The Gilded Seal (9 page)
obelisk and the empty envelope. “What if he’s in some sort of
trouble? What if he needs my help?”
He found Rafael’s number and dialed it. A few seconds
later a voice answered.
“Digame.”
“Rafael?” he asked in a tentative tone, not recognizing the
man’s voice and wondering if he’d misdialed.
There was a pause.
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t w i n i n g
“Who is this?” There was a suspicious edge to the man’s
voice.
“Oliver Cook,” Tom improvised a name and a reason for
calling. “I work for the London
Times
. We were hoping to get
a quote from Mr. Quintavalle for a piece we’re running tomor-
row. Who am I speaking to?”
“Officer Juan Alonso of the Seville Police,” came the
heavily accented reply.
“The police? Is Mr. Quintavalle in some sort of trouble?”
Another pause, then the man replied in a hesitant, almost
apologetic tone.
“Señor Quintavalle is dead.”
“Dead?” Tom gasped. “How? When?”
“Last week. Murdered. If you like, I transfer you to my
superior,” Alonso suggested eagerly.
“That’s kind, but I’m on a deadline and I’m a quote down,”
Tom insisted, trying to keep his voice level. “Thanks for your
help.
Buenas noches.”
He punched the off button. There was a long silence. Do-
minique placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“I was too late,” he said slowly, shaking her off. “He came
here because he needed my help. He needed my help and I
wasn’t here for him.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said gently.
“It’s somebody’s fault,” Tom shot back.
“He’s dead, Tom. There’s nothing you can do for him
now.”
“I can find out who did this,” Tom said coldly, his eyes ris-
ing to meet hers. “I can find out who did this and make them
pay.”
SOHO, NEW YORK
19th April— 8:50 a.m.
Reuben Razi’s gallery occupied the ground floor of one of
Soho’s characteristic cast-iron warehouses, the rusty
scar of its fire-escape zig-zagging up the recently painted
white façade.
Jennifer had yet to see anyone enter the building, but it
was still early. She’d been sitting in her car, parked outside
the model agency on the opposite side of the street, since
seven-thirty, watching the neighborhood slowly stretch,
yawning, into life. The early start had been deliberate. Razi’s
receptionist had told her he would not be in until after nine,
but she wanted to get a feel for the world Razi lived in before
she met him.
According to the file spread across her lap, Razi had fl ed
to the U.S. from Iran after the fall of the Shah. Penniless and
not speaking a word of English, he had begun importing
Middle Eastern antiquities, and from those modest begin-
nings had evolved the small but prosperous fine art business
he ran today. He specialized in the mid-market, selling
second- tier artists and minor works by some of the bigger
Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters—the sort of
piece that was worth hundreds of thousands rather than
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millions. It was a formula that seemed to have worked, given
that Razi was able to afford a sprawling compound out in
Long Island from where he commuted every day.
The only slight question mark on his resumé had been
over the sale of a number of paintings reported to belong to
the Fanjul and de la Torre families. As refugees from Fidel
Castro’s regime in Cuba, their art collections had been seized
by the Communists, but some of the more valuable works
had reappeared several years later in U.S. and Euro pean auc-
tion rooms. Razi had been named by an informant as the link
man between the Cuban government and an Italian art dealer
who had arranged for the works to be smuggled abroad. Noth-
ing had ever been proven, of course, and Razi’s name had
been just one of several in the frame. It certainly wasn’t enough
to undermine his credibility or the trust that Lord Hudson so
clearly had in him.
A Range Rover swept past her, its tires drumming noisily
over the cobbled street, the sunlight winking in its heavily
tinted windows. She checked the plates, confirming that it
was the same car that had already driven past twice this
morning. According to the list she had in front of her, it was
registered in Razi’s name.
This time, rather than drive on, the Range Rover drew up
outside the gallery. As the driver’s door opened, a girl ran out
of the building. A man stepped from the vehicle and scurried
inside, Jennifer just catching a glimpse of the back of his
head before he vanished. The girl meanwhile clambered in,
adjusted the driver’s seat and pulled sedately away, Jennifer
guessing that she had gone to park it somewhere. She gave it
a few minutes and then followed the man inside, the fi le
clutched under one arm.
The gallery was a large, open- plan space, every inch of
which had been painted an unforgivably clinical white. De-
spite its size, there couldn’t have been more than fi fteen
paintings on display, small islands of color marooned amidst
the walls’ featureless expanse, each illuminated by a single
brushed- steel spotlight that protruded from the ceiling like a
medical implant.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
5 7
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Razi, please,” Jennifer instructed
the receptionist, holding out her ID.
“He’s in a meeting right now,” the receptionist trilled
through a saccharine smile. “Can I take a message?”
“You must be Agent Browne.”
Jennifer looked up to where the accented voice had come
from. A man was beaming down at her over the mezzanine
level’s railings like a ringmaster welcoming her to the circus.
“Mr. Razi?”
She stepped back to get a better view. He had a swarthy
face and a pencil-thin mustache dyed an unlikely shade of
black to match his carefully styled hair. According to the
file he was in his early fifties, but he looked older, and the dia-
mond stud in his left ear suggested someone clinging by his
fingertips to the rock-face of youth. Amidst the sterile sur-
roundings, his vibrant purple velvet suit seemed almost un-
real, and made him look as if he had been superimposed
against the gallery walls.
Without answering, he stepped away from the balustrade
and made his way down to her, each heavy footstep making
the spiral staircase vibrate with a dull clang. He held out his
hand and, as she shook it, he bowed theatrically. A thatch of
long dark hairs poked out from under the cuff of his starched
white shirt and now that she was closer she could see that his
face was pitted with acne scars.
