MasterStroke (36 page)

“Good,” Sylvester rubbed his hands together excitedly. “Now we will negotiate. Like we are sitting in a boardroom overlooking Wall Street, men of substance, like Donald Trump, surrounded by our lawyers and associates.” He indicated his men standing at various positions around the room. One, a stocky dark-skinned type wearing a stained tank top at least two sizes too small to hold his prodigious stomach, was attempting to scratch his back with his shotgun. Sandrine couldn’t see if his finger was off the trigger but hoped so for everybody in the room.

“You initially offered $25,000,” Jack said helpfully.

“A fair price, I thought.”

“Not for what it is.”

“That is conjecture, as we all know. If it had already been verified and authenticated, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

And we wouldn’t be sitting here
, Sandrine thought sourly.

“Still, it’s not enough for my client,” Jack dug in.

Agree to it, please. Whatever he says, let’s just try to get out of here.

“Agreed. It was a paltry amount anyway. OK, I now offer $100,000.”

Sandrine sat up, alert.
Now we can go. Agree, Jack, and we can be out of here.

Jack was quiet for a moment. Sandrine swung her attention back to him.
Oh no. You can’t. Jack, what are you doing?

“No, not good enough. I want more.”

Sylvester was on his feet in a flash.

“More?” he screamed at the top of his lungs. Even some of his men looked around, concern widening their eyes. A flush crept through Sylvester’s deep tan and sweat dotted his brow. Sinews in his neck stood taut and spittle flew. “This is not how we negotiate. I give you a figure and you agree. That’s how it’s done or else we use other means.”

“Sylvester, I’m surprised at you. Weren’t you just telling us how committed you were to reinventing yourself, becoming a modern corporate personality? This is how business is done. There is no shouting or recriminations or threats of violence. Intimidation is for the
favelo
not Wall Street.” Jack was the very personification of reason, calm, logical and even-handed. He was setting the tone but Sandrine wasn’t sure that, given Sylvester’s explosive nature, such a strategy would be effective much longer.

Chapter Forty Two

Silence drew the tension to breaking point. Sandrine found she had started to count out the seconds. By the time, she reached thirty, Sylvester was still standing over Jack, staring down at him, seemingly frozen in place. Jack was leaning back on the couch, arms spread out along the top of the cushions, one leg jauntily crossed over the other, staring back at him. By the time she got to fifty, she thought it likely Sylvester would just reach for his weapon and start shooting. Instead, his face crumpled in on itself and he sat heavily.

“You must come work for me, Jack Lucas. You have no fear. I like that in a man. You know how to conduct yourself. Final offer. $250,000.”

Jack smiled. Sylvester blinked once, twice, three times, momentarily confused, expecting Jack to refuse once more, before he smiled as well.

“Deal,” Jack said. “Negotiated like a prince of the city.”

Sylvester was on the back foot, confused, but he recovered quickly. They shook hands, fumbled a hasty man-hug, patted each other on the back. Drinks were poured and knocked back quickly. There were smiles all round.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Of course. Anything.” Sylvester, now he could see the culmination of his quest in sight, was playing the jovial host.

“How did you come to know about the sketch?” It wasn’t something Sandrine had considered before but she was glad Jack asked.

“I knew of the first
La Bella Principessa
years ago and fell in love with it. I grew up in slums, surrounded by poverty. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I vowed to one day own something as unique. I travelled the world for my business and I talked to many, many people, experts in da Vinci, and one day I was told there may be a matching sketch.”

“It must have been difficult, trying to find something few people thought existed.” Jack was drawing the information out, bit by bit, and Sylvester was so entranced by his favourite subject he gladly told all.

“Indeed. Impossible, even. One thing led to another. A hint to a rumour to a possibility until I located the old man in Germany, a collector who didn’t even know what he had.”

Sandrine nodded. Sylvester must have been referring to Marcus’ client, whose collection he was collating when all this craziness started.

