Full Circle (26 page)

She blinked, then gravely nodded. She didn’t return his smile. Neither did she flinch, ask for clarification. For months, ever since she’d pestered him until he’d finally taken her into the business, she’d been pressing him for more responsibility. Therefore, Bernhardt allowed himself a moment’s secret amusement as he still held her gaze. Now he saw her smile. Signifying that, yes, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He turned to Tate. “We’ll stow the shotgun in the van when we leave here, so we’ll have it when we start out. I’ll tell James to bring up the rear. He’ll have at least one handgun, and I’ll ask him to bring his Uzi.”

“Ah.” Tate nodded. “Good. That was my next question. Firepower.”

“Paula has a handgun, I have my three-fifty-seven, you’ll have your two nine-millimeters plus the shotgun. All that plus whatever James brings. We should be all right.”

“For what’s involved, the amount of money those paintings represent, Christ, someone could hire a half-track.”

“That’s assuming the paintings’re genuine,” Bernhardt answered. “If they’re fakes, the whole collection is probably worth ten thousand dollars.”

“Hmmm.” As he spoke, Tate looked at Duke. The dog yawned. Then, looking up at Tate, he licked his chops.

“So we’re in the cars,” Paula said, “and we drive here, no problem. Then what?”

“Then we drive the van into the garage, and leave the Taurus and James’s car in the driveway. I leave you and C.B. inside the garage. I take the Taurus, and I go to a pay phone. I call Graham, and tell him we’re ready. Only then will he have this address. He’ll get his own van, or whatever, and he’ll drive here, probably with a guard or two.”

“What about James?” Tate asked. “Does he stay outside, parked in the driveway?”

Bernhardt nodded. “That’s what I’ll tell him to do. But I don’t see myself giving orders to James.”

“Why’s that?”

“For one thing, he’ll certainly be representing DuBois. Also, he’s very, very tough.”

“Maybe he’ll take orders from me.” Tate spoke with a certain stillness, a quiet anticipation. This part—the possibility of confrontation—would be Tate’s call.

“When Graham arrives,” Bernhardt said, “We’ll move one of our cars, and let Graham drive inside the garage. Then we’ll block the drive again. He’ll want to look at two of the paintings, his choice. While I’m uncrating them, the two of you will check out the money. I have no idea how much twenty million in cash weighs, but it’s probably hundreds of pounds.”

“What about Duke and Duchess?” Paula asked.

Bernhardt smiled. “That’s up to you. You’re our canine commander.”

“We probably should leave them here in the house while we make the trip to DuBois.”

“Fine.”

“So let’s say everything’s done,” Tate said. “You’re satisfied, and so is Graham. So then what?”

“We let Graham go first, get him out of the way. Then we load the money in the van, and we caravan back to DuBois, the same sequence as before. Except that I think we should take the dogs in the van with us.”

Tate cleared his throat, looked down at Duke. “You and me and the dogs and the money? Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Bernhardt answered.

“Hmmm.”

“We deliver the money, and we take our cut. And that’s all. We’re out of there.” Bernhardt spread his hands reassuringly. “We come back here, close up the house. We take back the dogs and return the two cars. Or maybe we keep the sedan. We drive back to San Francisco, instead of flying, if it means checking our two million dollars.”

“Jesus …” In wonderment, Tate shook his head. “I have to tell you, I get goose bumps when you talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s just part of the day’s work, hauling that much money around. I mean—two
million?
”

At the sharp exclamation, both dogs snapped to avid attention.

“C.B.—” Paula took a small sack of dog biscuits from her shoulder satchel. “Here.” She handed over the sack. “Give them each a dog biscuit.”

“What about steak?” he asked, looking down dubiously at the dogs. “Wouldn’t that make more of a statement?”

“Biscuits are for training,” she answered. “Steak is for rewards, after they’ve learned who’s boss.”

“I think,” Tate answered ruefully, “that they already know who’s boss. Them.”

“C.B.” Sternly, she pointed again. “Now. Do it.”

“T
HERE.” SHE DROPPED THE
bundle of hundred-dollar bills on the coffee table. “Ten thousand, to demonstrate good faith. And ten thousand more, win or lose, Tuesday night. If we win, your end should be a hundred thousand, depending on how it goes, which way they jump, Tuesday.”

