The Gilded Seal

SEVEN

Ginza District, Tokyo

19th April – 6.02 a.m.

This was a sanctuary. A refuge. A place to escape the sensory assault of the outside world. The choking fumes from the long ribbons of traffic, cut into neat strips where the streets crossed. The deafening floods of people, the roar of their heavy footsteps as they funnelled obediently along the sidewalks in different directions, depending on the time of day. The blinding strum of the persuasive neon, the advertising signs preaching their different religions high above the heads of those passing below, heads bowed as if in prayer.

Here there were no windows, and no way in, apart from a solitary, soundproofed door that could only be opened from the inside. The air was filtered and chilled, the walls covered in the same black Poltrona Frau leather used by Ferrari, the recessed lights waxing to nothing more than a lunar glow before waning back into darkness at the press of a switch.

There was a single chair positioned in front of a blank screen that took up almost an entire wall. A man was sitting in it, naked. To his left was a glass of iced water. His head, face, chest, arms, legs and groin were totally bald, giving him the appearance of a grotesque oversized baby. From the way he was sitting, it was also impossible to see his penis, giving him a strange, androgynous quality that his distended stomach, swollen breasts and delicate bone structure did nothing to dispel.

He pressed the small remote balancing on his lap. The screen flickered on, a searing rectangle of white light that made the colourful brocade of tattoos that snaked over his entire upper body ripple as if alive. From all around him came the low hum and hiss of the concealed surround speakers.

Now an image appeared. A man. Terrified. His arms pressed flat against a doorframe. Then someone else stepped into the picture, a hammer in one hand and two nails in the other. The first man’s eyes widened in sudden understanding. The nail went through his wrist, the metal stretching his median nerve across its blunt tip like the strings over the bridge of a violin, his thumbnail drawing blood where the reflex had caused it to embed itself into his palm. He screamed, the saliva dribbling down his chin, then fainted. Reaching for the remote, the viewer turned the volume up.

They waited until he regained consciousness and then hammered in the second nail. He shrieked again, his body momentarily rigid with pain, hands clenched into white talons, before sagging forward as the men released him and let his wrists take the strain. The camera never left his face, silent tears running down his cheek, a sudden nosebleed drawing a vivid line across his upper lip and chin before dripping on to his chest.

His tortured breathing echoed through the room, a steady metronome that marked every few passing seconds with unfeeling regularity until slowly, inevitably, the gap between each rasping breath grew. For a few minutes it seemed as if time itself was slowing, his lungs clawing for air, his lips thin and blue, each breath shallower than the last until little more than a whisper remained.

Then he was still.

Taking a sip of water and freeing his penis so it lay across his stomach where he could touch it, the man settled down to watch the film again.

EIGHT

Clerkenwell, London

19th April – 1.16 a.m.

With a sigh, Tom threw the bedclothes off and swung his feet down to the floor. He’d never been a good sleeper, and experience had taught him there was no point trying to wrestle his mind into submission when it had decided it had better things to do.

He pulled on the jeans and shirt he’d thrown over the back of a chair and negotiated his way across the open expanse of the living room, the orange glow of the slumbering city seeping in through the partially glazed roof overhead. Unbolting his front door, he made his way down the staircase to his office, the rubber soles of his trainers squeaking noisily on the concrete steps.

The desk light snapped on, a brilliant wash of bleached halogen sweeping across the worn leather surface. He prodded the mouse and his computer blinked reluctantly into life, the screen staining his face blue.

He scanned through his emails – junk mail mostly, offering to improve his sex life or his bank balance. For a moment his cursor hovered over the three unopened messages from Jennifer Browne that lurked at the foot of his inbox. Two from the year before, one sent this January. Then nothing.

