The Bach Manuscript

Chapter 53

The bald man inside the house was a sixty-year-old Bavarian called Conrad Heilbronner. In his time he’d been a museum director and senior insurance underwriter specialising in art and antiquities, before turning to more lucrative pursuits as a professional thief responsible for several major art heists and the deaths of five security personnel. Never caught, he’d quit that game while he was ahead. Nowadays he made his money as a middleman, consultant and broker, part of a network of similarly qualified experts across the world whose skills were constantly in demand.

It was a safer existence for him than his former career in violent crime, while still highly profitable. The illegal multi-billion-dollar trade in stolen art and antiquities ranked third in the world’s big-money rackets after arms and drugs. Pillaged artifacts from Syria and Iraq had provided a wonderful source of income for many years, all the more so now that dimbo terrorists had finally cottoned onto the fact that they could sell off the treasures they looted from UNESCO heritage sites instead of simply smashing them to bits.

Heilbronner had fingers in other pies too, and his own extensive network of buyers — businessmen, investors, private collectors, they came from all walks of life — constantly hungry to acquire more loot. With Heilbronner’s expert guidance they could purchase an item illegally for a relatively reduced price, sit on it for a period of time and then re-introduce it onto the legitimate market for a substantial profit, minus Heilbronner’s fat commission of course. Technically, sellers were required to prove that the item was kosher, in accordance with those pesky regulations of the International Institute for the Unification of Private Law, or UNIDROIT. In practice, as usual, the law could easily be circumnavigated: Heilbronner’s use of free-port warehouses in tax-free economic zones like Bermuda and the Cayman Islands allowed his clients to discreetly store their illegal purchases for years, if they chose. Most were in no hurry to resell. As long as the stuff wasn’t too high profile, by the time the goods reappeared on the market at a massive price hike they were clean enough to eat your dinner off.

Alternatively, as some of Heilbronner’s clients preferred to do, they simply added the artifact to their personal collection and enjoyed possessing it, with no intention of ever selling. It takes all sorts.

Whenever the word went out that a special new item was on the market, Heilbronner was well placed to be one of the first to hear about it. On this occasion, as often in the past, it was one of his chief contacts, the Romanian known only as Ulysses, who had put him onto the job, by way of trading favours. Heilbronner already had two interested potential buyers for the Bach manuscript, with the bidding opened at half a mill subject to authentication of the goods for sale: a Saudi prince who was a classical music nut, and a billionaire real-estate tycoon in Miami who would snap up anything he could just for the hell of it.

But first, Heilbronner had to verify the item was what the seller claimed it was, even though it was patently obvious that the seller had not the first clue what they were holding, nor any accurate idea of its value. For that purpose, Heilbronner had flown to Belgrade that morning from his country estate in Schleswig-Holstein. He wasn’t too happy about being made to wear a hood on the long, uncomfortable car journey to the house, but business was business and Heilbronner was the consummate professional. His mission was to carry out the initial evaluation, pending the outcome of whatever further tests he deemed necessary to validate the manuscript’s authenticity. He had brought with him a custom-made handheld XRF spectrometer, a highly sensitive scanner that used near-infrared light to measure the chemical composition of the paper, such as its gelatin concentration, which would quickly give an accurate reading of its age. It was a more efficient method than many of the older chemical analysis tests, which were often destructive to the sample.

Heilbronner’s case also contained a small electron microscope, with which he could examine the ink on the manuscript and gain a pretty fair idea of how old it was, as well as to compare the markings against digitised images of other original Bach handwriting and musical notation stored in his mini-laptop. The world was full of fakes, but Heilbronner considered himself an infallible judge.

Heilbronner was thinking that the only real sticking point here was this idiot Zarko Kožul. Kožul resented having to wait for test results to determine whether the sale could even go ahead or not. He appeared to consider it a personal insult against his good name — what a joke that was — that any testing should be carried out at all. Kožul wanted the cash, and he wanted it right away. What an ape.

They were all gathered together in the long split-level living room, which, of course, was decked out in crimson leather with a scarlet carpet and ruby wall coverings. Heilbronner was the only one seated as he expertly examined the manuscript on a table in front of him. He could tell it had not been well looked after in its recent history. Its life prior to that appeared to have been pretty rough, too.

‘What is this stain?’ he asked, pointing. He spoke perfect Serbian, plus eight other European languages.

‘Dragan wiped his ass on it, what do you think?’ Kožul said loudly, and all his men laughed. Heilbronner didn’t smile. He carried on with his analysis, working meticulously and with full focus, as though he were alone in an empty laboratory and not surrounded by a gawking crowd of armed crooks.

