by Noah Charney
“It’s back again, sir. Something’s still moving in the utility room.”
“Keep trying to contact the guards. I don’t like that we can’t see…wait a second. What could cause both communication and video surveillance to…Call up the CC-TV from the disappearance again.”
Avery clicked keystrokes, as menus rose and fell on her computer screen. The monitors showed security guards in several darkened rooms of the museum. Then seconds passed, and the figures disappeared.
Avery scrolled forward and back, causing the guards to materialize, and vanish, in the monitors.
“Do you see that? Let the video continue.”
“I’m right with you, sir.”
The image blinked back and forth. There it was again.
Room 12. A dull cast of light from behind the doorway. Then a guard emerged.
But the light was still behind the doorway.
“The light from the guard’s…”
“I see it, sir. The light from the guard’s torch emerges from the hall. The guard turns into the room, then disappears, but the light is still in the hall. The video’s been looped.”
“How the hell did someone do that?”
“The system must be broken. That’s why we’ve lost radio contact, too. Someone’s inside our computers.”
“Well, get them out!”
Cohen tried to breathe deep, remain calm under pressure, respond as he had been taught by his professional idol and old boss, Dennis Ahearn, director of security for all of the Tate museums. Ahearn runs an impregnable fortress. Do what he’d do, that’s the ticket. Cohen crossed to the back wall and reached for the telephone. A direct line to the police.
“If we’re cracked and cut off at our eyes and ears, then that means someone could be inside…”
“…the utility room.”
“But why the utility room? They could rip off any of the paintings, if the guards are…Oh, God…”
“We don’t know that yet, sir.”
“I don’t care, I’m calling in the police.” Cohen put the phone to his ear. He clicked the receiver again, then again.
“It’s dead.”
The auction continued at its healthy clip. Lot 27 was approaching, and that was of interest. Delacloche looked around the room, as lot 26 crept up to the horizon. She rubbed her forefinger against her thumb habitually, and glanced down at her catalogue, creased open to the page. Lot 27. An all-white painting, school of Kasimir Malevich, estimate twenty to twenty-five thousand pounds. It looked, at a glance in the catalogue, exactly like the £4–6 million real Malevich. But then, Malevich had painted many similar white-on-white canvases. And all-white paintings have little room for variation.
It was listed as “school of Kasimir Malevich.” The vocabulary of the tentative appraisal. It was so feared to mislabel, particularly to deem something the work of a famous artist, thereby increasing interest and value and status, and have it turn out not so, that auction house experts and museum curators had developed a specific lexicon of uncertainty.
“School of…” meant that the work was influenced by the named artist, in this case Malevich, and perhaps the work of a student copying the style of a master. “Circle of…” would mean that the style approximated that of Malevich, but for various reasons was not considered to be his work. “Attributed to…” would have meant that someone, at some point, thought that this painting was by Malevich but, for some reason, the Christie’s expert was not comfortable or certain with the attribution, but didn’t have a specific alternative to propose. “Style of…” meant that it looks like a Malevich, smells like a Malevich, but who the hell knows. There were variations of these terms, but the principle remained steady: don’t cry wolf.
“Now I have on offer a lovely painting, lot twenty-seven, listed as Untitled: Suprematist White on White. This is school of Malevich, ladies and gentlemen, no doubt inspired by the major work that we have upcoming. If you prefer not to spend in the millions, you can always buy this beauty and no one will know the difference. At least, we promise not to tell. A very nice approximation of the artist’s work, a very large piece for the period. You get a lot of paint for your money, ladies and gentlemen. I have an opening bid of eight thousand pounds. Do I hear nine? Anyone? Nine? Thank you, nine to the gentleman in the middle. Nine-five with me. Ten? Ten, thank you, sir. Ten-five. Eleven? Eleven, thank you. Eleven-five…”
The bidding was between an absentee bidder and a gentleman in a black suit with a red tie seated in the middle of the room. Delacloche did not recognize him. Each time he bid, he was raising his paddle. She eyed him suspiciously, then widened her gaze. There were two other men, similarly dressed, sitting beside the bidder. One was on a mobile phone, and whispering between it and his bidding partner. The one on the other side was scanning the room and kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. No one else seemed interested in this bastard painting. But these businessmen-types seemed bent on it.
