Shark and Octopus Read online

  “Skinniest too,” Griffin said.

  “See the other kids in the class? Smiling. Happy for the break from the regular school day. Not our Roberto,” remarked Grace.

  “No. He’s humiliated. Look at his clothes compared to the other kids and it’s not hard to see why.”

  Roberto’s pants stopped about mid-shin. The cuffs were frayed. Roberto wore a short sleeve shirt worn through in places. All the other seventh graders were in long sleeves, even sweaters. Christmas decorations in the back of the classroom placed the time of the picture as December. It wasn’t hard to imagine the twelve year old Roberto, alone in the world, without the money for decent long sleeve shirts or a sweater.

  “Smartest kid in his class,” Grace told him. “Do you recognize your man in white from this picture, Mr. Gilmore?”

  Griffin studied the picture of Roberto Ruiz at twelve. Griffin could not help but sympathize with the child’s plight.

  “No.” He looked some more, before continuing. “No. I honestly cannot see any connection between this tragic, undernourished kid with the sunken eyes and the man who took the key from me in the museum.”

  Griffin remembered the comment Bobby had made about the man in white – Roberto Ruiz – while they were watching the security camera footage from Arazzo Castle. Bobby, with his actor’s eye for a performance, confidently stated that the aristocratic air with which Mr. Ruiz carried himself was merely a role. Bobby believed the man had not been born to wealth and advantages. Bobby, Griffin understood now, was very much right.

  “What do you know about Roberto Ruiz today, Grace? Why is he so important to you that you’re so knowledgeable about the details of his early life?”

  “Most of what we’ve learned comes from Interpol. Some is from CIA sources. There’s quite a lot on Mr. Ruiz. He’s attracted a good bit of attention in a number of countries through the years. Mr. Ruiz is an international arms dealer. He makes his living – and a very good living it is – supplying guns, ammunition, and explosives to various groups around the world.

  “I’ve studied up on him. I’ve learned that the Basque separatists are a steady customer. The IRA once was. The Balkans were good to him. Parts of the old Soviet Union are now. He started out supplying both sides of the Iran-Iraq war. In Ukraine too. Africa? If it weren’t for Roberto Ruiz, Africa might not be the Garden of Eden, but it would surely be a lot less bloody.”

  “How about the United States?”

  “The Mafia has used his services on occasion. He’s not some wild-eyed, idealistic Sixties revolutionary. This is what he does for a living.”

  “That explains the Makarov,” Griffin said.

  “The pistol he pointed at you in the museum,” Grace added.

  “He did more than point the thing at me,” Griffin reminded her. “As I recall, you were a bit surprised he used such an elderly pistol. But you also said the Makarov was often the weapon of choice for those needing to smuggle a gun through security. Which is what he likely did, coming in from Spain. An arms dealer would appreciate the virtue of a Makarov while traveling.”

  “That’s why you’ve done us a huge favor, Mr. Gilmore. We want Roberto Ruiz. We want him out of the arms business. It’d make the world a far quieter place.”

  Next Grace said, “When Senor Ruiz started out in his chosen profession, he had two partners. One Serb and one individual with an organization that was a precursor of Al Qaida. Those gentlemen have not been seen or heard from in many years. It is highly unlikely either of those gentlemen is still among the living. Did they cross him? Cut into his profit? Whatever the explanation, he’s a self-employed entrepreneur these days. You ready for the next picture? It’s a mug shot, the only mug shot ever taken of Roberto Ruiz.”

  *

  Moments later, staring back at Griffin in the mug shot was a man with dark hair, defiant dark eyes, and a gaunt face. The determination in those eyes was unmistakable. He wore an expensive looking creamy silk shirt over a torn white tee shirt.

  “This mug shot was taken in Amsterdam, twenty five years ago. Ruiz was then late thirties. On a tip, the Dutch police grabbed him at the airport. He was arrested and booked. Put in a holding cell. Then he disappeared. The jailer was bringing dinner and found the cell unlocked and empty. To this day no one can explain how Ruiz slipped out of custody.

