Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “And what’s that, Dad?”

  “Under no circumstances will you allow the property to fall into the hands of the Karpenkos.”

  “That’s unlikely to happen with the price at four hundred thousand.”

  “Agnelli could afford it.”

  “At his age, Agnelli’s a seller, not a buyer,” said Maurice. “Besides, I know he hasn’t been well of late.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Tremlett. “Because I need you to handle the sale while I concentrate on getting planning permission for the block of flats in Stamford Place.”

  “Any more news on that front?”

  “Councilor Mason tells me there’ll be an announcement next week, which is why I’ve invited him to join us on our yacht at Cannes for the weekend.”

  “That should clinch the deal,” said Maurice.

  “Especially as the unfortunate man is going through an unusually messy divorce case. For the second time.”

  * * *

  Mr. and Mrs. Karpenko returned from Venice a fortnight later, and among the first things Sasha did on arriving back in London was to phone the countess. She invited him to join her for tea the following afternoon.

  He knocked on the door of her basement flat in Pimlico just before three, not quite sure what to expect. The door was opened by a maid who was almost as ancient as her mistress. She led him through to the sitting room, where the old lady was seated in a winged armchair, with a rug over her lap.

  The flat was spotless, and every surface was crowded with silver-framed sepia photographs of a family who would never have considered living below stairs. She waved Sasha into the seat opposite her and asked, “How was Venice?”

  “Wonderful. But if we’d stayed any longer, I’d be bankrupt.”

  “I visited it several times as a child,” said the countess. “And often I enjoyed a chocolate gateau and a glass of lemonade in Saint Mark’s Square—the drawing room of Europe, as Napoleon once described it.”

  “It’s now crowded with tourists like myself whom I feel sure Napoleon would not have approved of,” said Sasha as the maid reappeared carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

  “Another man who underestimated the Russians, and lived to regret it.”

  Once the maid had poured the tea and departed, the countess moved on to the purpose of the meeting.

  Sasha listened attentively to every word she had to say, and couldn’t help feeling that if this formidable woman had been born in the twentieth century, she would have been a leader in any field she had chosen. By the time she came to the end of her audacious proposal, he wasn’t in any doubt that the Russian ring had met their match.

  “Well, young man,” she said. “Are you willing to assist me in my little subterfuge?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Sasha without hesitation. “But don’t you consider Mr. Dangerfield is far better qualified to pull it off?”

  “Possibly. But he has the British weakness of believing in fair play, a concept we Russians have never really grasped.”

  “My timing will need to be spot on,” said Sasha.

  “It most certainly will,” said the countess. “And more importantly, knowing when to stop will be the biggest decision. So let’s run through the details again, and don’t hesitate to interrupt if there’s something you don’t fully understand, or think you can improve on. Before I begin, Sasha, do you have any questions?”

  “Yes. Where’s the nearest telephone box?”

  * * *

  The auction house was almost full by the time Mr. Dangerfield and the countess took their reserved seats in the third row.

  “Your egg is lot eighteen,” said Dangerfield after turning several pages of the catalog. “So it won’t come up for at least half an hour. But then it should only be a few moments before we discover if the experts consider it a fake or a masterpiece.” He turned and glanced at a group of men who were standing in a huddle at the back of the room. “They’ve already decided the answer to that question,” he added. “But then, it suits their purpose.”

  “It doesn’t help that the Soviet ambassador issued a press statement this morning claiming that the egg was a fake and the original is on display at the Hermitage,” said the countess.

  “A piece of propaganda that even Goebbels would have been embarrassed by,” said Mr. Dangerfield. “And you’ll notice that despite his words, His Excellency is sitting a couple of rows behind us. Don’t be surprised if he tries to pick up your egg at a reduced price, and then overnight it’s suddenly recognized as a long-lost masterpiece.”

  “The revolution may have killed my father,” said the countess, turning around to glare at the ambassador, “but its heirs are not going to steal my egg.”

  The ambassador didn’t acknowledge her presence.

  “What does POA mean?” the countess asked, looking back down at her catalog.

  “Price on application,” explained Dangerfield. “As Sotheby’s are unwilling to offer an opinion on its value, they will leave it to the market to decide. I’m afraid the ambassador’s intervention won’t have helped.”

  “Bunch of cowards,” said the countess. “Let’s hope they’re all left with egg on their faces.” Mr. Dangerfield would have laughed, but he wasn’t sure if the pun had been intended. “So what happens next?” she asked.

  “At seven o’clock precisely, the auctioneer will climb the steps to the podium, and open proceedings by offering lot number one. Then I’m afraid you’ll have a rather long and anxious wait before he reaches lot eighteen. At that point it will be in the hands of the gods. Or possibly,” he added, glancing around at the ring, “the infidels.”

  “Who are those casually dressed men behind that rope near the podium?”

  “The gentlemen of the press. Pencils poised, hoping for a story. You’ll either make the front pages or be relegated to a footnote in the arts column.”

  “Let’s hope it’s the front pages. And the smartly dressed ones on the platform to our right?”

  “That’s the home team. It’s their job to help the auctioneer spot the bidders. That also applies to those assistants manning the phones to your right, who will be bidding on behalf of clients who are either calling from abroad, or wish to remain anonymous.”