“Hudson said you’d come.” He pressed a hand over his
mouth, affecting surprise, his English strangely stilted. “Was
that very wrong of him?”
“Not wrong. Just not ideal.”
“You must forgive him,” Razi pleaded, bringing his hands
together as if in prayer, the large gold rings that adorned ev-
ery finger glinting like brass knuckles. “He thought I should
know. It is my painting, after all.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said with a shrug, not wanting to
put Razi on the defensive. Not yet at least. “We’re all after
the same thing.”
“And what is that?”
“To figure out what’s going on, as fast as we can.”
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“Exactly!” He smiled in agreement, the faint glint of sev-
eral gold teeth coming from the back of his mouth. “I hope
you didn’t waste too much time this morning?”
“What do you mean?”
“I drove past at eight o’clock and saw you outside. And
again at quarter past. Were you hoping to see anything in
par tic u lar?”
Jennifer paused. She was less worried at having been spot-
ted than intrigued as to why Razi had felt it necessary to
drive past his gallery twice before finally going inside.
“Why don’t we sit down?” she suggested.
“By all means.” He nodded toward a secluded area at the
rear of the gallery where a white leather divan had been pro-
vocatively placed at a forty-five- degree angle across the fl oor-
space. Jennifer instinctively wanted to straighten it. They sat
down and he turned to face her with his palms resting on his
knees.
“We should start with a few questions, if that’s okay?”
“You are very beautiful, Agent Browne.” Razi smiled, his
nostrils flaring slightly as he spoke. “But I expect many men
tell you that.”
Jennifer gazed at Razi unblinkingly. She knew that in his
business, the ability to read people was the key to convincing
someone to pay a hundred thousand for something worth
fifty. She therefore took the compliment as a sighting shot to
calibrate how he should play her, rather than a line. Having
said that, from what she’d seen so far, Razi was also a per-
former. One who clearly liked to keep his audience slightly
off-balance. Either way, her best policy was not to react.
“When did you buy the Gauguin?”
Razi sat back resignedly and began to slowly crack his
knuckles in turn. “About ten years ago. At the time, people
said I overpaid, but a Gauguin is a Gauguin, whatever the
period.”
“And you never doubted its authenticity?”
“Never.” Razi was adamant, his hand movements becom-
ing more animated. “Its provenance was beyond suspicion.
The documentation proved it. I can supply you with copies of
everything.”
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
5 9
“So the existence of a second work has taken you by sur-
prise?”
“Absolutely.” Razi gave a vehement nod.
“The seller is a major Japanese corporation.”
“It’s always the Japanese these days.” He shrugged. “The
economy’s not what it used to be. Rus sia, on the other hand—
now that’s a market.”
“Have you ever come across a forgery yourself?”
“Not that I can recall.” He gave another shrug.
“And yet you buy and sell a lot of paintings, don’t you?”
“It depends on what you mean by ‘a lot.’ ”
“Lord Hudson said that you were a good client of his.” She
opened her file and consulted one of the typewritten pages
inside. “I counted fifteen purchases and twenty sales in the
past three years from Sotheby’s alone.”
“Is that file on me?” Razi’s tone hardened.
“Parts of it, yes.” Jennifer flipped the cover shut. Although
it wasn’t exactly standard procedure, she’d brought the fi le in
with her precisely to see how Razi would react when he saw
it. So far, he seemed more offended than concerned.
“Am I a suspect, Agent Browne?” He drew back and glared
at her.
“No more than I am, Mr. Razi,” Jennifer said in a concilia-
tory tone. “But if we’re going to get a result, we need to have
a fuller picture of you and your business. After all, this could
have been done by a client or a supplier. Someone who bore a
personal grudge and wanted to damage your reputation.”
“I have no enemies.” Razi shook his head firmly. “I left
them all behind in Iran. Here, in America, I am with friends.
Many, many friends.”
“What about Herbie Hammon?”
Again she saw a flash of impatience in his eyes.
“Herbie and I are . . . are very close.”
“Close enough for you to break his arm?” she pressed,
thinking back to the paramedic’s deposition she’d read in the
file while she’d been waiting. “Close enough for him to sue
you for assault?”
“The case never went to trial.” His humorless tone belied
his easy smile. “It was a simple misunderstanding. I never
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meant to hurt him . . .” A pause. “Are you married, Agent
Browne?”
“No.”
“No,” he repeated. Jennifer found herself bristling at his
tone, which implied she’d provided the answer he had been
expecting. Was she that easy to read? “Well, Herbie and I are
like a married couple, and married couples argue. Things are
said and done in the heat of the moment. But they don’t mean
anything. The important thing is that we always kiss and
make up in the end.”
There was a long silence as Jennifer waited to see if he
would continue. If nothing else, the mention of Hammon’s
name seemed to have thrown him. It was an angle worth fol-
lowing up on, even if Razi wasn’t prepared to volunteer any-
thing more himself.
“Mr. Razi, is there something you’re not telling me?” she
asked eventually. “Something that might have provoked
someone out there to try to get at you?”
“I’ve already said no,” he said with a simple shake of his
head. “Why, do you . . . ?” He glanced accusingly at the fi le
on Jennifer’s lap and then snatched his eyes back to hers.
Jennifer remained silent. The truth was that she had more
questions now than when she had walked in. Like why had
Razi driven past his gallery twice before fi nally sprinting
inside? Or, more to the point, what had prompted him to
