Chapter THREE
Klaus arrived at nine o'clock sharp the following morning, half-expecting the Earl to be running late. The Earl was, however, already at the Gallery, and came out to meet him at the Reception desk with his sleeves rolled up and a pair of cotton gloves tucked into his belt as if he'd been hard at work.
"Good morning, Major. Come out to the workroom; I've got some coffee brewing." The Earl led the way through the door marked 'Staff Only', looking for all the world as if he owned the place.
Klaus followed him past a series of offices, and then through the Gallery's main chamber, heading toward the back of the building.
Tallowford Hall specialised in pre-twentieth century European art. Its collection was small but valuable, and a discerning visitor could read the history of European art and shifts in artistic fashion and taste in the works hanging on its walls.
Frowning faintly, Klaus glanced from one painting to the next as they passed. Portraits loomed above him: solemn faces of long-dead worthies dressed in outlandish finery, pale women in satin and lace, chubby children with old eyes and raspberry-coloured lips. Next, there were Biblical scenes: people wearing long robes and sandals, faces turned to heaven. Then, scenes from Greek and Roman mythology, the canvases crowded with naked bodies – dimpled or muscular, depending on the gender.
Glancing back over his shoulder, the Earl remarked, "You appear to be unimpressed with the Gallery's collection, Major."
"H'mph. I don't see why anyone would want to have monstrosities like these hanging on their walls."
"You have an extensive art collection in your home, Major. I've seen it."
"That's different. That collection's been in the family for hundreds of years. It's part of my family's capital base, and part of my country's cultural heritage. It's my duty to keep it, for the family, and for Germany."
Smiling, the Earl shook his head. "You pretend to have no appreciation of beauty, Major, but I don't believe you."
"Beauty?" Klaus gestured at the pictures on the nearest wall. "Fat naked women? Naked men with swords? All those cloaks swirling around as if they're in the middle of a hurricane? What's beautiful about any of that? It's ludicrous, if you ask me. Look at that idiot there—!" The Major stabbed an accusatory forefinger at a near-naked Achilles, clad only in a war helmet and a wisp of bright cloth, thrusting his sword into a similarly unclothed Hector writhing in the dust at his feet. "Anyone who goes into battle without protective clothing has to be insane. Just as well his heel was his only vulnerable part, since he wasn't taking much care of the rest."
"Do I detect a note of irony, Major?" The Earl sounded amused.
"You think I'm joking, do you?"
With a wry smile, the Earl said, "Well, at least you recognise the story behind the painting."
Klaus glared. "I've had a decent education. I'm not a fool. I just don't see the point of hanging pictures of half-naked idiots on the wall. Come on, we're wasting time. I want to know what progress you've made with that picture you're working on."
He followed the Earl into the workroom. The heating had been turned up a comfortable few degrees warmer than in Tallowford's public spaces, and the air smelled deliciously of coffee.
The Earl poured two mugs and handed one to Klaus. "It's not Nescafé, but I suppose you can make do."
"H'mph." Klaus sipped the steaming coffee, pleasantly surprised at the flavour. "So apart from sarcastic observations about my artistic taste, or lack of it, do you have anything you can tell me?"
Leaving his own coffee to cool, the Earl strolled across to Lucifer Expelled from Heaven.
"I can tell you that I've become quite fond of this painting, Major. When you work closely with any artwork, you get to know it intimately, and sometimes that leads to your forging an affectionate bond with it."
Klaus rolled his eyes. "Spare me the bullshit. Are you anywhere near forming any conclusions about whether it's genuine or not?"
"Yes, Major – as a matter of fact, I am." The Earl radiated satisfaction. "All indications are that the painting is an authentic Lanfranco. The canvas is right, the brushwork is typical of his style, and the condition of the varnish is what you would expect for paintings of the era. I've been able to pull in a few favours from friends, and had some chemical analysis rushed through – and it confirms that the painting is the right age."
"So it's genuine?"
"Yes, Major, it's genuine."
Klaus drained his coffee, and plonked the mug down on the bench with a satisfying clunk. "Good. So the next question is: how much is it worth?"
