buyer will not buy unless he ‘knows’ that I am not behind the sale-you will be forced to reveal that the seller is, in fact, a woman, not a man. You know her personally, have been representing her family for twenty years or more, and you most certainly will not reveal her identity. Damn the sale. These are discreet people. The tradition of anonymity in art dealings is a long tradition and a tradition you and the lady in question take seriously and honor.”
“I see,” Fain said. “Exactly.”
“Along those lines,” Corsier said, “this buyer knows as well as we do that none of this can be ascertained without a reasonable doubt, but what he will be doing is sending a representative to get a feel for the authenticity of the situation. To assess the genuineness of the enterprise.”
“Yes,” Fain said.
“I would think,” Corsier went on, “that the whole exchange would take less than an hour, but it has to be convincing. You’ll need to read the reaction. They must be convinced. I would think that an adamant refusal at first, followed by the revelation that the seller is a lady rather than a gentleman, followed by a grudging capitulation, would do the job. And, of course, the agreement to draw up any legal documents required.”
“Of course.”
“Do you think this could be of interest to you?”
Fain studied the pattern in the rug for a moment, his bushy, brooding eyebrows obscuring the exact direction of his gaze. He looked up. “Is this government related?”
“No.”
“Ah, private.”
“Yes.”
“Well, a barrister… that’s a serious role, a criminal offense if this isn’t government related.”
“I understand.”
“Expensive.”
Corsier did not comment.
“Because… well, you know.”
“I do.”
Cory Fain brooded on the carpet design a little longer. “Would I be expected to produce the woman?” he asked.
“The buyer, or more probably his representative, has to be convinced, so whatever it takes…”
Fain raised his head slowly, looking at Corsier down the bridge of his nose. “I’ll give you an estimate,” he said at last. “Then you give me the details, your exact expectations. Then I’ll give you a specific price. Then you decide.”
“Very well,” Corsier said.
They sat in the cozy front room of Fain’s home and talked for another hour. Outside, the rain continued to drench the beeches, whose leaves spilled onto the old paving stones countless rivulets that disappeared into their aging joints.
CHAPTER 45
Hodge was right. It was already raining when Strand came out of the Terrier, and he rode back to Mayfair through a wet, sad London. He felt guilty for being glad to be away from the dying man. Hodge had made a career of selling clever devices for delivering death in a businesslike way to anonymous others. Now the time had come to Hodge himself. Death did not care so much about clever devices and used whatever lay close at hand. In Hodge’s case it was nothing fancy, but it was brutally personal.
Strand had the cab drop him off on Queen Street and then hurried through the drizzle the short distance to Chesterfield Hill.
“You hadn’t been gone five minutes when an e-mail from Howard came in,” Mara said as he walked into the room. “He wants a meeting as soon as possible.”
Strand went straight to the computer, sat on a paint bucket, tapped out Howard’s address, and then the question:
Can you meet tonight?
Strand stared at the screen. He could feel rain on the sleeves of his jacket, on the legs of his trousers. Mara was behind him, silent. Then suddenly the words were there.
Okay. Tonight. When? Where?
The Running Footman pub on Charles Street, near Berkeley Square. 10 o’clock. Wait at the bar.
I’ll be there.
When he got downstairs he put the pistol on the shelf in the coat closet, all the way to the back, out of sight.
Strand sat in a black cab on Charles Street, watching the doors of the Running Footman. Though the rain was keeping the customers inside, he could see from the movement behind the windows, and from the people coming and going, that the pub was busy. He knew Howard would not come by cab, rain or no rain, and since most of the people came in pairs or groups, the solitary figure would be easier to identify. There was no reason for Howard to wait on Strand. In other circumstances he might have been wary, but in this case he had nothing to fear. Rather, it was the other way around. So Strand would let Howard arrive first. Besides, his e-mail had told Howard where to wait. The assumption was that Howard would precede him.
Eight minutes after nine o’clock Howard emerged from around the corner on Fitzmaurice Place, his umbrella held low over his head. Strand recognized his walk. Howard immediately crossed the street and made his way to the pub.
He had to wait at the door for a couple who were coming out, fumbled momentarily with his umbrella, then disappeared inside.
“Okay,” Strand said, sitting forward in his seat, talking through the window to the cabdriver, “that’s him.”
The cabdriver held a flashlight in his lap and turned it on a photograph he was holding in his hand.
“Right. I’ll recognize him.”
“The photograph,” Strand said.
The driver handed it back through the window.
“His name is Howard,” the driver rehearsed. “I say to him, ‘Mr. Strand would like you to come with me, please.’” He looked back over his shoulder. “That’s it? He’ll come along?”
“He knows the routine.”
“But he’s not expecting it?”
“No. But when you say that to him he’ll know what’s up.”
“Right.”
The cabdriver didn’t sound convinced, but he sounded game. The money was more than he was going to earn in the next five nights.
“You have the route down?” Strand asked.
“Right. I do.”
“Fine.” Strand got out and hurried back to another cab waiting at the curb a few cars back and got inside.
The cab in front crossed into Hays Mews and stopped at the curb. The driver got out and went into the side door of the Running Footman.
Strand concentrated on the door. The rain suddenly became heavier, drumming loudly on the roof of the cab.
The cabdriver emerged from the side door of the pub and ran to his cab, jerking open the rear door. Howard darted out of the pub and quickly crawled into the back of the cab. The driver slammed the door, got into the front, and turned on the headlights, and the cab lurched and disappeared around the corner.
Knowing the route, Strand’s driver was able to lag behind several blocks, sometimes passing the first cab,
