Treasure Templari
Page 29
Norman felt his knees begin to buckle. Just before he tumbled, he steadied himself against a granite pillar. Had he heard correctly? Had the Saudi prince or sheik or whatever he was really bid ten million dollars?
He thought back to what Bruce had told him: Anything beyond what Norman owed to the bank belonged to Norman. He owed $7.6 million to the bank. Which meant he was entitled to over two million dollars. Really? From destitute to multi-millionaire in less than an hour?
Things like this happened to other people, not to him. Cliché as it was, he pinched himself in the arm. Hard. It hurt, but did not wake him from whatever dream he was living. Just to be sure, he did it again. “Ouch,” he said aloud, causing a few heads to turn and stare at him. They turned away when he started giggling.
Cam, along with the rest of the auction crowd, watched as the Saudi and Ezra stared each other down. But as he watched the action, his mind tried to puzzle out what was happening. He had been to many foreclosure sales over the years. But this felt different. It was almost as if the bank didn’t want to sell the property. He had already noted to himself that the quick seven-day closing along with the bank’s ability to void the sale both seemed unnecessarily draconian. Then came the refusal to allow Waldberg’s friend to bid on her behalf. Why? Again, almost as if the bank—or more accurately, Pennybags Unlimited—didn’t want to sell, as if they had some hidden agenda. Well, if so, welcome to the club.
He refocused on Ezra and the Saudi. From the looks of things, nothing the bank did was going to keep these two adversaries from battling it out. The bidding had soared far above what anyone expected. Anyone, that is, except Cam. He understood this was not about the property itself. This was a continuation of the century-old battle between the Israelis and their Arab neighbors. But this time, Cam knew, the stakes were as high as they’d ever been.
After Ezra’s bid of $10.1 million, the Saudi nonchalantly checked his watch. “Almost eleven o’clock,” he said. “So why not make the bid eleven million dollars.”
Ezra, again, did not hesitate. “Eleven point one.”
The auctioneer, surprised as the rest of the crowd at the level of the bidding, had become silent, allowing the combatants to throw haymakers at each other.
“Twelve million.”
“Twelve point one.”
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen point one.”
The portly Saudi narrowed his eyes. “Fifteen million dollars.”
For the first time, Ezra hesitated as he consulted with Menachem. The auctioneer allowed him a few seconds. “We have fifteen million dollars. Going once.”
“Sixteen million.”
Cam blinked. The Israelis had turned more aggressive, trying to knock the Saudis out by showing they would not be intimidated. It didn’t work.
“Twenty million dollars.” The Saudi leered, his dark eyes peering out from beneath his head scarf. “You cannot win.”
“Twenty-one million,” Ezra responded.
The Saudi showed his teeth. “Twenty-five million.”
A flicker of consternation registered on Ezra’s face. As the Arab proverb said, in a game where the score was kept with sand, the desert would always win.
Bruce had stepped off the planter and lost himself in the back of the auction crowd. Covering his mouth and fake beard with his hand, he allowed himself the luxury of a smile. At the other side of the portico, still seated at the auctioneer’s table, he caught Shelby’s eye. Green-haired, chomping on her gum, she blew a bubble and winked at him. They had won.
The thought evaporated in an instant.
“Bears and bulls and pigs,” came the familiar voice from behind him.
Bruce swallowed. How had he allowed Gus to sneak up on him? He adjusted his glasses to buy a moment to collect his thoughts. “What about them?”
“Come on, don’t play stupid. It’s an old Wall Street saying. Bears make money. Bulls make money. Pigs get slaughtered.”
“What of it?”
Gus smiled and touched the brim of his Irish flat cap, as if in respect. “Well played. I’ve been watching. It took me awhile to figure out your angle.” He stepped back. “And nice disguise. Not that it fooled me even for a second.”
Bruce raised himself up. “It wasn’t meant to fool you.”
“No. Of course not. It was meant to fool people like Salvatore.” Holding up his phone, he snapped a picture of Bruce, wiggled the phone in the air, and hit the send button. “I can’t believe you sicced him on me. Now I’m returning the favor. He knows you’re sitting on a fortune with this.”