  “At some point in his escape he must have been injured. He acquired a limp in Amsterdam. He limps to this day, as you know. Recognize your man in white yet?” Grace wondered.

  “Not yet. Almost,” Griffin answered. “The facial features? Sure, I can see that face becoming the face of the man pointing a gun my direction at the art museum. But this guy I’m looking at-”again Griffin glanced at the mug shot, “this younger version lacks the man in white’s confidence and continental sophistication. His aristocratic bearing. That’s still in the future. But it’s on its way.”

  “Know what he was doing in Amsterdam?”

  “Buying or selling guns, I would assume.”

  “No. He did not travel to Amsterdam on business, Mr. Gilmore. This was pleasure. He was there to buy a stolen painting by Van Gogh. By this time Roberto Ruiz had begun his own little art collection. An Impressionist painting here; a Roman artifact there. If what he wanted was for sale, he’d purchase it legally through an intermediary. If the object was not for sale, he would arrange to have it stolen.”

  “But he’s not just another collector, is he?” Griffin insisted. “Those objects he buys? There’re not just a rich man’s equivalent of collecting salt and pepper shakers or whatever, are they?”

  “I’ve reached that same conclusion, Mr. Gilmore. Along the way Ruiz taught himself several languages. He became a gourmand. Extraordinarily knowledgeable about the history of European nobility. This was all part of his journey. Along the way Roberto Ruiz started referring to himself as Roberto de Ruiz.”

  “’De’ is a Spanish honorific. The Germans do the same thing with ‘van’ in their names. It’s a recognition of a certain status.”

  “Clearly,” Grace concluded, “that status matters to Roberto de Ruiz.”

  “The clothes and the culture are a kind of validation,” Griffin noted. “Proof he’s no longer Chico Ruiz from the streets. He’s Roberto de Ruiz. He has escaped his past to become a man of substance.”

  “He’s told people he’s related to Mozart. Since Ruiz’s father is unknown the claim is, I suppose, theoretically possible. Still the claim seems extraordinarily unlikely.”

  Griffin considered the information for a moment.

  “That’s why he has the signet ring from the Order of Maximilian the Younger, isn’t it, Grace? For the same reason he claims to be related to Mozart. He replaces his shameful ancestry with a glorious one.”

  Again, by Grace’s silence Griffin could tell she concurred in his judgment.

  “How did he obtain the ring?” he asked.

  “He got it in Munich. Three years ago. There was a museum display of the life of musicians in 19th Century Bavaria. Sound familiar? The ring was in the museum display one day and gone the next morning. Someone spotted a car leaving the museum late at night. Roberto Ruiz was seen in that car, with his latest acquisition, the ring.”

  “The prostitute’s son who raised himself on the streets of Barcelona has successfully buried his past behind a life of culture, wealth and acquisitions, even a prestigious name.”

  “All of which is built on bloodshed. Don’t lose sight of how that cultured façade was obtained, Mr. Gilmore,” Grace ordered, in her stiffest voice. The giddy cheerleader who had so amused Griffin was gone. “Remember the individual who provided that tip which led to Ruiz’s arrest at the Amsterdam airport?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He was found the next morning floating face down, throat slit in one of Amsterdam’s famous canals. One last picture. Taken six years ago.”

  *

  The picture had been taken at some distance with a high powered lens. Roberto Ruiz was stepping into a car.
He was dressed entirely in varying shades of white: hat, suit coat, shirt, tie, slacks. The only color in his attire was the gold band in his Panama hat. The band glittered in the sun.

  “The years since the Amsterdam mug shot have been kind to him,” observed Griffin. “See how the face is fuller. He’s no longer missing any meals. And that’s haute cuisine not Lean Cuisine he’s been having. The clothes are so much more expensive. Tailor-made, I would bet. That’s the man from the museum.”

  “The car he’s getting into is a Bentley,” Grace said. “It too was tailor-made.”

