MasterStroke (27 page)

“No deal,” Jack said. “We all know what we have here. It’s worth considerably more than that.”

“Not so, Jack,” Sergei countered. “It’s what it could be, rather than what it is now, that makes it so valuable. Nothing has been verified or authenticated. My client is taking a big gamble on this. In the end, it could just be a very colourful folly but one that he is happy to pay a considerable amount to own. I’ve offered my advice and a suitable course of action but he wishes to maintain a civilised approach. He wants to be fair to all concerned. I stress again that he doesn’t want any trouble. Anyway, although you seem to have taken charge, it’s really up to Mr Buckingham to make the final decision.”

Marcus was still gaping at Sergei, the undercurrents of the conversation so far eluding him. There was a biting tension in the room; Sandrine could see on the faces of Marcella and Mariel that they understood what was happening and the screaming in her head was loud and clear. Jack was vibrating with tension. Only Marcus seemed oblivious. He needed Jack to negotiate, Sandrine knew that, but there only seemed to be confusion in his eyes.

“Yes, yes, quite correct,” Marcus finally said. “I’ve been entrusted with these works by the estate. I have people to answer to and it’s most irregular to have someone I don’t even know telling me what to do. All I’ve heard so far are theories. I shall consider your offer but I need time.”

Sergei sighed loud enough to be heard in the street. What passed for irritation but was most likely a sudden sharp release of volcanic anger was obvious. There was no other indication. He could have been carved from marble.

Sandrine, positioned as she was, could see everybody in the now-cramped front of the store. She had the sudden absurd thought that it was like a tennis match with Marcus, Marcella and Mariel moving their attention from side to side as Jack and Sergei bantered. Only Boris and Viktor remained still, coiled as tight as over-wound springs, almost distant in their focus on everybody else, supernaturally alert to a wrong move by anyone.

Violence seemed teeth-clenchingly imminent. Sandrine was aware that her muscles were locked with tension. She wanted to scream as loudly as she could. Hysteria, she feared, was a split second away.

Jack and Sergei were silent, their eyes locked and expressions dangerously neutral. What little they had said was loaded with portent.

Eventually, Sergei shrugged with great theatricality. His frustration was reaching breaking point.

“I have my instructions which I’ve been warned not to exceed,” he said by way of explanation. “I long for the good old days when negotiations were carried out differently. We would take what we wanted or, barring that, take something that would further our negotiations.” His eyes flicked coldly to Sandrine, the blue of a glacier in the final moments of twilight. There was no emotion there, she was surprised to see. She had become an avenue by which Sergei could achieve his aims. A creeping dread traced the length of her spine and goose bumps dotted her forearms.

The words, mild on the surface, yet with dark swirling undertones, chilled Sandrine. You can’t be serious, she thought.
That sort of thing doesn’t happen in places like this.
Yet, almost immediately, she realised just how naïve she sounded. Of course, random senseless violence happened in places just like this. That’s what cities were all about, she read about it so often in the newspapers. It just had never happened to her or anyone she knew. But the three large men standing before her were not just threatening violence, it was obvious that violence was a large part of their lives.

“Times change,” Jack replied a little too casually.

“As I get older, I find my patience isn’t what it used to be. My memory for instructions also gets a little patchy.”

“Try harder,” Jack said quietly. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to antagonise your employer.”

“For whom?”

“All of us. Too many witnesses.”

Sergei shrugged again. The battle within his head was getting too intense and he appeared to be moving towards a decision that didn’t bear thinking about.

“Right here, right now, I don’t see that as a problem.”

“There could be complications you’re not considering.”

Sergei barked out an abrupt, horrible laugh.

“Jack, you might be a very good player of poker but chess has always been my game. I’m Russian. We’re born to chess. I know how many pieces are in play and the limitations of their moves.”

“Yet, like any game, defeat can come out of nowhere.”

“I’ve always enjoyed your optimism, Jack. It’s very American. But I can’t see it.”

A ghost of a frown twitched at the corner of his thin lips. Nothing had really been said, mere generalities couched in neutral banalities, but Sergei seemed to understand that there was something going on that he didn’t yet understand.

