The Florentine Deception (5 page)

“Arkady,” responded Lister. “Let me in, I'm freezing,” he continued, in Ukrainian-accented Russian.

Lister heard a security chain slide open and the thunks of two deadbolts. A second later, the door edged open.

“Come in.” He motioned Lister in, a World War II-era revolver in-hand, then quickly closed the door.

The man was five-eight with greasy, thinning brown hair atop a gaunt face with sunken, bloodshot eyes.
He hasn't slept in a while
, thought Lister. That meant he was edgy, and edgy was bad. Lister's fingers tightened on his pistol.

“Viktor?” asked Lister evenly, his eyes fixed on the man's gun.

“
Da.
Do you have a weapon?”

Lister hesitated.

“Do you have a weapon?” Viktor repeated anxiously.

“
Da.
”

“Please remove it slowly and place it over there,” instructed Viktor, motioning toward a scarred table.

“There's no one else here?” asked Lister.

“No. Just me.”

“May I take a look?” said Lister, his eyes fixed on Viktor's, his body perfectly still.

Viktor considered, then waved his revolver toward the door. “Go ahead.”

Lister slowly removed the miniature pistol from his pocket, careful to aim it away from Viktor, and approached the apartment's only door. Using his foot, Lister eased the door open, then scanned the small bathroom.

“Satisfied?” asked the Russian. “Now please put your gun on the table.”

“Together? As a gesture of trust?”

Viktor nodded, and eyes locked onto eyes, the two men laid their guns on the scarred pine table.

“Good,” said Viktor, still visibly uneasy, and now covered in a patina of tiny beads of sweat. “Have you heard from Slava?”

“
Niet
. He has disappeared,” responded Lister. “It's been several weeks. But he'll surface. He always does.”

“Well, all we have is his mutual trust. Are you prepared to transfer the funds?” probed Viktor.

“
Da
. Do you have the Florentine?”

“
Da
.”

“How do I know it's authentic?”

“I can demonstrate this to you in just a few minutes. Sit.” Viktor pointed toward the apartment's lone sofa.

Richard stepped over to the lumpy, threadbare couch and hesitantly sat down on the least stained of the cushions. The demonstration took seven minutes.

“Satisfied?” asked Viktor.

“Yes. How did you get hold of it?” asked Lister while he stood and extracted an iPhone from his breast pocket.

“You know not to ask those kinds of questions, Arkady.” Viktor handed him a slip of paper. “Here are the BIC and IBAN numbers for my account.”

Lister nodded, tapped in an international number, and placed the phone next to his ear.

“Make the transfer,” he said. He hesitated, listening, then said, “Yes.” Then he read the digits from Viktor's paper. When he finished, Viktor, too, made a phone call.

“As promised?” asked Lister.

“Yes.” Viktor handed him the small box. “I don't ever want to see you again.”

Lister nodded, then under Viktor's watchful eyes, slowly picked up his gun and walked to the door. “That won't be a problem.”

Chapter 8

Malibu, California

Present Day

As we snaked up the old Kanan Road from the valley toward Zuma Beach, a leaden fog enveloped the car. I found it strange that there should be fog on such a hot day. Unaccustomed to the lack of visibility, I slowed to fifteen miles per hour and toggled my high beams around the turns. LA's mountain roads are notorious for midnight motorcycle riders and occasional rockfalls, so I didn't want to take any chances.

“Getting close,” I said, slowing.

Steven roused from his thoughts and straightened.

A second later, a red stop sign materialized out of the mist. After a pointless check for oncoming cars, I turned right onto the Pacific Coast Highway and accelerated northbound.

“What if someone sees us?” he asked nervously.

“Holmes,” I lowered the window, allowing wisps of fog to drift into the car. “In this? We'll be lucky if we can see each other. Stop worrying!”

Steven grunted.

“C'mon, it'll be just like old times!”

“That's what worries me.”

Latigo was a constricted two-lane road straddled by overgrown California scrub and chaparral. About a quarter mile away from our mark, I eased my Outback onto a wide dirt shoulder and killed the headlights; the fog offered just meters of visibility.

