"Already in place." The ex-navy SEAL. "Piece of cake."
"Getaway?"
"All prepared." The French daredevil.
"Appropriate attire?"
"Black tie for the men." The woman. "No labels to trace the purchases."
"Invitations?"
"In hand." The Japanese. "Hacking into their computer was child's play. All I had to do was put our false names on the list. The invitations were waiting in the various post office boxes."
"Everyone familiar with the layout?"
"Familiar enough to find our way around that place in the dark." The Libyan.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
The hooded man's breathing was amplified, like a horror movie's soundtrack.
"Any last-minute qualms?"
Laughter. The Colombian brothers.
"Remember! I want no senseless killing! Only take out whoever's necessary. Is that understood?"
"Sure, amigo." The shorter of the two Colombians. "We comprende."
His sibling chuckled.
"You better comprende!"
The Colombian's laugh died in his throat.
"This has taken over a year of planning! Any of you fuck up—you're dead! You comprende that?"
There was silence. Nine heads nodded somberly.
"Last chance for questions. Anyone have any?"
No one did.
"Don't worry." The German. "They'll never know what hit them."
"They'd better not!"
On that note, the hooded figure moved balletically, seemingly without weight or substance, a mere shadow melting into the dark. A minute later, there was the sound of a car door slamming. Then a souped-up engine roared to life.
The German pressed a remote control device. It activated a hidden video camera, fitted with an infrared lens, over in the loading dock.
They waited until the car had driven off. Then the German went to collect the tape. Upon his return, he fed it into the VCR, switched on the monitor, and hit the play button.
On the screen, a New York license plate was barely visible—but visible all the same.
He hit freeze frame.
"You have it?"
"Got it."
The Japanese already had his computer booted up; within half a minute, he'd hacked his way into the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles.
"Now we'll find out who our boss is," he said.
The other eight crowded closely around, eyes on the glowing monitor as his fingers tapped the license number on the keyboard. Within seconds, the information jumped onto the screen:
FERRARO, CHARLES, G
7 JONES STREET
NEW YORK NY 10O14
CHAPTER 62
New York City, November 8-11
The months-long whirlwind was over. Three days before the auction, Burghley's sparkled with spit and polish. The traveling exhibition of highlights from the Becky V collection had returned, none the worse for wear, after having attracted record crowds in Tokyo, Hong Kong, London, Geneva, and Dubai.
Now it was New York's turn, and Burghley's was ready.
Armed security had been tripled.
Airport-style metal detectors were installed just inside the front doors.
Fifty extra video cameras tracked the public areas and corridors.
Each employee, from Sheldon D. Fairey down to the last janitor, had been issued new credit-cardlike identification cards, complete with holograms and photographs.
Every door, from the loading dock to the fire escapes, was under twenty-four-hour guard, and no one was permitted to use any but the main entrance.
At night, newly installed floodlights washed the exterior of the building in bright, garish light.
Outside, patrolmen walked the beat, a high-visibility police presence augmented by slowly cruising blue-and-whites.
For security reasons, the paintings carried no estimated prices, neither in the catalogues nor on the descriptive three-by-five cards affixed to the walls beside them. Three telling words said it all: Estimate Upon Request.
And small wonder.
Never before had such a wealth of treasures filled a single auction house, and in the climate-controlled galleries, the hundreds of spotlit paintings hung in hushed splendor:
Veronese, Bellini, Titian, Rubens, della Francesca. Treasures for the richest of the rich, for those two or three thousand people who could afford them.
Raphael, Leonardo, di Cosimo, Caravaggio, Poussin. Treasures for the handful of museums with deep pockets, and for others which would have to deaccession—sell off lesser works in order to purchase a true masterpiece.
Rembrandt, Diirer, Tintoretto, Pontormo, Boucher. Treasures for investor groups and pension funds, corporate raiders, and crime lords.
Van Dyck, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Ingres, Turner. Treasures for walls in Monaco and Brunei, Riyadh and Belgravia, Sutton Place and Beverly Hills.
