The Icon Thief (27 page)

Natalia’s eyes hardened into flecks of ice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let me remind you, then. You hadn’t seen your sister for years. One day, after you moved to New York, she learned that you were here. Maybe she saw your picture in the paper. She gave you a call, and you agreed to meet her. I want you to tell me what happened next.”

This speech was compounded of equal parts conjecture and speculation, but Powell hoped it would have the desired effect. Natalia regarded him for another moment, then rose from the couch. “This is absurd,” Natalia said, heading for the door. “I’m not going to dignify this any longer—”

Powell watched her walk away, knowing that his
window of opportunity was closing. “Wait. Before you go, look outside your balcony.”

Natalia paused in the middle of the floor. She made no effort to conceal the hatred in her fine features. “Why?”

“Just look,” Wolfe said, rising from the sofa as well. “Then we’ll be on our way.”

Natalia glared at her, then finally headed for the glass door that led outside. Drawing aside the curtain, she slid the door open, allowing a whisper of a breeze to penetrate the apartment’s interior.

They went onto the balcony, which was ample enough to comfortably accommodate a table and chairs. Natalia approached the railing and looked down. Powell spoke quietly at her side. “You see?”

Natalia did not respond. Across the street, parked at the curb near the museum, was a squad car with a uniformed officer behind the wheel. Leaning against the hood was a detective in plain clothes.

“The police are downstairs,” Wolfe said. “They agreed to let us go in first, but if we leave without you, they’ll be here in ten seconds, and I promise that they won’t be as understanding. They don’t care about anything except closing a murder, but we’re interested in Valentin Sharkovsky, the man who hid your sister’s body. If you testify against him, we can make a deal.”

Natalia said nothing. It was a hot day, and a sheen of sweat had already appeared on her face. Watching her closely, Powell held his breath. Because she was at home, and not in a custodial situation, it wasn’t necessary to inform her of her rights, but she was still entitled to a lawyer. If she remained silent, the case would stall until
they caught another break, which he knew might never come.

At last, Natalia turned away. Reaching up, she removed her barrette, allowing her hair to fall loosely across her shoulders, and sat down at the table on the balcony. Taking a fistful of hair in each hand, she lowered her head. When she looked up again, there was an Eastern wildness in her eyes.

“It’s strange,” Natalia said. “Ever since the party, I’ve been having nightmares. I knew you were coming. I just didn’t know it would be like this.” She looked into the next room, where the figurine still sat on the table. “That toy is a
rusalka
. You know what that is?”

Powell, feeling a tentative rush of relief, said, “It’s a mermaid. Or is it a demon?”

“In a way. It’s the spirit of a woman who drowned herself.” Natalia turned back to the others. Her eyes had acquired a glassy shine. “I haven’t seen one in years. You see, it was made by my father.”

Wolfe sat down, the chair’s legs scraping against the concrete. “Tell us about him.”

“He—” Natalia raised a hand to her mouth. “He never touched us. I want to be clear about that. But his eyes on me were enough. I ran away before it was too late, but I don’t know what happened to Karina. I asked her to come with me, but she didn’t. So I left on my own.”

“You went to Moscow,” Wolfe said, prompting her gently. “What happened then?”

“I worked until I had enough money for new papers.” As Natalia spoke, the color began to creep back into her face. “I had plenty of time to think about what to do next. All I needed was a sense of style and a famous name. I picked
German Khan because I thought he would be too reclusive to object, and told people that I was estranged from my family. Once I met Anzor, it was too late to stop. And by the time Karina called me, we hadn’t spoken in years.”

She looked away, as if a private film were unspooling behind her eyes. “When I got to her room above the club, she was wearing her costume from the show. Green ribbons in her hair, a white dress. We had a drink while I asked about her dancing. But when I told her about my own life, I saw her face change. She threatened to tell Anzor the truth. Then she said—” Natalia hesitated. “I won’t tell you what it was. But it had to do with our father.”

Powell pictured an exchange of whispers across a darkened room. “And she came after you.”