Bruce shrugged. “Whatever. And I sicced him on you because you butted your nose into my business.”
“Yes. Your business. A sordid affair, I might add. But, like I said. Bears and bulls and pigs. Don’t let this go too long. Don’t get greedy.” He smiled again. “And Bruce, welcome back to the game.”
It was, Bruce knew, exactly what Gus wanted. To see his old friend return to the muck.
Gus began to walk away. “Oh, and I’ll expect my cut when you’re done. If there’s anything left after Salvatore gets through with you.”
Bruce watched Gus lope away. Hopefully, for the last time. But Gus was right about not getting greedy. Even the calmest seas eventually turned stormy. The trick was to be safely sheltered in port when the weather turned. Or be prepared to perish in the tempest.
Menachem was at a loss. He couldn’t allow Ezra to keep bidding—they had far exceeded what his superiors would authorize as payment. But he couldn’t just let the Saudi prince take the property and forever forfeit Israel’s best chance at the salt water technology. If only he hadn’t wasted that cigarette dart on the German woman. She, at least, they might be able to outbid. But not this single-minded Saudi. The situation was, he realized, a microcosm of Jewish history: Too many enemies, not enough darts…
A text on his mission phone, a line devoted to this operation, interrupted his agonized musings. Turning slowly, he surreptitiously removed the phone from his pocket and glanced down. Message from Bruce Arrujo. Stop bidding. He read it a second time. What?
The Saudi had just raised the bidding to forty million. Menachem reached for Ezra’s arm, gently so as not to tip off the Saudi that something was amiss. “A moment,” he said softly to the auctioneer. Bruce’s text was so odd, so brazen, so unexpected. For all those reasons, it resonated with Menachem. Something was happening here, something he could not see. Perhaps something to do with the clause allowing the bank to void the sale prior to the entire purchase price being paid. He trusted his gut. “We are done,” he whispered to Ezra.
“Why? If nothing else, I can drive the price up another twenty million. That’s money they won’t have to train terrorists.”
“That is a different fight. Today, we are done.”
Menachem lifted his chin and glared at the Saudi prince. “You have won today’s battle.” He paused. “But make no mistake: That is far different than winning tomorrow’s war.”
Shelby had turned her back to the crowd during most of the auction, not certain her disguise would fool Cam under close scrutiny. Not that he wanted to be seen either.
She worked her gum as she flipped open the auction contract for the Saudi to sign, eyeing him from behind oversized pink-rimmed eyeglasses. After his attorney had given his approval, the Saudi reached in with a dismissive scrawl, glowering at her as she twirled her green hair with her index finger. She had dressed as Cyndi Lauper for a recent firm Halloween party, and almost nobody recognized her; this role was not much different. And it would have been just as fun, had she not felt guilty for being part of something so unethical. The memory of the dead cat’s head in her bed helped push the guilt away. Bruce was in trouble, and he needed her help. The morality debate could wait until the next bottle of wine.
“Sugar,” she said, addressing Ezra, “don’t leave. We need to make sure the deposit funds are wired in.”
“They will be,” the Saudi’s attorney declared.
“I’d like the agreement signed in duplicate counterparts,” the Saudi’s attorney said. Tall, young, clean-cut, tailored suit. And, no doubt, well-paid. “I want my client to have a signed original when he leaves today.”
A second copy of the agreement was signed by the auctioneer and handed to the Saudi’s attorney, who tucked it safely into his briefcase. Ten minutes later the bank attorney, his cell phone against his sideburns, nodded to the auctioneer. “The wire funds just hit. You may declare the auction closed.” He held up his hand to the crowd. “Wait. Hold on, everyone.” The attorney listened for a few seconds, then abruptly hung up.
He turned to the Saudi. “You only needed to make an eight million dollar deposit.” His eyes widened. “But you wired the entire forty million.”
At his words, the two Israelis froze, as did the handful of bidders who had stuck around. Shelby wasn’t sure what to make of it. Bruce had shared the outline of his plan with her, but he hadn’t mentioned the high bidder paying the entire purchase price immediately.
