Full Circle (13 page)

“Mr. Bernhardt. I’m Grace Campbell. I’m Mr. DuBois’s secretary.”

“I know.” He decided to extend his hand, and was rewarded with a firm, friendly grip. Her hand was remarkably cool. She stepped back, invited him inside with the same gesture she used to touch a switch that activated the door-closing machinery. Economy of motion came naturally to Grace Campbell.

“Mr. DuBois is waiting for you.” As she spoke she turned and began walking down a long, wide, high-ceilinged hallway. Up to a height of ten feet, the walls were burlap painted white. Everything else was natural wood, rich in the simplicity of its joinery. Light flooded in from clerestory windows that were continuous from the top ledge of the walls to the planked wooden ceiling. Like the porch, the floor was natural slate. The walls were hung with scores of paintings and wall sculpture.

Aware that Bernhardt was lagging as he looked from one painting to another, marveling, Grace Campbell waited for him at the far end of the entry hall that was really a gallery. When he joined her she said, “That’s only a small part of it. Later I’ll take you on the tour.” Then, without waiting for an answer, no time for pleasantries, she turned away, opened the inner door, and led the way down a smaller, narrower hallway. The architecture of the two hallways was identical, a unity that had clearly been designed to display the works of art.

Grace Campbell passed two doors on her right, then knocked on the third door. It was a perfunctory knock, a formality before she pushed open the door. The room was a study. Floor to ceiling, bookcases covered three walls; the fourth was all glass set into oversize posts and beams in natural wood, apparently the architectural motif of the entire house. The glass wall overlooked the cityscape below and the distant ocean to the west. A sliding glass door led out to a deck fashioned of natural cypress and rough-cut redwood. A solitary figure occupied the deck: Raymond DuBois. Remarkably, the figure was deeply etched in Bernhardt’s consciousness: a frail, formally dressed figure sitting lopsided in his high-tech motorized chair, restrained by straps that kept him from falling to the deck, where he would lie as helpless as a newborn baby.

Grace Campbell went to the glass door, slid it open for Bernhardt. “I’ll be in the hallway when you’re finished,” she said.

As Bernhardt stepped through the glass wall, it was with the feeling that he and Lewis Carroll’s Alice were soulmates. He was still smiling wryly at the thought when DuBois activated his wheelchair and turned to face him.

“Sit down, Mr. Bernhardt.” DuBois nodded to a redwood patio chair that was placed to face the deck railing and the view across Benedict Canyon.

“Thank you.” Bernhardt nodded in return and did as he was told. “Magnificent house.”

“Do you know Los Angeles?”

“I lived here for two years. In Santa Monica.”

“Did you like Santa Monica?”

“Yes, I did. I didn’t like Hollywood, though. Or, rather, I didn’t like the film industry.”

“You wrote screenplays.”

“I
tried
to write screenplays.”

“But you wrote a play that was produced off Broadway.”

Bernhardt looked away, off over the haze of the city below to the haze of the ocean beyond. “That was a long time ago.” In his own voice he could hear the familiar accents of ancient regret. Could DuBois hear it, too?

Yes, DuBois had heard: “It’s my understanding that you suffered a series of personal tragedies after
Victims
was produced.”

“
Victims
,” he’d said. Signifying that, yes, DuBois had had him checked out.

With his gaze still cast far away, Bernhardt’s reply was utterly without inflection. It was his only defense against the pain. “In one year’s time, my mother died of cancer and my grandparents died in a one-car accident. Then my wife was mugged just a block from our apartment. She hit her head on the curb, and she died two days later.”

“And you had to get out of New York.”

“Yes.”

For a moment DuBois said nothing as he, too, stared off across the city. Then, also without inflection or emotion, he said, “I’ve never experienced the untimely loss of anyone I loved. There are those who would say—” Something that might have been a smile touched his pale lips. “Some would say, perhaps, that I’ve never experienced love, and could therefore never experience loss. Looking back, I can see truth in the allegation. I equated love with vulnerability, dependency. I was wrong, of course. But realization didn’t come until a small blood vessel in my brain burst. By then, it was too late. So I became dependent upon whoever I could hire. The more I paid, the more loyalty I bought. Except that it doesn’t work that way. Not when greed is a factor.”

