The Icon Thief (8 page)

After another moment, she locked up the storeroom
and headed downstairs, still torn over whether to call Lermontov. Asking him for help felt like an admission of her own defeat, but the gallerist still understood investors in a way that she, or Reynard, did not. In a market that was shaped by a handful of invisible forces, pure logic took you only so far.

A quarter of an hour later, Maddy was back at the Fuller Building. When the elevator doors opened, she headed at once for her office, only to run into Ethan, who was walking quickly up the corridor. She saw at a glance that he had found something big. “What is it?”

“A new lead,” Ethan said. They stood together in the hallway, close enough to touch. “What do you know about Archvadze’s girlfriend?”

“Natalia Onegina,” Maddy said without hesitation. “She’s a distant niece or cousin of German Khan, the oligarch, and much younger than Archvadze. She’s glamorous. I’ve seen her in the gossip columns.”

“Yes, she’s quite the socialite. But did you know she’s opening a gallery in London?”

This news was enough to drive everything else from her mind. “How serious is she?”

“Serious enough to file articles of association.” Ethan held up a sheaf of papers. “I’ve got the documents here. Archvadze is listed as a director. My guess is that he’s financing the whole thing.”

She tried to process this information. “You think he bought the painting for her?”

“I doubt it. From what I’ve been able to find, her taste runs more to the Wilson twins. But we need to keep an eye on what she’s doing. I’ve already spoken to Reynard. He wants you to work with me on this. You’ve
opened a gallery before, so—” He broke off. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. A little tired, maybe.” Maddy smiled. “I need to make a few calls. Send me what you’ve got and we’ll talk later.”

She continued up the corridor, feeling Ethan’s eyes on the back of her head. Going into her office, she closed the door, then collapsed into a chair. She couldn’t believe that she had heard nothing about this gallery.

As she looked into the dead eye of her computer screen, feeling useless, she allowed herself to envision a different way of life. Advising a private collector, for instance, who was new to the art market and needed a guide. A collector, perhaps, like Archvadze himself.

If she wanted to get close to a man like this, there was only one person left to call. Taking a breath, she picked up her phone, and this time, she dialed the number without hesitation.

S
harkovsky rang the bell of the furniture store, which stood across from the fairgrounds, below the rusting track of the elevated train. All the shutters had been lowered except for one, over the entrance, where an old man with glasses presently appeared. Opening the door a crack, he considered the four figures on the sidewalk. “Three only,” the owner said at last. “Arshak says so.”

Sharkovsky turned to the others, who were huddled together beneath the yellow awning, taking shelter from the rain. Ilya stood aside, expecting to be told to wait, and was mildly surprised when Sharkovsky looked at Zhenya instead. “Stay here. Give the bag to Misha.”

Zhenya blinked at this, but said nothing. He unslung his duffel bag and handed it to Misha, the limping enforcer whom Ilya had observed briefly at the club. Turning away, Zhenya fished a soft pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket, lighting one as the others filed into the store. In the orange spark of the lighter, Ilya saw something like resentment on his face.

Inside, the showroom was vast and dark, a labyrinth of couches and dining room sets. Strings of holiday lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the gold tinsel twined
around the columns. At the center of the room, the only area that was lit, couches and loveseats were arranged around a burgundy rug. A wardrobe stood to one side, flanked by a pair of lamps. Three men were seated on the nearest sofa. One had a knapsack resting across his knees.

“Turn up the lights,” Sharkovsky said suddenly. “I want to see the rest of the floor.”

The owner went over to an electrical panel. As he threw the switches one by one, hidden quadrants of the store came into view, revealing row after row of beds, desks, tables. Ilya surveyed the showroom. Aside from the three men on the couch, the sales floor was deserted.

As they approached the Armenians, Ilya saw that the two on either side were barely out of high school, while the third seemed in his late twenties. When the two groups were close enough, Sharkovsky came forward, met by the man in the middle, and they shook hands twice, first the right, then the left. Standing back, Sharkovsky studied the younger man. “How is your grandfather, Arshak?”

Arshak made a noncommittal gesture. “Are we here to talk, or to do business?”

Sharkovsky did not seem troubled by this show of impatience. “Business, if you like. We can start with the toys.”

