Authors: Terry Hayes
‘Damned right it did. Bill wanted these arrangements kept secret until after Grace’s death – I think he was worried that she might challenge it and crush you with legal fees.
‘With her gone and, satisfied of your integrity, everything is now in place.’ He reached into the file and took out a bundle of documents. ‘The first part of Bill’s arrangement relates to a property in SoHo. Have you ever seen it?’
‘I’ve never even heard of it,’ I replied.
‘It is an old tea warehouse with a cast-iron facade and a huge space inside. Several people have said it would make a magnificent home. Why they would say that, I have no idea.’
Finbar – a widower with no kids – lived in a fourteen-room prewar co-op in Park Avenue’s most
elite white-glove building, so I wasn’t surprised that he thought a converted warehouse was one step above a garbage skip.
‘Bill had it made airtight and put in sophisticated humidity, fire and air-conditioning systems. This building and all its contents are what he wanted you to have.’
He gave the bundle and a sheaf of other documents to the two wise men, and they started signing
and witnessing them.
‘What contents?’ I asked.
Finbar smiled. ‘Bill was very orderly, a completely rational man, but in one segment of his life he
never disposed of anything—’
‘The art!’ I interrupted, caught between shock and wonder.
‘That’s right,’ Finbar replied. ‘As you may know, there was hardly an unknown artist he didn’t support by buying their work – sometimes whole exhibitions.’
‘He told me once,’ I said, ‘that most people’s idea of charity was to give money to the United Way –
he supported starving artists.’
‘And that’s exactly what he did – year after year, cheque after cheque. But he had the eye, Scott –
that was the remarkable thing – and he kept everything he bought.’
‘In the tea warehouse?’
‘That was why he converted it – he stacked it inside like lumber. Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, Hockney, Jasper Johns, Rauschenberg – the list is endless. This is an inventory.’
He pushed a print-out across to me and I leafed through it – every page was littered with what had
become household names.
‘What about Grace? After Bill died, she never asked about any of it?’
‘As I said, she had no interest. I think at some stage he must have told her that he’d sold whatever he still owned and the proceeds had gone into one of the trusts.’
He slid another thick document across the desk. ‘Naturally, I had to keep the canvases insured and
that meant regular valuations. This is the most recent information.’
I took the list and saw that next to each canvas was its estimated value. On the last page it had been totalled. I stared at the figure and saw that I was a very wealthy man – maybe not as rich as Cameron, but over halfway there.
The three men watched as I got to my feet and walked to the window. The rain was starting to hit,
and I couldn’t tell whether it was that or the tears in my eyes that was clouding my view. Even at the end of his life, when he was doubting my character, Bill had tried to take care of me. What more could I have asked? He was a wonderful man and, once again, I realized I should have treated him better.
I turned and looked at Finbar, and he handed me all the documents – signed, sealed and delivered.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You’re now the owner of one of the finest collections of contemporary
art in the world.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
ALONE, SITTING IN a budget hotel in a backstreet of bodrum, writing my last will and testament, I had to decide what would happen to a treasure trove of canvases which most museum curators would die for.
The collection was completely intact. Although I had spent a lot of time in the silence of the tea warehouse – wandering among the towering racks of paintings, pulling out masterly works that nobody had seen in decades – I had never sold any of them. They were too much a part of Bill, and
my feelings about them – as well as the wealth they represented – were still far too raw for me to deal with.
Strangely, though, the disposition of them in the event of my death presented no problem to me. I
figured the answer must have been bubbling away on the back burner of my mind for hours, if not
longer.
I wrote that I wanted the Museum of Modern Art to be given one hundred canvases of their choice,
on condition that they put them on permanent display. I directed that they should also be granted the folio of Rauschenberg drawings that was the reason Bill and I had visited Strasbourg so long ago. I
then described the photograph of the peasant woman and her children walking to the gas chamber that
I had seen at the Natzweiler death camp – the photo that had haunted so many of my dreams – and requested that the museum acquire a copy of it.
I said that the rest of the canvases, including the warehouse in which they were stored, were to be
sold and the proceeds used to endow a William J. Murdoch Home for Orphaned Roma or Gypsy Children.
I then came to the most difficult part of the exercise. In conclusion, I said, I wanted the Museum of Modern Art to mount a small display at the entrance to whatever gallery featured the one hundred works. The display should consist of the Rauschenberg drawings, the copy of the photo from the death camp and the following dedication: ‘Bequeathed to the people of New York in memory of Bill
…’
I sat very still for a long time and then laid my pen down. I was unsure what to say next, incapable of finding the words that would do proper honour to Bill’s memory. I thought of us driving up through the pine forest of the Vosges mountains, I remembered the crouching evil of the gas chamber, I felt again the strength of him as I slipped my hand unbidden into his, I saw the instant happiness in his eyes as he looked down at me, and suddenly I knew the words that would mean everything to my
foster father: ‘Bequeathed to the people of New York in memory of Bill Murdoch – by his loving son,
Scott.’
I finished by appointing Finbar Hanrahan, counsel-at-law of Park Avenue, and James Balthazar Grosvenor, President of the United States, as executors. I figured if I was going to die for my country it was the least he could do.
I called down to the front desk, heard the young duty manager ’s sleep-addled voice and asked him
to come to my room. Without letting him see the content of the document, I had him witness my signature and I then sealed it in an envelope and addressed it to Finbar.
I put that envelope inside another, scrawled Ben’s name on it and a note: ‘In the event of my death, please deliver the enclosed letter by hand when you return to New York.’
