by Peter Corris
"What's the signal?" he hissed. "Quickly and don't piss me around or I'll turn your balls to soup." He squeezed hard.
The man's voice was a squeal of terror. "I whistle twice when I get down."
"Do it!"
"Hey, man," Charlie whispered, "they'll torch the whole place."
"I know," Kobi said. He squeezed again. "Whistle, and make it loud."
The man whistled, his fear producing two solid rushes of sound. Kobi hustled him across the street to the door way. Charlie handed the bundle to Jamie. "What now?" Jamie said.
Kobi kept his prisoner's face pressed against the brick wall. "Watch," he said.
They waited. A light filled one of the windows in the gallery; then it seemed to spread to other windows and a roaring sound followed which blew glass out in all directions. Flames leapt from the building and cascades of sparks sputtered up into the dark sky.
Kobi turned his man around and let him see the blaze. "Your name is?"
"Where do you get off. . ."
Kobi hit him in the stomach.
"Blake," the man said. "Blake."
"Where was the painting going, Mr Blake?"
Blake didn't speak.
"Do you want to be here when the police come?"
Blake shook his head. "I've got a motor down the street. I was to pick him up in Earl's Court and give him the picture."
"Good idea," Kobi said. "Let's do that. What does Ben Cromwell look like, Jamie?"
Jamie described Ben, but Blake shook his head. "Phone job," he said. "I've never seen the man who set it up."
Kobi pushed Blake out onto the footpath. "Hang onto the picture, Jamie. Would you and Mr Livingstone and Charlie care to follow us?"
The sirens were wailing as Blake pulled the blue Ford Escort away from the kerb. Kobi checked that Livingstone was behind them in his Datsun as they drove through the quiet steets.
"Paid up front, were you?" Kobi said.
Blake shook a cigarette out as he waited for a roundabout to clear. "Half."
"Think yourself lucky."
Blake lit the cigarette and drove, following the signs south to SW5. He drove cautiously, nervously aware of the big man who sat silent and menacing beside him. The Escort turned into Old Brompton Road. Blake said, "He's supposed to be on the corner there, by the Wimpy. He's got the make and number of the car. I circle the block until he flags me. Christ, why don't you just drive the fucking car and let me go?"
Kobi didn't reply. After slowing and passing the corner with no result, he told Blake to stop. He took the keys from the ignition and stood by the driver's door while the Datsun drew abreast. Kobi told Livingstone what was happening. The detective nodded and waited while Kobi got into the back seat of the Escort. He passed the keys to Blake and hunched down in the darkness. "Just play the game out, Blake. Don't do anything silly."
The traffic was light and after three circuits Kobi wondered whether the Escort and Datsun had a suspicious appearance of travelling in tandem. He risked a glance through the rear window and saw that Livingstone was holding' his car well back and driving tentatively, encouraging other cars to pass him. The fifth time the Escort approached the corner a tall, dark-haired man stepped from the kerb and raised his hand.
"This is it," Blake said.
Kobi hissed, "Stop, reach over and open the door. Don't say a word."
Blake complied. The interior light came on, revealing the man's dark hair and eyes, well-defined features and expression of arrogant hostility. He sat in the passenger seat and slammed the door clumsily. "You're late. Where is it?"
Blake didn't speak. He engaged first gear and inched the car forward.
"Where's the bloody painting?"
Kobi sat up and depressed the knob that locked the front passenger seat door. "Good evening, Mr Cromwell," he said. "My name is Kobi Clarke."
Ben's head whipped around. He stared at the impassive dark face and expelled a long breath, heavily flavoured with whisky. Blake hit the brakes and jumped from the car, but the Datsun was already alongside and Charlie Bow was out on the road and blocking Blake before he took a step. Jamie Martin got out of the Datsun and stood, caught in the Escort's headlights. The rolled bundle under his arm was plainly visible.
"Jesus Christ." Ben Cromwell's voice was a shocked, booze-blurred mumble.
"We've got a lot of talking to do, Mr Cromwell," Kobi said. "I think we'd better go and see Monty, don't you?"