The Saudi replied with a half-smile. “I did so on the advice of counsel. The property is mine now, correct? There is no longer any chance for the bank to void the sale.”
The Saudi’s attorney interjected. “Correct,” he said smugly. “You have complied with all your obligations under the contract. Any opportunity for the bank to void the sale is now past.”
“Excellent. Then I am free to take possession of the property.”
The bank attorney stepped forward and shook his head, clearly trying to delay. “Well, there is still some paperwork to complete. If you would come back to my office—”
The Saudi waved his fleshy hand. “My lawyer can handle the details.” He turned to one of his subordinates. “Make the call. It is done, praise be to Allah. The property is ours. It is my desire that we begin digging this afternoon.”
Cam trudged back to his old Honda, not caring that the rain had soaked through his jacket and shoes. He had hoped to be getting ready to help the Israelis dig at the resort property. Instead he had to imagine the Saudis running roughshod over it, not caring a rat’s ass for whatever history might be buried there.
He had to hand it to the Saudi. He, like Cam, must have sensed that the bank was up to something. By wiring the full purchase price immediately, he had preempted the bank’s opportunity to void the sale.
Arriving at his car, Cam stomped some water out of his shoes, unlocked the door, and dropped into the driver’s seat. He phoned Amanda. “It’s over. The Saudis bought it. Forty million.”
She gasped. “Did you say forty? I thought it was worth, at most, eight. And that was with no septic problems.”
“They’re not buying the property. They’re buying what’s buried on it.”
“So what do we do next?”
He hit the brakes at a red light, the old sedan jerking to a stop. “I don’t know.” He felt empty, numb. “Maybe the rain will delay them.”
“Fat chance. It’s supposed to clear up this afternoon.”
He replayed the auction in his mind. “It was weird. I think the bank was going to void the sale. But the Saudi paid the entire purchase price as soon as the auction ended.”
“What did he have, a dump truck full of cash?”
“He wired it.”
“Why would the bank have wanted to void it?”
Cam had weighed the possibilities, but nothing really made sense. “I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter now. The Saudis own it.”
“Won’t they be surprised when a bunch of tourists arrive in the spring with their beach towels, speaking Yiddish,” she said with a light laugh.
He appreciated Amanda trying to keep things upbeat. But the rain continued to pelt his windshield.
Bruce had snuck off at the conclusion of the auction, ambling away from the courthouse toward his car parked a block away. A black Lincoln pulled out from in front of the courthouse and followed, a pair of dark-haired men in the front seat. Salvatore’s henchmen, no doubt, clued in to his disguise by Gus. Tossing away the heavy wool coat along with his hat and beard, Bruce began to jog. Not that he could outrun the Lincoln. But it freed him, made him feel young. Like a kid running on the beach, chasing the waves back into the ocean. It was a happy thought, but not his favorite. Turning the channel in his mind’s eye, he settled on todays’ memory of Shelby smiling at him, cracking her gum, twirling her green hair, winking. The thought warmed him even as the cool rain soaked through his shirt and slacks.
He slid into his car and drove, the Lincoln tailing him as he jumped on the highway and headed southwest at a steady sixty-five in the middle lane. He scrolled through his mental list of things that still needed to be done. The auction had gone perfectly, right down to the Saudi taking the bait and wiring the funds immediately, fearing the bank would void the sale. The collapse of the Waldburg woman, which gave Bruce the opportunity to deny her friend the right to bid, was a fortuitous development—it further raised the Saudi’s suspicion that the bank was not really interested in selling the property and might void the sale, convincing the Saudi and his attorney of the need to preemptively wire the entire forty million. It was good to have a bit of luck to go along with an intricate plan. And make no mistake, this was a complicated con. One loose end could unravel the entire fabric. But Bruce had thought of nothing else these past few weeks. It was done. He was done. Almost.
An hour south of the courthouse, not caring anymore who might track his calls or his movements, he phoned a number in Manhattan. “This is Bruce Arrujo. I’m just calling to confirm delivery of my order.”
“Yes. It went out in one of our trucks this morning. Scheduled to arrive in Swampscott, Massachusetts this afternoon.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Salvatore’s men still following. “All three pieces?”
