Illegal Action

24

The woman sat at a table in the bar of a hotel just off the Strand, reading The Times. At eleven o’clock in the morning it was gloomily lit and almost deserted. She knew it would be. She left nothing to chance and she had already reconnoitred the bar. From her corner, she saw the man arrive before he saw her. Looks like a pimp, she thought, taking in his black Armani suit and white silk shirt. She had nothing but scorn for Italian men.

He looked around him, puzzled, and with a faint air of disgust. “Am I early? Why choose this place to meet? It won’t impress your client.”

“It’s convenient. Sit down,” she said, pointing to the Danish-style chairs grouped around the table in front of her.

He slid into one of the chairs and laughed. “We might as well have a drink while we wait,” he said, looking around for a waiter. There was no one in sight.

“Not a good idea,” she said.

“Is this a puritan you’re bringing to see me then?”

“I’m not bringing anyone to see you, Marco. It’s just the two of us.”

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head in irritation. “You might have rung and spared me the taxi ride. I’ve come all the way from Kensington.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. She leant forward now, putting her hands on the table, with the fingers extended. Her bag was on the floor and she moved it closer with her foot until it edged against her leg. “There is plenty of business for us to conduct.”

“Oh.” Marco’s face lit up. “He’s authorised you to negotiate. He’s interested in the friezes?”

“No. He hasn’t,” she said, and watched as bafflement re-entered the Italian’s eyes. “And anyway, it’s other antiquities I want to discuss.”

“Meaning what exactly?” he demanded, in an assertive voice she sensed covered a sudden nervousness.

She reached down for her bag and extracted a slim folder. “Meaning this,” she said, sliding the folder across the table to him.

He looked at it for a moment with a show of distaste, then he sighed, reached for the folder and picked it up. He continued to gaze at the contents longer than was necessary to read the two typed pages. By the time he looked up, his swarthy face had gone several shades paler and perspiration stood out on his upper lip. He threw the file down on the table, leant back and held both hands open in a classic Italian gesture. “So,” he declared. “What are you trying to say? You can’t prove any of this.”

She shrugged, making it clear she wasn’t interested in arguing. “I don’t have to. Nikita can judge for himself.”

Marco blanched. “You’d show this to Brunovsky?”

“Of course,” she said. Her voice was matter-of-fact but now turned icy. “He would not like to think that those beautiful and rare objects you acquire for him might not be what they seem.”

Marco looked increasingly agitated. For a brief moment, she thought he might snap. Would he attack her? She hoped he wouldn’t be so stupid. Not because she had the slightest concern he could hurt her, but because it would derail her plan. She lowered one hand towards the bag under the table.

If that had been his plan, he seemed to think better of it. “What do you want from me?” he finally asked, his voice weak and shaky.

“To do as you’re told,” she said menacingly. “You won’t find it difficult.” Just more lies, she thought, the kind that got you into such a mess before.