AftershocksTwelve: Art DecoIn the art lab, three paintings in ornate gilt frames had been set out on easels, lined up in a row. MacGyver hardly glanced at them as he and Willis entered. He went straight to where Laura was standing, talking earnestly to Gordie, gesturing decisively at the paintings. He touched her gently on the shoulder and raised an inquiring eyebrow when she turned to him. He had wondered how the renewed threat would affect her.
“You doin’ okay?” She looked better – actually, she looked great: flawlessly groomed, cool and collected behind a thick shell of professional detachment.
She smiled, and the look in her eyes was grateful even through the steel shell. “I’m fine for now.” There was a crisp edge to her voice, and Mac suddenly found himself thinking about a she-bear with cubs.
She pointed to the paintings in turn. “The ransom demand was very specific. Monet,
Sea Rocks at Etretat; the Renoir bistro scene; and the Rembrandt portrait.”
“ ‘Oldy-Moldy’ himself,” Mac murmured. He looked at the paintings closely; he’d been around the collection off and on for weeks, but hadn’t really looked at the works much.
He’d liked the Monet from the start – it showed a rock formation that he remembered from a DXS mission to the Normandy coast. Every time he saw the seascape, he was drawn into it more deeply: twice already he’d caught himself looking at the painting and daydreaming about going sea kayaking. He could tell from the way the waves rippled and the sun glittered on the water that it would be a perfect day for it, the sun warm but not too hot on the skin, the occasional sea-spray cool and exhilarating.
The Renoir scene had its note of familiarity also –
I guess Parisian cafés haven’t changed a whole lot in ninety years. Just the clothes. There was a young, pretty dark-haired girl who made him think of his friend Penny, glancing sidelong at a moustached man who reminded him of Jack Dalton – slumped casually in a chair, obviously checking out the scene and the girls. Any minute, he’d say something that he thought was clever, and the girl would probably laugh at him, unimpressed.
Yeah. Not much has changed at all. But you wouldn’t really get that from looking at a photograph. Something in the scene – the light, maybe, or the feel of the air – told him that it was early on a summer evening; the day’s heat was beginning to cool off, the city residents growing lively again after the torpor of a sultry afternoon.
But even in such company, it was the portrait in the centre that drew the attention. The colours were now bright and sharp, and the eyes of the long-dead sitter blazed with a pride that was tinged with reflection. The old man was bathed in a strong flood of light that entered from a window beside him, catching his face but leaving his surroundings indistinct, a murky past and an uncertain future. The light was the cool sunlight of autumn, so distinct MacGyver thought he could smell leaves burning. The grey-streaked beard and the lined face bore ineradicable marks of hardship and struggle; he was obviously an important man, but he’d had to fight for whatever status he’d gained, and now he felt the insidious weakness of old age creeping up on him, threatening what slender security he’d built for himself.
Mac let out his breath, suddenly noticing that he’d been holding it while he met the eyes of the portrait.
Whoa.Gordie nodded. “ ‘Effin’ w*nkers asked fer them an’ no others – the three prize daubs of the lot.”
“Laura, those are the three misfits. We talked about them – ”
“Top of the class!” Gordie almost chortled. “The three b*stards. Worth a packet to any shady dealer. An’ if’n our blaggers can launder the provenance enough to sell ‘em on the open market, they’ll fetch ten times as much. That, my friends, is some serious swag.”
“You think it’s just that? It’s just about the cash value – and the rest is a coincidence?” Mac demanded.
Gordie’s mobile face was a study in pantomime. “The day that you hear me accept ‘coincidence’ as an effin’ excuse for anything, you have my official permission to pack up my stinkin’ carcass and ship it off to a knacker-house to be sold for dog meat.”
Addie had just emerged from the office. “Don’t be a divvy, Dad. By that time you’d be so long gone you’d poison the f*ckin’ dogs.”
Gordie turned a stern eye on Addie. “I oughta smack you for that one. Hain’t you learned yet to watch your effin’ language? There’s respectable folks present.”
