Full Circle (6 page)

“If you want to take me into custody and make a charge”—Bernhardt pushed back the leather armchair on its easy-roll casters, rose to his feet—“then you’d better make it. Otherwise, I’ve got an appointment. Sorry.” He contrived a small, insulting smile and walked to the door.

“Don’t do it, Bernhardt. I’m warning you. Don’t open that door.”

“Sorry,” he repeated as he turned the knob.

“M
R. BERNHARDT.” IT WAS
a statement, not a question.

About to twist the key and open the Honda Civic’s door, Bernhardt straightened, turned to face a smiling, affably nodding, middle-aged man standing on the sidewalk a few feet from the car.

“Open-faced” and “convincing” were the adjectives that came to mind. “Gregarious” fitted, too, and a quick appraisal of the stranger’s tweed sports jacket, flannel trousers, button-down shirt, and soft wool tie suggested “Ivy League.”

“John Graham,” the newcomer said, extending his hand. Predictably his grip was firm, but not competitive. “If you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you.” As he spoke, he took a business card from an inside pocket of the expensively cut houndstooth jacket.

JOHN GRAHAM

Special Accounts

The Consolidated Insurance Group

New York, London, Berne, Tokyo, Frankfurt

“If you’ve got a few minutes,” Graham said, “I’d like to discuss something with you. A business proposition.”

Bernhardt reflexively ran a thumb over the card. Predictably, it was engraved. “I’ve only got a few minutes now. But—” He smiled. “I’m always interested in a business proposition.”

Graham consulted a thin gold watch as he said, “I’m staying at the Fairmont. What about four o’clock, in my room?”

“How about four-thirty?”

“Four-thirty is fine.”

“Can you give me a general idea of what we’ll be talking about?”

“We’ll be talking about art, Mr. Bernhardt. Art and insurance. And losses. And settlements. Very large settlements.” Graham’s manner had become more somber, perhaps out of respect for the magnitude of the sums he meant to discuss.

John Graham’s two-room suite was expensively decorated in imitation Italian Renaissance. The antiqued white and gold tables were claw-footed, cupids adorned the living room’s cornices, the crystal chandeliers sparkled, the velvet upholstery was luxuriously soft to the touch. The view swept across downtown San Francisco and out over the bay to Berkeley. The daily rate, Bernhardt estimated, would be at least five hundred dollars.

As Graham waved him to an armchair he smiled cordially. “Is it too early for a drink, do you think?”

“Whatever you say.” Bernhardt returned the smile.

“I figure you for a white-wine man,” Graham said. “Am I right?”

“You’re close. Actually I’m a red-wine man.”

“Ah, good. Anything in particular? Cabernet?”

“Cabernet is fine.”

Graham called room service, then settled back on a small love seat. Although Graham reclined at his ease, it was obvious that his preference wasn’t for velvet furniture. He wore no jacket or tie, and his button-down Oxford shirt was open at the neck. He was robustly built, and moved with the easy confidence of a man who had always been able to take care of himself. His complexion was ruddy, his casually combed hair was ginger, thinning across the top. Beneath thick ginger eyebrows, behind gold-framed designer glasses that resembled the aviator glasses Bernhardt wore, Graham’s eyes were a bright, lively blue. This man, Bernhardt decided, had never suffered the pangs of self-doubt. For Graham, life was a pleasure.

“I understand,” Graham said, “that you were a playwright—that you had plays produced off Broadway.”

“One play. It closed after twelve performances.”

“Still.” Graham gestured with a freckled hand. “That’s a big deal. Did you ever try Hollywood?”

Bernhardt nodded. “Years ago. It didn’t work out. When I arrived in Los Angeles the studio sent a limo for me, and put me up at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a week. When I left, I couldn’t even find someone to take me to the airport.”

Graham studied the other man’s face, then said softly, “That’s a sad little story.”

Bernhardt shrugged. “The arts. It’s survival of the fittest. A lot of people don’t realize that.”

“So now you’re a PI.”

“Now I’m a PI.”

“And you’ve got Raymond DuBois for a client.”

Bernhardt nodded to himself. Yes, this was about the moment the other man would choose for his opening move. Graham had played this game before. Many times.

“I think,” Bernhardt said, “that you’d better tell me why you’re asking.”

