Full Circle (17 page)

By accident or design, the captain had given Ned a table next to hers. She’d watched him as he moved toward her. Even then she’d sensed something contradictory about him. There was a kind of watchful carelessness contradicted by an air of carefully calculated indifference, an aloofness that didn’t quite come off.

Of course, once he was seated, she’d felt his eyes on her. And, of course, pretending to search for Wilhem, she allowed their eyes to meet. Ned had smiled and nodded, nothing more. But as he’d later told her, that one look had told him all he needed to know about her.

All he needed to know…

All he’d ever know.

In the end, her only regret was that Ned had never known why he’d died. In death as in life, Ned had probably been puzzled.

As she took the cellular phone from its cradle, she realized that the surge of euphoria had already subsided. It was time to go to work.

“Harry?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got everything I need for now. It’s quarter to three. I’m going to do a couple of things, then I’ll go back to the apartment. Wait until five o’clock, here. If nothing develops, come to the apartment.”

“Right. How’re we doing?”

“We’re doing fine, Harry. We’re doing just fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” But his voice, as always, was edged with irony. Whenever she scored a point, Harry resisted. Never mind that they were on the same team.

For now, at least, on the same team.

“P
RESS FOUR,” DUBOIS ORDERED.

As the elevator began to descend, Bernhardt asked, “Who else is in the house?”

“No one. Whenever I do this, visit the collection, it’s Grace’s job to get everyone out of the house. When she verifies that everyone’s out—” He broke off as the elevator door slid open, giving access to the main fourth-level corridor. When the elevator had shut behind them, secured, DuBois continued: “When everyone is out, and Grace has verified that the house is completely secure, then she leaves. She goes to James’s bungalow. When she arrives there, she notifies me.” He gestured to the electronic console built into the right armrest of his chair. “When I’m finished, and I’m once again upstairs, I notify Grace to recall the staff.” As he spoke, he turned his chair to the left, then stopped in a secondary corridor just beyond the elevator. He was, Bernhardt knew, waiting for the questions he knew were coming:

“How long do your visits take, usually?”

“Never more than an hour, never less than thirty minutes.”

“Surely Grace must have some idea what’s going on, some suspicion.”

“I suspect,” DuBois answered, “that you already know the answer to that question.”

Bernhardt was standing on the left side of the wheelchair. It was, thank God, DuBois’s blind side, preventing DuBois from seeing his face, reading his expression as he parried, “Grace says that your house is completely wired for surveillance.”

“The house,” DuBois answered. “But not the grounds. The rock grotto, for instance, isn’t wired.”

Bernhardt smiled covertly. Deciding to say, “Good. I’m glad.” It was the first time he’d ventured to test DuBois.

“You’re a man who enjoys innuendo,” DuBois observed. “You appreciate subtlety.”

“I hope so.”

“I do wish we’d met before,” DuBois said. “I could have used you to great advantage.”

Bernhardt’s smile was ironic. “Thank you.”

“Since Betty left,” DuBois said, “I’ve sensed a change in Grace. She’s had an unhappy life. It’s easy to miscalculate, dealing with someone who bears psychic scars. Especially when the wounds were inflicted at an early age.”

“That’s probably a very astute observation,” Bernhardt answered. “I’ll try to remember it.”

“From your manner, I assume that Grace confided in you.”

He’d known the question would come, and he’d decided on an answer: “She’s an intelligent woman. I suspect she knows you’ve got a secret.”

“Of course,” DuBois answered. “That’s to be expected. But we all have secrets. The question is, of what value are these secrets? To whom are they valuable?” He touched his console; his chair moved forward. Walking beside the wheelchair, still on DuBois’s blind side, Bernhardt checked off the coordinates: out of the elevator at the fourth-level corridor, turn left, pass two doors on the right, turn left again into a small intersecting hallway. There were two identical doors in the small hallway, both closed. A panel of buttons was set into the frame beside both doors. On each panel, a tiny light glowed red. DuBois maneuvered his chair to face the door on the right, then gestured to Bernhardt, a silent command. Nodding, Bernhardt stepped back, turned to face the main corridor. In that position, DuBois could see him, making certain that he couldn’t observe the numbers DuBois was punching out on the panel. He could only hear a series of four electronic cheeps and chirps. There was a pause, followed by another series of four chirps.