Mac glanced over to where Willis was working, and saw that the technical expert looking as bemused as he felt himself. Willis shook his head and turned back to his load of electronic equipment. Mac settled himself at the keyboard of the art lab’s main computer workstation.
It wasn’t long before they heard the lilting voice of Anjali Prajna, the current head of Phoenix’ legal department. She swept into the art lab with Pete in tow, Zak Abramson following. She was wearing a crisply tailored business suit instead of a sari; Mac surmised that she had been dealing with the world outside Phoenix. Anjali found Western clothing dull, and never wore her ‘court costume’ unless she had to.
She was followed by Stephanie and Rafé; she must have accompanied them down to the police station, supporting them through the ordeal of picking Jake Hunter out of a line-up and giving their statements about the encounters at the music clubs. Stephanie was wearing her expensive preppie clothes for the first time in days.
Another costume.Anjali strode over to MacGyver and made as if to cuff him. “There you are at last, you naughty boy! Why can’t you stay out of trouble?”
He evaded her easily. “Are you just gonna give me another scolding?”
She glowered at him. “Would it do any more good than the last one?”
Mac grinned and shook his head.
“At least we did not have to post bail for you again. But Mac, the next time you go up into the mountains, you should try meditation instead of running around in the woods chasing Nazis. Sit under a tree and contemplate the wheel of life. It will be much more tranquil for everybody.”
Zak was looking at them with consternation. Mac gave him a grin and turned back to Anjali.
“I gotta ask. Did you
really call me MacLiability?”
“Did Ryan Smith tell you that?” She scowled melodramatically. “That silly boy never did have any sense of humour at all. Pete, we must change our rules. From now on, we must never hire any more lawyers unless they have a sense of humour.”
Pete raised an eyebrow. “That could be difficult.”
Mac glanced over at Rafé; Stephanie hadn’t left his side, and Addie had abandoned her work and bustled over to him. “Excuse me.” He hurried over to the trio and touched Rafé on the arm. “You okay?”
Rafé gave him a guarded look. “Sure, man. I’m cool. Why you think I’d be anything else?”
“Well, let’s see – you just got back from the cop shop, where you spent the last couple of hours giving evidence
against someone – a white guy, to boot.”
Rafé shrugged, but looked around as if he was checking out a exit route. “Yeah. So what?”
“You tell me. It’s a long way from what you grew up expecting.”
Rafé started to shrug again, and Addie punched his arm. “Ballocks, mate. We all know it was a friggin’ nightmare. But you did it.” She turned back to MacGyver, her eyes shining. Mac noticed that Stephanie wasn’t just standing close to Rafé; she was holding his hand tightly, her fingers interlaced with his.
Okaaay . . . but she better not just be collecting him as a trophy to cheese off her parents.Pete was surveying the art lab with an air of expectation. Mac had seen that look before: Pete could act on the spur of the moment when he needed to, but he was at his best when he had time to make plans, decide on tactics, and marshal his troops. Back when they’d both been with the DXS, Mac had always been able to depend on Pete in the field. His operations always ran smoothly – until the inevitable moment when something unforeseen messed things up – and when it did, Pete’s preparations meant the snafu didn’t have to be fatal. He’d never been able to let go of wanting to run operations, not just oversee them from the lofty distance of a director’s office; and Mac had never stopped appreciating his touch.
“Everything set?” Pete asked.
Willis looked up and nodded. “Just about. We’re just waiting for him to call back with his instructions about the ransom.”
Zak frowned. “What makes you so sure they’ll call back at all? Ruth is safe and your fine police force have most of the b*stards in custody. They’d have to be damned idiots not to know by now that something’s gone wrong.”
Pete nodded. “Yes, it’s a long shot. But the ransom call came in late afternoon – and by that time, you and Mac were already up at the cabin. There’s no phone up there, and we don’t think anyone left after you got Ruth out and before you came back with the cavalry. Even if they were trying to stay in touch, I don’t think they could have. The police have agreed to keep the arrests quiet for as long as they can – and the hospital is still writhing with embarrassment over the entire incident. They’d have agreed to anything, and they’re already specialists in discretion.”
