by Josie Brown
The auction allows for a clean transaction. While the minister’s wife gets a big payday, new identity—even a new face—the CIA rounds up a few bad guys at the cost is a pittance in comparison to, say, a new war toy.
My cover is that as an American-based private buyer acting as the proxy purchaser for a wealthy Argentinian socialite. As such, I am unobtrusively chic. My long, brown hair is swept back and coiled at the nape of my neck. Although I don’t need them, I wear glasses. I hold my numbered paddle in one hand and a small clutch and Christeby’s catalog in the other. I’m dressed in a long-sleeved Roland Mouret black, gray, and white woven bouclé front-zip jacket with a nipped-waist peplum and a crew neck, paired with black crepe palazzo pants that easily hide the ceramic folding karambit knife that is strapped to my calf. Odds are I won’t need it, but having served as my youngest daughter, Trisha’s, Daisy Scout leader in days gone by, I’ve learned to come prepared.
I’m here doing my bit for God and country when I should be coordinating the winter prom at the high school attended by my oldest two children, Mary and Jeff. The event is next weekend. In twenty-four hours I should be home. In the meantime, my aunt, Phyllis, has my proxy on the necessary decisions to be made—you know, the color of the balloons, if there should be a D.J. or a band, and whether sodas or punch should be served along with cupcakes or a healthier snack. Whenever Jack and I are away on missions, Aunt Phyllis covers our kids: not just Jeff and Mary, but also my youngest daughter, Trisha, who’s now in the fifth grade. I have a ward too: Evan Martin. He’s away at his first year of college, but officially he and Mary are a couple, and he’s due back next weekend to take her to the prom.
So, yeah, the sooner I get home, the better.
The CIA isn’t expecting too many bidders, and certainly, none who are foreign agents, but you never know. Acme’s way of preparing for the unexpected is to equip me with a crackerjack mission team.
One of them, Abu Nagashahi, is waiting outside the auction house in a rented limousine. Even though on this mission he’s acting as my chauffeur, in reality, he is a field agent who triples as surveillance, cleaner, and if need be, getaway driver.
The mission’s tech operative, Arnie Locklear, is hunkered down in the back of the limo. He’s already hacked into Christeby’s surveillance cameras and has patched in our Communications Intel operative, Emma Honeycutt, who’s based at Acme’s headquarters in Los Angeles. She’s now scanning the crowd to run their faces through Interpol’s facial recognition network. That way, if there are any known diplomats, covert operatives, terrorists, or foreign actors among us, we’ll know.
Another member of our team is Dominic Fleming. Silver-tongued and blazingly blond, this former MI6 agent is currently schmoozing with the auction’s curator, Sharon Walker, the elegant woman who holds the keys to the kingdom: in this case, a short list of the bidders who have already expressed interest in the handbag.
The last member of my mission team, Jack Craig, stars in the public role of my paid bodyguard. In reality, this tall, dark, and eye-catchingly handsome man is also my husband, which means he always has my back. I’d put myself in front of a bullet to save him as well, so it works out.
Jack’s third-row seat is the one closest to the center aisle. I’m in the chair beside him. As we converse quietly, we take turns looking behind each other’s shoulder to scan the room. The entire ops team wears special lenses and earbuds that allow us to be each other’s eyes and ears at all time. Arnie and Emma monitor all video and audio feeds.
I look over at the podium in time to see Sharon shoo Dominic away. Catching my eye, he shrugs, which tells me she was immune to his charms. But from the murmurs buzzing through this packed auditorium as the auctioneer is handed the Hermés handbag, there will, in fact, be many bidders.
Hopefully, none of them will feel the need to outbid the CIA.
While the auctioneer describes the highly-coveted accessory in a clipped tone, albeit in minute detail, I murmur, “Emma, any interesting bidders?”
“Thus far we’ve had just one Interpol match,” she replies. “A Korean businessman named Park Sung Min. Last row, fourth chair from the left.”
“Dammit, I guess the Chinese minister’s wife invited him too,” Jack mutters. “Let the bidding war begin.”