“Powers, you mean.”

DuBois nodded. Repeating wryly: “Powers.”

“Betty, too?”

“That remains to be seen; the story is still unfolding, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“I became psychologically dependent on Betty, you already know that. Without her, I was unable to care for the room. You understand my meaning, when I say ‘the room.’”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“There are filters to be changed, and humidifiers to service, and alarms to test. There are security devices that must also be checked.”

Security devices.
What, Bernhardt mused, did the words mean?

“It’s been four months since Betty left.”

“Four months, yes.” Even though DuBois spoke softly, conserving his strength, Bernhardt could hear the sorrow in the other man’s words. The sorrow and, yes, the defeat.

“Last night,” DuBois said, “on the phone, you alluded to a plan—some solution to the problem.”

“The man I met outside the Federal Building, the man staying at the Fairmont—he’s an insurance adjuster. His company has reinsured a number of very valuable paintings, and they paid off when the paintings were stolen. Renoir’s
The Three Sisters
was one.” Bernhardt paused, stole a look at DuBois. But the other man’s face was in profile on the paralyzed left side.

“If I were to contact him on your behalf,” Bernhardt continued, “and if he paid you, say, twenty-five cents on the dollar for the paintings you have in your, ah, room, then everyone’s home free. The paintings would be safe, you’d have several millions, I’m sure, and you’d also be off the hook with the feds. And I’d send you a bill for services rendered.”

“This adjuster—do you trust him?”

“I’ve only talked to him for an hour. He seemed very straightforward. In fact, I liked him.”

“And you know his company, I assume—who he represents.”

“I have his card.”

DuBois remained motionless for a long, silent moment. Only seeing the left side of his face, it was impossible to determine whether he was lost in thought or slipping off into exhaustion.

Bernhardt shifted in the redwood deck chair. Another long silence passed. Finally DuBois said, “You realize, of course, that I can’t deal directly with this gentleman. Additionally, he can’t come here, can’t see the room, or the paintings, while they’re in my possession.”

Bernhardt nodded. It was a problem he’d already considered. With evidence of possession given by John Graham, the FBI would surely ask for an indictment.

“What’s required,” DuBois said, “is that you must take the paintings to neutral territory. A secure warehouse, for instance. What’s this man’s name?”

Without hesitation, himself surprised, Bernhardt answered, “John Graham.”

“And his company?”

“I don’t remember, sir. And I left his card in San Francisco.”

“You’re willing, I assume, to undertake the function of a mediator, a go-between.”

“As long as I don’t do anything illegal, and I’m paid enough.” Bernhardt nodded. “Yes. I’m willing.”

“There are two primary elements to the problem. There’s security, of course. But most of all there’s trust. Integrity. As I told you before, I must trust a total stranger. You. And I must trust you, literally, with the only part of my life that’s left, namely my good name. Through arrogance, I assumed that I was above the law. And, as long as my body functioned properly, I
was
above the law. Now, though, I face public disgrace. And I will do anything—
anything
—to avoid that. Because once the mighty have fallen, the rabble show no mercy. There are, literally, hundreds who would do whatever is necessary to see me in prison.”

“Jesus …” In wonderment, Bernhardt shook his head.

“Do you doubt what I’m saying?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Well, then, it’s time to make plans.”

Hearing the words, spoken so softly but yet so decisively, Bernhardt experienced a momentary tremor of deep, visceral excitement. Could this really be happening? To him?

“There are fourteen paintings and three ceramic pieces. At current market prices—the prices they’d bring at Sotheby’s or Christie’s—being very conservative, the paintings would go for a hundred fifty million. The three ceramics might bring two or three million.”

“My God …” Bernhardt had heard a similar estimate from Betty Giles, but coming from DuBois the prices assumed the full weight of absolute reality.

“It’s obvious, of course, that the art can’t be insured, so long as it’s here, on the premises.”

Bernhardt said nothing.

“Meaning that security—complete security—will be an absolute necessity.”

“Yes.”

