Hanging the Devil, page 20
Fifty macaques radiated outward from Bohai, a seething mandala of hair, nails, and teeth.
Bohai looked down at the pinched faces and bearded chins. Many had jagged scars across their temples. Others were missing patches of hair. A few had lost an eye, and two had livid burns at the base of the neck. Bohai tasted salt and realized a tear had run down his cheek. Whether he cried for the monkeys or himself, Bohai couldn’t say.
The monkey directly behind Junjie pushed forward and patted Bohai on the stomach.
Junjie moved aside and the others took a turn, each concentric circle of paws patting the man’s belly and rotating clockwise, spiraling inward until Junjie was once again closest to Bohai.
Bohai looked upon his army with pride. Fifty grimaces of sharp yellow teeth returned the sentiment.
Bohai walked to the generator. He took the flashlight from his pocket, thumbed it on and pointed at the nearest wall to maximize the reflection. The time had come to throw the camp into stygian darkness.
Bohai slipped the circuit breakers and grabbed the largest of the levers. He yanked the handle down and heard a snapping sound followed by sudden silence. The humming of the lights, the buzzing of the generator, even the breathing of the monkeys came to a halt as the room went pitch black. Fifty macaques and their man exhaled loudly.
Junjie and his primate pals started chattering quietly.
Bohai pointed the flashlight at the ladder, then moved its beam up the wall until it landed on the hatch that led to the surface. He glanced over his shoulder and angled the light to look into the faces of his marauding macaques. He didn’t have Junjie’s natural oratory skills but felt something should be said before heading into battle.
“Okay, guys, we have a long night ahead of us,” said Bohai. “The time has come to free the prisoners, rescue your friends, and burn this godforsaken place to the ground.”
44
“This whole place almost burned to the ground last year.”
“It looks so idyllic.” Maria followed the contours of the hills as they drove west on Route 128 toward the wine country. “I read about the fires.”
“Napa and Sonoma got hit hardest,” said Cape. “People evacuated, homes lost.” He pointed to the right, where a scrub oak topped a low rise. “There used to be a whole stand of trees there, leading down to the winery on the far side of the hill. Some wineries lost their harvest. The sky was filled with ash that carried all the way to Delaware.”
“This state is bigger than Spain; it’s hard to imagine.”
“In San Francisco, the sun looked like the moon on a cloudy night, and the sky was orange for three months. It was like living on Mars.”
“These fires,” said Maria. “They happen often, no?”
“They’ve become an annual event in California. The year before, in the hills above LA, hundreds of homes were evacuated.” As they followed a bend in the road, Cape gestured through the windshield. “You can see the firebreaks they’ve cut along the road, those deep ditches between the trees and the surrounding property. Some of the wineries even built moats to douse the sparks blown by the wind from other properties.”
“The towns did this?”
Cape shook his head. “The state government was too busy arguing with the power company over who was responsible for clearing the brush, and the power company was too busy lobbying the federal government for subsidies of windmills that nobody wanted in their backyard. So the residents dug the trenches themselves.”
Maria smiled. “You really don’t like the government, do you?”
“I like governments just fine,” said Cape. “It’s politicians I can’t stand.”
“You trust me, don’t you?”
“You do work for the government,” said Cape. “Or governments, in the plural. Isn’t that what Interpol does?”
“Everyone has to work for someone.”
“I work for an eleven-year-old.”
Maria tossed her head to get her long hair behind her again. Cape was driving with the top down, so every sharp turn or gust of wind pulled her hair across her face. Whether covered in soot or riding in a convertible with hair like Medusa, she always managed to look glamorous. Cape could barely find matching socks in the morning, so her effortless elegance was a constant reminder they came from two very different worlds.
“What are you thinking?”
“You came a long way for a lot of trouble,” said Cape.
“I always thought that I worked for the artist, not the government.” Maria shrugged. “Interpol happens to pay me to do it.”
“That’s a great job description.”
“I once recovered a painting,” said Maria, “a Rembrandt stolen from a museum in Sweden—”
“—the Swedes really need to lock their doors.”
Maria laughed. “They learned the hard way—their museums are more secure these days.”
“So you recovered this painting—”
“—a self-portrait,” said Maria. “One of many that Rembrandt painted over the years. Anyway, I went undercover as an independent collector disinterested in whether it was obtained legally, and eventually I managed to buy it back from an intermediary.”
“Catch the thieves?”
“Not at first, no.” Maria pull a strand of hair from her eyes. “When you’re trying to recover something priceless, undamaged, sometimes the best you can do is pay a ransom.” She turned to Cape and smiled. “But I got the bastards three months later.”
“That must have felt good.”
“It did,” said Maria, “but the thrill was in getting the painting back. When I was undercover, every night I’d look at a facsimile of the painting I kept in my wallet. I would stare into Rembrandt’s eyes and ask him where he was.”
“Did he ever answer?”
“Sometimes I would find a clue in the way he looked at me,” said Maria. “It always felt like I was looking for a person, not a painting. Someone who desperately wanted to be found.”
