Goddess of Death (11 page)

‘Hah! I’ll leave it to her.’ McMurtaghy took a swallow of his whisky and half closed his eyes, as though he was turning in on himself, barely listening to Carmela’s account, carrying on some private discussion in his head.

‘As I explained,’ Carmela continued, ‘Major Kopas had
undertaken
responsibility for the onward transmission of the looted treasures to Moscow. But the delays in the customs checks seem to have given him an opportunity to prepare for his future. We believe that after contacts he had made with the West, and in view of the worsening state of affairs in his native land, he decided at some point to try to get out of his mother country. But that would mean money. When the customs people went their laborious way, checking artefacts in the cargo against the
manifests
provided, they came across a number of deficiencies. Kopas
described them as errors and it would seem adopted a bullying attitude, hectored them, pulled rank, insisted on overcoming delays, threatened them with dire consequences if his own masters in Moscow weren’t kept happy, and succeeded in getting the hoard on its way. But the researchers I mentioned—’

‘The historians Akinsha and Koglov.’

‘Yes, they discovered documentation relating to Kopas and the missing items, later. It seems that in 1946 Kopas left his military career behind him and took up the post of museum curator … until the turnaround I mentioned occurred. The government was cracking down, Kopas was to be called to account, but that’s where things get somewhat blurred. Kopas was killed.’

‘Executed, you mean?’

Carmela shook her head. ‘No. As far as we can guess, he’d accumulated a private hoard and had no intention of giving it up. He would seem to have put into effect his scheme to escape from Russia to the West, along with the artefacts he had acquired. He failed. He managed to get his two sons out of Moscow, with some items, we presume, but things went awry after that. There was some kind of betrayal, it seems, a … how do you call it? A shoot-out in a residential block in Moscow. Kopas was killed. And, according to the research of Akinsha and Koglov, some of the vast hoard Kopas had accumulated was recovered by the state. Not least the Priam hoard. But among items that were not recovered was—’

‘The Artemis statue,’ Arnold supplied.

‘Exactly.’

‘No trace of the items afterwards, until now?’

McMurtaghy seemed to come awake. He grunted. ‘Some items surfaced, though not the Artemis piece. And the trail’s been cold for some years.’

‘You mentioned that Major Kopas had two sons,’ Arnold said.

There was a short silence. Carmela seemed to be waiting for McMurtaghy to continue. The big American shuffled in his seat
and sighed. ‘We know someone in the family ended up in Vienna. But the story’s confused. It could have been another of the sons, or maybe it was the one we traced to the States. But there was no trace of any looted stuff that’s come to light. But the son we’ve identified – the one who managed to sneak into the States – I know him.’ His hooded eyes flicked a glance in Arnold’s direction. ‘Which is why I think I need to get back Stateside. With the Steiner photograph of the Artemis statue surfacing, it could be I’ve got some leverage that I lacked when I worked with the FBI.’

‘Regarding the son of Major Kopas?’

McMurtaghy nodded. ‘That’s right. He’s an old man now, but he has quite a history. He ended up in the States, took on a new identity, and over the years established himself in business. Of the wrong kind.’

‘How do you mean?’ Arnold asked.

‘After the war there were a lot of opportunities for organized crime in the States. Our man took those opportunities enthusiastically. We nailed him in the end: fraud, tax evasion, conspiracy to murder. But he was recently released from prison, partly on compassionate grounds.’

‘How do you mean?’

McMurtaghy shrugged. ‘He’s dying of cancer.’ He was silent for a little while then glanced at Carmela. ‘I’ve booked a flight back tomorrow morning. I’ll keep in touch with my contacts in Interpol, and should be tied into any information coming out about Sam Byrne. If we can get to the man I’m talking about, maybe he’ll tell us why Steiner was killed … though I doubt it. Otherwise, I guess you’ll follow up on Steiner’s information and deal with this museum director—’

‘Gabriel Nunza,’ Carmela supplied.

McMurtaghy nodded. ‘And me, I’ll talk to the surviving son of Major Kopas.’

‘He’s given you information before?’ Arnold asked curiously.

McMurtaghy shook his head. ‘No, the old bastard never gave us a single lead over the years of his incarceration. Nothing to do with any fancy oath of
omerta
: he was just a stubborn bugger.’

‘So why do you think he’ll talk to you now?’