The paintings went on display at ten o'clock on the morning of November fourth. Despite the steady cold drizzle, a queue of hundreds— unheard of for auction exhibitions—had already been waiting for hours, and the line outside Burghley's stretched halfway around the block.
For security purposes, only a hundred people at any one time were permitted inside; as soon as one came out, another was allowed in.
The line grew. And grew.
By noon, wooden police barriers had to be erected, closing off one entire lane of Madison Avenue. By afternoon, Port-a-Potties were trucked in.
At five o'clock, the galleries were closed to the general public. For the next four hours, entry was by invitation and special appointment only.
That first day alone, awed thousands traipsed through the showrooms in wonder-struck silence.
On the following day, the crowd waiting to see the exhibition had doubled. The catalogues sold out, and thousands more had to be printed and shipped overnight.
According to news reports, attendance at the Metropolitan Museum had dropped to a trickle. Everyone wanted to see Becky V's treasures.
"Shit!" Robert A. Goldsmith was overheard muttering. "We shoulda charged admission!"
"Dina!" Robert bawled from his bedroom. "Fix my goddamn tie, will ya?"
Par for the course: the Wall Street tycoon was getting dressed.
"Coming, sweetie," Dina called, taking one last, long look at herself in the mirror.
A runway model looked back at her, which was exactly the effect she'd sought. Lips reddish-pink, cheekbones emphasized with five tones of blusher, eyes accentuated with amethyst shadow and dark mascara.
She was wearing drop-dead Ungaro—a pink lace bustier with red and black beads blatantly outlining every seam. A floor-length skirt in burgundy cut-velvet. And a matching, long-sleeved jacket lined in pink silk.
Plus canary diamonds the size of pocket change, and black mesh gloves with little black polka dots.
Delectable.
Sweeping into Robert's room, she found him seated on his bed, cigar clamped between his teeth.
"I hate black tie!" he complained. "Shoulda nixed it while I had the chance."
"Now, now, sweetie," she soothed, taking matters into her capable hands and expertly flipping the two ends into a bow. "You know how handsome you look in black tie."
"Yeah?" He squinted a leer through the cloud of smoke.
"Yes." She patted his cheek. "Now do come, sweetie. You know there's champagne before the auction. How would it look if you aren't there to greet people?"
"I'm coming," he grumbled, heaving himself to his feet.
She adjusted his off-center cumberbund. "Oh, sweetie," she cooed, "I'm sooooo excited!"
"As long as ya don't get carried away. Last thing I need's for ya to start biddin' like crazy!"
"Really, sweetie." She gave him a reproving look. "You'd better not let anyone at Burghley's hear you talk that way." She helped him into his jacket. "There. You're all set. Now button it, and off we go!"
"Your Highness!"
&nbs
p; Karl-Heinz and Zandra were about to step into the elevator when Josef caught up with them, remote phone in hand.
"Yes, Josef? What is it?" Karl-Heinz asked.
"It's Dr. Rantzau."
The director of the clinic outside Augsburg.
Karl-Heinz felt his stomach contract. Please God, he prayed. Don't let it be bad news.
Somehow he kept his face expressionless. "Thank you, Josef."
Karl-Heinz let the elevator go and took the phone. Josef discreetly withdrew.
"Dr. Rantzau?" Karl-Heinz switched to German. "What can I do for you?"
The doctor answered in the same language. "It's about your father; Your Highness." His voice was apologetic.
"Yes?"
"His heart stopped twenty minutes ago."
For a moment Karl-Heinz felt his own heart stop, too. Then it kicked in again, pounding so furiously it seemed intent upon escaping his rib cage.
Zandra was frowning and looking at him. "Heinzie?" she mouthed. "What is it?"
He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "My father," he said quickly.
"Fortunately," Dr. Rantzau was saying, "we were able to revive him. However, he has become so frail and brittle that any further such attempts could well do him more harm than good."
