Before the Dawn (22 page)

Sterling's voice turned cold. “Here's my offer: give me back what belongs to me and I won't have you killed.”

“Very generous—but why should I think you'd hold up your end of the bargain?”

He smiled at her, no teeth this time; then said, “Because you have unique abilities, my dear . . . and I could use someone of your talents on my payroll. . . . Isn't that right, boys?”

But neither Maurer nor Morales expressed an opinion.

“I fly solo,” she said. “As for the rest of your offer . . . thanks, but no thanks.”

“If you don't return my property, I'll see to it that your death is a prolonged, unpleasant one. If you do return my property, I'll allow you to live. Who knows? You may even change your mind about my employment proposition.”

“I'll pass.”

“My dear, it's the best deal you're going to negotiate. You really should take advantage of my generosity.”

She almost laughed. “You really think you can make all of this fly? I mean, I have kicked the ass of both these guys and more, already.”

With a shrug and an openhanded gesture, Sterling said, “That
is
true . . . but we have allies in town now; we've taken on certain . . . reinforcements. . . . Morales! Fetch our friend, will you?”

Morales nodded and stepped out of the room.

“You should have dealt with me, Max,” Sterling said.

Max . . .

“How the hell do you know my name?” she demanded.

Morales came back in and took up his position to one side of the door, Maurer on the other. Moments later a third man strode in, rather tall, thin, rock-star handsome, wearing a brown leather, knee-length coat over a light blue silk shirt and black leather pants.

Kafelnikov!

Sterling said, “I believe you know my friend Mikhail.”

The Russian's smile was as reptilian as his snakeskin boots. “Enjoying the party, Max?”

She flew to her feet . . . and felt the weight of a pistol barrel against her ribs.

“Now, now,” Sterling said, on his feet behind her, whispering into her ear, like a lover. “Let's not be rash. . . .”

Kafelnikov and the two guards were drawing their handguns, as well. She shook her head a little. “I think I already have been . . . rash.”

“So it would seem.”

Even as the nose of his automatic dug into her ribs, he kissed her neck, and she felt a chill—not a good chill. “Now, my dear,” he said, “I want several things from you . . . the Heart of the Ocean . . . the Grant Wood . . . and one more item. . . .”

“That's everything,” she said coldly. Her eyes were on the Russian, who was smiling at her, seemingly amused by the hatred she was glaring his way.

“
Not
everything,” Kafelnikov said, and he stepped forward, a few feet from Max. “Tell us about the other one.”

Max frowned. “What? . . .”

Sterling whispered lovingly: “Tell us about your partner . . . the one who broke into my place of business.”

Max felt the blood drain from her face. “Partner?”

Sterling came around alongside her, the nose of the gun making the trip, too. “Don't be coy, dear—it really doesn't suit you . . .
Who is he?
”

Biting off the words, she said, “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“Morales!” Sterling barked. “Show her.”

The guard stepped forward and handed her another security-cam picture.

This one showed a young man standing in the middle of fallen security guards.
And once again she found herself studying a grainy picture of a young man who might be her brother—Seth?
Hope leapt within her, despite her situation.

With his free hand, Sterling snatched the photo from her. “Now, dear—tell us where he is, and what the two of you have done with my property.”

“Don't know the guy,” Max said, with a shrug. “Sorry.”

Kafelnikov laughed harshly. “I've seen you in action, Max . . . and I've seen the tape of this man, tossing cops around like dolls. If you two are not brother and sister, you at least shared the same teacher.”

Max's eyes narrowed. “What makes you think we're brother and sister?”

The Russian shrugged. “You move the same, you fight the same—you move your hands, your feet, your heads the same. Either you're family or you trained under one master, most likely at the same time. Either way, you know this man. Who is he, and where is he?”

“You want to know this,” Max said to the Russian, “because your business partner here got robbed . . . or is there a reward for this rebel? Maybe one for me?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Kafelnikov said, the lie surprisingly apparent.

Max glanced sideways at her host. “Ask him about his friend Lydecker—ask your Russian pal here what kind of art Manticore's collecting.”