Not that that was surprising. Jennifer had better things to do than waste time writing to him if he couldn’t be bothered to reply. But then it wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to read them. It was just simpler that way. His was a life that could only be lived alone and there was no point in pretending otherwise. And although he would never admit it, he drew a perverse satisfaction in his asceticism; in proving that civilian life had not blunted his self-discipline. Even so, he hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to delete her emails yet. That would have been a little too final. Perhaps, deep down, he liked to believe that there might be another way.

A noise made Tom look up. The roller-shutter over the entrance had been activated and was retracting itself with a loud clanking. He crossed over to the window that looked on to the warehouse below, just in time to see a powerful motorbike pull in, the dazzling beam of its headlamp picking out a series of packing crates and cardboard boxes before both it and the engine were extinguished. Almost immediately, the shutter unfurled behind it.

Dominique jumped to the ground and removed her helmet, blonde hair spilling out on to her shoulders. Looking up, she waved at Tom with a smile, before turning and making her way up the spiral staircase towards him.

‘Welcome home.’ She kissed him on both cheeks, her blue eyes sparkling under a silvery eye shadow.

‘Thanks. You’re late back.’

‘You checking up on me too?’ She grinned, unzipping her leather jacket to reveal a strapless black cocktail dress. ‘I’ve already had two missed calls from Archie tonight.’

‘I just didn’t know where you were,’ said Tom.

Although it was against his natural instincts to worry about anyone other than himself, Tom felt strangely responsible for Dominique. Responsible because, as she had revealed to him a few months before, it was his father who had offered her a way out of Geneva’s callous streets and a spiralling cycle of soft drugs, casual scams and brutal young-offender institutions. Responsible because, after his father’s death, she was the one who had picked up the reins of his business, first transferring it to London and then agreeing to stay and help run it. Protecting her was, therefore, a way of preserving the delicate thread of shared memories that led back to his father. Not that she wanted or needed much protection.

‘I can look after myself,’ she said, arching her eyebrows knowingly. ‘What are you doing up?’

‘Can’t sleep.’

‘Anything you want to talk about?’ She laid a concerned hand on his arm. ‘You were only meant to be gone a few days. It’s been three weeks.’

‘I got a lead on the Ghent altarpiece,’ he said defensively. ‘I followed it up.’

‘You look tired.’

‘I’ve got a lot going on.’

‘You need to slow down,’ she cautioned.

‘I like to keep busy.’

‘Keeping busy won’t bring any of them back, you know. Your father, Harry –’

‘I don’t want to talk about him.’ Tom felt his teeth clenching at the mention of Harry Renwick. A family friend and surrogate father to Tom, Renwick had revealed himself to be the murderer and criminal mastermind known as Cassius. The shock of his betrayal the previous summer still hadn’t left Tom; nor had the guilt he now felt at his role in Harry’s death, or his anger that Renwick had taken the truth about Tom’s father’s true involvement in his murderous schemes to his grave. There were still so many questions about the sort of man his father had been, about the people he’d known and the things he’d done. Questions, always questions, but never any way of answering them.

‘You never want to…’ She broke off suddenly, reached behind him and snatched the CCTV still off the desk where Tom had left it. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘Archie. It’s from that break-in at Apsley House.’

‘I know that man.’ She pointed at the blurred image.

‘Rafael?’ Tom gave a disbelieving frown. ‘I doubt it.’

‘He was here,’ she insisted. ‘The morning you flew off to Italy. He left you something.’

‘What?’

She pointed at the bookcase under the window. A long, narrow object had been placed there, wrapped in what appeared to be a white linen napkin.

Tom picked it up and carried it over to the desk. As he stood it up and undid the knot, the material fell away, revealing a porcelain obelisk, just over two feet long, inscribed with hieroglyphs.

‘What is it?’ asked Dominique, frowning.

‘It’s part of the Egyptian dinner service from Apsley House,’ Tom answered, grim-faced.

‘But they told us nothing was taken.’

‘That’s exactly what he wanted them to think.’

‘You mean he swapped this for a replica?’

‘I should have known better than to think he’d have run away empty handed. He’s too good.’

‘Who is he?’

