The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (37 page)

If in any way you fuck up, you can kiss the paintings goodbye… and you will die.

Bring the money here in an unmarked black case.

Petrovitch pulled hard on his earlobe.
What the fuck is he on about? The police don’t even know that I’m here.
A quick look at his watch showed it was 9:15. He jabbed the sleeping Golub in the ribs, and he woke with a splutter.

“What?” He wiped the spittle from his mouth and down the side of his coat.

“We’re on our way. We’ve work to do. Move it!” Petrovitch slipped on his jacket, checked his Beretta, grabbed the case and set off, followed by the lumbering Golub.

~ * ~

Manton looked apprehensive as he unlocked the door to Valentina’s house. He switched on the light, and a low-wattage bulb staggered into life. The passageway looked gloomy and uninviting. He pushed back the hair from his face, and bent down to pick up Tamsin’s pink scarf which was still lying on the floor. Next to it lay the discarded bag with loaves of dry bread protruding from it.

Walking to the outer room, he felt on edge, and his mind raced through the possibilities of what he might find. He slowly pushed the door open, inch by inch. He was sweating and his fingertips were tingling.
Easy Jack, easy.
There was a sour taste in his mouth. The room was empty and
Legacy
remained where it had always been, hanging on the wall. He raised his eyes skyward, and his tensions evaporated.
Thank God for that
.

His relief was cut short by the sharp blast from his mobile. It was him
.

“Yes.”

“Manton, listen carefully.” Novikov’s voice spoke without emotion. “You will take the Brodsky painting from the woman’s house. You will take it to the phone booth located on the Cour Emile Zola next to the Kebab Café. You have thirty minutes before I call. Remember, you are rarely out of my sight. Any tricks, or police, and you will be sorry. Understood?”

“Understood.”

The connection went dead.

With great care, he lifted the painting from the wall and propped it up against the wall. Finding a thick blanket from the bedroom, he wrapped it with meticulous care, not allowing any part of it to protrude. The next step was to locate Valentina’s car. He found it where she’d said it’d be.

The journey to the Cours Emile Zola passed as if he were in a boozy blackout.

His only concern was for Tamsin’s safety. He’d kept his word and hadn’t told Kolosov, although he didn’t doubt he would find out. He prayed that Novikov would keep his part of the deal.

There was no difficulty in finding the Kebab Café. It was brightly lit, and from a rotating spit came the unmistakeable aroma of cooked lamb. The phone booth next to the café stood empty. He braked hard, bringing the Peugeot to a screeching halt alongside. Looking at his watch, he had two minutes to spare. He grabbed the painting, and sprinted from the car into the booth. The phone rang on time.

He snatched at it. “Manton.”

“Put down the painting and leave it there.”

“Tamsin, if you harm her…”

“Shut up and listen. You are to find the third phone booth outside the main entrance of the Hôpital Saint-Jean de Dieu, and wait for my call. Leave where you are, head up Garibaldi Street, and you will see the Moulin à Vent exit. Take it, and drive towards the Route Vienne. You have ten minutes.”

The phone cut off with a snap.

Manton rushed out, scouring up and down the road. Not a soul could be seen. Except for a few cars, there was no sign of Novikov.

A tall blonde woman with a small dog on a lead passed by and wished him “
Bon nuit
, Monsieur.” Manton couldn’t reply, nor did he give her a second look.
 

Chapter Forty Five

T
raffic was dense. Manton, leaning on the horn, weaved erratically at speed, cutting through the traffic. He ignored the speedometer which quickly crept up to 80 kph. He looked at his watch. He would barely make it to the hospital on time, if at all. The car came to a skidding halt outside the imposing red brick facade of the front entrance. He could see the phone boxes to his left. He hurtled from the car into the empty phone booth, but it remained silent. He grabbed at the receiver, and bellowed into it.

“Novikov! Where are you?”

Nothing.

He slammed the phone back down. “Damn it!” Trying to quell his panic, he again looked at his watch… almost five minutes late. He ran his hands across the sweat on his head, and then through his hair.

Holy fuck! What do I do now?

It rang.

“Yes,” he shouted. “I’m here.”

