The Collection Read online

  Then Alyson starts interrupting her. Repeatedly. Carson’s face gets redder and stiffer with every break in her report, and her voice gets louder every time she restarts.

  “No. Don’t do that.”

  Damn. I’ve slept with Allyson, and I’d never use that tone on her. I manage to get my right arm to work well enough to make a “bring it down” motion to Carson. She waves me off.

  “Allyson… Allyson… Real easy for you to say. You’ve never been there. Don’t know what it’s like. I do. No way he could’ve controlled… Allyson, listen. Lucca Morrone isn’t a problem. He… Goddamnit, listen to me! Morrone needs this more than the client. He won’t fuck with us ‘til he gets what he wants…”

  She’s gonna get herself fired. For me? That’s not right. “Carson, don’t—”

  She cuts me off with a hand slash. “Understand… Yes, I’ll deal with it… I’ll deal with it… Yes… Don’t do that! I need him.”

  Me? Seriously?

  “Yes, tomorrow. It’s set up with Olivia… No, Belknap’s managed… He’s managed, for fuck’s sake! Will you listen? … I ever let you down? Ever? … Bratislava wasn’t my fault, said so yourself… Just let us work… Let. Us. Work… You bet I will.” She punches off her phone and growls.

  I wait for the lightning bolt or drone strike to take us both out. When it doesn’t, I push myself a little higher on the pillow. “In those pictures you’ve got of Allyson? What livestock is she with?”

  “What?” Carson looks up from her phone, confused. Then a light pops on over her head. She snorts. “I bring her a lot of business. She knows what she gets with me.”

  “Still, you… thanks. For defending me. I hope you don’t get in trouble.”

  She tries to shrug, but can’t bring it off. “Belknap’s managed, right?”

  “As long as Olivia’s guy does his thing.” It’s a string of long shots, but that’s what this whole job has been.

  “Good. Don’t worry about Lucca. He needs you, or you’d be dead.” She pockets her phone and perches on the bed next to me. “I need this payday.” Her voice is low and serious and I can hear the confidence from the phone call draining away with every word. “We make it work—”

  “Don’t say ‘or die trying.’ Please.” The anesthetic must’ve worn off. I’m not thinking through cotton candy anymore, but now animals are chewing on my insides. “I don’t want to let us down.”

  Carson stands, watches me for a moment, then gives me a grim smile. “Then don’t.”

  Chapter 44

  Belknap snorts and shakes his head. “You look like shit.”

  I feel like it. The codeine-spiked Tylenol Carson got from God-knows-where put me out for most of the rest of Sunday. I stopped taking it around midnight so my brain wouldn’t feel like mashed potatoes this morning. It doesn’t, but the rest of me keeps reminding me how it’ll feel to be ninety. “I was partying with your mother.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “And your point is…?”

  “Get your ass over here.” He leads me through the gallery—closed, it’s Monday, all the shades are down—to Gianna’s desk.

  Her laptop’s open and displaying a typical teleconferencing program: a big display space in the middle, a chat window on the right, control buttons along the top toolbar. “No sound?”

  “Just chat. No voices, no voiceprints. Bids go in there.” He stabs a big forefinger at the chat pane. “I post the high bid and bidder in here.” The empty space in the middle. He clicks on the doubled taskbar icon, and two preview windows pop up. “You got two logins going. You can be two different bidders if you want. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Good thinking. Then again, he’s probably done enough online auctions to know how to game the system. “Who are the bidders?”

  He yanks a handwritten sheet of A4 from under the laptop and tosses it on the keyboard. “That’s all you get. No way I’m telling you their names.”

  I scan the page. Eight bidders: three Chinese, a Russian, a Saudi, a Nigerian, an American and a Venezuelan. “You forgot the North Korean dude.”

  “His hard-on’s for Byzantine icons.” It figures there really is a North Korean dude. Belknap flings a finger toward the chair. “We’re on in fifteen. Remember, asswipe—five hundred large.” He stalks off toward his office.

  I wait until he disappears, then text Carson: Get all that?