“So what’s all this in aid of? What are you after?”
“The Professor,” Mac answered, his voice hard and flat. His eyes were smoky with unspoken anger.
“Is that Schmidt, then? Do you think it’s the same person?”
“No way of knowing,” Willis replied. “But it doesn’t seem likely. Schmidt emigrated here from Germany in 1958, so he’s old enough to have been a Nazi – but I can’t find anything to suggest why anyone would call him a ‘Professor’.
“Ryan didn’t seem to know anything about it either,” MacGyver remarked, “and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t lying just at that moment.”
Willis gave Mac a doubtful look as he continued. “Schmidt wasn’t a teacher or an academic of any kind. He worked in shipping and logistics – he retired about five years ago from Koch International Freight Services.”
Mac frowned. “Just at a wild guess, I don’t suppose they’ve got a warehouse down on East Olympic Boulevard?”
Willis looked thoughtful. “I can find out easily enough. You’re thinking of the one where they wanted to meet Dexter, right?”
“Bingo. If it’s the same guy, he’d know the place – he’d know how to get in, even if he didn’t work there any more.”
Zak shrugged. “If it’s the warehouse I think you mean, it’s not that hard. You can break into it with a toothpick and a stern expression.”
Mac gave him a long-suffering look. “That’s one of the places you tailed me, right?”
“Eventually, yes. But you got away from me with that oblique approach, and by the time I caught up with you, you’d been and gone. You can be very exasperating to keep up with.”
“I’ll try to do better next time.” Mac’s voice oozed sweet acid.
Pete was pacing around the lab. “We could have the police check the place out . . . but we don’t want to spook him. He could call at any time – and if he follows his usual pattern, it’ll be a short call, made from a pay phone, in a neighbourhood where no-one will admit to noticing anything.”
“Who took the first call?” Mac asked. He had returned to the computer and was skimming through the files, his eyes darting as he hunted through the data.
“Keiko was on the switchboard,” Willis answered. “She had the sense to route it to Helen, and Pete took it from there. The guy introduced himself as ‘Mr. Smith’. Can you believe it? Helen’s taken over the switchboard for tonight – I don’t think anyone had the nerve to tell her no.”
Pete nodded distractedly. “She’ll recognise his voice, no matter how much he disguises it.” He had walked over to stand next to Laura, and was surveying the three paintings. Something in his expression seemed to be ask – no, to demand – that they prove they were worth so much trouble, so much threat to human life. The eyes of Rembrandt’s long-dead subject returned Pete’s look with nonchalant dignity; the gaudy Renoir figures ignored him.
Gordie looked at the Renoir and shook his head dourly. “I’m an eejit, I am. An ‘effin’ eejit. Skin me an’ use me hide for bootsoles, I did not see that one coming. And I shoulda.”
“It’ll be okay, Gordie,” Laura said firmly. “We’ll deal.”
“We will that. In more ways than one.”
The beep of the intercom, followed by Helen’s calm voice, cast a breathless silence over the lab.
“Mr. Thornton? ‘Mr. Smith’ is on the line. I’m putting him through – but he’s asking for Dr. Sandburg, not for you.”
“Is he now?” Pete’s face set into granite lines.
The voice was muffled, but the German accent was unmistakable. “I am speaking to Dr. Sandburg, yes?”
“This is Pete Thornton. I’m here with Dr. Sandburg.”
“Are you, Herr Thornton? Then I suggest you go somewhere else. I am not interested in talking to you tonight.”
Pete persisted. “I insist that you let me talk to Ruth Collins. How do I know that she’s still alive?”
“You are not in a good place to insist, Herr Thornton.”
Pete glanced over at MacGyver, raising an eyebrow. Mac nodded: he recognised the voice. It was the same voice he’d heard the night he’d answered the pager summons – the voice that had sent him to the warehouse where Hunter’s men had been waiting.
