Chapter 26
COLE
Iglance at the monitor in the bottom right corner of the array in my office. It’s transmitting a video feed from the laptop I left running in the bedroom. The picture is clear even though the curtains are drawn, because the nightstand light is on.
Kate is sleeping. Rather, Kate is still sleeping. It’s nearly noon, and she hasn’t shifted position in hours.
I should wake her. Get her to eat some toast, or maybe some clear broth. Help her to drink the bottle of water I left beside the lamp.
The scene at the zoo was utter chaos. Mothers screamed at me in the ladies’ room like I was some feral predator, when all I wanted to do was catch whoever hurt Kate.
Tarasov laughed, brutally entertained by my wife’s frailty, or maybe by the insinuation that I was some sort of pervert.
Breagha was the picture of sisterly concern, helping Kate to a bench, answering questions once park security arrived, trying to explain that nothing happened, it was all just an innocent mistake.
Kate said she had food poisoning.
But a woman with food poisoning runs to a toilet, not away. And she doesn’t flinch like a horsewhipped child when she catches a glimpse of her sister’s gloating fiancé. She doesn’t shut down like someone turned off a switch at the nape of her neck.
Food poisoning, my ass.
Tarasov did something to her. He planted something in the bathroom, or he threatened her somehow. Maybe he threatened Breagha. There has to be some explanation for his ghoulish laughter.
I just can’t work out what it was. We talked the whole time the women were gone, me maneuvering him closer to accepting the Viktor thumb drive instead of the Lynch files he wants. He didn’t take out his phone. He didn’t text an associate, didn’t signal an accomplice in any way.
He gloated as we strolled down the path, tracing Kate and Breagha’s footsteps toward the john. “Three days until I get your paintings,” he smirked.
“You have buyers lined up for the auction? Men you can trust?”
“I trust my boyeviks with my life. They are like family.” He eyed me slyly. “You did not tell me on the phone. What other paintings are you giving me, along with the Picasso?”
“Not giving. Your men are buying them,” I reminded him. “At open auction.”
He waved his hand, as if that detail didn’t matter. “You give the Picasso. The rest—” He never got to finish. Kate’s sudden appearance saw to that.
He didn’t take the thumb drive either.
Still eyeing my wife on the monitor, I stand beside my desk and stretch.
I’m familiar with the restless feeling that makes my chair feel like an Iron Maiden.
Every good con requires patience. Marks need to take bait at their own pace.
Rushing things only guarantees destruction, like prying a butterfly out of its chrysalis before its wings are formed.
Tarasov will take the Picasso. He’ll pay for three more paintings. After that, he’ll take the Viktor code. The AI project will be too good a lure for him to ignore, especially when he thinks he has the upper hand.
My thoughts are interrupted by my phone ringing. It’s the tone I’ve set for Nilsson.
“Wolf,” I answer immediately.
“I have just arrived in Dover, sir,” Nilsson announces. “There were no complications on the road.”
“Excellent. Hold off until five this evening,” I remind him unnecessarily. “I don’t want the paintings loaded into my gallery before then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nilsson doesn’t question why he should spend the next several hours babysitting a stack of wooden crates. He only waits for me to terminate the call first. I tap the red icon to disconnect.
Grimacing, I turn to my next call.
I was one of Diamond Freeport’s first clients; I started taking advantage of the Delaware tax haven within three months of its opening for business.
Over the years, I’ve run hundreds of legitimate transactions through the place, earning money for myself, my business partners, and the freeport itself.
I’ve also been party to a handful of more…suspicious transactions, ranging from tax fraud to—on at least two occasions—well-deserved murders. Trap Prince and Alix Key aren’t squeamish. They keep a perfect tension on the freeport reins, with an impeccable sense of when to look the other way.
And this time I very much need them to look away. Or, at least, to blink very hard.
The deal I’m planning, selling Megan’s fake paintings, skates dangerously close to a bright red line.
The freeport’s reputation bolsters every sale on its premises.
By having Nilsson deliver the forgeries at the very close of business on a Friday, I’m intentionally making it difficult—ideally impossible—for the freeport to do its job.
Gritting my teeth, I tap the number.
“Cole!” Alix Key says, answering on the first ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m about to add to your workload,” I say, purposely keeping my voice light.
“We like to hear that from all our clients.”
“I want to run an auction. Three paintings—a Rothko, a Cezanne, and a Kahlo.” I’ve thought about this a lot.