  Got it. She’s across the street in a car, listening to an open connection. IP?

  I open a command window, type in ipconfig /all, and text her the IP address for Gianna’s computer. A minute later, a small popup appears on the screen. Some gibberish text scrolls through, then the popup disappears. That’s Olivia’s hacker breaking into the computer and the gallery’s network.

  Next text to Carson: Have Os guy search belknap pc 4 hidden files. Copy hidden doc txt xls mdb.

  I spend the last few minutes looking over what little information Belknap gave me about the bidders. They’ll be identified online by single letters, A through H.

  It’s easier to mess with an auction when you’re in the room with the rest of the bidders. You can see their reactions, tell how confident they are by the way they show their paddles or hand signals. I’ve never shilled an online auction before. Why did I think this was a good idea?

  A photo of the Fantin appears in the center of my screen. It’s showtime.

  An account tagged “Auctioneer” puts up a series of posts in the chat window.

  Authenticated Fantin-Latour.

  Start at US$200000.

  US$10000 increment.

  Winner pays at end of auction.

  The photo blinks off.

  Go.

  A three-way instantly develops between B (chairman of a Chinese state-owned industrial enterprise), D (a Russian FSB regional director) and F (one of the eleventy-zillion minor Saudi princelings), running up the price to $270,000 in a few seconds. I have J—one of my two identities—throw in a doomed bid partway through just so everyone knows he’s there. J’s going to be a spoiler, somebody who jumps in and out but never accomplishes much except driving up the price for everyone else. Serious buyers’ll hate him and try to make him go away by outbidding him. Go for it, guys.

  There’s a pause. Are they done already? Are they working their calculators? Did they go for coffee? There’s no way to tell, which worries me. When you’re shilling, you never want to make the last bid.

  C (a “senior officer” in the Chinese People’s Liberation Army—one of Belknap’s business partners?) bids 280. According to Belknap’s list, C likes the nineteenth-century French realists and has another Fantin in his collection. Good; maybe he’s in this to the end.

  After a moment, G (the founder of a Texas megachurch) goes to 290. The Chinese industrialist and the Saudi run it up to 310. Then crickets.

  A pause can be self-reinforcing—nobody bids because nobody’s bidding, even if there’s still room to run. Only half the registered bidders have raised their digital paddles, so there’s definitely still room here.

  I use K to make a jump bid to 330, just to shake things up. I’m hoping C, the PLA guy, will counter. K’s my hammer, the guy who finishes off weak bidders and (with luck) becomes a target for the serious buyers.

  Nobody counters. Did K come out too early? Where’s the Chinese Army?

  During a physical auction, the bid caller will step in and try to goose along the action when it gets slow. But Belknap’s not doing anything, just playing solitaire or streaming Netflix or whatever. Does he want me to keep things moving? Nice of him to tell me.

  I pull up a private-message window and poke Belknap: Hey auctioneer. Act like it. Stop surfing porn & kick these guys.

  A beat later, I get back: F U. But then a message from “Auctioneer” appears in the public chat pane: Market value 600-700K. Keep ur bids coming.

  B puts up a message: Thn sell thru Sothebys. He’s got a point.

  The Chavista
(H, a “Venezuelan security official”) kicks off another short flurry at 340. He, the Texan and the Chinese Party guy go to 365 with an assist from J’s useless half-bid. J ends up with the high bid, a bad place to be.

  I’ve been sitting too long and all of yesterday’s abuse has locked up my body. I groan onto my feet and try to twist out the stiffness. It only sort-of works. It doesn’t do anything to chase away the nagging thought that this sale just isn’t working very well. There’s no momentum, no excitement. These guys are supposed to be high-rollers, but they’re acting like old women at the church-social auction.

  The current high bid takes up the middle of my screen: “J US$365000”. Three bidders haven’t moved yet. They’re probably waiting for the small fry to clear themselves out.

  Or K can do it for them. I jump-bid J (myself) to 390. Maybe that’ll get them going again.

  Or not. Shit.

  My phone buzzes. It’s from Carson: Belknap PMing bidders.