  At precisely seven o’clock a tall, elegantly dressed man wearing a dinner jacket and black bow tie entered the auction room from a door behind the podium. He slowly climbed the steps, and smiled as he surveyed the packed audience.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Russian sale. I shall start proceedings with lot number one in your catalog. A Winter’s Evening in Moscow by Savrasov. I shall open the bidding at ten thousand pounds. Do I see twelve?”

  Although the countess considered the work inferior to the Savrasov that had hung in her father’s library, she was nevertheless pleased when the hammer came down at twenty-four thousand pounds, well above its high estimate.

  “Lot number two,” declared the auctioneer. “A watercolor by…”

  “I was hoping that Sasha might be joining us,” said Mr. Dangerfield. “But he did warn me that he had a party booking at the restaurant and wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get away in time.”

  The countess made no comment as she turned the page of her catalog to lot three, which didn’t make the low estimate. Mr. Dangerfield glanced around, to see that the ring was celebrating its first killing. He looked back to find the countess tapping her fingers agitatedly on her catalog, which surprised him, because he’d never known her to show any emotion.

  “That picture belonged to an old family friend,” she explained. “He needed the money.”

  When the auctioneer offered the next painting, Mr. Dangerfield noted that the countess was becoming more and more nervous as each lot was offered up for sale. He even thought he spotted a bead of sweat on her forehead by the time the auctioneer had reached lot sixteen.

  “A pair of Russian dolls. Shall I open the bidding at ten thousand?” No one responded. The aucti
oneer stared down at the impassive sea of faces and suggested, “Twelve thousand,” but Mr. Dangerfield knew he was plucking bids off the wall. “Fourteen thousand,” he said, trying not to sound desperate. But there was still no response, so he brought down his hammer and mumbled, “Bought in.”

  “What does that mean?” whispered the countess.

  “There was never a bidder in the first place,” said Mr. Dangerfield.

  “Lot number seventeen,” said the auctioneer. “An important portrait by the distinguished Russian artist Vladimir Borovikovsky. Do I see a bid of twenty thousand?” No one responded until a member of the ring shouted, “Ten thousand!”

  “Do I see twelve thousand?” asked the auctioneer, but still no one else took any interest, so he reluctantly brought down his hammer and said, “Sold, for ten thousand pounds, to the gentleman at the back,” although he wasn’t entirely sure which gentleman.

  Dangerfield felt this didn’t bode well for his client, but he didn’t proffer an opinion.

  “Lot number eighteen.” The auctioneer paused to allow a porter to enter the room carrying the egg on a velvet cushion. He placed it on a stand beside the podium, and withdrew. The auctioneer smiled benevolently down at his attentive audience, and was about to suggest an opening price of fifty thousand pounds when a voice from the back of the room shouted, “One thousand pounds,” which was followed by laughter and a gasp of disbelief.

  “Two thousand,” said another voice, before the auctioneer could recover.

  “Ten thousand,” said someone two rows behind the countess. The bewildered auctioneer looked hopefully around the room, and was just about to bring his hammer down and say, “Sold to the Russian ambassador,” when out of the corner of his eye he saw the hand of one of the assistants on the platform to his left shoot up. He turned to face a young woman on the phone, who said firmly, “Twenty thousand.”

  “Twenty-one thousand,” said the first voice from the back of the room.

  The auctioneer looked back at the young woman, who appeared to be deep in conversation with her telephone client.

  “Thirty thousand,” she said after a few seconds, which had felt like a lifetime to the countess.

  “Thirty-one thousand.” The same voice from the back.

  “Forty thousand,” said the assistant on the phone.

  “Forty-one thousand,” came back the immediate response.

  “Fifty thousand,” the assistant.

  “Fifty-one thousand,” the man at the back.

  There was another long silence as everyone in the room turned toward the young woman on the phone.

  “One hundred thousand,” she said, causing a loud outbreak of chattering, which the auctioneer studiously ignored.

  “I have a bid of one hundred thousand pounds,” he said. “Do I see one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds?” the auctioneer inquired as his eye returned to the leader of the ring, who stared back at him in sullen silence.

  “Do I see one hundred and twenty-five thousand?” the auctioneer asked a second time. “Then I’ll let it go to the phone bidder for one hundred thousand pounds.” He was just about to bring down his hammer, when a hand in the fifth row rose reluctantly. Clearly the Russian ambassador now accepted that his press statement had failed to achieve the desired result.

  A flurry of bids followed, once the ambassador had acknowledged the egg had indeed been crafted by Carl Fabergé, and was not a fake. When the price reached half a million, Mr. Dangerfield noticed that the young woman on the phone was having an intense conversation with her client.

  “The next bid will be six hundred thousand,” she whispered. “Do you want me to continue bidding on your behalf, sir?”

  “How many bidders are left?” he asked.

  “The Russian ambassador is still bidding, and I’m fairly sure the deputy director of the Metropolitan Museum in New York is showing an interest. And a dealer from Asprey is tapping his right foot, always a sign that he’s about to join in.”