"As I said yesterday, Major, market value depends on a lot of factors. Is your interest in the price academic, or practical?"
The reply 'None of your fucking business' danced at the edge of Klaus's tongue, but he stopped himself. "I want to know its value because I need to get it on the market, in order to flush out the next links in an illegal money chain."
The Earl raised an eyebrow. "You're using a seventeenth-century art treasure as bait?"
"Yes, it's bait," Klaus snapped irritably. "Like a fucking goat pegged out to catch a tiger. Or in this case, to identify who's behind an operation that's giving the security services a headache. So never mind the disapproval. How much is it worth?"
"I looked up the figures for the last Lanfrancos sold at auction, and they went for something in excess of eighty thousand pounds. This one hasn't been offered for sale for nearly a hundred years; potentially, that could add to its appeal."
"Right," said Klaus. "So – Christies? Sothebys?"
"No, Major." The Earl shook his head firmly. "If this has to do with an illegal trading ring, your villains would've sold it on the black market, and that's where they'll be listening for news that it's changed hands. Word gets around in the trade, you know. So you'll need a dealer with black market connections. Let me handle this for you." He picked up the phone, and paused, looking thoughtfully at the Major. "We'll need a cover story. We'd better pretend that you're a friend I'm helping to sell a family heirloom."
Klaus grunted. "Whatever you say."
The Earl dialled the number from memory, and a bright smile spread across his face when the phone was answered.
"Sandy! It's the Earl of Gloria here. Sandy, I have something for sale that you may be interested in. Early seventeenth century, Italian."
There was a pause, as the Earl listened.
"No, Sandy, it's owned by a friend – a very good friend who lives on the Continent. A regretful sale – a family treasure. Will you have time to see it? Tomorrow afternoon?"
As he hung up the receiver, the Earl turned to the Major with an enigmatic smile. "Well, Major, you are about to meet the United Kingdom's best black market art dealer."
.
.
The next day, a mid-morning flight took Klaus and the Earl to Edinburgh, along with the Lanfranco securely packed in a museum-standard crate. At one o'clock, a taxi delivered them, and the painting, to a small shop on a narrow cobbled street in the old part of the town.
Alexander Selkirk – Dealer in Fine Art and Antiques, proclaimed a sign painted on the window.
"All right, Major? Ready to play your part?"
The Earl looked as if he was relishing the game, Klaus thought. "I'm ready. Just stay on script, Eroica. No complications."
A small bell jangled as the Earl opened the door and walked through, followed by Klaus, lugging the painting in its crate. He set it down carefully, leaning it against the polished oak counter.
The velour curtain behind the counter was pushed aside, and through the doorway came a small, neatly dressed man with silver-grey hair, who greeted the Earl effusively. Clearly, thought Klaus, the two knew each other well.
"Sandy, I'd like you to meet a very dear friend of mine – Helmut Schumacher. Helmut's a business associate from Germany. His family has an excellent art collection; I'm almost envious."
The Major and the art dealer shook hands.
"Sandy, Helmut wants to sell a painting that's been in his family for a long time. I insisted that he come to you first."
"Well, then, my lord, we'd better get a look at this picture. Mr Schumacher, would you bring your painting through to the back room, please?"
Selkirk held the curtain back, while Klaus lumped the awkwardly sized crate through the doorway.
In the back room, Selkirk levered the crate open and stood back to look at the painting. His eyes roved across the canvas. He reached for a magnifying glass and bent to examine the painting more closely.
Selkirk straightened up, and put the glass back on his work-table. "Lanfranco's works don't come on the market very often; it's a treat to see one. You have paperwork, Mr Schumacher? Provenance? Records of sale?"
"No, I regret not, Mr Selkirk," Klaus said. "You see, this picture has been in the family for a long time." An expression of hesitant embarrassment crossed his face. "Most of my father's and grandfather's paper records were destroyed in the War. Until now, we've had no reason to sell it, so we haven't had any assessment work done. Will this be a problem?"
"Oh, no; I think we can ascertain the painting's authenticity for you, and produce the appropriate paperwork."
