The Immortal Game

It had to be close to 9:30, yet Edward Dale could not tear his eyes from the painting. He would be late if he weren’t careful, but the rarity of such a moment kept him at his desk. Not many people had ever seen this painting. An educated historian could probably calculate, to a reasonable degree of certainty, the exact number of people who had seen it in the five hundred-plus years since Rosso Fiorentino had sketched it. “The Red Florentine,” as he was known in the art world, had famously rejected the tenets of the High Renaissance in favor of a sharp, highly emotional departure from classicism.

His altarpiece “Virgin and Child Enthroned with Four Saints” had been rejected by the Florentine church that had commissioned it, and afterward, he had moved to Volterra, where he had begun work on…this. It was just a sketch, black ink on yellowed stone paper, depicting early ideas for the altarpiece known as “The Deposition from the Cross,” which still resided in Volterra. But this was an earlier sketch, and no doubt made when Rosso was still deciding on dimensions and scale. And now it’s sitting on my desk! He passed over it with a magnifying glass, studying the fine details and imperfections.

Five hundred years. Five hundred years it had spent sitting in a vault while ages and history marched on, looked upon by maybe ten people in all that time. It had never been sold, never been cataloged. For all intents and purposes, the only proof the piece existed at all was that Edward was looking right at it. Lord Roth had informed him earlier that evening, when Edward had gone to collect the painting, that anyone who owned it could, in theory, claim the rights of discovery. Ironically, its obscurity made it far more valuable than if it had sat in a museum.

Edward set the magnifying glass back down and stood up to stretch, glancing at the clock as he did so. 9:25 pm. He needed to leave now. Despite having it in his possession, the painting was not his, and he had been entrusted to deliver it by ten o’clock.

He grabbed the secure PVC tube the painting had been stored in and set about rolling the painting back up. Ordinarily, such an old piece would not be rolled up and stuffed in a tube like a construction blueprint. But it had been agreed on by the powers that this was far more inconspicuous than carrying around a frame covered in bags. And besides, the painting would only be in this state for a couple of hours if all went well. After that, any potential damage was someone else’s problem.

With the painting secured, Edward called for a cab before he dressed to go out. It was quite cold, so he selected his warmest coat from the closet and his pair of warm rain boots. He was dressed in five minutes, slinging the tube containing the priceless work over his shoulder, and made his way to the back door. He checked the camera feeds to ensure the coast was clear as he waited for the cab. His phone buzzed five minutes later to tell him the driver was nearby. He exited through the back, locking the door behind him as he did so.

He reached the adjacent street behind his shop and found his black cab waiting for him. As the city lights began to blur past, Edward considered the case between his knees that held something so…priceless. If there even was such a thing.

In his mind, priceless was an overused marketing term on par with worthless in most practical respects. This painting was a perfect example. All its value was tied up in the fact that it was unknown. The older it got, the more this fact weighed on its value. However, the moment any owner decided to exploit this fact, to claim discovery and reveal it to the world, its value in being unknown would vanish. It would still be valuable but could never command the same potential price again. Most items described as priceless were usually just rare or unique. And all of them had been sold at one point or another, and always for a firm price.

And now, he would exchange this “priceless” artifact for something probably equally valuable, even if he had no clue what it was. Lord Roth had told him to expect something that would fit in a briefcase, nothing more. This blind spot in his knowledge bothered Edward the most. Whoever was being sent to receive the painting was apparently someone qualified to verify its authenticity. But Edward was to accept whatever was offered in exchange, without incident, and bring it back to Lord Roth. Edward disliked feeling like some basic courier, even if it was for someone as important as Roth.

It had been Edward’s expertise in Renaissance art that had attracted Lord Roth’s attention all those years ago when Edward was still a graduate student. And he’d impressed all the other members of the lord’s “social club” in the same fashion. He was an educated art historian, just the sort of person The Tower Club Art Society and its older members “collected” to boost their prestige. The Club’s charter had laid out a clear mission to preserve the art and artifacts of history for the benefit of all humankind. For wealthy members with no knowledge of that world but coveting the potential boost to their prestige nonetheless, recruiting men like Edward was a reliable means of contribution.