“Art-knapping.”
“Exactly,” said Maria. “Art should be seen, not hidden away.”
“No argument here.”
Cape glanced at the map on his phone. The museum director’s house was two miles north. The road curved gently around a cluster of red willows and opened onto a stretch that ran between matching rows of ginkgo trees as yellow as an open flame. The only other cars on the road were a panel truck a quarter mile behind them and a Ford sedan about to pass, headed in the opposite direction.
“Do you have a plan?” asked Maria.
“Almost never,” said Cape, “but I was wondering if you brought your Interpol badge.”
“I’m off duty.”
“Not today.”
Maria laughed. “You are…” She paused, trying to find the right word. “…incorregible?”
“Same word in English,” said Cape, “and thank you.” With his left hand on the wheel, he gestured at the glove compartment with his right. “Do you mind handing me the gun? I want it in my pocket before we pull up the driveway, in case there are security cameras.”
Maria popped open the compartment and removed the H&K. She pulled the slide back to make sure a bullet was in the chamber, then thumbed the safety before handing it to Cape. “You think that’s really necessary?”
“If you were the director of a museum where a robbery took place, what would you do?” asked Cape. “Go to the museum immediately, or pretend it never happened?”
“Point taken,” said Maria, “but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous.”
“I’m betting he’s not,” said Cape, “but I want him to think that I am.”
“Please don’t do anything impulsive.”
“Says the woman who almost shot a television in cold blood.”
“Those were Russian mobsters,” said Maria. “This is the director of a major art museum. He is no doubt connected to people who are connected to my boss, and to his boss, and—”
“—all the other bureaucrats who forced you to take a vacation.”
“Precisamante.”
“He’s hiding in Napa,” said Cape. “Which means he’s got something to hide.”
Maria sighed. “You’re right.”
“Coming here was your idea.”
“It was our idea,” said Maria. “And a good one.”
“Want to wait in the car?”
“Not on your life.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Cape began to turn off the main road but braked suddenly as a black Honda Civic sped from the intersecting street, tires drifting on the dusty asphalt until the driver swerved into his lane and passed them. Cape realized how narrow the side street was as he made the turn, barely wide enough for two cars. Five minutes later he turned again, this time onto a gravel drive lined with hedges twelve feet high.
A sign on the mailbox indicated this was the Beckett property. The hedgerow on the right was set back from a dirt path wide enough for two bicycles to ride abreast. Considering the length of the driveway, Cape wondered if the mail was collected daily by someone in a golf cart. The mailbox and house were so far apart they practically had different zip codes.
“Alistair Beckett,” said Maria. “That’s the man we’ve come to see.”
“His name sounds expensive.”
“He lives an expensive lifestyle.” Maria pulled out her phone and scrolled through some notes. “Lives at his winery in Napa—this place—and keeps apartments in San Francisco, New York, and Paris. Sits on a few charitable boards…” Maria spread her fingers to enlarge the type. “…and recently divorced his wife of twenty years.”
“How recently?”
“Less than a year.” Maria squinted at her screen. “His ex-wife lives in LA near their daughter, who goes to UCLA.”
Cape considered the property values in Napa and what it might take to keep apartments in three of the most expensive cities in the world. “Where does Alistair’s money come from?”
“He is the son of a son of a very rich man,” said Maria. “His grandfather donated the collection that started the museum.”
“No wonder he’s the museum director,” said Cape. “It’s a legacy.”
“He’s the third Beckett to hold the position.” Maria clicked off her phone. “I’ve heard of the grandfather; he was an influential and controversial figure in the art world.”
“Why controversial?”
“Hundreds of pieces came from the grandfather’s travels across Asia in the late thirties,” said Maria. “When Japan invaded China at the start of the Second World War, anyone hoping to buy safe passage out of Shanghai agreed to sell family heirlooms for virtually nothing. Beckett’s grandfather bought as much as he could for as little as the families would accept. Then after Pearl Harbor, Beckett returned to the U.S. and had another windfall. Japanese antiques dealers risked internment camps, so they sold everything and fled to Japan. In later years he collected art from India and Indonesia, but the bulk of his collection—the catalyst for the museum—was art acquired during wartime.”
“So he didn’t steal the art,” said Cape, “but he got it for a steal.”
“Yes.” Maria’s mouth moved as if she tasted something sour but swallowed it anyway. “If Beckett’s grandfather hadn’t bought the antiques, others would have. It was a buyers’ market. The pieces would have been acquired by dozens of different people, displayed in homes or resold at auctions, scattered and lost to public view. Beckett was a legitimate collector and helped start a museum that brings thousands of people a year closer to a culture they know little about, and it helps others stay connected to a culture they left behind when they came to this country.”
“You don’t have to convince me.”
“I think there would be a lot less empathy in the world if we didn’t have museums.”
“No doubt, but you sound like you’re building a case for the defense,” said Cape. “Something is bugging you.”
“It’s just ironic…” Maria’s voice trailed off as her eyes followed the row of hedges running to the house. “Ironic that so many years later, someone is trying to steal the art back.”