“Then there are the details. Protection against damage while in transit, for instance. The pictures will have to be packed and crated. For this job—and others—I’d like Betty Giles here. But, even assuming that she calls you on Tuesday, as you’ve planned, and even if she agrees to return to help, there might not be time enough to wait for her. Today’s Saturday. Best case, Betty wouldn’t arrive for four more days. My political contacts estimate that an indictment might be just six days away.”

“I don’t see how we can get all this done in three or four days. You talk about protection, crating for the pictures. My God, that alone will take—”

“I have the crates here on the premises. You’ve only seen a small part of this house. It’s built on the downhill slope of the canyon. We’re now on the top floor. There are four levels below us. The fifth level, the lowest, is a workroom, where you’ll find a crate for each painting, each one labeled. A few hours’ work and you’ll be ready.”

“And that’s when the problems start.”

Ignoring the remark, DuBois said, “I presume you have facilities for checking on John Graham.”

“Sure. But I doubt that I can get into the computers on the weekend. I’ll try, but I doubt it.”

Thinking—calculating—DuBois sat motionless in his chair. Suddenly unable to contain himself, no longer able to conduct this incredible conversation without being able to judge reactions, Bernhardt rose, paced to one side of the small deck, then turned. From this position he could see the right side of the other man’s face. He saw another ghost of a smile briefly animate the blood-drained face. DuBois was amused.

“You want to see my face. The good side.”

“Yes,” Bernhardt answered gravely. “Yes, I want to see your face.”

“Shall I go on?”

“Please.” At the railing now, Bernhardt remained standing. He was still suffused with a sense of unreality.

“As you’ll see,” DuBois said, “the secret gallery is actually quite small. Eight feet by fourteen feet, to be exact. So finding an off-site location to make the transfer need not be a problem. A small, unobtrusive rented house might be a possibility. Or even the right kind of hotel room. The only consideration is security. You’ll be moving paintings worth more than a hundred million dollars to an unsecured location. Of course, you’ll have guards with you. Certainly John Graham will have guards with him. Which, of course, could present added complexities.”

“My God.” As Bernhardt visualized the scene, the aura of unreality returned. Could he do it?
Should
he do it?

“The format, of course,” DuBois was saying, “is familiar. Every week on TV, one sees heavily armed drug dealers exchanging millions of dollars in cash for suitcases filled with heroin. Or, if you prefer the Cold War idiom, spies being exchanged at the Brandenburg Gate, with coldblooded professional killers from both sides of the Iron Curtain looking on.” DuBois broke off. Then, with a small smile, he admitted, “I’ve always liked the Cold War literature. Le Carré—masterful.”

“I assume,” Bernhardt said, “that you’d want payment made in cash.”

“Such transactions are always made in cash. There’s no other way.”

“Okay. So let’s suppose that everything goes according to plan. Let’s assume I deliver the paintings and get a suitcase filled with money. Millions. Everyone’s satisfied. Graham takes the paintings and leaves with his people. I take the money and leave with my people. But instead of coming back here with the money—millions, in cash—I get on a freeway and I disappear. What then?”

One last time the ghost of a smile briefly touched the pallor of DuBois’s face as he said, “Firstly, the very fact that you mention the possibility confirms my favorable evaluation of you. And secondly, there’s James.”

“Ah, yes. James.”

“James is an interesting case, Mr. Bernhardt. He was born in El Salvador. He’s an Indian. Or, more accurately, a
mestizo
—part Indian, part Spanish. He was raised in a small town. His father was a guerrilla fighting the landowners in the hills north of San Salvador. In fact, his father was a guerrilla leader, a hero to his people—something of a legend, actually. His name was Fernando Abras. James—Juan, really—lived in the hills with his father and mother. She, too, fought with the guerrillas, beside her husband. So James, you see, was born to kill.

“Some years ago, the government troops cornered Abras. They killed him and his wife, and put their heads on stakes. The whole guerrilla band was slaughtered—everyone but James, who led another teenager, a girl, to safety. At the time, I had extensive holdings in Salvador, among them a large sawmill that processed South American hardwoods—mahogany and teak. Like every sizable business enterprise in Salvador, the mill was protected by a large contingent of government troops. It was necessary to pay off the government for this protection. And doing that—acquiescing to bribery—I refuse to do. So I no longer do business in South America.