Spoils of the Game

by Lee Lamond

  Caron said, “Claude, I suggest that when you leave, you confirm your plans with my associate Simon. The next time I am in Paris, we can perhaps have dinner, and we can laugh about this unfortunate event.”

  “Monsieur Caron, again we want to express our regret, and I can promise that this type of problem will never happen again,” stated Badeau, whose mind was spinning and hands were shaking.

  “Oh, I agree with you,” replied Caron.

  Badeau reached across the table to take possession of the painting, and Caron quickly stopped him.

  “Claude, I want to hold on to this painting for a while, if you don’t mind. It has taught me a great lesson, and now that we know that it is not genuine, you must agree that it has little value. Why don’t you take the copy of the report I received, and you can address any issues you have with your sources? If any of these people become a problem, just call me.”

  Badeau was dumbfounded and could not put together a good reply. This was an unfair fight, and Caron had all of the ammunition. Caron and his wife rose from their chairs, and Simon opened the conference room door. Within seconds Badeau, his wife, Phillip Bertrand, and Simon had exited the galley and were standing in the rain.

  “Simon, we may have some difficulty obtaining the money by this time tomorrow. I may have to sell some securities and talk with my banker. Would Thursday be satisfactory?”

  Simon paused as if he was thinking and then provided his decree. “No. I will see you tomorrow at noon at your office at the Louvre. Thank you for coming.”

  With that, the man named Simon turned and reentered the gallery.

  Badeau and his wife were in shock. Their friend and consultant Phillip Bertrand seemed more composed.

  “I need a drink, and we have to talk,” said Badeau. There was a cafe around the corner, and the three took a table in the corner.

  Badeau held his face in his hands as his wife wiped tears from her eyes. Bertrand took the opportunity to order wine for all three.

  “Catherine, how much money do we have in the business?” asked Claude.

  She hesitated before saying, “Perhaps forty thousand euros. We just purchased those three paintings in Amsterdam, and that was almost two hundred thousand. We would have been in a better position if this had happened last week.”

  “I should never have agreed to a twenty-four-hour limit. It is impossible to raise the cash by tomorrow.”

  Phillip Bertrand did not let the pain continue. “Claude, I can provide the cash, but I must have the three paintings you mentioned. I hate to let it appear that I am being mercenary in my offer, but I also need to be protected. Perhaps we can talk about using the paintings as collateral, but I have to be compensated for the money I give you … and under the circumstances, the risk might be high. Unfortunately I don’t know when I can expect to see the money again.”

  “Phillip, you were at that meeting as well, and you are on Caron’s list, so be careful,” said Badeau.

  “I don’t see it that way. I am a minor player, but if you see me as one under threat because of your company’s actions, then all the more reason for needing the three paintings to advance you the money. If I am to get the money transferred to your account, I must leave you now. I will be at your wife’s office this afternoon to pick up the paintings” Bertrand eased himself from the table and slowly moved his large frame out of the café and into the rain.

  Badeau found Bertrand’s offer welcome but stained by his demands. Hopefully they could resolve their problems once the money was paid. Badeau and his wife sat in the cafe’s dark corner trying to unscramble their lives.

  “Catherine, how could that painting have been a fake? Andre knew the dealer we bought it from, and the paperwork was complete. I did not study the painting in detail, and I should have. Why Caron kept the painting is another question. Are we supposed to ask for our money back based on the report he provided? I would even pay for my own analysis if I had the painting. And if the painting is not a fake, we may have just been robbed. Something is not right, but the good news is that we will get past tomorrow. I hate to give Phillip Bertrand the paintings, but he has the money, and we are desperate. I feel so violated. It is almost like Caron and Bertrand set us up. Whatever happens, do not mention this to anyone. I have a reputation at the Louvre to maintain.”

  Badeau rose from the table and went to the men’s room. Looking into the mirror he saw the eyes of an older man who, for the first time in his life, was very much afraid. Through the innocent actions of his wife, he was now much too familiar with key people in organized crime. Badeau and his wife had had issues in the past with a few investors that had questioned their methods, if not their honesty, but that had been resolved, and no one had felt they were at personal risk. Now, for the first time, he feared that lives were in danger.

  While Badeau searched for a solution, four thousand miles away in Hickory, North Carolina, Austin Clay’s alarm clock began to ring. Although the alarm had done its duty, Austin had been awake for perhaps half an hour, thinking about many things. He reached over to turn off the alarm, not knowing that in the preceding hour, the actions of someone far away would lead to a threat on his life and on the lives of those around him.

  Chapter 2

  Hickory, North Carolina, and Paris, France

  It had been a good week for Austin Clay. As president of Clay Medical he had challenged his company and its employees to achieve their goals on a new project, and it had paid off. Clay Medical was a biomedical company that specialized in novel treatments for many of the primary diseases that have haunted mankind, and its success rate was higher than many others in the business. As thanks, Austin held a luncheon party for his employees at the Twin Creek Country Club, where he and his father had been members for many years.