At his signal, Misha came forward with the duffel bag, which clanked softly as he set it on the ground. One of the younger Armenians, a boy with a cleft palate scar, knelt and unzipped it. After confirming that the contents were in order, Arshak tossed a sealed plastic bag to Misha. “And the fliers?”

Sharkovsky handed him a digital camera. Before
turning it on, Arshak checked the camera’s serial number against a slip of paper that he produced from his pocket, then examined its memory card. Reinserting the card, he turned the camera on and scrutinized the images on its preview screen. In the silence, Ilya heard a train rumble across the track overhead.

Arshak seemed pleased by what he saw. “These are the kind with wooden handles?”

“Yes,” Sharkovsky said. “They are in Leninakan. As soon as we give the word, they will be sent.”

“Good.” Arshak nodded at the boy with the knapsack, who set it at Misha’s feet. “As agreed. Half now, half on delivery—”

Misha opened the pack. It was stuffed with bundles of cash. Observing the exchange, Ilya reflected that Sharkovsky would not have agreed to this deal ten years ago, when conflicts across the globe had offered a more reliable stream of income. Even at the best of times, though, this was a dangerous moment, with so much money changing hands, and Ilya was watching the Armenians with even more than his usual intensity when an unexpected movement caught his eye.

Across from Ilya stood a vanity with an oval mirror, its silver surface reflecting the wardrobe behind him. The wardrobe was ample and wide, with a double door of pressed wood.

As he watched the reflection, one of the doors drifted open a fraction of an inch.

He turned. Before he could draw his gun, the wardrobe’s door was kicked open from the inside, revealing a fourth man in its darkened interior. A leveled shotgun was in his hands.

Behind him, more guns were drawn. Arshak spoke softly. “Weapons on the floor.”

Ilya turned back, keeping an eye on the man with the shotgun, who was emerging from the wardrobe. Guns had appeared in the hands of the other Armenians. Misha, who had been caught in a low crouch, looked furious, but Sharkovsky’s face was stony. “This is really what you want?”

“Weapons,” Arshak said, sticking his pistol in the old man’s face. “I’m not joking.”

After a beat, Sharkovsky gave an almost imperceptible nod. Ilya pulled the gun from his waistband and set it on the ground, never taking his eyes from the Armenians. Misha and Sharkovsky did the same, then, as ordered, set their clasped hands on the crowns of their heads.

The boy with the cleft palate scar frisked them one at a time. As Sharkovsky endured this latest indignity, he regarded Arshak with an air of scientific detachment. “So what is this?”

“A way to cut costs,” Arshak said, lowering his pistol. “These days, money is tight.”

The boy with the scar sneered, deepening the crease on his upper lip. “And which of you will stop us? The
zhid
?”

With the snout of his pistol, he poked Ilya roughly in the chest. Ilya lowered his gaze. On the table by the sofa stood a single lamp, its shade wrapped in cellophane. Before the gun could prod him a second time, Ilya turned, twisting his body, and locked his fingers around the boy’s wrist.

The boy’s eyes met his own. Without looking away, Ilya took the lamp in his other hand, his actions unfolding
with an underwater slowness, and smashed it across the boy’s face. He heard teeth shatter, then saw a blur of movement in the corner of one eye as the man with the shotgun raised it, shouting. Misha grabbed for the barrel, deflecting the gun an instant before it went off, and the chest of the second teen disappeared behind a cloud of blood.

Ilya, ears ringing, dropped to one knee, wrenching the pistol from the boy’s hands. He felt his fingers close around the grip, then swung it up and around, vision red except for a single glowing tunnel centered on Arshak’s face. When the world cleared, the boy was on the ground, crying, his scar obscured by blood. A second man lay dead on the floor. Misha was holding the shotgun. Arshak, gun raised but pointing at nothing, found himself face-to-face with two armed men. “Okay—”

“On the floor,” Sharkovsky said. “Nose to the rug. Don’t make me ask you twice.”

Arshak and the surviving gunman lowered themselves to the ground. It took a while to get the boy with the scar to pay attention, but a few kicks persuaded him to lie flat as well. Ilya picked up his own revolver. As he covered the Armenians with a gun in each hand, Sharkovsky told Misha to bring in Zhenya, then turned to the owner. “Were you a part of this?”