56
The auction rooms of Westerby International Ltd were in an imposing building in the Strand, a block from Australia House and close to other embassies and consulates. The marble steps and granite pillars promised solidity and respectability, the thick pile carpets suggested discretion. A touch of opulence was given by the brocade curtains over the windows and fringing the stage on which the items for sale were to be displayed. On the night of the auctioning of 'Harwich Seascape', a traditional glass of champagne was served in the anteroom to all of those present by invitation. For the press, the TV crew, several art students and the security men, there was orange juice.
A hundred and fifty people packed into the small auditorium, in which the seating was arranged with an eye to protocol and practicality. The best view and sight of the auctioneer was afforded by seats to his right, where two men and a woman sat at desks equipped with sophisticated telephone hookups. They would receive bids from principals in Europe, America and Hong Kong. The group, which the press had dubbed 'Cromwell's army'—Montague and Ben, Jerry Gallagher, Jamie Martin, Kobi Clarke, Georgia Gee, Lou Faraday and Rachel Hattie Brown—sat in the front row on a level with the auctioneer's knees.
Harvey Peel was an art addict; the greatest moment in his life so far had been when he'd lowered his hammer, almost reverentially, on the sale of a Gauguin for eight million pounds. He was proud of his profession—he thought art was the most important thing in the world and believed in securing top prices for it. "No other measurement counts," he once told an interviewer. "I expect to live to see a Van Gogh fetch a billion dollars." This attitude appealed mightily to the firms that handled the sales of paintings, and to vendors. Harvey Peel was in demand as a consultant, valuer, go-between and auctioneer. He was incorruptible and he charged moderate fees for his work.
The sound of conversation in the room steadied to a low hum; there was a smell of expensive tobacco and wine in the air, but it came from the bodies of the people—smoking, drinking and eating were strictly banned in the auction room out of deference to the works on display. Harvey Peel had been known to frown at persistent coughaers as though their microbes might nibble at the surface of a Gainsborough. The Westerby directors had heeded his injunction to keep the TV cameras at the furthest possible distance. For this, Harvey Peel had two reasons. One, he was a vain man and knew that his tall, spare figure looked best in long shot. His hair was combed carefully to conceal a bald patch. Secondly, he still thought of cameras in terms of men ducking under black hoods and igniting flares. He feared fire, the great enemy of art, and he loathed photography for its pretensions.
The auction got under way with a number of noteworthy items—a Corot, two Turner drawings, a pleasant Roscoe landscape—attracting polite interest and attractive bids.
"Preliminaries to the main event," Lou Faraday whispered to Kobi Clarke. Ever since Kobi had told him about thwarting Ben Cromwell's plan to steal the painting, he had been an open-mouthed admirer of Kobi's.
Kobi nodded. He noticed that Faraday had a film of sweat on his upper lip. The American was the only one in their party wearing a dinner suit, but even the stiff shirt, waistcoat and jacket shouldn't have made him sweat in the cool room. "What's wrong?" he said.
Faraday's hands twisted the gold-edged auction catalogue out of shape. "What do you mean?"
"You're nervous." Kobi glanced at Rachel who was wearing the cloth-of-gold dress again. The dress was somewhat crumpled and Rachel had apparently managed more than one glass of champagne. Her eyes, under gold-dusted lids, sparkled hect
ically.
"I'm bidding," Faraday said. "You'd be nervous."
"I'd be petrified. How can you bid?"
"Shh." Georgia, sitting next to Kobi, waved her catalogue.
In the pause after the Corot had fetched a handsome price and the organizers were preparing the next item, Faraday beckoned to Jamie Martin to step out to the room set aside for smokers. Jamie's eyes watered when he entered the stark, foggy room which seemed to be furnished with ashtrays. Several men and women stood around puffing nervously.
Faraday drew Jamie away from a man who was craning towards them as he lit a cigarette from the butt of another. He dropped his voice. "I'm bidding. I'm acting for Dahlia Raymond."
"What's that?"
"Not that. She! She's only the hottest producer in Hollywood right now and she's personally going to produce The Gullivers."
"The film?"
"Right, and maybe a TV series later. Who knows? Dahlia thinks the painting'd be a great investment the way art prices're going. Plus we can use it in the picture. You can't beat authentic."