“One of my clients uses the same lawyer as the old man. Introductions were arranged but the old man died before I could meet with him. Then your young lady’s boss became involved.” Sylvester wiped a hand across his face, in a vain attempt to banish fatigue. “It has been a very complicated process but I was determined to do this the correct way. I didn’t want my ownership of such a rare work to be tainted by violence. After all, a ragged boy from the
favelo
was about to own one of the rarest, most precious art works in the world. ”

“Congratulations,” Jack said warmly. “You get the money. I’ll get the sketch and you’ll soon be the legal owner of a genuine Leonardo da Vinci artwork.”

“Alleged,” barked Sylvester. “There will be some work to do to have it declared official but, when it is, the world will look on me differently. I will no longer be a criminal, a murdering peasant. I will be a patron of the arts. And there are few things more noble.”

He snapped his fingers and barked a short command in Portuguese. A black leather briefcase appeared on the coffee table, unlocked and opened wide. Banded blocks of $100 bills were crammed inside.

“You can count it. I have no idea what’s in there.” Sylvester waved at the case in an off-hand manner.

“I’ll need to call my people, get the sketch brought to me.”

Sylvester looked around the room.

“There is no telephone here and cell phones don’t work.”

“There might be a phone in the pool area. Otherwise, we’ll have to go upstairs to the main house.”

Sylvester looked reflective. It was obvious that, in order to obtain his artwork, he would have to relax the hold on his hostages. Sandrine couldn’t see both of them being allowed out of this room but, if Jack was sent off alone, he could arrange her rescue.
This is looking better
, she brightened.

“Your beautiful lady friend will have to stay.”

“First, we’ll all go to the pool area. See if there’s a telephone there. If there isn’t, then I’ll go alone and bring back the sketch.”

Sandrine didn’t think he’d brought it with him.
There was no reason why he would. He’s buying time, hoping an opportunity will arise.

Sylvester nodded.

“All right. We go now.”

They walked towards the end of the room with Sylvester and his men keeping a safe distance between them. What looked like a window showed the interior of the pool bar and it took a few seconds before she recognised it for what it was. When the realisation hit her, she stopped so suddenly that Jack walked into her.

“One-way glass,” Jack noted.

“They were watching us, they saw everything.” She was horrified.
At least they can’t see my face now. I’m sure I’m blushing.

“One of your best sides,” he agreed drily. She would have loved to slap him at that moment but didn’t want to make any sudden moves.

There was a lever on the side of the panel that, when turned, swung the door outwards. Sandrine and Jack stepped into the lounge area, out beyond the tables still littered with glasses, bottles and over-flowing ashtrays. A stale smell hovered in the closed air.

“I have no idea whether we’ll have a chance to get away but stay close,” Jack whispered in Sandrine’s ear. “Be ready to move quickly.”

What can we possibly do?
Nonetheless, she was alert for any opportunity. One of Sylvester’s men moved behind the bar, scouted around and said something in Portuguese.

“Still no telephone,” Sylvester said.

“I think I saw one out near the main doors,” Jack replied and Sylvester waved the gun barrel forward.

“Then we’ll try out there.”

The pool was quiet, the water surface still and clear. Light filtered obliquely down into the vast space, wreathing the marble statues in an ethereal glow. At the end of the pool were wide steps leading up at the main doors and, on a long low counter was an old-style telephone, with an old-style dial instead of buttons.

“Over there,” Jack motioned and he guided Sandrine across the wide mosaic tiled decking. Their footsteps echoed as they walked and it seemed like so far to go at such a slow pace. As she occasionally looked up at Jack, she could see out of the corner of her eye that Sylvester and his men were about twenty feet behind, herded close together by the relative narrowness of the walkway between the wall and the edge of the pool.

“There’s nowhere to go,” she said under her breath, her voice quivering with fear. Her heart was thumping.
What can we do? Does Jack have a plan?
It didn’t appear so. He didn’t reply, merely squeezed her arm in a futile attempt towards comforting her. His presence, so close his body heat radiated off him like a furnace, eased her fears just a fraction. That he was near was enough to stop her falling completely apart. She didn’t want to think about what would happen when he left her alone with Sylvester and those ugly leering men, even for just a short time.

Jack slowed as they reached the telephone. It was sitting atop a long waist-high counter it shared with piles of folded white towels. He steered her as if to go around it. They could duck down behind it, separate themselves from the others but what then? It was too far to run up the wide main stairs and there was nowhere else to go. They’d come as far as they could.