Sterling glanced at Kafelnikov. “What's she babbling about?”

“Nothing—that's all it is . . .
babble!
”

Max was smiling, and Sterling, the two bodyguards, and even the Russian were clearly disconcerted by the absence of fear in her demeanor.

“This was a great party,” she said. “Mr. Sterling, I owe you a big debt of thanks. You, too, Mikhail. I got exactly what I came for, and so much more.”

“What the hell's she talking about?” Sterling demanded.
“Who is this Lydecker?”

Sterling's attention was on the Russian, and that was where the security guards were looking, too; only the Russian's eyes were on Max, but his gun hung loosely at his side. When she hadn't struck immediately, the men's guard had flagged, got relaxed, sloppy, making this as good a time as any. . . .

She just wished she wasn't wearing these damn tight pumps.

Her hand moved so quickly, no one reacted; she twisted Sterling's pistol away from her ribs and he reflexively pulled the trigger, the slug going wild, sending the Russian and the two guards ducking for cover. She broke Sterling's ring finger, and got the gun out of his hand as he screamed in pain and surprise.

Then she took out the clip and, in one fluid move, brought the pistol up and pitched it like a ball at Maurer, just as he took aim at her. The pistol broke the guard's nose (again), turning his face into a wet crimson mask as he sagged to the floor.

She elbowed the collector in the face, stopping his screaming by knocking him cold. She moved away from the couch, the curtained window to her back, as Morales came at her with a stun rod; but she dodged, wrenching it from his grip as he swept by her, and—with a helpful push from Max that lost his balance for him—Morales tore down the curtain and crashed through the window.

Spinning, she saw Kafelnikov bring up his pistol, but as he fired, she dived. The bullet zinged through the window into the night as Max jammed the stun rod into Kafelnikov's ribs. The pistol dropped limply from his hand and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Max stared down at him. . . .

Zack or Seth would have killed him right there, Max knew; but she was unsure whether there was any benefit in taking revenge on an already beaten opponent. She hadn't quite made her decision when gunfire ripped the room, as other members of the security force descended.

Max vaulted through the broken window, more bullets chewing the wall around her, wood and plaster fragments flying. She dropped to the ground next to the fallen Maurer, jumped up, on the run. The night was alive with the yells and screams of Sterling's guests, alarmed by the gunfire.

But by the time the guards were able to add any more gunfire to the merriment, snouts of weapons blossoming out the window, Max was long since out of range.

She couldn't risk the ferry, and didn't have a boat, so she kicked off those damn shoes and dived into the cold water. As she swam, she wondered why she'd hesitated when she'd had the chance to kill Kafelnikov.

It wasn't like her, and it certainly wasn't like her training—though the decision had some strategic merit, since the Russian was the link to Lydecker's role in the Mann's massacre. . . .

She thought about Kendra, Original Cindy, and the other “normal” people who'd come into her life . . . Normal included; maybe hanging with all these real folks all the time was making her more human.

And then she wondered whether or not being more human, more normal, was a good thing.

When she got back to her squatter's pad, dripping wet, Kendra's frock ruined, Max was thinking of the boy who must be Seth. Now she not only needed to find him for herself, but for
him,
too.

Seth was in danger, and she didn't know how to warn him; but she'd have to find a way.

Chapter Eleven

F IS FOR FAKE

LOGAN CALE'S APARTMENT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019

Going over the John Singer Sargent painting with a small, handheld ultraviolet device, Pepe Henderson—an art expert friend of Logan's from the Seattle Art Museum—pored over the canvas like a criminalist seeking clues. In his early forties, with a middle-aged spread courtesy of a desk job and too many fast-food lunches, Henderson was an unprepossessing professional, dark hair thinning, with thick black-frame glasses riding a round face, a button-down white shirt challenged at the belly, and black slacks that kept slipping down, revealing the kind of cleavage people do not crane their necks to see.

In a pullover sweater and jeans, apparently relaxed and centered, Logan Cale sat back in one of the two chairs that bracketed his brown sofa, the anxiety pulsing in his stomach a secret.

