15

The moment of truth. Could he carry it off? Dmitry crouched behind a pillar on the Center’s second floor, checking his watch. Vanya had been gone nearly ten minutes. If he didn’t hurry, the watchman would return from his rounds. He hoped his cousin knew what he was doing. Vanya bragged he could disable any computer surveillance camera. He’d better make good on that promise, Dmitry thought, or we’ll both end up in jail.

Another hour to go until Sergei showed up, and Dmitry still had to replace the original paintings with his copies—he refused to use the word forgeries. Even Mr. Nick couldn’t tell the difference at first glance. The grand opening of the Center had been postponed until the board of trustees could hire a new director. But the security guard was still on duty, making his rounds every hour on the half hour, more or less. It was the more or less that worried Dmitry.

He peeked around the pillar. The galleries were dimly lit, and you could hear a shtift drop. The guard’s keys jangled in the distance, and Dmitry jerked himself back behind the pillar. He’d made Vanya trade his slick Italian lace-ups for sneakers. It was going to be tricky replacing the three paintings without making any noise.

The copies were stored in Dmitry’s office. Painting them had been time-consuming, but not as difficult as matching the frames. Doubtless, Sergei would cut them out of their frames, but Dmitry had to make them look authentic to avoid his brother’s suspicion. There was no way Dmitry would let those priceless Kandinskys out of his sight. Since Sergei was stealing them and selling them on the black market, it would be a long while before someone noticed they weren’t authentic. And even if they did, what were they going to do? Report it to the police? If Sergei found out, he’d have Dmitry’s head on a Zhostovo tray. Luckily, Sergei knew as much about art as a Siberian wood beetle. Anyway, if Dmitry’s plan worked, Sergei would never get the chance.

Dmitry checked his watch again. What was taking Vanya so long? He peeked around the pillar and saw the guard heading back to his station. Blin! Vanya was going to blow the whole operation—

“Hey, boss,” Vanya whispered from behind.

Dmitry gasped. “Don’t sneak up on me!” he hissed. “Well, what happened? Did you do it?”

Vanya flashed his golden grin. “Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

Dmitry smirked. “You’re mixing your idioms.”

“Are you calling me names, cousin?” Vanya scowled.

Dmitry shook his head. “Come on. We’ve got to replace the paintings before Sergei arrives.”

“Why can’t we just give him your fakes when he gets here?” Vanya whispered as they tiptoed back to Dmitry’s office. “Seems stupid to hang up the fakes in order to take them down again.”

“I agree.” It really was absurd that Sergei insisted on joining this “adventure,” as he called it—as if felony burglary was akin to ziplining or shooting the rapids. If his crazy brother would have just asked for the paintings, Dmitry could have handed the copies over no problem. Instead, Dmitry had to carry off an elaborate heist and risk going to prison, or worse. The security guard was armed, and no doubt so was Sergei.

“I guess your mom was right. The stupid head doesn’t let the feet rest,” Vanya said in Russian.

“The devil finds work for idle hands,” Dmitry repeated in English. “My mother is always right.” After this idiotic caper, he was supposed to meet his mother for dinner at the Parker Hotel. He’d only seen her once since leaving Russia, and that was when his father—or the man he’d thought was his father—died two years ago. At least he’d been able to talk to her on the phone every week. Every time he heard her voice was a revelation—the voice of his childhood, the same voice as his daughter. It was as if his mother had been reborn in Lolita. “The spit image,” as Vanya said.

Dmitry gently lifted his copy of Kandinsky’s early Fauvist landscape from the office floor. The deep vibrant colors and thick brushstrokes gave the impression of some exotic fleshy fruit. He handed the painting to his cousin. “Careful now.”

“This ain’t the real one, right?” Vanya asked.

Dmitry shook his head. He picked up his copy of Painting with White Lines and admired it. This had been far more difficult to recreate, with its delicate white lines and blurred shades of turquoise and plum. He’d gone days without sleep and poured so much heart into the piece—he hated to part with it. But better to lose this than the original Kandinsky.

To the trained eye, it was easy to distinguish Dmitry’s copies from the originals. If he’d had more time, he could have deceived all but the most discriminating scholar. But these copies were good enough to fool any gangster or wannabe collector.

He’d painted the last of the three, Kandinsky’s Composition VII, so many times that he’d dreamt he was inside the painting, meditating in the garden of Eden, trembling on judgment day, drowning in the flood, then being resurrected through color. The painting was so exquisitely detailed that it would have taken him months to copy. Luckily, he’d spent twenty years painting it over and over again—his own private obsession—and had dozens of copies ready to hand.

A painting in each hand, Dmitry tiptoed down the hallway with Vanya close behind. They stopped at the stairs for a breather. Taking the steps one at a time, Dmitry’s biceps strained to carry the heavy frames. A noise from the gallery stopped him in his tracks. He turned back to Vanya and grimaced. Vanya shrugged and slipped past him.

“Stop,” Dmitry whispered.

His cousin ignored him, descending the stairs at a good clip. When Dmitry caught up, Vanya turned back and smiled. Dmitry gave him the evil eye and continued through the foyer, towards the gallery. Scanning the room as he went, he strained to hear the guard. They would find out soon enough whether Vanya had successfully installed the loop in the surveillance system.