If he were wearing a wire, Bernhardt realized, he could have recorded the chirps, turned them into numbers.

“All right, Mr. Bernhardt.”

He turned to see the door on the right sliding open. Once more, a reprise of his earlier sensation of sinking unreality, Bernhardt felt himself go hollow, suddenly overwhelmed by where he was, what he was about to do.

And all without Paula’s approval. How had it happened? The answer, he knew, was greed.

As he waited for Bernhardt to approach, DuBois seemed to smile, as if to encourage a timid child. Obeying the silent invitation, Bernhardt advanced one step, then two. With each step, he could see more of an interior hallway. Like the main gallery hall on the first level, the walls of the secondary hallway had been covered with a rough fabric, then painted white.

With Bernhardt beside him on his right side, DuBois pointed to the electronic panel beside the door. “It takes a four-digit code before the red light goes off. Another four digits, and the green light comes on. Then, automatically, the door slides open. Needless to say, I’m the only one who knows the codes. Of course, I’ve written the numbers down, and hidden the scrap of paper.”

“Betty didn’t know the codes, then.”

“Of course not. Whenever she entered, I was with her.”

“The slip of paper—did she know about it?”

“Betty knew there was a slip of paper hidden, but she didn’t know where. However, should I die, she would have received a sealed envelope from my lawyer, Mr. Robbins, with instructions for finding the paper. Needless to say, after she disappeared, the letter was destroyed.”

“Then if you should die…”

“If I should die now, Mr. Robbins will know what to do.”

“You trust Mr. Robbins.”

“In legal matters—custodial matters—I trust him completely. But nothing beyond that. Compartmentalization, Mr. Bernhardt. It solves a lot of problems.” With that, DuBois turned away and entered the narrow hallway. The hallway was windowless, lit by indirect cove lighting, and was, Bernhardt judged, about ten feet in length. At the far end there was another door, also with an electronic panel. Hesitantly, irrationally cautious, perhaps claustrophobic, Bernhardt followed DuBois as he approached the second door. When Bernhardt had gone halfway, he heard a mechanical whir behind him. He whirled, saw the first door sliding closed.

“You’ll notice,” DuBois said, “that there’s an identical panel beside the door we’ve just come through, on this side. To get out once the door has closed, it’s necessary to punch out the same two series of four numbers that is required to get in.”

“So—” The wayward thought was so temptingly diabolical that Bernhardt knew he must blurt it out: “So, once you’re in here, and the outer door slides shut, if you couldn’t remember the numbers…” Sadistically he let it go unfinished.

“It would take an acetylene torch to rescue me. The first door is armor plate, an inch thick.” DuBois spoke with a hint of wry fatalism, as if the thought of dying in such circumstances intrigued him. Then he turned to the second door, waited for Bernhardt to withdraw, then punched out another combination, this one only three numbers. As the door slid open, DuBois pivoted his chair to face the inner gallery. Bernhardt advanced to stand a few feet behind the other man. From that position, with the door frame blocking his view of the two side walls, only the far wall opposite the door was visible. There were only two paintings hung on the far wall.

The artist, this one artist among all others, was unmistakable.

“My God,” Bernhardt breathed. “Van Goghs.” Then, after a moment of helpless speechlessness, he heard himself say, “Are they real? Originals?”

It was, he knew instantly, a monumental faux pas.

“Mr. Bernhardt. Please.”

“Sorry,” Bernhardt whispered. Repeating inarticulately, “Sorry.”

DuBois moved farther into the small room, allowing Bernhardt to step through the open doorway. Each of the two sidewalls was hung with five paintings. Except for the two large Van Goghs, the paintings were nearly of uniform size, about two by three feet, no more. The room was long and narrow, smaller than the smallest bedroom, a little larger than an outsize walk-in closet.

“Fourteen paintings,” DuBois had said. Bernhardt turned again, looked at the wall space beside the inner door. Unmistakably, the remaining two paintings were Rembrandts, one a portrait of a young child, one a sketch of a forest glade.

“I’ve got no words,” Bernhardt finally said. “Everything I think, even, is wrong. I feel—numb.”

“You realize, don’t you, that you’re only the third person to be here. You, Betty, myself—that’s all.”

