That was the way he saw it, anyway. It was not the best of situations in which to find oneself, but he would rather flee the searches of two governments, whose budgetary patience for wild goose chases was limited, than try to hide from an obsessed Schrade’s well-financed assassins.
God, but he would miss London and Geneva and Paris and Rome. He loved all these wonderful cities in all the wonderful seasons of their years. To have to say good-bye to their galleries and museums and symphony halls and operas grieved him far more than he ever would have imagined. How long might it be before he would again be able to dine at the quiet little Vecchia Roma in Piazza Campitelli or at the sublime La Tour d’Argent on Quai de la Tournelle or have a late morning coffee melange with his newspaper at the Cafe Central in Vienna?
The answer was, eventually. As opposed to never, if Schrade was left unchecked. Corsier was French enough to be capable of sentimentality, but he was also a native Genevan and had a strong sense of practicality. It would be Wolf Schrade’s great misfortune that Claude Corsier had been a lucky man that day in Venice.
CHAPTER 53
The next morning they walked to Shepherd Market huddled together under an umbrella and ate breakfast at da Corradi, where the bacon and eggs were done to Strand’s liking. Afterward they both ordered cappuccinos before going back out into the rain.
“About Carrington,” he said, leaning toward Mara slightly on his forearms. “There’s a timing concern.”
She didn’t look at him. She concentrated on her coffee.
“You’ll need to retrieve the drawings. We don’t want them left there. It doesn’t take much imagination to know that there’s going to be a hell of an investigation. We need a smokescreen, something to create confusion, obscure the inquiry. I’m going to use my Geneva files.”
Mara looked up. “Harry…”
“I can do it without making the source an obvious intelligence leak. It can be done. When that stuff gets out, the potential suspects for the killing will be so enormous it’ll swamp the investigation. It’ll get murky with spies and criminal organizations. There’ll be a frenzy of denials and finger-pointing. They’ll never sort it out. It’ll go unsolved.”
Mara allowed a small smile. She had to; she saw the genius of it, too. It offered a glimmer of hope that this might work after all.
“There’s a problem,” Strand went on. “When that stuff hits the media it’ll be sensational. Schrade’s going to be yanked out of obscurity and thrust into the headlines.” He paused. “The problem is, it’ll heat up the investigation.” He paused again. “You know how it works. Where was he going? Why was he going there? Was he being lured? How was it set up? You’re going to be caught in the net, Mara. Carrington and his security man are going to bring you right into the middle of it.”
The look on Mara’s face was not fear. It was calculation.
“The FIS isn’t going to acknowledge me,” she said. “They’re not going to identify any photographs.”
Strand agreed.
“I’m not in any police files. But they can trace me through the drawings. I own them legitimately, apart from any work for the FIS.”
“That’s right. So you’ve got to get them out of there before Schrade’s death is understood to be what it actually is.”
She hadn’t drunk a drop of the cappuccino, and she was no longer interested in it.
“Let me think,” she said, her voice dying away as her imagination shuttled in another direction.
“This is Lenor Paille.”
“Oh… Ms. Paille. Lenor. I don’t think you told me your first name.” Carrington Knight paused, his voice inquisitive. “Are you on a speakerphone, Ms. Paille? It sounds like it.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m sorting papers.” She and Strand were sitting on the paint buckets, cups of coffee in front of them on the scaffolding table. “Listen, I need to ask you if you’ve got any news on a possible time for showing the drawings to the first client.”
“Oh, indeed. You’re in luck, Ms. Paille. You’re in luck.”
“Really? What do you mean?”
“Mr. Schrade will be here tomorrow.”
Mara flashed her eyes at Strand.
“The fact is, your suggestion that I contact Mr. Schrade was overlapping another item that I had in the works for him.”
“You already knew he was coming tomorrow when I spoke with you?”
“No, no, no. Well, I had contacted him about coming to see another set of drawings, but I had not yet heard from him. I had no idea when he was coming. That’s why I really couldn’t say anything to you yesterday. He called after you left.”
“Did you tell him about the Cao drawings?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Well, he had called about the other pieces, and since you had just left, I didn’t want to be overeager. Besides, I hadn’t yet actually examined your drawings. I do have a responsibility, Ms. Paille. I have to be judicious.”
“Of course, I understand.”
“Nevertheless,” Knight said, “I have, since then, examined your collection, and they are stunning. Mr. Cao is either a very knowledgeable man or a very lucky one-not being a collector-to have come upon these beauties.”
“Well, it’s about their documentation that I’m calling.”
A slight hesitation on Knight’s end of the line indicated startled suspicion. “Yes?”
“I’m afraid I can’t bring them round today. I have other obligations that have come in the way.”
“But you have the documentation?”
“Oh, certainly. It’s right here. I’ll try to get it to you as quickly as possible tomorrow, before Mr. Schrade arrives. What time is your appointment with him?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Then why don’t I come around at nine o’clock?”
“Oh, yes, yes, indeed. Nine o’clock would be perfect.”
CHAPTER 54
While Mara went to Soho to get the material needed for Strand’s disguise, he began calling the three hotels where Schrade was likely to stay. As it was absolutely essential that Schrade not know of any inquiries about his arrival, Strand tried to think of a pretense for calling innocuous enough that an eager desk clerk would not think it worth mentioning to Schrade upon his arrival. The problem was that Schrade’s generosity at these hotels, a result of his wanting to be treated with an almost sybaritic attentiveness, meant that everyone from the doorman to the manager strained themselves mightily to accommodate, and even anticipate, his every wish. If Strand were to pretend to be a business acquaintance wanting to confirm Schrade’s arrival, the desk clerk, wishing to be of service to Schrade as he was checking in, would very likely mention it. If Strand called anonymously to confirm the arrival, the clerk would likely report that as well. He could think of no reason so trivial that an eager-to-please clerk would not mention it.
So Strand decided to try a completely different direction. He began calling the hotels, introducing himself as Dr. Morris, and asking if Wolfram Schrade had checked in yet. When he finally located a reservation for Schrade, at Claridge’s, the closest of the three hotels to Carlos Place, he explained to the registration clerk that he was a cardiac specialist and his secretary, who was out of the office owing to illness, had apparently confused Mr. Schrade’s appointment. Therefore Dr. Morris himself was calling to confirm whether Mr. Schrade had arrived from Berlin.