“I’ve got him sighted.” Dominic, who is leaning casually against the center of the far right wall, catches my eye and he nods in the direction of our Person of Interest. “Stylish fellow. Favors Gieves & Hawkes. Wears it well.”
I look over. The man is scanning his catalog as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Emma sighs. “It would help if we had today’s VIP bidder list so that I could cross-reference any names that pop up.”
This is Emma’s broad hint to our tech op—her doting husband, Arnie—that he has to up his game, and fast.
“Christeby’s client database has got a tight-ass firewall,” Arnie grumbles. “Wait a sec…I’m IN, baby!”
“I’ll alert the media,” I mutter.
“Sending those bidders who have registered for today’s auction now,” Arnie assures us.
“Receiving,” Emma says. “I’m matching them up now.”
We can barely hear her over the auctioneer who declares, “And we’ll start the bidding. Do I hear five thousand pounds?” He nods at someone.
“Was it Park?”
“No,” Arnie says. “Some woman. Dark hair, brown pantsuit. The name is”—he pauses as he scans the database—“Nika Petrov. She has a Paris address. I’ve put all lenses on the auction room’s feed.”
“Nika is also on the Interpol list,” Emma confirms.
“Ten thousand five hundred!” The auctioneer exclaims.
I start to raise my hand, but Jack stops me. “Wait until the auctioneer calls for the final bid,” he suggests.
I nod. He’s right. That way, we trump the others and fly under the radar for as long as possible.
Park raises his hand. So does some older gentleman sitting in the row in front of us. He’s also on the aisle. He leans on a cane.
“Emma, can you ID the older man?” I whisper.
“Give me a second,” She replies.
“Eleven thousand!” the auctioneer cries.
Again, paddles go up: Park, Nika, and the older man bid again.
Finally, Emma answers, “Christeby’s has him listed as Chet Bakersfield, an American. Checks out. He’s a buyer with a vintage shop in Manhattan.”
“Eleven thousand five hundred,” the auctioneer declares.
This time only Parks and Nika’s goes up. Chet grimaces but keeps his paddle in his lap.
“Twelve thousand!” The auctioneer shouts.
Three paddles go up again: Parks, Nika’s paddles rise, and one belonging to a plump woman in her twenties who wears jeans and a pea coat. Her red hair is buzzed into a flat top.
“B.J. Rosenthal,” Arnie tells us. “Christeby’s client card has her based in Los Angeles.”
“Interpol IDs her as Mossad,” Emma chimes in. “But, she lives in Santa Monica.”
“Thirteen thousand!” the auctioneer shouts.
“Heck, I know B.J.—and not in a good way.” I don’t think now is the time to add that one of our industry trade magazines, Femme Fatale, ranks her at Number One with twice the number of exterminations than the next closest competitor.
Does it bother me I’m a distant fifth? Nah. I juggle three kids, a crazy aunt, and an attentive husband. B.J. only has to worry about a houseful of cats.
“Jeez! Russia, North Korea—and now Israel?” Jack grumbles. “Is there anyone who isn’t bidding on this damn handbag?”
“Thirteen-five,” the auctioneer exclaims. “Do I hear fourteen thousand?”
My cell phone rings. Instinctively, I look at the Caller ID. The name reads TAKE THIS OR ELSE.
I’m curious enough to play along. “Who is this?” I ask warily.
“Donna Stone Craig, where the hell are you?”
I
can’t recognize the voice because the auctioneer has just shouted, “Fourteen thousand!” At the same time, I hear my mission team acknowledging the bidders in furtive whispers.
“What?” I don’t have time to play games. “Again, who the hell are you?”
“Fifteen thousand!”
“It’s Penelope Bing,” my caller huffs.
The meanest mommy in my gated community—Hilldale, California—is notorious for her bad timing.
The bids are now coming in fast and furiously. Over the auctioneer’s shout “Twenty-three thousand!” I hiss, “Penelope, I’m in the middle of something now. I’ll call you back—”
“Like hell, you will!” she snarls. “You’re supposed to be heading up the Hilldale High School Winter Prom planning committee!”