“I know…”

DuBois had been staring at the three ceramic pieces in their glass display case mounted on the far wall beneath the two Van Goghs. After a brooding moment of silence, he said something inaudible.

“I beg your pardon?”

DuBois pivoted the chair to face him. “Dust,” DuBois muttered. “Dust on top of the case.”

Once more, Bernhardt was unable to frame a reply.

G
RACE CAMPBELL PUSHED A
plain envelope across her desk. “That’ll keep you walking around. Anything you charge at your hotel will be paid through Powers Associates.”

The unsealed envelope was stuffed with twenty-dollar bills.

“Five hundred dollars,” she said. “It’s from the house’s miscellaneous cash account. Beyond that, Mr. DuBois knows you’ll be spending sizable sums, in cash. On short notice I can always lay my hands on five thousand dollars, in cash. More than that, I’ll have to go to the bank. You might bear that in mind.”

“Do you need receipts?”

She shook her head. “No. No receipts.”

Bernhardt slipped the envelope into the inside pocket of his corduroy jacket. Somehow the pressure of the money snug against his rib cage activated a desire to feel his .357 Magnum exerting a similar pressure, holstered at his belt. He made a mental note to speak to Paula about the Magnum. He glanced at his watch: almost four o’clock. By five he must be at the hotel, to take Paula’s call. Or, more like it, courtesy of Powers Associates, he would call Paula. And C. B. Tate, if Paula hadn’t connected with him. And John Graham, at the Fairmont.

“I need another car.”

“Besides the two Mercedeses, there’re three other cars. Would you like a Honda Accord? It’s new, very nice.”

Bernhardt nodded. “Fine.” He watched her open another drawer, produce a set of keys, slide them across the desk.

“You have my personal number,” she said. “Unless it’s vital that you talk directly to Mr. DuBois, I suggest that you call me for anything you need. The number’s good day or night, and it rings through to a beeper.”

“If I have to talk to Mr. DuBois directly, when’s the best time?”

“Eight to ten in the morning, and two to four in the afternoon,” she answered promptly. “Otherwise, it’s important—vital—that he have complete rest.”

“The identification plaque you gave me—does that open everything? The gate, the front door, the elevators?”

She nodded. “Everything.”

“If something else should change—another defection, like Betty’s—who’d be responsible for reprogramming the system?”

She thought about it, then said, “James would work it out with the security people. I’d pay the bill when it came in. With James’s approval, of course. Mr. DuBois wouldn’t be involved.”

He pushed back his chair, rose to his feet. “I’d better get back to the hotel. Can you find me the Accord?”

“Certainly.” One last time, pleasantly, she smiled.

“I
WAS JUST GOING
to call you,” Paula said.

“I know. But I’m on an expense account, it turns out.”

“That sounds,” she said, “like you’re going to do it.”

Loud enough for her to hear, he drew a long, deep breath. “That’s right, Paula. I’m going to do it. We made the deal a couple of hours ago. I’ve taken some money.”

There was silence. Then she said gravely, “Are you sure, Alan? Are you absolutely sure?”

“No, I’m not absolutely sure. But I never am. Nothing’s ever a hundred percent.”

“How about seventy-five percent?”

“Paula, I’ve got thirty-five thousand in my pocket. And there’s more. There’s a hell of a lot more.”

Silence.

“Paula?”

“I’m not going to badger you, Alan. And I’m not going to second-guess you, either. Not from this distance, anyhow.”

“I want you to come down here. I need you down here.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can get here. Tonight?”

Another silence. Then, with deep reluctance: “Okay. I’ll get some things together. What should I bring?”

“Have you contacted C.B.? Is he around?”

“Yes. He’s waiting for you to call.”

“I’ll call him, then get back to you. He can pick you up and you can go to the airport together. I’ll want him to bring a couple of his guns. You give him our guns—your Chief’s Special and my three-fifty-seven, plus ammunition. He’ll know how to get them on the airplane.”

“Alan, Jesus, this sounds like a war.”

“There’s a lot of money involved. We need insurance. What about Crusher?”

“It turns out that Mrs. Bonfigli is still here. She didn’t go out of town after all.”

“Good. Tell her to leave Crusher in my place at night. I’ll feel better about the files and everything.”