  “Now that is the man who stole the key from me,” Griffin said. “He has acquired not just the trappings of wealth, but that aura of nobility. You can see it in the picture. I saw it in the museum. I didn’t notice he was six-five, but I couldn’t help but be aware of his sense of power and prestige. It’s understated but unmistakable. Where was the picture taken?”

  “Spain. He has a villa, a compound really, in the Pyrenees,” Grace replied. “That’s where he spends most of his time. That’s Basque country and they protect their arms supplier. If you look closely, you can see guards with machine guns in the background of the picture. He keeps other apartments and houses around Europe – Geneva, Berne, Palermo, Kiev. Those are the ones we know about. He stays under the radar screen in his day job of arms dealer. Uses different aliases; keeps moving.

  “This is as close as anyone has been able to get to him in years—half a mile away. We’ve never been able to get any closer, though we would dearly love to. The Brits would as well; the French and Russians also. There aren’t many issues those countries and Interpol agree on, but taking out Roberto Ruiz is one.

  “The only time he surfaces is for his acquisitions of culture, which is where he lives large. Paintings, artifacts, musical instruments. But only the best.”

  “Only the very best,” Griffin emphasized. “He’s after the very finest musical instrument in the world, Grace. It’s worth fifty million dollars, possibly more. Me, Annie, Bobby, Kit, Saif, and Mike MacGregor, the violin professor at the Peabody all agree: he’s after the 1742 Guarneri del Gesu violin. That’s why he went into the dungeon of Arazzo Castle. He believed the violin might be there. He’s after the 1742 del Gesu.

  ”Alexandra Webb of Future-Ride is as well, though her connection to Ruiz remains uncertain. I believe he’s the buyer; she’s the seller, working on commission, helping him obtain the ultimate proof of his journey from Chico to Roberto de Ruiz.”

  “Then that is how we’re going to take him out, Mr. Gilmore.” The giddy cheerleader’s voice was back, even giddier than before. “We’ll likely never get him in his day job. He’s too cautious, too protected, too experienced. He’s got too many connections in the arms trade who want him to stay in business. I doubt we’ll put him out of business in his line of work.

  “But we might just entice Roberto de Ruiz, your man in white, here, with the chance to obtain the ultimate proof of his cultural achievement – the 1742 Guarneri del Gesu violin.”

  “The violin will be the bait, Grace?”

  “Exactly. The bait is the del Gesu violin he obviously wants so desperately. A violin which, now that I think about it, you do not have.”

  “We’ll have to work around that.”

  Grace plowed on, her chipperness returned in full force.

  “With the violin as bait, we convince him to leave the security of his Pyrenees villa, and come to the United States. And he’ll be arrested. And the world becomes a good bit less dangerous. I’m hoping you will help us. Can we count on you?”

  “Sure.” Griffin started to say something more, then stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to ruin Grace’s mood. What Griffin was about to say, but didn’t, was: The violin won’t be the bait, Grace. I will.

  THIRTY-TWO

  June 26

  8:39 am

  “I’m on my way to class,” Saif told Griffin, whose conversation with Grace had ended seconds before. “You’ll have to make it quick.”

  “Quick it is, then. Go online,” Griffin requested. “Soon as you can after class.”

  “Looking for?”

  “Looking for websites devoted to selling musical instruments. Find the best two or three websites not connected to an official organization. We don’t want to be dealing with the Vienna Philharmonic or whoever. Find the websites that act as electronic bulletin boards. Websites where some people list instruments for sale; others list the instruments they’re looking to buy. Doable?”

  “Doable, certainly.” Saif replied. His voice had the rushed pace of someone speaking into a phone while walking quickly. “Excuse me for a second,” Saif morphed into professorial mode. “Tiffany,” he said to one of his Hopkins student he’d apparently run into, “you misapplied the T Statistic on your last assignment. …Sure. …Just get the revised assignment to me by the end of the week….Don’t mention it. Griffin, you were saying?”

  “Pick out the sites you think are best. They could be the sites which get the most traffic. They could be the sites which appear most professionally arranged. Use your considerable judgment. Saif, I can’t think of anyone more qualified to make this decision.”