Delacloche turned her attention to the painting on the maroon wall, indicated by the apron-clad porter. It was very large, perhaps the same size as the Malevich Society White on White that was missing. Yes, it was the same size. That means that it must have been directly inspired by the Society’s painting. And now it shows up in the same sale. That’s interesting…and a little odd.
Auctions were not meant to function like museum exhibitions, juxtaposing works of art in a scholarly manner as points of comparison. An auction was haphazard. There would be several per year featuring each category of work: books and manuscripts, Old Master paintings and drawings, silver, African, jewelry, furniture and decorative arts, sculpture, Victorian, British and Irish, and so on. Christie’s would accumulate pieces of a type, in this case Russian and Eastern European paintings and works on paper, and auction them all in one sale. So, it was simply luck if two paintings that seemed to be connected to one another appeared in the same sale. Perhaps they came from the same seller? Maybe. Or…
But why were these businessmen, clearly inexperienced in bidding, so interested in this piece? It would not be strange at all if there were just one of them. That could be explained. A new buyer who fancied acquiring a bit of culture, but new to the auction world. Moneyed but uncultured, perhaps. Maybe he even misread, and thinks this is a real Malevich. But the three of them sitting together, all cut of the same cloth, and on a mobile phone while bidding? They’re not bidding for themselves.
“Seventeen-five with the gentlemen. I’m out, and we have seventeen-five on the floor. Lovely work here, ladies and gentlemen. You get a lot of white paint and canvas for your money. Excellent kindling in the winter months. I am selling for seventeen thousand five hundred pounds. Sold.” The hammer cracked down. The businessman on the mobile phone whispered encouragingly. Then he clicked his phone shut.
“Our next lot…”
Two of the businessmen, the bidder and the fellow on the phone, now got out of their seats and moved toward the back of the room, sliding through the accumulated crowd. Delacloche watched them disappear down the stairs. If they were asking about pickup and payment, they would have done so at the desk of the anteroom, not gone downstairs. More lots fell to bidders.
“Lots number thirty-one through thirty-three have been withdrawn. We therefore come to lot thirty-four, an anonymous Suprematist painting with an…unusual array of colors.”
My God, that’s hideous, thought Delacloche.
“How much am I bid for this Suprematist work with an…interesting color combination? Can I start at fifteen hundred? Fifteen hundred. May I see your paddle, sir?”
What’s he doing? Delacloche now noticed that the third businessman, the one still in the room, was looking harried and had tried to bid on this repulsive Suprematist painting. Her expression hardened. But one of his friends had the paddle. He was looking frantically for them, over his shoulder. Without the paddle, he was not a registered bidder.
“You must have a paddle to bid, I’m afraid. Anyone? I cannot sell for less than fifteen hu
ndred. Thank you, sir!” The auctioneer betrayed his enthusiasm, as he pointed to a gentleman standing at the back of the room. Delacloche turned around to see who it was.
“Anyone else? Anyone? I am selling, then for fifteen-hundred pounds to the gentleman at the rear…”
A noise at the back of the room. Delacloche turned to look, as the two missing businessmen rushed into the auction room, their compatriot inside waving at them frenetically.
“…and sold.” The hammer cracked down. The businessman, now with paddle in hand, raised it violently in silent protest. “I’m sorry, sir, the hammer had fallen. Sold for fifteen hundred. Lot thirty-four…”
The businessmen spun to the back corner, and fixed eyes on the buyer. He was graying, dark-eyed, and rough-shaven, in an open collared white dress shirt, blue sport jacket, and jeans. His face was down in his catalogue. He noted in pen. Sunglasses clipped on brown alligator belt, mobile phone bulge inside jacket pocket, ring-less fingers evenly tanned, oversize silver watch on wrist. The businessmen remained at the back of the room, eyes searching, for many minutes.