“Yes. Three marble busts.”
“With the letter?”
“Yes. I packed it personally.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Bruce had tracked down the marble bust of the king of Italy he and Gus had stolen from the mob boss thirty years ago. And an art dealer he worked with had found two more busts depicting two other members of the same royal family, both of whom were also apparently ancestors of Salvatore. Cost him three times what they were worth, but Bruce hoped the gesture—a sign of respect—would placate the gangster, at least a bit. Bruce had no great love for Gus, but he didn’t want to see him hunted down and killed, either. So Bruce had penned an apology letter which credited Gus with proffering the gift.
A sign for the Tappan Zee Bridge loomed ahead. Bruce had always admired the bridge, spanning the majestic Hudson River. He had once sailed beneath it, staring up at its massive underside like Jonah inside the whale. The recently-rebuilt bridge featured viewing stations; during his reconnaissance mission conducted early yesterday morning, before Shelby had phoned, he had confirmed the stations were open and operable. He glanced skyward. Hopefully, the skies would clear. Maybe there’d even be a few sailboats braving the cool November rain.
For the second time in thirty hours, he crossed the bridge and took the exit on the far side, following signs to a McDonald’s in Tarrytown. He turned into the drive-through lane, ordered fries and a soda at the kiosk, and pulled forward. The Lincoln stayed behind him, its length barely fitting along the tight curve of the U-shaped drive-through path which encircled the restaurant. Pulling as far right as he could, Bruce put his car in park and turned off the dome light. He ducked down and crawled across the front seat. Rechecking his mental checklist one last time, he took a deep breath, reached around to grab a two-foot long telescoping ladder from the back seat, and slowly opened the passenger door. He edged himself to the pavement, the passenger side of his car not visible to the Lincoln due to the position of the cars on the curved drive. Using his car to shield himself from the Lincoln’s sightlines, he crab-wal
ked toward a neighboring parking lot. Once there, he exhaled, ducked behind a row of cars, and lost himself.
But he didn’t have much time. The thugs in the Lincoln wouldn’t be alarmed at a minute or two delay in the drive-through lane, but at some point they’d grow suspicious. Sprinting, the ladder tucked under one arm like a briefcase, Bruce proceeded south along the railroad tracks, past some baseball fields and a marina. A hundred yards ahead, the towering Tappan Zee loomed.
He began to climb a walking path ascending toward the bridge. As he did so, the sun broke through, glistening off the Hudson. The sun warmed the air, creating a wind current, and a cold breeze buffeted him. He rubbed his arms. He had forgotten to bring a sweatshirt or jacket. Hopefully that was all he had overlooked. He looked back toward Tarrytown. In the distance, two men in street clothes ran toward him.
Still carrying the ladder, he jogged briskly along the bridge’s pedestrian path. A quarter of the way across, confident he had at least a half-minute head start, he stopped at a viewing station. A Hunter 25 sailboat approached. He had always liked the Hunter, perhaps because of its name. Bruce watched as it bucked along, close-hauled, defying nature by harnessing the very power which opposed it—the wind—to move almost directly at the gust. He shook his head. It still amazed him. Of all of man’s accomplishments, the ability to sail into the wind was perhaps the most underrated. It had, literally, opened the oceans to exploration.
One eye on the Hunter, the other on Salvatore’s men still a few hundred feet away, he opened his ladder and leaned it against the anti-climb mesh fencing designed to prevent suicides. Not prevent, deter. He composed a quick text to Bertrand, considered deleting it, then went with the plan and hit send. He waited a few seconds before tossing the phone into the Hudson. Next he removed his wallet from his pocket and set it on the pavement beneath the ladder, having already tucked a short note with Shelby’s phone number into it. Six steps later he was above the fencing, looking down at the river, watching as the sailboat came about and raced forward on a reach. He smiled. He suddenly realized that the reach, and not sailing close-hauled, had become his favorite point of the sail. The change, of course, was because Shelby liked it best. No bucking, no spray, no sharp heeling. But still the satisfaction of harnessing the wind to your needs. Perfect for a cocktail, she often said. What she liked, he liked.