Page 35 of Traitors Gate

Christina handed the chief packer a hundred-dollar bill and regretted it even before he’d pocketed the money.

Once they’d left, she phoned Miles on his mobile. ‘Your original is now in the crate as instructed,’ she assured him, ‘and their copy is hanging on the wall, so I’ve played my part.’

‘Good timing,’ said Miles, ‘because any minute now our three keystone cops will turn up and switch the paintings back, assuming they’ve got their hands on my original. However, if they were to bump into you, our cover would be blown. So you’ve only got a few more minutes to get out of there.’ The line went dead.

Christina had reached the elevator and was about to press the down arrow when she decided just to check. She dialled a number on her mobile and waited.

In answer to her enquiry, Mr Stewart replied, ‘No money has been deposited in your account, Mrs Faulkner, and as it’s almost five o’clock in London, there will be no further transactions carried out today.’

• • •

‘The realtor has just entered the building,’ said James, ‘so we’d better get moving.’

‘She’s early,’ said Ross as the three of them quickly left the room and hurried down the wide staircase to the hotel lobby.

‘Thank you,’ shouted James as he handed his key to the receptionist while still on the move. They didn’t stop running until they were out on the pavement.

Despite the heavy traffic, they nipped across the busy road, dodging in and out of screeching vehicles accompanied by a cacophony of blasting horns and loud expletives, mainly expressed by drivers in yellow cabs. New Yorkers continued to stride along the sidewalk, oblivious to what would have raised eyebrows in any other city.

James was the first through the door and marched straight up to the front desk. He shook hands with the realtor before introducing his out-of-breath lawyer and mortgage broker, who also shook hands but didn’t speak as their accents would have betrayed them.

‘Now we’re all here,’ said the realtor, ‘shall we go up to the apartment?’

‘There’s someone already up there,’ said the concierge. ‘So you’ll have to wait for a few more minutes.’

‘I did warn you, Mr Buchanan, that you’re not the only person interested in the property.’

While they all hung around in the lobby waiting impatiently to get on with the job, the concierge turned his back on them, picked up the phone on his desk and dialled an internal number.

Christina had made her way back to the apartment and collapsed into a chair. It hadn’t crossed her mind that once again Miles would double-cross her despite a long history of doing just that. She was staring up at the copy of the Rubens hanging on the wall when the phone by her side began to ring. She picked it up, unaware of how much time had passed.

‘Just to let you know, Mrs Faulkner,’ whispered theconcierge, ‘a realtor has arrived with a Mr Buchanan. Can I send them up?’

‘Are there three of them?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ replied the concierge, sounding surprised.

‘Then I’ll need some help moving the crate before they come up.’

‘Not a problem, madam. I’ll send up a couple of my guys who can take you and the crate up to the penthouse.’

The concierge instructed two of his front desk assistants to go up immediately to the ninth floor and assist Mrs Faulkner. He allowed a few more minutes to pass before accompanying the four visitors up in the elevator. As they stepped out on the ninth floor, the doors of the adjoining elevator closed before continuing up to the penthouse.

If Christina had considered the apartment on the ninth floor luxurious, the penthouse was in a different class. It quickly became clear Miles still had money to burn, if not on her bonfire. She sat alone with a crate that now contained the original masterpiece and thought carefully about her next move.

• • •

The first thing William and Ross did the moment they entered Faulkner’s apartment on the ninth floor was to go in search of the crate, while James kept the hapless realtor occupied with a series of well-prepared questions concerning rates, service charges, fixtures and fittings, and when it would be possible for him to move in.

When William saw the painting hanging on the wall in the living room, he assumed the crate had to be nearby, but despite searching through every room in the apartment, undertables, sofas and beds, there was no sign of it. As they had all witnessed the crate being carried into the building, and hadn’t seen it come back out, surely it couldn’t be far away.

William grabbed the phone, dialled the front desk and shouted, ‘Where the hell is it?’ when the concierge eventually came on the line.

‘If you’re referring to the crate that was addressed to Mr Faulkner,’ replied the concierge calmly. ‘It’s been sent up to the penthouse.’

‘But it should have been delivered to the ninth floor,’ shouted William, no longer able to control himself.

‘Then you’ll have to have a word with Mr Faulkner, because the package was addressed to him, not you, Mr …’ William didn’t respond. ‘And I have the paperwork to prove it.’

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