“This would have been your last chance, Manton. I’m not unreasonable, but if you hadn’t picked up, my plans would be forced to change… and that would not be very good for your friend here. You would like to hear her voice, wouldn’t you?”

“You bastard. Let me speak to her.”

“Here she is.”

“Tamsin!”

Her voice sounded shaky and fearful. “Jack, just do as he says,
please
. He can kill us all, and he wouldn’t even blink an eyelid. Bring all the paintings, please…” There came a dull muffled sound as the line crackled. He couldn’t tell if it had been her, or a recording.

“Tamsin!”

Novikov responded. “Satisfied, Manton? Now, this is what you must do… you will switch off your mobile phone and you will leave it off. I shall call it often, and if it’s switched
on…
you will regret it. You are too easily traceable. If my instructions are not obeyed, you will never kiss your woman again.”

“For God’s sake,” Manton pleaded. “We’re doing everything you ask. Please, don’t harm her. It’s me you want. I have all the pictures. I don’t give a shit about them. What d’you want me to do?” There was no answer. He could only hear the heavy beating of his heart inside his ribcage. “Novikov, answer me!”

“Manton.” Novikov’s voice hung heavy as death. “This is what I need you to do. Tricks, deceptions, policemen, are not allowed. One whiff… and she won’t look pretty anymore. This is how you will proceed…”

~ * ~

Kolosov attempted to maintain a neutral expression in front of his men. With mounting concern and annoyance, he wondered if Manton had disappeared from their radar, and Novikov could continue to run rings around him and the entire resource of Interpol. He activated Manton’s number, but he didn’t answer. Only the recorded voice announcing the phone was off.

Something was amiss.

It got worse.

He received the news that Petrovitch and another man had left the hotel, but had performed a series of taxi swaps, switching locations. In the process, they too had disappeared. Unless Petrovitch or Manton made a phone call, they could be untraceable. Novikov’s planning was impeccable.

~ * ~

He stood alone outside College Park school and had no idea what to expect. His surroundings resembled a black void. The lights of passing vehicles formed processions of harsh yellow and white beams that cut through the darkness, caused by an unexpected power cut through the district. He stared up at the enormous iron gates leading up to the main doors of the college. Manton, clutching the two bags of paintings around his shoulders, pushed on the ironwork, feeling its weight as they reluctantly creaked open. He began the walk across the central concourse, feeling the skin prickle around his eyes as he gave a pained stare around the building, attempting to see some sign or clue.

There were none.

He walked up
to
the main door, beginning to understand what a condemned man felt like on his walk to the gallows.

Emergency lighting had automatically fed into an array of inadequate light bulbs, adding to the gloom of the place.
that also festooned the scaffolding provided for the building’s periodic overhaul. There was nobody to be seen.

No voices, just the echoing of his footsteps
, and the squeak of doors as he pushed them open with a lack of enthusiasm. He remembered Novikov’s instructions to go through the front entrance, and then to turn right and proceed down the corridor, past the classrooms, and down towards the main sports hall at the end of the corridor.

Other doors loomed closer.

There came a sudden loud clack, and the power supply came back on, illuminating the entire corridor. The change from gloom to brilliance startled him. He listened intently, but there was no sound to be heard. Ten paces forward stood the closed doors to the sports hall. He looked around, yet nothing could be seen apart from tutorial furniture. He paused a fraction, clenched his fist, and rapped four times on the door, calling out his name.

“It’s Manton.”

Chapter Forty Six

P
etrovitch stood alongside the phone booth. He gripped his arm across his belly. The burning sensation in his upper abdomen reminded him that in times of stress, his stomach ulcer became active like a simmering volcano.

He rummaged in his pocket, produced a cocktail of pills, and swallowed them. Golub, wearing a large Fedora hat, said nothing. He stood impassively beside him as solid as a Russian tank. Across the road, they could see the College Park Academy. The gates were open, and he’d arrived minutes later than he’d been asked to due to the power cut.

He gave his watch another quick check. Thirty minutes had almost passed. He raised his eyes skywards.
I can’t wait any longer for that shrimp-dick.
He dialled Novikov’s number.