Dmitry carefully leaned the paintings against the wall under the original Kandinsky landscape. He lifted that original off the wall, sat it on the floor, and replaced it with his copy. Vanya watched, then repeated the operation with Composition VII. Dmitry tried to lift the original White Line, but it was stuck on its hook. He tugged and it eventually broke free, but not without making a scraping noise. Dmitry stood, gripping the frame in both hands, holding his breath. Listening. After a few seconds, he exhaled and hung the copy in its place. He nodded to Vanya, who followed him back through the gallery and up the stairs to his office. They placed the originals in Dmitry’s closet for safekeeping.

Stage one had gone off without a hitch. Next came the tricky part: dealing with hotheaded Sergei.

Dmitry waited by the back door. He shook his head. Who burglarized their own museum and stole their own paintings? A brisk knock signaled Sergei’s arrival. Dmitry entered the code onto the keypad of the interior lock and opened the door. Dressed in a dark suit, his brother slipped inside soundlessly, like a pro.

Dmitry checked his watch. Ten minutes until rounds. He led Sergei up the back stairs to his office, where Vanya was waiting. Once inside, he shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief. Another hour and the heist would be over, and—if all went according to plan—Sergei would be out of his life. Away from his family.

“I’ve been curious about where you work.” Sergei’s raspy voice cut through the silence. “Nice office, Mr. Bigshot.”

Dmitry grimaced. Just another hour. He thought of one of his mother’s favorite sayings: “Trust in God, but steer away from the rocks.”

“For a small monthly donation, I can make sure this place is protected,” Sergei said.

“Protected from what?” Dmitry asked. “Crooks like you?”

Vanya chuckled and the unlit cigarette fell out of his mouth onto the floor. “Good one, coz.” He bent to pick it up.

“No need to be insulting,” Sergei said. “Consider my offer. Think of it as extra insurance.”

“Whatever you say.” Dmitry gritted his teeth. One more hour.

“I had a great time with Lolita Friday night.” Sergei smirked.

“Stay away from my daughter.” Dmitry spat out the words.

“She’s going to work for me. Her poker games will make a nice addition to my gambling operations. And I’ve got some pretty girls—”

“I’m warning you.”

“What are you going to do?” Sergei laughed and did a little dance. “Shoot me?”

“If you go near Lolita again, I swear I’ll kill you.” Dmitry wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. Lolita would never work with this scumbag.

“When it comes to protecting his family, Dima is as dangerous as an Amur tiger.” Vanya grinned. “You’d better watch out, Sly.”

“Lolita told me Mom is in town.” Sergei sat in Dmitry’s desk chair. “She’s spending my inheritance, donating to your precious Center. All the more reason I deserve something in return.”

Dmitry’s chest tightened at the mention of his mother.

“Those Kandinsky paintings are rightfully mine, too. That’s why you’re about to hand them over to me. And when you collect the insurance money, you’ll give that to me, too.” Sergei put his feet up on the desk. “You and Mom have stolen what’s mine, and one way or another, I’m going to get it back.”

Dmitry balled up his fists. “Whatever you say.” He checked his watch. The guard should have finished his rounds by now. “We’ve got to move. Timing is everything.” And if I don’t time it just right, then I’ll be the one caught in the trap. Dmitry opened the office door and glanced down the hallway, then waved to his cousin and brother. “Let’s go,” he whispered.

The humming of the air conditioner was the only sound in the galleries . . . along with Vanya’s breathing and Sergei’s leather soles scuffing against the polished floor. Usually, Dmitry found the empty museum a consolation, his own private place of wonder. Today, the deserted foyer was haunted by childhood ghosts. The stillness reminded him of the abandoned hospital. Dmitry had never had the stomach for killing, but it seemed every one of his relatives did—even his darling Lolita. It was the Yudkovich blood. Why can’t she be more like Sabina?

Dmitry inhaled the new construction smell, a mixture of shaved wood and varnish, with an undercurrent of Vanya’s Old Spice cologne. At least his cousin had his back, right?

They’d made it through the foyer and the Goncharova gallery, which always reminded Dmitry of his mother. For reasons he’d never understood, she adored the blocky figures in Picking Apples. The painting had hung in her bedroom, a place he wasn’t allowed to enter. Seeing it now further darkened his mood.

The dimly lit Kandinsky gallery was just up ahead. A creaking sound made Dmitry stop. He held up his hand and listened. It was amazing how many noises a building made. When you truly listened, it was like putting your ear to someone’s belly.

Dmitry took a few quick steps and found himself in front of Composition VII. He nodded at the painting. Sergei snapped open a switchblade and, with too much glee, cut it from the frame. Dmitry cringed. His heart sped up, and he reminded himself it was only one of his copies and not the original. Thank God. It was painful enough watching Sergei deface his painting. He would rather be cut himself than see an original Kandinsky destroyed.