  It was about five o’clock when the party broke up. Austin made his way down to the members’ grill and took a seat at the bar. The bartender was a guy named Eddie. Eddie had been with the club for over twenty years and knew too many secrets. People liked talking to Eddie, and people placed their trust in him, and on occasion they placed their bets with Eddie for a variety of sporting events. Eddie could project a benign sense of interest that invited people to divulge to him personal topics. He knew when to volunteer information and when to keep his mouth shut.

  “Hello, Mr. C. What can I get you?”

  “Do you have any of the single malt I like?”

  “Sure do.”

  Eddie looked over his collection on the bar shelves, and Austin looked around the bar and its collection of members. Many had been friends of his father, who was a doctor and the medical pioneer who started the company that was making Austin a very rich man. When Austin’s mother and father died in a car accident, Austin had been ready to take over the company, not because he was smarter than anyone else, but because his father had staffed the company with the best people in the business. This was a practice that Austin continued and one that gave him great comfort. Spending good money for great people was, in his opinion, the cheapest way to run the company.

  “Okay, Mr. C, here’s your scotch.”

  “Thanks, Eddie.”

  “So what is new in your life, Mr. C?”

  It was a standard probing question; Eddie was good at those. It allowed people to provide just a little information or to spill their guts. Eddie was a good listener and often could provide a perspective that only bartenders had.

  “Things couldn’t be better, Eddie,” said Austin as he stirred his drink with his finger.

  “I saw that you had a gang over here today for some big celebration.”

  “I have been very lucky, Eddie, and I love to pass the luck around. I spent a lot of money here today, but it is the best money I ever spent.”

  Austin Clay was born into a wealthy family and educated in the best schools. He had been a college football star, and now he was the principal stockholder in a prosperous medical hardware company. Some would say it would be difficult for him not to be su
ccessful. But with all of his pedigree, Austin’s most important attribute was his ability to make whatever he did appear to be easy. At the age of forty-six, this good-looking man had a reputation for business smarts that made people want to follow his lead, and that was the real secret to his success.

  “So are you having fun, Mr. C?”

  “Eddie, I have been so lucky, it scares me to death. I can honestly say that I don’t deserve the business success I have had. Let me give you an example. I own part of another company, called BioCircus, that is trying to train bacteria.”

  “Train bacteria? Like the bugs that make you sick?”

  “Exactly. There are millions of bacteria types, and some can change all of the time. Some are very dependable and beneficial, like yeast or the bacteria in your gut. Others, such as flesh-eating bacteria, can actually devour you if you give them a chance. What if a flesh-eating bacterium could be modified with a DNA change and some training so that it would only have an appetite for cancer?”

  “Wow,” said Eddie, who was genuinely impressed.

  “The bottom line is, I took a chance and invested some money in a small company, and the preliminary results say that the technology actually works. The results in mice were excellent, and we should have human trials under way soon. The bad news is that because of red tape and the delays, it might be years before it can have an impact. The list of allowable procedures is run by people who have no idea of what is going on. I have a better chance at being commercially successful by selling the procedure in the Third World. The good news is that we will eventually win, but all of this crap drives our cost up, and then the feds want to know why things cost so much. When we win, however, I will make a bundle, and all I had to do was to invest in a few good people and their project.”

  “You’re not a medical guy, are you?” asked Eddie.

  “No, I am an engineer. My dad was the doctor. At this point, if I need an MD, I’ll go out and hire one.”

  “Do you miss your football days at NC State?”

  Austin’s face was taken over by a smile and a laugh. Eddie had changed the topic because he sensed that Austin was getting aggravated.

  “My football days were the best time I ever had. As a defensive linebacker, I had a license to beat up people. For a while, I had more quarterback sacks that anyone at NC State, and my record was good for years. After a game I felt so good, and it didn’t matter if we won or lost. Unfortunately, while I was beating up people, they sometimes also beat me up.”

  “Did you ever think about going pro?” asked Eddie.

  “It is nice to think about, but that position requires someone bigger than me. I was six foot three and two forty, and although that sounds big enough, I was only going to get hurt. My dad also had plans for me, and we discussed it, and as he often did, he talked me out of it. I miss the game, but I am happy doing what I am doing now.”

  “I remember your dad,” said Eddie with a fondness in his voice.

  “My dad was a great guy. He put up with a lot of crap that I gave him when I was younger. Do you remember when somebody poured gas on the football field of Stevenson High School and spelled out some choice words and then set it on fire?”

  “I do remember that. Was that you?”