Karl-Heinz took a deep breath. "I understand, Doctor," he said tightly. "From now on, we let nature take its course."
"Oh, Heinzie!" Zandra moaned, clutching his arm.
"Are you certain, Your Highness?" the doctor asked.
"Absolutely. It is not fair to put my father through this. I'm certain he would prefer to die with dignity. I know I would."
"Yes, Your Highness. I quite agree."
"Perhaps I should be there," Karl-Heinz said softly.
"Of course you are welcome to come," Dr. Rantzau said. "But why don't you give it twenty-four hours? He will either pull through, or he won't."
What he's really saying, Karl-Heinz thought, is I'll either be too late, or else he'll continue to hang on.
"You will keep me informed, Doctor?"
"Of course, Your Highness."
"I can be reached at my cellular number." Karl-Heinz hung up.
Zandra was staring up at him, her green eyes wide. "I'm so sorry, Heinzie," she said softly.
"I know," he said quietly. "Not that this should come as any surprise. Still, the shock—"
"I can imagine. Come on, darling." She took his arm and started to lead him back to the apartment.
"No." He shook his head. "It won't matter where I'll be. I'll take the Concorde in the morning." He raised his voice. "Josef?" he called.
His valet hurried out of the apartment. "Yes, Your Highness?"
"Take this," he said, handing him the phone. "Bring me the cellular."
Zandra looked stunned. "You mean... we're still going to the auction?"
"Why not?" Karl-Heinz smiled grimly. "Perhaps it will be a momentary diversion."
In her suite at the Carlyle, Sofia had old August Meindl on the telephone.
"I want you and your son Klaus to go to that clinic immediately," she was saying. "I don't trust the staff. Should my father pass away tonight, you are to witness the exact time of his death."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And you are to call me at once. I will have the telephone with me."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And Herr Meindl?"
"Highness?"
Sofia's voice was quiet with menace. "Do not fail me."
"No, Your Highness."
Sofia broke the connection and stuffed her cellular phone into her beaded bag. With luck, she thought, with just a little bit of luck ...
"Erwein!"
"Ja, Sofia?" He was sitting right behind her on the sofa.
She turned around in a swirl of celadon chiffon and ostrich feathers. "Are you ready? We are leaving for Burghley's."
"I'm ready," he said, getting to his feet.
"You have our invitations?"
"Ja. Right here." He patted his breast pocket.
She cocked her arm to link it through his and smiled. "Who knows? Perhaps I shall even buy a painting. Tonight, I feel like celebrating!"
"Can you believe this turnout?" Kenzie whispered to Arnold from the sidelines. Her eyes were continuously roving the second-floor gallery like an alert hostess's.
"You should see outside," he said. "There are more spectators than at a Hollywood premiere. The only thing missing's the searchlights. Oh-oh. Annalisa's motioning to me. Be right back." He slipped into the crowd of champagne-sipping tycoons, celebrities, film stars, and their spouses and companions.
"Kenzie?" warbled a thin familiar voice.
Kenzie looked around, and there he was: tall, cadaverous, and stooped, with warm topaz eyes regarding her over the tops of his half lenses.
"Mr. Spotts!" she cried. "Oh, but it's good to see you!" She flung her arms around him in a welcoming hug.
"Now, now," he chided. "If you're going to continue calling me Mr. Spotts, I shall have to revert to calling you Ms. Turner."
"Just a slip of the tongue, Dietrich," she said happily, "just a slip of the old tongue. God, Arnold's going to flip when he sees you! Oh, I'm so glad you could make it!"
"How could I possibly stay away?" He gestured around with a palsied hand and smiled. "This is, after all, the auction of a lifetime."
Out front on Madison Avenue, Lord Rosenkrantz was helping Suzy de Saint-Mallet out of his vintage Rolls-Royce.
Next to his Pickwickian proportions, Becky's twin sister looked particularly wraithlike and fragile. She was wearing a black Valentino toga which left one skeletal arm and shoulder bare, and the other completely draped.
