The twins are sitting on the couch, Anton squeezed between them, when I come out of the bedroom. They must’ve been talking, because the television is off. Anton whistles in appreciation of the results. Ilya doesn’t look at me, and Yan’s expression is tight, bored almost.
“It’ll be better when I have the right clothes,” I say.
Yan gets up and goes to the laptop that’s lying on the table. “Come here.”
I walk to his side as he wakes up the screen and activates the camera to test the background. He turns it so it faces the wall and nothing else is visible.
He pulls out a chair for me to sit. “You know what to say.”
“I need to listen and watch her a few times.” I’m a quick learner. I can pick up accents and intonations like a parrot.
He opens a video file of Natasha Petrova, news and social media clips he must’ve collected, and pushes on the play button. I pay attention to her mannerisms, the way she flicks her hair and says “darling” a lot, and especially how she tries to conceal her mother tongue by rolling the r’s less when she speaks English.
In what language would she address Casmir Dimitrov? Would she speak to him in Hungarian or English?
No, she’d use his own language to be respectful. She’d choose Albanian.
“Ready?” Yan asks when the clips come to an end. “We’ll do a practice run.”
He picks up a Hermès scarf from the table and drapes it over my shoulders, gently almost. He arranges the silk just so before he activates a video call to himself.
I fall into the role, right down to the way the arts dealer flirts by batting her eyelashes and pushing out her breasts. I become Natasha Petrova, body and soul.
When I’m done, I look up at Yan for his reaction. His face is unreadable, but the intent way he stares at me is disturbing.
“Fuck,” Anton says. “She nailed it. She fucking nailed it to a T.”
Even Ilya lifts his unwilling gaze to me.
“I think she’s ready,” Anton says.
“I don’t think it.” Yan perches on the corner of the table. “I know it.”
“It’s too soon,” Ilya says in a nasally voice.
“We have three weeks,” Yan says. “Dimitrov is a busy man. Petrova wouldn’t give him less time to arrange a meeting and clear his schedule if needed.”
“Can you do it again?” Anton asks me. “Exactly like that?”
“Yes.” I’m certain.
Anton rubs his palms over his thighs. “I say let’s seize the moment.”
Yan opens a contact list and clicks on Dimitrov’s name. “You’ll go through a gatekeeper, a secretary or a guard. If you tell them what the call is about, Dimitrov will take it.”
The call connects. I take a deep breath, and the show is on.
As predicted, the moment I mention the Salvator Mundi, Dimitrov takes my call. He sits behind a desk—in his office, I presume. Even with the new beard, he’s as handsome as in the media photos. He’s wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat, and he’s in good shape for fifty-six. A woman, maybe his secretary, puts a glass of water on the desk. He waves a hand to dismiss her. When a click sounds as the door closes, he turns his full attention to me.
He’s charming, complimenting me—or rather, Natasha—on my appearance and elegance. He says he likes a well-dressed woman who takes care of herself. We talk about the weather and the current shortage of Russian caviar. I say I know he’s a busy man so I’ll get to the point. When I mention the painting, the change in the atmosphere is palpable.
“Are you sure your line is secure?” he asks, leaning closer to the screen.
“Of course.” I’m full of sugar, full of tease. “You can test it.”
“How much?”
Yan shows me a number with his fingers. “Two hundred million.”
“Dollars, I assume.”
“You assume correctly, darling.”
“Miss Petrova, your talents dazzle me. Not only are you beautiful and clever, but also resourceful.”
“Thank you,” I reply coyly.
“Maybe we should put some of those talents to the test when we meet in person.”
I give a coquettish laugh. “I’m sorry, darling, but it’ll take more than that.”
“Flowers, champagne, an expensive dinner, and extortionately priced jewelry?”
“Throw in a diamond ring, and I may consider.”
Yan gives me a hard look.
“You make me regret that I’m married,” Dimitrov says with a wink. “I like a woman who knows what she’s worth. I could make a different kind of proposition.”
“It seems we’ll have a lot to talk about when we meet.”
“I can’t wait.”
I tell him I’ll be in Prague in three weeks’ time and suggest the Klimt suite at the Hotel Paris, claiming the manager is a personal friend who’ll respect our need for privacy. We agree on a meeting just before lunch. I hint at extending our business affair into dinner. He likes it when I say we may need the suite afterward.
“How do I contact you if needed?” he asks.
Yan gestures with a pinky on his lips and a thumb at his ear.
“I’ll text you a secure number.”
We talk about our mutual requirements. No weapons, and only him, his art expert, and me in the room. He states his demands, namely to have the room and me searched before he enters. He recommends a few restaurants to visit while I’m in Prague, and invites me to one of his casinos. Everything on the house. I wish him good luck with his business, and we say goodbye like old friends.
My sultry smile only drops when he cuts the call, no doubt to launch straight into an investigation to find out everything he can about Petrova and the missing painting.
“Good job,” Anton says. “He bought it.”
Yan straightens. His gaze
