The Painted Messiah (32 page)

Rene turned back to the leaves without bothering to respond.

'You want your painting?' the contessa asked, when she saw him at her front door.

Malloy smiled. 'If you haven't sold it.'

Opening her door, she let him into the house. 'I don't think I would have had any trouble if I had wanted to.' She led him into her parlour and gestured toward the table. She had rewrapped it.

'How many people do you think would buy it if they knew it belonged to Julian Corbeau?'

The contessa's smile faded. 'There are a great many fools in the world, Thomas. I wouldn't have to look far.'

Malloy slipped the package into a small backpack, which he tossed over his shoulders. 'I've been trying to figure out why someone would pay twenty-five million dollars for a painting that could never see the light of day.'

'For that kind of collector, secrecy is part of the thrill.'

'Not the people I'm dealing with.'

'I'm not sure you understand what you're dealing with.'

'Actually, I think I do. I've got a two-thousand-year- old painting of Christ. The former owner is ready to commit any crime to recover it and the future owner is prepared to make any sacrifice to keep it. What's not to understand?'

'Tell me about the people who purchased it.'
'Have you ever heard of the Reverend J. W. Richland?'

Her face showed recognition. 'A dying man.'

'What does that mean?'

'He has cancer. He thinks the painting has the power to give him back his health.'

'He can't seriously think—'

'Dying men are dreamers, Thomas. He does not
think.
He
believes.'

'Believes what? What is this thing going to do for him? He's trading the life of a woman who loves him for a piece of wood!'

Malloy never raised his voice. In the presence of the contessa he rarely ventured a certainty. His outrage surprised him. It was not the meeting with Jonas Starr that bothered him. Starr he had anticipated. It was Richland's remark about risk. The painting had meant more to him than the woman he loved. A great deal more.

'What are you talking about?' the contessa asked with a show of curiosity.

He told her about Nicole North's kidnap, his meeting with Starr, his conversation with Richland.

'You can't understand them, can you?' she asked.

Malloy shook his head. 'Corbeau will make the trade. North doesn't need to die.'

'I believe you're right, but the question is what are you going to do?'

'What I hired on to do, get the painting to New York.'

'And Dr North?' Malloy stared at the fireplace without answering. 'You intend to leave her to Corbeau?'

'I didn't make the decision!'

'You are making it right now, Thomas.'

'You know how many people I could lose trying to rescue her?'

'I am wondering what you lose if you don't at least try.'

Malloy met the woman's gaze. 'She's not innocent.'

'Not too many of us are.'

From inside his tool shed Rene saw a man taking up a position high over the villa on the far side of the cascade. He moved with the precision of a soldier. Two more men came down the mountain as Rene left the shed with his tools stacked in his wheelbarrow. These men climbed across the rocks over the path Malloy had descended a few minutes earlier. Finally, as he ambled into the garden, Rene noticed a man walking along the trail well below the contessa's villa. Like the first man, he was on the opposite side of the cascade.

With the patience of a tired old handyman, Rene crossed the bridge and pushed slowly into the forest. A moment later he began running.

Malloy left the contessa's villa and headed back up the mountain toward Hasan Barzani's Porsche. Five minutes above the property the path cut away from the cascade, following a trail perched over a deep rocky chasm. The trail itself remained comparably wide and comfortable at this point, but both his training and instincts kicked in. Directly overhead was a wall of rock. To his right he was looking at a three-to-four-hundred-foot drop to a bed of stones. He was
vulnerable to attack here and enjoyed no possibility of retreat. When he had come this way before, he had not been carrying the painting and he had the advantage of holding the higher ground. Now he was moving forward without knowing what lay ahead. Even as he understood his mistake, the first man appeared on the rock ahead of him. 'Stop right there, Malloy!' he shouted.

Malloy threw himself back against the rock, but the cover was only partial, and a voice behind him called down, 'All we want is the painting. Put it on the trail and back away from it, and we'll let you live.'

Malloy could see the man had an easy shot down at him. He looked at the treetops of several saplings. They came up out of the rocks beneath his trail and rose up some five to ten feet overhead. He didn't consider the matter. Had he done so, he might have hesitated. He took a step and dived toward the most promising one in the bunch. Catching it as he left the trail and swinging out over the chasm, Malloy pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster and fired one shot at each man. It was a spectacularly athletic moment of gunplay - and it very nearly worked. He saw the dust of the rocks next to each man's head, and then his only chance had passed. Dropping the gun, he grabbed the sapling with his free hand and held on as he plunged toward the rocks, praying the tree would hold.

When the treetop hung below its roots, its tender trunk bent in a great arch, he looked at his situation realistically. The results were mixed. He was some ten feet beneath the trail and able to grab hold of some rocks. From here the two men had no shot at him, but
neither could he escape. The way up offered a slow, precarious climb across heavy boulders back to the trail and the two gunmen. Below him he was looking at a sheer drop off. If they came for him he still had his Sigma. Given the natural cover the rocks provided, he could maybe keep them at bay for a few minutes at least.

It looked to be a stalemate for the moment, but the moment did not last. From across the cascade the first shot echoed through the canyon. A third gunman had positioned himself directly across from him and had an easy shot at him from dense cover. Malloy had no defense and finally admitted it. 'Okay!' he shouted, 'I'll give you the painting!'

A second shot sounded. Like the first, the bullet was not even close to Malloy's position and, for a moment, he was not sure what was going on. Then he saw Rene come out of the trees carrying a MAC-10. The contessa's handyman looked at Malloy with what might have been amusement in another man, and tossed the machine pistol to the rocks below. He then turned and disappeared into the woods again.