‘A crook and a friend.’ Tom gave a wry smile.

‘In that order?’

‘He never saw the difference. Was there anything else?’

‘A letter.’ She handed him an envelope. It was made from thick, good quality ivory paper and a single word had been written across the front in a swirling copperplate script. Felix.

Tom snatched a knife out of the desk drawer and sliced it open.

‘It’s empty,’ said Dominique, looking up at him questioningly. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Only one way to find out,’ Tom said as he reached into the desk for his address book.

‘Have you seen the time?’ she warned him.

‘He’s up to something,’ he muttered, nodding at the stolen obelisk and the empty envelope. ‘What if he’s in some sort of trouble? What if he needs my help?’

He found Rafael’s number and dialled it. A few seconds later a voice answered.

‘Digame.’

‘Rafael?’ he asked in a tentative tone, not recognising the man’s voice and wondering if he’d misdialled.

There was a pause.

‘Who is this?’ There was a suspicious edge to the man’s voice.

‘Oliver Cook,’ Tom improvised a name and a reason for calling. ‘I work for the London Times. We were hoping to get a quote from Mr Quintavalle for a piece we’re running tomorrow. Who am I speaking to?’

‘Officer Juan Alonso of the Seville Police,’ came the heavily accented reply.

‘The police? Is Mr Quintavalle in some sort of trouble?’

Another pause, then the man replied in a hesitant, almost apologetic tone.

‘Señor Quintavalle is dead.’

‘Dead?’ Tom gasped. ‘How? When?’

‘Last week. Murdered. If you like, I transfer you to my superior,’ Alonso suggested eagerly.

‘That’s kind, but I’m on a deadline and I’m a quote down,’ Tom insisted, trying to keep his voice level. ‘Thanks for your help. Buenas noches.’

He punched the off button. There was a long silence. Dominique placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I was too late,’ he said slowly, shaking her off. ‘He came here because he needed my help. He needed my help and I wasn’t here for him.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said gently.

‘It’s somebody’s fault,’ Tom shot back.

‘He’s dead, Tom. There’s nothing you can do for him now.’

‘I can find out who did this,’ Tom said coldly, his eyes rising to meet hers. ‘I can find out who did this and make them pay.’

NINE

Soho, New York

19th April – 8.50 a.m.

Reuben Razi’s gallery occupied the ground floor of one of Soho’s characteristic cast-iron warehouses, the rusty scar of its fire-escape zig-zagging up the recently painted white façade.

Jennifer had yet to see anyone enter the building, but it was still early. She’d been sitting in her car, parked outside the model agency on the opposite side of the street, since seven thirty, watching the neighbourhood slowly stretch, yawning, into life. The early start had been deliberate. Razi’s receptionist had told her he would not be in until after nine, but she wanted to get a feel for the world Razi lived in before she met him.

According to the file spread across her lap, Razi had fled to the US from Iran after the fall of the Shah. Penniless and not speaking a word of English, he had begun importing Middle Eastern antiquities, and from those modest beginnings had evolved the small but prosperous fine art business he ran today. He specialised in the mid-market, selling second-tier artists and minor works by some of the bigger Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters – the sort of piece that was worth hundreds of thousands rather than millions. It was a formula that seemed to have worked, given that Razi was able to afford a sprawling compound out in Long Island from where he commuted every day.

The only slight question mark on his resumé had been over the sale of a number of paintings reported to belong to the Fanjul and de la Torre families. As refugees from Fidel Castro’s regime in Cuba, their art collections had been seized by the Communists, but some of the more valuable works had reappeared several years later in US and European auction rooms. Razi had been named by an informant as the link man between the Cuban government and an Italian art dealer who had arranged for the works to be smuggled abroad. Nothing had ever been proven, of course, and Razi’s name had been just one of several in the frame. It certainly wasn’t enough to undermine his credibility or the trust that Lord Hudson so clearly had in him.