“Irony is just a coincidence holding a grudge.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” said Maria.
“Neither do I.”
They reached the end of the endless driveway.
A lone vehicle was parked to the left of the main entrance, a vintage MG convertible, blue with a black interior. It was the perfect car for a winding road or midlife crisis.
Cape made a slow doughnut on the gravel turnaround so his car was facing the exit. He and Maria climbed out, their doors closing in tandem with the solid thunk of an older, heavier car. Maria stretched her arms above her head and bent at the waist so her chin almost touched her knees. During her stretch, Maria kept her eyes on the front door, but no one emerged.
The house was a massive two-story Spanish villa with ochre walls, wide windows, and a tile roof. Cape wandered to the corner of the house and strolled on a lawn that needed water and a haircut. The ground sloped downward toward the back of the house and Cape saw the gentle slopes and even rows of a vineyard extending the length of a football field. Like the lawn, the vines needed tending, the ground was parched. Stray hoses had broken free of the irrigation system and lay curled on the ground like dead snakes. Cape doubted you could squeeze a glass full of juice from the few grapes that hadn’t shrunk into raisins.
Cape glanced along the walls of the house and saw patches of stucco in need of paint. One of the shutters on the second floor was askew. Scanning the ground, he spotted three curved tiles that had fallen from the roof. At first glance the house was a work of art, but on closer examination it was a fading masterpiece sorely in need of restoration.
“What are you doing?” Maria called in a stage whisper.
Cape walked back to the front of the house. “Looking for a motive.”
“Find anything?”
“No dead bodies in the garden,” said Cape, “but I’m guessing it was a costly divorce.”
They walked across the gravel, every step crunching with the sound of breakfast cereal. Maria slid her badge from her pocket, and Cape adjusted his jacket so it didn’t sag on one side from the weight of the gun.
The oak door was arched. A patterned window at the top matched the curve of the door. Set at eye level was a heavy door knocker in the shape of a dragon eating its own tail. The dragon didn’t fit the Spanish motif, but it looked valuable. The patina spoke of age, and the dragon’s eyes sparkled like onyx.
Cape didn’t see a doorbell. He lifted the handle of the knocker and let go. It struck the base plate with a loud clang, and the door slid forward a few inches. It was unlocked and unlatched. The last person through the door had either been careless or in a hurry.
Cape looked at Maria, who shrugged. He pressed lightly with an open palm, and the door swung inward before bouncing back against his hand. Something in the foyer was blocking the door. Cape wrapped his right hand around the edge of the door and pushed. The gap was just wide enough for him to poke his head inside and take a look.
The first thing Cape saw was a shoe.
45
“Grab the shoe and twist it off.”
Sally held Grace’s right foot as she said the words, and on the last syllable rotated her hands counterclockwise in one fluid motion. The foot told the ankle to save itself, and the ankle told the knee it had better come along, and the knee told the hip that it was going to break unless it twirled in the air, and the rest of the body realized it had no choice in the matter.
Grace spun sideways and fell on her face a few feet away. Sally told her the mats would be removed from the wooden floor after she learned how to roll. Grace was glad they were still in place. She got her arms under her and stood, then gave a small bow and asked, “What if I was bigger than you?”
“That’s why you’re learning this now,” said Sally. “You’re still small.”
Grace made a face.
Sally smiled. “It’s okay. I’m still small, but I’m fully grown.”
“I’m still growing,” said Grace.
“I bet you’ll be taller than me.” Sally let her gaze drift around her loft, at the walls covered with training weapons, the high ceilings, the mats arranged purposefully around the floor. Of all the things she could teach Grace, it was hard to decide what was most important. If there was going to be an attempt on her life, it would happen within days, not months.
Time is the enemy of life. Control time and you will live. Lose control and you will die.
The voices of her childhood instructors whispered to Sally. Wounds turned into scars, but memories became lessons. They reminded Sally to trust her instincts.
“Remember the first lesson?”
“If I get away, I win.”
“Right,” said Sally. “If you avoid conflict, you’ve taken power away from your enemy.”
“Enemy,” said Grace, “you mean villain.”
“Don’t start with that,” said Sally. “This move I’m showing you, it’s for buying time to run away. Anyone who attacks you is likely bigger than you, yes?”
Grace nodded.
“Come over here,” said Sally, “pick me up, move me three feet in the air, and drop me on the ground.”
Grace’s eyes went wide.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sally. “Not strong enough?”
Grace’s eyebrows came together and she stomped over to Sally. She wrapped her arms around Sally’s waist and gave an oomph as she tried to get her back muscles into the battle, but Sally set her legs wide and wouldn’t budge. Grace shuffled around and grabbed Sally from behind.
Sally pretended to stumble backward, then let momentum carry her. She heard a yelp as she fell on top of Grace, pinning her to the ground.
Grace cried out in a muffled voice. “Not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.” Sally rolled sideways and stood. “That’s why you have to change the rules.”
Grace accepted Sally’s outstretched hand. “I can’t pick you up—”
