Hanging the Devil, page 8
“What if art could be turned into a weapon?”
“That’s a hell of a question,” said Cape. “Now pretend I’m stupid, because I frequently am.”
“Don’t feel bad, I’ve been working on this more than a year.” Maria looked across the street at the Byzantine saints, their expressions unwavering. “Consider what happened in Hong Kong. Student protestors arrested, tech billionaires gone missing, songs banned. Total suppression of political dissent.”
Cape nodded. Sally rarely talked about her childhood but often spoke about current events in Hong Kong. “Keep going.”
“Imagine what it’s like on the mainland,” said Maria. “What can you do to prove you’re patriotic enough, more patriotic than your neighbor or political adversary?” Maria’s eyes did their now familiar dance. “You could repatriate priceless Chinese art.”
“Repatriate.” Cape deconstructed the word. “Bring lost art home to China.”
“This art isn’t lost,” said Maria. “It’s hiding in plain sight in museums.”
“Isn’t the art in museums on loan from private collections, or bought from a previous owner?” Cape had visited museums his entire life and was surprised he’d never considered the angles. “Or found by archaeologists, or maybe—”
“—taken by conquering armies,” said Maria. “China was invaded many, many times over the centuries. Mongolia, Russia, and Japan took their turns. England and France fought together during the 1900s. Spoils of war ended up in private collections and museums.”
“Good content for The History Channel,” said Cape, “but why Interpol?”
“My office became aware of China Poly when they launched a division called Poly Culture,” said Maria, “a special group dedicated to reclaiming lost art. A task force was put together and started traveling the world. Delegations visited every major museum, asking permission to catalog their Chinese antiquities. They published the catalog online and updated it after each trip.” Maria shifted in her seat and faced Cape. “At the same time, a new wave of Chinese billionaires began outbidding everyone at auction houses for historic art.”
“Sounds expensive, but not illegal.”
“Not at all,” said Maria. “But you’ll never guess what the task force did after they completed their catalog of all the museum collections of Chinese art.”
“What?” Cape sat up straighter behind the wheel.
“They demanded all the art be returned,” said Maria. “Immediately.”
Cape shook his head in disbelief. “I bet the museum directors loved that.”
“Awkward, to say the least,” said Maria. “No one was ever brazen enough to ask.”
“If a work of art was in the museum’s possession for more than a century—”
“—who does it belong to?” Maria rubbed her hands together, excited by her own question. “Provenance sometimes leads to more controversy, not less.”
“For example?”
“Say an antique was bought at auction after it was sold to the auction house by a private collector, who bought it from another collector, who was given the piece by their great-grandfather who fought in the war, who acquired it during a campaign in Southeast Asia.”
“How far back do you go?” asked Cape. “There must be some precedent.”
“There are conventions,” said Maria. “Guidelines really, tacit agreements, but no one in the art world has dealt with a state entity before, not at this scale. And make no mistake, Poly Culture is a state entity. Half their staff members come from military intelligence, no formal training in art or antiquities. Imagine if the CIA suddenly took an interest in Colonial art.”
“If there’s no legal precedent,” said Cape, “the museums could just say no.”
“Most of them did.”
“And?”
“One by one, they all got robbed.”
17
“You got robbed,” said Beau. “Which means your security tape belongs to me.”
The security officer had a handlebar mustache that wriggled nervously when he looked at his feet. “The museum director was quite explicit when he called.”
“And said what, exactly?”
Beau looked relaxed in jeans and sneakers, but his eyes had the subzero glint of a veteran cop with a low tolerance for bullshit. His partner, Vinnie, leaned against the wall, looking more like the next cover of GQ than a police detective. His suit was cobalt blue, his tie gray silk, and his shoes as polished as Beau’s stare. Vinnie had never seen anyone successfully stonewall Beau and clearly enjoyed watching the timorous walrus talk himself into a trap.
“You’ve got a helicopter sticking out your window,” said Beau. “So you’re not getting out of this room until we get some cooperation.”
The three of them were squeezed into the security office on the ground level of the museum, a beige room with beige carpeting and a bank of monitors worthy of a casino. Vinnie figured there were at least thirty cameras on three-hundred-sixty-degree rotations. Below the screens was a control panel and phone on a long table, under which a bank of servers hummed contentedly.
“The director said he would prefer the museum’s lawyers were consulted before any videotapes are shared with, um…the authorities…mmhhmm…with you.” The security officer cleared his throat and looked longingly at the door. He was the day guard for a reason—because nothing ever happened during the day.
“Where is the director presently?” asked Beau.
Another throat clearing. “He’s in Napa…at his vineyard.”
Beau glanced at Vinnie. “He’s at his vineyard.”
“Nice,” said Vinnie. “Maybe we should visit, deliver the warrant ourselves.”
“It is a nice drive,” said Beau. “Could be there in two hours if we hustle.”
The walrus did a little two-step at the suggestion. “I don’t think—”
“You have his cell number?” asked Beau.
“Of course,” said the guard.
“Good,” said Beau. “Because after we take you down to the station, you get one phone call.”