Natalia paused, as if wondering if she should seize upon this excuse. “No. It was me. I took her by the shoulders. I shook her to make her stop talking, but she wouldn’t. Then I put my hands around her throat. I only wanted to scare her. Before I knew what was happening, she was on the floor.”

Wolfe glanced over at Powell. “On the floor? You mean she lost consciousness?”

“Her eyes rolled back and she fell to her knees. Then she stopped moving. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to wake her up. I pounded her chest, though I didn’t know how. But she was already dead—”

“Heart failure,” Powell said. He saw that Wolfe was thinking the same thing. Bulimia, once it progressed beyond a certain point, could lead to an increased risk of cardiac arrest.

“So you called someone for help,” Wolfe said, turning back to Natalia. “Who was it?”

“Kostava. I couldn’t call Anzor, but I trusted his assistant, and I knew that he cared about me. He came to the club right away, and spoke with the owner in private. I don’t know what kind of deal he made, but after he arrived, a man with blond hair took the body into the bathroom. The owner went in later. I never found out what they did to her, but the next morning, Kostava told me that everything was going to be fine. And that was all. Until last week.”

Powell sensed that they had reached a turning point. “What happened last week?”

“He got a call. I don’t know the details. But I know that Sharkovsky never let him off the hook. Now he was asking for a favor. There was a painting that he wanted from Anzor’s collection, and Kostava would help him steal it. Otherwise, he said, he would tell the police everything he knew.”

“Kostava must have given him details about the house’s security system,” Wolfe said. “And he arranged to let the truck into the mansion on the night of the party. Do you know if he did anything else?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. I only know that he was doing it to protect me.” A tear rolled down Natalia’s cheek. Although her sorrow was real, the tear seemed false, a mechanism that only happened to coincide with what she was actually feeling. “What else was I supposed to do? We knew that the police had found the body. If we didn’t cooperate—”

“We understand. You didn’t have a choice. But why was the painting so important?”

Natalia wiped the tear away. “I’m not sure. It meant a lot to Anzor. When I asked him about it, he said it would
give him power over his enemies. I don’t know what he meant by that. But then he told me about something that had happened in Budapest. Something about a courier being killed.”

At the mention of a courier, Powell felt one more piece lock into place. As he considered what it might mean, he saw that Natalia was looking at the railing, and realized that its plunge of twelve stories might present a temptation. He tensed himself to go after her, but in the end, she turned away from the view.

Rising, she went back into the living room, followed by the others. When she reached the coffee table, she picked up the toy. For a moment, Powell thought that she was going to smash it, but she only took it gently into her hands. “I’ve pledged myself to Anzor. I don’t want him to learn about this from the papers.”

“I know,” Powell said. “You still have a passport in your real name? Bring it here.”

Natalia left the room, accompanied by Wolfe. Powell remained behind, feeling curiously empty. Taking out his phone, he dialed a number and spoke quietly to the man who answered. A minute later, after hearing a knock, Powell went to the door and opened it to the police.

When Natalia returned to the living room, passport in hand, she turned to Powell, her eyes burning. “You promised to protect me.”

“I will,” Powell said. “The police will book you as Alisa Baranova. Archvadze won’t know about it until we have a chance to talk to him. The rest of it is out of my hands. But we’ll be in touch soon.”

Powell stood aside as the detective handcuffed Natalia and informed her of her rights. After exchanging a few
words with the detective, he and Wolfe headed downstairs. They did not look at Natalia again.

“I think she’s telling the truth,” Wolfe said as they went outside. “It would be hard to find signs of cardiac arrest in a mummified body. And the bruising of the chest may have been caused when Natalia tried to revive her. If that’s the case, we’re looking at possible manslaughter and criminal conspiracy, but not murder. Which won’t be enough for Barlow.”

“I know.” Across the street, vendors at the museum were selling postcards and prints. It reminded him of his encounter with Maddy, which had raised its own set of questions. He didn’t know why Misha had been following her, but it bothered him. He had already asked that an agent be detailed to keep her under observation, but the request had yet to be approved.