“It’s like I said at the Federal Building. I’m in the insurance business. We’re a reinsurance company. In fact, we’re one of the biggest reinsurers in the world. Let’s say one of the major insurance companies insures a work of art for—pick a number—ten million dollars. Which, these days, is modest. The client would probably be an art museum. But it could be a rich collector—an American, probably, or a Japanese. In any case, it would be prudent for the primary carrier to lay off some of the risk. That’s where we come in. If it’s a measly million-dollar deal, we probably wouldn’t be interested. Ten million, that’s different. So then let’s say the painting, if that’s what it is, gets stolen. We pay the primary carrier ten million, and he pays off the client. And then—” For emphasis, Graham let a beat pass before he said, “And then we start looking for the painting.”

“And that’s where you come in.”

As Bernhardt spoke, a uniformed youth arrived with a glass of cabernet sauvignon and a double Scotch on the rocks. Graham signed the chit, waited for the room service waiter to leave. Then, after a silent toast and a deeply appreciative sip of Scotch, he nodded. “Precisely. That’s where I come in. And the truth is, I’m a man who loves his work. I just turned fifty. Most of my life I was a pretty conventional product of old New England money. You know—Choate for prep school, then Yale. Then it was the canyons of New York, dressed in the mandatory Brooks Brothers suit and carrying the mandatory attaché case. Christ.” Ruefully Graham shook his head. “I think I might at least have worn a derby, except that I didn’t quite have the nerve. But, anyhow, I spent the first forty years of my life exactly as programmed. I married a girl from Smith who, in fact, majored in art history. We bought a house in Connecticut, and we raised two well-behaved little girls. Meanwhile, I was positioning myself for a vice president’s slot at Prudential. But then—” Graham broke off, sipped more Scotch. He smiled reflectively, fondly. “Then, the week after I turned forty—the very week—it all turned around for me. It was incredible, really. The first part of the week—it was a Tuesday—I had lunch with one of my ex-roommates. He’d already made VP, at Consolidated. His name was Charlie Lucke, and he was a man in a hurry. He’d called me for the lunch, so I knew he had something on his mind. He never did anything that wouldn’t turn him a profit eventually. So, after the first martini, he told me about an opening at Consolidated. It was a brand-new department, he said, and he knew I’d be right for the job. His real purpose, of course, was to fill high-level slots at Consolidated with Charlie Lucke loyalists, so that when he made his move for CEO, he’d have a cheering section already in place.”

“And is that what happened?”

Graham’s wide, slightly freckled face broke into a cheerful grin. “That’s the way it was going, no question. But a couple of years later, on the tennis courts, Charlie dropped dead. He’d been warned not to play singles.”

“So did you take the job?”

“I had a week to decide. At first, I wasn’t going to take it. Even Charlie wasn’t smooth enough to gloss over the potential pitfalls. I mean, Christ, the job represented the exact antithesis of every professional guideline I’d set for myself. I wanted predictability in my life, and especially in my work. And what Charlie was offering, by its nature, was off the reservation. But then—” Now Graham’s smile turned wry, ruefully philosophical. “But then, three days later—it was on Friday night, at the country club—I discovered that, for Christ’s sake, my wife had been screwing the goddam
golf
pro. And everyone—
everyone
—knew about it. Except me.”

“So you decided to take the job.”

“That’s right.” Graham finished his drink, and looked reflectively at the empty glass. “I drove home from the club, packed a couple of suitcases, and drove to New York that same night. Monday I called Charlie and told him I’d take the job.”

“And you’ve still got the job,” Bernhardt said, then drained his own glass.

“I’ve still got the job. And I love it. I am to Consolidated what the CIA is to the government: a spook. Except for the woman who’s my personal assistant and secretary”—his smile became even broader for a split second—“nobody besides the president of the company and three directors have any idea what I do. I have complete freedom, and an expense account to match. Heaven on earth, in other words. Hell, I even carry a gun sometimes. Personally, I think carrying a gun is a bad idea. But the truth is”—Graham’s grin turned sly—“the gun turns my secretary on. She’s twenty-seven, and she’s got—ah—an inventive imagination.”

Tongue in cheek, Bernhardt returned the grin. He decided he was going to enjoy bantering with John Graham.

