Frame-Up (22 page)

“Which raises the question of why you made the loan to him in the first place. Shall we be honest with each other, gentlemen? Tony Aiello was a pawn. Mickey Mouse would have done equally well. You were dealing in a Vermeer painting. You didn't want to own it. That's risky. A stolen masterpiece? No. But you saw the chance to make a sizable fortune in interest on a loan that was securely backed by an object of immeasurable value without soiling your hands by touching the object directly. So let's drop the feigned shock at the mention of Tony Aiello's inability to repay the loan. Are we ready to talk business?”

Markov was glaring, but he sat in a pool of silence. Mr. Van Drusen not only followed the discourse, but smiled when he nodded his assent. I made a note never to play chess with him for money.

“Mr. Aiello owes you a principal in the area of sixty million dollars. With interest, the figure is close to seventy million. Are we in agreement?”

The figures were based on the scraps of information I'd squeezed out of Fat Tony. My only interest was in fixing the upper level of the debt, interest included, to set up my next step.

If I allowed myself one fraction of a second to think of the meaning of the numbers I was spewing out with abandon, I'd have needed more underwear than I'd packed.

The Vans nodded, and the Russian sphinx failed to correct me. On with the show.

“There is no question that the value of the painting covers that figure and much more. There is, however, one minor complication. The painting is the most recognizable piece of stolen property on the face of the earth. If one hint of what's being said in this room got beyond these walls — I'll leave it at that. We all value our freedom.”

The Vans were both taking this in with an equanimity that convinced me still further of the steel subsurface, while the Russian sphinx remained in deep freeze. Van Drusen urged on the next step.

“You wanted to talk business, Mr. Knight. I assume you didn't come this distance without a proposal.”

“I have something better than that. I have a buyer.”

I read the reactions of the Vans as cautious relief, if not incipient optimism at the thought of pulling off the deal as they had planned. I hoped they caught a whiff of cleanly laundered cash.

Markov, on the other hand, sat with an expression that was impossible to read. He was the joker in the deck. What had to be affecting his reaction was the fact that he knew that the painting was a phony. In fact, he was in on the original scam on the Vans to secure the loan to Tony Aiello.

The wild card was that I had no idea whether or not Markov believed that I thought the painting was genuine.

“And the name of this buyer, Mr. Knight?”

“Is known to me, Mr. Markov. I've given certain pledges of confidence. The question is whether or not I have your approval to proceed with the sale.”

“At what price, Mr. Knight?”

“That's Mr. Aiello's business. He is, you remember, the owner. You have half of the code to the vault. That's your leverage. That assures you that the painting won't be released without a price paid in cash or credit that covers the full amount owed to you gentlemen. Anything over that amount will, of course, go to Mr. Aiello.”

I walked to the window with my back to the three. I counted boats and barges on the canal while I let them exchange looks and signals behind my back. It could have been a mistake, but I was making
up the moves as I went along. Van Drusen was the first to speak out loud.

“Mr. Knight, I think we need to know more about this buyer of yours.”

“That's a coincidence, Mr. Van Drusen. The last thing he told me was that he wanted to know more about you and Mr. Van Arsdale. And now Mr. Markov.”

That spooked Mr. Van Arsdale into jumping in without checking with Markov for permission. I knew I hit a nerve.

“What did you tell him about us?”

“The same thing I'm going to tell you. When I take on a confidence, I keep it. The question comes down to this: Do I proceed with this sale, or would you gentlemen like to try peddling this stolen item on the market?”

The Vans both looked at Markov. Markov looked me in the eye and searched my inner soul for a clue. I knew that if I looked away, or even blinked, he'd own me. I put every ounce of grit and steel I could muster into returning the intensity of his glare.

