The label on the reverse told the story of those missing years. It had been sequestered by Joseph Goebbels, who had hung it in a bedroom used by one of his lovers — appropriate, perhaps, given that the painting's subject is the rape of Lucretia, a chaste Roman wife. In 1945, when Goebbels's estate in Bogensee was overrun, an officer of the Soviet 61st Army smuggled the painting back to Russia, folded underneath his tunic. It then fell into the hands of the authorities, who had placed it down here along with everything else. Kristenko couldn't stop himself from smiling, as if seeing the painting had somehow initiated him into a secret club.
Reluctantly, he returned the Rubens to the pile and continued his search. But no sooner had his heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm than he found a Raphael. The label identified it as Portrait of a Young Man, formerly the property of the Czartoryski Museum in Krakow. Then, ten minutes later he stumbled upon a van Gogh. The label named it as Flowers in an Earthenware Jug and recorded that it had been confiscated by the Nazis from a chateau in the Dordo-gne in 1944.
By now Kristenko was flying, but his smile collapsed into an angry frown as he was struck by the injustice of such works of genius being consigned to this forgotten place rather than displayed for all to enjoy. For the next hour, as he continued his search, he fumed over the cavalier treatment of these great treasures, despairing at his powerlessness to do anything about it.
It was hardly surprising, therefore, given his mood, that the Bellak portrait almost passed him by. In fact, he had flipped three or four paintings beyond it before the similarity to the photograph registered and he turned back to find it.
Not the most prepossessing of subjects, he thought. A plain, sad-looking girl in a rather severe green dress sat next to an open window with sky and fields beyond. He couldn't imagine why the Englishman should be prepared to pay fifty thousand dollars for this. There was none of van Gogh's inspired use of color or Raphael's mastery of perspective, and the brushwork was clumsy and heavy-handed compared to the genius that had touched Rubens's work. True, most artists would suffer in comparison to those yardsticks, but this was mediocre at best.
On the other hand, if a lost Rubens or a Raphael were suddenly to surface it would create waves in the art world. The museum director or one of the other curators might even remember having seen it in the storeroom. Questions would be asked. Records checked.
This, however, would never be missed.
Kristenko lifted it clear of the rack. Then, holding it carefully in front of him, he flipped off the light, closed the door behind him, and retraced his steps to where he'd left the guards.
"Found what you were looking for, Boris Ivanovich?" one of them asked good-naturedly, stubbing out his cigarette on the metal-tipped heel of his black boot.
"Yes, thank you," said Kristenko. "You can lock up now."
He cautiously navigated his way down the stairs to the Restoration Department on the second floor. The main atelier was dark and empty, as he had known it would be. Here and there, pieces in different stages of repair nestled under protective white sheets. The more valuable items had been locked away for the night in the large walk-in vault at the end of the room.
Kristenko pulled the mobile phone from his pocket and dialed the number stored in the memory. It was answered on the third ring.
"Yes?"
Kristenko recognized the Englishman's voice. "I've found it."
"Excellent." A flicker of surprise in the man's voice suggested that he'd been quicker than they expected.
"What now?" he asked uncertainly. "How do I get my money?"
"You take some photos, as agreed. When we're sure you've got the right painting, you bring it to us and then we make the exchange."
A pause as Kristenko considered this. "How do I know you've got the money?"
"Don't you trust us, Boris?" the voice asked mockingly.
"As much as you trust me."
"Very well." Slight impatience in the man's voice now. "When we come to check the photos, we'll bring the money along so you can see it. We've got it ready. As soon as you give us the painting, the money's yours."
"Good. Let's say ten o'clock in Decembrist's Square. Near the Bronze Horseman."
Kristenko ended the call and placed the phone on the desk in front of him, unable, almost, to let it go. When he finally snatched his hand away, he realized that he was sweating, his palms slick, his mouth dry.
He was really going to do this.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Even on a cold January evening, the area around the base of the Bronze Horseman was thronged with tourists and locals taking pictures. Peter the Great and his rearing horse seemed frozen in the glare of the sodium lighting, a gleaming shadow thrown up into the clear night sky.
Tom was talking to Archie on the two-way radio, the microphone clipped to his collar, the clear plastic earpiece invisible against his skin. It felt slightly ridiculous, considering that they were only a few hundred feet apart, but Turnbull had insisted. Kristenko, already jittery, might be spooked completely if he thought that Tom had brought company.
"You feeling any better?" Archie asked.
"Yeah," Tom lied. Although the painkillers and the vodka were helping, just buttoning up his coat had made his shoulder throb and his eyes screw up with pain.
"It's brass monkeys out here, isn't it." Tom could hear Archie's teeth chattering with the cold.
"Well, hopefully he'll be here soon. Where is everyone?"
"I'm on the north side of the square. Turnbull and the others are over on the south side."
Tom glanced around and located him, then looked away.
"I see you. What about Viktor's men?"
"Standing by, in case we need them. Which could be very soon — I've just spotted Kristenko."
"Okay, let's switch to the main frequency." Tom pressed one of the preset buttons on the radio in his pocket. "Viktor, Dom — Kristenko's on his way."
"He's just walking past the Admiralty," Archie confirmed. "Should be coming round the corner soon."
"Any sign of the painting?" Tom asked.
"He's not carrying anything. He must have left it inside, like he said he would."
"Turned into quite the operator, has old Kristenko," Tom observed.
"Maybe I'll offer him a job." Viktor chuckled. "Okay, you should see him any second now," whispered Archie.
On cue, Kristenko turned the corner of the Admiralty and began to make his way cautiously across the square. Every few steps he threw a furtive glance over his shoulder.
"Christ, he couldn't look more guilty if he tried," Archie muttered, following behind.
Catching sight of Tom, Kristenko gave a half wave, then snatched his arm back to his side as if he'd realized that he shouldn't be drawing attention to himself. Tom gave a barely noticeable nod.
Under the rearing horse's flashing hooves, the two men shook hands.
"Do you have my money?" Kristenko's eyes were wide and scared.
"Show me the painting first," Tom insisted.
Kristenko fumbled in his pocket and brought out the digital camera Tom had lent him. After rapidly scrolling through the images, Tom looked up with a nod.
"And my money?" said Kristenko eagerly.
Tom held out a frayed shoulder bag he'd borrowed from Viktor. Kristenko unzipped the top and peered inside. "I should count it," he said uncertainly.