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Authors: James Twining
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off. “He came
here because he needed my help. He needed my help and I
wasn’t here for him.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said gently.
“It’s somebody’s fault,” Tom shot back.
“He’s dead, Tom. There’s nothing you can do for him
now.”
“I can find out who did this,” Tom said coldly, his eyes ris-
ing to meet hers. “I can find out who did this and make them
pay.”
C H A P T E R N I N E
SOHO, NEW YORK
19th April— 8:50 a.m.
Reuben Razi’s gallery occupied the ground floor of one of
Soho’s characteristic cast-iron warehouses, the rusty
scar of its fire-escape zig-zagging up the recently painted
white façade.
Jennifer had yet to see anyone enter the building, but it
was still early. She’d been sitting in her car, parked outside
the model agency on the opposite side of the street, since
seven-thirty, watching the neighborhood slowly stretch,
yawning, into life. The early start had been deliberate. Razi’s
receptionist had told her he would not be in until after nine,
but she wanted to get a feel for the world Razi lived in before
she met him.
According to the file spread across her lap, Razi had fl ed
to the U.S. from Iran after the fall of the Shah. Penniless and
not speaking a word of English, he had begun importing
Middle Eastern antiquities, and from those modest begin-
nings had evolved the small but prosperous fine art business
he ran today. He specialized in the mid-market, selling
second- tier artists and minor works by some of the bigger
Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters—the sort of
piece that was worth hundreds of thousands rather than
5 6 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
millions. It was a formula that seemed to have worked, given
that Razi was able to afford a sprawling compound out in
Long Island from where he commuted every day.
The only slight question mark on his resumé had been
over the sale of a number of paintings reported to belong to
the Fanjul and de la Torre families. As refugees from Fidel
Castro’s regime in Cuba, their art collections had been seized
by the Communists, but some of the more valuable works
had reappeared several years later in U.S. and Euro pean auc-
tion rooms. Razi had been named by an informant as the link
man between the Cuban government and an Italian art dealer
who had arranged for the works to be smuggled abroad. Noth-
ing had ever been proven, of course, and Razi’s name had
been just one of several in the frame. It certainly wasn’t enough
to undermine his credibility or the trust that Lord Hudson so
clearly had in him.
A Range Rover swept past her, its tires drumming noisily
over the cobbled street, the sunlight winking in its heavily
tinted windows. She checked the plates, confirming that it
was the same car that had already driven past twice this
morning. According to the list she had in front of her, it was
registered in Razi’s name.
This time, rather than drive on, the Range Rover drew up
outside the gallery. As the driver’s door opened, a girl ran out
of the building. A man stepped from the vehicle and scurried
inside, Jennifer just catching a glimpse of the back of his
head before he vanished. The girl meanwhile clambered in,
adjusted the driver’s seat and pulled sedately away, Jennifer
guessing that she had gone to park it somewhere. She gave it
a few minutes and then followed the man inside, the fi le
clutched under one arm.
The gallery was a large, open- plan space, every inch of
which had been painted an unforgivably clinical white. De-
spite its size, there couldn’t have been more than fi fteen
paintings on display, small islands of color marooned amidst
the walls’ featureless expanse, each illuminated by a single
brushed- steel spotlight that protruded from the ceiling like a
medical implant.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
5 7
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Razi, please,” Jennifer instructed
the receptionist, holding out her ID.
“He’s in
here because he needed my help. He needed my help and I
wasn’t here for him.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said gently.
“It’s somebody’s fault,” Tom shot back.
“He’s dead, Tom. There’s nothing you can do for him
now.”
“I can find out who did this,” Tom said coldly, his eyes ris-
ing to meet hers. “I can find out who did this and make them
pay.”
C H A P T E R N I N E
SOHO, NEW YORK
19th April— 8:50 a.m.
Reuben Razi’s gallery occupied the ground floor of one of
Soho’s characteristic cast-iron warehouses, the rusty
scar of its fire-escape zig-zagging up the recently painted
white façade.
Jennifer had yet to see anyone enter the building, but it
was still early. She’d been sitting in her car, parked outside
the model agency on the opposite side of the street, since
seven-thirty, watching the neighborhood slowly stretch,
yawning, into life. The early start had been deliberate. Razi’s
receptionist had told her he would not be in until after nine,
but she wanted to get a feel for the world Razi lived in before
she met him.
According to the file spread across her lap, Razi had fl ed
to the U.S. from Iran after the fall of the Shah. Penniless and
not speaking a word of English, he had begun importing
Middle Eastern antiquities, and from those modest begin-
nings had evolved the small but prosperous fine art business
he ran today. He specialized in the mid-market, selling
second- tier artists and minor works by some of the bigger
Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters—the sort of
piece that was worth hundreds of thousands rather than
5 6 j a m e s
t w i n i n g
millions. It was a formula that seemed to have worked, given
that Razi was able to afford a sprawling compound out in
Long Island from where he commuted every day.
The only slight question mark on his resumé had been
over the sale of a number of paintings reported to belong to
the Fanjul and de la Torre families. As refugees from Fidel
Castro’s regime in Cuba, their art collections had been seized
by the Communists, but some of the more valuable works
had reappeared several years later in U.S. and Euro pean auc-
tion rooms. Razi had been named by an informant as the link
man between the Cuban government and an Italian art dealer
who had arranged for the works to be smuggled abroad. Noth-
ing had ever been proven, of course, and Razi’s name had
been just one of several in the frame. It certainly wasn’t enough
to undermine his credibility or the trust that Lord Hudson so
clearly had in him.
A Range Rover swept past her, its tires drumming noisily
over the cobbled street, the sunlight winking in its heavily
tinted windows. She checked the plates, confirming that it
was the same car that had already driven past twice this
morning. According to the list she had in front of her, it was
registered in Razi’s name.
This time, rather than drive on, the Range Rover drew up
outside the gallery. As the driver’s door opened, a girl ran out
of the building. A man stepped from the vehicle and scurried
inside, Jennifer just catching a glimpse of the back of his
head before he vanished. The girl meanwhile clambered in,
adjusted the driver’s seat and pulled sedately away, Jennifer
guessing that she had gone to park it somewhere. She gave it
a few minutes and then followed the man inside, the fi le
clutched under one arm.
The gallery was a large, open- plan space, every inch of
which had been painted an unforgivably clinical white. De-
spite its size, there couldn’t have been more than fi fteen
paintings on display, small islands of color marooned amidst
the walls’ featureless expanse, each illuminated by a single
brushed- steel spotlight that protruded from the ceiling like a
medical implant.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
5 7
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Razi, please,” Jennifer instructed
the receptionist, holding out her ID.
“He’s in
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