“You’re not watching the board, only your own pieces. You’re over-confident which a grand master should never be. And there’s something really obvious you’re not seeing.”

“Such as?” Sergei bristled and, as soon as the flash of anger appeared, much of his brashness folded in on itself.

Jack didn’t take his eyes off the bulky Russian. He simply nodded his head out the window.

Sergei turned. Even Boris and Viktor forgot themselves and stared open-mouthed at the street.

There were four strangers, big men in jeans and black leather jackets, anonymous with their youthful clean-shaven faces, short hair and dark glasses, either standing at the curb or leaning insouciantly against Sergei’s Mercedes. One of the men languidly brushed back the edge of his jacket to reveal the holstered butt of a large handgun. His grin displayed no humour but excellent dental work.

“Very true,” Sergei said, returning his attention to Jack with a sheepish smile. “There are times when even the greatest chess player must relearn the basics of the game. I am humbled. Please accept my apologies. I should have expected exactly this. I will need to get further instructions from my employer but I must warn you he’s getting to the end of his patience as well.”

He moved towards the door, shooing Boris and Viktor ahead of him. Bowing slightly, the open door gusting a cold wind into the shop, dropping the temperature a few degrees below comfortable, he smiled again.

“Ladies,” he said by way of farewell. “Mr Buckingham. I hope we can wrap negotiations up very soon. This matter has gone on far too long and I’m eager to return home.”

The Russians drove away without further incident and the four men who had surrounded the car melted into the crowds.

Marcus broke the awkward silence.

“What just happened?” he asked of nobody in particular.

“It’s what didn’t happen that is more important,” Jack said. “Sergei and his team are being held on a tight leash and that’s not his preferred way of doing business. We’ve bought ourselves a little more time. It must be killing him to be so polite.”

“Were we in danger?” Marcella ventured nervously.

Jack nodded. “You’ve always been in danger. From the moment they appeared, the inevitable has been a twitch away.”

Without a word, Marcus walked back through the store, returning a moment later with a bottle of single malt whiskey and five small tumblers. He poured a generous splash into each and set the bottle aside.

Jack sipped the biting, peaty liquid slowly while the others threw theirs back and refilled the glasses.

“Would he have killed us?” Mariel’s voice was shaky. She grabbed the bottle and poured a larger slug into her glass and downed the lot in one swallow.

“Difficult to say but it would have crossed his mind,” Jack mused quietly. “Sergei was a schoolboy when the Soviet Union disintegrated. The economy got very bad very quickly, especially in Kiev where he grew up. There weren’t many ways to make money and feed his family but Sergei proved a fast and enthusiastic learner. By the age of 16, he had acquired a nickname – Sergei The Butcher – and within a decade he controlled a criminal organisation that was exceptionally brutal even by Russian standards.”

Sandrine could hold herself back no more.

“So you do know him?” she demanded, her voice quivering with rage.

“I’ve come up against him before,” Jack said simply. His matter-of-fact tone only fuelled her anger.

“Why didn’t you tell me all this?” Tears stung her eyes and she wrestled to keep herself under control. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“Lots,” Mariel interjected. Fear had drained her features of colour, lending the red slash of lipstick a ghoulish contrast. The whiskey emboldened her and she was about to say more, it was ready to rush from her lips, but a hostile glance from Sandrine froze the words in her throat.

“There are things you didn’t need to know at the time. I didn’t want to panic you,” Jack said evenly.

“Need to know?” Sandrine spluttered, her voice rising an octave. “Need to know? How can you say that? For the last few weeks, we’ve been followed by Russian mobsters. They’ve threatened me, threatened my friends, we’ve played cat-and-mouse with these men and now we find out your friend Sergei could well have murdered the lot of us and he wouldn’t have cared less. That’s just not good enough.”

She looked wildly from Marcus to Mariel to Marcella. They stared back meekly, aware they had become the calm at the centre of Sandrine’s storm. Her normally placid temperament was dissolving in front of their eyes. Tears were coursing down her cheeks, her face was scarlet with anger at the humiliation of her perceived betrayal, and her voice was reduced to a harsh croak.