"You can get it," Jamie said, "if you've got the money."
"I know you Britishers think we're weird. You're right. We are. So's everyone. I live in the richest country in the world and you wouldn't believe how hard it is to make a buck. Anyway, are you sure that asshole Cromwell hasn't got some trick up his sleeve? This auction's the real McCoy?"
Jamie recalled the three a.m. meeting at Montague Cromwell's house—the recriminations, the humiliation of Ben Cromwell, the deal struck. "Yes," he said. "It's a genuine auction."
"Good. Now, what's the Turner going to bring?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Christ! There's no one I can cut a deal with?"
Jamie laughed and turned away.
Faraday came after him, babbling, "Look, this is important. The producer reckons to get the budget of the movie back from selling the painting later. The budget's like twenty-five million above the line."
"So how much can you bid?"
"I don't know. I gotta use my judgment."
"What if the film's a flop? It could actually devalue the picture. Have you thought of that?"
"Dahlia's a gambler, you've got to understand. That's the way it is. If the movie rates she cleans up, if it doesn't she's down the toilet, but not all the way down maybe, if she's got the picture."
Jamie was suddenly weary of the whole thing. The tight, strained looks on the faces of Montague and Ben Cromwell, as they sat like prisoners awaiting sentence, oppressed him. He wanted to go somewhere with Jerry. Somewhere clean—on the water or amid the trees.
"I'm working for peanuts," Faraday said. "I'm on points. If we make it big I'm on easy street, if not . . ."
"You're down the toilet?"
"Yeah. I'll be comfortable around the five-million mark."
"It depends who's here, Lou."
"I don't like the look of those phones. Who's on the other end, some sheik?"
"That's the way it is, Lou."
"Yeah," Faraday said.
Kobi Clarke felt Georgia's fingers intertwine with his own as 'Harwich Seascape' was lifted onto the easel. He glanced away from the picture at her fine, firm profile; his eye travelled down her body, taking in the swell of her breasts under a grey silk blouse and the easy elegance of her loose black trousers and calf-high boots. The warring, disparate elements in his nature—the political calculation and personal recklessness, the suspicion and the need to be loved—seemed to fuse and find harmony when he was with her.
"You own all the sky in the right quadrant," Georgia whispered.
"What about you?"
"I own the sea underneath it."
"Okay, I wouldn't mind the boat, though."
"That's Mikhail's. And Juan's got the cliffs."
"Right." Kobi lifted her hand and kissed it "Here we go."
Montague Cromwell shook his head. "This should have been a triumph," he said. "Instead, it's a disaster."
Ben Cromwell, present and sober as part of the deal struck with Kobi Clarke, said nothing.
"I can't believe it," Jerry said. "Lou Faraday's really going to bid?"
Jamie grinned. "He's wearing a dinner jacket, isn't he?"
Georgia, sitting on Jerry's right, whispered in her ear, "I've heard one of the Australian billionaires is interested."
"You mean Murdoch?"
"He's American now."
"Oh, yes. Of course he is. Well, I hope it stays in England."
Jamie pointed to the telephones. "I don't think that's Maggie Thatcher ringing," he said.
"Go to it, baby!" Rachel dug her fingers into Lou Faraday's thigh.
"That hurts!"
"Not as much as you'll hurt if you don't get that picture. My instinct tells me the deal hangs on it."
"Christ," Faraday said. "Thanks a lot."
"This is the big time, Lou. You cut it here or you don't cut it."
Lou glanced at the men and women further along in the front row. He felt overdressed. A man in a denim suit with no tie was casually doodling on the catalogue. Lou envied his calm. A woman in the second row was working a pocket calculator with intense concentration. She looked up and Faraday was convinced that she caught the eye of the woman manning one of the telephones. Shit, this is a tough game, he thought.
Rachel's fingers dug in again. "Give me the proxy if you're worried. I'll bid their balls off."