McMurtaghy drained his glass and stood up, buttoned his jacket. ‘He’s got cancer. What does he have to lose?’

T
HE
G
REENLAWNS
R
EST
Home proved to be an elegant, discreetly architectured building set in sprawling,
manicured
parkland with a backdrop of blue-hazed hills. The curving drive leading to the home was gravelled and weed-free; McMurtaghy’s car tyres rasped as he swung into the parking area located near the Palladian-pillared entrance to the main building. The air was soft, the temperature agreeable, late
afternoon
sunshine sent long shadows across the shaded lawns, scattered with chairs, now empty of the residents who would earlier have been enjoying, under the watchful eyes of carers, the agreeable afternoon sun.

McMurtaghy locked his car, stretched his arms wide and eased his back, stiff after the long drive and made his way into the echoing hallway that held the reception area. The blue-rinsed lady behind the desk was mature, well groomed, confident in her white uniform and seemingly efficient. She gave him a gleamingly expensive smile when he tendered his name. ‘You have an appointment to see Mr Cooper,’ she murmured, consulting her computer screen. When he nodded confirmation she said, ‘An attendant will join you in a moment.’ She placed a manicured finger on a button on the desk in front of her. ‘He will take you to Mr Cooper’s room.’

The attendant, a young, sprucely white-uniformed man with muscles, a crewcut and sharply chiselled features soon arrived and led the way down the echoing corridor to the rooms
allocated
to the man McMurtaghy had come to see. The attendant stepped aside after opening the door: McMurtaghy entered and found himself in a well-proportioned, elegantly furnished sitting room, off which he guessed lay the bedroom and bathroom. Facing him was a large picture window: sliding doors led to a sun-speckled terrace. The man he sought was seated there, enjoying the last of the afternoon sun. He turned his head, glancing back as McMurtaghy stepped onto the terrace.

Neither man spoke for a moment. McMurtaghy looked about him, taking in the view, the sloping lawns, the birch and oak trees, the rhododendron bushes, and the sparkle from the distant lake where he could see the white forms of swans, drifting at the water’s edge.

It was all a long way from New York City.

McMurtaghy said so.

George Cooper nodded slowly, contentedly. He eyed his visitor carefully. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Yes, I agree. But at my time of life, and in my state of health, it’s the least I deserve, don’t you think?’

‘The judge said what you deserved ten years ago,’ McMurtaghy observed drily.

George Cooper smiled in real amusement. ‘Time moves on, McMurtaghy. Things change. And my lawyers persuaded the powers-that-be that there was little point keeping me
incarcerated
at the state’s expense, in my condition.’

‘Cancer, I hear,’ McMurtaghy said, making no attempt to disguise the indifference in his tone. ‘So how long do they give you?’

Cooper was silent for a few moments, though McMurtaghy thought he detected a brief flare of anger in the man’s eyes. Then Cooper shrugged, as though he felt such emotion was no longer of any utility. ‘Weeks maybe, possibly longer. Or shorter. Who knows?’

‘Indeed.’ McMurtaghy glanced around, drew up a cane chair
and sat down, facing the dying man. ‘But at least you’ll be going out in style. Not that you can’t afford the expense.’

Cooper sat back in his chair and contemplated his visitor. McMurtaghy stared back, holding his glance. Cooper had changed considerably since last they had met. The mobster was much diminished: his hairless skull had a bluish tinge, his eyes were now deepset, hollow, the former ruddiness of his complexion had gone and his cheeks seemed to have fallen in. McMurtaghy could only guess by how much the man’s weight had decreased: the cancer had eaten away at his body and he was now a frail old man, so different from the confident, muscular thug that McMurtaghy had crossed swords with in the old days.

They sat there for a little while, two former adversaries thinking about what had gone before, until Cooper shifted in his chair, drew the blanket about his knees and squinted at his visitor. ‘My informants tell me you’re no longer with the FBI.’

‘You keep in touch, then.’

‘It pays. Even at this stage.’ Cooper pushed out his lower lip. ‘What was it? You got bored?’

‘Dealing with villains like you? I guess so.’

‘But you can’t stay away. What is it, you come to gloat? Sneer over me in my declining months? I seem to recall you did enough of that when you put me away ten years ago.’

McMurtaghy shrugged. ‘Gloating? No. Just thought I’d like to see you one more time before you’re history.’

