“So,” Carl went on. “You’re perfect. Did anyone ever tell you that your face, Christopher, is the quintessential honest face? Successful museum director on his way back from a meeting in France. Nobody’s going to stop you and say, ‘Do you mind telling us something about that little painting you have concealed in your suitcase, Mr. Thomas?’”
Christopher looked at Carl, who was studying him intently, a bemused expression on his face.
“Sorry to have to say this, Christopher, to an old friend, but those who have been party to my confidences and then… and then have forgotten to keep them, have become unwell. Quite unwell.”
Christopher couldn’t believe Carl was threatening him. He moved back toward the door.
“Well?” asked Carl.
“I have to say yes, don’t I?” said Christopher.
Carl slipped the painting into a velvet sack and handed it to him.
Christopher stashed the painting in his room, then went to the drawing room, where the other guests were seated, enjoying conversation over late-night cups of coffee. He sat down. Neither Justine nor the German woman was there. After a few minutes he excused himself. His encounter with Carl had left him feeling raw.
The following morning he knocked on Justine’s door, and when she opened it, he leaned forward and kissed her.
She turned her cheek and looked away.
“Please. Let’s not be children.” He took her hand. “There’s something I need to ask you to do. Can you be discreet?”
“Of course I can. You know that.”
“We need to get a painting back into the States. Can you take it in your cabin baggage? The painting is not large.”
“Why me?”
He used Carl’s line. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you how innocent your face is-and how lovely?”
“What sort of painting?”
“You’ll know when you see it.” He paused. “So you’ll do it?” Justine thought a moment. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
3 Raymond Khoury
I’m seeing him this evening,” Christopher Thomas said into his cell phone as he stared out the glass wall of his office at the marina below. “I’m going there at six.”
“Call me when you’re done,” the voice on the other end said.
The curator demurred. “It’ll be late for you. I’ll call you in the morning-your morning-and let you know how it went.”
A small smile curled up the edge of his mouth as he listened to the silent acquiescence on the other end of the line. He wasn’t being unreasonable. Carl Porter was in France; Christopher was in San Francisco. There was a nine-hour time difference between them, and Christopher knew full well that 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. conversations with anyone were best avoided, especially when they were about something as sensitive as what they were discussing. But it wasn’t just about being reasonable. It was more than that. It was about keeping the upper hand. Keeping control. And if there was one thing Christopher Thomas was good at, it was staying in control. Even in situations that he’d been forced into, such as this one.
“I’ll expect your call at seven,” Porter grumbled back, clearly unhappy with being dictated to.
“Count on it,” Christopher replied before hanging up, his pulse racing with mixed emotions.
He’d hadn’t liked being forced-even threatened-by Porter into smuggling the Botticelli into the United States. Christopher Thomas wasn’t used to being forced to do anything for anyone. But his anger had gradually been superseded by greedy exhilaration at the potential outcome of it all. He stood to make a lot of money from the sale of the painting, and that was nothing to be angry about, especially now, when he needed it.
His eyes lingered on the view outside his office. It was a prestigious view, one that spoke of status, one that only a man who had attained a certain level of success in his line of work could ever hope to have. It was the view of a man who had arrived.
The McFall Art Museum had a prestigious location too, on the northern waterfront of the city, right on Marina Boulevard, and as its star curator, Christopher had a corner office. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind his desk and took in a gleaming white gin palace that was gliding out of the marina down below, his gaze eschewing the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge that stretched beyond and locking instead on two tanned, bikini-clad playthings cavorting on the yacht’s rear deck. The sight stirred something within him, a hunger that had driven him for as long as he could remember, a hunger for bigger and better things. A hunger that, if anything, his conversation with Carl Porter was about to help nourish if he played his cards right.
He watched the yacht drift away, checked his watch, then turned and sat at his desk, taking in the sumptuous world he’d created for himself in his office. Suddenly, it seemed to pale by comparison, despite the cosseting it offered and the wealth of character it presented. It had never failed to impress those who had been invited into its hallowed ground: exquisite chairs and side tables by Frank Lloyd Wright and Michael Graves spread out around his sleek Ross Lovegrove glass-and-steel desk; a grandiose B &B Italia shelving system, housing his perfectly arranged collection of hardcover art books, many of them signed and inscribed for Christopher by the artists whose works they contained; posters of past exhibitions Christopher had put together over the years showcasing the works of some of the biggest names in contemporary art; and the space for rotating works of art borrowed from the museum’s collection-currently a huge self-portrait of Chuck Close that dazzled in its intricate patterns of color-adding to the splendor of the office. It was a splendid place to work, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.
Much more.
He checked his watch again and let out a deep breath. Four hours to go.
He hated to wait, but he didn’t have a choice. He leaned back in his plush Eames desk chair, shut his eyes, and focused on the money that would soon be in his hands.
He arrived early at the restorer’s premises and, as a precaution, parked a block away before walking briskly to the workshop’s entrance, a black leather portfolio held firmly in his hand. The restorer answered the buzzer himself and let him in, the studio’s heavy steel door clanging shut behind him.
“Always a pleasure to see you, my friend,” Nico Bandini said as he shook his hand heartily, “and just in time for a nice little shot of grappa to kick off the evening, yes?”
“Perfetto,” Christopher answered with a smile. “Who am I to break with tradition?”
He followed the gregarious art restorer through the high-ceilinged studio. All around them, a small army of craftsmen in white overcoats sat hunched at their workplaces, toiling away like monks in a medieval scriptorium, peering with supreme concentration through their magnifying lenses, painstakingly cleaning and repairing valuable works of art, seemingly unaffected by the heady smell of paints, oils, and varnishes that smothered the loftlike space.
“Busy?” Christopher said, more an observation than a question.
“I’m doing all right,” Bandini replied. “There is always a demand for fine arts, especially when the economy is this good.”
“That’s true, you can always find a buyer when it comes to the arts.” Christopher noted, consciously positioning himself for what was to come.
“If you can even call some of it art,” Bandini scoffed. “People are willing to pay through the nose for some ridiculous polka dots printed up by one of Damien Hirst’s minions.” He shook his head. “The world’s gone crazy, hasn’t it?”
“In more ways than one. But, hey, I’m not complaining. Nor will you when you see what I have here.”
Bandini smiled, then led Christopher into his office, closing the door behind him.
“Hit that lock too, would you?” Christopher asked.
“Of course.” The restorer clicked the lock into place. “I know this isn’t a social call. So what have you got for me this time?”