Smiling slightly, Harry set his highball aside, scooped up the bills, squared off the stack, divided it, slipped the money into his trouser pockets. He decided not to thank her.

“Between now and Tuesday,” she said, “we’ve got to find out where Bernhardt and his crew went after he checked out of the Prado. Graham, I’m assuming, will stay at the Hilton until the deal comes down. Out at the DuBois place, so far, there’re no surprises. But we’ve got to find Bernhardt. And the only way is to keep track of Graham. It’s almost a certainty that they’ve got to meet again, make their arrangements. When that happens, we’ll tail Bernhardt. Or the woman. Or the black man.”

“You missed your chance today, Andrea. They were all at the Hilton. You should’ve followed Bernhardt after he talked to Graham.”

“I had to choose, and I wanted to keep track of Graham, see who he contacts. The money that’s involved, he’s got to have help.”

“He’s got a woman with him.”

She shrugged, then said, “As long as that beeper on Graham’s car keeps working, we’ll work it out.”

Harry went to the sideboard, replenished his drink. Then, mockingly playful: “Why do I get the feeling there’s something you aren’t telling me, Andrea?”

“Because, Harry, there
are
things I’m not telling you. That’s because I’m the employer, and you’re an employee.”

“Big deal,” he muttered. “Big fucking deal.”

“You’re drinking too much, Harry. Much too much.”

He decided to burp. Noisily.

A
S BERNHARDT FLIPPED THE
van’s turn signal he checked the mirror to verify that Paula in the rented Taurus was close behind. He drove the van across the broad concrete apron of the Shell station and drew to a stop beside the two phone booths as Tate said, “What we should’ve done is stayed at the Prado and
visited
the house, to set things up. That way, we’d have a communications base. I mean, shit, a
phone
booth, when I’m trying to deal with some goddam bureaucrats in New York? A
gas
station?”

“Jesus, C.B., give it a rest, will you?” Bernhardt switched off the van’s engine. “So I made a mistake—maybe. Suppose someone’s following us, trying to set us up? If we had a phone in the house, they might be able to trace us through the phone company. As for the Prado, hotels are like fishbowls.”

“Hotels also have security.”

Aggrieved, Bernhardt sighed, swung his driver’s door open as he asked, “Have you got my calling card number?”

“I’ve got it memorized.” Still registering displeasure, Tate’s broad brown face was impassive.

“It’s already eleven o’clock, you know, in New York. See if you can get something by noon, our time. We’ve got to know about Graham before we commit ourselves. He could be a con man, for all we know. All the data I’ve got on him is a business card.”

“Hmmm.”

“Come on, C.B. Let’s
do
it.” Bernhardt got out of the van, went to one of the phone booths, and put his notebook on the booth’s tiny shelf. As he touch-toned Grace Campbell’s number, he saw Paula handing over the Taurus keys to Tate. As, yes, Tate was smiling, affably nodding. Between Paula and Tate, there had always been a special understanding.

“This is it.” Bernhardt swung the van into the short driveway that led to the massive iron gates.

“I have to admit,” Paula said, “that I’ve got butterflies. To actually see someone, talk to someone, who’s so rich and so powerful and so famous, it’s—” She shook her head. “It’s awesome. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known about Raymond DuBois. He’s an institution.”

“He’s also pitiful,” Bernhardt said. “A husk. He can move his right arm from the elbow, but beyond that he’s helpless. And lonely, too—he’s utterly alone, except for the people he pays to take care of him.”

“
Ah…
” It was a soft, compassionate response. “All that money, and no one to give it to.” She looked at him, then said softly, “Everyone needs someone.”

He returned the look—and said nothing in return. This wasn’t the time, or the place. As if on cue, he saw James walking toward them on the other side of the gate. The bodyguard wore pressed blue trousers, black loafers, and a white shirt and tie. A beeper and tiny surveillance radio were clipped to his belt. Add a loose-fitting blue blazer worn over a nine-millimeter slung in a shoulder holster, and James would be ready to go to work.

“I want you to stay with James,” Bernhardt said, speaking rapidly. “In his car, his bungalow, wherever. I’ll talk to DuBois, probably just for a few minutes. Then he’ll tell Grace to clear out the house. I’ll let you in the house. You and I’ll talk to DuBois. Then, hopefully, he’ll let us start crating up the pictures. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“So.” He smiled, delicately caressed her cheek, “So here we go. Ready or not.”