Three of the paintings Seth had stolen from Engidyne were spread out on the cushions of the sofa, while the other three were smoothed out on the area rug. Unstretched, the canvases had a loose quality, like animal skins, that was somehow disconcerting. The lights were low, to aid the expert in his ultraviolet testing. Logan still couldn't believe the quality of the art arrayed on and around his couch—N. C. Wyeth, John Singer Sargent, Jackson Pollock, Norman Rockwell, Charles M. Russell, and Frederic Remington . . . an amazing collection.

In his black leather jacket, blue jeans, and a gray T-shirt that said
LEXX
(a reference lost on Logan), sullen Seth paced the hardwood floor just beyond the conversation area. As twitchy, as itchy, as a drug addict (Logan even wondered if the boy was low on tryptophan), Seth watched the art expert's examination of his paintings like an expectant father who'd cheerfully brought his video cam into the delivery room, only to run into a bloody C-section. . . .

“No question,” Henderson said, rising, hitching up his trousers, mercifully.

“I told you they were the real deal,” Seth said, coming around the sofa, cockily.

Henderson raised a hand, like an embarrassed traffic cop. “No—I'm sorry, son . . . No question it's a
forgery.
”

Eyes blazing, Seth stormed over to the seated Logan, loomed ominously over him. “What the hell . . . what kinda scam? . . . You
told
him to say that!”

Logan shook his head. “No, Seth . . . I didn't. Frankly, I don't need to scam you out of money—I
have
money.” He sighed. “But I admit I was afraid they might be forgeries.”

Seth pointed at the Sargent as if he wanted to shoot it. “Just 'cause that piece of shit's a fake, doesn't mean the others are, too!”

“That's true,” Logan said, calming; but then added: “Still, Seth—it's hardly a good sign. Don't get your hopes up.”

The art expert ambled over and joined the conversation. “Don't get me wrong, boys—it's a good job.” Henderson shook his head admiringly. “As good a forgery as I've ever seen . . . but fake is fake.”

“Is fake,” Logan said with a nod.

“Well, what
about
the others?” Seth seethed.

“I'll need a few minutes,” the expert said, and returned to his work.

Logan stood and placed a hand on Seth's shoulder; that the boy did not brush it off was a small miracle.

“Come on,” Logan said, smiling a little. “We'll go into the kitchen. Get out of Pepe's hair.”

“What there is of it,” Henderson said good-naturedly.

“Are you
high,
Logan?” Now Seth did brush off the hand. “I'm staying right here—your buddy could switch paintings on us.”

“What with?” Logan asked savagely, gesturing all around, suddenly fed up with Seth's paranoia. “The only thing Pepe brought with him was a small case with his machine. Where do you think he would put six more fake paintings?”

“He . . . he could have 'em rolled up his pant legs!”

Henderson glanced over. “Fellas, I'll check your paintings for you, and be happy, too—but if you think I'm gonna drop trou, you got another thing—”

Logan held up a hand. “No, that's okay, Pepe . . . please get back to work.” He looked at Seth, an eyebrow raised. “You ready to come back to Planet Earth?”

Seth, embarrassed, turned toward the art expert. “Listen—I didn't mean anything . . . You think they're
all
fake?”

Bending over a canvas, sharing his ass-crack, Henderson said, “The way this works is, I don't have any preconceptions. Some pretty sophisticated collectors can get fooled by
fakes . . . sometimes a collection can have a forgery hanging right next to the real thing. . . . Bottom line, till I do my thing, we're all just flappin' our gums.”

Logan took Seth gently by the arm. “Let's go have something to drink. . . . We'll talk.”

Reluctantly, Seth followed Logan, who poured them cups of coffee in the kitchen, where they sat across from each other on stools separated by a high butcher-block counter.

His anger simmering into frustration, Seth said, “God
damn it!
Here I thought I was finally going to catch a break, for a change, have something go right, in this screwed-up life of mine.”

Logan sipped his coffee and allowed the young man time to vent.

