Chapter SIX
Night thickened over London. In Parker's flat, lights burned in the bedroom and kitchen, suggesting that someone was at home. In the dark studio, Klaus kept watch by the street-side windows; the Earl watched at the rear windows above the yard. Across the street, Neville sat by the windows of the lightless hotel room, watching and waiting.
Klaus stretched, and checked his watch. Ten forty-five. Their informant hadn't specified what time Parker's 'burly blokes' made their deliveries, but it was starting to get late.
Across the room, the Earl voiced Klaus's doubts. "Major? What happens if they don't turn up?"
"Probably means we've missed our chance to find out anything through this line of inquiry."
"So, then what?"
"We can interrogate Parker again. Do it properly this time, not like Munro's half-arsed effort; but I wonder how much Parker actually knows. He's got his head so far up his arse crusading for nuclear disarmament, whoever we're looking for has probably got him fooled."
"You mean, he's being used, and doesn't realise it?"
"It's possible. So if Neville's electronic tracing doesn't give us anything, we're fucked."
The Earl sighed, and stared out of the window. Below, dark shadows filled the yard, and there was nothing to be seen. He turned back to the Major.
"Major, I hardly like to say this, but – well, what if it's just some elaborate scheme for fencing stolen goods? What if there are no international security implications?"
Klaus tipped his head back and let out a long breath. "It was your fucking accountant who suggested the Zurich bank account may belong to the Russian government. You keep telling me he's some kind of prodigy when it comes to numbers and banks."
"But what if the money isn't part of a Soviet plot? What if they're Russian, but it's just someone covering their tracks and it's organised theft, pure and simple?"
"Fuck it, Eroica, I don't know. This whole operation's built on supposition. What if someone else is using Parker? What if they're Russian? What if the amount of money being handled means something of international importance is going down? What if? What if?" He huffed, irritated and impatient. "That's espionage, Eroica. Get used to it. We see more dead ends and closed doors than we see results. This whole fucking operation could turn out to be a waste of bloody time."
Down in the street, something caught his eye. Klaus froze. He held up his hand to stop Eroica from speaking.
A van crawled slowly along Bay Horse Lane.
Klaus reached for his communicator, but Neville's voice was already crackling in his ear.
"Van approaching, sir. Coming up the hill."
"Roger that. Stand by."
The van passed Parker's building, and turned down the alleyway that led to the back lane and the paved yard behind.
"Get ready, Eroica. We don't know what we're going to see. Be ready for anything."
The Earl nodded, and checked the knives he'd secreted in his boots and the hidden sheaths under his sleeves.
Klaus lifted out his gun.
"The van's pulling into the yard," hissed the Earl.
Below, they heard the rear door of the entry hall open and close. Next, footsteps on the stairs. Two sets of footsteps. The cadence of their tread suggested men walking unencumbered; they'd be slower, less rhythmic, if they were carrying large packages. Visitors here to call on Parker, but not delivering stolen goods.
"Eroica!" Klaus hissed. "Go down the back stairs and disable their van. I'll deal with this."
"There are two of them, Major—"
"I'll handle it! Fuck off and see to the van!"
Reluctant, but not prepared to argue, the Earl slipped quietly through the inner door, heading for the rear stairs leading down to the yard.
Klaus positioned himself beside the front door, which would place him effectively behind anyone who came through the doorway. He waited, listening, his gun at the ready.
The footsteps came to a halt on the landing. There was a moment of silence, and then the ear-shattering sound of rupturing wood as the door was kicked inward.
Two men burst into the room with guns drawn. The overhead light was flicked on.
Klaus leaped forward, knocking one of the men off his feet; a sharp kick sent the man's handgun spinning across the floor toward the far wall. The second man whirled around, gun raised, but before he could focus, Klaus charged forward and knocked him off balance, and he fell heavily on top of the other. Klaus snatched the man's gun from his grip, and stood back, his magnum pointed at the two.
"Stay where you are, you scum," he grated out through clenched teeth.
"Who the fuck are you? Where's Parker?" one of the men growled in Russian.
"I'm the one holding the gun, you piece of shit; I'll ask the questions," Klaus snarled back in the same language.