“Twenty-five thousand!” The auctioneer yells, his tone rising.
“I sent my aunt in my stead! Isn’t she there?”
I plug one ear with a finger so that I can drown out the auctioneer and hear myself think. “Granted, Aunt Phyllis is an acquired taste—”
“Is that how you’d describe her, ‘an acquired taste’?” Penelope retorts. “I’ve got another term for it: Nuts! Did you know what she chose as the prom’s theme?”
“Twenty-eight thousand! Do I hear thirty?” The auctioneer shouts.
“Surprise me,” I mutter.
“‘Game of Thrones’!” Penelope snaps.
“That sounds innocent enough,” I reply just as the auctioneer shouts, “Do I hear thirty-five thousand?”
“Not if a pyrotechnical team is needed to build a fire-breathing dragon,” Penelope retorts.
“I guess you have a point there,” I admit.
“Do I hear forty thousand?” the auctioneer bellows.
“And do you know what your aunt wants to do for party games?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I reply.
“Use your imagination!” Penelope screeches.
“Yes, to the woman in the back. Do I now hear forty-five thousand?” the auctioneer exclaims.
“I give up!” I shout into the phone.
“Battle competitions,” Penelope snickers. “With real swords, hatchets, and spiked clubs! She says she knows an antique dealer who’ll lend them to her. Now I ask you: what if one kid accidentally murders another?”
“I guess we’d have some explaining to do,” I admit.
“…For fifty-five thousand! Do I hear sixty?” the auctioneer shouts.
“And another thing—” Penelope says, but then she’s interrupted by another call. The ID reads: MARY
Yikes.
“Penelope, I have to put you on hold!” To hell with waiting for a response. Instead, I tap onto Mary’s call.
The auctioneer bellows, “Sixty-five thousand! Do I hear seventy?”
“Honey, I’m in the middle of something.” My words are kind, but my tone is firm.
“I’m…I’m so sorry to bother you, Mom…” Mary is sobbing.
I shake off Jack’s wide-eyed nod toward the auctioneer as I ask, “Mary…sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“I just saw something on Evan’s Facebook page that made me upset.” Mary sighs deeply. “He took a selfie with some…some girl. And he—”
“Seventy thousand?...Yes?” The auctioneer sounds ecstatic “Do I hear seventy-five?”
Damn auctioneer! I can’t hear Mary over him. “What did you say?” I hiss. “Evan did what again?”
“Eighty?... There, on the left again! Now, eighty-five, anyone?”
“I said he had his arm around her waist!” Mary chokes on her tears.
“Ninety? Anyone?...Final bid then...”
Jack nudges me. When I swat him away, he points to my paddle and hisses, “Now!”
Oh, yeah—right! I raise it high.
“Maybe Evan and this girl were just joking around!” I’m frantic to get off the phone, but I’ll be darned if I hang up on my daughter at her lowest point.
“Do we have ninety-five thousand? Anyone?...The lovely lady in the back?” The auctioneer sounds relieved. “One hundred thousand, anyone?”
Jack elbows me in the waist.
I shoo him away with one hand while I raise my paddle with the other.
“Woman Front and Center, thank you! How about one hundred and five?... Yes? Ah, there we go!”
“This girl looks so sophisticated—you know, very fashionista chic.” Mary’s anxiety comes in loud and clear, even in this room of gasping bid watchers. “How can I compete with that? I come off like a…a silly teenager!”
“One hundred and ten?” I feel the auctioneer looking directly at me now.
I nod frantically while waving my paddle as if calling over a search plane with a flashlight, all the while whispering frantically into the phone, “But you are a teenager—although, you’re not silly.”
Mary sighs. “You’re lying. You tell me I am, all the time. And you’re right! If I’m going to compete with college girls, I’ve got to up my game.”
“What does that mean?” My mommy alert is clanging.
“One hundred and fifteen, anyone?” The auctioneer asks.
This time, when I lift the paddle again, Jack jerks my hand down to my side. “You’re bidding against yourself!” he mutters. “I don’t think our client would like that.”
