Page 31 of Traitors Gate

‘Mid-twenties, six foot, slim, fair-haired and, in different circumstances, dishy. And I think he may be a G-man,’ said Christina, playing her trump card.

‘I think I know who that might be, and it will only take one phone call to confirm my suspicions. But what I don’t know,is how he found out I was in possession of the …’ Miles had worked out the answer to his own question, even before he’d finished the sentence. ‘Are you sure it was Art Logistics?’

‘Certain.’

He spun a Rolodex on his desk, found the mobile number he was looking for and began to dial. The call was answered almost immediately.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Faulkner, it’s Ken Forbes,’ who didn’t point out to one of his most valued customers that it was Sunday afternoon and he was watching a movie with his son. All Forbes said while keeping an eye on the screen was, ‘How can I help you, sir?’

‘I’m calling to see if you’re about to send a large package to one of my homes.’

‘Let me check,’ the man said as he turned off the television.

Miles could hear a short conversation going on in the background, followed by several expletives.

‘Nothing coming up in your name, sir. However, one of our regular customers has just dispatched a package to be delivered to your flat in Manhattan, with an ETA of sometime between ten and eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘Value?’ asked Miles.

‘They’ve insured the package for ten thousand dollars.’

They got that right, thought Miles, but only offered, ‘Just as I thought. Please forget I called, as I wouldn’t want to embarrass them.’

‘You can be sure of my discretion, sir. Can I just confirm it’s going to the right address? Number three East 61st Street, New York?’

‘That’s correct,’ said Miles. ‘Let me know the moment you’ve delivered it.’

‘Will do, sir,’ said Forbes.

Miles replaced the receiver only moments before the television was switched back on. Christina watched as her ex put the phone down and immediately picked it up again. She didn’t need to ask who would be on the other end of the line as she was about to find out.

‘Good afternoon, Tom, it’s Miles Faulkner. Just checking to see if anyone’s made an appointment to view my apartment on Monday?’

‘Give me a moment, sir, while I check the diary.’ It was a few moments before the concierge came back on the line. ‘Yes, sir, a Mr Buchanan will be visiting your apartment for the third time at eleven a.m. on Monday morning.’

‘A large crate is being delivered around that time, Tom. Make sure it’s sent straight up to my flat.’

‘Will do, sir.’

‘And don’t let either party know I called.’

‘Understood, sir.’

Christina waited for him to replace the handset before she said, ‘If the painting is still in England, why not have it sent straight back to the museum which would certainly embarrass the new director?’

‘Because Mrs Warwick would then know I know that she knows it’s a copy, and I can’t afford to take that risk. No, we’re going to have to play them at their own game, and you, Christina, will act as the go-between.’

‘Are go-betweens well paid?’ she asked.

‘You have a one-track mind, Christina. But the answer on this occasion is yes. However, the amount as always will depend on results. Fifty thousand if the Rubens is still on the wall of my apartment by the time they leave on Monday afternoon, and a further fifty when their copy is returned to the Fitzmolean.’

‘But if the picture is already on its way to your apartment in New York,’ Christina reminded him, ‘I suspect three avenging angels won’t be far behind.’

‘Which is why you’ll be catching Concorde later this evening. That way you’ll land in New York well ahead of them and be able to prepare the ground for their arrival.’

Christina listened carefully to what Miles expected her to do for one hundred thousand, and she could only admire the simplicity of his plan, which would not only ensure he kept the masterpiece but the copy was returned to London at their expense.

Miles opened his desk drawer, took out ten thousand pounds in cash and handed it across to Christina. ‘Your expenses,’ he explained. ‘When you check in at the Concorde desk at Heathrow, you’ll find a return ticket waiting for you in your name. A car will pick you up at Kennedy and drive you to the Waldorf, which, if I remember correctly, is your favourite hotel.’

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