Lena Vuković didn’t share their interest in what was happening. She was standing to one side feeling stupid in this dress and wishing she hadn’t allowed Dragan to bring her here. Ever since they’d arrived back in Serbia he insisted on taking her everywhere with him, as though he didn’t trust her not to run off.

Lena watched Dragan with his new comrades, and thought about the change in him. For as long as she could remember, her brother had been a violent and hard man — but the long-wished-for opportunity to finally go to work for Zarko Kožul seemed to have brought out his worst tendencies even more. He would do anything to prove his loyalty to his new boss. Like what he’d done last night, with his own sister watching.

Before they’d received the late-evening call from Alek, Dragan had been carrying out a ‘little task’ for Kožul. Namely, the disposal of a fellow gang member whose wife’s second cousin’s brother-in-law had been seen drinking in a Belgrade bar with a member of the police Žandarmerija and therefore could no longer be trusted. Given what a fine job Dragan had done with Radomir Orlić that time, Kožul had ordered him to take care of it personally.

Lena had never known what the man’s name was. She only knew what they’d done to him, and she didn’t think she could ever forget.

Dragan and two others had taken him out to the junkyard Kožul owned on the edge of the city. Lena, of course, had been made to come along and spectate as the bound and bloodied victim had been given the choice between being burned slowly to death or put in the crusher.

He’d chosen the crusher.

Lena could still hear the screams ringing inside her mind, and taste the nausea that had kept her on her knees in the bathroom most of the night. This was how Zarko Kožul brought his men closer to him, by making them do such sick and awful things. How could Dragan obey such a person? What kind of man did that make him?

When they’d got the call about the capture of Ben Hope, Lena had feared that they would do something as horrible as that to him, or even worse. She had been thinking a lot about this man Hope. She felt bad that she’d betrayed him before, in Oxford. He had been fair with her, and not hurt her the way most other men did. She wanted to burst out laughing when the next call had come to say Hope had escaped. But she didn’t dare show her relief to anyone, least of all to Dragan. Lena was more like his prisoner than his sister. Suddenly, she had never felt more trapped in her life.

Heilbronner finally looked up from the manuscript and folded his laptop. Zarko Kožul had been pacing furiously about the room, his face as red as the walls. ‘Well?’

‘I am ninety-nine per cent certain that the item is genuine,’ Heilbronner said coolly. ‘However, without further testing I can’t guarantee my assessment.’

‘Then get the fuck on with it,’ Kožul said.

Heilbronner shook his head. ‘Not here. I would have to take it away.’

Kožul stared at him the way a mad bull stares at a toreador. ‘No. You want it, you buy it now. You don’t want it, get lost. That’s how it is when you do business with me.’

Heilbronner replied, ‘But it’s not how things work, my friend. I didn’t come here to buy it, only to broker the sale. I thought we were clear on that point.’ He looked at Alek. Alek suddenly seemed to develop an overwhelming interest in the view from the window.

‘Do you know what happens to motherfuckers who waste my time?’ Kožul said. The room went deathly quiet. All eyes were on Heilbronner.

Heilbronner was no fool, and knew he had to think fast before this psycho maniac dwarf pulled a pistol and started blasting. Maybe there was an angle here. If the manuscript was his, he could get a lot more selling it on than he’d make on commission. ‘Perhaps I might be prepared to reconsider, and make you an offer here and now,’ he said slowly. ‘I value the manuscript at one hundred thousand dollars. I could have the funds transferred to you immediately.’

Kožul spat. ‘That all? I didn’t set this whole fuckin’ thing up for a few nickels and dimes. You know what my operation pulls in every week?’

‘Given its dubious origins and condition, that’s all you’d ever get for it, believe me,’ Heilbronner lied. ‘This is the black market, not an auction house.’

Kožul stepped closer. The two of them squared off. ‘Hundred fifty,’ Kožul snarled.

At a hundred and fifty, Heilbronner knew he could still make three-fifty plus back on the deal, especially if he sold to the real-estate tycoon in Miami who couldn’t tell shit from sugar anyway. He put on a big show of looking cagey. ‘You’re hurting me. At that price, you’ve got to offer me something to sweeten the deal.’

Kožul’s face darkened to a shade of puce and twisted as though he was chewing on a live hornet. Then he pointed at Lena and said, ‘What about her?’

