Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  As if he had been following, Menachem sprang from a blue sedan which had pulled up behind the Saudi limo. He and the Saudi exchanged glares while a third Saudi subordinate made a point of standing between the two men as if to shield his boss. Ezra, smiling at the theatrics, ambled up the pathway toward the courthouse steps.

  Cam slid further to the background and watched first Menachem and then the Saudis make their way to the registration table. The clock showed ten minutes before the hour. The band was all here. The question was, what song would they play?

  Norman stood under the courthouse portico, his feet soaked because the only dress shoes he owned had holes in the soles. Another stupid decision in a lifetime full of them. He could have worn jeans and work boots for all it mattered. Nobody paid any attention to the wretched man with the big head attending his own funeral.

  Bruce had met him at a diner around the corner for breakfast but couldn’t stay for the auction. Before he left, he explained that, even though the bank would receive the auction proceeds, it would be in Norman’s best interests to have the property go for a high number. Norman now owed the bank about $7.6 million due to all the penalties that had kicked in because of his default. So if the property sold for, say, $1.6 million, he would still owe six million. He laughed to himself. Good luck collecting that. But if, miraculously, the property sold for more than $7.6 million, he’d be entitled to the overage. Pennybags Unlimited, the corporation which purchased the loan from Catskill Hudson Bank, had, Bruce guessed, paid about a million-and-a-half. They either figured the property would sell for more at the auction or had plans to develop it themselves. Norman didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was that the buyer somehow preserved the property as a resort. No mini golf course, no subdivision. Grandpa deserved at least that.

  Cam remained near the back, hat pulled low, as the pink-cheeked auctioneer read aloud the terms of the auction.

  “The property is to be sold ‘as is.’ What that means,” the auctioneer explained in a thick New York accent, “is that you own any and all warts.” He fixed his wide eyes on the crowd. “And we all know about the septic system problems, so don’t think you’re going to scare other bidders away. The septic system is your headache.”

  He continued with the terms. Closing would be in seven days, no extensions. Minimum bid increment would be ten thousand dollars. Upon the conclusion of the auction, the successful bidder would need to wire funds immediately to increase the deposit to twenty percent of the purchase price; if he failed to do so, the property would go to the second highest bidder. The Saudi’s attorney, speaking loudly on his phone, made a point of informing his banker to be ready to wire funds immediately. Cam smiled at the display of brashness; the Saudis were making it clear they were here to take the property.

  Other than the seven-day closing, which was an extremely quick turnaround, it was pretty standard stuff. Except this clause: The bank could void the sale at any time prior to the closing. Cam had never heard of that before. Apparently, Pennybags Unlimited felt like there might be a reason to try to keep the property for itself even after the auction. Perhaps they sensed the growing interest in it or perhaps they got wind of the treasure. According to the security guards, a steady stream of potential purchasers had been descending on the property all weekend. None, apparently, had tried to dig.

  The number of registered bidders had grown to more than a dozen and the other onlookers close to thirty. Not surprising, given the strong economy and the rising popularity of the Catskills. But as far as Cam knew, only three of the bidders—the neo-Nazis, the Mossad and the Saudis—were aware of the potential treasure. Not including Gus, who had suspicions but likely didn’t have the cash. But who knew with Gus? Maybe he had partnered with a money guy. The rest of the bidders presumably saw this as a simple real estate play.

  While the auctioneer read the terms, the attorney murmured into a cellphone, the device looking out of place alongside his sideburns and tweed. Cam guessed he was speaking to a representative of Pennybags Unlimited. Odd that a principal of the company wasn’t in attendance at the auction. Or perhaps he was. A tall, bearded, bespectacled man dressed in Hassidic garb also spoke into a cell phone—not surprising, in and of itself, as a large Hassidic population resided in the area. The man was turned away from Cam, and Cam couldn’t see much of his face beneath his wide-brimmed fedora pulled low, but he seemed to be speaking in rhythm with the attorney. It wouldn’t surprise Cam if the Hassid was observing from the rear, eavesdropping, trying to get a sense of the bidders and their strategies.