  “I’ll do it right after class. Got to jump, Griffin.”

  “Go teach. Get back to me once you’ve made your decision.”

  As soon as Griffin ended the call he headed out the backdoor for Kit’s garage apartment.

  *

  Kit was leaning against the wall, still in his pajamas, sprawling across his unmade bed. The bed was normal-sized and Kit barely filed half of it. He was writing on a pad of paper when Griffin entered.

  “What are you listing?” Griffin wondered.

  “Best TV dads.”

  “Is Rob Petrie on the list?”

  “Needless to say. Whazzup this morning?”

  “Kit, can you pick up a box that would be used to ship a violin? Through the mail, say? Go to Fed Ex, UPS, places like that. We could ask Professor MacGregor at the Peabody. I saw the one he had. I’d rather keep him out of this if we can.”

  “I’ll get on it right now. What do you need it for?”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Can you just get the box?”

  Kit agreed he would. Griffin turned to leave, but stopped.

  “Did Marcia Brady’s Dad make your list?”

  Kit showed Griffin the paper with MIKE BRADY in oversized block letters and underlined, at the very top of the page.

  *

  Next, Griffin called Bobby.

  “Ah, Mr. Lowell,” Griffin began. “Did I wake you?”

  “I’m getting ready for an audition. What’s going on, Griffin?”

  “I wondered if you’d be available later today, post-audition. We’re starting to set the trap. I’m going to ask you to reprise your starring role as Dr. Walter Briggs, legendarily eccentric investor. Dr. Briggs will be making a call.”

  “Sure. I can bring him back for the sequel. Who’s Dr. Briggs calling?”

  “Future-Ride.”

  “I’ve decided to invest with Alexandra Webb and the stunningly distasteful De-BOR-ah Miller?”

  “To the contrary. You are telling the ladies of Future-Ride that you have decided to invest your money elsewhere.”

  “With another company?”

  “With a musical instrument.”

  “Ah. Would that be the 1742 Guarneri del Gesu?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Will you be around later?”

  Bobby promised he would.

  *

  Annie was out; buying nails and chatting with Miss P at Kenilworth Mall, Griffin assumed. How would he stay busy until Saif and Kit got back to him? He cleaned some more shower grouting. He edged the front walk some more. Mostly, he glared at the kitchen clock, furious the time would not move more quickly.

  *

  At 11:30 Saif finally called. Griffin was scrubbing the kitchen floor when his phone rang. He dropped the brush, which tumbled into the bucket of dirtying water
with a plooop sound. By the second ring he’d yanked the phone from his pants pocket.

  Saif told him, “I think I’ve got the best three websites for serious collectors of classical musical instruments.”

  “Can buyers and sellers communicate about offers?”

  “On all three websites. They all have message boards which are surprisingly active. Just yesterday on one site there was a new posting of a Stradivarius offered for sale. Another site has a listing for a trumpet from Paris, mid-18th century. The trumpet’s history – its provenance – is suspiciously vague. There’s a gap during the years of the Second World War. Buyers presumably wouldn’t notice or care. I was only aware of the gap because of everything we’ve learned about the Special Task Force For Music and the man in white’s interest in the 1742 Guarneri del Gesu.”

  “The man in white’s name is Roberto de Ruiz,” Griffin said. He recapped for Saif the conversation he’d had with Grace, where she detailed the story of Chico Ruiz’s rise to become Roberto de Ruiz.

  “You need anything else, Griffin?” Saif asked, in a rush. “I’ve got to go study for my doctoral defense.”

  “Go study. But can I call if we need you?”

  Saif paused, though even the pause was hurried.

  “This is all coming to a head, isn’t it, Griffin?”

  “I think it is, yes.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Call me if I can be of help.”

  *

  A bit later Kit appeared at Griffin’s front door, carrying a Fed Ex-ish box.

  “Looks just like the one Professor MacGregor had in his office,” Griffin said, ushering Kit inside. “About, what, three feet long, one foot wide, and a foot deep. Well played.”