Deceptions by Anna Porter (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📗

“Wish I did,” Attila said.

“Moi aussi,” Hébert said. “If, by some chance, you remember who she is, or if she introduces herself to you, please let me know.” He reached into his breast pocket, took out a small leather case, and extracted a card with his name, his division number, and his phone number. “How long are you staying in our city?”

“Depends on Mr. Vaszary and how long he is staying.”

“If Lieutenant Tóth at Budapest quartier general de policier is right, Monsieur Vaszary could be here for a long time. His appointment is for five years. Perhaps you should learn French. . . .”

Chapter Six

She saw the car as soon as she rounded the corner of Rue Geiler and Rue Herder. A large black SUV with custom tires and front fenders that had been fitted onto its snout to make it look invincible. Was it the same car she had seen a few blocks from the Vaszarys? It was not the kind of car anyone would choose if he did not wish to be seen. That it followed her at a slow jogging pace proved the point. She stopped at the corner of Avenue d’Alsace, stood in front of the bank building where pedestrians waited for the lights to change, and waited for the SUV to catch up. The driver wore a black uniform, hat and visor, and even a striped tie. The back windows were tinted grey. When the car pulled up next to her, the back door opened, and Vladimir Azarov stepped out holding a long-stemmed red rose in one hand and a flute of what looked like champagne in the other.

“Welcome to Strasbourg, Helena,” he purred. He was tall, broad-backed, with a stone-carved face, high cheekbones, stark long planes, high forehead, thin lips, and wide-set black eyes. He always had a healthy tan. She had known him for years, never trusted him, but found him interesting in spite of herself. “I had hoped to meet you here and, mirabile deus, here you are.”

“Hardly a miracle, Vladimir, since you have been following me for three blocks.”

“And such a clever disguise; it would deceive most men, but as you know I am not most men, and I am used to your inexhaustible tricks of the trade. I particularly love the glasses. Gucci, I believe.”

Helena accepted the champagne. What the hell, it had been a long day, and she rarely refused good champagne. Vladimir would always buy the best. “How did you know I was here?”

“It was difficult to miss you on the news, leaping out of that boat, flying along the shore, such long strides, you have not slacked off your daily runs, have you?” he asked. “Would you care to join me? The Veuve Clicquot is in the car, and we could have a more private discussion. So much catching up to do.” Vladimir was one of the less violent Ukrainian oligarchs Helena had encountered appraising Renaissance art, but he was certainly not above some very rough play when he thought it would serve his interests. Rough, in Vladimir’s lexicon, ranged from simple broken bones to the more complex assassinations he may have instigated in Kiev.

“I prefer to walk,” Helena said, looking at Azarov’s driver, who had hauled himself out of the SUV to stand by the open back door. He was a big man. His shoulder and arm muscles stretched the fabric of his black jacket. The bulge at his side was about the size of a Glock, but Helena assumed he would be more likely to carry a Makarov. Despite the frosty relations between Russians and Ukrainians, the latter still preferred Russian manufacturers. “He seems to have recovered nicely from his misadventure in Bucharest.”

“A couple of days in the hospital. A few stitches in his right hand. Your friend Marcia is one tough broad. Good thing you didn’t bring her along for this little job.” Vladimir gestured at the open door. “Will you?”

“I prefer to walk,” Helena repeated, and set off across the road toward the river. A couple of pedestrians had stopped to peer into the car until the driver blocked them. About a year ago, Marcia, the former curator of Bucharest Museum’s seventeenth- and eighteenth-century art turned fixer-bodyguard, had reduced this driver to a whimpering wreck when he was trying to steal a Titian for his boss.

“You needn’t worry about Piotr. He doesn’t hold grudges.” Vladimir laughed. “FSB grads have unusually thick skins.” The FSB, or Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, was the Russian Federation’s security service, the new iteration of the legendary KGB.

“I thought he was Ukrainian,” Helena said.

“Mostly,” Vladimir said with a laugh. “He is also a Cossack. They tend not to belong to anyone.”

“It isn’t him I worry about,” Helena said. “You didn’t say what brings you to Strasbourg.”

Vladimir caught up to her, took her empty glass and tossed it into a recycling bin, broke the stem of the rose and slipped the short end into the buttonhole of his fine linen jacket. “I think we are both here for the same reason. A rare painting that I may be interested in purchasing for my collection. It’s not the sort of art I would put in my bedroom, but it could sit nicely alongside my Titian and the Raphael in the study. I told Mrs. Vaszary I wouldn’t even crate it, we could drive it down the coast to Montenegro. But I would like to think it’s painted by Artemisia herself. As a rule, I don’t buy copies or forgeries.”

Helena knew of at least one forgery Vladimir had purchased, but neither of them had ever referred to it. She assumed that had he known it was one of Simon’s Renoirs, he would have mentioned it when he wanted to buy her expertise the last time. It would have served as excellent leverage. Helena had carefully guarded her flawless reputation from any connection to her father. “You are here to buy the painting,” she said.

“Sadly, I am not