At least, that was how it had seemed to Edward in the beginning. In his two years as an “associate member,” his education had not been useful in the slightest when it came to his activities with the Club. Which wasn’t to say there hadn’t been perks to his membership. Lord Roth was unlike many of the club’s regular members, intellectual snobs bolstering their vanity. For one, he had real connections to universities, museums, and private collectors around the globe, many of whom were also Club members. More importantly, he was the club’s longest-serving president in over a century. To someone like Edward, Lord Roth’s invitation to join his “little social club” had seemed filled with opportunities to rub shoulders with the titans of his field. And now he was doing…this.

The car had entered a corporate park. At this time of night, the entire place was empty save for a garbage truck making the dumpster rounds. Eventually, they stopped in front of a new building still under construction. A chain-link fence surrounded the property, and through the gate, Edward could see the service door Lord Roth had told him to look for.

“Here, sir?” asked the cab driver. Edward could see him looking around, obviously thinking he’d gone the wrong way to be delivering anybody to someplace so devoid of people.

“Yes, thank you. Here you go.” Edward handed the man two twenty-pound notes, which more than covered the fare. The man gave a slight tip of his hat as Edward started to get out. Checking that he had everything, Edward closed the door and approached the driver’s window, which rolled down as he did.

“Long night?” Edward asked.

“Not too bad,” the man replied, still looking around as if he was missing something.

“If you’re not on another fare, I’ll need a ride back in about twenty minutes. I’ll make the wait worth your while.” As he said it, Edward held out another twenty-pound note for the man, who took it with some hesitation.

“Go get yourself some coffee, good man. It could be a long night for both of us.” The driver nodded again and drove off. After a moment, Edward stood alone outside in the cold night air. The only sound was a gentle breeze and the drone of distant car tires on the highway. Except he probably wasn’t alone. Not truly.

His suspicion was confirmed when he approached the fence gate and checked the padlock, only to discover it was already open. It seemed that whoever he was meeting had already arrived.

Edward passed through quickly and closed the gate behind himself. He saw the padlock sitting open on the fence and pocketed it. He didn’t want to come back and find himself locked in. He went through the service door and into the offices beyond.

The building was in various stages of completion. The work was close to completion on the ground floor, with plastic sheets protecting the newly installed carpet, and the lingering odor of fresh paint was detectable throughout. The doors to the offices also appeared new as they had not yet had their locks and handles installed. Edward went through the dark hallways, past the cafeteria still awaiting its appliances, and into what would eventually be the lobby. Right now, it seemed to be acting as a sort of parking lot for the various lifts used by the paint crews. Buckets of paint and rolls of plastic were stacked up around the walls. Edward noted that the large front windows were obscured by a cloudy privacy film, which showed nothing of the outside save the glow of distant streetlights. Without a preamble, a Glaswegian-accented voice pierced the silence.

“Progress can be a lonely venture into the night.” Edward felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But his memory registered this as the passphrase to be offered by his contact, and he choked back the urge to flee. He had known he wasn’t the first to arrive after all.

“Yet progress itself provides its own light,” Edward replied, turning as he did so. He saw the man’s silhouette standing in the hall he had just come down. He had been watching, waiting to see what Edward did. The man stepped forward and reached for something on the wall.

“Let there be light,” the man said, and the lobby lights came on with a click. The room glowed with fluorescence, and it took Edward’s eyes a moment to adjust before he could get a good look at…

“Mr. Eckhart?” asked Edward, trying not to look as surprised as he probably sounded. Leonard Eckhart paused when he saw Edward properly. He, too, seemed surprised by his “contact”.

“Mr. Dale, what a surprise.” Eckhart stepped closer and offered his hand, which Edward shook after hesitating.

“I had no idea a man of your distinction had such tastes for the cloak and dagger stuff,” Edward replied, still trying to find his footing.

“This coming from a fellow ‘tique man? Whereas I should have guessed you’d be in something like TCAS. Now I know how you managed to get that premises on St. James’ Square Park, eh?” Eckhart chuckled. Edward was at a loss. Leonard Eckhart was the director of the Chamberlin Auction House, a contemporary rival to Christie’s. But he wasn’t here to meet an auction house director; he was here to meet a courier about a possibly illegal exchange of a rare antiquity. And now, he had to wrestle with the realization that the two were the same while keeping his focus on the job he was there to do.