A Range Rover swept past her, its tyres drumming noisily over the cobbled street, the sunlight winking in its heavily tinted windows. She checked the plates, confirming that it was the same car that had already driven past twice this morning. According to the list she had in front of her, it was registered in Razi’s name.

This time, rather than drive on, the Range Rover drew up outside the gallery. As the driver’s door opened, a girl ran out of the building. A man stepped from the vehicle and scurried inside, Jennifer just catching a glimpse of the back of his head before he vanished. The girl meanwhile clambered in, adjusted the driver’s seat and pulled sedately away, Jennifer guessing that she had gone to park it somewhere. She gave it a few minutes and then followed the man inside, the file clutched under one arm.

The gallery was a large, open-plan space, every inch of which had been painted an unforgivably clinical white. Despite its size, there couldn’t have been more than fifteen paintings on display, small islands of colour marooned amidst the walls’ featureless expanse, each illuminated by a single brushed-steel spotlight that protruded from the ceiling like a medical implant.

‘I’d like to speak to Mr Razi, please,’ Jennifer instructed the receptionist, holding out her ID.

‘He’s in a meeting right now,’ the receptionist trilled through a saccharine smile. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘You must be Agent Browne.’

Jennifer looked up to where the accented voice had come from. A man was beaming down at her over the mezzanine level’s railings like a ringmaster welcoming her to the circus.

‘Mr Razi?’

She stepped back to get a better view. He had a swarthy face and a pencil-thin moustache dyed an unlikely shade of black to match his carefully styled hair. According to the file he was in his early fifties, but he looked older, and the diamond stud in his left ear suggested someone clinging by his fingertips to the rock-face of youth. Amidst the sterile surroundings, his vibrant purple velvet suit seemed almost unreal, and made him look as if he had been superimposed against the gallery walls.

Without answering, he stepped away from the balustrade and made his way down to her, each heavy footstep making the spiral staircase vibrate with a dull clang. He held out his hand and, as she shook it, he bowed theatrically. A thatch of long dark hairs poked out from under the cuff of his starched white shirt and now she was closer she could see that his face was pitted with acne scars.

‘Hudson said you’d come.’ He pressed a hand over his mouth, affecting surprise, his English strangely stilted. ‘Was that very wrong of him?’

‘Not wrong. Just not ideal.’

‘You must forgive him,’ Razi pleaded, bringing his hands together as if in prayer, the large gold rings that adorned every finger glinting like brass knuckles. ‘He thought I should know. It is my painting, after all.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said with a shrug, not wanting to put Razi on the defensive. Not yet at least. ‘We’re all after the same thing.’

‘And what is that?’

‘To figure out what’s going on, as fast as we can.’

‘Exactly!’ He smiled in agreement, the faint glint of several gold teeth coming from the back of his mouth. ‘I hope you didn’t waste too much time this morning?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I drove past at eight o’clock and saw you outside. And again at quarter past. Were you hoping to see anything in particular?’

Jennifer paused. She was less worried at having been spotted than intrigued as to why Razi had felt it necessary to drive past his gallery twice before finally going inside.

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ she suggested.

‘By all means.’ He nodded towards a secluded area at the rear of the gallery where a white leather divan had been provocatively placed at a forty-five-degree angle across the floorspace. Jennifer instinctively wanted to straighten it. They sat down and he turned to face her with his palms resting on his knees.

‘We should start with a few questions, if that’s okay?’

‘You are very beautiful, Agent Browne.’ Razi smiled, his nostrils flaring slightly as he spoke. ‘But I expect many men tell you that.’

Jennifer gazed at Razi unblinkingly. She knew that in his business, the ability to read people was the key to convincing someone to pay a hundred thousand for something worth fifty. She therefore took the compliment as a sighting shot to calibrate how he should play her, rather than a line. Having said that, from what she’d seen so far, Razi was also a performer. One who clearly liked to keep his audience slightly off-balance. Either way, her best policy was not to react.

‘When did you buy the Gauguin?’