Page 56 of The Devil Wears Orange
Rashid remains quiet, contemplative. “Quite correct, Professor,” he says at last, “except I thought Charlotte called out your name, too.” Rashid keeps his eyes squarely on Jack.
“It’s an American thing,” Charlotte pipes in, “to call strangers Jack.You don’t know Jack.Jack me up. Jack of All Trades. Jackoff.” Her hand flies to cover her mouth, her eyes wide in seeming embarrassment.
Jack hopes to assuage Rashid’s concerns because, at this point, he doesn’t appear to be fooled. “I must confess, and I’m embarrassed not mentioning this earlier, but I do recognize you from news reports, Ms. Milton. I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
“As an art historian, I’m sure the news story intrigues you,” Rashid tells Jack.
“The art world, as you can imagine, is overwrought with such thefts. Frankly, it comes down to greed on the thieves’ part and a sense of entitlement for the buyers. The world is the true victim as they don’t share in the beauty of the stolen work.”
“Professor, you assume that all art thieves do it for the money. Some are merely transfixed by the work,” says Rashid.
Jack guffaws, a tone of displeasure to his voice when he speaks. “I assure you greed is behind each theft, and I can think of no other reason than money as an incentive for someone to commit such a horrid crime.”
“Horrid?” repeats Rashid. “That’s rather strong given you use the wordtheftquite liberally. After all, the painting doesn’t belong to colonizing Britain, yet, somehow your countrymen’s illegal ownership of it is justified–“
“Illegal ownership? The painting was commissioned by a member of the Royal Family, King Henry VIII, and to suggest that Britain isn’t the rightful owner–“
“You misunderstand,” says Rashid, a sly smile on his face, “I merely wish to point out that Foligari was never paid for the work; therefore, it rightfully belongs tohisdescendants.”
Charlotte’s head darts from left to right like an attendant watching a tennis match.
“Yes,” says Jack, barely containing his anger, “I’m sure the thieves stole the painting to give it to Foligari’s descendants free of charge.”
“Have you seen her before?”
Jack’s eyes skirt to Charlotte. “As I said, I recognize her from news reports.”
“Not Ms. Milton, theMistress.” Rashid gazes at Jack intently and his eyes narrow.
Jack’s trying to play it cool, but he wonders...is it possible? Does Rashid know he retrieved the painting all those years ago? Revealing himself in the spur of the moment can ruin their plan, but hiding his true identity can cause more harm if Rashid recognizes him. Finally, he takes a chance and says, “Yes, at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.”
“Well,” Charlotte clears her throat, and inserts herself into the dialogue. “It certainly was an ordeal for me...” she says, “...being kidnapped by those art thieves and then...then,” here Charlotte’s eyes make their way to Rashid, “falling into the waters below. I nearly died.”
Rashid’s eyes hold steady on hers when he says, “Thankfully, you’re here with us today, Charlotte.” There’s an unmistakable blush to Charlotte’s cheeks, and she looks away in embarrassment. Jack registers her descent into schoolgirl crush territory and rolls his eyes.
“Where are you staying, Professor Carey?” Rashid asks.
“At an Airbnb on the Marina,” Jack replies.
“And how long will you be in town? I must thank you with a proper dinner,” says Charlotte.
Jack smiles and shakes his head. “That’s not necessary.”
Rashid’s eyes bore into Jack as he says, “I should warn you, Charlotte has a way of getting what she wants. I’ll have one of my drivers take you to your Airbnb and have you move into a suite here as my guest.”
“Oh, no, that would be too much—”
“The more you protest, the more insistent I get,” says Charlotte. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
“It’s agreed then,” says Rashid, his gaze intense. “Professor Carey, I look forward to discussing further our love of art and getting to know everything about you.”
Chapter 33
Few scotch connoisseurs canafford the Balvenie Cask 191. At a mere $40,000, it isn’t the most expensive, either. Rashid’s elderly host sloshes the liquid into a thick crystal Baccarat glass; the smell of toffee, marzipan, sweet oak, raisins, and nuts seep into the air. His host offers the glass to him, but he declines and raises a glass of sparkling water to his lips. Rashid watches as his host limps to a chair, places his cane alongside it, and plops down hard. A stroke has hampered his mobility, but Rashid knows better than to let the depiction of a helpless septuagenarian fool him. One thing Rashid knows for sure is that Noam Ehrlich is a dangerous man.
Noam pulls a cigar from his breast pocket, causing one of his men to bolt forward and snap open a gold lighter, flame at the ready. Noam twirls the cigar in his mouth until lit and puffs out a tiny swirl of smoke. He’s as eccentric as ever, peering at Rashid from behind round, Ozzy Osbourne-style sunglasses.
“Not your vice, my friend, is it?” he says.