Cooper smiled. His teeth were yellow, fanglike in his narrow bony jaw. ‘Don’t write me off just yet, McMurtaghy. I might be chairbound but I still got things to do, still have loose ends to tie up. And I’ve been working on it. Surprising what can be done even when you can barely move. Modern communications, and calling in old debts … But I don’t believe this is a social call. What is it you want with me?’

McMurtaghy glanced around at the sloping lawns. It wasn’t a
bad place to end one’s days, he thought, if you could afford it. And his old adversary would have stashed away more than enough before he was sent to prison. He looked back at the faded old man beside him. ‘I guess I thought I ought to pay a visit, while I could, for old times’ sake. I mean, we were in each other’s faces for so long, it’s like we became more than just adversaries….’

‘Bullshit!’ the old man said amiably.

‘Just a chance to say goodbye,’ McMurtaghy replied, ignoring the comment. ‘Take the opportunity to lay some old ghosts, maybe.’

Cooper regarded him, his emaciated head cocked to one side like a predatory blackbird. His bony hands plucked at the blanket covering his knees. ‘Ghosts, yeah … Why did you end up in the FBI, McMurtaghy?’

‘My old man came to the States from Ireland. He became a cop in New York. He was always keen I should follow in his
footsteps
. The way he’d done, with
his
old man.’

‘Couple of generations of Irish cops. I might have guessed. But you did better than your old man and your grandfather too, I guess. Got away from the street beat, hey? Dealt with big time criminals, like me.’

‘You were never all that big-time, George. Just mean, lucky and unprincipled. By the way, did you know the Iceman is on the street again?’

Cooper’s eyes were steady, giving nothing away. He grimaced. ‘I thought he’d stepped down some years back. But he’s in business again?’

‘You sound surprised. So he’s not working for you, then?’

The old man permitted himself a grim smile. ‘Mr McMurtaghy, I’m a dying man. I don’t have truck with the outside world now. No contracts to put out, no need to …’ He paused, and a hint of satisfaction crept into his eyes. ‘Well, not really, anyway. Though like I said, there’s a few loose ends that I’ve been trying to deal with….’

‘So you didn’t contract with the Iceman and you’re going to tell me you know nothing about the killing of Peter Steiner?’

‘Never even heard of the guy.’

McMurtaghy nodded thoughtfully at the confident assurance in Cooper’s tone. He took a deep breath, linked his broad hands together, cracked his knuckles loudly. ‘Well, I suppose I have to take your word for that. But I’ll come clean, George. I was hoping we could have a conversation, before it’s too late … the kind of conversation that we couldn’t have had in the old days. And now, well, what’s to lose as far as you’re concerned? You’re dying. So let’s talk.’

‘About what?’ Cooper replied blandly. ‘The Iceman?’

‘No, forget that. Let’s talk about the old days. You asked me about where I come from. Irish cop background. What about you, George? I mean, Cooper, that wasn’t your original name, was it?’

The old man shrugged. ‘I was always of the opinion the guys who worked on Ellis Island were an incompetent, lazy, illiterate lot. Don’t know where they were recruited from. But when an immigrant arrived, they couldn’t be bothered to register a name accurately: they made up their own version. And once you were in the States, that was the name you were stuck with. The name some ignorant, half-assed official saddled you with.’

‘We worked out long ago what your original name was, George. Before you entered the States in 1945. But up to now, you would never talk about it.’

There was a short silence. Cooper’s lips moved as a slight smile emerged. He seemed to be thinking about some private joke that had just come to him. ‘No, that’s right, never seemed important, and a guy has to keep something back, don’t he? Certainly, in my line of business. There was nothing in it for me, having you guys dig into my history.’

‘But that’s over and done with now. Necessity’s gone. So let’s talk.’ McMurtaghy paused, eyed the old man with a frown. ‘We
know that when you entered the States you got registered as Cooper. And we also found out that it wasn’t how you’d be known till then. Your real surname, it was Kopas, wasn’t it?’

There was a short silence. A film seemed to have settled over the dying man’s eyes. It was as though he was looking back into the past and a certain grimness settled about his mouth. Then, after a little while, he blinked, and smiled. ‘Yeah. Kopas. Georj Kopas. Long time since I was called by that name.’ His eyes cleared, fixed a sharp glance on his interrogator. ‘That’s why you came to see me, am I right? You wanted to find out about Georj Kopas.’

