“Three minutes to three,” the CIA man said softly. “Get ready.”
“I’m ready, I’m ready,” Tony muttered wishing, not for the first time, that this were over with and he was nicely asleep in bed. Or better still back in Washington, at his old job away from all this unhappy business.
“Here he is ....” It was just three. The unlocked rear door opened silently and a man entered; apparently, the unlocked door gambit was the normal way of doing business in these circles. The newcomer had a shaven head, a broken nose, saber scars on his cheekbones and an outthrust bulldog jaw, all of which identified his nationality long before he opened his mouth.
“Which of you is the painting authority?” he said, or rather tried to say. But his which was more like a vich, the closer to der, and painting definitely started with a b.
“Your name?” Higginson asked, ignoring the question.
“You may call me Hans.”
“I may call you Kurt, much better. Kurt Robl. Born Gstadt, Germany, in nineteen ten, joined the Nazi party in ...”
“I know I am in your verdawrmte CIA book, so let’s get on with the business, Higginson. Is this the art man?”
“He is.”
Robl turned his attention to Tony, eying him up and down thoroughly before speaking again.
“You are acquainted with this painting?”
“Certainly. One of the more ambitious works of the artist. Completed in 1503, background work undoubtedly by his assistants, but the figures, particularly the superb horse in the foreground, are the work of the master. Berenson rates it among the best of Da Vinci’s work and I concur. Furthermore ...”
“All right.” Robl turned his attention back to Higginson. “Here is what we are going to do. In five minutes my car will drive up and park under the street light across the way. The motor will be running. One man—and one man only—will go out this back door and cross the street. He will carry this electric torch and it will be lit. He will open the boot of the car, it will be unlocked, and he will use the torch to examine the painting inside. For two minutes, no longer. He will then come back here. If there is any variation from this order the driver will leave at once. More than one man, anything different, and the entire deal will be off. Others can afford to pay as well for this painting, I assure you.”
He passed the flashlight to Tony with a final warning. “The painting is covered with armored glass and bolted down, so do not even consider the smash and grab that is now running through your mind.”
“I was thinking nothing of the sort!”
This innocent answer produced only a sneer of contempt from Robl who certainly knew better. He looked at his watch and waved Tony over to the door.
“Get ready. And put this on.” He produced a tyrolean hat from his side pocket, complete with a large curling feather, and handed it over to Tony. “If you are not wearing this the driver will leave.”
It fitted well enough, the band damply greasy around his head. With the flashlight in his hand, turned on and ready, Tony stood
before the door, while Robl looked at his watch, and was suddenly very nervous about the entire affair. Though it was altogether too late to consider turning back or getting out of the situation, no matter how much he desired it.
“Now!” The door opened wide and he marched out.
The street was empty and dark between the far-spaced street lights; a car went by on the cross street a block away and the sound of its tires was loud in the silence. Under the light in its appointed place stood a black Mercedes sedan with its motor turning over quietly. Tony walked slowly over to it, showing far more resolution than he felt, aware of the silhouette of the man sitting in the back seat who was watching him intently. The trunk was unlocked, the handle turned easily; Tony took a deep breath and opened it. Inside was a colorful Mexican blanket that had been neatly laid over a bulky rectangular object. The painting. He leaned forward and seized a corner of the blanket and pulled.
Sudden pain struck his head just below the right ear, a very great pain indeed that brought a hoarse cry to his lips that was never spoken, for he fell into black unconsciousness even as he drew in his breath. His last memory was of falling, bumping against the back of the car as it shot out from under him. After that, nothing.
No matter which way he turned his head the annoyance would not stop. The pain in the back of his skull persisted with a steady throb, while the pain came and went on his face; it could not be avoided. After a while Tony realized that his eyes were closed and he might find out more about the pain if he opened them. He did. Everything was very blurry, but at least the pain in his cheeks ebbed away. Realization slowly penetrated that a man was holding him up by the collar with one hand and had been slapping him steadily with the other.
“Stop that ...” he mumbled and the man hit him again.
“Haben Sie etwas %u verzollen? Schnelll”
“Can’t understand you ...” Another slap.
Tony tried to swing a fist at his tormentor but it was neatly blocked, As his vision cleared he saw that he was sitting on a cot in a brightly lit room that appeared to be lined with cardboard cases. A hard-eyed young man was still holding him by the collar while another stood next to him, tanned and blond-haired, looking very much like the first.
“You know, I think you are making a big mistake,” Tony said.
“I think so too,” a voice said from behind the two men, and they moved aside to let the newcomer through. He was a different type altogether; middle-aged and plump, with a round red Santa Claus kind of face. A white apron was tied about his midriff, riding high on top of his ample stomach, and he stood at ease with his thumbs tucked into its supporting string. “Just tell us your name, young man, there is nothing to be afraid of.” His smile was very Santa-like as well, warm and cheery.
“I am Tony Hawkin, American citizen, and I would like to know just what it is you think you are doing to me?”
“Hawkin, American. Yes indeed, you do certainly sound like an American.”
His smile faded as he turned to the younger men and spoke to them in a different language that had far more guttural sounds than the German, but never an umlaut. In a moment he warmed to the occasion, shaking a finger and administering what was obviously a full-scale dressing down to the pair, who wilted beneath the attack and began to look as chagrined as schoolboys. Then they were dismissed with a pointing finger at the door and seemed very glad to leave.
“Have a cigarette,” said the plump man, seating himself comfortably on a large box labeled zion salami. He held the pack out to Tony then took one himself. The cigarettes were thin and black and had a rank smell. “Delicados” the donor said, “strong but nice.” He struck a wooden kitchen match on the seat of his trousers. “I should introduce myself. My name is Jacob Goldstein.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Goldstein ...” The sentence faded away into a spasm of coughing as the fumes of the rank burning leaf bit deep into Tony’s lung. With every cough his head rang as though someone were plying it with a hammer. Goldstein looked on kindly with the smoke trickling unperturbably from his nostrils.
“The name means something to you?”
“Sorry, no ... the cigarette’s a little strong. If you don’t mind.” Without waiting for permission he ground the smoldering object out under his heel.