The Icon Thief (33 page)

Powell fished a pen out of the mess on his desk. “That depends. Where are you?”

Kostava gave him the address of a hospital. “It is a private clinic in Glen Cove. I am here with Mr. Archvadze. When you get to the front desk, ask for a patient registered under the name of Kakutsa.”

Powell wrote down the name, then underlined it. “You’re at a clinic? Why?”

“It will be better if I explain in person. You need to see what they’ve done.”

Kostava hung up. Powell set the receiver in its cradle and turned to Wolfe. “That was Kostava. He wants to meet at a hospital on Long Island. Archvadze is there. Can we get a vehicle?”

“I’ll handle it,” Wolfe said. She seemed aware of the urgency of the moment. With their workload snowballing in the aftermath of the raid, word was that the heist investigation would soon be turned over to Southampton. Once that happened, the case would be nothing but a memory.

Wolfe went into the next room. A moment later, she returned with the keys to a Bureau sedan. “I said that we were driving to Brighton Beach to take statements from the neighborhood. If we aren’t back in a few hours, they’ll suspect something. What was the address again?”

Powell handed her the slip of paper. “Glen Cove. Let’s hope traffic is on our side.”

After picking up the car, they headed for Long Island. Both were depressed by the results of the raid. Although a dozen men had been arrested and a cache of weapons
seized, the tactical unit had failed to cover the parking lot in time, and both Ilya and Sharkovsky had escaped.

Forty minutes later, they left the expressway and went five miles north to the clinic. Instead of the vaguely menacing network of buildings that Powell had expected, the hospital campus turned out to be leafy and secluded, a wooded landscape that lacked only a hedge to embody the Hamptons ideal.

They parked at the end of the road, near the hospital itself, a converted mansion overlooking the sea. At the front desk, which was just inside a portico flanked with sun chairs, Powell showed his badge to the receptionist. “We’re here to see a patient registered under the name Kakutsa.”

The receptionist eyed the panther logo, but instead of making the usual wisecrack, she clicked through the records on her terminal. “We have a patient by that name in the burn ward on the fourth floor.”

“The burn ward?” Wolfe leaned over the counter to look at the computer. “What happened? Was there an accident?”

“I don’t have any information about that,” the receptionist said, turning her monitor to hide the screen. “If you’d like to wait—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Powell said. They headed for the elevators, moving down a tastefully furnished hall. Except for the faint whiff of disinfectant and medical waste, it might have been a corridor in a private resort.

On the fourth floor, Kostava was seated in the hallway, a copy of that day’s paper unfolded across his lap. When he saw them, he rose, the legs of his chair leaving marks on the tile. “I am glad to see you,” Kostava said, holding the paper before him like a shield. “Where is Natalia?”

“At the Tombs,” Wolfe said. “A bail hearing is scheduled for tomorrow. She didn’t try to call you?”

“There was no way for her to reach us,” Kostava said. “After the incident at the mansion, my employer decided to withdraw until he knew who his enemies were. He feared that his phone was tapped, or that members of his inner circle were working for the Chekists—”

“I know,” Powell said. “He fired his own lawyer. And yet he trusted you. Why?”

“Because of all that we have been through together.” Kostava’s eyes grew damp, as if his emotions were seeping through the one available gap in his defenses. “He trusted me. And I betrayed him.” With a sudden gesture, he crumpled the newspaper and threw it to the ground. “I was only trying to protect her.”

Powell sensed that Kostava’s feelings for Natalia went far beyond an assistant’s natural regard for his employer’s girlfriend. “Tell me what happened. I need to know everything.”

Kostava looked at his hands, which were covered in smears of newsprint. “I will do whatever you ask, as long as you promise that these men will be punished. Come and see for yourself.”

He headed down the corridor. Powell followed, noticing a peculiar bluish glow spilling across the tiles. Reaching the source of the light, they halted, looking through a glass panel into the room beyond. Kostava wiped his eyes. “He was the finest man I have ever known. Now look at what they have done to him.”