Behind him, a floorboard creaked, and another voice spoke in heavily-accented English. "You're not the only one holding a gun, Iron Klaus – and you might like to surrender your weapon, if you don't want your lover's brains sprayed all over the floor in front of you."
Slowly, Klaus raised his head, to see his old nemesis Mischa the Bear Cub standing in the doorway, the muzzle of his handgun pressed against the side of the Earl's head.
Klaus kept his own gun pointed at the two Russian agents still crouched on the floor. "These dirty dealings had KGB written all over them. And here's the living proof. Mischa the Bear Cub. "
"It would be advisable to put down your gun, Iron Klaus. You're outnumbered here, and I won't hesitate to kill your blue-blooded bitch-boy."
Klaus's eyes flickered momentarily to the Earl's. The man was standing stock still, without a tremor, but Klaus could see fear in his eyes.
He snapped his attention back to Mischa. "Let him go, Mischa. He's just a thief. This is nothing to do with him."
Mischa chuckled nastily, then without warning shoved the Earl toward the corner of the room where he fell into an awkward heap. Mischa levelled his pistol and fired in the Earl's direction. With the silencer on, the sound of the shot was little more than a vicious sneeze. The bullet hit the plasterboard wall, a deliberate miss, but the Earl yelped in fright.
"Fuck you!" roared Klaus.
The two Russian agents surged upward from the floor, and Klaus was knocked off his feet in a confusion of limbs and weapons that ended with Klaus kneeling on the floor, disarmed, with one of the agents pointing a gun at him.
"Now, that's better," Mischa gloated. "The proper balance of power is restored. Lyev, go and disarm that perfumed peacock in the corner. He's usually got more than one knife on him."
The agent hauled the Earl out of the corner by his hair and began to search him roughly.
"Leave him alone!" Klaus barked. "This is nothing to do with him."
"Tsk, tsk, Iron Klaus. You bring your lover into our affairs, he must bear the consequences."
"He's not my lover, you dirtbag. He's a fucking civilian. Leave him be."
The agent, having stripped the Earl of his knives, clouted him casually across the jaw.
"That's enough, Lyev," Mischa warned. "Don't damage him too much yet. He'll prove valuable later; he may be the key to loosening Iron Klaus's tongue." He circled around Klaus. "So, Major. We came to pay a little visit to our comrade who has been working so diligently on our behalf – and what do we find? We find you. You and your aristocratic boyfriend. And furthermore, we see that our comrade's dwelling has been cleared out, and he is no longer to be seen."
"Three armed men, to check up on one old man?" Klaus chided.
The one called Lyev raised a hand to strike Klaus, but Mischa stopped him with a lazy gesture. "Don't waste your energy, comrade. You'll have your chance later; then you can really show the Iron Major what you're made of."
He smiled at Klaus, a thin reptilian smile. "You see, we were not entirely surprised by what we've found. We had some pre-knowledge that things were not as they should be. Comrade Parker was always scrupulous in observing our agreed procedure, phoning his contact as soon as any item was sold to a dealer or put on the market. But this time—" Mischa gave an exaggerated shrug, raising his hands in a baffled gesture. "This time, there was no call – and then, we received information that the very valuable painting he was handling for us had been offered for sale. This was a perplexing thing, and we knew straight away that something was amiss. Either our comrade was in need of correction – or something had gone very wrong."
"The KGB must have fallen on hard times," Klaus remarked sarcastically. "Is the Soviet Union so impoverished that you need to get old fools like Parker to sell paintings for you?"
Mischa shook his head in mock pity. "You have your talents, Iron Klaus, but you don't understand the politics of community activism. People like Comrade Parker have their place in the larger scheme of things. Their work is small work, but important. Like the ladies who arrange the flowers in churches. The work they do enhances the experience of those who participate – does it not, Iron Klaus? You are a frequenter of churches. I know this. Your file records that you claim to be an atheist, but still you attend churches. Such a clear illustration of the double-think possible in the minds of westerners. But I digress. We have people like Comrade Parker working for us across western Europe, helping us to turn useless artworks into money, and spreading the message that capitalist imperialism is a system doomed to fail."