"Will that take long? I don't wish to appear impatient, but I'm quite keen to get the painting on the market as soon as possible." The expression of embarrassment deepened, and Klaus's voice trailed off into a self-conscious mumble. "I'm afraid I need the cash. Stock market, you know."
The Earl watched Selkirk look the Major over with the same gimlet eye that he had used on the painting, assessing the cut of his suit, the amount of wear on his shoes, the quality of his wristwatch.
Selkirk turned to the Earl. "My lord, as you know, appraisals usually take several days; but in this case, since Mr Schumacher is a close personal friend of yours, I'll make it my priority to get this done straight away." He handed a business card to Klaus. "Mr Schumacher, if you'd call me tomorrow afternoon, I think we should be able to progress the matter."
"Thank you, Mr Selkirk."
Klaus and the Earl were ushered out of the workroom, hands were shaken, and Selkirk held the door open for them. As Klaus stepped out onto the street he overheard Selkirk murmur to the Earl, "He's not your usual sort, m'lord, but he looks like quite a catch – if you can wean him off the stock market speculation."
Klaus was halfway down the street by the time the Earl emerged, his boot-heels sounding loudly on the cobblestones.
"Major? Major!" The Earl hurried after him. "For god's sake, Major, slow down!"
The Major stopped in his tracks and turned to glare at the Earl.
"Whatever is the matter now?" The Earl didn't bother to hide his exasperation. "He's giving you what you need – why are you acting so disagreeably?"
"Disagreeably?" Klaus exploded. "That idiot thought I was your— your—! Gott im Himmel, do I have to put up with this? I suppose you parade all your fancy-boys through his shop, so he assumes anyone you turn up with is your bed-warmer!"
The Earl's face assumed the exaggerated patience of a nanny dealing with a toddler throwing a tantrum. "Now, Major, it's nothing to worry about. You were there under cover. He doesn't think you are my boyfriend; if he thinks anyone is, he thinks it's Helmut Schumacher – who doesn't exist, so why get into a lather about it? Really, Major, you're over-reacting a little, don't you think?"
Grumbling, Klaus pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. "You and Selkirk seem to know one another very well."
"I've dealt with him for years. I buy artworks from him from time to time; occasionally he asks me for advice about authenticating some item or another." They began walking down toward the next street to look for a taxi. "Sandy and I have a good relationship; he recognises my expertise."
"H'mph. I take it that the shop's just a front for his crooked activities."
"Not at all, Major. Sandy Selkirk is a highly respected legitimate art dealer. He has a very solid reputation amongst private collectors throughout Europe." A small, sly smile crept across the Earl's lips. "Of course, he also deals very sensitively with his special clientele. Discretion is his middle name."
Klaus narrowed his eyes. "So I suppose he knows you as Eroica, too."
"Of course." The Earl smiled serenely. "He's the best black market dealer in the country; I'm the greatest art thief in the world. Of course we deal with each other."
.
.
Klaus and the Earl returned to London in the early evening. They were met at the airport by Toby Neville, who offered to drive them to their respective hotels, but Klaus insisted on going back to the office first to debrief.
Klaus signed the Earl in at Security, and the three of them went up to his borrowed office on the second floor. The Earl was offered the only armchair in the room. Klaus and Neville sat down on opposite sides of the desk and began to go over what Neville had been up to during the day.
"If I have to sit around waiting, you could at least offer me a cup of tea," the Earl suggested, sounding aggrieved.
"Go on, Neville," said Klaus, "go and get the Earl a cup of tea, would you? Keep him happy till we get to the transaction in Edinburgh."
The agent darted out, heading for the tea room.
The Earl smiled smugly.
"Don't push it, Eroica. You're only here because that fool Kenihan brought you into the operation, and after this meeting, that's it. Your involvement's finished. So don't try to turn my agent into your personal assistant."
The Earl affected an expression of wounded innocence. "He seems such an obliging boy, I'm sure he doesn't mind."
"This is a security services investigation, not a reception at the Palace. And don't get any ideas about Neville. Just leave good English boys alone."
Before the Earl could reply, Neville returned with a steaming cup of tea and a three month old copy of the Times Arts Supplement, both of which he handed to the Earl.