"Shut the fuck up, Rachel," Faraday said.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Harvey Peel's voice, firm and resonant, came through the sound system. "Acting on behalf of the executors of the estate of the late John Gulliver, through the agency of Montague Cromwell Esquire, Westerby International offers for sale 'Harwich Seascape', by the most notable of all British landscape artists, Joseph Mallord William Turner. As many of you will know, the painting, executed in the second last year of the artist's life, is mentioned by Ruskin, and a photograph of the work by William Fox Talbot forms part of the collection of the Royal Photographic Society.
"I will not dwell on the merits of the work. They are self-evident. All of the techniques and understandings of light and form for which Turner is justly renowned are on display in the painting before you."
Peel had taken up a place in which he tantalizingly obscured the left half of the painting which, in a handsome gilt frame, sat on a sturdy easel in front of a black velvet backcloth. Now he stepped aside and allowed the audience an unobstructed view. Glancing around, Kobi Clarke saw spectacles adjusted and moustaches stroked. Georgia stifled a yawn.
"I'm not getting enough sleep," she said.
"An historic work, ladies and gentlemen, with a fascinating history. I invite your bids."
Lou Faraday tucked his thumb firmly into his palm and held up the hand with the fingers extended.
Peel's tiny nod turned all eyes on Faraday.
"Four million pounds," he said.
"A respectable opening," Peel said. "In view of it I will accept bids in lots of one quarter of one million pounds."
The woman with the calculator nodded twice.
"Four and one half million pounds."
The man in the denim suit nodded.
"Four million seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds."
Faraday released his thumb and held up his hand.
"Five million pounds."
The price crept up from a scattering of bidders around the room. After the woman with the calculator had communicated by a signal with one of the telephone operators and bid seven and a half million pounds, Peel received slips of paper from a Westerby employee who had circulated discreetly among the bidders. Lou nodded.
"Eight million pounds." Peel glanced at a slip.
The man in the denim suit tapped his catalogue against his knee.
"Eight million two hundred and fifty pounds."
A signal from the woman on the telephone.
"Eight and one half million pounds."
"Go for it, baby," Rachel hissed.
Lou nodded twice.
"Nine million pounds, ladies and gentlemen. The bid is nine million pounds." The tiny nod again, this time to the woman with the calculator. "Against you, madam. The bid is nine million pounds."
A stillness came over the room. Two of the telephones were replaced quietly in their cradles and the sounds of breaths being slowly expelled and joints clicking told Harvey Peel what he needed to know. "Going once at nine million pounds. Going twice. Are you done, silent, finished?" He raised a small wooden mallet from a post on the lectern where his microphone was mounted and tapped it on the wood. A sharp popping sound came through the loudspeaker and Peel glanced quickly at his slip of paper. "Sold to Mr L. Faraday for the sum of nine million pounds. Congratulations, sir. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen."
Epilogue
57
Kobi Clarke and Georgia Gee were married in Amsterdam in March 1987. As a sideline to their European honeymoon, they located members of the Riebe family in that city, some of whom acted as witnesses to their marriage and toasted them in schnapps afterwards.
In November 1988, the first issue of the independent magazine Inside Out, co-edited by Georgia Gee Clarke, appeared in Sydney. It contained an article by Kobi Clarke critical of the financial operations of certain Pacific trading companies, especially Hong Enterprises. The company's stock lost value on the Sydney Exchange and Kobi Clarke was an energetic buyer.
In April of the same year Mikhail Bystryi and Sofya Vertova arrived separately in Basle, Switzerland. Each travelled under an assumed name, using documents that had cost Mikhail a great deal of money. He paid the bulk of the price in Basle after gaining access to the funds lodged for him there. After spending a few days in Switzerland, Mikhail and Sofya travelled together to Israel. Carefully concealed in Mikhail's luggage was a small box that contained the ashes of his mother.
Juan Gulliver La Vita was released from prison in April 1987. He had signed a statement renouncing vio-401 lence as a means to achieving political ends and had been restored to full citizenship rights in Bolivia. Immediately on his release he was contacted by Wade Phillips of Amnesty International. Juan flew to the United States with Phillips and met members of the committees that had petitioned for his release. In May he signified his intention to apply for United States citizenship declaring assets in excess of several million dollars. In his statement he described himself as 'a fulltime, voluntary research officer for Amnesty International'.
