A squat KGB man came up.
“No one to leave until we have checked for damage!” he barked.
“Sure,” Scooner said. “This is a hoax. I’ll talk to these people.”
Using his bull-horn, Scooner, now sweating and knowing he was in trouble, explained to the crowd that some joker had let off a smoke bomb and before anyone could leave, names and addresses were needed. Would they all queue up in the lobby and when it had been ascertained that no damage had been done, they would be free to leave.
Relaxing, the crowd began to laugh. They seemed to think it was a good joke against the Soviet Union.
As soon as the first floor had been cleared, the KGB men went through the exhibits, looking for damage. To Scooner’s startled surprise, they all seemed to be art experts. One of them going to the icon in its glass case, stared at it, then stepped over the guard rope and found the glass case unlocked.
Watching him, Scooner’s heart sank. An alarm should have sounded as the KGB man opened the case.
The KGB man snatched the icon from the case, glared at it, then turned to Scooner, his face purple with rage.
“This is a fake!” he screamed.
Hearing this, Trumbler turned and rushed to the nearest telephone.
A black 280SL Mercedes pulled into a disused builder’s yard and into a shed out of sight of the street.
Ed Haddon consulted his watch. Give or take, he had a ten-minute wait. He was completely relaxed. His confidence in Lu Bradey was unshakeable. The operation had been well planned. Only bad luck could turn it sour, and Haddon didn’t believe in either bad nor good luck.
Nine minutes later, an ambulance drove into the yard. A tall black man slid out, ran to the double gates and closed them. The driver ran over to Haddon and gave him the thumbs-up sign.
“No problems, boss,” he said, beaming. “Sweet as honey.”
The tall black had opened the rear of the ambulance and the Vietnamese girl, no longer looking pregnant, wearing dark red slacks and a yellow blouse, clothes that had been waiting for her in the ambulance, came running over to Haddon. She thrust the icon through the window. Haddon examined it, satisfied himself it was the original, then produced three envelopes. He gave two of them to the blacks, and the third to the Vietnamese girl.
“Okay,” he said. “Get the gates open and get lost.”
The tall black opened the gates, and with a wave of his hand, Haddon drove just below the legal speed limit, out on to the street and headed for the airport.
Arriving at the airport parking lot, he reached for a suitcase, lying on the back seats. Opening it, pushing aside his overnight articles, he pressed a concealed spring and the false bottom of the case opened. He slid in the icon, then snapped the suitcase shut and leaving the Mercedes, walked over to the departure centre. He checked in under a false name. The girl recognizing an executive big-shot gave him a sexy smile.
“The Miami flight in ten minutes,” she said.
Nodding, Haddon paused to buy a copy of Time, then proceeded to the departure lounge, joining other busmess-men, also on their way to Miami.
Arriving at Miami airport, he hired a Lincoln from the Hertz desk and headed for Paradise City. As he edged his way into the traffic, he glanced at his watch. The time was 15.05. Nice going, he thought. Not for a moment did he wonder what was happening to Lu Bradey, but he smiled, imagining the commotion that must be going on at the Fine Arts museum. Bradey most certainly would have taken care of himself, and was probably now heading for New York.
An hour later, Haddon walked into Kendrick’s Gallery where Louis de Marney was nervously moving around, shifting objects, putting them back in their original places, tense with waiting. At the sight of Haddon, he caught his breath.
“Claude?” Haddon said curtly.
“In his office... waiting,” Louis said. “Did... did you get it?”
“What do you think?”
Haddon walked through the gallery, then pushed open Kendrick’s door. Kendrick was pacing up and down, his wig askew.
“Ed! Chéri!” he eclaimed. “I’ve been in utter torment! Have you...?”
Haddon closed the door and walked over to Kendrick’s desk. He laid the suitcase on the desk, snapped open the locks, pressed the spring, and turning with a wide smile, handed the icon to Kendrick.
“Dear God!” Kendrick muttered. “And how I worried! I should have known! Marvellous, marvellous man!” Then he stared apprehensively at Haddon. “Any trouble? No horrid violence?”
Haddon’s smile widened.
“Went as sweet as honey. Now it’s your turn to do some work.”
“Yes... yes.” Kendrick lumbered to the door and called for Louis. Then he went to his desk telephone and dialled his cousin’s number. When Maverick answered, Kendrick said, “The goods have arrived. I am sending Louis to you right away.” He listened, then said, “A beautiful job. No problems,” and he hung up.
Louis slid into the room. At the sight of the icon, his little eyes lit up.
“My pet,” Kendrick said. “Wrap this, and take it to Roger. He is waiting and ready. You know what to do.”
Louis picked up the icon and studied it.
“I think my colours are nicer, don’t you, baby?”
“Hurry... hurry.”
When Louis had gone, Kendrick went to the liquor cabinet.
“I am in such a nervous state, I must have a brandy,” he said. “Dear Ed. Join me.”
“No, thanks. Nervous? I told you I’d get it, and I’ve got it. The time to get nervous is when the real heat is on which will be around two hours’ time.”
“Yes. I can imagine. Those Vietnamese? The police will be horrid to them.”
“So what? They know nothing. The only two in on this are the pregnant girls. The one with the smoke bomb got rid of her belly basket in a toilet. Her clothes were reversible. She has false papers. She left the toilet and mingled with the crowd: just another art lover. Even if the cops catch up with her, she won’t talk. The girl who gave me the icon is probably in New York by now, and lost.”
Kendrick lifted his wig to mop his bald head.
“And Lu?”
Haddon laughed.
“Lu is the one man you never need worry about.”
Kendrick sipped his brandy, then came to his desk and sat down.
“So, it now remains for that dreadful Lepski to carry the icon to Switzerland, then we are rich.”
“That’s it,” Haddon said. “It’s a sweet operation.” Then he paused and stared at Kendrick. “Always provided your buyer doesn’t stall at the last moment. Six million is a lot of loot to find. Are you sure of him, Claude?”
“Certainly. He is enormously rich. Yes, I am sure of him.” Claude again sipped his brandy, then an uneasy thought crept into his mind. Could he be sure when dealing with Herman Radnitz? Could anyone be sure when dealing with this ruthless tycoon?
Even another gulp of brandy didn’t soothe his jumping nerves.
Fred Scooner was trying to placate Karrass Keremski, Head of the KGB security guards.
“For God’s sake, take it easy,” he was saying. “Okay, the icon has been stolen, but it must still be in the building. The moment the smoke started, I had all exits sealed. No one has left the museum. The thief is still here, and the icon is still here. This is a stunt by the Anti-Soviet League to cause trouble. Everyone will be checked, and their names and addresses taken. Ten of my men are already searching the whole museum. It’s my bet, they’ll find the icon.”
Keremski glowered.
“The icon is gone!”
Scooner turned away. He went to the head of the steps and looked down at the patient queue, giving their names and addresses, and submitting to a body search.
Hurley, guarding the exit doors, let them out as he or she handed him a clearance chit. The operation was going smoothly, and Scooner was satisfied that no one could smuggle out the icon.