“I mean, I need to re-think what I’m wearing to the prom,” Mary continues. “The dress I bought is much too young—so stupid! No, I’m stupid for thinking I could even compete with a…a college girl!” She bursts into tears.
“SOLD, to the Woman Front and Center!” The auctioneer points to me.
“Well, the client should be happy—sort of,” Jack declares.
“Mom?...MOM! Are you listening?” Mary’s grumbles indignantly.
Another call is coming in: It’s Penelope again, dammit. I tap DELETE.
“Honey, of course, I’m listening to you!” I reply.
“Bullshit! You hung up on me and didn’t bother to call me back,” Penelope snaps.
How did she get on the line? Did I hang up on Mary instead?
“Let me make something perfectly clear to you Donna Craig: you better put a leash on your aunt—before she ruins the dance—along with your reputation!”
The phone line goes dead.
I close my eyes and sigh. Suddenly, I could think of a few good uses for that knife strapped to my calf.
When I open my eyes again, Jack is already on his feet. Grinning down at me, he nods toward the purchase table. “Come on, Woman Front and Center. Let’s claim your ill-gotten goods and get the heck out of London before Penelope Bing ends up murdering your aunt.”
“Frankly, I’d bet on Aunt Phyllis. If she wanted to get someone whacked, she’s got the right connections.”
Jack shrugs because he knows I’m right. And since he and I have both had our own run-ins with Penelope, Aunt Phyllis would have to flip a coin as to who gets that honor.
As we walk over, it dawns on me that I’ve never held a purse that cost anywhere near one hundred and ten thousand euros.
Once the intel is extracted, what would the CIA do with it, anyway? I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask if I could keep it as a souvenir.
“Congratulations on your new acquisition.” Sharon Walker hands it over as soon as I put my John Hancock on the sales confirmation receipt.
Really, I write Johanna Hancock, but my scrawl is illegible, so it doesn’t matter either way.
“Thank you,” I reply with a pleased-as-punch smile.
Only the staff and final purchasers are allowed into the auction house’s sales offices located behind the auction room. Considering all the hubbub currently keeping the sales associates busy with their bidding clients—not to mention a record-breaking sale—this department’s lavatory should now be empty. Once I’m in there, I’ll slice open the hidden compartment and take a picture of the sliver of paper listing the cloud account and text it to Emma.
“Excuse me, can you point me to the ladies’ room?
” I ask.
“It’s at the end of the hall,” she replies. “I’ll walk you out. I’m due back on the auction floor for the next items.”
As we part ways in the hallway Sharon adds, “Again, thank your client for her patronage. Her participation made it a thoroughly thrilling auction!”
“I’ll say,” I murmur as she heads in the opposite direction.
I’m a few steps from the women’s lavatory when the door to the men’s lounge flies open. Park Sung Min stands there with a gun pointed at me. He nods at the handbag. I’ll take that.”
“Sure. Catch.” Instead, I throw my own purse at him.
It hits him in the face.
He’s so surprised that he stumbles backward, through the door again. His gun goes off—
And the bullet hits flesh: Nika Petrov’s, who somehow breached the sale corridor’s security code and snuck up behind me.
Talk about lousy timing.
The bullet pierces her gut. As blood flows from the wound, she keels over, dead.
By now Park has smacked into a wall. I hold him there with my right forearm against his throat while my left hand slams the hand holding the gun against the wall until he drops it.
When he does, I punch him in the face a few times until he passes out.
And in the process I break a nail, dammit!
As he drops to the floor, I scoop up my purse.
I’m breathing so heavy that I don’t realize I’m not alone until I hear a woman’s voice declare, “I’ll take that handbag if you don’t mind.”
B.J. Rosenthal stands just inside the doorway. She has Park’s gun pointed at me. “The Hermés this time, not the cheap Givenchy knock-off,” she adds with a smirk.
Talk about rubbing it in.
“Do it now,” she adds firmly. “I never thought I’d end up with the infamous Donna Stone Craig’s scalp on my belt. But hey, when duty calls—”