“Now. I will talk to Laura Sandburg and no-one else. You are recording this call, yes? You will turn off your equipment.
Now.”
“You just wait a minute – ” Pete blustered. He glanced at Willis and mouthed
What now?“Your Frau Collins is a very remarkable woman,” ‘Smith’ said calmly. “But she is very old. Her health is not so good. It will be much better when she is where a doctor can look after her. You want to see her alive again, yes?”
He’s real good at bluffing, MacGyver thought.
I wouldn’t want to play poker with him.Pete sighed audibly. “All right, you win. Here’s Dr. Sandburg.”
“Wait, Herr Thornton. One last thing. If you do not turn off your telephone recorder
this minute, I will ring off and you will not hear from me again.”
Pete looked at MacGyver and Willis, almost in desperation. Mac had quickly tapped out a few words on his keyboard; now he turned his screen to face Pete.
Play along: give him anything.“All right!” Pete said hurriedly. “Just one moment – ”
Mac had slipped noiselessly out of his chair, pulled out his knife, and opened the large blade partway; now he lifted one of the phone handsets as Willis hit the button to make it an active line on the call. Mac held the knife close to the mouthpiece and nudged the blade with his thumb so that it snapped closed with a loud metallic click. He set the handset down softly.
“Much better,” Smith declared. “Now put Laura Sandburg on the line, and run away.”
Laura licked her lips and swallowed nervously as she bent over the speaker mike for the phone. Mac met her eyes and tried to smile reassuringly, tried to will confidence into her.
“This is Dr. Sandburg. We – I – I was given your demands earlier. We’ve retrieved the three paintings from the vault.” She swallowed again. “Why do you need to talk to me?”
“Because it is you who will bring them to me.”
“
What? Why?”
Mac looked over at Pete in alarm, half rising from his chair; Pete put a finger to his lips and waved him down. Smith was still issuing orders.
“Because I tell you to. Do you have pen and paper there? Write down this address – you will bring the paintings there, now. Be there in one hour.”
“What about Ruth Collins?” Laura demanded.
Smith ignored the question. “There is a phone booth there; you will wait for my call. I will tell you then where to meet me.”
Mac had been typing; he caught Laura’s eye and gestured towards his screen.
Too heavy. Say you need help.Laura nodded and licked her lips again. “You’re crazy! I can’t carry all three paintings by myself – they’re too large and awkward!”
“Don’t be stupid.” Smith’s voice was curt. “It’s just canvas and paint. Roll them up.”
“If you think that I’m going to risk damage to these canvases by taking them off their stretchers, you’re not just a criminal. You’re insane.”
“You care so much about paintings that are going away? They are not even yours. The real owners died half a century ago.”
“They aren’t yours, either.” Laura’s eyes were suddenly blazing with fury. “They belong to the world. We’re just their caretakers, and I will
not risk damaging them. If
you don’t give a damn about posterity, you must at least care about what will happen to their market value if they’re damaged.”
Mac and Pete had exchanged glances again – this time in surprise.
way to go, Laura Mac typed.
“Very well!” Smith’s accent grew thicker as he grumbled. “You will bring that blonde girl who works with you. She can help carry.”
“Veronica?”
“No! The young girl. Stephanie.”
Laura’s face went white, and she looked in horror over to where Stephanie was standing. The girl’s face was a study in astonishment.
Laura found her voice. “Absolutely
not. I won’t – you can’t drag her into this – ” She was cut off by the click of the receiver and the harsh buzz of the dial tone.
Pete hurried over to Laura. “Dr. Sandburg – I had no idea he’d make that kind of demand on you. Of course, you can’t – ”
She cut him off with a raised hand. “Pete, I - I’m grateful for the concern. Now stop it. At least we’re still a few steps ahead of him – he
doesn’t know that Ruth is safe.”
MacGyver was frowning. “It’s what we hoped for – but talk about a gaping hole in their communications.” At the same time, he was studying Laura. “We’ve gotta act fast, before they find the hole and patch it. Can you do this?”