“I can’t say there’s a direct connection,” said Edward, “but I can assure you I wouldn’t be somewhere like this at any time of night if there weren’t some benefits.”

“Well, it played a part, no denying that. But a leg up is not the same as an elevator. Seems neither of us is above doing someone else’s dirty work, however well paid.” Eckhart set the briefcase he was carrying on the lobby counter. “And besides, who doesn’t like to feel like James Bond every once in a while.” Recognizing the gesture, Edward slung the tube containing the painting off his shoulder and stepped forward to place it on the counter as well.

“I’m usually content to get that feeling in the airport like most people.”

“To each his own,” said Eckhart, the warmth returning to his smile. “Now, I understand you have something quite divine to show me, yes?” Now, it was Edwards’s turn to smile. Intrigues aside, art was his passion, and he knew Eckhart was the perfect man to verify its authenticity.

“Actually, yes, I know you’ll love this.” Edward began to open the tube once again.

“Who is it,” asked Eckhart, unable to hide his curiosity.

“Rosso Fiorentino, and it’s a prototype. Never before seen, totally unknown.” Edward gently slid the paper roll from its tube and unfurled it. Eckhart was momentarily speechless.

“Christ on a cracker, that’s a real beauty,” he finally said, leaning in as close as he dared and holding his breath as he did.

“I am curious,” asked Edward, “What were you expecting?”

“Just something old. Renaissance period, at least. But this is rather unique. One of a kind, no doubt about that.”

“Believe me, I knew that the moment I saw it,” said Edward, moving to secure the painting again. “I’m quite surprised the Club was willing to part with it, and in such secretive fashion. I only assume that whatever we’re getting in return is worth it.” He eyed the briefcase resting next to Eckhart, desperate to know what was inside despite knowing he probably never would.

“Aye, well, there’s the rub. I have as much an idea of what’s in here as you do. It’s a coded lock, and I have not been given the combination. Nor you, eh?”

“No, nor I,” said Edward. That was strange.

“I know what’s inside the case,” came a third voice.

Both men froze in place, trying to place the location of the voice. But the empty halls gave everything an echo that made doing so impossible. The gun click, however, caused both men to wheel around and face the newcomer. A man with greying black hair and a pithy smile appeared from the darkness of the adjacent hall, his gun leveled directly at Eckhart. Edward recognized the man.

“Mr. O’Neill? Francis O’Neill?” Edward asked, once again trying hard not to betray his confusion. Francis O’Neill was, like Edward, an associate of Lord Roth, but they had chatted at club functions on more than one occasion, and he had seemed like the sort of man who would drop any gun he was handed out of embarrassment. “What are you doing here?” O’Neill did not move.

“Well, Edward, I’m afraid I’m here to relieve you of your duty. A new directive from Lord Roth says you’re to take off, leave this whole thing to me.” As he spoke, O’Neill’s eyes remained fixed on Eckhart. Eckhart was standing just as still, his eyes not moving. But Edward also noticed his hand slowly closing around the strap of the painting’s case.

“No, no, Len,” said O’Neill, raising his gun higher to emphasize the order. “You leave that right where it is. And keep those hands nice and visible.”

“Francis, what are you talking about, new orders?” asked Edward. “Lord Roth was pretty clear this was a simple job. No drama or noise.”

“Don’t be stupid, Edward,” said Eckhart. “He’s not following orders; he’s on his own job. Here to rob us both and leave us holding the empty bags.” Edward noticed Eckhart’s other hand grasping tightly around the handle of his briefcase.

“Not so. I’m here to preserve our assets, Eddie. Your friend here is a thief who runs with a whole gang of thieves, and they have no right to that painting or the little ‘treasure’ in that case. So, I’ll be taking both back to Lord Roth myself and getting the explanation I’m owed. Now set them down and back away.” But Eckhart remained where he was.

“If your lot wants to cancel the deal, that’s their choice,” he said. “But I’ll not walk back empty-handed. No painting, no case. You decide what happens next,” O’Neill chuckled.

