Hanging the Devil, page 27
His descent seemed quicker than his ascension, and somehow more deserved.
57
Maria knew she deserved to get fired but it felt so much better to resign.
Her boss was un imbécil, but that was not why she burned bridges all the way back to Barcelona. She could have outlasted a bureaucrat with misogynist tendencies—he certainly wasn’t the first Maria had encountered in her career. She knew her incessant insubordination was going to get her sacked eventually.
She resigned because she didn’t know who she was working for, and that made her uneasy. Any organization like Interpol was subject to political pressure, but her boss had become a puppet. The wires moving his hands and the hinges opening his mouth might not be visible, but they were there, and Maria didn’t want to spend her career trying to cut them.
Maria loved her job.
She never thought about art as mere stolen property. An expensive canvas taken from a well-endowed museum makes good headlines, but people never see the real crime. Like burning a book or censoring a newspaper, it chips away our humanity. One of the few things that brings people together is not only lost from view but expunged from memory.
Steal a painting and you erase an idea.
Maria believed that, and she wanted to work with people who felt the same way. She had been willing to put up with a lot to work in art crimes, but she wasn’t willing to work for the people she was investigating. Even a master forger couldn’t paint over a lie that big.
Maria paced around her hotel room, a tiny bottle of water from the minibar held loosely in her right hand. When she reached the window, she pivoted on her heel and caught Rembrandt staring at her. His expression hadn’t changed since the last time they made eye contact. Maria raised her bottle in a toast to the Dutch master and resumed pacing.
She was anxious to get going. Cape should have arrived by now.
Maria smiled at the thought of her unofficial and unconventional colleague. He was impulsive but inspired, reckless but relentless. Had Cape been her partner at Interpol, Maria had no doubt he would’ve been fired long before she got the boot. She didn’t know if he cared about art at all, but he cared enough about a little girl whom he barely knew to risk his life.
He was free to do whatever he wanted, yet he chose to do what no one else would.
The only time Maria ever felt that free was the moment she quit her job. She glanced at her open suitcase, where her Interpol badge lay on top of her clothes. She looked at the photograph of her younger self and saw a determined woman with big plans but little insight into how the world actually worked.
Maria picked up the badge, flipped it facedown, and checked her watch. Something was wrong. There was too much at stake to be late. She set her drink on the desk and looked imploringly at Rembrandt.
Rembrandt kept his mouth shut.
Thunk.
Maria jumped at the sound. Instead of knock-knock-knock, it was a dull thud against the door. She crossed to the peephole and contorted her right eye until it focused on the blurred figure in the hallway.
“¡Mierda!”
Maria unchained the door and tore it open.
Cape tumbled forward as if he’d been leaning heavily on the door. Maria caught him clumsily with both arms. They stood nose to nose just long enough for things to feel awkward and intimate simultaneously.
Cape sucked in his breath and winced, ruining the moment.
Maria retreated by a step but kept her right hand on his shoulder, holding him steady. Parallel crimson streaks raced from beneath his chin up the left side of his face, converging at his hairline, where a dried patch of blood congealed over a deep gouge. Two blue-gray eyes shone with intensity, pupils contracted from an adrenaline surge that hadn’t yet waned.
His shirt was untucked and spotless, totally incongruous with the rest of his appearance. Maria slid her hand from Cape’s shoulder and gingerly tugged at the front of the shirt until she could peer over the gap at his bare chest.
“Is that duct tape?”
“Yes.” Cape swatted her hand away, but not before Maria noticed the ring finger and pinky on his left hand were taped together, encircled by the same color of duct tape that girded his chest. “They say it has a thousand and one uses.”
“Such as taping dislocated fingers,” said Maria.
“And securing broken ribs.” Cape forced a smile, which only made the furrows on his cheek more livid. “Sorry I’m late.”
“What happened?”
“I forgot to check my side mirrors.” Cape gestured at the minibar. “Do you mind?”
“Good idea.”
Maria stepped to the small refrigerator and returned with a pocket-sized bottle of whiskey. She poured three-quarters into a glass which she handed to Cape, then drained the remainder of the bottle herself. Cape sat on the edge of the bed, took a long pull, then hissed through his teeth on the exhale. He pressed his left hand against his side about halfway up his torso and took a tentative breath. The duct tape crinkled audibly, and Maria imagined it was the sound of bone grinding against bone.
“Turns out beach grass is very resilient,” said Cape. “Nature’s own trampoline.”
“You look like you got mauled by a tiger.”
“I got tricked by a twin.” Cape gave a cursory description of his unexpected detour.
“You should have gone to the hospital,” said Maria.
“I’d be there all night,” said Cape. “Walked to my office instead.”
“Is that where you got the tape?”
Cape nodded. “I got something else, too. A clean shirt and…” He stood shakily and pulled the H&K nine-millimeter from his waistband. “Dug this out of the sand, figured you’d want to borrow it again.” Laying the compact pistol on the bed, Cape pulled up his shirt with the fingers on his left hand that could still bend. “And this was in my desk drawer.” He reached behind his back with his right hand and produced another handgun.