We reached Richard's driveway minutes later, a Coldwell Banker sign offering confirmation. Steven's feet crunched on the gravel as he walked over to the sign and withdrew a crumpled flyer from the plastic for-sale box.

“Oh look, there's a phone number for the broker, I bet you could call and get a tour scheduled by Monday.”

“Oh stop being such a wimp,” I whispered. “We're here already. We've got to at least take a quick look.”

“Tell that to the Malibu
poh
-leece when they've got you pinned on the ground,” he retorted. “Officer, you know how fast these houses are selling these days, I just couldn't wait for my broker.”

The home was set back a few hundred yards along a deteriorating asphalt drive from a hairpin bend on Latigo. Overgrown vegetation, covered in a species of what must have been invasive ivy, shrouded the driveway as we padded up.

“Did you bring a flashlight?” he asked.

“Crap. Of all the things. There's one back in the trunk.”

Steven dug into his pocket and pulled out a hefty key ring. Fingering through the keys, he singled out a one-inch-long, diamond-shaped LED flashlight. “Lithium. Lasts twelve hours on a single watch battery. Ten-ninety-nine plus shipping and handling.” Steven winked, now a bit more relaxed. He aimed the beam onto the pitch black a few feet in front of us and we continued through the mist up to the main property.

Like many Malibu homes, Richard's was surrounded by a formidable iron gate and a twelve-foot-high stucco wall, similarly covered with dense ivy. I pointed to the right and Steven trained his flashlight along the overgrown enclosure. We proceeded eastward around the wall toward the back and were soon completely obscured from the street.

“You want to take a look?” I whispered.

“No way. If you want to, that's your business.”

I nodded vigorously.

“I don't know what makes me do these things.” Steven placed his key ring on the ground, and with the help of a twig, angled the LED toward the lower part of the wall. He then clasped his hands together and motioned for me to vault from them. Using Steven for support, I launched upward and grasped the wall's ridge; ivy, lichen, insects, spiders—I didn't know what exactly—squished under my hands. Ignoring the mush, I hauled myself up and straddled my legs on the wall. Given the haze, I couldn't see much of the backyard. I promptly wiped the muck from my hands on my jeans.

“Grab the light and I'll pull you up.”

Steven shook his head. “No way. I'm staying here.” He bent down, snatched up the key ring, and, receiving my acknowledgement, tossed it up. The light arced upward, through my flagellating hands, and down into the shrubs. The beam extinguished.

“Crap,” I hissed. “I'm going to jump down and get it. I'll take a quick look around and then find a place to climb back over.”

“Okay. I'll meet you by the gate.”

I rotated and dropped both legs onto the inside of the wall, scraping my feet against the stucco in search of a protrusion. None was to be found, so I relieved my arms and dropped as cat-like as possible down to the base of the wall. Cat-like indeed. My left leg landed in a bush, my right foot on a sprinkler, and I collapsed backward into the damp earth.

A few moments passed amidst the dirt and shrubs before I regained my breath and wits and did an inventory; everything was still intact with the exception of a gash under my knee. It stung nastily.

“I'm okay,” I muttered. There was no response.

Sitting up, I trawled my hands through the dirt and mulch at the base of the wall in search of the keys. Minutes of increasingly paranoid searching bore little fruit; the desire to just find a tree along the wall and escape the yard was overwhelming. Hoping for another pair of hands to help locate the keys, or at least some moral support, I flicked on the walkie-talkie and whispered, “Hey, are you there?” I ratcheted up the volume until it hissed white noise. A little louder: “Hello?” Steven didn't have the damn thing on.

Increasingly consumed by paranoia, I groped for a reasonably weighty rock, and rotating several through my fingers, found a substantial one and convinced myself of its defensive qualities. My imagination at the moment was electric, and it wouldn't have surprised me if a couple of aliens came from nowhere and dragged me into a hole. The rock would make them think twice.

