Cold War - Jerome Preisler [24]
“Hemingway was a jerk.”
Silly and innocuous certainly, and nothing to do with anything.
Except that it meant his man, Elata, the painter, the forger par excellence whom he had turned into a detector of forgeries par excellence, had gotten the document he needed and was en route to Zurich.
Danke, Herr Elata. Ausgezeichnet.
He had expected the message. He had also expected the e-mail three arrows later, though this one he had hoped not to receive.
“The eyes are the gateway to the soul. But sometimes even the soul gets lost.”
This had been sent by one of his deputies in Paris. It meant that Interpol—the eyes—had spotted Elata and trailed him, but had lost the scent along the way.
He had feared this contingency, since he wasn’t entirely sure of the woman at the museum. That had been the major reason he’d consolidated his exposure and used the painter to pick up the letter. He had planned to burn the painter at the end of the operation anyway—he had long planned, as his American acquaintance in New York delicately put it, to clip him.
Still, it pained him to consider the many works that would now by necessity be lost, the imitation Giotos, Bosches, Donatellos, and countless lesser-knowns, all of whose work could be conjured as if by magic from the talented hands of moody Herr Elata.
His people would transport the painter safely to Switzerland and keep him hidden for now; there would be no chance of his being followed or discovered. They were used to dealing with Interpol and had several well-tested methods of throwing the agents off the trail.
Morgan flipped down through the rest of his messages, disposing of them quickly. He had deleted four or five when his eyes stuck on an unexpected note:
“A twist. He had a girlfriend.”
The message did not indicate where it had come from and was not signed, but Morgan knew immediately who had sent it and what it meant. It was disappointing, for it meant that a complication in Scotland—a complication that was actually owned by Miss Constance Burns, not himself—remained unresolved.
A girlfriend privy to secrets she shouldn’t be privy to; she would have to be eliminated.
Perhaps, and perhaps not. Morgan leaned both shoulders against the door. There was no indication in the message that the girlfriend knew anything. Indeed, the very fact that the author of the e-mail had decided to raise the point meant that the matter was far from certain. The author had a large portfolio of abilities, and it was their understanding that the obvious decisions would be made in the field and not questioned. That the e-mail had arrived meant the sender was unsure, and wanted to ascertain Morgan’s wishes—and willingness to pay—before proceeding.
A girlfriend. Morgan thought of the twins, who might be said to be among his most intimate acquaintances, at least so far as Zurich was concerned. But neither of them knew the least speck of his business. Killing either would be a foolish waste of resources.
On the other hand, an irate girlfriend seeking to avenge a lover’s death—grand operas had been built from less substantial stuff.
The operative could eliminate her in the usual, efficient manner. But what if there were an investigator on the trail? Eliminate him as well? All Scotland would meet with unfortunate accidents before every possible connection to the difficulty was erased.
Nonsense. Not worth the effort.
It occurred to Morgan, as he stared at the white tile floor, that this was the inchworm’s problem. Constance Burns was gradually but steadily becoming a liability. She remained useful to the Antarctica enterprise—but for how long? He did not think he could trust her if pressure were applied. If, by some far-fetched chance, things went wrong in a manner he had not foreseen, could she be relied on? Would she crumble before a hard-pressing investigator from Her Majesty’s Ministry? If she were confronted, would she give Morgan up to save her skin?
It occurred to Morgan that she might. It also occurred to him that he would