“It’s one of the perks,” said Vinnie.
“Arrest…me?” The guard’s mustache tried to escape from his face.
“Obstruction of justice,” said Beau, “is a felony.”
“Interfering with an investigation,” said Vinnie, “includes delaying an investigation.”
“And we’re in a hurry,” said Beau.
The guard swiveled his head between the detectives, indecision etched across his mouth.
“Let me give you some advice.” Vinnie pushed himself off the wall, not a crease visible anywhere. “Go outside for a cigarette.”
“I…I don’t smoke,” said the guard.
“Never too late to start,” said Beau. “Does wonders for the lungs.”
“Would you rather stay here?” Vinnie patted his jacket pockets. “While I find my handcuffs?”
The guard rushed to the door but froze when Beau’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“Cue the security footage from last night before you go.” Beau gestured at the monitors. “So we don’t have to come outside and drag your ass back in here.”
The footage they needed was sourced from three cameras and appeared on the monitors along the top of the array. Beau and Vinnie each took a chair and watched the prior night unfold.
“Damn.” Beau smacked a hand on the table as Grace appeared in frame.
“How young do you guess she is?”
Beau shook his head. “Too young to witness a murder.”
“No wonder the museum director is reluctant to share the footage. ”
Beau scowled. “Asshole is more worried about a kid wandering around after hours, while his night guard is lying in pieces at the morgue.”
“Wait…here it comes.”
Silence as they watched Grace stand by the window as light from the helicopter illuminated the glass walkway. Neither Beau nor Vinnie looked away when the rotor blade flew from the tail of the helicopter. Within the confines of the security room, the airborne scythe traveled from left to right, spinning across screens on its tragic trajectory. Both detectives grimaced as the guard met his end, a grisly scene, even for veterans of homicide.
“You think the girl was with the guard?” asked Vinnie.
Beau nodded. “Family maybe.”
Vinnie was about to say something but caught himself as figures emerged from the helicopter. The crash had damaged the camera in the hallway, so the screen on the left cut off suddenly, which would have provided a view from a second angle. Vinnie and Beau saw the figures as Grace would have, as they approached the gallery.
Two Asian men in black clothes, one stocky and the other tall. Smoke trailed alongside as they walked toward the exhibit hall, a fog that warped the air and blurred everything in its vicinity. When the two intruders entered the hall of Buddhas, each statue they passed shimmered and vanished, then reappeared in their wake.
“You seeing this?”
Vinnie found the button on the console that froze the playback, then struck the button like a man playing “Jingle Bells” on a piano to advance the scene one frame at a time. The aura expanded and contracted as it moved, a cumulous cloud gliding with purpose. Under the strobe effect of Vinnie’s playback, the inchoate fog took on a tenuous shape. It became the silhouette of a man.
“Now that’s clever,” said Vinnie. “Some kind of electronic distortion?”
“Looks like a goddamn ghost,” said Beau. “We can ID the other two, though.”
“What we need is a witness.” Vinnie used his phone to capture the faces of the men in black. “We should go to the security guard’s place, pick up the girl.”
“Yeah.” Beau stood and pushed his chair to the side with his foot. “But five bucks says she’s not there.”
“Then where’s the kid?”
“I don’t know,” said Beau. “But I know who to ask.”
18
Sally asked to see the menu before requesting a table at the back of the restaurant.
She wasn’t hungry, but standing near the entrance and pretending to browse the list of appetizers created an opportunity to surveil the room. Oil paintings and wood trim evoked a rich heritage, and the smells from the kitchen made guests feel warm before they removed their coats. The tables were narrow, the coffered ceiling white, and the walls were still deciding if they were red or orange.
Sally spotted a long table on the left, actually four tables pushed together to accommodate large men squeezed into small chairs. Their voices were raucous, their bearing bellicose, and the number of empty bottles was prodigious. A flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall above their table.
The restaurant wasn’t busy, only two couples and a family of four. Tuesday being a slow night, the hostess was surprised when Sally asked to sit directly behind and across from the men.
Sally nodded at the television. “I like to watch while I eat.”
The table of men glanced her way, but Sally didn’t make eye contact. She had been trained to notice things without looking at them directly. Two men in particular tracked her progress from the hostess station until she sat at her table and spread the napkin over her lap. The two men’s chairs were spaced farther apart than the others, so it would be easier for them to stand.
Those are the bodyguards.
The bodyguards sat on either side of a broad-shouldered man who sat facing the television with his back to Sally.
And that must be Valenko.
Sally gave the menu a cursory glance and ordered a steak medium-rare. She preferred vegetarian dishes or seafood but wanted access to the steak knife that came with her meal.
Her purse contained a few handy items for more intimate settings. A necklace that doubled as a garotte, a narcotic lipstick, and a perfume vial filled with acid strong enough to eat through most padlocks. From the look of the thick-necked men at the nearby table, Sally doubted those would be necessary.
The bodyguard on the right shifted in his chair, and Sally noticed the bulge under his right arm. He needed a better tailor or a smaller handgun.