“Len, I decided how this would go before I walked in, and you know it. There was only ever going to be one outcome,” said O’Neill, taking careful aim.

“Now hold on, Francis….” However, Edward did not have time to finish the sentence. A loud crack emanated from O’Neill’s silenced weapon. Having sensed the impending attack, Eckhart was able to twist his body just in time. It was not enough to dodge the bullet, but the split-second decision ensured that it lodged in the back of his shoulder rather than his chest. Edward watched as Eckhart allowed the momentum to spin him around in one fluid motion, flinging the painting in its case directly at O’Neill. The case hit O’Neill directly in the hand that held the gun, knocking it sideways and sending another loud crack echoing through the halls. This bullet struck a bucket, sending viscous white paint oozing onto the floor.

It only took O’Neill a second to recover, but it was all Eckhart needed to close the gap. Before O’Neill could aim, Eckhart was on him. He grabbed the gun with both hands and yanked up, trying to wrench it away. O’Neill began to try and back away, trying to break Eckhart’s grip. But Eckhart stayed right with him, gripping the gun as tightly as possible. Two more cracks rang out in the struggle, sending bullets straight into the ceiling. Edward stood frozen. He had not been prepared for anything like this. He was torn between his duty to help O’Neill and his desire not to see anyone get hurt. After all, Eckhart had been in the right; O’Neill had shown up and caused this sudden bout of chaotic violence.

As the struggle for the gun continued, Eckhart pushed against O’Neill hard, causing the other man to walk backward. As he did, Eckhart hooked one of his legs forward and behind O’Neill’s, sending both men crashing into another stack of paint buckets. These toppled over with a thunderous noise, spilling gallons of paint everywhere, including all over O’Neill and Eckhart. Edward looked around for something, anything he might be able to use to end the fight quickly. But there was nothing that seemed useful.

“Stop!” he yelled uselessly. The two paint-soaked men continued to wrestle on the ground. O’Neill was able to free one arm and raised it up over his head before jabbing it hard into Eckhart’s wounded shoulder. Eckhart yelled in pain, and O’Neill used the moment to brace his feet against the man’s chest and kick hard. Eckhart went flying, landing hard on his back. But in a flash, Edward saw that the gun was now in HIS hand. He became suddenly aware of something cold and metal in his pocket. The padlock! Edward had less than a second to choose his next move.

Eckhart had the gun, but his back was now towards Edward. Moreover, he was still stumbling back to his feet and was trying to switch the gun to his shooting hand. Edward sprang into action. Gripping the padlock in his pocket tightly, he struck Eckhart in the back of the head as the man raised the gun. Two cracks and all three men dropped to the floor. Edward rolled Eckhart over to check that he was still breathing.

Good.

He looked up to check on O’Neill. The man was lying on his back, arms splayed and unmoving. Edward stood up and slowly approached.

“O’Neill?” he asked but got no answer. As he reached the body, his horror was confirmed. A black hole in O’Neill’s forehead was surrounded by a web of blood streams that dripped onto the paint-soaked floor, turning it a sickening shade of pink.

Dead.

Edward felt the blood drain from his face. It had all gone so horribly wrong and so fast that he could not fully recall what had just happened. He looked around at the two bodies on the floor, one dead and the other unconscious. He saw the painting and the briefcase lying on the floor, soaked in paint. And most worryingly of all, he saw the headlights of a car now shining outside the window. When a shadow passed in front of the beams, clearly approaching the front doors, Edward felt panic rise in his spine.

He looked around and saw the gun lying on the floor near one of the lifts. With barely three hours of range time, he wasn’t confident in his marksmanship. But the situation merited an extremely cautious response, and Edward refused to allow himself to be caught unawares anymore tonight. The shadow approached the window and appeared to be…waving at him?

Then Edward realized that with the lobby lights on, he would appear as a dark shadow standing in a well-lit lobby through the privacy film. Pretending not to be here was not an option. Whoever it was, there was a good chance they were from the Tower or the Collective and were there to clean up the aftermath. But if that were the case, why would they be waving?

“Hello?” came a vaguely familiar voice from outside the window. “Black cab for you, sir!”

Edward blinked twice while processing the information.

What the fuck was he going to do now?