we’ve got enough to continue investigating. This is the closest we’ve come since Argentina.’
Adam, his fist still clenched in a tight ball, stood up and began to pace the small office. He was wearing what he always wore: jeans. Today they were black, teamed with a white shirt made by Bernie Katz in the finest lawn cotton, the same shirt-maker his father had used before him. And a pair of tan hide cowboy boots, custom-made from a firm in Houston. Mark could not recall ever having seen him in anything else and was, as always, struck by the image of an ageing rock star, rather than the reality of a successful international art dealer.
When Adam finally stopped pacing, he stood in front of Mark and said, ‘Argentina was close, I really thought you had the bastard then.’
A nerve began to tremor uncontrollably in Mark’s left temple. He massaged it with his forefinger, also thinking of the last time they had come this close to the man he had been hunting all these years. It had been in 1987, in a remote hill village close to the town of Santa Rosa, in Argentina.
Mark would never forget that night.
The sky was bigger than he could ever have imagined, and blacker, although rashed with stars. The frenzied animal screams breaking the stillness had caused his heart to race, and then came the wild tangerine glow – so bright it had hurt his eyes, lighting up the sky like a huge glowing torch that he thought would burn for ever. The stench of charred flesh in the burnt-out remains of the ranch would remain with him for the rest of his life. As would the despair he’d felt when he’d learnt that the bodies had all been local farm hands.
Mark stood up. He had pale eyes and pale skin, and an unruly thatch of thick, black hair. He ran his hands down the front of his crumpled navy blue suit and, straightening his tie, he listened intently to Adam’s next words.
‘I want to be there when you get him, Mark.’
‘If we get him. The bird has probably flown by now.’
‘He’s ill, he’s dying; he’s unlikely to be making any long journeys. No, I think he’s there in St Lucia. Hiding out somewhere. I’d love to go down there myself, I’m sure I could hunt him out of his fucking rat-hole.’
Mark Grossman shook his head, like a father to an errant son. He had a deep affection for Adam Krantz, and for his late father Benjamin who had been a patron of the Centre for many years. But Adam’s ambition was just not professional and it was more than his job was worth to allow it.
‘You know I can’t have that, Adam. Just supposing it is him – you know the procedure: we’ve got no official authority in the West Indies; we have to make an application to the St Lucian government for a warrant for his arrest and extradition. The local police resent intruders and can be very uncooperative. You’re too emotionally involved in all this; that could impair your judgement; you might take the law into your own hands. I don’t want to risk that liability. Von Trellenberg is a big fish, we can’t afford to screw up.’
‘Look, I promise to be a good boy, do exactly what I’m told, no screw-ups. I’ve always wanted to go to the West Indies and I’m due for a vacation. Come on, Mark,’ he pushed. ‘You owe me.’
Mark sighed and, turning away, he scanned the floor-to-ceiling wall of books in front of him, without seeing one title. Adam was right: he did owe him. Adam had helped a lot in the past, and not only with money. He had invested time and commitment.
Neither man spoke for several seconds.
Mark finally broke the silence. ‘You’re right, the Centre owes you and your father a lot. So now you’re calling in your dues; is that how it is? You’re putting me on the spot, man. I thought we were friends.’
‘We are, Mark, that’s why I feel I can ask. You know how important this is to me. I understand your position, but I’m begging you as a patron and a good friend to bend the rules for me just a little.’
The two men faced each other. Adam, although not unusually tall at five foot ten, towered above the diminutive Mark – who now relented. ‘If it is him, and we make a formal arrest, I’ll see what I can do.’
Adam smiled, then quickly composed himself, but not before the other man had seen a hint of triumph in his face. Mark rubbed the tip of his long nose saying cautiously, ‘I make no formal promises. Who knows, this man may not even be Von Trellenberg.’
‘How many other eighty-two-year-old Europeans with a severed finger can there be living in obscurity in the West Indies?’
Mark shrugged, his face impassive. ‘You know me, Adam, ever sceptical, it goes with the job.’
‘Yeah, I appreciate that. I know you’ve had your fair share of false alarms.’
‘Who doesn’t …’ Mark looked resigned, then added on a brighter note, ‘I’ll keep you up to date with developments as and when they occur, and now you really will have to excuse me. I’ve got to fly down to Washington and be back in time for dinner with the family. That is if I still have a wife and kids, I’ve forgotten what Victoria looks like.’
Adam gripped his hand firmly in farewell. ‘I feel very confident, Mark. Good vibes, you know what I mean? I really think that this time we’ve got the son-of-a-bitch!’
Adam left Mark’s office five minutes later, stepping on to First Ave and into glorious June sunshine. The light, blindingly bright, danced across acres of Manhattan glass, soaring into the china blue sky. A light breeze ruffled his dark hair as he hailed a taxi, asking for 76th and Madison.
Upper eastside was gridlocked, so he got out at the corner of 74th, strolling the two blocks to his art gallery. ‘Morning, Lenny,’ he waved to the street vendor, on the corner of 76th.
Lenny waved back. ‘It’s going to be a hot one, Mr Krantz, they say in the high eighties.’
‘You’ll sell more Cokes then.’
‘I wish I was selling on the beach in Bermuda!’
‘And I wish I was there with you,’ Adam smiled before walking on.
He stopped outside his shop, admiring the recently completed sign above the door: ‘Krantz Fine Art’. The gilded calligraphy had taken over a week to paint by hand and in Adam’s opinion looked much better than the previous ‘Krantz Gallery’ sign his father had designed in the early fifties. Benjamin had stubbornly refused to change it – insisting that his clients came to him not because of a fancy shop-front, but because he had a fine reputation as a dealer of the utmost integrity.
The gallery was cool, and there was a sense of calm in the hushed surroundings. At the sound of the doorbell, Joanne, Adam’s PA, peered from behind a pile of canvases.
‘Morning, Mr Krantz,’ she greeted him with a warm smile.
‘Morning, Joanne,’ he returned, walking past her into a small office at the rear of the gallery. ‘Any mail?’
‘Tell me a time when there isn’t any mail!’ Joanne said, joining him. ‘The usual circulars, bills, invitations, etc. And this.’ She picked up a letter from the top of the pile and handed it to him.
Adam’s eyes flicked briefly over the correspondence; a small nerve at the corner of his mouth twitched as he protested, ‘Some people never give up! How many more times do I have to tell this