When he had finally climbed off the rocks and made it back to the trail, Malloy found the two gunmen dead. He checked the body of one of them and found a cell phone. Spotting Jonas Starr's number among the contacts he pressed the send button and heard Starr answer. 'Did you get it?'

Malloy tossed the phone into the canyon without answering and grabbed the dead man's MAC-10 machine pistol and two spare clips.

There was no answer at the contessa's front door. He
circled the house, searching for some sign of a break-in. Finally, he forced the back door. He searched the downstairs for some sign of life, calling out as he went from room to room. Upstairs, where she had sent him to change clothes, Malloy saw that one of the mummy portrait forgeries was missing. The encaustic. Nothing else had been touched. He tried to remember the face in the painting, but it didn't come to him. It was . . . just a man's face. Only the sensation of touching its waxy surface remained . . . and the scent of the contessa as she stood close to him.

When the front door opened, Malloy settled the selector of the MAC-10 on full auto and peeked out from the room. Rene stood at the bottom of the stairs. 'Out!' he shouted in German. 'You have done enough already!'

Malloy came down the stairs. 'Where is the contessa, Rene?'

'Gone.'

'Gone? What are you saying? Is she okay?'

'Get out, Malloy. Just go.'

'Rene! Tell me! Is she safe?'

'She is never safe.'

'I can help.'

Rene's ugly round face seemed almost to smile. 'I have seen your
help!'

Malloy did not understand, but neither was it his business. The contessa was gone. She was apparently safe, to a degree at least, and Rene had proven himself more than capable of protecting her. That was all he knew and all he had a right to know. He looked back toward the room where she kept the forgeries.

'One of the paintings upstairs is missing.'

Rene nodded without showing any surprise.

'Did she take it?'

'What does it matter? You have driven her out of her home - bringing those gunmen here! Can she at least have a single painting?'

Malloy wanted to say something more, but Rene went to the kitchen. Conversation finished.

CHAPTER NINE

Interlaken, Switzerland

October 11, 2006.

With some difficulty Malloy found the GPS chip Jonas Starr's security people had planted on him that morning when they patted him down before his meeting with Starr. They had placed it under the belt loop of the holster of his Sigma. Even knowing what he was looking for, he almost missed it. He tossed it in the lake, tucked the MAC-10 under his jacket and took off jogging in the direction of Interlaken.

Forty minutes later, nearly at the end of the lake, he stopped at Iseltwald. While he waited ten minutes for a bus, he called Marcus Steiner.

'I want you to get the product to New York for me. Can you do that?'

'I can't get away, Thomas, but my brother can probably catch a flight out tomorrow morning.'

Matthias Steiner owned his own company and travelled extensively. A sudden decision to make a flight to the States probably wouldn't raise any flags.

'Great. I'll have to get you the money later. Am I good for it?'

'It's on me, Thomas.'
'Monet?'

'My wife loves it.'

'I'll be in Interlaken in an hour. We can make the exchange there.'

'It will take me three to get to you. What can I say? The paperwork you generated is killing me.'

'At least there's no more talk of layoffs.'

'There is that.'

'I'll be at the bar in the Jungfrau.'

Malloy's next call was to Hasan Barzani. He had run into some trouble, he said and had been forced to leave Barzani's car at the side of the road on Ax Alp. The car wasn't important, Barzani answered. He wanted to know what kind of trouble Malloy was in.

'The fellow we did business with this morning. He tagged me with a GPS chip and set an ambush.'

'Doesn't sound like it was a very good one.'

Malloy laughed. 'It was plenty good enough, but I got some unexpected help.'

'Are you okay?'

'For now.'

'Anything I can do?'

Malloy hesitated. Quite a bit, he was thinking, but decided to take it slowly. 'Maybe. Let me get back to you.'

'Just say the word, Thomas.'

'You don't know what it means to me to hear you say that right now.'

'We can't let down the President!'

Twenty minutes later, his phone vibrated. He didn't know the number but answered it.

'This is Kate Kenyon. Ethan said you called last night and offered to save me.'

'I did, but he told me not to call him back.'

'The situation has changed, Mr Malloy. We could use your help, if you're still offering it.'

'What can I do for you?'

'Julian Corbeau has Nicole North. I want to get her out.'

'What's your interest in Dr North?'

'Last night I watched Corbeau burn the flesh from her feet.' 'My God.'

'This morning we called the people North told us to contact. They're acting as if they don't know what we're talking about. I'm assuming that means they're going to keep their painting and let Corbeau kill Nicole.'

'And you don't care for that?'

'I told her I'd get her out.'

'What do you have in mind, exactly?'

'Why don't we get together and talk about it?'

'I'll be in Interlaken tonight. If you want to talk, it has-to be there.'

'That's fine.'

'I'll meet you in the park across from the Jungfrau Hotel at dusk. And come alone, if you don't mind.'

Malloy passed the painting to Marcus over drinks and sandwiches, then walked out of the hotel and across the street. The sun had already set behind the mountains, the dusk arriving with a light fog. He kept his hands plunged into his coat pockets. His right hand held his tiny Sigma. His left went through the pocket lining and held the MAC-10 automatic pistol under his coat.

In summertime the park would have been filled with backpackers and tourists, but in mid-October it was empty. The night was cold. He took a seat on the one of the benches well back from the road and wondered if he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life.