“Lot thirty-nine. The one you’ve all been waiting for. I’m pleased, ladies and gentlemen, to offer Suprematist Composition White on White by Kasimir Malevich. A substantial work, thought to be the first of his series of white-on-white canvases. This is the quintessential Suprematist artwork, of magnificent significance and on a magnificent scale, property of a gentleman. I’ll start the bidding at seven hundred thousand. Do I hear eight? Thank you, madam. Nine? Nine with Caroline, on the phone. One million. Do I…thank you. One million in the room. One-one? One-one. One-two, thank you. One-three on the phone. One-four. One-five. One-six. One-seven. One-eight? Thank you. One-nine…”
Delacloche stared at the painting being sold. That is not the Malevich Society painting, she thought, and it is not even the painting pictured in the catalogue. She was a bit frantic, trying to keep track of all of the bidders. Someone’s on the phone. I see a woman in the middle, in pink. Gentleman at the side, the one with the beard. Another at the back to the left. There are two near the front…
“Three million-four? Thank you. Back on the phone. Three-five? Three-five. Three-six. Three-seven. Three-eight? Three-eight. Three-nine? Caroline is out. And it’s in the room with you, madam. Do we have four. Four? And…thank you, sir. Four-one? Yes, with you, madam, back to you. Four-two. Four-three? Four-three. Four-four. Four-five. Four-six…”
Delacloche’s mind ran hard. Looks like it’s down to two, now. Delacloche’s eyes swung back and forth across the room, in an effort to keep up with the calm, runaway-train pace of the auctioneer’s words.
“…Five-two. Five-three. With you, madam. Do I have…thank you, sir, five-four. Five-five with the lady. Five-six. Five-seven. Five-eight. Five-nine. Six. We’re at six. Madam, would you like six-one? We’re at six. Would you like six-one? It is up to you, if you want it for six-one. I have an outstanding bid for six with the gentleman. Do…I…have…six-one? Six…thank you, madam. Six-two. Sir? Very well, six-three. Six-three with the lady in pink. Six-four? Sir? No? You’re sure. The gentleman is out, then, and it is with you, madam, at six-three. Anyone else? I am selling, then, to the lady, at six million three hundred thousand pounds. Going once. And…”
“The phone line is dead, Avery! And all the guards…”
“Sir! We’ve got movement again in the utility room.”
“To hell with this. I’m going down there.”
“Sir, if the guards are…”
“I know. But fuck all if I’m going to stay locked up in here, like a bloody inmate in my own castle.”
Cohen unlocked the black steel cabinets that were bolted to the wall. The doors swung open.
He pulled on a bulletproof vest and strapped a gun holster to his thigh. He took a shotgun from the rack and pocketed some rounds.
“This fucker doesn’t know who he’s messing with.”
“Take this earpiece.” Avery handed Cohen a slim black headset. “This will let us communicate directly, not via the computer.”
Cohen looped the communicator behind his ear, and the slender mouthpiece ran along his jawline.
“Avery. I want you to cut the security lights.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“The hell yes, I’m sure.” Cohen reached into the cabinet, and pulled out night-vision goggles.
“That’s a good idea, sir.” Avery returned to the computer.
This museum, like many others, employed low-powered red toe-kick lights to help guards navigate at night. This saved energy and limited the exposure of the paintings to harsh light. With a keystroke, the red lights that ran along the walls throughout the galleries hummed into darkness. The museum sat motionless, with only the blue of evening filtered in through the louvers and the windows.
“Lock yourself in, Avery. Don’t open this door again.”
“Yes, sir. Good luck.”
“Fuck it.”
“Yes. Fuck it, sir.”
Cohen lowered his night-vision goggles and cocked his shotgun. Avery unlocked the door. Cohen exited and shut the door behind him. The metal bolts thundered back into place, as he stood in the hallway, absolutely without light.
CHAPTER 11
The hammer cracked down for the last time.
The auction continued. There was no tradition of putting the most expensive pieces near the end of the sale. It wasn’t quite so theatrical. Nor would they be put first. Let bidders get into the flow, warm to the sale. Then, somewhere between the twentieth and the fiftieth lot, slide in the mother lode. The one-million Miró, the three-million Mondrian, the four-million Modigliani, the six-million Malevich, the seven-million Magritte, the eight-million Matisse, the fifteen-million Manet, the twenty-million Monet. The prices were arbitrary.