Laura’s face was pale, but she still had the air of firm confidence that had returned to her when she’d snapped at Smith. Mac felt a glow of delight at the change. She nodded once, decisively. “I don’t know why he asked for me, but if that’s what it takes . . . ” Her eyes went to Stephanie.
The interns had drawn close together, Addie and Rafé flanking their new focus of concern.
Second nature for them by now, Mac thought. He thought of the last study he’d done of wolves in the wild, remembered watching them gather in support of a vulnerable packmate.
Stephanie was looking at Pete, but she seemed to be the only one who didn’t look frightened or worried. She squeezed Addie’s hand and patted Rafé’s shoulder, then stepped away from the group and stood face to face with Pete.
“Mr. Thornton. I don’t know why he asked for me either – unless maybe he figures Laura and I just aren’t scary – but like she said, if that’s what it takes . . . ” Her face suddenly creased with real anxiety. “
Please let me do this! Don’t just say ‘no’ ‘cause you think you should! I can do it – ” Her chin suddenly stiffened. In Mac’s eyes, she abruptly grew several years older, and his heart sank – watching that sudden metamorphosis reminded him too keenly of some of the younger friends he’d made on trips abroad, kids who had grown up too fast, too young. Stephanie was asking for something they’d have gladly done without.
Pete drew a deep breath and puffed his cheeks out in a sigh. “Ms. Carmichael, that’s a generous offer. And I know it’s a heartfelt one. But . . . ”
Rafé interrupted him, abruptly looming up beside Stephanie. “God damn it, this is f*ckin’ nuts! Mr. Thornton, you ain’t gonna let the women do this, are you? It too f*ckin’ dangerous, man!”
Mac broke in quickly. “Rafé,
can it. Yeah, our bad guy’s probably a sexist pig. Don’t you turn into one too.”
“MacGyver, don’ tell me you down with this!”
“Doesn’t matter if I like it or not. But if you try to pull a protective act right now, Stephanie’s probably gonna hand you your head on a platter.” Mac glanced at Laura and Addie. “And she’ll have plenty of help.”
Rafé hunched his shoulders and gave Mac a sullen look. “Last month – when you was gettin’ in my face ‘bout my ‘macho crap’ – this is what you meant, huh?”
“Yup.”
The tense moment that followed was suddenly broken by Willis, who had been studying the paintings with a puzzled frown, oblivious to the debate. Now he broke the uneasy silence. “I don’t get it. How come he’s asking for these three? Aren’t the older paintings worth more?”
Laura ran a distracted hand through her hair. “I guess you might think so – but no. The art market can be very peculiar. There aren’t all that many true Old Masters outside museums – except for the ones that used to be in museums, and have been stolen. But they don’t exactly go on the market after that.” She was staring at the Renoir as she spoke, but hardly seemed to see it. “Mostly, the kind of collectors who really bid up the prices are the ones who want the more modern works. Anything from the Impressionists onwards – Van Gogh and Picasso are the biggest of all, along with Klimt.”
“We don’t have any of those, do we?”
“No. Ironically enough, both painters were blacklisted by Hitler; not even Goering dared collect them. When the Nazis got hold of their works, they mostly sold them to complicit art dealers outside the Reich.” Laura shook her head. “Even today, there are plenty of collectors – wealthy businessmen – who are only interested in art as an investment.” Her face showed clearly what she thought of that. “They really want paintings that will skyrocket in value. The pressure they put on the art market pushes the prices up even further – which also makes stealing the works more worthwhile.”
The beep of the internal intercom startled the people in the art lab. Willis was the first to respond, punching the appropriate button to place the caller on speakerphone. “What’s up?”
“Willis?” They all heard the rich tones of Raj, one of the brighter lights on Willis’ technical staff. “Are you there?”
“Yes, of course. What’s up?”
“We have had a call, Willis. It just came in! You told me to keep an eye on it – it’s from the pager! Dexter’s pager!”
Willis and Mac looked at each other.
“Aw,
man.”
Good idea there. 
