinder in case Lupov turned with a gun. He was halfway to the barn. I could see him ripping apart the cardboard cylinder. I realized that in a few seconds he'd know he had the painting. The one I was holding a flame to was a bluff.

I dropped the cylinder and lighter and started to run to Terry. She still hadn't made a move in my direction. I couldn't imagine why.

When I got within ten yards of her, I could see her mouth covered with tape. She was actually running and stumbling away from me. I yelled to her again in case she didn't understand, but she fell and tried to scramble all the harder away from me.

I caught a quick glance at Lupov. I could see that he had the painting in one hand. He was just standing there grinning. He had something that I couldn't identify in his other hand. It didn't look like a gun, so I ran the rest of the way to Terry who seemed to be struggling as hard as she could, tangled in the heavy long overcoat, to get away from me.

I reached her and grabbed her in my arms. I could feel her still struggling to get away. Her face was covered with tears, and she seemed to be pleading and pulling away.

I looked up at Lupov who faced me with a vicious grin. He pointed his hand with the object in it at us. I knew it was not a gun, but I instinctively pulled Terry to the ground as if to avoid whatever it was.

I half expected to hear a blast from his direction in case I was wrong about a gun. When it came, I was dumbfounded. It came from the wrong direction. It came from the woods behind me. I braced for the impact, but none came. When I opened my eyes. I saw Lupov
reeling backward with a great, dark hole in his forehead. He was dead before he hit the ground.

I held Terry tight and kept repeating, “It's over. It's over. It's over.”

Her struggling and writhing finally stopped. She just lay on the ground, shaking her head in a gesture I didn't understand. I held her head steady and worked the tape off of her mouth. When it was off, she just screamed at me to get away, run.

I held her until I could get her to listen to my words and know that Lupov was dead. It had passed.

When it finally sank in, she just lay rigidly on the ground and pleaded with me not to touch her. Her hands were tied behind her, so she couldn't resist as I worked on the buttons to open the long overcoat that had tangled around her. When the last button gave way, I saw what was terrifying her.

My first move was to run to Lupov to be sure he was dead and to work the thing he was holding out of his locked-finger grip. When I got it away, I laid it on the ground and ran back to Terry.

I pulled away all of the folds of the overcoat to expose rows of sticks of explosives. I carefully slid my hand under her back to follow the wires until I felt a small box. I worked with my fingers in the blind to free it from the tape. It finally came loose, and I could pull the wires out of a small radio-controlled detonator.

I carefully untaped each of the cylinders of explosive that surrounded her body under the coat. When the last one came loose, I raced them to the creek just inside the tree line and threw them into the water.

When I got back to Terry, she was shaking all over with chills of cold and shock. I wrapped her in the overcoat and just hugged her until they passed.

I had one last thing to do. I went to Lupov's body and began a search. I found what I was looking for on the third finger of his left hand. I removed it from the body and picked up the painting where it lay beside him.

I helped Terry to her feet and practically carried her to the car.

The ride back to Boston gave me time to think. The heat of the warm car, and the exhaustion from the nightmare caused Terry to sleep most of the way.

In spite of the car's heat, I had the shakes when I realized what Lupov had planned. Once I'd given him the painting, he knew I'd run to Terry. When we were together, one press of the small garage door opener in his hand would have triggered the detonator connected to the explosives taped to her body. We'd both have been blown across the New Hampshire countryside. Again, Lupov would have left no witnesses.

I thanked God that we were both alive, but I also realized that I had someone else to thank. In fact, this was the third time in three weeks that an invisible guardian angel had stepped in to snatch my life out of the hands of a killer. I was remembering the shooting of Aiello's assassin, Vito Respa, in Rockport, then the two thugs in the car that was following me on Charles Street, and now the prince of evil, Lupov. I believe in angels, but I've never heard of one that works with guns.

On the drive back to Boston, I had time to go through the cast of characters for some clue as to who had been watching my back so efficiently. Each time, the thought process led me to the same unlikely conclusion, and each time I rejected it.

I reached another conclusion that I couldn't reject. It would be the worst kind of wishful thinking to believe that Lupov's death was the end of the threat to either Terry or myself. Somehow I had to reach higher. Somehow I had to neutralize the nameless Russian
“gentleman” himself. He could hardly afford to leave either of us alive as a loose end, even if he got the painting.

I realized that I was deeply in need of an immediate favor. While I drove, I flipped through my mental Rolodex and came up with Judy Olanski. We were classmates at Harvard Law School and shared an office on law review. Long nights of editing articles and studying for exams, punctuated by slices of lukewarm pizza and reheated coffee, had made us pals of the type who shared Saturday night movies when neither of us had a date.

We had unfortunately let the friendship ties cool since law school. I knew that Judy had practiced law for a few years until our old alma mater had called her back to be a professor at Harvard Law.

I called her old number and thanked God when she answered. I could spare about forty-five seconds of catch-up chitchat before getting to the point. Fortunately that was enough. I could sense that the years had dropped away, and Judy was the old Judy.

“This is not fair, and I don't know how it fits into your life at the moment, but I need a grandiose favor.”

“A grandiose one, is it, Mike? I don't know. I'd be good for an enormous favor. But grandiose?”