  The auctioneer jutted his head forward and asked the registered bidders to step closer. Cam took the opportunity to maneuver into a better sightline while still remaining hidden. Without further preamble, the auctioneer clapped his hands together and proclaimed, “What am I bid for this property? Do I hear five million dollars?”

  Silence greeted him, most people looking at their feet or the portico ceiling. Undeterred, he continued. “What is my bid? You people didn’t come out here in the rain just to look at my ugly mug.”

  A man in an olive trench coat raised his numbered yellow bid card. “One hundred thousand.”

  The auctioneer jutted his head further forward. “We are here today to sell the property, not to rent it.” His eyes grew wide with feigned disbelief. “Bid rejected. I need an opening bid of at least five hundred thousand dollars.”

  The olive trench coat smiled and raised his card. “Fine. You have it.”

  The bidding increased quickly by ten thousand dollar increments up to almost eight hundred thousand. Then the stately Katarina stepped forward, raised her chin and held her yellow bid card above her shoulder like a blond Statue of Liberty. “One million dollars.”

  Menachem didn’t wait long. He nudged Ezra, who was apparently doing the bidding for them. “One million fifty thousand,” the bear-like man said. As he did, Menachem edged away, circling around behind Katarina. Cam watched carefully, wondering what the operative was up to.

  A new bidder, a twenty-something Asian woman on a cellphone, raised her bid card. Number seven. Cam had watched in amusement as she stepped in and out of the registration line, maneuvering to be assigned the lucky number seven card. With an accent, she said, “One point one million dollars.”

  Katarina had her card in the air immediately, almost talking over the Asian bidder. Cam remembered her lack of civility when driving. “One point two.”

  Many of the bidders had backed up a step or two, unconsciously signaling their withdrawal from the action. The Saudi hung at the periphery, scrolling through his phone as if whatever was on it was of more interest than the auction proceedings. The auctioneer, on the other hand, raised himself onto his tiptoes. “This is waterfront land in the Catskills, ladies and gentleman. The good Lord isn’t making any more of it.”

  Ezra cleared his throat and raised his card. “Seeing as the good Lord himself had a hand in this property, let’s make it one million three hundred thousand.”

  Katarina, her eyes lasered on Ezra, did not notice Menachem standing a few feet behind her. She responded immediately. “One point five million.”

  The Asian woman’s shoulders slumped and she shook her head. The auctioneer turned back to Ezra expectantly. Nodding, he replied, “One million, six hundred thousand.”

  Glaring, Katarina responded in a contemptuous tone. “Enough of this.” For the first time, Cam noticed her German accent. “Two million dollars.”

  Ezra didn’t miss a beat. “Two point one,” he said, as if he could—and would—stubbornly raise her bid all day long if she persisted.

  Cam knew that the auctioneer would get paid for today’s work either way, but the higher the bid, the more his commission. Seeing that the battle had been joined, he made the wise choice to let the combatants duel it out themselves. Back and forth Katarina and Ezra went, usually in one hundred thousand dollar increments, until Ezra reached three million dollars. With a huff, Katarina raised her card yet
again. “Four million.”

  An audible gasp echoed off the portico ceiling as the rain pattered around them. Cam knew why the bidding had gone so high, but the other bidders murmured in disbelief. With a functioning septic system, the resort, once complete, would be worth seven or eight million dollars. Had the statuesque blond bidder figured out a way to solve the septic problem? Did she know someone? Had she bought someone off? If so, she was getting a bargain. Some of the bidders, Cam guessed, were reconsidering their decision to drop out so early. Little did they know this aggressive bidding had nothing to do with the property itself.

  The auctioneer allowed the crowd to settle. His face red, he barked, “The lady has made a preemptive strike! We have four million dollars. Sir, I ask you, will you pay four point one?”

  With a smile at Katarina, Ezra nodded and raised his card. “Of course.”