It was a Ruger .357 revolver, chrome with a three-inch barrel. A squat, angry gun that looked like a bulldog and barked like a mastiff. Cape tossed it on the bed next to the semiautomatic.
“Now we both have a date for the evening.” Maria took a step forward and picked up the H&K. In one fluid motion she hit the thumb release for the magazine and racked the slide, checking to see if there was a bullet in the chamber. She slid the magazine back into the butt of the pistol and clicked on the safety. She studied Cape for a long moment before saying, “But maybe we go tomorrow.”
“No.” Cape took the Ruger and holstered it at the small of his back. “They came for me today, which means they’ll make their move tonight.”
“You might be concussed.”
“That would explain the throbbing behind my eyes.”
“Then we should call Beau,” said Maria. “The police—”
“—have to play by the rules,” said Cape.
“The police could secure the paintings.”
“Then the bad guys might leave town.”
“Is that so bad?”
“They’d come back, only we’d never know when.” Cape took a deep breath and grimaced as the tape strained against his ribs. He slowly exhaled, keeping his breath shallow. “They’d come back for something…or someone.”
“Yes.” Maria swept aside a rogue ribbon of hair and looked at Cape. He was doing a valiant job standing and not passing out, but she could see the strain on his face. Their eyes met, and she gave him a winsome smile.
Maria crossed to the side of the bed and stepped in close. Before Cape could react, she rolled onto the balls of her feet and kissed him lightly on the lips.
Maria was back across the room before Cape could blush.
“What was that for?” asked Cape.
Maria shrugged. “I’m going to call you Santo Jude from now on.”
“Why?”
“He’s the patron saint of lost causes,” said Maria, “and impossible missions.”
“Like Tom Cruise?”
Maria shook her head. “Not exactly.”
“She’s only eleven,” said Cape.
“I know.” Maria glanced at Rembrandt, who looked bemused and a bit jealous. “It was never about the art for me, either.”
“It’s a good plan,” said Cape. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s a terrible plan,” said Maria.
“Well,” said Cape, “let’s go find out.”
58
“Let’s go find out how it works,” said Pasha.
“There isn’t time,” said Ely. “Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Maybe we should just use a handgun.” Pasha glanced at the weird weapon in the back seat of their stolen car.
Valenko had refused to loan them another car after they abandoned the red Camaro, so they stole an Audi Q7 from the parking lot at Whole Foods. Ely felt guilty their theft would force a busy mom to call an Uber to bring her gluten-free, organic, and responsibly sourced groceries home, but Pasha insisted they were in a hurry.
Ely had asked, “How do you know it’s a mom’s car?”
“Think about it, it’s an Audi SUV—”
“—still, I’m just saying—”
“—parked at a grocery store—”
“—seems kind of sexist—”
“—in San Francisco.”
“Maybe it’s a dad’s car,” said Ely. “Or maybe there are two dads.”
“Or two moms,” said Pasha. “Who gives—”
“—exactly, there could be—”
“—who cares?” Pasha spun the wheel and caught the curb pulling out of the lot. “Say we stole a dad’s car. Does that make you feel more inclusive?”
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t generalize.”
“I don’t care if it’s a mom’s car, a dad’s car, a car owned by two dads, a car leased by two moms, or a car driven only on Sundays by a group of nonbinary caregivers,” said Ely. “I only care that it has four wheels, gas in the tank, and it’s big enough to hold that monstrosity in the back seat.”
Ely gave no rebuttal and remained silent until they approached city hall from the west.
When Pasha suggested they test the weapon, Ely was taken aback. “You said we were running late.”
“I think we are,” said Pasha. “We don’t know when Freddie’s men will arrive, so we might be early, too, but it’s been dark for hours.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Pasha pulled against the curb and killed the headlights.
To their right was city hall, a conical mausoleum where the hopes of a city lay buried. The lost souls of San Francisco held a midnight vigil in the public square, open flames flickering like forlorn fireflies in dozens of homeless encampments. Above them the lights of the dome shone red, casting a bloody pallor across the square.
Pasha shifted in his seat to look his brother in the eye. “The problem is…that thing in the back seat scares me.”
“Rasslab’sya, brat,” said Ely, half-smiling. “It’s more epic than the rocket launcher.”
“That’s what worries me,” said Pasha. “Your missile not only blew up the guy in the ugly sneakers, it blew out the window of our car and almost killed a politseyskiy. If we kill a cop, even Valenko can’t protect us.”
“You told Valenko we would cause a disaster,” said Ely. “That thing in the back seat is a portable act of God.”
Pasha looked over his shoulder at the weapon. “Where did you get it?”
“Same guy who got me the bazooka,” said Ely. “He went to high school with our cousin Damien, they played football together. He used to be a halfback, now he’s an arms dealer.”
“At least he got a good job,” said Pasha. “Damien still lives with his mother.”
“You really want to test the weapon?”
Pasha shrugged. “Explain how it works, so I know where not to stand when you use it.”