He’s left-handed.
Sally smiled as the waiter refilled her water glass, then she turned her attention to the television. America’s Got Talent was in full swing. A dance troupe performed a scene from Grease, blindfolded. A big number with one dozen dancers, the potential for collisions was high.
It reminded Sally of her school days in Hong Kong.
For one of Sally’s middle school classes, her instructors made the class traverse a maze of wooden poles, hopping from one to another without falling. The poles were ten feet high, and the ground was covered in sand, not soft enough to prevent a bruise but thick enough to avoid a break, and absorbent in case there was bleeding.
The final exam was to complete the maze blindfolded.
Sally thought the dancers did a pretty good job, and the AGT judges seemed to agree. The Russians banged glasses on the big table in unison and drank a shot of vodka. It was unanimous.
Cape was due to arrive halfway into the show, so Sally ate slowly. He was coming to have a conversation, but Valenko might not be in a voluble mood. Sally considered the bodyguard’s ill-fitting suit and assumed all the men were armed. She cut her steak, testing the edge of the knife, before turning her attention back to the TV.
The next act was about to begin.
19
“He said the final act was about to begin,” said Peng. “The curtain will rise, and the world shall see the Middle Kingdom in all its glory.”
“That’s quite a sales pitch,” said Yan. “But what does Mogwai want you to do?”
Peng took a deep breath to slow his pulse, still wired from his encounter with the Devil. He spoke in rapid bursts as his adrenaline sloshed up and down.
After Peng had left his supervisor’s office, Yan hid in one of the bathroom stalls until everyone had left the building, including Mogwai. By the time she returned to Peng’s apartment he was already there, hyperventilating.
Peng insisted they leave their phones behind and take a walk. Neither of them spoke until the lampposts and CCTV cameras gave way to a small park. With every step, Peng wondered what twist in fate had led to this moment.
“He spoke about lost art.”
“That’s it?” asked Yan. “The Devil appears to discuss art history?”
“It was sort of a one-way conversation,” said Peng defensively.
“Details.”
“I felt like I was listening to a speech,” said Peng. “Mogwai talked about ‘the century of humiliation’ and the Opium Wars, then ranted about reclaiming our dignity to find our destiny, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds like an article you’d find in People’s Daily,” said Yan, “but in a way, it makes sense.”
“If it makes sense to you, please explain it to me.”
“Why else come to Dafen?” Yan spread her hands to encompass the town. “The CCP never cared about history or culture until recently. Remember that fuss over the zodiac sculptures taken from the Summer Palace?”
“Of course.”
Every student in China was taught the shame of the nineteenth century, when British and French invaders looted the emperor’s Summer Palace. The grounds defiled, buildings burned, artwork stolen. The government left it in ruins as a cautionary tale.
“Whenever someone mentions the Opium Wars, I think of the palace,” said Yan.
“I always thought it was ironic that the looted artwork only survived the Cultural Revolution because it was stolen from China.”
“You’re starting to think like a rebel,” said Yan. “I like it.”
Peng blanched. “That’s not funny.”
“You worry too much.” Yan smiled. “Anyway, when two of the zodiac animals turned up in Europe—”
“—the government intervened in a private auction, right?”
“Exactly,” said Yan. “China pressured France, where the auction was taking place, to return the sculptures. In exchange, the auction house got a license to operate in Hong Kong.”
“That’s global politics.” Peng’s lips twitched nervously. “I’m just a local artist.”
“If the Devil is here,” said Yan, “it has something to do with power. Anything that can become a symbol has influence. Art has been used to fuel patriotism before.”
Peng looked skeptical. “Patriotism…”
“—another word for obedience.”
“You need to watch what you s—”
“—tell me what Mogwai asked you to do, exactly,” said Yan.
“Okay, but first…will you hold my hand?”
Yan stopped walking and stared at Peng. He walked a few more paces before he realized that his question had stopped Yan in her tracks.
“Wow,” said Yan, “are you that shaken up?”
Peng gave a shy smile. “No, I just thought it might be nice.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“We—”
“—actually.” Yan put a hand on her hip. “I almost forgot, we’re not friends…you called us coworkers.”
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Peng took a step closer. “Let’s keep walking.” He took Yan’s hand in his and added, “And I’ll tell you everything.”
“Is this your way of asking me out?”
Peng looked at the grass and didn’t reply.
“Your hand is clammy,” said Yan. “Are you nervous?”
Peng gave her a look. “Maybe.”
“Don’t be.” Yan smiled and gave his hand a long squeeze. “I’ve only been dropping hints for a year.”
Peng exhaled loudly, then laughed. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Clearly,” said Yan. “You’re a great artist, but you need some help with social skills.”
They found an unoccupied patch of grass suitably distant from anyone and sat cross-legged facing each other.
Yan gave Peng’s hand another squeeze. “Now, tell me what happened.”
Peng did his best to recount the entire conversation, but Mogwai had rambled and changed topics without waiting for a reply. Maybe the Devil didn’t care about Peng’s answers, since his only option was to have agreed.