As, slowly, the gates began to swing open.

“You and Paula Brett,” DuBois said. “Are you lovers, as well as partners? Is that what I perceive?”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

“Are you also in love? Really in love?”

“Yes, sir, we are.”

On DuBois’s deck once again, they had taken their previous positions: DuBois in his mechanical chair, positioned to face the west, Bernhardt sitting beside him, both of them overlooking the fog-shrouded ocean.

“It is, of course, the ultimate cliché,” DuBois said, “but I would trade everything for someone I could love.”

“Yes … I know.”

“
Do
you know, Mr. Bernhardt? Do you really know?”

“My father died in World War Two. When I was in my early twenties, my mother died of cancer. That same year, my grandparents died in a single-car accident, probably because my grandfather had a heart attack. Then my wife—her name was Jennie—she was killed during a mugging. She was twenty-three.”

“Children?”

Bernhardt shook his head. “No children.”

“So now you have Paula.”

“Yes. Now I have Paula.” He resolved to say no more, reveal no more of himself. He had, after all, come on business. Potentially larcenous business.

Murderous business?

As if he were reading Bernhardt’s thoughts, DuBois spoke quietly, concisely: “When will you hear from Graham?”

“Noon, our time, at the earliest.”

“If he offers twenty million, that will do.”

“I understand.”

“Do you agree? Your percentage will remain unchanged.”

“Yes,” Bernhardt answered, “I agree.”

“No less than twenty million, though. If we must, we’ll make other arrangements.”

“I think you’re right. But what other arrangements can we make, on short notice?”

“I have instructed Powers to arrange for a secure warehouse. You and your crew can remain with the paintings, in the warehouse, until we make other arrangements. Is that satisfactory?”

“I suppose, if negotiations break down, we won’t have a choice.”

“You agree, then.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” DuBois bobbed his pale, narrow, bony head. “And now, you may tell Grace to clear the house. Then Paula can come in.”

“Shall I bring her here? To you?”

“Of course, to me.”

He touched a button on the arm, felt the chair pivot until he was facing the glass doors leading into the study. He released the button, glanced at the clock built into the chair’s left arm. Time, eight-twenty a.m. In Japan the Nikeί had closed, off four hundred points. In London, shares were fractionally higher. Gold was marginally higher, silver unchanged. In New York, the Dow was holding steady; trading was brisk. In three days’ time, the Saudis would announce a three-percent production restriction, yet another attempt to solidify oil prices.

And in London, at Sotheby’s, his agents were authorized to offer no more than two million for an early Utrillo street scene, untitled.

While, in Benedict Canyon, he waited.

“
The kindness of strangers
” was the line from
A Streetcar Named Desire.

Blanche DuBois, his namesake, that pitiful figure who’d lost control of her life.

Just as he, too, had lost control of his life. At seventy-eight, with eternity beckoning, the institution known as Raymond DuBois must depend on the kindness of strangers.

Put love aside. Put children aside. Acknowledge the loss, acknowledge the yearning. Then affirm, again and yet again, that autonomy was the fountainhead of his transcendent power. Because he was so exquisitely attuned to every financial nuance, his perception as delicate as a spider tending its web, and because he could react instantly, without consultation, therefore without delay, he existed at a level unimagined by lesser men. Let the mark drop a pfennig, and he could make millions in less than an hour. Or, if his timing were faulty, he could lose millions. If he chose to destroy an enemy, one phone call sufficed. Dial the phone again, and a friend was rewarded, set for life.

Friend?

No, not friend. There were only trusted associates, a few of them. Satraps, really, most of them. Petitioners. Inferiors.

Yet he called them friends. It was essential that he call them friends. How else could he reward them? Servants—croupiers—maître d’s, one tipped. But friends, perforce, were equals. Therefore CEOs. Or divas, bought and paid for.

Or artists who acknowledged their fealty to him, and who were therefore made whole, emergent, finally famous.

And then, in seconds, had come the fall. In the brain that
Fortune
had once called a center of financial power unto itself, a blood vessel had burst. Leaving him with his fortune still intact, multiplying hourly, compounding exponentially—