The Van Gogh would bring almost as much money as the other three combined, but the freeport’s curators probably have a lot of experience with the Dutch painter’s work.
The three I’ve chosen are prominent enough to get hefty bids from Tarasov’s men, but they’re somewhat more obscure.
“I’m listening,” Alix says, interest quickening in her voice.
Alix Key has two gifts every auctioneer needs—a true passion for her subject and the impeccable ability to read a crowd.
I was the winning bidder at the first auction she ever ran, buying the Monet that hangs in the carriage house across the street.
“The works will be in my gallery today.”
“What’s the catch?” Her voice is light with good humor, but she’s worked at the freeport for long enough to know there’s always a catch.
“I want them sold next Monday.”
“You’re kidding.”
I don’t bother responding. Instead, I let my silence give her time to plot the impossible.
“Three days,” she finally says. “We won’t get any institutional buyers—there’s no way any museum can move that quickly. And private parties aren’t likely to bid up the price as high.”
“I understand. I have a handful of buyers who say they’re interested. They’d end up new customers for the freeport.”
“We always appreciate referrals from satisfied clients.” Alix sounds distracted as she delivers the standard line. I realize why when she follows up with: “We won’t have time to work through any tricky provenance issues.”
“My paperwork is up-to-date. There were no open issues when I took possession.”
“If you can spread out the timing even a little… Let me take the Cezanne next Monday—it will bring top dollar. Give me another week to round up an audience for the Kahlo. We can get to the Rothko before month-end.”
“I need them all on Monday.”
Her hesitation is almost imperceptible. I probably wouldn’t notice it if my ears weren’t trained by years of Shannon’s cons. “Fine then. Monday. Five o’clock?” she asks.
I don’t want to give Tarasov any more time than I have to. This entire plan goes to hell if he talks to his obshchak or goes to his pakhan. But I’m asking Alix to pull off a miracle. I have to be a tiny bit reasonable. “Five is fine,” I say.
“Have you thought about the reserve?” she asks.
I have. I need money, and I need it soon. I name a reserve price that is half what it should be for art of this caliber. If, that is, the art was real.
Alix sounds troubled. “I’d love to have my experts review similar auctions over the past few years. I think you might be setting yourself up for sales below fair market value.”
“I can live with that.”
I’m treated to another micro-pause. “You’ll give us access for a curatorial review and photos?”
“Of course,” I say. “The paintings are in transit now. They should arrive this evening, around five.”
Alix doesn’t answer immediately. I know she’s calculating the phone calls she’s about to make, the curators’ weekends she’s going to ruin, the marketing specialists who will be called in for heroic duty. “I’ll wait for them myself,” she says.
“You know where to reach me, if you run into any trouble.”
“There won’t be any trouble,” she says.
I know that’s not true. There will be plenty of trouble down the line. But I plan to keep Alix and Diamond Freeport clear of it.
As I end the call, I glance back at the bedroom monitor. Kate has finally awakened. She’s sitting on our bed, bare legs dangling. Her head is buried in her hands, hair streaming toward the floor, as if she’s doing battle against the world’s worst hangover.
I watch as she straightens, each muscle moving like she’s chiseling her body free from a block of stone. She finds the bottle of Voss I left for her, and she twists the cap free. She drinks like a woman who’s been wandering in a desert for years.
She sits for a moment, hands braced on the mattress beside her, probably waiting to see if the water stays down. When it does, she finally pushes herself to her feet and starts the long, painful journey to the bathroom.
I’ll go upstairs in a moment to see if she needs help in the shower. I’ll lay out her favorite clothes, her softest gray hoodie and her most comfortable yoga pants. I’ll cajole her into eating something, or I’ll order her to do it, whatever she needs.
But first, I have one more call to make.
“Tarasov,” he answers after the phone has rung so long I think I’ll need to leave a message.
“The paintings are at the freeport. The expert there is set to run the auction on Monday. At five o’clock.”
“We will be there. My boyeviks and me.”
“After the auction, you can arrange for a gallery at the freeport. That’s how you avoid the tax consequences of removing the paintings from the premises.”
“And the Picasso?”
“It’s there too.”
“Excellent. Monday. At five.”
As I end the call, I still feel guilty for bringing Diamond Freeport into this thing. But my determination to take down Pyotr Tarasov is more set than ever. The bratva kingpin didn’t say a word about Kate. It never occurred to him to ask if she’s recovered.