‘No reason why you shouldn’t talk about it now.’

After a moment, the old man nodded. ‘No reason. No reason at all.’ He hesitated, then glanced at his watch, then turned, looked at something on the wall. McMurtaghy turned his head. It was a calendar. He turned back to the old man. Cooper nodded. ‘A few days ago, maybe I’d still be keeping my mouth shut. But now … yeah, no reason.’

McMurtaghy felt an odd prickling at the back of his neck but decided to continue with his enquiry. ‘So tell me about Georj Kopas and how he came to end up in the States.’ McMurtaghy paused. ‘And about your father. He was called Leonid, I believe. And he held the rank of major at the end of the Second World War.’

The old man settled back in his chair, laid his head back,
half-closed
his eyes and made a sucking sound with his teeth. ‘Ah … I see. But I ask myself, why would you want to dig up old history of that kind? And why should I help someone who helped nail me, put me in jail?’

There was a short silence. McMurtaghy hesitated. ‘This isn’t really about you and me, George. The battles we had, they’re long gone. I’ve moved on … and you are on your way out. You know it. But information you could give me, it could be
important
. And it’ll cost you nothing. Maybe it’ll even help you in
some way, clearing up the past.’ He paused, as the old mobster’s head came up. ‘You heard I’d left the FBI. In fact, I now work for an international group chasing up on looted artefacts. And one has recently surfaced. Something that hasn’t been seen for decades. A statuette of Artemis, the Greek goddess of the hunt.’

The old man facing him was silent for a moment, then sighed as a frown etched itself on his forehead. ‘Goddess of the hunt … and sometimes, the goddess of death.’ He fixed McMurtaghy with a sharp glance. ‘I think we’re talking about loot acquired by the Trophy Brigades.’

‘Exactly that. And by the part played by Major Leonid Kopas in that activity. Major Kopas. Your father.’

The old man seemed almost not to have heard him. He put his head back on the seat, closed his eyes and his fingers were still on the coloured blanket covering his bony knees. McMurtaghy waited. There was no way he could hurry this; no manner in which he could force Cooper to talk about his past. The man had been in the rackets in New York for half a century. He had arrived a penniless immigrant but had survived, clawed his way out of the back streets to live a violent, dangerous life and in the end he had served a prison term for it. And he was dying. But McMurtaghy was hoping the mere fact of imminent, certain death would lead Cooper to answer his questions.

The old mobster opened his eyes. ‘It was a long time ago. I can hardly remember, so few memories now. When I left Russia I was what … fifteen? Europe was a mess, there was destruction everywhere, but Russia was hell, and my old man, he had the sense to see that the future lay in America … the only victors in the Second World War.’

‘He was hoping to come West, himself?’

Cooper nodded and smiled in reflection. ‘That’s right. That was the idea. For the whole family. He had it all planned. He worked in a museum before the Nazis invaded Russia. He fought, but he wasn’t a real soldier. And it was because of his
expertise that he got drafted into Stalin’s Trophy Brigades after the push into Germany. Maybe he believed in what he was doing at that point. But along the way, when he saw the manner the ignorant troops smashed and burned their way through Germany, destroying priceless artefacts … well, maybe it was that, or perhaps it was just the result of his contact with Americans, with their better equipment, better supplies … who knows? Or maybe it was because of what was happening back home under that murderous bastard Stalin and his henchman Beria. The only fact I can underline with conviction, it’s that by the time my father entered Berlin he’d already lost faith with the Stalin regime. He decided, first chance he got, to leave and sneak his way to the West. In particular, to the States. And take his family with him.’

‘Family?’ McMurtaghy prompted.

‘Major Leonid Kopas had a wife, his oldest son – me – and my young brother Karol. The deal was we were all to get out once things had settled down after his return to Moscow.’

‘With forged papers.’

Cooper shrugged. ‘Everything was possible in Moscow, if you had the money.’

‘And Major Kopas had the financial backing.’

Cooper’s eyes were lidded. Slowly, he nodded. ‘Not cash, of course. Not dollars, which would be necessary. But after his visit to the Berlin Zoo he made sure that he would be able to, shall we say, acquire sufficient collateral, expensive valuables that he could convert into the cash he needed. But it took longer to arrange than he had expected.’