Sergei handed the painting to Vanya, who rolled up the canvas and slid it into one of the cardboard canisters carried in the big cloth bag slung over his shoulder. They moved on to the landscape next. The canvas made a ripping sound as Sergei tore at it with his knife. Dmitry shuddered.

“Shhh.” Dmitry put a finger to his lips.

Sergei stopped halfway around the frame and stood frozen, waiting to see if the guard had heard him.

A couple seconds passed. Nothing. He continued sawing at the canvas until the painting fell free of the frame. He handed it to Vanya, who quietly rolled it and stored it in a second canister.

White Lines put up a fight, and when Sergei tore the canvas, prying it from the frame, it was as if he’d ripped Dmitry’s own flesh.

“Be careful,” Dmitry whispered.

Sergei just shrugged and handed the mangled painting to Vanya. But instead of leaving the gallery as planned, Sergei crossed to the opposite wall. He pointed his blade at Kandinsky’s Yellow-Red-Blue.

Dmitry raced to intercept him. “No!” he stage-whispered as he leapt in front of the painting, blocking the knife. “You got what you came for.”

“Why stop now, brother?”

“You agreed to three Kandinskys. That’s enough.”

“There’s never enough.”

“Remember, Brother,” Dmitry said. “Little pigs get fat. Big hogs get slaughtered.”

“I’m not a farmer—I’m the new boss of one Chicago’s biggest crime syndicates,” Sergei hissed. “And I have an order to fill for as many of these ridiculous paintings as I can get my hands on, so get out of my way.” He stuck the point of the blade under Dmitry’s chin.

Dmitry winced as it punctured his skin. A trickle of warm blood dripped down his neck, but he didn’t move. He would have to kill Sergei to stop him. Either that or change his name again and take his whole family on the run.

Dmitry was tired of running. It was time to face his past head-on.

“Come on, man,” Vanya said. “Let’s blow this bitch before we get busted.”

Dmitry grabbed his brother’s wrist and tried to push the blade away from his throat. “You need me to enter the code for the backdoor.”

Sergei lowered the knife.

“Vanya’s right. We’ve got to get out of here.” Dmitry held up his arms and took two steps away from the painting. “The guard will be making his next rounds soon.” He took another two steps.

Sergei lunged—plunging his knife into the corner of the canvas.

“No!” Dmitry shouted. His voice echoed off the high ceilings and returned to him as if from the far side of the gallery. He threw his arms around his brother’s waist and yanked him backwards. A stabbing pain shot through Dmitry’s thigh and he released his grip on his brother. His hands flew to his injured leg.

Sergei pulled the blade from Dmitry’s leg, wiped it off on a handkerchief, and turned back to the painting. Blood dripped from Dmitry’s hands. It ran down his leg. Still, Dmitry spun his brother around and punched him in the face. Sergei kneed him in the groin, then sent him crashing to the floor with an uppercut to the chin.

Writhing on the floor, nauseated from the pain, Dmitry watched helplessly as Sergei cut Kandinsky’s masterpiece from its frame. He stared up at the red-ringed black dot in its yellow face and thought of Kandinsky’s words:

The sun melts all of Moscow down to a single spot that, like a mad tuba, starts all of the heart and all of the soul vibrating . . . the final chord of a symphony that takes every color to the zenith of life . . .

He staggered to his feet, determined to save the art that gave meaning to his life.

Unarmed, Dmitry didn’t stand a chance against his brother. He pulled at Vanya’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” he whispered. “If we take the paintings, Sergei will follow.”

“Okay, boss.” Vanya helped Dmitry out of the gallery, leaving a trail of blood behind.

Dmitry willed himself not to look back. Panic filled his chest as he thought of Sergei attacking more precious art. If only he could get his brother to follow him to the back door, this nightmare would be over.

The sound of a door opening must have catapulted Sergei into action. Blade in one hand and canvas waving in the other, Sergei flew past Dmitry and Vanya. “Give me the bag,” he shouted at Vanya.

Vanya held out the bag. As loyal as his cousin was to Dmitry, he was more sacred of Sergei. Dmitry didn’t blame him. Sergei pushed his knife-wielding hand through the strap and jostled the bag onto his shoulder. “Move it,” he hissed. “I need the code.”

Dmitry limped as fast as he could towards the back door.

“Stop right there!” A voice came from behind them. The security guard appeared, gun drawn.

With a quick jerking motion, Sergei threw his knife. It whizzed past Dmitry’s head and lodged in the guard’s shoulder. The guard groaned, dropped his gun, and grabbed at the hilt of the knife.

Sergei pulled a pistol from his jacket.

“No!” Dmitry shouted. “No killing.”

“You always were afraid of guns.” Sergei smirked. “This blyad saw us. He has to die.”

“Vanya, open the door!” Dmitry shouted. “Three-three-one. Open it now!”

Sergei lifted the pistol and aimed it at the guard.

Vanya darted to the back door and slapped at the keypad. There was a commotion at the door.

Two uniformed officers flew into the hallway. “Freeze!”

Sergei cocked the pistol. Dmitry lunged.

A deafening explosion reverberated through his skull, and the floor swallowed him up in one violent gulp. The sights and sound of the world receded down a dark tunnel and then disappeared.