  He’s what? That makes no sense. He needs this money, right? To pay off the Russians? So what in hell is he doing messing with the bidders? Whats he saying?

  Sb. Stand by.

  My brain starts running around in circles trying to figure out what Belknap’s up to. Maybe he’s flogging the bidders privately or cutting deals on the side. Maybe he’s reminding them of the dirty laundry he’s got on them. Whatever it is, I can’t think of a way it can benefit me. A small, sick feeling—like a bad grape—starts digging at my gut.

  The photo of the Fantin appears again in the center of my screen. “Auctioneer” says on public chat, Cheaper & prettier than anyone ur sleeping with.

  E (the Nigerian cabinet minister) texts LOL, then bids 400. The Chinese Party guy and the FSB bigwig chase it up to 420 before they stall out. It takes a while. The bids are coming slower now. If this works the same way it does in real-world auctions, it means we’re reaching the value ceiling. I should be careful, but there’s too much distance to cover to be able to afford that. I make K jump to 440.

  A popup appears on my screen. The header has one IP address, a right arrow, another IP address, and a date/time block. The text below says, Stay out of it.

  Huh? I text Carson: Have Os guy use names not IPs.

  Sb.

  The popup vanishes and another replaces it. The header reads, Auctioneer—>C. The body still says, Stay out of it. I check the time: right after C’s first bid.

  Belknap’s telling the Chinese Army guy—the most likely buyer—to butt out. Why?

  A third PM window: Auctioneer—>D: Hold back 4 now. So the Russian’s in on it, too.

  Another: C—>Auctioneer: Why?

  And another: Auctioneer—>C: K limit @ 480. DQ if higher. Others drop by then. Bid 490 u win.

  I sit there with my mouth hanging open. Belknap told C—the Chinese Army guy—that K—me—will top out at $480,000, and if I bid more, Belknap’ll throw it out. C will be able to win at $490,000… and my deal with Belknap will be in the toilet.

  He’s rigging the endgame. Bastard!

  I wipe my hands on my socks—these pants are too expensive to use as a towel—then pound out a text to Carson: Tell Os guy 2 send belknap pms 2 me.

  Ok.

  A glance at the auction’s status shows the Texan’s just bid 450. He must think God’s on his side. Or is Belknap? How many bidders is that bastard controlling?

  Another PM window appears. Auctioneer—>C: Ok to bid. A moment later, the PLA guy raises to 460.

  Now the anger that started bubbling in my gut has reached full boil and it’s crawling up my throat. That asshat Belknap’s trying to screw me. He thinks he’s going to win. If he does, he rats me out to Morrone or the Russians.

  Well, I can play dirty, too.

  I text Carson: Intercept belknap pms in & out. Send to me only. I pm as auctioneer. Now’s when we find out how good Olivia’s hacker really is.

  While I wait, I check out the auction status. The center screen shows the high bid: “C US$460000”. It’s almost a minute old. “Auctioneer” says Fair warning on public chat.

  I use J to half-bid to 465. C counters immediately to 470.

  A window appears. Auctioneer—>C: Ignore J. But did C get the message?

  My phone buzzes. Belknap pms intercepted. Sb 4 pm spoof.

  Yes! Something’s finally going right. But that boost lasts only until I realize I can’t fake out the Chinese Army with just my two pretend bidders, especially since Belknap compromised K. I need to rope in one of the other guys to help out.

  Belknap PMs me: 500K or deals off.

  Fuck you, I want to message back. He’ll notice if “Auctioneer” starts texting him. Instead, I remember that Belknap was also talking to the FSB dude. The list says D likes French and Russian nineteenth-century realists. That could work. I text Carson. Whos D?

  Sb.

  C’s last bid is over a minute old. Right on cue, “Auctioneer” posts Fair warning on public chat.

  Buzz. O sez D=dima belaiev chief fsb st pete & lgrad oblast.

  Talk about a license to print money. If anybody has deep pockets, it’ll be the FSB chief in St. Petersburg. I open a PM box and notice “Auctioneer” on the header. I select “D” from the pulldown. Dima – r u still in?