Powell stared silently through the glass. It took a moment for him to recognize what he was seeing, and even longer to comprehend it. When, at last, he understood,
the final piece fell into place, and it all seemed obvious. The heist had not been about the painting at all. At least not entirely.

Archvadze, his arms folded across his chest, lay in a hospital bed, doused in blue light from an ultraviolet lamp that had been mounted to the ceiling. Most of his skin was gone. So were his hair and eyebrows. Although much of his body was swathed in bandages, some silver, others filled with cooling gel, wherever his skin was exposed, it had peeled away in large fragments, exposing the raw pink underneath. His face was covered in clots of blood. His mustache had fallen out, leaving his mouth as featureless as that of a baby mouse.

Wolfe stared at the ruin in the other room. Her usual reserve fell away. “Holy shit.”

Powell himself was unable to speak. He could not believe that this bleeding piece of earth was the same man he had seen at the mansion a week ago. At the party, the oligarch had struck him as sophisticated and capable, in full possession of his faculties. Now he had been reduced to the core of a man, like a mummy that was crumbling to pieces after exposure to the open air.

From up the hallway came the sound of efficient footsteps. A resident was walking in their direction, his feet clad in rubber sandals. “I was told that I would find you here,” the doctor said, transferring his clipboard to the crook of his arm. “I see you’ve found our star patient.”

Powell numbly shook the resident’s hand. “Can you tell me what happened?”

The resident peered into the next room, his smooth face unruffled by the sight. “Toxic epidermal necrolysis, also known as Lyell’s syndrome. The worst case I’ve ever
seen. We’ve tried everything we can, but at this point, all we can do is treat the pain. Chances of survival are very low. I remember a case—”

“Toxic epidermal necrolysis,” Wolfe said. “What does that mean? His skin is dying?”

The resident blinked at the interruption. “The upper layer of skin, the epidermis, has sloughed off across ninety percent of his body. It’s being rejected, like a transplanted organ. That’s why we have him under ultraviolet light, which slows down immune system response. We’re also treating him with ciclosporin, but at this point, it doesn’t seem to be making any difference.”

“But how did it happen?” Powell asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kostava turn away, as if he had heard this all before.

“It’s very mysterious,” the resident said. “Our first theory was that it was an allergic reaction to medication. The immune system tries to force the drug out of the body by depositing it in the skin, which kills the tissue. We found traces of fluoroquinolone, a synthetic antibiotic, in his bloodstream, but not in sufficient quantities to cause a reaction this severe.”

“So he was poisoned,” Wolfe said. “There’s no way that this could be an accident.”

“Forensics isn’t really my field, so I can’t say. But severe reactions can be caused by interactions between multiple compounds. So far, if there is a second component, we haven’t found it yet.”

Powell turned back to the glass. The oligarch’s eyes were open, but he did not seem aware of his surroundings. He was breathing, but his mind was gone. Powell had seen it before. “Is there any prospect of recovery?”

“There’s always a chance of a miracle, but honestly—” The resident shook his head. “Even in the best of circumstances, the mortality rate is close to fifty percent, and this is no routine case. His airway is too badly damaged.”

“Then I need to question him now,” Powell said. “Before he dies, I need to find out how he was exposed.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the resident said. “Even if he were awake, he’s been suffering from acute paranoia and dementia. His skin loss and suppressed immune system leave him vulnerable to infection. It might be permissible with the right protective gear, but it would take a while to get the equipment together—”

“Do it, then,” Wolfe said. “In the meantime, we need access to his clinical history.”

“It’s in my office,” the resident said. “If you’ll come with me, we can take a look.”

“Fine. I’ll need copies, too.” Wolfe looked at Powell. “Can you get a statement from Kostava?”

Her eyes flashed a covert message, one that he decoded easily. “Yes, I can do that.”

“Good. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Wolfe followed the resident down the hallway and disappeared around the corner. Kostava was nowhere in sight. Powell stood there for a few seconds, waiting until he could no longer hear the squeak of rubber sandals against tile. Then he got to work.

Across the hall, there was an empty examination room. He ducked inside, scanning the rows of medical supplies on the shelves, and finally took a surgical mask and a pair of nitrate gloves. He tied the mask around his face and donned the gloves as he went back to the room where Archvadze was dying.