Heilbronner had contacts in Saudi where he could make a buck trafficking human flesh, too. He gave her a once-over. Blond hair, not bad-looking, still young enough to fetch a reasonable price to the right buyer. He acted indignant. ‘What good is that to me?’

‘You wanted a sweetener,’ Kožul said. ‘That’s a sweet piece of ass, for a stinking filthy whore. Take her away, do whatever you want with her.’

Lena yelled, ‘I am not a whore!’

Kožul’s men all laughed, Dragan included. Lena backed away, suddenly very frightened and shocked by this sudden turn of events. She looked at her brother. How could he let them treat her this way?

Heilbronner shrugged. ‘Okay, one fifty and you throw in the whore. On condition that I get to examine the goods first. For all I know, she’s full of disease.’

‘Like I said,’ Kožul replied with a dismissive gesture. ‘Do what you want with her.’

Lena had no possible hope of escaping what was coming. She turned empty eyes on Dragan. ‘You’d let them do this to me. Your own sister.’

Dragan snapped back, ‘Shut your mouth, you stupid bitch.’

Kožul had two of his men show Heilbronner to a room where he could check out the merchandise. It was a bedroom Kožul sometimes used to entertain prostitutes, who were generally the only women who entered the house. The bed was red satin and the ceiling was tiled with mirrors. A real tigerskin rug adorned the floor, with bared fangs and glass eyes that seemed to watch them as they came into the room. Heilbronner shoved Lena towards the bed. ‘Get your clothes off. I need to inspect you.’

She retorted, ‘Fuck you. I’m not anybody’s slave.’

‘You soon will be, so better get used to it.’ Heilbronner reached inside his jacket and slipped out the stiletto blade he kept concealed there. He waggled the knife at Lena. ‘Now do as I told you, or it will go badly for you. Understood? Quick, quick.’

‘Why don’t you just kill me? I would rather die than be sold like a horse.’

‘You want to do this the hard way, that’s fine by me,’ Heilbronner said. He slipped the knife back in its sheath. Stepped towards her and shoved her down so hard on the bed that she bounced. Next thing he was clambering on top of her, his foul breath in her face, pinning her down with his weight and batting away her arms as he reached down and started tearing at her dress. Lena screamed, but then his hand clamped over her mouth, twisting her neck painfully and stifling her cries. She felt the dress rip off her, heard him laugh. ‘More fun this way, no? Stay still, whore, or I’ll cut you. You need to learn some respect.’

She bit his hand and his laugh turned into a sharp yell. She bit harder, tasted blood on her lips. Then the knife was back out again and at her throat. Lena drove her knee upwards and caught him hard in the groin, and he cried out again. She wriggled and struggled and bit and gouged like a wildcat fighting for its life in the jaws of a wolf, no longer thinking about the knife in his hand. They rolled off the bed together and hit the floor, him on top of her, knocking the wind out of her. She wrestled him off her and realised he wasn’t fighting back any longer. He was groaning and clutching at his chest.

That was when Lena saw the spreading crimson flower on his shirt and realised that he’d accidentally stabbed himself in the struggle. She staggered to her feet, gaping down at him. The blood was pouring out of his wound, his shirt now black with it. She held up her hands in front of her and saw they were wet and red and dripping. Heilbronner was trying to prop himself up on one elbow, reaching out with his other shaking hand for something solid to pull himself upright. But the knife had gone terribly deep and his strength was already failing him. He fell back with a gasping groan.

Seized by a surge of hatred that went far beyond what she felt about this repulsive man, she dropped to her knees and yanked the bloody blade out of his chest and stabbed him again, and again, and again. The needle-sharp stiletto made a kind of shtick sound at every thrust. Throat, stomach, face, she didn’t care. Heilbronner spouted blood from his open mouth. He screamed and squealed, but she wouldn’t stop with the knife. Just kept on stabbing him, more and more. Shtickshtickshtick.

They heard the commotion in the living room. ‘Jesus Christ, what the fuck’s happening in there?’ Alek said.

Dragan Vuković had turned fishbelly white, frozen immobile with his champagne glass in his hand. One instant they’d been toasting the morning’s modestly successful financial score and his acceptance into the gang, the next it sounded as if piglets were being butchered in the house.

Kožul turned to Dragan. ‘Go check. That bitch sister of yours better not be fucking this deal up, or I’ll roast her eyeballs on a skewer.’

Dragan set off at a run towards the bedroom. But he never got that far, because in the next instant the house was shaken to its foundations by a massive explosion outside, followed by the crackle of gunfire.