  He answers a few moments later. Uncertain. Where is top?

  C limit @ 490. K out. Bid if u want.

  I can’t take my eyes off public chat. Come on come on…

  D bids 480.

  I collapse back into the chair, trying to breathe again. This might work.

  Another PM window, this one from Belknap to Belaiev. What r u doing?

  Wouldn’t you like to know. It’s time to finish this. I have J put in a half-bid to 485.

  A PM from C: What is D? How high?

  D @ limit. Bid, u win.

  The public chat pane stays quiet for too long. Then C bids 490. Yes!

  Now we wait. I text Carson: Os guy ready 2 get pmt details?

  Yes.

  Fair warning appears in public chat.

  I open another PM window to D. Go 500. C&J done. Its yrs.

  “Auctioneer” flickers in public chat. Belknap’s typing. About to close the auction?

  The FSB dude bids 500.

  Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! I pound Gianna’s desk, each hit venting the steam I’ve built up. It worked!

  I get an outraged PM from C, but he’s not interested in countering. Oh, well.

  On public chat, Fair warning becomes Sold to D US$500000.

  I won. For once, I beat Belknap.

  I think.

  Chapter 45

  Fifteen minutes after the auction closes, I lean against Belknap’s office doorjamb. “You got your 500K. Time for your quo for my quid.”

  He’s pounding his laptop’s keyboard. The scowl on his face tells me he’s not as happy as he should be. “How the fuck you pull that off?”

  “You mean, how’d I get past you rigging the auction? I thought one step ahead. Just like you say I don’t do.”

  Belknap sits there staring at his screen for several deep breaths. Then he pins me with a shotgun glare. “You son of a bitch.” He stabs at the screen. “Were those even my bidders?”

  I shrug, just to piss him off. “Ask the FSB dude. He’s gotta be pretty happy right now.”

  He keeps up the glare for a moment, then hammers his laptop’s “enter” key and reaches for his phone. “Fuck it. No deal. I’m selling you to Morrone.”

  Somehow I knew that’d be his reaction. “Before you do, you should check that money in your account.”

  “Way ahead of you. It’s all there.”

  “Try again.”

  His thumb hovers over his phone’s keypad. He sets down the phone, brings up the homepage for his bank, logs in and clicks through a couple screens. “What the…?”

  I can’t control the grin I feel spreading across my face. This is just too good. “It’s in a safe place. It’s even still i
n Singapore. But you won’t see it again if you do anything stupid, like try to raffle me off to the Mob. So the way I see it—and it’s all about me now—the deal’s still on. You owe me information. Correct info, if you want your money before the Russians get to you. Try to screw me and I tip the Russians that you’re skipping.”

  Belknap slumps into his Aeron chair and runs his palms over his shaved head. It’s like he can’t look away from the screen showing the half-million-dollar hole in his escape fund.

  While he simmers, I check his office for anything threatening. It’s smaller than I expected: a plain white box with halogen pendant lights and three-tone gray industrial carpet. A few early-twentieth-century pencil-on-paper studies line up on the wall opposite the door. His pedestal desk is 1920s Art Deco, gorgeous bird’s-eye maple with dark-walnut insets and sweeping spiral grooves let into the two full-height legs. Forget the paintings; I want that desk.

  “What do you want?” Belknap finally grumbles. He’s doing everything he can to avoid looking at me.

  Seeing him like this makes the past two weeks worth the trouble. It’s also a little sad. He’s losing his edge. “Morrone has a stockpile of paintings,” I say like I know it’s a fact.

  “No shit. Antiquities, too. Rare books and documents, some coins. When do I get my money?”

  “When your information checks out. Are you the only one supplying him?”

  He sighs, scrubs his face with his palms. “No. There’s five others. We work inside our lanes. I do the nineteenth- and early twentieth-century art. Buy and sell.”

  “How many pieces?”

  “High tide? Around four hundred canvases. Never saw the other stuff.” His voice is resentful but not belligerent, like Dad’s scolding him and he doesn’t dare fight back.

  Four hundred? Morrone could start his own museum. “When was high tide?”