  Menachem stood behind the Aryan, loathing her and all she stood for while at the same time appreciating what a fine figure of a woman she cut in her rain slicker and jeans. He sighed. What was that book about a young Jewish man obsessed with blond, non-Jewish women, Portnoy’s Complaint? He shook the thought away. If he didn’t complete his mission, this particular blond, non-Jewish woman would be well on her way to reestablishing the German Reich.

  Pulling a cigarette from a special case he kept in his breast pocket, he watched the bidding. Ezra was doing a good job, projecting the air of a man who would bid as high as needed to win the auction. But the reality was that the Mossad had only allocated a certain amount of money for this purchase. As important as the mission was, and as much as Menachem had emphasized that fact to his superiors, even the Mossad did not operate free from bureaucratic control and influences. Menachem did not have a blank check. Which meant he needed to be creative.

  Reminding herself that success often lay buried on the other side of frustration, Katarina took a deep breath and raised her bid card yet again. “Four million, six hundred thousand.” The infuriating bear of a man—Katarina guessed he was a Jew—only smiled and trumped her bid yet again.

  Her board had given her authority to bid up to six million. She had assumed that would be millions more than was needed. Damn Jews. She had another million or so of her own money she could throw in if necessary. But beyond that things might get dicey. Would the board approve a higher amount? Not necessarily. She had railroaded this vote through, playing off the pity engendered by Detlef’s death. The board members might not be so accommodating if she went back to them for more money, especially for a pet project like this.

  Cam clearly heard Katarina Waldburg bluster out another bid. “Five million dollars.” But his eyes were fixed on Menachem. Cam had edged around behind the operative, who in turn stood behind the striking German woman. Something about the Mossad agent didn’t seem right…

  The cigarette. Twice Cam had been face to face with Menachem. Once he smelled salami on his breath, the other time coffee. But never a hint of smoke. Odd.

  Ezra, right on cue, raised his bid card. “Five point one million.”

  Cam moved a few steps to one side. The cigarette was not lit. And Menachem had edged closer to Katarina, now standing only two feet away, still directly behind her. Cam watched as Menachem fixed the cigarette in the middle of his mouth and puffed his cheeks. Immediately, Katarina rubbed at the back of her neck, as if she had been bitten by an insect. But she did so almost subconsciously, her attention fixated on the bidding. “Five point two,” she said curtly.

  Menachem’s eyes narrowed. He turned and shuffled away. When he reappeared by Ezra’s side, his cigarette was gone.

  Bruce stood alone under an umbrella, at the very rear of the auction crowd, beyond the shelter of the portico. Even at this distance he held the umbrella low. He wanted to see but not be seen.

  He scratched at his thighs, the rough wool of the dark suit chafing against his skin. Plus, he smelled like a wet dog. But the Hassidic disguise seemed to be working. Even Gus had not recognized him, though Bruce had been careful not to get too close.

  Phone to his ear, tucked under his wide-brimmed hat, he listened as the attorney gave live updates. “The Israeli just bid five and a half. Now the German woman is raising her card. Wait. She seems unsteady. She just fell over. Collapsed.”

  Bruce bit back a smile. He had been expecting something like this. “Under no circumstances can the auction be stopped. It must continue.” He pulled himself up on a concrete planter. All he could see was a crowd huddled around the German woman. “What is happening?” he asked into the phone.

  “A policeman just came over. He’s tending to her.”

  “Good. Tell the auctioneer to move the crowd away. Then continue the auction. Immediately.”

  “Sir, are you certain?”

  Bruce had carefully chosen this attorney, who had a reputation for ruthlessness. He lowered his voice. “I’m paying you to hold a foreclosure sale.” He spoke slowly. “No sale, no payment.”

  Katarina felt the cold, wet granite on her back, heard the grating voice of the auctioneer, smelled the stale breath of the policeman as he leaned over her, his hand resting much too high on her thigh. All her senses worked, yet she could not move a muscle. Nothing. It was like being in a nightmare where she was bound in the web of a spider, or buried under a mountain of dirt. She. Could. Not. Move.