I slipped it under the door of Ben’s darkened room and went back to my own. I locked the door,
kicked off my shoes and lay fully clothed on the bed. In the stillness of the night, two lines from an
old poem whose name or author I couldn’t remember drifted into my head:
I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Life was duty. Like any soldier going into battle, I thought of the conflict that lay ahead. To be honest, I didn’t hope for success or glory. I just hoped that I would acquit myself with honour and courage.
Chapter Twenty-eight
ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN the morning, barely a cloud in the sky, unseasonably warm for that time of year,
and Cumali arrived right on time.
I was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, dressed in trainers, a pair of chinos and a summery shirt flapping loose – a perfect look for a picnic, I thought. The Beretta was tucked into the back of my trousers, but it was there purely for decoration, part of the legend of an unwitting covert agent: I knew it couldn’t save me and that I would lose it the moment I got jumped. The chinos had
deep pockets, and that was why I had chosen them – the real weapon was in one of them and, by slouching forward, acting relaxed, hands buried in my pockets, I could keep my hand on it.
The black Fiat pulled to a stop and I saw that Cumali was alone. If I needed any confirmation about
what was really happening, she had just given it to me. Smiling warmly, I went to open the front passenger ’s door. It was locked, and she indicated the rear seat. Apparently it was okay for a Muslim woman to lead a man to his death but not to share the front seat with him.
I opened the rear door and climbed in. ‘Where’s the little guy?’ I asked.
‘It’s a field trip for kids from the school,’ she replied, ‘and he’s been allowed to go along. We’ll be joining them for the picnic – he wants to show off his American friend.’
As an actress, she was a good cop – she had thought too much about the lines and they came out
stilted.
‘What sort of field trip?’ I asked, carrying on like everything was fine.
‘Archaeology – “dumb ruins”, as the kids say.’ She laughed, and it seemed to ease her anxiety. ‘An
interesting place – I think you’ll enjoy it.’
Somehow I doubted that. ‘Is it far?’
‘A fair distance by car,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got a share in a half-cabin cruiser. If you don’t mind being deckhand, it’s quicker and a more spectacular sight. Then we can bring my son back the same
way – he loves the boat.’
Somebody knew what they were doing. It was easy to tail a car, but a boat was almost impossible –
the field of vision was too expansive and there was no traffic to hide amidst. They were making certain I didn’t have help following me.
‘Sounds cool,’ I said.
I wasn’t feeling it. Despite my years of training, despite the plans I had laid, I felt the tendrils of fear unfurl and tighten around my throat: it isn’t an easy thing to do, to walk knowingly into harm’s way.
Cumali turned the wheel and headed down into a hidden cove with an old jetty and a few dozen small boats at anchor. Because I was sitting in the back, I hadn’t been able to see whether she had brought with her the one piece of equipment that was crucial to my plan. If she hadn’t, I was going to have to abort. ‘Have you got your phone?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ she replied, alert, looking into the rear-view mirror, scanning my face.
I shrugged. ‘We don’t want to be on a sinking boat waving for help, do we?’
She smiled as the anxiety receded. ‘Of course.’ She fumbled at the waistband of her jeans and held it up.
The mission was on: there was no turning back now.
She pulled into a parking spot and I unbuckled my seatbelt. ‘Anything to unload?’
‘There’s a picnic basket in the trunk. I don’t drink alcohol, but I brought some beer and there’s plenty of food – help yourself.’
The condemned man ate a hearty meal, I thought, and almost laughed. I realized the stress and fear
were starting to get the better of me and made myself lock it down. I pulled the picnic basket out of the trunk and turned to follow Cumali on to the jetty. She was crouching to cast off the mooring line from a little half-cabin launch, old and wooden-hulled but well-maintained. I wondered how much it had cost them to rent it for the day.
She stood up and, unaware that she was being observed, paused to stare at the small cove. It was beautiful in the morning light – the turquoise water, the deserted beach, the whitewashed houses – and in a moment of epiphany I realized that she was imprinting it on her memory, saying goodbye. I had
wondered earlier if I had panicked her enough, and I saw now that the threat of Bright Light and a Bulgarian orphanage had terrified her. I figured that she and the little guy would be leaving very soon with her brother, probably driving hard for the border with Iraq or Syria. Thinking about it more, I understood that, if I went missing, she would be the prime suspect, and that left her little alternative.
For all of us, our time in Bodrum was coming to an end.
She broke free of her thoughts and stepped down into the launch’s cabin. By the time I got on board
and stowed the hamper she had started the engine, powered up a small VHS radio next to the wheel
and was talking in Turkish into the mic. She put it back on the cradle and turned.
‘Just letting the harbour master know where we’re going, what our route is,’ she said.
It was a nice touch, but she wasn’t talking to the harbour master, she was speaking to her brother
and whoever was with him, letting them know that we were on our way. I had already worked out our
destination, of course.
Chapter Twenty-nine
THE RUINS OF the drowned city clung to the cliff, the old steps followed their eternal path into the sea and the Door to Nowhere was a silhouette under the harsh noonday sun.
Cumali had slowed down as we approached, allowing me to view the ruins in all their glory, and I
had reacted with appropriate wonder, as if I had never seen them before.
The cliff face and the parking area on top were as deserted as ever, and the only sound as we passed the sunken dance platform was the wailing of a few circling gulls. Their mournful cry seemed a fitting accompaniment as Cumali steered the little cruiser up to the rotting jetty.
I grabbed the mooring line, swung off the deck and made the boat secure. On the beach, host to clots of tar and the bodies of two dead gulls, hordes of crabs ran for cover like roaches in a tenement kitchen. I hated the place.
Cumali came to my side, carrying the picnic basket, and I took it from her, indicating our surroundings. ‘It doesn’t look like much of a spot for a picnic.’