“Mr. Steele, you have an eight-by-ten transparency of the painting. You can compare it to that, and you will know that the picture is the one you previously had authenticated. If you feel it’s not the same picture, return it to the deliveryman. He will leave with it, and our business will be done, once and for all. Neither you nor your client will ever see the van Gogh again.”
“I understand, and I accept your conditions.”
“I haven’t told you all of my conditions yet.”
“Go ahead.”
“Now comes the unpleasant part: The deliveryman will carry a small explosive device. If you involve the police, your corporate security people, or anyone else who attempts to disrupt this process, the picture will be destroyed by the deliveryman, who will also take a few seconds to end your life. If you stick to my conditions and allow the man to leave with the money, unhindered and not followed, he will disarm the device remotely, fifteen minutes after he leaves your office. You will get a phone call telling you that it is safe. Do you understand these terms?”
“I do.”
“Do you agree to them?”
“I agree.”
“Good. If you keep your word, you will be able to report to your board of directors that the picture has been recovered and returned to the policyholder. They will be very pleased with the terms under which you resolved the problem. The alternative will, I assure you, be unbearable to all concerned.” Fineman hung up.
Arthur Steele immediately used his cell phone to call Stone Barrington.
“Hello, Arthur.”
“Stone, there have been developments with regard to the van Gogh.”
“Oh?”
“I just got a phone call from someone named Sol Fineman. Do you know that name?”
“I do. He’s the man who put me in the hospital a few days ago.”
“Let me tell you what he proposed.” He related the phone conversation to Stone. “What is your advice?”
“Arthur, do you still intend to pay me the twelve-million-dollar recovery fee?”
“Stone, if I get it back this way, then you won’t have recovered it.”
“Think it through, Arthur. This recovery will not have taken place, except for my participation.”
“I don’t see it that way, Stone.”
“In that case, I have no advice to offer you.” Stone hung up.
Arthur panicked and called Stone again.
“Yes, Arthur?”
“All right, I agree to pay you the twelve-million-dollar fee if I recover the picture today.”
“In that case, here is my advice. Follow Sol Fineman’s instructions to the letter. Do not attempt to apprehend him or deny him the five-million-dollar payment or inhibit him in any way. Do not report this to the police or your corporate security, and do not have him followed. Do you understand my advice?”
“Stone, you want me just to hand over millions of dollars to this guy?”
“I thought I had made myself perfectly clear. You are in a very dangerous position, Arthur. If you attempt to obstruct this exchange, the whole thing will blow up in your face, perhaps literally, and you will have to face the board and tell them exactly how you blew the opportunity to recover the picture for less than ten percent of its value, and how you are, as a result, going to have to pay your client sixty million for her loss. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Stone,” Steele said resignedly.
“Then I compliment you on your perspicacity, and I wish you every success in recovering a precious artwork.” Stone hung up.
Arthur Steele sat there sweating for a moment, then he got up and headed for the luggage shop.
57
ARTHUR STEELE POINTED at the large black Zero Halliburton case on wheels. “That one, please, no need to wrap it.”
The salesman pulled down the case from the shelf. “This one?”
“That is correct.” Steele handed him a credit card and waited as patiently as he could while the sale was processed. He read the instructions for setting the combination on the locks, then handed the salesman the leaflet in frustration. “I can’t do this. Will you please set the combinations to eight-six-nine?”
The salesman didn’t bother with the instructions. He made a few swift moves, and the combinations were set. He handed Steele the slip to sign.
Arthur pulled out the handle on the case and it followed him down Park Avenue to his office building. As he passed the reception desk, he said to the uniformed security guard, “I’m expecting a delivery soon, which will require my signature. Send him up to my floor.”
“Yes, Mr. Steele.”
Steele went from there to the chief accountant’s office. “Please open the vault,” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Steele,” the man said, rising. “May I ask why?”
“Because I asked you to.”
The man complied, then returned to his desk, out of sight. Steele walked into the vault and pulled the door nearly shut behind him. He took out a key and opened a steel door at the rear of the vault, exposing a tightly shrink-wrapped block of bank notes. He found some scissors and slit the pack open, then set the case on the nearby counter and began to stack the banded bundles into it, four at a time, counting aloud. When he had stacked in five hundred bundles, he rearranged the notes a little, then closed the case. He was surprised that it held all the money.
He set the case on the floor; it was very heavy, and he was grateful for the wheels. He locked the cabinet and left the vault, closing the door behind him and spinning the locking wheel. He towed the heavy case down the corridor to his office, stood it up beside his desk, and sat down. He removed a magnifying glass from a desk drawer and retrieved the 8x10 transparency of the painting from his personal safe, then set a light box on his desk and sat down to wait, dabbing at his damp face with a tissue.
? ? ?
SOL FINEMAN, now Blankenship, maneuvered the rented white van, on which he had pasted a plastic FedEx logo to each side. He found a space in a loading zone a few steps from the entrance to the Steele building, then he took a closed FedEx box and a clipboard, walked into the building, and approached the front desk, where a uniformed security guard awaited. Sol was wearing a khaki uniform with a matching zippered jacket bearing the FedEx logo and a name: Jenson. He was also wearing heavy-framed, tinted glasses and a thick goatee, mustache, and eyebrows.
“May I help you?” the guard asked.
“I have a delivery for Mr. Arthur Steele, requiring his personal signature.”
The man picked up a phone and reported this to the receptionist on the executive floor, then hung up. “Please go up to the thirtieth floor. They’re expecting you.”
Sol got onto the elevator and pressed the button for 30. He felt oddly buoyant and relaxed. He got off and started toward the receptionist.
“You may go right in,” she said. “You’re expected. First door on your right for Mr. Steele.”
Sol walked to the door and rapped lightly on it.
“Come in,” a voice said.
He opened the door, took a step in, and looked around. A bald man in a black suit sat behind the desk.
“Delivery for Mr. Steele,” Sol said.
“I am Arthur Steele. Come in.”
Sol walked to the desk and set the box on it. “May I see a picture ID?” he asked.
Seemingly surprised, Steele produced a driver’s license.
Sol tore open the paper zip of the box. “You have three minutes,” he said, starting the stopwatch function on his wristwatch.
“There’s the money,” Steele said, pointing. He tore at the box, removed the wrapped painting.
Sol set the case on a conference table and dialed in 869. Nothing happened; the lock refused to open. “Stop!” he said to Steele.
Steele stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“The combination didn’t work. What did you set it to?”
“I asked the salesman at the store to set it to eight-six-nine. It must work.”
“You’re sure you said eight-six-nine?”
“I’m certain. I’m not trying to trick you.”