As he was wondering what to do about this, Wolfe’s cell phone rang. She answered it, offered a few terse replies to the caller, and hung up. “It looks like we’re still behind the curve,” Wolfe said, looking out at the museum. “Barlow got his warrant. We’re raiding the club tonight.”

W
hen Maddy arrived at Ethan’s building, a brownstone in Prospect Heights, she rang the bell, but there was no answer. She pressed it again. Nothing. She was about to leave, resolving to find him at the office the next day, when the front door finally unlocked with a low metallic drone.

She went inside. The apartment was built on two levels, with a narrow flight of steps connecting the living room and kitchen with a bedroom and study upstairs. On this level, the house was empty, but in the rectangular space formed by the upper stairwell, she saw a greenish glow.

Upstairs, in the study, Ethan was hunched over his laptop, which was the only source of light. Pop music blared from a stereo in the corner:
In every city and every nation from Lake Geneva to the Finland Station—

As she entered the room, Ethan clicked through a series of web pages. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

He looked up. For a second, seeing his haunted face, she felt an instinctive flinch of revulsion. Then, when he smiled, he looked almost like his old self. All the same, though, she could tell that he hadn’t showered that day.

Looking around the study, she saw that it was a mess. Countless books lay on the rug, their pages marked with whatever oddments had been closest at hand. A snow shovel hung from the ceiling. Following her eyes, Ethan said, “I’m trying to figure out the true meaning of the readymades.”

He pointed to a bottle rack that stood nearby, a conical iron structure with several tiers of hooks. “This is another readymade that caught my eye. Most bottle racks have an even distribution of hooks on each tier, but the one that Duchamp used has an odd number. I’m still trying to figure out why—”

“Ethan, wait.” Hearing the note of obsession in his voice, she took it upon herself to project an air of calm. “You need to slow down.”

“I understand.” Without warning, Ethan bounded downstairs, leaving her alone in the study. A moment later, he returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Have a drink with me.”

“I don’t know,” Maddy said hesitantly. “I haven’t had anything to eat today—”

“That’s all right. Neither have I.” Ethan poured the wine, handed her a glass, and sank into a chair in front of the fireplace. “Very well, then. What is it that you wanted to talk about?”

Maddy paused, wondering how to begin. “Tanya and I have been looking at Hugo Ball, one of the founders of Dadaism. He was obsessed with the occult. According to his diary, he staged rituals that were inspired by the Vehmgericht, complete with drummers in black cowls—”

“Interesting,” Ethan said. “But you didn’t come all the way out here to tell me this.”

“No.” Maddy took a swallow of the wine, which was unpleasantly skunky. “I’ve decided to go to Reynard.”

Ethan only contemplated his own glass, as if he saw something in its dregs. “Go on.”

“We need to go public. By keeping this a secret, we’re just playing into the hands of whoever stole the study. And we can’t keep doing this on our own. Our names were in the paper. The thief saw our faces. Someone broke into my house. And there’s something else.”

She described the man who had been following her, as well as her conversation with Powell. Ethan listened in silence, his expression unchanging. When she was done, Maddy said, “I’ve checked Reynard’s schedule. He’ll be in the office tomorrow. If we go to him, we can use the fund’s resources to break the story—”

“No,” Ethan said quietly. “Not yet. If we go public now, we’ll be exposing ourselves too soon. You see, I know what these men are trying to protect. And they’re even more dangerous than we imagined.”

Raising her glass, Maddy found that it was already empty. “What do you mean?”

Ethan poured more wine before responding. “I’ve been thinking about Monte Verità. You said that it was a place where art and the occult could intersect, and you were right. But there were other forces at work as well. Who was the first man to settle there? Mikhail Bakunin, the Russian anarchist. You see, it wasn’t just home to artists and occultists. It was home to revolutionaries. Like Lenin.”

The wine began to expand in her head like a soft bullet. “Lenin was there, too?”

“We know that he and Trotsky spent time at Monte
Verità,” Ethan said. “His house in Zurich was right across from the Cabaret Voltaire. He and the Dadaists passed each other in the street. He played chess with Tristan Tzara. And after the war, Tzara was questioned by the police for consorting with the Bolsheviks.”