Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

If Shan had not previously seen his photograph he would have never picked Dolan out of the group of men standing at the oversize front window. The billionaire was a short, ill-proportioned man whose tanned athletic face did not seem to belong on his stocky body. He was younger than Shan expected, his trimmed brown hair showing only a few strands of grey. Shan had also expected him to be impatient, even irritable, but as soon as he dismissed the men with him Dolan sank into one of the leather chairs and offered a gracious smile. “You must imagine my surprise to hear my old friend Director Ming had sent a present,” Dolan said, exaggerating his words with lifted brows. “How intriguing. How is the good director?”

“Busy,” Corbett said.

Dolan’s eyes were grey, flecked with a darker color, like dirty ice. They studied Corbett a moment, then aimed at Shan. “You must be the Chinese cop. Nei hou tongzhi, ” he said in Mandarin. How are you, comrade.

Shan did not reply, but reached into the paper sack and produced a small brown box, placing it on the low table in front of Dolan. Dolan studied it for a moment without moving, then looked back at Corbett. “I haven’t had a chance to call your bosses yet, Agent Corbett. I will. I told you the FBI was through here.”

Corbett returned his steady gaze. “But this isn’t business. I’m under orders to escort our Chinese visitor. Oh, my boss did say something about looking into Adrian Croft. Know him?”

When Dolan curled his lips, his face strangely reminded Shan of Colonel Tan’s. “There is no Mr. Croft, Corbett. But, of course, you know that by now. A convenient fiction,” he added in a flat voice. “My security people recommended it. Nothing illegal in taking precautions.” He leaned forward and placed his hands around the box. “This is addressed to Adrian Croft,” he observed, a hint of impatience on his face for the first time.

“Director Ming,” Corbett lied. “I guess he was just taking precautions.”

Dolan opened the box with one eye on Shan and Corbett, obviously suspicious, but just as obviously unable to control his curiosity. When he pulled away the top and the packing material he paused, his brow furrowing. His face went blank for a moment, then he withdrew the beautiful little figure, the four-hundred-year-old saint with the sword in one hand, a lotus in the other, the original of which had been destroyed by Lu and Khan. He sighed, and studied his visitors in silence.

“No doubt your insurers will be glad to hear the news,” Corbett said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dolan shot back. “If you would study the list of stolen items you would know this was not among them.”

Corbett picked up a small pillow adorned with needlework flowers and stared at it. “In my long experience with art thefts, we have learned to verify everything. People with large collections can forget, or have incomplete records. Your wife was showing off your collection last year, Mr. Dolan. I have magazine photos with this piece on your shelves. With, in fact, another dozen or so items not on your own inventory. Museum-quality pieces,” he added pointedly.

“I sold them.”

“Good. Then there will be records of the transactions. The insurance company will ask. We sent them photographs so they would have complete information.”

When Dolan’s eyes flared it wasn’t just anger Shan saw, but something wild, almost savage. “I’ll ruin you, Corbett. You’re in direct violation of orders.”

“I have photos of the same pieces in the museum collection, published the same month as the magazine that showed them here. Even affidavits from the artists in Tibet who made the forgeries for you and Ming,” he lied.

Dolan clenched his fists.

“Enough,” Corbett said, “to keep me from being ruined. Enough for the insurance company to reopen their investigation. Insurance fraud is a serious crime.”

“It had nothing to do with the insurance,” Dolan growled.

“It would be kind of demeaning, for all of us,” Corbett agreed. “but I guess insurance fraud is better than nothing.”

“Do you know how many lawyers I have? I don’t trouble myself with obsessive bureaucrats.” Dolan rose, stepped to a corner cabinet, and produced a bottle of whiskey. “Where is Ming?” he asked in a steadier voice as he poured himself a glass.

“In Lhadrung,” Shan said. “Being interviewed on television, taking congratulatory phone calls from Beijing. He discovered the long-lost tomb of the amban.”

The news seemed to amuse Dolan. “A new exhibit for my new museum wing in Beijing,” Dolan observed with an icy smile, and drained his glass. “Thank you for transporting his gift.” He set his glass down and gestured toward the door. “I am a busy man.”

“There was one other thing from Lhadrung,” Shan said as he rose, just loud enough for Dolan to hear. “An old thangka.”

Dolan froze, then poured himself another whiskey and returned to the low table, sitting, picking up the little deity. “I have learned a lot about beauty by collecting so many years,” he said to the little statue. “It’s all about rarity. If you have the only one of something in the world, it is beautiful no matter what it is. It’s true,” he said in an insistent tone, as if he didn’t expect them to understand it. “Take a Rembrandt, or a Tang dynasty vase. If everyone had one it would not be beautiful, it would be a spoon, a bottle, just more household junk.”

“That makes me sad,” Shan said.

Dolan glared at him, as if Shan had insulted him. “What thangka?” he asked abruptly.

Shan slowly pulled the cotton pouch from the sack, extracted the painting, and unfurled the torn thangka on the table.

For a moment Dolan seemed unaware of anything in the room except the old ragged fragment. He approached it, bent at the knees to examine it. An intense excitement lit his eyes.

“In my library,” he said with a gesture to the adjoining room. “There is a better table for this.” He picked up the thangka and in another moment had it laid out on a broad, dark wooden table in the center of a chamber filled with bookshelves. He pushed a gooseneck lamp over the painting, and paused.

“I should arrange coffee,” he said, and stepped away, returning in less than a minute. “These things surface sometimes,” he observed in a quick, dismissive voice. “The flotsam of the ages. It looks genuine, looks somewhat old. But ruined. Of no real value. There are historians who use such fragments for research. I could give you a hundred dollars for your trouble and see it gets in the right hands.”

As he spoke a woman in a grey and white uniform arrived, holding a tray with cups of coffee and a plate of sweet biscuits. Dolan let her pour the coffee, then, just as he extended one toward Shan, a series of small explosions came from the back of the house. The woman gasped and ran out of the room. Dolan lowered his cup and followed her.

“Gunshots!” Corbett cried. Shan darted out of the room a step behind Corbett.

They ran through a huge kitchen through a rear door to find Dolan on the lawn, shouting at a man who held a shotgun in his hand. It was squirrels, Dolan said moments later as they reached him. The gardener had decided to take action against the squirrels who kept stealing the nuts from some exotic tree.

When they returned to the library, the thangka appeared undisturbed. The maid was cleaning the carpet where the coffee had spilled. A man with a brown beard, wearing a blue sports jacket, stood at a door at the back of the room and nodded at Dolan.

“A hundred dollars,” Dolan said, “Like I said, I could give you a hundred dollars for your trouble, and see that this fragment gets to some scholar.”