"I wish you weren't putting yourself through this, my dear," he murmured, eyeing the crowds of photographers and celebrity-watchers with distaste. "You know you don't have to be here."
Her chin went up. "Nonsense, cheri! Of course I must. This occasion needs that old Cornille-Saint-Mallet-de la Vila magic. People are expecting me to be here. Besides, it's probably good for me. Perhaps this will help give the entire nightmare a sense of closure."
He shook his head. "Anyone else in your shoes would gladly stay away from this circus."
"Perhaps." She took his arm. "But what about yourself?"
He looked at her. "What about me?"
"This cannot be easy for you, either," she said huskily. "I know what Becky meant to you."
He smiled sadly. "Perhaps I am hoping for a sense of closure also."
She patted his hand. "You're a good man," she told him. "You brought Becky so much happiness."
He shrugged. "It was mutual. She made me very happy, too."
"Suzy! Darling!" a female voice called out.
For one split second Suzy's face froze; then she turned up the dazzling public smile she had long ago perfected.
"Charley?"
The word seemed to be snatched from thin air by the mini-receiver in his ear. The transmitted background noise of chatter and billowing laughter was a hivelike buzz. Charley let his roving, trouble-shooting gaze sweep the auction gallery proper, where a few scattered, red plush seats had already been taken. He wiggled a finger inside his constricting shirt collar, obviously uncomfortable in his rented tux.
"Charley?" he heard repeated.
He turned toward the wall to conceal his movements and lifted his right arm to his mouth. "I read you, Hannes," he said into his wrist transmitter.
"There are no problems here in the lobby, Charley. Only people setting off the metal detectors. Twelve were carrying guns, but they had permits. The police chief persuaded them to check their weapons."
"Good. Everything's cool up here, too. I'm going to check out the temporary painting storeroom once more. Over."
He turned around to find a few more seats filled. All men, he noticed now. All in choice—
—strategic?—
—aisle seats.
Why? the suspicious cop in him wondered.
Probab
ly because they don't want to be hemmed in, he answered himself, suppressing a niggling sense of uneasiness. Not that I blame them. I'd want the most legroom, too.
Such an innocent explanation. And how like him to overreact. But then, letting his imagination get the better of him was an occupational hazard, and one not helped any by the heightened security measures.
They were enough to make anyone paranoid.
Better check on the paintings, he told himself.
The seven men in their predetermined aisle seats waited patiently, studiously ignoring each other. Pressure applied in two spots under their seats would release the spring-loaded bottoms. The weapons clipped there could be grabbed in an instant.
All were loaded.
And ready to fire.
Watching the seats fill up with the world's richest and most powerful people, he felt a supercharged rush of adrenaline. They were coming in like lambs to the slaughter—smug and insular, like superior beings who thought they owned the planet. But that feeling would not persist for long, he knew. Soon they would be terrified and cowed. Soon more than a few would soil themselves. And soon, at least a few of them would die.
Chapter 63
The auction was underway. In the rows of plush seats, the secure, satisfied faces of the rich and powerful had given way to bright-eyed tension and excitement.
On the block was Lot 17, The Infanta, Margarita, in Red, by Velazquez. Displayed on the easel of the revolving platform, as well as projected onto the back wall, it had hung above the mantel in Becky V's Fifth Avenue living room, and bidding was hot.
From behind his lectern, Sheldon D. Fairey orchestrated his audience like a veteran symphony conductor, coaxing them to bid higher, higher, ever higher.
"Twenty-two million, one hundred thousand dollars," he announced.
Kenzie, Arnold, and Annalisa whispered hurriedly into their telephones, listened to their absentee bidders, and lifted their pencils like wands.
Fairey acknowledged them with a nod, his eyes everywhere at once. "Twenty-two million, two hundred thousand ... twenty-two million, three hundred thousand—"
Too Damn Rich Page 62