I can't say that he folded, or that I won. I only knew that we'd moved on to the next step when he said, “You interest me, Mr. Knight. Let's see if you're more than words. As your Mr. McKedrick used to say, ‘What have we got to lose?' ”

When I hit the street, I crossed to the railing on the bank of the canal. I decided to give myself two full minutes of respite on a bench in front of the constantly moving canal traffic. Thirty seconds into the respite, a tiny internal voice whispered, For his next trick, he shall pull a buyer of a stolen masterpiece willing to pay seventy million dollars right smack out of his ass.

I must admit, however, that when I had dropped that particular bomb at the meeting in the upstairs office, I was not totally without a plan. I had a pretty good idea of whom I was going to suck into this little disaster. I'd done it before in another disaster, and still he considered himself my friend.

There are so many things I could say about Harry Wong, every one of them a superlative. But one thought sums it up. If I were in a foxhole in heavy combat, and I could pick the one person to be there at my back — no question — Harry Wong.

Harry came from China about five years before we met as classmates at Harvard College. We were fellow residents of Kirkland House in our freshman year and teammates on the house wrestling team. We were cemented by the fact that at that time, there were a number on that wrestling team who did not exude a tolerance for those of either the Chinese or half-Puerto Rican lineage. The fact that Harry, a scrawny, six-foot Chinese beanpole, could pin any member of the team to the mat did nothing to assuage their discrimination, and as Harry's half-Latino buddy, I caught my share of their discrimination as well. While it separated us from them, it bound us more closely together.

When I went on to Harvard Law School, Harry began acquiring degrees in the sciences until he was on staff as a resident brainchild at M.I.T.

Our primary contact after college graduation had been our annual Thanksgiving dinner with a Latino twist at the home of my mother. If the original pilgrims did not serve pollo con arroz to the Indians at the first Thanksgiving, we were none the wiser.

Just as I had done the previous winter at a moment when I was engulfed in a very dicey situation in Boston's Chinatown, I dialed Harry's number in Cambridge. True to form, he was there when I needed him.

“Harry, it's good to hear your voice.”

“Michael. Likewise.”

“You'll never guess why I'm calling.”

“Sure I will. It's either for Thanksgiving dinner or you want me for something that could kill the both of us. Could I hope for Thanksgiving?”

“Wrong month, Harry.”

“Was I right about the second part?”

“Yes. God didn't make you a genius for nothing. I'll give you an option. You can hang up right now. We'll still be on for Thanksgiving. That's probably what I'd do.”

“That's the hell of it, Mike. You wouldn't. You'd come through for me. God help me. Here we go again. What is it this time?”

“I need you to buy a painting.”

“Really. How dangerous can that be? What painting?”

“The Vermeer that was stolen from the museum in Boston.”

Silence.

“You there, Harry?”

“Not really. Mike. That painting was never recovered. How the hell did you get involved with a priceless, may I say, stolen Vermeer?”

“That depends. Are you game to hear the rest?”

“I'm thinking that for just engaging in this conversation, I could pull down, what, fifteen years in Walpole Prison?”

“As I say, Harry, are you game to hear the rest?”

“Why not? If you're still alive, you can be my defense counsel.”

“I'll lay it out, and in the words of Nancy Reagan, you can ‘just say no.' Just listen. They can't indict you for listening.”

I brought him up to speed on the painting and then dropped the bomb.

“What I need, Harry, is a suave, sophisticate to play the part of the prospective buyer of the Vermeer.”

“Dare I ask, at what price?”

“In the neighborhood of seventy million.”

“That's one hell of a neighborhood, Mike. I don't live anywhere close to there.”

“Not to worry, Harry. The offer is a phony. And so, for that matter, is the painting.”

“That's a great relief, Mike. Now we're up to what, twenty years for fraud?”

“If it's any consolation, we'd be defrauding a defrauder, who is probably part of the Russian Mafia. I'm not sure of that last part.”

“So instead of the FBI, we'd have the Russian Mafia after us.”

“Actually, we'd have both. But if we handle it right, we'll never see either one.”

“Uh-huh. One more question. Who are you doing this for? Who's your client?”

“The Godfather of the Boston Mafia, Dominic Santangelo.”