“By this time,” Graham said, “I’m sure you know where I’m going with this. There are a couple of stolen paintings—Renoir’s
The Three Sisters
is one—that we have reason to believe are in a secret collection belonging to Raymond DuBois. They were stolen from the National Gallery. I’m sure you remember the theft.” Graham looked expectantly at Bernhardt, who nodded on cue. At the time the theft had been billed the biggest art theft ever. And yet, almost immediately, the story had died in the press.

“
The Three Sisters
was appraised for twenty-five million,” Graham said, “and the other one—a Rembrandt study that was only given a studio number—was also appraised for twenty-five million. Prudential was the primary insurer, but they only wanted to keep ten million. We reinsured the two paintings for everything left—forty million dollars.” Graham spoke evenly, almost casually. “Obviously, the chances of recovering a stolen painting—or anything that’s stolen—diminishes with the passage of time, and it began to look like the two paintings might not be recoverable. At that point Prudential offered us their claim on the paintings for fifty percent of their end—five million, in other words. Mostly to preserve good customer relations, we took the deal. So now we own the paintings. Or, more precisely, we have clear title.”

Bernhardt put his empty glass on a small, round, marble-topped table. The base of the table was two entwined amoretti, male and female. A second look at them revealed that the male had one hand cupped artfully around the female’s breast.

“Have you talked to Raymond DuBois?” Bernhardt asked.

“DuBois is totally inaccessible. At least—” Graham looked meaningfully at Bernhardt. “At least for the likes of me he’s inaccessible.”

Bernhardt made no response.

“More wine?”

“No, thanks.”

“What about you, Mr. Bernhardt? Do you have access to DuBois?”

“If you didn’t think I had access, we wouldn’t be having this little talk, would we?”

Graham chuckled appreciatively. “Touché.”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told the FBI. If you’re willing to put everything on the table, then I’ll decide what I’m willing to tell. But not otherwise.”

Graham smiled. “I’d be interested to know how Haigh reacted to that kind of talk.”

“No comment.”

Reflectively Graham allowed his eyes to wander across the room. Then he glanced at his watch, saying: “I have a feeling we can do business together. So if you’ve got a half hour or so, I’ll be happy to fill you in.”

“In that case …” Bernhardt gestured to the empty wine glass. Graham ordered two more drinks, then began:

“In almost two years, I’ve done little else but try to recover these paintings. Especially since, surprise, the market value of the Renoir, in particular, has soared. I’ve spent thousands on bribes, and thousands more picking up the checks at four-star restaurants. ‘Enhancing my credibility’ is the operative phrase. These art thieves, you see, are high rollers.”

“What about the police?” Bernhardt asked. “How do they fit in?”

“In this business you’ve got to choose. Do business with the police, and the crooks won’t talk to you.”

“What happens if the police find out you’re doing business with the crooks?”

“That,” Graham said, “depends on how surefooted you are. It also depends on geography. In most countries, all it takes is a little judicious bribery to keep the police happy. In general, everyone knows what everyone else is doing, so everyone’s calculating the odds. The crooks have only two interests—getting as much for a painting as possible, and then getting away clean, staying out of jail. The police, of course, want to look as good as possible, by catching the crooks. However, the police lack finesse. Their first priority is to arrest someone, get their names in the papers. They don’t give a shit whether the artwork survives undamaged. I, on the other hand, am concerned solely with keeping the art intact. So, in general, I’ve found the police don’t suit my purposes. Also, if a painting is stolen in one country—one jurisdiction—the first thing the crook does is take it to another country. That’s assuming the crook is smart. Which, generally, they are.
Very
smart. Which, in fact, keeps the game interesting.”

After signing for the second round of drinks and toasting Bernhardt with a long, appreciative swallow of Scotch, Graham said, “Stealing a painting is no mean feat, as I’m sure you know. Jewel thieves can stick their haul in a vest pocket and get lost in a crowd. Art thieves have got to be logistical geniuses, especially since their best move is to get the stuff out of the country immediately. That makes them vulnerable to customs searches, you see. Then they’ve got to let the art cool off. They’ve got to have patience. They’ve also got to have capital—lots of financial backing.”

“Why’s waiting so important?”