  “I guess now the truth can be told. It was my cousin Jerry and me. My dad was suspicious, and over dinner one night he mentioned that gasoline was a little dangerous and suggested that whoever did it should have used kerosene. After that, nothing was ever said. But he did know about my smashing up two cars and being arrested for underage drinking twice, and then there was the time that my mother caught the Cooper twins and me skinny-dipping in the family pool. I don’t think my mother ever got over that. Dad was a good man. He knew when to give me some slack and when to come down like a hammer.”

  It had been a long day. Austin put a ten-dollar bill in the tip jar, grabbed a handful of mixed nuts from a bowl on the bar, and left for home.

  Austin and his wife, Susan, had built a beautiful home in an exclusive neighborhood on a lake. With no children in their lives, the house was perhaps too big for just the two of them, but Austin looked at the home as an investment, and it certainly gave them enough room for their respective projects. With Susan’s death two years ago, the home had become a house, and there was emptiness both in his life and in the house.

  When Austin arrived home, there was a note on the kitchen counter from his housekeeper. Louise had kept the home clean and organized for his wife, and she continued to do so for Austin, who perhaps needed her more.

  Austin,

  I clean this house, and I prepare meals, but I don’t do mice. There are traps in your workshop.

  Louise

  Austin had the money to have exterminators, but for something as simple as a few mice, he would do it himself.

  His workshop was on the lower level, next to the office his wife had established to run her projects. The mousetraps were on the workbench as promised, but he had forgotten to get the cheese for bait. As he returned to the kitchen he stopped by his wife’s office and looked through the glass door that had been closed since the day of her death. Nothing had changed. On her desk were phone messages and her favorite pen. One of her jackets was still on her chair. Through the large windows behind her desk was a view of the lake, and beyond the lake were the mountains.

  Within seconds there was a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. She had died of a stroke so suddenly that he still had a difficult time understanding that she was gone. Austin opened the door and entered the office. He slowly looked around at the pictures on the wall and on her desk. She had been so alive and so very much in the lives of everyone she knew.

  There was a to-do list with words written in her own hand. Austin first studied the words for the details in the script, knowing that the woman he truly loved had formed every curve. He then studied each task that her organized mind had put on paper. Susan Clay was perhaps the most organized person Austin had ever known. Her positive attitude had disarmed many who would stand in her way, and her love for art gave her a special purpose. On the right side of her desk were two files that had been special projects. Over the years Susan had met many in the art world. She was on a first-name basis with key players in New York, at the Prado in Madrid, and at her favorite place, the Louvre in Paris. The two files defined projects for the Louvre that she had been perhaps only weeks from bringing to reality.

  Seated at her desk, Austin opened the first file cautiously. He was not concerned about the contents of the file, but with the contents of his heart. The heading on the file said “Pierre, the Museum Mouse.” Susan felt strongly that there was so much art to be appreciated by children that they were not getting in school, and anything she could do to make children aware of it was a worthwhile project. Austin slowly turned the pages in the file. There were preliminary drawings of Pierre and his adventures in the museum, with each story teaching an important lesson on art history. There were plans for a Pierre doll with a matching beret and smock, and plans for a Pierre drawing set. All of the details were covered. Susan had defined each product, the number of books in a series, and the size and manufacturing cost for the Pierre dolls, and she even had identified suppliers for the art kits. She had expanded the concept to introduce art at the school level and had meetings planned with two major publishers of reading books for elementary school students. There were many good ideas, and now with her death, Austin had hoped that others would complete her work.

  The second file was thicker, with the title “Rescue.” Austin opened the file carefully. The contents were more serious, with no cartoons. Austin and Susan often had talked about her concern that a significant number of European paintings were dying from neglect in old church basements or in small museums that did not have the money to preserve or protect them. The contents of this file were not as well defined as the first. The problem was stated, and the file included notes from meetings she had had all over Europe, but the solutions were still a
little vague. The second file also contained a lot of photos that Susan had taken during her travels to Europe and many photos of people she had met at the Louvre. Her smile was so infectious. When she was in a photo, the smiles of others seemed bigger and brighter. Austin studied the photos carefully. Seeing his wife’s pictures brought conflicting emotions of love and sorrow. He recognized some of the other faces. Some he knew well, and some had been passing introductions, and the more he studied the pictures, the more he remembered the particular personalities. There was Andre Vassar, the head of the Louvre, and Claude Badeau, whom Susan never really had trusted. In a few pictures was Madeline Rousseau, a woman that Susan had really liked and respected. Susan always had believed that Rousseau was one of those people behind the curtain who really ran the Louvre. It was interesting to Austin that in the four pictures where Madeline could be seen, her appearance was strikingly different, and he had to work to confirm that it was really her. This attractive woman had a sense of style and fashion so common with French women, and her underlying good looks perhaps gave her a lot to work with.