The Painted Messiah (28 page)
The police were out, and a direct assault was out. Worse yet, he was looking at hours to formulate a plan, not days or weeks. He was working alone with only a couple of handguns, two silencers, and one extra clip of ammo. In his lonely vigil it was easy to imagine the ferocity of Corbeau's vengeance against Kate. The hard part was resisting a doomed assault on the front gate.
Zürich
Malloy stepped into the alley and followed the curving cobblestone lane up the hill to the nearest road. He found Max and Marcus Steiner waiting for him. 'How are the accommodations?' Marcus asked him.
'Can't complain.'
Marcus laughed quietly. 'Given the reputation of your host, I expect you mean you don't dare.'
'How did things end at the airport?'
'Everyone is on the same page. A career diplomat stationed in Paris spends a couple of days in Zürich before flying back to the States. A group of neo-Nazis target him as an American who works with the US government, and they kill him. These days they don't even need a reason. The important thing is not the story, Thomas, but how they knew you were going to be on that train.'
'Best guess is Roland Wheeler pulled a double-cross. The only thing better than twenty-five million is twenty-five million times two. Sell it, steal it, sell it again.'
'How did Wheeler find out?'
'I think the buyers gave him my name and he set up an audio surveillance on my room.'
'It's possible, I suppose. Wheeler started his professional life in Hamburg. Two of our hitters - the guys with Mohawks - were heroin addicts operating in downtown Hamburg.'
'Not exactly the kind of fellows who would be running in Roland's circle.'
'There was a Berlin accountant in on it too. Wheeler
has a number of clients in Berlin. Perhaps there is a connection through him.'
'What do you have on the Brand Books fire?'
'The investigation is ongoing, but they've got what looks like three people dead inside the building. So far the cause of death is unknown, but they should have autopsy reports by tomorrow morning. A man was found shot to death outside the building, just beyond the back door. It looks connected to what was going on inside. There are three entry wounds. They think probably nine millimetre.'
'We need to follow that up. If Brand was involved with Wheeler on this, it could be that Wheeler turned on him.'
'You really think Wheeler was behind the attack at the airport?'
'He's the thief in the crowd.'
'You might be right. He disappeared after the meeting this morning. The people at his gallery don't know where he is. He hasn't touched a credit card or used his cell phone all afternoon.'
'How long have you been watching his house?'
'Max called in two off duty Zürich patrolmen about three hours ago.'
Max spoke as he drove. 'I checked with them just before we picked you up. The place looks empty. They haven't seen a soul.'
'Are we going to have any trouble taking a look around?'
'He has a silent alarm,' Max answered. 'When the patrol car shows up, our people badge them and tell them we have it. Meanwhile, we go about our business.'
'The only problem,' Marcus added, 'is if we take something. The moment Mr Wheeler files a complaint our people are going to have to explain themselves. If it comes to a showdown between a couple of policemen and Roland Wheeler, Wheeler is going to win.'
'I just want information. We're not going to take anything.'
'I was hoping I could appropriate a Monet,' Marcus quipped. 'Do you think he has any he wouldn't miss?'
Roland Wheeler's property sat on the eastern shore of Lake Zürich in what had once been suburbs. The city had long ago converted the land surrounding his villa into a city park, giving Wheeler an uncluttered view along his shoreline. The house was not especially large by American standards, but it was undeniably grand in the old world manner. It was a two-storey structure of brick trimmed in limestone. It featured a large front portico and a terrace just off the second storey, a steep slate roof and the usual overabundance of Gothic paraphernalia. A small ornamental fence surrounded the property. Otherwise it was easily accessible. Max pulled his Mercedes up to the kerb close to the house and sauntered across the street to talk with the surveillance team.
'Still quiet,' he told them when he returned.
Marcus used a lock pick at one of the side doors. It was delicate work that he had long ago mastered. They were inside the house a few seconds later. A security panel greeted them, but they ignored the warning beeps. The furnishings were mostly antique. A great many were sixteenth and seventeenth century pieces. They had the warm, worn look of daily use. Malloy
started in the bedroom, checking drawers and shelves for an address book. When he saw the familiar flashing of coloured lights splashing across the interior of the house, he walked to the window. The patrol car had responded within four minutes of the entry.
One of Max's off-duty detectives greeted them. He pointed toward the house, and Malloy, knowing he was only a silhouette, raised his hand in greeting. They did not get back into their patrol car immediately, but neither did they care to question the word of a fellow officer. The second off-duty cop ambled out into the street, and the four men settled into a comfortable conversation - probably about the weather.
'You need to see the office,' Marcus said, stepping into Wheeler's bedroom. Malloy followed him without comment. As they went, Marcus began muttering mournfully the names of the various painters Wheeler had hung so casually on the walls of his house. 'Cezanne . . . Gauguin . . . Picasso . . . Kandinsky . . . Klee . . . even my Monet. Do you think he would miss just one little Monet, Thomas?'
'You can always come back.'
'How do you say it in America?' He switched easily to English with a pronounced but pleasant Swiss accent: 'I want my instant gratification, and I want it now!' In Swiss German he added, 'What is tomorrow to a kid in a candy store?'
Wheeler's office gave the only evidence that the house had been searched. The file cabinets had been emptied, the paper burned in the office fireplace. The computer monitor remained, but there was no sign of the computer itself.
As they were finishing their search of the office, Max entered the room. 'Got something,' he announced in his gruff manner. Both Malloy and Marcus looked at him expectantly. 'You'll probably want to see this for yourself,' he said.
They found Roland Wheeler's corpse sitting inside a basement cabinet, his thighs pressed into his chest, his heels pushing against his buttocks, his chin settled neatly between his kneecaps. The art dealer still had on the grey suit and scarlet tie he'd worn at the bank. His flesh was cool. Rigor mortis had set in. A bullet had been fired at close range into the back of his skull.