The stool couldn't hold Seth long, and soon the boy was pacing around the kitchen, pissing and moaning. Modern and airy, the room was a study in stainless steel and natural wood, with plenty of cupboard space. Logan, a neatness freak, kept this room as meticulous as the rest of his condo—reordering the chaos of the world might be beyond his control, but his living space sure as hell would do as he told it.

“I can't believe this,” Seth was saying. “All that work for nothing.”

“It was hardly for nothing,” Logan said quietly.

“What in hell makes you think so?”

Taking a long pull from the coffee cup, Logan considered the question a moment before answering. “Think it through, Seth—Manticore gave you more than just superior warrior skills . . . you have an exceptional mind. Use it.”

“Blow me.”

“I'll pass,” Logan said, “but thanks for the offer. . . . Look, there's only two reasons for a collector to hang fake paintings on the wall.”

Seth just looked at him.

“One,” Logan continued, “said collector's trying to protect his collection . . . so, he has it hidden away, somewhere.”

“And hangs duplicates in their place,” Seth finished.

“Yes—like a wealthy woman with a fantastic assortment of jewelry, who wears paste versions when she's out on the town.”

“You think that's what Sterling did?”

“Frankly, no.”

Seth frowned, but more in thought than anger, or even frustration. “Why not?”

Logan shrugged. “Our friend Jared has spent way more money for forgeries of this quality than he would have to, to just put something on the wall to fool his friends. These weren't meant as decoys, protection against home invasion; they were meant to fool everybody, even Pepe.”

“Your pal Pepe spotted them easily enough.”

“No—not easily . . . he had to use all the tools of his trade, exert all of his professional skills. Ask him if he would have known these were forgeries, had he just been looking at them hanging on a museum wall . . . and I think he'll say they would have fooled even him.”

“But, then . . . what the hell is the point of the fakes?”

Logan's eyes narrowed. “I think Sterling was passing these off as the originals . . . when in fact, the originals have been sold overseas.”

“Why would he do that?” Seth asked, pausing in his pacing. “Doesn't he have enough money already?”

“People like Sterling never have enough money. They're always looking for more.”

“Oh, but you
have
money,” Seth said sarcastically, “and you would never think to scam me out of—”

“No, I wouldn't,” Logan interrupted curtly. Then, wryly, he added, “But Sterling's kind?. . . . If you feel his hand in your pocket, he's not making a pass.”

Seth stared at Logan, any accusation long gone. “You sound like you know something about the species.”

“I do.” Logan sighed. “Seen it up close and personal.”

This seemed to interest Seth, who asked, “Where?” and returned to his stool.

“Long time ago,” Logan said. “'nother life.”

Logan didn't want to get into an extended biography of himself and his family. Ever since his parents had died, he'd been trying to put that part of his life behind him; and he definitely didn't want to get into this discussion with Seth, a borderline sociopath who had no point of reference regarding parents, anyway.

Henderson cleared his throat by way of announcing his presence, as he strolled wearily into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee, and pulled up a stool next to Logan.

“They're
all
fakes, aren't they?” Seth asked, his voice so subdued Logan wondered if the kid might not cry.

The art expert nodded. “Sorry, son—please don't shoot the messenger.”

“Shit,” Seth said. “Shit, shit,
shit!
”

Henderson sipped his coffee, sighed, and said, “If it's any consolation, these are, without a doubt, the finest forgeries I've ever come across.”

“Really?” Logan asked, interested.

“Oh yeah—canvas is the right age, paint is old, properly crazed. . . .”

“What's crazy about them?” Seth asked.

“Crazed—cracked,” Henderson explained. “I have no idea how anybody could pull off something so . . . sophisticated.”

Logan shifted on the stool, studying Henderson the way the art expert looked at a painting. “How did you know they were fakes then, Pepe?”

Henderson's eyes opened wide, and he smirked. “I didn't—it was the UVIN that figured it out.”

“You put my paintings in an
oven?
” Seth asked, frowning.