I gave her the bare-bones facts — just enough to convince her that it was a matter of life or death that she let Terry stay with her for a few days. There was never a question of her answer. She did, however, question my lifestyle.

“Mike, what are you, some kind of James Bond?”

“Not by a long shot, Judy.”

“I think we need a long talk over a cold pizza, Mike.”

I signed off to concentrate on the road, when it dawned on me that Judy accepted the guest without ever questioning how much danger it would bring into her own life.

Old friends.

I left Terry with Judy and drove to my apartment. I was taking no chance with Terry, but I was willing to run the risk that it was safe for
me to go home. I hoped that word of what had happened in the wilds of New Hampshire would not yet have reached the ears of anyone dangerous. I needed to be at home to get what I hoped would be a call from Professor Samnov, since I had no way to get in touch with him.

When I reached home, my first call was to Mr. Devlin. I realized he had no inkling of where I had been since the phone call came in his office saying that Terry was a hostage.

He sounded as if his day had been tortured with worry. His relief at hearing my voice and knowing that both Terry and I were alive poured through the telephone. At the same time, he knew as well as I did that the danger was merely interrupted, not ended.

We planned to meet the following morning at eight o'clock at a small hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on Arch Street, just off Franklin. It was insignificant enough to enable us to ask a third party to join us without the likelihood of being noticed.

I realized that there were two roads to be traveled, and each was demanding immediate attention. First, I knew I'd be hearing from Professor Samnov at any moment. In fact I was counting on it. He was my only thread of connection to the nameless Russian spider at the center of the web.

The second road was the defense of Peter Santangelo. The trial would reach the call of the list for pretrial conferences soon. Soon, however, was not immediate, and before the spider could touch Terry or me again, he was priority one.

It was eleven o'clock at night when the phone ringing brought me out of a dead sleep. Professor Samnov sounded surprised when I answered. I may have been deluding myself, but I thought his surprise was tinged with relief.

“Thank God you're alive. I wasn't sure. And the girl?”

“Alive.”

“Thank God. How did you do it? You delivered the painting?”

“Lupov's dead.”

That brought silence for a moment.

“But, the painting?”

“I told you. Lupov's dead. We're alive. It was his every wish that it be the reverse. I have a message for your nameless gentleman. Can you reach him?”

“I'm sure he'll be contacting me when he doesn't hear from Lupov. What shall I tell him about the painting?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. From now on he deals with me directly. That takes you off the hook since you have no information to give him.”

“But he'll demand—”

“Let him. You know nothing because you can't contact me. That's your story. That includes any information about Lupov. I'll give him all the information he needs when we meet. Your only function will be to arrange a meeting between us.”

I could hear him breathing rapidly and feel waves of fear coming through the telephone. “But if I don't answer his questions—”

“Listen to me, Professor Samnov, you're safe. You're the only one he won't harm. He needs you to convince the moneylenders that this Denisovitch painting is a fraud. That's your life insurance.”

There was a pause while the logic of what I said sank in. “Then what shall I tell him?”

“Tonight nothing. You haven't heard from anyone. I need time to put this together. Can you meet me tomorrow, ten a.m.?”

“Where?”

I needed a place that was private but that didn't look like an arranged meeting place in case either of us was being followed. I decided to go with my theory that the most public place can be the most private.

“Park Street Station. It's an MTA station on Tremont Street just down Park Street from the State House. Meet me downstairs by the information booth.”

Mr. Devlin and I were the first of our trio to arrive at Charlie's Coffeeshop on Arch Street the next morning. We were both there at ten minutes of eight. We huddled together over Charlie's steaming good
coffee and powdered-sugar donuts and put together what we wanted to say to our invited guest.

It was five past eight when Billy Coyne came down the steps out of the cold. He thawed out with hot coffee while Mr. Devlin laid out what we'd put together.

Billy just inhaled the steam rising off of his coffee while Mr. D. outlined the possibility of taking down an infamous, though nameless, international dealer in stolen art, murder, kidnapping, and anything else we could lay at the feet of this no-name Russian gentleman.

Billy finally spoke through the steam without looking up. “Lex, this is Suffolk County. I'm the deputy D.A of Suffolk County, not Interpol. What's this guy done that I could prosecute?”

I made the offering.

“How about this, Mr. Coyne? Receiving stolen property, the Vermeer painting that was stolen from a Boston museum around ten years ago. How about kidnapping of a girl named Terry O'Brien from her home in Boston? How about attempted murder of both Terry and me near Milton, New Hampshire? You could get the D.A. up there involved. They're going to be wondering about the body of a Russian they'll be discovering in New Hampshire. Good for starters?”

He looked up at me with one of those doubtful looks old trial attorneys reserve for young lawyers.

Mr. Devlin stepped in for credibility. “We've got a witness who can lay all of this on the no-name Russian.”

“Who's the witness?”

“He's a Russian professor. He can testify firsthand. He may need witness protection. You've got an in with the feds, Billy. I'm sure they're going to be interested in this guy too. This is major league.”

Mr. Coyne looked at Mr. D. with more credence than he showered on me.

“Where is this no-name Russian, Lex?”