"Using ill-informed fanatics from small-time political groups to do your dirty work for you," Klaus scoffed. "A sideshow! Why do you bother? A good example of the Soviet Union's inability to weigh up returns on investment."
A dangerous smile thinned Mischa's lips. "I must disagree, Iron Klaus. The right people working in these organisations can have a very satisfying effect. They can destabilise the people's trust in their governments. Governments and the police must then turn attention to managing the organisations' activities and watching their membership. Destabilisation and distraction. Very satisfying returns on small investments."
Mischa prowled past Klaus and stood in front of the Earl. "I suppose Iron Klaus brought you into this matter because he trusts your corrupt dealings with artworks and the black market."
"At least I understand the true value of art," the Earl retorted defiantly. "That painting was a treasure, an exquisite piece of work. How did you get your grubby hands on it?"
Mischa chuckled. "The kitten has teeth!" He offered the Earl a humourless grin. "A treasure, you call it. We see it differently. There's no need amongst right-thinking Soviet citizens for decadent Western art. We spit on it. Decadent art is for decadent people." He sneered at the Earl. "Decadence is something you would understand, Eroica, is it not? In your own parasitic lifestyle, you elevate yourself above the proletariat of your country, as your family has done for generations." He turned his gaze back to Klaus. "You yourself would understand something of this, Iron Klaus, coming from the aristocracy yourself."
Klaus clenched his teeth, and said nothing.
"And so, there being no need for decadent art in the Soviet Union, we have found a way to put these unwanted symbols of moral decay to work. There are still such things to be found in Russia, in the houses once owned by the rich. There is a market for these things in the West. We sell them to the people who want them, and take their money to put it to better use. I'm sure you'll appreciate the irony of it: their money is being used to bring forward the Revolution that will end their self-indulgent way of life."
"What a joyless existence you must lead in the Soviet Union." The Earl sniffed disdainfully. "A country with no art is a country with no soul."
"Art should be improving to the mind, Eroica. Art should show the people the right way to live."
"I suppose you mean paintings of factories and tractors," the Earl drawled. "Muscular young workers, rosy-cheeked and cheerful."
"Mock as you will, Eroica, but right-thinking Soviet citizens do not need or want paintings that stir the baser instincts, or arouse envy and avarice. The Soviet Union has done away with such things."
Klaus snorted derisively.
Mischa turned his gun toward Klaus. "Don't forget who is holding the gun here. All right, comrades. Enough of this. Secure our prisoners—"
The stifled cough of a silencer-muffled gun cut through Mischa's words. Lyev let out a yell of shock and pain, and dropped to the floor clutching his leg. Blood welled through his trousers and between his fingers.
Mischa and his other agent swung around to return fire. Another shot, and another, came from the half-open doorway to the inner rooms. The second Russian agent crumpled to the floor, dropping his weapon, grabbing at his shattered ankle.
The Earl lurched sideways to snatch up the guns the agents had dropped, rolling out of their reach.
With both his men down, Mischa leapt toward the splintered front door and plunged down the stairs three at a time.
Toby Neville, gun in hand, emerged through the inner door.
"You took your fucking time, Neville!" Klaus said. "And we've lost Mischa."
Downstairs, Klaus heard the back door slam, and Mischa's footsteps running across the paved yard. There was the sound of the van door, then the impotent groan of an engine failing to start – followed by more footsteps as Mischa left the scene on foot.
Neville grinned. "I called for support about an hour ago, when things were taking longer than we expected. We've got agents at both ends of the street, and Headquarters has his description if he still manages to evade capture. I'll get someone to take their vehicle in so we can go over it in the morning." Neville produced two sets of handcuffs. "We can get these two back to Headquarters; there'll be a reception committee waiting for them."
Klaus returned the grin. "You're learning."
.
.
The business of delivering two wounded prisoners to Headquarters in the middle of the night kept Klaus occupied for a long time.
While he was dealing with that, Neville took the Earl up to the second floor, to the corner where his own desk was located, and settled him into a comfortable chair with a cup of tea and – to the Earl's amusement – the same copy of the Times Art Supplement. Neville himself got busy pulling out files and beginning to fill out paperwork.
