Free Rockets' Red Glare by Greg Dinallo Page B

suggestion. “Of course not,” he replied, his drawl thickening as it always did when he lost patience. “We’ve both known that’d never be possible. And the whole world knows your people have these paintings under lock and key, and won’t sell any of ’em. How could I take one to an expert? Where would I say I got it? You took advantage of that, Aleksei. Took advantage of me. ”

    Deschin was relieved by the answer, but didn’t let it show. “Then what makes you so sure?”
    “That,” Churcher replied, placing the nail of his forefinger beneath the telltale area of crimson pigment. “Right there,” he went on. “The Dutchman would’ve never done that. He wasn’t a fusser. Never would’ve touched it up like that.”
    Deschin slipped on his glasses, and leaned close to the painting, examining the spot where Churcher’s fingernail was now digging into the paint.
    “Very, very astute,” he said, his face still close to the textured surface. He straightened, and peered over the tops of his glasses with a professorial air. “You’re overreacting, Theo. Really. In spite of what we’d all like to believe, Van Gogh was human. He made mistakes, and he fixed them. We all do.”
    “Fine,” Churcher retorted. “How do you propose to fix this one?”
    Deschin inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then filled the compartment with smoke. “I’m afraid you’re forgetting a most famous American proverb, Theodor. Now how does it go?” he wondered, feigning an effort to recall it. “Ah, yes,” he resumed. “ ‘Don’t fix something that isn’t broken.’ You’re familiar with it. No?”
    Churcher seethed, lifted the painting with both hands, and smashed it over the back of a chair. The canvas shredded. The frame splintered.
    The four Russians flinched.
    Deschin ducked to avoid a piece of the gilded wood that rocketed past his ear.
    Churcher’s cold look said, It’s broken now!
    Deschin settled and brushed flecks of paint and gold leaf from his jacket. “What do you want?” he asked in a tone intended to signify he’d had enough.
    “The originals, of course,” Churcher replied. “All of them. As we agreed a long time ago.”
    “Or?” Deschin prodded.
    “Or—like I said, I’ll be forced to take steps to even out the ante in Geneva,” Churcher replied. “Of course, should I meet a sudden and suspicious end, the director of Central Intelligence will receive, under anonymous cover, a complete set of drawings and specifications for the Kira conversion. He should be able to figure out the rest from that. I know he will. We play golf. Jake Boulton’s a very bright fellow.”
    “How?” Deschin asked coolly. “How did you get the package of drawings, Theo?”

    “I spend a lot of time in your country, Aleksei,” he replied, thinking if Deschin was shaken he was hiding it well. “I have friends there.”
    “The paintings will be a problem for me,” Deschin said flatly. “Though many works from the Hermitage and Pushkin have been shown in your country recently, I’ve managed to withold ‘your’s’ from those exhibitions. But eventually I’ll be forced to include them; and they’ll be exposed to scrutiny by international experts. So you see, Theo, we can’t very well give you the originals and send fakes. There’s no other way to resolve this?” he concluded, his tone now more pleading than demanding.
    “The paintings were the only reason I got into this. You know that. There’s nothing else you people have that I want or can’t buy,” Churcher replied. “I mean, we have an agreement. And for years, more than twenty of them, I’ve kept up my end.” He’d become too hard, too emotional, he thought, and consciously shifted gears. “Look, I’m not here to rub your nose in it, Aleksei,” he said, his voice pained, that of a man not wanting to hurt a friend. “You have some problems? Take all the time you want, okay? Weeks, months, whatever. Long as when it’s all done, I come away