  “Fine, then I’ll wait until you think we’re down to the final bidder.”

  When the bidding reached one million, the young woman whispered into the phone, “We’re down to the last two, the Russian ambassador and the deputy director of the Met.”

  “One million, one hundred thousand pounds,” said the auctioneer, turning his attention back to the Russian ambassador, who sullenly folded his arms and lowered his head.

  “We’re down to one,” she whispered over the phone.

  “What was the last bid?”

  “One million one.”

  “Then bid one million two.” Her right hand shot up.

  “I have one million two on the phone,” said the auctioneer, looking back down at the deputy director of the Met.

  “What’s happening?” asked the voice on the other end of the line. He sounded quite anxious.

  “I think you’ve got it. Congratulations.”

  But she was wrong, because the hand of the Met’s representative rose once again, if somewhat tentatively.

  “No, wait. There’s a bid of one million three. But I’m confident it would be yours if you were to bid one four.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said the voice on the other end of the line, “but I’m afraid I’ve reached my limit. Thanks anyway,” he said before he put the phone down. He stepped out of the telephone box, and dodged in and out of the traffic as he crossed Bond Street.

  The auctioneer continued to stare hopefully at the young assistant, but she shook her head and put the phone down. The auctioneer brought down his hammer with a thud, and said, “Sold, for one million three hundred thousand pounds to the Metropolitan Museum in New York.”

  The audience burst into spontaneous applause, and even the countess allowed herself a smile as Sasha came dashing into the room. He walked quickly down the aisle and took the only empty seat, next to his father-in-law.

  “I’m afraid you’ve missed all the drama,” said Mr. Dangerfield.

  “Yes, I know. Sorry, I got held up.”

  Sasha leaned across and congratulated the countess. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and said, “Thank you, Sasha,” as she turned to the next page of her catalog.

  “Lot number nineteen,” said the auctioneer once the audience had settled. “A fine marble bust of Tsar Nicholas the Second. I have an opening bid of ten thousand pounds.”

  “Eleven,” said a familiar voice from the back of the room. The countess didn’t bother to turn around, but simply raised her gloved hand slowly. When she caught the attention of the auctioneer she said, almost in a whisper, “Fifty thousand,” which was followed by a gasp from all those around her. But then she considered it a small price to pay for a masterpiece she’d last seen on the desk in her father’s study. She also knew which member of the family had put it up for sale, and accepted that he needed the money even more than she did.

  26

  SASHA

  London

  “You’re looking very smart, Mama,” said Sasha. “Is that a new suit?”

  Elena didn’t look up from the reservations book.

  “And as it’s three in the afternoon, you must either be meeting a friend for tea or going for a job interview.”

  Elena pulled on a pair of gloves, while continuing to ignore her son.

  “I hope it’s not a job interview,” teased Sasha, “because frankly we couldn’t run the place without you.”

  “I’ll be back long before we open this evening,” said Elena tersely. “Is the first sitting fully booked?”

  “Except for tables twelve and fourteen.”

  Elena nodded. Although the restaurant was often booked out days in advance, Mr. Agnelli had taught Sasha to always keep two of the best tables in reserve for regulars, and not to release them before seven o’clock.

  “Have a good time, Mama, wherever it is you’re off to.” In fact he had already worked out exactly where she was going.

  Elena left the restaurant without another word. She walk
ed for a hundred yards down the road before turning right at the corner and hailing a taxi. She didn’t want Sasha to see her being extravagant. She would normally have caught a bus, but not in her smart new Armani outfit, and in any case, there are no bus stops in Lowndes Square.

  “Forty-three Lowndes Square,” she told the cabbie.

  Elena had been touched when the countess had sent a handwritten note inviting her to tea, which would give her the opportunity to see the new flat. The Fabergé egg had changed all their lives. Mike Dangerfield had split his commission with Sasha and Charlie, which had allowed them to buy a flat just around the corner from the restaurant. Elena was sad that they no longer lived with her, but she understood that a young married couple would want a home of their own, especially if they were planning to start a family.

  Sasha worked all the hours in the day, and several during the night, as he attempted to juggle working in the restaurant with attending the course he’d signed up for at the London School of Economics, not to mention, or at least not to Charlie or Elena, that he had recently joined the local Labour Club. Chess nights had bitten the dust.

  Elena’s was going from strength to strength, not least because when Tremlett’s restaurant closed, Elena had been able to pick up their best waiters and kitchen staff. The Tremletts, père and fils, had moved to Majorca and opened an estate agency soon after Councilor Tremlett had resigned, citing ill health following an inquiry into the council’s decision to grant planning permission for a proposed new block of flats in Stamford Place. Sasha didn’t need to read between the lines of the local paper’s report to realize they wouldn’t be coming back.

  While Elena oversaw the kitchen, and Gino ran front of house, Sasha kept a tight rein on income and expenditure, an area where his mother was completely at a loss, although he had tried to explain to her the difference between tax avoidance and being tax efficient. He plowed most of the profits back into the business, and they had recently acquired two double-decker freezers, an industrial dishwasher, and sixty new linen tablecloths and napkins. He planned to build a bar at the front of the restaurant, but not until they could afford it.