"Toby, love, it's nearly three o'clock in the morning!" the Earl remarked. "Can't that wait until tomorrow?"
"Mr Munro's very particular about paperwork. And since we have to wait for the Major, I might as well make a start." Neville sighed. "Shouldn't speak ill of my superior officer, but sometimes I think Munro's a bit obsessed by administrivia. The Major seems more of a man of action. He seems to put the mission first."
"He's very driven." The Earl sipped his tea.
"There's an agent here who's very single-minded about putting the mission first, no matter what. Never had time for a personal life. Never married. No close relationships. I wonder if the Major's like that?"
"Somewhat." The Earl smiled wistfully. "But I live in hope."
"What?" Then, Neville's perplexed expression softened into a sympathetic smile. "Oh. I see. Does he know?"
"Doesn't want to know." The Earl sipped his tea again, letting the steam hide his eyes.
Nearly an hour later, Klaus reappeared. Neville and the Earl had lapsed into comradely silence, one reading files and the other the Times Arts Supplement.
"The prisoners are secure. We can go home now. Debriefing at 1300 hours." Klaus nodded at Neville's pile of paperwork. "You'll have to report that your backup agents failed to capture Mischa."
Neville started to say something, but Klaus waved him to silence. "The Bear Cub's an old hand; he probably had his own backup waiting in the next street in case things went wrong. One day, his luck will run out – and I plan to be there to see it."
A driver was found to take the Earl back to his hotel. Klaus and Neville watched him leave, standing in the foyer waiting for their own cars to arrive.
"Major, did you know there's an art thief who calls himself Eroica?"
The Major blinked blandly at Neville. "Is there?"
"Yes, there is. I came across an entry in a file about Mischa the Bear Cub. Something about an item called the Lubljanka Report. A thief going by the name of Eroica was involved."
Outside, a car drew up. Klaus nodded toward the front door. "Your ride's here."
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THREE WEEKS LATER, AT SCHLOSS EBERBACH
Placing his steaming coffee mug on the desk, Klaus began sorting through the pile of mail.
Bills. A letter from his father. The latest copy of Tanks and Artillery. At the bottom of the pile was a large, flat package. There was no return address on it, but the stamps were English.
He unsealed the brown paper wrapping, to reveal a stiff cardboard folder containing two large colour photographs. The one on top showed Lanfranco's Lucifer Expelled from Heaven hanging on a wall. The subtly patterned wallpaper suggested it was in a private house. Or castle, Klaus thought darkly.
The second was a photograph of a naked man, posed exactly as Lucifer was in the painting: his well-shaped feet toward the viewer, one knee raised so his genitals were concealed behind a lean and shapely thigh. In Lanfranco's painting, the curve of Lucifer's torso and the angle of his outstretched arms suggested agonised despair; in the photograph, they merely accentuated the well-toned muscles and unblemished skin of the model – who lay with his eyes closed and an expression on his face that looked more like ecstasy than pain, his head pillowed on a cloud of blond curls.
Eroica. Did the man have no shame?
He'd almost redeemed himself, in Klaus's opinion, by the businesslike way he'd conducted himself throughout the London mission. Even though Klaus hadn't wanted him around initially, once things got under way he'd made himself useful; and he hadn't bothered with flirting or throwing around the innuendos.
And now he had to undo all that good work by sending lewd pictures of himself through the post.
No shame at all.
At Klaus's elbow, the phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.
"Von dem Eberbach."
"Have you opened your mail yet, Major?" the Earl's voice purred.
"Yes, I have."
"And did you get the little present I sent you?"
"H'mph. I got a photograph of that bloody painting, and an indecent picture of someone who looked very much like you, you pervert. You do know that it's illegal to send pornography through the post, don't you?"
A rich chuckle from the Earl. "Yes, Major, I am aware of that. I'm also aware that there's no law against sending works of art, or photographs of works of art."
"You consider yourself a work of art, do you?"
The chuckle deepened. "As a matter of fact, I do. Do you, Major?"
"Fuck off, you pervert!" Klaus slammed the phone down.
He picked up the photograph of the naked Earl, ready to drop it into his paper shredder – then paused. Instead, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and placed the photograph in it with care.