He was stunned. What in God’s name…?
Fumbling with the umbrella and the pistol, he removed the clip from the handle. Two shots were left. He hadn’t fired a single pellet at Schrade.
Corsier sat on the edge of his chair, headphones in place, his eyes glued to the binoculars on the tripod. He had said nothing to Skerlic about the gorgeous woman at Carrington’s. He was exceptionally uneasy about her. Despite Knight’s assurances, Corsier was afraid she would remain for the meeting with Schrade. Ever the opportunist, Knight was probably going to take full advantage of Corsier’s carefully planned scheme. Corsier only hoped that this already baroque enterprise did not collapse under the stress of Knight’s ratcheting up the complexity to a full rococo encounter.
How extraordinary that this Ms. Paille had brought her client’s drawings at this time. It was a bothersome interference. Might it even be suspicious? Corsier could not for the life of him imagine any possible connection here between Ms. Paille and his own endeavor. He had planned this in as near a vacuum as he had been able to manage. He was afraid that what he was seeing here was the appearance of that dreaded poltergeist of every covert operation: the unforeseen intrusion.
The microphones in the frames were working fabulously, and although Corsier was nearly weak from an unsettled nervous stomach, he was mesmerized by his ability to overhear Knight and Ms. Paille.
When Strand finally came to his senses, standing in the gutter between the two cars in Bond Street, all the confusion and uncertainty that had clouded the previous fifteen minutes turned to an instant understanding and clarity of what had to happen in the next fifteen minutes. He had to get to Carlos Place before Schrade.
The one-way streets pretty much dictated Schrade’s route once he had turned left on Conduit Street. Strand had just about the same distance if he ran into Bruton Street and caught a cab that would take him by a different route around Berkeley Square. Neither course had much of an advantage over the other. He broke into a dead run for the Bruton Street entrance directly across from Conduit Street.
CHAPTER 61
Mara stood before the two Schiele drawings, waiting for Carrington Knight to make his way back up the curving stairway. She was struggling with a peculiar sense of disorientation that had hit her the moment she’d seen Claude Corsier. Though his mustache and goatee had prevented instant recognition, within moments his face had reassembled itself in her memory from the Camp Peary files of six months earlier. She was caught completely off guard.
What was happening here? Newly discovered Schieles? Corsier’s Schieles? Brought to Knight only a few days ago? Was she supposed to believe all of this was coincidence? She would not believe it. She could not. Why was Corsier being introduced as Blanchard? Her mind fumbled for explanations, but nothing even remotely satisfactory came into focus.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Knight asked. She was still standing with her back to him, facing the two Schieles.
“No, thank you,” she said without turning around.
“Do you know this artist?” he asked, approaching her.
“I recognize the style, but I can’t really say I ‘know’ his work.”
Knight smiled with affectionate indulgence. “Egon Schiele. A contemporary and friend of Mr. Klimt in your collection. He is a much coveted artist these days. Very popular.” He paused. “Mr. Schrade is an ardent collector of this man’s work, just as he is of Klimt’s.”
She turned and squared herself to Knight. “This was planned, then, having my drawings here with the Schieles?”
“Yes and no. It’s the damnedest coincidence I’ve ever experienced in all my years in the business.” Knight’s eyes widened theatrically. He told her briefly of how he had come by the Schieles, skimming over the facts.
“So, this Mr. Schrade was coming to London anyway, then, to see Mr. Blanchard’s drawings?”
“Indeed. Only…” Knight shrugged his shoulders in a way to indicate a delicate matter. “Only Mr. Blanchard is offering these drawings anonymously, as you are. I can’t say that happens too often, either-back to back, that is.”
Mara nodded. Claude Corsier was selling drawings to Schrade? Incredible. Actually, it seemed too incredible. She couldn’t understand what was going on here, nor could she possibly imagine why something was going on here. She couldn’t gather together enough logical pieces of the puzzle to propose any scenarios at all.
Knight stepped back, pleased with himself. A lock of his white hair sagged over his forehead, and his eyes twinkled from behind his round black eyeglasses.
“So then, we should hurry. You’ve brought the documentation?”
“Actually, no,” Mara said.
Knight frowned. Worry, concern, horrible imaginings, and a little fear instantly embedded themselves in the pale flesh gathering across his broad forehead. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have the documentation,” Mara said. “I received a communication from Mr. Cao early this morning. There’s been a change in plans in Hong Kong. Mr. Cao does not want to sell.”
“What? Does not want to sell?”
“That’s correct.”
Knight almost staggered. He looked at the portfolio on the table with disbelief.
“Does he want some other arrangement with me? Would he like to talk about it? I can assure you, Mr. Schrade will buy these. And he will pay the very highest price. You were absolutely correct in that, Ms. Paille.”
“It has nothing to do with anything here, Mr. Knight. Mr. Cao lives in his own world. What he does and how he does it often have nothing at all to do with anything, except what is in his head. I’ve worked for him for so long, I’ve become-almost-acclimated to these sudden reversals.”
“Why, this is appalling,” Knight said. “He, you, could hardly have asked for a more convenient, a more serendipitous circumstance than what you have here. Everything has come together absolutely without plan… so extraordinary.”
The telephone rang. Knight flinched and looked around at it, and Mara quickly checked her watch. God.
Knight looked at Ms. Paille, held his hand up tentatively as if to freeze the moment, started to speak but didn’t, and picked up the telephone.
“Hello, this is Carrington.” He listened, his dark brow lightening in polite ingratiation. “Oh, yes, absolutely… Of course not… No, no, no, not at all… Absolutely. Very good, very good… Yes, good-bye.”
He put down the receiver and looked at Ms. Paille, concern returning to his expression. “That was Mr. Schrade. He’s in a traffic jam. He’ll be a little late, probably another fifteen minutes.”
“Good,” she said. “Good. That just gives me time to be out of your way.” She moved to the portfolio and began closing it up.
Knight blanched. “Ms. Paille, do you suppose it would be possible for me to talk to Mr. Cao? Perhaps he doesn’t understand the extraordinary- ”
“I’m afraid that would be entirely impossible,” Mara said, clasping the portfolio as she rallied every nerve in her body to remain in control. She was horrified that Schrade was still alive. What had happened to Harry? She was nearly faint with anxiety. Carrington Knight was talking urgently, but she heard nothing he was saying. She was fighting nausea. God, Schrade was so close.
Knight was coming around the opposite end of the table to meet her. He had put both hands together prayerfully, holding them in front of his chest, gesturing with them, rocking them back and forth. “These sorts of opportunities are rare, really, because Schrade is the premier individual collector of these artists…”
Somehow she moved unhurriedly, gracefully, even spoke calmly, though she had no idea what she was saying, and eventually she found herself being accompanied by a loquacious Knight down the long turn in the staircase. She had entered headlong into that surreal and common dream in which quick flight in the face of peril was impossible, in which her own legs plowed with slumberous torpor through the thick surf of her panic.