Marcus considered the corpse briefly before asking Malloy, 'You still think he's the one who ordered the hit at the airport?'
October 10, 2006.
Kate heard the squeak of a steel door opening and saw a faint grey light wash across the cindered floor. Despite her dread she glanced around her prison cell. The ceiling was roughly twenty-five feet above her. As she had guessed this was Corbeau's tower, the lower two- thirds of it to be exact. There were half a dozen chains with handcuffs hanging from the walls and a number of torch holders. Beyond the dark shadows overhead, if she could possibly climb that high across the smoothly jointed stones, a thick stone floor waited. She had been hoping to discover some way out, but there was no exit except through the steel door.
Three uniformed guards stepped into the room as Kate came to this conclusion. Each man carried a burning torch and a short-barreled shotgun. As the torches flickered, the shadows of the men danced across the walls behind them. The scene inspired the disheartening observation that in Corbeau's world medieval brutality enjoyed all the advantages of modern technology. She was in a Gothic nightmare, held inside an impregnable medieval
donjon
by jailers who dressed in corporate security uniforms. A bit of electricity might have made things seem almost normal.
When each man had placed his torch in a stand, Julian Corbeau entered the room with an oddly unsettling majesty. He was in his mid-fifties, trim, small and unnaturally erect. Ethan's research indicated the man had not spent a single day in military training, but it was hard to believe. He presented himself as the consummate general. She knew collectors from every nation, people with whom her father had dealt over the years, men and women who operated outside the boundaries of law with the arrogance that comes of owning politicians, but she had never seen a man with as much self-assurance as this one. It was as if he imagined himself invested with the powers of a deity.
Giving North no portion of his attention, Corbeau looked at Kate as if shopping for delicacies. He did not care if she feared him. This was not a show of power. He wanted only to enjoy himself. When it seemed he had, Corbeau glanced in the direction of the guards who had placed themselves along the wall. One of the men stepped forward and presented his weapon as if offering it for inspection. Corbeau took the shotgun and pointed it at Nicole North. It was the
first time he had even considered North's presence.
'There is nothing I would enjoy more than killing you, Dr North,' he announced in English. 'Fortunately for you, you have some value if your uncle decides to trade my painting for your life. That said I don't particularly care about the condition of your body as long as you are alive, so you would do well to answer my questions quickly and honestly.
'You, Lady Kenyon,' he said shifting to Italian but in no other way directing his attention away from North, 'are a different matter. I extend to you the rights and courtesy due a prisoner of war. For the time being I have no intention of causing you even a moment of pain. Not a bruise if I can help it. If you don't cooperate with my interrogation, I tell you freely, nothing at all will happen to you.'
He shifted his gaze to Kate, and without smiling still managed to express his amusement. 'You don't look as if you believe me.'
'I don't.' Kate told him in English.
Corbeau nodded and the guard who had presented him with his weapon walked up to Kate, touching her shoulder gently. In German he said to her, 'Against the wall, please.' Kate gave way under the pressure of his fingertips and felt the cold masonry against her shoulders. The guard spoke again in German. 'Your hand, please?' Kate presented her hand. She could imagine that he meant to separate it from her body. That was a thief's punishment, but as there was nothing she could do to prevent it, she simply steeled herself for the inevitable - whatever it was.
Gently, with all the courtesy of an escort helping a
woman from a car, he lifted her wrist until it was above her head. The cuff snapped over her flesh with surprising ease. Startled, Kate looked up and saw the handcuffs. With her free hand she swung angrily at the guard catching his nose with a swift, sweet crack. The young man covered his face with his hands and began to bleed. A single cry of pain had escaped his lips as she broke his nose, but that was the only sound he offered.
'Shoot her,' Corbeau said in German. He spoke with the indifference of a man who has given such an order numerous times. Both guards leveled their weapons and fired once at Nicole North. North screamed as she was thrown back against the wall and then fell to the cindered floor. After a moment of stunned silence, North gasped in pain and gave a violent, inarticulate scream.
'Rubber bullets,' Corbeau said in Italian, his eyes holding Kate's gaze with a lover's intensity. 'I expect right now she thinks she's dying. As I understand it, the pain is nothing compared to having one's flesh burned away. Perhaps you'll refuse to cooperate again and give her a chance to find out. Now, if you would be so kind, give this gentleman your hand, and for the sake of your friend here do not make me ask anything twice. I assure you, I will unchain you both after we have talked, but I've seen the video surveillance tapes of you in action, and to be honest I won't feel entirely comfortable until you're secure.'
North stayed on the floor, her groans still loud.
Corbeau told his guard in German to ask Kate for her hand.
The guard stepped up to her quietly, his nose dripping blood. 'Please?' Kate let the guard snap the cuff around her wrist. Next he cuffed each ankle.
It did not help Kate's fears to watch her gentle guard lift North up roughly by her arm and slam her against the wall. He actually threw his head back and forth, letting his blood splatter across North's face. As she cringed and shrieked, he cuffed her wrists and ankles brutally. That accomplished, he ripped her clothes away. Certain now of what came next, North broke down. Her prayers for pity meant nothing to Corbeau. He was not even looking at her. His eyes remained fixed on Kate. His promises to the contrary, Kate was sure Corbeau meant for them both to be raped before he proceeded to the more delicate arts of the Inquisition.
'Leave us,' Corbeau said in German. As the three guards left, he passed the weapon back to the guard.
When they were alone, Corbeau walked over to examine North's wounds. She whimpered quietly as he touched her flesh. 'What do you want?' she asked.