The expert shook his head, saying, “Ultra-Violet Imaging Network . . . measures a bunch of stuff, using UV rays.”

Logan nodded. “And what did the UVIN tell you?”

“That despite the fact that the paint looks old and cracked, the chemical makeup is about four years old.” Gesturing with his coffee cup, Henderson said, “Take the Sargent painting, for example—
Alpine Pool.
”

“What about it?” Seth asked.

“Well, the real one was painted around nineteen-oh-seven.”

Hand to his forehead, as if testing for a fever, Seth stared into nowhere. “Goddamn it. I shoulda known. What a chump I am. . . .”

“Hardly,” the expert said. “If I'd seen these paintings in any respectable museum or private collection, it would never have occurred to me they might be fakes.”

Seth and Logan traded looks—Henderson had just confirmed what Logan had told the boy earlier.

Henderson was saying, “Remington died in nineteen-oh-nine, Russell in nineteen-twenty-six, Wyeth died in nineteen forty-five, Pollock in 'fifty-six, and Rockwell in 'seventy-eight. . . . Yet these canvases were all painted in the last three to five years.”

Seth seemed to fold in on himself a little, hunkering over the counter; he looked as if he might be sick.

Henderson finished and set his cup on the counter. “Sorry I didn't have better news, gentlemen—it would have been a kick to be in the same room with the real paintings.” The expert climbed off the stool and tipped an imaginary hat to his host. “I'll get my stuff together.”

Now the X5 and the cyberjournalist were again alone in the kitchen. They could hear Henderson rustling around in the living room, so Logan kept his voice low: “Seth, those paintings were a bonus—they weren't what we went in for. You
got
what we went in
for. . . .”

Seth looked up, his eyes dull, lifeless. “Huh?”

“The computer disc—remember?”

The X5 said nothing.

Logan smiled tightly, and tried to keep it upbeat: “You stole the paintings as a distraction—so that Sterling would think the only reason for your break-in was to steal art. He probably has no idea that we have that computer disc.”

Nodding, though rather listlessly, Seth managed, “Probably not.”

“And,” Logan said, “if I can break that code, we might learn something that will help us bring him—and Kafelnikov—down.”

“Like what?”

Logan shrugged. “Could be anything on that disc—financial records, a tally of where the original paintings have gone, who knows? . . . Maybe even the link to Lydecker and Manticore.”

Out in the living room, Henderson called, “I'm ready to take off, Logan,” and Logan raised a
hold-that-thought
finger to Seth, then met the art expert at the door.

He shook hands with Henderson, saying, “I'll give you a call later.”

Henderson, very softly, said, “You okay, alone with that kid?”

“Fine.”

“I don't know, Loge . . . seems kinda dangerous to me.”

“That's because he is.”

Henderson rolled his eyes and hauled himself and the small black carrying case out of there.

When Logan returned, he said, “You'll be glad to learn all the paintings are still in the living room.”

“Great. And what are a buncha freakin' forgeries worth?”

Logan stood next to the seated boy. “That's what I'm trying to explain, Seth—in terms of what we're trying to accomplish, a hell of a lot.”

“Does it help me get rich?”

Logan shrugged. “Probably not. But you will have helped to stop Kafelnikov, and possibly Sterling, who is looking pretty damn dirty now.”

None of this seemed to console Seth.

“Look,” the X5 said, “my life comes down to this. . . . Current scenario: I'm on the run, hiding my ass, needing money all the time to do that. Worst-case scenario: Lydecker and Manticore catch up with me . . . and, since there's no way in hell I'm goin' back to Manticore alive, they kill me. Best-case scenario: I get enough money to disappear, I mean
really
disappear . . . only then can I stop lookin' over my goddamn shoulder. These paintings coulda been my
ticket.
”

Logan asked, “Are you through?”

Seth glared at him. “What do you mean, am I through?”

“With the self-pity routine? What the hell happened to the rebel who wanted me to help him take Manticore down? Manticore exposed, destroyed, Lydecker out of your life permanently . . .
that's
your ‘best-case scenario.' ”