~ * ~

“Come inside.”

Manton heard Novikov’s voice. Fearful, and not knowing what to expect, he pushed the door open. The hall gleamed with bright light, causing him to raise his hand to shield his eyes. At first, he could see nothing.

Then,
he saw Tamsin across the hall space. She hung suspended from a wall-climbing frame. Her feet, crossed over, one placed on top of the other, were strapped to a rung off the floor. Her arms had been fully extended, and had also been tied in a similar fashion, supported by the rungs.

It resembled a crucifixion. Her head was bent across her right shoulder, and the tumble of her hair obscured her face.

“Tamsin!”

She didn’t respond. Either she was unconscious or worse… dead.

“My God!” Without thought he ran towards her.

“Stop right there, or I will put a bullet through you.” Novikov’s voice echoed around the hall.

Manton skidded to a halt, looked around, but couldn’t see him. He attempted to keep his expression calm.

“What have you done to her?” he shouted, aware that his voice was churning. “Where are you?”

From behind the stage area at the far end, he heard footsteps. Heading towards him and carrying a pistol, appeared a tall blonde woman in a navy-blue trouser suit, wearing trainers.

“Novikov!”

“Perceptive, Manton. Now gently drop those bags you are carrying, just as if they were newly-laid eggs, then walk towards me.” Covering Manton with the gun, he removed his wig, and peeled off both the blue jacket and trousers to reveal a black tracksuit over which he wore a dark khaki gilet. “She is still alive, just for now. I can hate myself for some of the things I do, and she doesn’t deserve any more of this. I find myself
liking her, Manton. I can see my mother in her, and she’s got guts. Now, I’m going to search you, and if I find you’re wired in any way… that will be the last thing you’ll ever know. Move closer.” He gestured with the gun.

Manton moved nearer, his pulse racing as he placed both hands defensively into the air.

“Hand me your jacket and remove your shirt.”

He handed over his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and let it drop to the floor in a crumpled heap. “Enough?”

Novikov stared with cold intensity. “Now lift your arms, turn around, and spread your legs apart.”

Manton did as he said. He lifted his arms, turned around, and began scanning the hall for anything he could use as a weapon.

Nothing.

He felt the hard hands of Novikov patting down both the inside and outside of his trousers, searching for a weapon or communication device.

Novikov then moved back to the stage area. “You’re clean. Now bring those bags to me. I have the work you left in the phone booth. A part of my insurance should you be playing a false game.”

Manton picked up the bags. Against the wall bars, he could see Tamsin’s head moving in a swaying movement.
Thank God, she’s still alive.

Novikov, with a gesture of his gun, indicated where Manton should place the bags next to the painting
Legacy
. Still pointing the pistol at him, Novikov began to count and look through them. He paused halfway, and a large smirk crossed his face. He laughed out loud.

“You’ve got what you wanted, Novikov, now let us go. We’ve done what you asked to the letter.”

“It’s not quite as simple as that, my stupid friend…” The unexpected vibration of his phone caused a look of anger to pass his face.

“Petrovitch.” He spoke in Russian. “I told you not to call me, and wait for my call. You place this operation in jeopardy every time you call. Your call is traceable.’

“The police do not know I’m in France.”

“I’m sure they do.”

“You said you’d call at the booth. I’ve been standing here in discomfort for thirty minutes. Where are the paintings?”

“They are here.”

“At last, you’ve got something right.”

“Have you got the money?” interrupted Novikov.

“It’s with me. Where are you?”

“The school opposite. Go through the main gates and the main entrance. Take the right corridor and go all the way to the end, and the sports hall will be in front of you. I’m in there. I expect you in not less than five minutes, and no tricks, or you will suffer.”

“How many are there?”

“See for yourself. Now drag your scrawny carcass here fast.”

The only word Manton understood in the conversation was the name, Petrovitch.
What was that all about?
He continued looking for a possible weapon. As his gaze swept to where Tamsin had been tied, he spotted something. A long, wooden box stood close to her, and from the wording, he knew what it had been made for and what it should contain. He owned one in London. Looking closer, it wasn’t locked.
With luck, and
please God,
it might just have in it what it should have.