He opened the door. As he approached, Archvadze’s
eyes widened. At the center of each pupil, Powell saw, there was a bright star of dementia, a fevered spark that he knew all too well.

Powell thought that the oligarch recognized him, but just to be sure, he took out his badge and held it up. Archvadze studied it, then lifted his head in an imitation of a nod, saying, “Powell.” His enunciation had grown soft, like that of a man who had gone days without water. “From London.”

“That’s right,” Powell said. He pulled up a chair and sat down. From the bed, a faintly sweet odor of antiseptic was underlined by something darker, the smell of the body glistening and exposed. Embarrassed by the proximity of death, he took out his notebook. “I’m here to learn who did this to you.”

Archvadze said something inaudible. When Powell leaned closer, the oligarch licked his lips, his tongue emerging from his mouth like a worm in dead soil. “Cell phone. The Chekists—”

Powell felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “What about your cell phone?”

“Chekists put something on my phone,” Archvadze said, breathing heavily. “I figured it out. That’s why I threw it away. Don’t know what else they’ve touched. Or who else is working for them. I should have known. I thought I had power, but all I had was money. Money is nothing. Money is shit. I smell it in me, this corruption, and I have no doubt. It’s oozing out of me—”

“Why did the Chekists want to kill you?” Powell asked, raising his voice. Listening to the drone of the machines by the bedside, he knew that he was almost out of time. “What did you find out?”

“The trophy commission.” For a second, the oligarch’s eyes seemed to fill with light and lucidity. “The painting. You found it?”

“No,” Powell said. “It’s still missing. We’ll find it, I promise, and get it back to you.”

“Look closely,” Archvadze managed to say. “Not the front. The back. That’s where the truth lies. On the other side—”

He began to cough. A second later, Powell heard an alarm go off. When he looked at the monitor next to the bed, he saw the line weakening and flattening. Archvadze’s lungs were failing.

Powell bent down, eye to eye with the dying man, and whispered, “Who killed you? Tell me. Give me a name—”

Archvadze stared at him, eyes bulging. “Camera,” the oligarch hissed. “Camera.”

The oligarch’s eyes rolled back in his head. Powell heard the door bang open like a gunshot as the resident ran into the room, shouting for him to stand aside, a nurse and technician a few steps behind. Powell fell back, the oligarch’s last words echoing in his brain. He looked down at his notes. In the ultraviolet light, the paper of his notebook was glowing.

T
he old man walked along the Avenue of the Americas, his hatred for the city deepening with every step. Back home, each face he passed granted him the proper deference, but here, as he gazed up at the towers of steel and glass, he could sense their mute dismissal of the life he had carved out for himself.

When he arrived at the gallery, he rang the bell, keeping his face turned away from the street. A second later, the door opened, revealing an elegant figure standing just inside. The two men regarded each other for a long moment. Sharkovsky did not look away from the other man’s eyes.

At last, Lermontov stepped aside. “Be quick. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

As Sharkovsky entered the gallery, he kept on his sunglasses, which he wore in place of an eye patch. His right eye ached all the time now, as if a grain of sand were embedded in the optic nerve, and the constant irritation had begun to affect his judgment. If he had been able to think more clearly in recent days, he reflected, he might have avoided some of the mistakes that had turned him into an exile.

He followed the gallerist into the back office. When
he closed his left eye and looked around the room, he saw only a vague blur of color. On the far edges of his field of vision, he could still sense movement and light, but the laser had burned out his fovea, making it impossible to see anything in detail. The room smelled faintly of soap, as if the floor had been recently washed.

Lermontov took a seat behind his desk. “Do you wish to make your confession?”

Sharkovsky lowered himself into the nearest chair. From most other men, the question would have made him laugh, but Lermontov was in a category all of his own. “You know what happened. My men were arrested. My club was raided. There must have been an informer—”

“Or your phone was tapped. Did that never occur to you? What about the guns?”

“All gone. We were storing them in the basement until we could figure out the timing of the exchange. I will repay the loss to you.”