"I hope the tea's all right, my lord. I found the Arts Supplement in the tea room. I'm sorry it's not the latest one."
"Why, thank you, Toby – how thoughtful," the Earl murmured, with a winsome flutter of eyelashes.
Klaus glared.
Neville, oblivious, resumed his seat.
"Have you made any progress with identifying the bank accounts?" Klaus asked, reaching for a document Neville had in front of him.
"'Fraid not, sir." Neville glanced uncomfortably across at the Earl, unsure how much he should say in front of him. The Earl appeared not to be listening, his interest taken up by stirring his tea and reading the Times Arts Supplement. "If we could narrow it down somehow, find out which country the account holder is in, for example, we might be able to make some educated guesses about where the money's going. But the Zurich-Baden Investment Bank isn't going to tell us who owns the account."
"The Zurich-Baden Investment Bank?" The Earl's head jerked up, his eyes suddenly alight with interest. "I know that bank. What was the account number?"
Klaus locked eyes with Neville and raised a warning eyebrow. Don't say a thing, his expression said; I know what I'm doing. He pushed the piece of paper across the desk toward the Earl, who ran his eyes across it, reached for the phone, and dialled.
There was a pause, then: "Bonham love, could you put Jamesie on the line, please?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Klaus saw Neville goggling in disbelief at this turn of events.
"Jamesie, darling, I need you to help me out. That Swiss bank you deal with sometimes, the Zurich-Baden Investment Bank. Tell me again what the logic is behind the account numbering."
The Earl paused, listening. James's excited babble was just barely audible to the others in the room.
"I see. So if all English-owned accounts are prefixed with X652, does that imply that every country has its own unique prefix?"
Another pause, while more excited babble sounded down the line.
"Yes, I see. Then, could you tell from the account number where the owner of an account lives?"
A gleeful expression began to spread across the Earl's face.
"And you say the last four digits indicate either government or private ownership?"
The Earl glanced across at Klaus, who gave a single nod.
"Then, what about this number?" The Earl read out a string of digits and letters from Klaus's paper, and paused, triumphant delight kindling in his eyes as he heard the response.
"Jamesie, you're a genius! I'll have to do something very special to thank you when I get home."
The Earl hung up the phone, looking very pleased with himself.
"Well, spit it out," Klaus snapped. "What did he say?"
"According to James, based on the Zurich-Baden Investment Bank's account numbering policy, the account in question is owned by a Russian. To be more precise, someone in the Russian government bureaucracy."
Klaus and Neville looked at each other.
"KGB?" Neville ventured.
"Possibly. Not necessarily." Klaus pondered for a few moments longer. "Neville, can your technical team hook up some sort of electronic surveillance that can penetrate beyond what we already know, and trace the other accounts this one might be linked with?"
"I'll talk to them tomorrow, sir."
.
.
The Earl went back to his hotel by cab. Toby Neville drove Klaus to his accommodation in his own car. Klaus would just as soon have taken a cab himself, but decided it would be good for their working relationship if he let Neville drive him.
Neville said very little on the way to Klaus's hotel. He appeared to be thinking something over, and Klaus wondered whether he ought to push him to say what was on his mind, but when they pulled up outside the hotel, Neville turned to Klaus.
"Major: the Earl of Gloria. He seems remarkably well-informed. I mean, I thought he was just an art assessor, brought in to verify that painting, but he seems to have become integral to the operation. Connections with the right art dealers, inside information on Swiss banks – just who are we dealing with here?"
Klaus turned a professionally-blank face toward his colleague, wondering how he should describe Eroica. A bloody thief? No, his identity as a thief is of no consequence in this case. Damned pervert? Who's never laid an unwelcome finger on me, come to think of it. Fucking nuisance? Whose uninvited involvement in missions has led directly to a successful conclusion, more than once.
"Are you at liberty to say, sir? I mean, is his status classified?"
"He's a NATO asset," Klaus stated firmly. "With particular expertise and extensive connections."
Vague as it was, that seemed to satisfy Neville. "Then, will he continue working with us on the case, sir?"
Klaus sighed. "Try and stop him."