There was a brief moment's catch before Harry broke into a laugh.

“Mike, you son of a gun. This is a joke. Isn't it? You had me going till you threw in that Godfather part. That was over the top. Do you really have nothing better to do than jack up my blood pressure?”

“It's not a joke. I'm deadly serious. Forgive the choice of words.”

“Oh crap. You really mean it, don't you?”

“I do, Harry. So?”

I could hear him take a deep breath.

“Why waste time, Mike? We both know I'm going to say yes. Just fill me in.”

I did. At least in regard to his role in the fake purchase of the
fake Vermeer. I let him know that the point of it was to get the painting out of a vault that required two codes of which I had only one. It was the best plan I could come up with to make good on my promise to deliver the painting to Aiello. Needless to say, I had additional motives other than making Fat Tony's day.

“So how do we start, Mike?”

“You get yourself to Logan Airport. Pick up the ticket for Amsterdam in your name on KLM. It leaves tonight. Take clothes for about three days.”

“You conman, you already bought the ticket. How'd you know I'd do it?”

“I know you're a good friend, Harry. When you get into the airport here, take a cab to the Amstel Intercontinental Hotel. I'll have your reservation. Just one complication. I'm booking you through London. It's a quick stop. I need you to bring someone with you.”

“Sounds like the easy part.”

“Not entirely. There are people out to kill him. Just keep a low profile. They think he's already dead so you shouldn't have any trouble.”

“That's a comfort. Exactly who is he?”

I filled in the details.

“One last thing, Harry. While you're here, you get your choice of names. Who do you want to be?”

He thought for a moment before coming up with “Qian An-Yong. Can you spell it?”

I recalled he ran a fine Chinese herb shop in Chinatown.

“I believe I can spell it. Good choice. See you in the land of tulips.”

On my walk back to the hotel, I made cell phone calls to book Harry's flight and hotel reservation and also the flight from London for Professor Denisovitch. The flights had to be in their own names, since they always check passports before boarding. Same for the hotel reservations, since they usually check passports on check-in. I made a third hotel reservation in the name of Qian An-Yong.

Once back at the hotel, I settled in for one of the most sumptuous lunches Dominic Santangelo ever paid for at the world-renowned La Rive Restaurant in the Amstel Intercontinental Hotel.

I was early enough to get a table by the window. The sun was playing on the gentle river, dotted with boats of every description. It was actually soothing to watch people who were not risking their lives every time they opened their mouths strolling along the banks of the river.

The choice of wine I wisely left to the waiter. He came through with a carafe of angelic ambrosia.

My defensive antennae sank slowly into repose with each sip — almost to the point where I would not have noticed the three Russian types who sat down at the adjoining table. Once tuned in, I spotted bulges under the heavy Eastern European suits that did not correspond to any human musculature. Both “repose” and my intake of wine went on hold.

I cruised quietly through the first course of the meal in a conscious effort to quell any signs of panic. That worked well until peripheral vision told me that the largest of the hulks was standing at my elbow. He spoke quietly with a pronounced Slavic accent.

“A very fine restaurant, is it not?”

“It is.” I continued to look at my plate. I could hear him take a deep slow breath before speaking in a low voice.

“I think it would be well not to disturb these fine people enjoying their lunches. I think we could do that if you just quietly stand up and follow me.”

I remained seated and silent. He spoke in a bit lower tone and closer to my ear.

“I think perhaps you did not hear. If you wish, this could be done differently. Either way—”

“Sit down.”

It was not what he expected, and he wasn't sure he heard me. I spoke without looking up at him.

“Sit down.”

I nodded to the seat across the table from me. I'd have bet everything I owned that Larry, Curley, and Moe were emissaries of Sergei Markov. I continued in a soft, even tone.

“Think about it. I'm not going anywhere. You've got me outnumbered three to one. What can you lose? Sit down.”

While he stood there trying to fathom a response to a turn of events he hadn't been briefed on, I called over the waiter.