  Aargh. She couldn’t even scream. She was a professional athlete, a superior genetic specimen. But something, someone, had paralyzed her. Think. The Israelis, of course. At least that meant she’d probably be okay—they weren’t stupid enough to do permanent damage and risk an international incident like the sloppy Russians when they poisoned that spy and his daughter in London, plus the Israelis were smart enough to come up with a poison that had only short-term effects. Not that Katarina even cared so much about herself. But she could not lose this auction. Her eyes darted back and forth, the only part of her body that seemed to work. Deidre. Using all her strength, she forced her mouth to make the word. “Bid.”

  Deidre leaned closer. “Did you say something?”

  Marshalling her strength again, she coughed out the word. “Bid.”

  This time Deidre got it. Nodding, she grabbed the auction card off the wet granite and shook it dry. “Okay, cousin, I got this.”

  Still standing on the planter, Bruce watched as the crowd repositioned itself on the far side of the portico while the policeman tended to the German woman. The auctioneer’s voice cut through the rain. “The auction is hereby resumed. The last bid was five million, five hundred thousand dollars. Do I have any increase? Going once. Going tw—”

  A female voice rang out, a voice Bruce had not heard before. “Five point six million.”

  “Who is that?” Bruce asked into the phone as he scratched at his fake beard.

  “The friend of the bidder, Katarina Waldburg.”

  “Did she register to bid?”

  “No. Only Waldburg did.”

  Bruce bit his bottom lip. He played a hunch. “Tell her she can’t bid if she’s not registered.”

  “But they’re together.”

  “Do as I say. Don’t allow her to bid.”

  Bruce didn’t need his phone to hear Waldburg’s friend arguing with the attorney. “You can’t do that,” she said shrilly. “We’re together, partners. I demand to be allowed to bid.”

  The attorney shook his head. “The deposit check is not in your name. And you have not registered to bid.” He turned to the auctioneer. “Continue.”

  Head forward, the auctioneer raised his voice. “We have five and a half million dollars. Fair bidding, fair selling. Going once.” He paused and looked around. “Going twice.” Another pause. “Do I have an increase from five point six million dollars? Final call, ladies and gentlemen...” He raised his arm in the air as if ready to drop a hammer.

  The Saudi stepped forward calmly and picked a piece of lint from the arm of his suit coat. “Ten million dollars,” he said. He spoke flatly, showing the same emotion as a
man ordering a turkey sandwich. But there was no missing the conviction in his eyes as he glared at Menachem.

  Menachem stood next to Ezra, his eyes steady on the Saudi, and swallowed back a wave of panic. Menachem had immediately recognized the man as one of the bin Abdulaziz brood, a grandson of the Saudi king. How could they possibly outbid the Saudi royal family? To them, tens of millions of dollars was play money, to be tossed around on things like yachts and London flats. There was no way Israel could compete with Arabian oil dollars. Which, ironically, was the point of this mission, to impoverish Israel’s enemies by devaluing oil.

  “I should have saved the cigarette for the Saudi,” he whispered to Ezra.

  “Most men would not have the capacity to penetrate his ghutrah with the dart,” Ezra replied. “But I have heard you bellow and blabber. You have plenty of lungs for it.”

  Menachem ignored the jab. “What do we do? Look at him. He knows he has us.”

  “I suppose, if nothing else, we make him overpay.”

  Menachem shook his head. “If the meteorite rocks really are buried there, there is no such thing as overpaying. They are worth billions.”

  “I have confidence in you, my friend. You can talk your superiors into it.”

  It wasn’t that simple. “Ezra, did you not listen? The successful bidder needs to increase his deposit to twenty percent by wire funds immediately after the auction. Already, that is two million dollars. How am I going to talk anyone into anything if I don’t have time to do so?”

  “Well then,” Ezra said, smiling, “we will just have to pray for God to intervene. Perhaps the meteorite rocks are in Montreal as Thorne suggested, and the worse that happens today is that we piss away ten million dollars and you get fired.” He arched an eyebrow and raised his bid card as the paramedics arrived to wheel the stately German woman away. “Ten million, one hundred thousand dollars.”