“Nothing to worry about,” said Ely. “Unlike the bazooka, there’s no blowback with this thing. I’m not sure there’s any kick, either.”
“You’re not sure…that’s what worries me.”
“Look.” Ely stretched over the seat and grabbed the weapon with both hands, angling to avoid Pasha’s head. He laid it across his knees and ran his hands across its sleek surface. “Isn’t it cool?”
It resembled a ray gun from a Flash Gordon cartoon. A bulbous and contoured rifle with a space-age aesthetic that looked both fantastic and formidable. The grip and stock were a textured composite material; the barrel was made from a matte gray alloy that gleamed in the wan light of the car. Twice as wide as a shotgun but half as long. Near the trigger at the top of the grip was an arrangement of buttons in red, green, and blue.
“It looks like a toy,” said Pasha. “What did you call it again?”
“Hold on, I wrote it down.” Ely pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “The U.S. military calls it a laser-induced plasma channel generator.”
“Say that in little words.”
“It shoots lightning bolts.”
“Like Thor’s hammer?”
“Exactly like Thor’s hammer!” Ely rubbed his hands together. “Now you get it.”
Pasha looked impressed. “That does sound pretty cool.”
“It’s very cool,” said Ely. “This toy shoots a laser that rips electrons from air molecules to create a beam of pure plasma.”
“How big a laser?”
“You know how a light bulb at home might be sixty or a hundred watts?” asked Ely. “The high-intensity laser generates fifty billion watts.”
“Bez shutok?”
“No kidding,” said Ely. “But it only works for short distances, maybe twenty yards, and takes a while to recharge between blasts.”
“Lightning bolts.” Pasha’s eyebrows rose in admiration.
“Right?” Ely was giddy. “You want to hold it? It’s lighter than it looks.”
“We should give it a name.”
“Like Mjölnir?”
“Is that Thor’s hammer?”
“Yes, don’t you remember from the comics?” asked Ely. “Or the movie?”
“I could never pronounce that,” said Pasha. “When one of Freddie’s bandits points a gun at me, am I supposed to shout, ‘hey, Ely, electrocute this asshole with mee-ow—’”
“ME-OLN-ERE.”
“Not happening.”
“How about…the hammer gun?”
“Sounds like a nail gun,” said Pasha. “Try again.”
“The shocker?”
“Lame.”
“Plasma pistol.”
“Not bad,” said Pasha, “but it’s a rifle, isn’t it?”
“Fine,” said Ely. “Lightning gun…my final offer.”
“Lightning gun?”
“Yes.”
Pasha chewed on the name. “Hey, Ely, shoot that bastard with the lightning gun!”
“Not bad.”
“I could say that,” said Pasha, “but we can do better.”
“Okay…let me think.”
Neither brother spoke for two minutes. Pasha stroked his chin.
Ely finally broke the silence with a reverent whisper.
“The Bastard Blaster.”
“Ely,” said Pasha, “you’re a goddamn genius.”
Ely patted the Bastard Blaster with pride.
Pasha peered through the windshield at the constellation of lonely people dotting the square. “I don’t think we can test it.” He took his foot off the brake, eased off the curb with the headlights off. “Look, there.”
“What?” Ely scanned the park but saw nothing unusual until he looked across the square at the Asian Art Museum.
Three figures approached the museum from the direction of a large monument to the right of the main building. They hadn’t been there a moment before, as if three statues trapped on the monument had torn themselves free. Two of the figures were silhouetted by security lights shining down from the museum’s balcony. The third figure glowed.
He was taller than the other two, illuminated from above by the full moon, which shone through a small tear in the night fog. Ely wondered if he was seeing things, until he turned and saw the expression on Pasha’s face.
Pasha looked like he’d just seen a ghost.
59
The ghost looked from Feng to Fang and back again, silently cursing Freddie Wang.
The twins were truly indistinguishable now. Feng and Fang wore matching leather jackets over black pants, their handsome features impassive under identical haircuts, slicked back from broad, unlined foreheads with no visible scars or wrinkles. They could have emerged from a cloning machine.
Guĭ told himself it was a minor annoyance. He could shout one of their names and see which brother jumped, intimidate them into telling him who was whom, or give them a quiz to determine which brother had the quicker wit. Yet once he handed explosives to the supposedly smart brother, the ghost would have no way of keeping track of them when things were underway.
Freddie wouldn’t openly sabotage the operation, but Guĭ should have known the choleric crime boss wanted him off balance. Freddie had been forced to play gracious host to an albino interloper from the Middle Kingdom.
Freddie’s only kingdom was Chinatown, and he intended to keep it that way.
The ghost cared nothing for Chinatown. He cared little for Beijing, beyond what they paid him. Their newfound obsession with heritage was comical, given how often they rewrote history. He knew their precious art collection was nothing more than misdirection, a political smokescreen, but Guĭ had spent a lifetime seeing through the mist.
Now he stood in a city enshrouded by fog, but his path forward remained perfectly clear. Guĭ might be a killer and a thief but he had integrity. He would steal the art as promised, cement his reputation, abandon this backwater, and return to Hong Kong.
