Full Circle (37 page)
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I am aware of that, sir.” James allowed his dark, opaque eyes to rest for a moment upon Bernhardt. Then, solemnly, he shifted his gaze to the woman. His meaning was clear.
Bernhardt’s smile was reflective now as he nodded once to James. Yes, one male animal to another, Bernhardt understood. The woman possessed him.
For a long, final moment neither of them spoke or looked directly at each other. Then, in response to some secret sign from the woman, moving with great deliberation, James put his pistol and Uzi on the floor of the Accord. In a companionable group, as they walked to the BMW, Bernhardt looked at Tate and nodded. So far, so good.
When they were clear of the garage, Bernhardt stopped the van, got out, activated the electronic wand. As the door came down, he tossed the wand and house keys inside the garage. Then he got back in the van, behind the wheel. He and Paula sat in the front seat, the Uzi on the floor between them. Tate followed in the Taurus with the sawed-off. As the tension subsided, the dogs dozed, their heads pillowed on the duffel bag filled with thousand-dollar bills. Bernhardt drew a deep breath, smiled at Paula.
“Last lap.”
“Thank God. I’m a wreck.”
They were still parked in the driveway, engine running. Bernhardt surveyed the scene: the Accord, empty, parked at the curb to his left; the BMW, also parked, to their right. In the BMW, the woman who called herself Andrea sat with both hands on the steering wheel. James sat beside her, his hands concealed. It was possible, Bernhardt knew, that there were more weapons inside the BMW; he’d decided not to check when he escorted them to the car. They might have pistols, but he had the Uzi, along with the keys to their car. He’d decided to discount the possibility that they traveled with a second set of keys, a negligible risk.
“I’m turning left,” Bernhardt said, speaking to Tate. “You can watch them as we drive away.”
“Right.”
Bernhardt released the parking brake, waited for a car to pass, backed the van out of the driveway. As he turned left, away from the BMW, Paula said, “Didn’t you tell them you were going to toss them the keys when it was all over?”
“That’s true, I did. But I lied.”
“I
T WASN’T THE MONEY
,” DuBois said. “James would never do it for the money.”
“Whatever the woman told him to do,” Bernhardt said, “he did. I had the impression of an automaton.”
“Before I hired him, I commissioned a background check, of course. I was told there was a woman. Her grandfather was a high-ranking Nazi who fled to Argentina during the last days of the war. When she was very young, her parents were killed by the guerrilla band that James’s parents led. Afterwards, she went with the band—with James. By all reports she was remarkable, even at a very young age. She was beautiful, ruthless, acutely intelligent. And, like her grandfather, utterly amoral.”
Bernhardt nodded decisively. “That’s her. Do you have a name?”
DuBois waved to the filing cabinets built into the wall beside his desk. “It’s in James’s file. If you care to read the file, you’re welcome.”
With thanks, Bernhardt nodded, then shook his head. Not now.
“If you’ve made an enemy of this woman,” DuBois said, “you should be careful.”
“What about you, sir?” Bernhardt gestured to the bagful of thousand-dollar bills he’d carried from the garage, where Paula and Tate now waited. “This money—what about security, with James gone?”
“When you left with the paintings I called my lawyer. Mr. Robbins. He has arranged for a Brinks truck to take the money from here to Powers and Associates at my command. Whereupon I’d planned to contact Mr. Powers, with instructions to deposit the money in a trading account. However, I’m somehow unable to contact Mr. Powers. He—”
“From something Graham said,” Bernhardt interrupted, “I have the feeling that Powers, ah, defected.”
“You mean—” The old man let it go unfinished.
“It looks like both James and Powers betrayed you, Mr. Dubois. All that money …” Heavily, Bernhardt shook his head, dropped his eyes to the large earth-brown duffel bag and the small red nylon flight bag resting against the it. The duffel bag contained eighteen million dollars. The flight bag contained Bernhardt’s commission: two million dollars.
“But the paintings,” DuBois said. “You believe, do you not, that Graham will deliver the paintings to his people in New York.”
“Yes, sir, I do. I believe that he intended to steal them. But then I believe he lost his nerve. Or came to his senses, take your pick.”
“Ah.” DuBois nodded. “If that is true, then it is all that matters.” DuBois nodded again, an expression of philosophical resignation to betrayal. If anyone understood the mechanics of greed, it was surely Raymond DuBois.
“Mr. DuBois …” This time Bernhardt pointed to the bags filled with thousand-dollar bills. “James must know I’d bring the money here. And he’s out there somewhere, with that woman. He’s got all your security codes. Everything. Christ, you—you’re defenseless.”
DuBois nodded calmly. “I know.”
“But I—I can’t leave you like this.”
Once more the old man nodded. Then, faintly, he smiled. “I know, Mr. Bernhardt. I know.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1994 by Collin Wilcox
Cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4804-4652-6
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