37 Gaultier

He tried to talk his way out of it.

Collinson, so very arrogant, believed he could talk his way out of anything. But not with Anatoliy Zub. Zub hadn't flown all the way from Dubai with six of his best men, now noticeably five, to return to Russia empty-handed, Zub reminding everyone within earshot that his private plane was fueled up and ready once the business was concluded.

Gaultier watched all the action unfold from a sofa in the high-roller suite of the Sam's Town Casino. Zub had rented the entire top floor.

Collinson screamed as Zub started to chop off his ring finger with a very large knife. Zub claimed it was an authentic Bowie knife, like the American hero. The man who died at the Alamo. You know this movie with John Wayne as the Davy Crockett? So much excitement for me in the Moscow theater.

More screaming. The finger was free from Collinson. Gaultier looked up from a copy of the faux leatherbound book listing the so-called amenities of the hotel. Things had gotten so terrible, he contemplated ordering a hamburger from room service and turning in for the night. Why not? With all of Anatoliy's recklessness, the police would be breaking down the doors any minute.

Zub's men had gathered around a poker table, Collinson's blood all over the green felt. His finger lay by a pile of playing cards. Zub stood and nodded to one of his men to bring a fresh towel. "So very messy, Peter," he said. "You bleed like a sticky pig."

"You're wasting your time," Gaultier said. "He doesn't have it."

"What good are you?" Zub said. "You did nothing but talk. This is the only way to deal with a man like Collinson. He lies as freely as he breathes. Would you like a drink?"

"Of course," Gaultier said. "Why spoil such a pleasant evening?"

Two of Zub's men had been wounded at Collinson's house and Collinson, poor Peter, looked terrible. He had been beaten very badly, Zub never what you might call a patient man. Gaultier had heard stories, just rumors really, of Zub's rudimentary dental work with pliers and silver scaler to drive down to the nerve. The situation could have been so much worse than a useless finger. Not even the one he used to shoot.

"Ask Gaultier," Collinson said, wavering on his feet like a boxer in a later round. "He knows I didn't take it. How could I?"

Zub looked over to Gaultier. Gaultier, legs crossed, leaned back into the deep cushions and flipped a page.He was now looking at the catfish plate. Gaultier had never had catfish, but it was promised to be fried a deep, golden brown and served with frites. "I told you, Anatoliy. He can't find it. He has lost his own treasure."

"And how would you know this?" Zub asked.

"He murdered two people trying to find it," he said. "Yes, Collinson has a very rich buyer, but nothing to sell."

"No," Zub said, slamming his fist onto the table. All the cards, poker chips, and the still warm, bloody finger bounced up off the felt. "He has it. He has hidden it up his anus. Who else would know?"

Collinson was seated in a wooden chair with a bloody hotel towel wrapping his hand, his face completely white and eyes dead. "There is a man named Wells who works for the US government but also for an Israeli art dealer named Wolfe. I've heard that he's in Memphis. He must have paid off a woman I trusted and got to the container before us."

"Trusted a woman?" Zub asked. "You? This I do not believe."

Gaultier stood up, laid down the in-room menu, and placed a hand in his right pocket. He looked to poor Peter and then back to Zub. "I know this man Wells," Gaultier said. "Sounds like his doing."

Zub smiled at Gaultier. "We are friends, yes? Like Bowie and Crockett."

"Which one am I?" Gaultier said.

"Who is the one with big knife?" Zub said. He laughed and flashed the blade. "I am Bowie, of course. Of course. Do you wish to see?"

Zub pivoted fast and threw the knife overhanded and hard. The knife stuck perfectly into the wall by a cheap oil painting of a vase of flowers. Everything in the suite festooned with flowers, the sofas, the settées, the bedspreads. Zub walked over and placed his arm around Collinson. "Oh, Peter," he said. "My old friend. What was in this box that was worth so much that you screwed Anatoliy Zub? I came here for weapons. Maybe a special bomb that I would have sold to Taliban. Boom. And now I am hearing of antiques? Now you are a man of culture? What is it, Peter? Rare sculpture? The treasures of the pharaohs? King Tut's mummified penis?"

Peter Collinson turned his head and spit blood onto the floor. His face was very tight with pain. "It's a Bible," Collinson said.

Zub looked to his men and then over to Gaultier before he doubled over with laughter. He laughed for a long while until he righted himself and thumped Collinson hard in the back of the head. "You are a funny guy," he said. "But this is no joke. If you make me laugh more, I send your penis back to your mistress in Paris. Or is it your mistress, Gaultier? I hear they are very much the same."

Gaultier shrugged. Valerie could do as she wished. He did not own her or she him.

"It's a very rare and very old Bible," Collinson said, trying to catch his breath. "There's a man here who is ready to pay millions for it. He's crazy for this kind of thing. If you can get to this man Carson Wells, you'll get it back and we can sell it and be done."

"And who is this Israeli he works for?"

"It doesn't matter," Gaultier said. "If Wells has it, it's probably halfway back to Tel Aviv by now. You're all wasting your time. This is nothing but a secousse de cercle."

"What is that?" Zub said, walking over to pick up his black cowboy hat. The Russian placed it upon Collinson's sweaty head. "What does that mean?"

Gaultier made a stroking-off motion with his left hand. "It means you are shit out of luck, Anatoliy," he said. "Either let this man go or kill him. But this game of yours is over."

"Can this man Wells be reasoned with?" Zub asked.

"No," Gaultier said, scratching at his cheek. "But he can be bought."

Zub nodded, knowing and appreciating that kind of animal, and took the cowboy hat back and placed it on his own head. He started to pace. "You see, in this world there two kinds of people, my friend," he said. "The ones with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig. Ha ha. Eastwood so great. I joke with you. But seriously, you must find this man Wells and bring him to me. I like this idea of this Bible. Perhaps I give it to my mother. She very religious and pray for me for many years."

"This isn't the kind of Bible you read," Gaultier said. "This is a very, very first edition. The kind you put in a museum."

"And worth so much trouble?"

"More than fifty million," Gaultier said. "Easy."