of his employer.”
“Why the secrecy? Some problem with his tax collector?” Trust the multi-millionaires to know all the dodges, Grant thought with amusement.
“Either that, or he wanted to avoid publicity. It isn’t safe to draw attention to great wealth nowadays. Fear of robberies, kidnapping—” She shook her head.
“Well,” Grant tried, “if you don’t know his identity, why don’t you approach the Geneva bank? Put on some official pressure. Surely a documented report from NATO must carry some weight.”
“We can do that when we know the name of the bank. That’s what we are searching for.”
He could see the difficulties. At present, Renwick would have to persuade all the banks in Geneva to divulge their private records for certain possible dates. Would they? He, too, shook his head and then made another try. “Couldn’t you persuade the agent to give you the name of his employer?”
“Possibly—if the agent were still alive. He had a fatal heart attack.” Just a few days, she reminded herself, after our Hungarian defector started talking. About auctions in Vienna. About a Geneva bank account.
“How many auctions dealing with refugees’ smuggled-out property?”
“We know of fourteen. The buyers were absent.”
“There could be other agents, then. Fourteen?”
“No. There were three agents, all told, qualified to handle everything.”
“Three? That leaves two—”
“They have also died.” All three of them within one week, she thought.
He was aghast. “Two more heart attacks?”
“No. Two accidents: one in Munich, the other in Zürich.”
“Well,” he said, “well—” He tried to find a reason for three sudden deaths. “Are you sure,” he asked slowly, “that they knew nothing about the real purpose of these auctions?”
“Nothing. As little as the man who is about to bid for a painting.” In fact, much less—now that I’ve dropped this warning she thought as she watched Grant’s face.
Tight-lipped, he asked, “Do you have proof of this conspiracy?” For conspiracy it was, an ugly word to cover an ugly deed.
“Proof, six weeks ago, from a defector who was in the KGB, and drew our attention to Geneva as one of the places where funds for terrorists were available. Proof, from Frank, who has lost several refugees—all men and women with valuables sent ahead of them. Proof, from our defector, of their secret arrests—his list of names coincided with our record of missing refugees. Proof, from Frank’s source in Budapest, of the execution last month of a one-time art collector.” She hesitated, glanced at Grant, saw he was more than half-way to the truth. “The man who owned the painting that Mr. Victor Basset wants—Ferenc Ady.”
“Dead?” He was incredulous, but she had meant what she said, every word of it. Dead...executed last month... “In June?”
“June twenty-ninth, to be exact.”
Eight, nine days before Lois Westerbrook had met him. His mind went numb.
Avril said gently, “Frank can tell you where and how. He has an eye-witness account.”
There was a long silence. “Does Basset know?” he asked at last.
“Not yet. We are trying to contact him—judiciously: persuade him to keep the information to himself for the time being. He could be just the type to lose his temper and confront the people who got him into this mess. And there would go our investigation, months of preliminary work in Brussels, six weeks here in Vienna, and all to begin over again.”
“What about the Ruysdael?”
“Oh, Basset will get it. You’ll be attending the auction on Friday.”
“ This Friday?”
“It’s early,” she agreed, misinterpreting his astonishment. “This auction is way ahead of the usual season—that begins in September. But the Klars have been holding pre-season auctions for the last three years—to accommodate their foreign clients, they say.”
“Hold on, hold on! The Klars?”
“Klar’s Auction Rooms is where the auction
“Why the secrecy? Some problem with his tax collector?” Trust the multi-millionaires to know all the dodges, Grant thought with amusement.
“Either that, or he wanted to avoid publicity. It isn’t safe to draw attention to great wealth nowadays. Fear of robberies, kidnapping—” She shook her head.
“Well,” Grant tried, “if you don’t know his identity, why don’t you approach the Geneva bank? Put on some official pressure. Surely a documented report from NATO must carry some weight.”
“We can do that when we know the name of the bank. That’s what we are searching for.”
He could see the difficulties. At present, Renwick would have to persuade all the banks in Geneva to divulge their private records for certain possible dates. Would they? He, too, shook his head and then made another try. “Couldn’t you persuade the agent to give you the name of his employer?”
“Possibly—if the agent were still alive. He had a fatal heart attack.” Just a few days, she reminded herself, after our Hungarian defector started talking. About auctions in Vienna. About a Geneva bank account.
“How many auctions dealing with refugees’ smuggled-out property?”
“We know of fourteen. The buyers were absent.”
“There could be other agents, then. Fourteen?”
“No. There were three agents, all told, qualified to handle everything.”
“Three? That leaves two—”
“They have also died.” All three of them within one week, she thought.
He was aghast. “Two more heart attacks?”
“No. Two accidents: one in Munich, the other in Zürich.”
“Well,” he said, “well—” He tried to find a reason for three sudden deaths. “Are you sure,” he asked slowly, “that they knew nothing about the real purpose of these auctions?”
“Nothing. As little as the man who is about to bid for a painting.” In fact, much less—now that I’ve dropped this warning she thought as she watched Grant’s face.
Tight-lipped, he asked, “Do you have proof of this conspiracy?” For conspiracy it was, an ugly word to cover an ugly deed.
“Proof, six weeks ago, from a defector who was in the KGB, and drew our attention to Geneva as one of the places where funds for terrorists were available. Proof, from Frank, who has lost several refugees—all men and women with valuables sent ahead of them. Proof, from our defector, of their secret arrests—his list of names coincided with our record of missing refugees. Proof, from Frank’s source in Budapest, of the execution last month of a one-time art collector.” She hesitated, glanced at Grant, saw he was more than half-way to the truth. “The man who owned the painting that Mr. Victor Basset wants—Ferenc Ady.”
“Dead?” He was incredulous, but she had meant what she said, every word of it. Dead...executed last month... “In June?”
“June twenty-ninth, to be exact.”
Eight, nine days before Lois Westerbrook had met him. His mind went numb.
Avril said gently, “Frank can tell you where and how. He has an eye-witness account.”
There was a long silence. “Does Basset know?” he asked at last.
“Not yet. We are trying to contact him—judiciously: persuade him to keep the information to himself for the time being. He could be just the type to lose his temper and confront the people who got him into this mess. And there would go our investigation, months of preliminary work in Brussels, six weeks here in Vienna, and all to begin over again.”
“What about the Ruysdael?”
“Oh, Basset will get it. You’ll be attending the auction on Friday.”
“ This Friday?”
“It’s early,” she agreed, misinterpreting his astonishment. “This auction is way ahead of the usual season—that begins in September. But the Klars have been holding pre-season auctions for the last three years—to accommodate their foreign clients, they say.”
“Hold on, hold on! The Klars?”
“Klar’s Auction Rooms is where the auction
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