Sandrine had read once that, in moments of crisis, time slowed and she had the impression this was happening now. She was almost frozen with terror and all logical thought fled her mind. Jack reached for the telephone and what should have taken seconds went on for what seemed like minutes. He stopped and turned back towards Sylvester, standing at the end of the pool. His men had fanned out on either side, their attention focused solely on Jack and Sandrine, alert to any sudden movement.

Before Jack could speak, a voice she didn’t recognise, calm but commanding, interrupted her train of thought. It echoed through the cavernous space, its origin impossible to determine. It was like the voice of God in an old Biblical epic.

“Freeze,” it said.

Sandrine, confused, looked around. Sylvester’s men did the same, scanning the room, their heads bouncing up, down and across with an almost comical theatricality. Only Sylvester and Jack remained immobile. Their eyes were locked on each other, impassive.

Above and to one side, at the top of the wide stone stairway leading to the outdoor terrace, were two black-clad SWAT team members. Another two were on a high mezzanine at the other end of the pool. More men emerged silently from behind marble statues or hidden alcoves. All had their weapons trained on Sylvester and his men, red dots from laser sights secured unwaveringly on their upper torsos.

“Drop your weapons. Now.” The same deep voice barked.

Jack dragged Sandrine to the ground, shielding her body protectively.

Time edged forward fraction by fraction. Sandrine didn’t even breathe, frozen in place. Jack was crushing her. One of Sylvester’s men let the gun topple from his fingers. It bounced once on the edge of the pool and splashed into the water, sinking quickly to the bottom. The others regarded the red dots dancing across their chests and did the same, hands stretching high into the air, moving away from Sylvester.

The Brazilian gangster drew himself taller and muttered something sharp and accusing. His gun was aimed straight at Jack’s huddled body.

“We had a deal.” There was a tone of weary bitterness in his voice. “I trusted you. You think you can take my lovely lady? Then I will take yours.”

Sandrine watched as Sylvester’s finger tightened on the trigger. She wanted to close her eyes but couldn’t.
Why hasn’t someone done something?

At that moment, the muffled reports of a dozen silenced assault rifles shredded the waistcoat of Sylvester’s suit. The light was fading from his eyes by the time he slumped to his knees, glanced beseechingly at Jack, and pitched backwards into the pool.

He floated briefly as wispy tendrils of blood lengthened through the clear water, radiating out. Then he sank steadily, dead eyes staring up towards the chaos of the painted blue ceiling, at puffy white clouds and glittering stars and jocular white-haired gods, frisky maidens and prancing sea creatures.

Sandrine followed Jack to the edge of the pool, joined by the SWAT commander and some of his men. They silently watched Sylvester’s descent.

“Good timing. How did you know we were here?” Jack asked.

“You have the FBI to thank for that. A couple of agents were looking for you, never found out why, and one noticed you and the lady came in here. By the time the others arrived, you’d disappeared. Bureau men, being the Sherlocks they are, thought that a bit odd. It took a bit of searching but they found the hidden entrance to the underground bunker. We couldn’t get the door open so it was just a matter of waiting it out.”

“I’m glad you did. I had no idea how we were going to get out of that situation,” Jack confessed.

“Hell of a place for a showdown,” one of the men remarked, taking in the opulent surroundings.

“Especially if you’re on the receiving end,” Jack said reflectively, watching Sylvester’s body settle on the bottom of the pool. “Some dreams die hard.”

The pressure was crowding in on Sandrine and she began to buckle. For such a long time, it was like she and Jack were beyond saving, that these vile men would kill them without hesitation while Sylvester stood by orchestrating it all. Jack, for all his guile, was continually hedging for more time and that they were saved at the last minute, when all hope was virtually extinguished, seemed little more than a miracle.

The bright colours of the indoor swimming chamber were dulling, and the voices of these battle-hardened men that had echoed through the space started to diminish. She knew she was about to faint but there was nothing she could do. Jack noticed her, smaller and more fragile than she normally appeared, her face drained of colour.