“No,” the owner said, his face pale. “I saw only three men. This one must have snuck in when I wasn’t looking—”

As his voice began to quaver, Sharkovsky cut him off. “Enough. Get me some rope.”

Misha returned with Zhenya, who was trembling with excitement. They bound the Armenians with cord from
the storage room, then took stock of the situation. The cash in the knapsack consisted of
kukly
, rolls of plain paper with real bills on the outside. Taking one of the bundles, Sharkovsky showed it to Arshak, who was still on the floor. “So what was the rest of your plan?”

When Arshak did not respond, Sharkovsky threw the bundle in his face, then turned to the owner. “The rug is ruined. How much for it?”

The owner pondered this for a moment. “For you? Let’s call it three hundred.”

“Three hundred?” The
vor
seemed incredulous. “For this piece of shit? It’s worth two fifty at the most—”

“But it’s wool,” the owner said, kneeling to turn over the label. “Tufted by hand.”

Sharkovsky grunted, then signaled to Zhenya, who, after a sharp nudge, dug a bankroll from his back pocket and peeled off three bills. The owner accepted the money without speaking.

Turning back to the others, the
vor
took a cushion from the nearest sofa. Without being asked, Misha came forward and pressed his foot against the neck of the boy with the cleft palate scar.

With the air of a man who had been given a tiresome but necessary task, Sharkovsky placed the cushion against the boy’s head, wrapping it around his gun. When he fired, the shot was muffled, like that of a damp noisemaker. Moving on to the man from the wardrobe, he fired again. Two dark pools began to spread slowly across the rug, leaving a feathery outline around each body.

When they arrived at Arshak, he did not say a word. His eyes were open and dry, and he flinched only slightly when he felt the pressure of the foot against the back of
his neck. Sharkovsky took the cushion, which was leaking wisps of stuffing, and placed it against Arshak’s head.

Resting the gun against the cushion, he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He tried again. The gun refused to fire. At the level of the floor, Arshak’s one visible eye looked up uncertainly.

“Fucking thing is jammed,” Sharkovsky said. He turned to Ilya. “Give me your gun.”

Ilya handed him the revolver, grip first, and took the pistol in exchange. Without a pause, Sharkovsky pressed the gun against the cushion and fired. Rising, he gave the gun back to Ilya, then turned to the owner, allowing the cushion to fall from his hands. “You can see after this?”

The owner’s eyes were fixed on the four bodies. “Yes. I will take care of it.”

“Good.” Sharkovsky told Zhenya to bring the guns. He had to repeat the order twice before Zhenya, face ashen, picked up the duffel bag. The shotgun and pistols went into the bag as well, along with the digital camera. With a handkerchief, Misha scooped up the shell that the shotgun had ejected, slipping it into his pocket. They left the phony cash where it was.

Outside the store, it was still raining. The shutter fell behind them, sliding down with a coarse whine. As they headed up the sidewalk, Ilya could make out the Wonder Wheel in the distance. It was, he saw, a wheel within a wheel.

“A waste of time,” Sharkovsky said. He extended one hand, allowing the rain to wash the blood from his fingers. “It was hard to put that deal together. But not all is lost. We can always find another buyer—”

W
hen the gallerina opened the door of the Lermontov Gallery, Maddy recognized her at once as a classic type, willowy and Eurasian, with a glossy ponytail and a touch of brown lipstick. She looked, in fact, a great deal like Maddy herself, which was not so surprising. Lermontov, while discreetly gay, understood his obligation to surround himself with polished young women. “Good afternoon,” the gallerina said coolly. “Do you have an appointment?”

Maddy, feeling the girl’s eyes on her face, sensed that the gallerina recognized her as one of her own species, a domestic animal that had escaped from captivity. “I’m here to see Alexey.”

After sizing her up for another moment, the gallerina motioned her inside and disappeared down the hall. Left alone, Maddy looked around the foyer of the gallery, which had been furnished to resemble a parlor from early in the last century. A late Picasso held pride of place at the front of the room, displayed in a magnificent frame from the House of Heydenryk.

As she was studying the painting, which seemed more a concession to the public than to Lermontov’s own
tastes, a voice came from over her shoulder. “My dear girl. It’s good to see you again.”