If she’d taken a moment to reflect, she’d have seen the uncertainty and disbelief in her friends’ faces for they were all now experiencing aspects of Sandrine they could never have expected. To Marcus and Marcella, Sandrine was the quiet, bookish employee who was unfailingly polite and thoughtful to all she came in contact with. Mariel knew her much better, knew some of the deeper, darker secrets of her private life she kept hidden, and was aware of just how deeply she had fallen for Jack, and how out of character that was, but even Mariel was shocked by Sandrine’s rising hysteria.

Sandrine was many things to many people but Jack had crossed a line with her and she swung back on him, her fists clenched.

“Who are you, Jack Lucas? What else haven’t you told me? What’s your role in all this?”

“You know who I am, Sandrine. I love you and I’ve been trying to keep you safe, to protect you the only way I know how,” Jack said plaintively.

“I can’t do this,” Sandrine admitted. “There’s so much about my own life I don’t know but I thought I knew you….”

“You do, darling. You do know me. That’s all that matters,” Jack interjected.

“I don’t feel I do anymore. I don’t think I can trust you. I love you but that’s no longer enough.”

Jack looked stricken. A man always in control, the earth had opened up under him and his world was tilting dangerously.

“We need to get through this and then we can work through the other issues.”

Sandrine shook her head violently, her hair flicking painfully into her eyes.

“No, Jack, no more. I appreciate all you’ve done but I can’t be with you. I’m frightened. It’s just too painful.”

“You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t just about you. It’s about the safety of Marcus and Marcella and Mariel as well.”

It came out of nowhere. Sandrine pivoted, twisted her hip and slammed her open palm with all the force she could muster across Jack’s face. In the quiet room, it sounded like a whip crack. Jack hadn’t expected a reaction like this. It caught him completely by surprise. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. As his cheek reddened, shock registered in his eyes. He absently wiped a hand across his mouth and stared disbelievingly at the red smear.

“Don’t you dare tell me
that
. I know the people closest to me are in danger but you’re no longer the answer. I’ll call the police. They’ll protect us.”

“Please don’t hit me again but you really need to hear this. You don’t understand. The police are good but they can’t protect you. The people we’re up against think they have a chance at $150 million and they’ll do anything to get hold of it. I have the resources to protect you. I do this for a living. Please let me help.”

Jack held both hands up, palms out.

“Please, wait,” he continued.

Sandrine didn’t quite know what to do but she didn’t want to wait nor did she want to listen. She was angrier than she could ever recall being in her entire life. Her skin was burning, tears dripped down her face and she hastily grabbed a tissue from under the counter and blew her nose, trying as much as possible to maintain a harsh and steely determination. Nobody said a word. Jack’s expression was impassive, She searched it for a smirk or a ghost of a smile, any excuse she could possibly have to haul off and slap him again.

She’d never before considered violence excusable but, in this case, she would have felt much better if she could have hit him one more time.
It’s not
, she reasoned,
as if it would actually hurt him.

“You have every right to be upset and we do need to talk but this is neither the time nor the place,” Jack said.

“What exactly do we need to talk about, Jack?”

“You have reservations about the way I’ve handled things. You consider I haven’t told you everything about my involvement in all this. You think I’ve been holding back information.”

“That’s not all of it,” Mariel countered suddenly with a flash of heat. Sandrine maintained eye contact with Jack but held a hand up to Mariel.

“One thing at a time,” she said quickly. There was no need to flash her friend another warning look, the edge in her voice said everything.

Silence settled over the room. Marcella bustled behind the counter and changed CDs. Although her attention was hawkishly centred on Jack, Sandrine unconsciously recognised Glenn Gould playing the Goldburg Variations; inwardly, part of her wrestled with the question of whether this was the original 1955 recording or from 1981. It was some minutes before she settled on 1981, partly because of the more relaxed pace of the Bach and partly as she knew that the later version was Marcella’s personal favourite.