I knew the keys had fallen somewhere close. If they weren't on the ground, they had to be caught in a bush. I began to alternately waggle nearby bushes and hold my breath, the former to elicit the jangle of keys and the latter to monitor for approaching aliens, burglars, and wild animals. Neither event was realized. We'd have to go back to the car, grab the flashlight, and come back for the keys later. A minute or two of deep breathing calmed me and I had enough presence of mind to at least look around the backyard before finding my escape tree. From the little I could see, Richard's yard was like a jungle. I shoved through the nearby bushes and, covered in dead leaves, stumbled onto a pebbled walkway. Organized more like a botanical garden than a typical backyard, the path was flanked by an array of ferns, monstrous shrubs, and bamboo thickets. Improvised weapon in hand, I snaked toward the house, mindful of my crunching steps.

The back of the house opened onto the garden via a grid of six-inch square glass windows. Maybe my eyes were getting used to the dark or perhaps there was a nightlight in the house; either way, I could vaguely make out the interior. Moving closer to the grid, I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed my face up to a pane. The room was incredible; spanning three levels, it sported a recessed fireplace nook, a midlevel conversation area, and a library loft with requisite spiral staircase and built-in mahogany bookcases. The place was totally empty. The source of the light—there was definitely a dim light inside the house—came from around the bend of the hallway.

A few moments more of my cupped-hand-gazing fogged the window, so I shifted to another pane to get a better view of the adjoining rooms. For whatever reason, the hallway light that had illuminated the room a second earlier had extinguished; it must have been on a timer. Robbed of my view, I bent down to check my gash and let my eyes adjust to the darkness for a second look. This was truly the craziest thing I'd done in a long time, definitely since college, and while I considered myself an adventurous person, this was definitely pushing it. The thought occupied me for a few restless seconds. Eyes acclimated, I re-cupped my hands to the second pane, only to find it fogged as well. I was surprised at that. I'd only hovered in front of it earlier for a second or two. I pulled up my t-shirt and wiped the pane. The hair on my arms prickled; the condensation wasn't on the outside.

The realization took a few seconds to gel. The subsequent “
schunk
” of an unlocking deadbolt settled it. I catapulted headfirst into the nearest cluster of bushes and then, as stealthily as possible, tried to lose myself within the densest part of Richard's jungle. Reaching a niche behind a dense hedge along the north wall, I spun my back to the wall and froze, my heart's violent pulsations deafening me. I immediately started taking quiet, deep breaths to calm down, slow my heart rate, and restore my hearing.

While I waited, I heard the vague crunch of decaying leaves. Whoever it was remained quiet—no “I'm going to call the police,” no “Get the hell out of my backyard.” He was hunting me. I didn't know who “he” was, but it sure as hell wasn't a real estate agent hosting a midnight open house. I tightened the grip on my rock. A few seconds later, the footsteps subsided. I couldn't honestly tell if the guy had found me and was standing inches away from the hedge, waiting to shoot me, or if he'd left to search another section of the garden. Either way, I needed to see where I was and I needed to get out. I waited two more minutes, barely breathing and ears perked for the slightest snap of a twig. Nothing.

The prolonged quiet bolstered my courage. I edged my head around the side of the hedge and scanned the area. Other than the huge dark ferns, I couldn't see a thing, and a brief pause revealed no movement whatsoever in the bushes. Turning my attention to the wall, I looked west for a means of escape. No cooperative trees or rocks stood along this stretch of wall, so I retracted my head, and as slowly as possible to conceal my presence, shifted to the other side of the hedge for a look. My heart jumped. Not ten feet away, a rock fountain installation abutted the wall. I paused to listen. Again, nothing. I crept from behind the shrub and hurled my rock house-ward. The stone cracked against a window, and as if choreographed, I heard my adversary sprint. I darted for the fountain, the porous lava rocks provided excellent handholds, and reaching the top, I swung over and dropped blindly into the chaparral.

After a few minutes of bush-dodging, I chanced upon a shallow gully that was out of earshot and eyeshot of the house. I switched on the walkie-talkie.

“Tell me you're there?” I asked of the ether.

“Yeah. What happened? I heard a crack.”

“Just go back to the car. Now. As quickly and quietly as possible, and keep your eyes open. There's someone else on the property.”

“What? I—”

“Go!” I spun the dial and took off.

Minutes later we were careening down Latigo like a bat out of hell.