But, as Delacloche thought to herself, I always like to go through museums and play the pricing game. Can you quantify genius? Of course. You can quantify anything. But why does four million come to mind when I think of a Modigliani, and twenty million for a Monet? You begin to estimate by osmosis. I must have, some time in the last year and a half, seen or heard of a Modigliani selling for four million. But then, didn’t I also hear of one of his paintings selling for eight?
Buying continued, but attention was focused on the lady in the pink suit and pearl necklace, with her whitening-blond hair done up in a bun with the chopsticks sticking out. Delacloche had recognized two of the bidders immediately. At the end of the field, it had come down to one private buyer and a museum. The private buyer, a collector with wide-ranging tastes who bought regularly, was of wealth and society, and he knew his art. The Swiss superlawyer Thomas Frei. The ideal Christie’s client, from social, economic, and scholarly perspectives. As was the museum.
The museum was probably buying with private funds, as well. But in such a situation, Christie’s employees will inevitably cheer for the museum. It meant that they, and the rest of the world, could enjoy the work at any time, that it would be cared for and preserved. That’s not to say that it would be mistreated in a private collection, but chances are that the owner would not allow it out on loan, not for years, at least, so it might never be seen again.
Christie’s needed the highest hammer price possible, and it all too often fell to uneducated private hands, so this purchase by a museum was a special treat. And it was bid upon by a known character in the London art world.
Elizabeth Van Der Mier, director of the new National Gallery of Modern Art, right here in London. Interesting, Delacloche thought. The museum director bidding herself, on behalf of the museum. With whose money, I wonder? Delacloche was straining to see through the gooseflesh of heads, to the well-kept woman in pale pink.
She was surprised, trying to piece things together. The Malevich White on White is an important work. It will drum up a lot of business for the museum. No doubt they’ll have a special welcome exhibit for it in the next year, probably quite soon, to capitalize on the publicity. It tends to only be private
buyers who don’t want others to know what they’ve bought, except their society friends, of course. In this case, the more publicity, the better.
Her thoughts were interrupted when an old Christie’s friend greeted her. Delacloche half-smiled and conversed in hollow phrases, as lot upon lot washed by. It was Jenny, or was it Jackie? From some department or another. Delacloche seized the opportunity.
“Tell me,” she said, “was the authenticity of that Malevich, lot thirty-nine, ever brought into question?”
Her former colleague looked at her, smiled, and whispered beneath the din.
“It’s in no one’s interest to find the work inauthentic or incorrectly attributed. But, frankly, it looks right. All of us, we’ve noted that it just feels right. And the provenance is flawless.”
“Isn’t it odd for the provenance to be so flawless?”
“It is, I suppose. But nobody wanted it to prove false. That’s the real point. And it didn’t look or feel wrong. The experts here, they trust their judgment based on whatever you’d like to call it, vibes or senses, over anything more scientific. You recognize authenticity like you recognize your friends. After you’ve seen enough, these artists and their offspring become more your family than your family. People can be tiresome.”
“Did no one question the provenance?”
“They had a lot to look at, in preparing this sale, I think. Why?”
“Nothing.”
“So if they get the vibe, and the provenance looks this good, then we thank our lucky stars and move on to the next piece. But you know all this, don’t you, Geneviève?”
“Think the museum will do its own investigation?”
“Not unless there’s a damn good reason. They are more screwed than anyone, in the public eye at least, if they take home their six-million-quid Christmas present, and find that they’ve overspent by £5.95 million. Christie’s will deliver it within the week. They’ll give it a quick once-over in Conservation, maybe a clean and a new frame, then hold a press conference, announce an exhibition featuring their new treasure, and stick it on the wall, all within the month, at the latest. At least, that’s what I would do. They’ll get publicity: television, magazine, and newspaper reviews of the exhibition. It’ll be like a new play has opened in the West End. It will bring in many thousands of visitors. They’ll make White on White mouse pads and umbrellas. Everyone lives happily ever after. That is, provided this is the real deal.”