by David Bishop
"That's the symbol of the Romanovs," Dante said. "They're the oldest of the noble houses, the family line dating back to before the creation of the Fabergè eggs. Judging by the beauty of his companion that must be Andreas, the playboy of the Romanovs. He never sleeps with the same woman two nights in a row, according to legend."
"Very good," Di Grizov said. "I'm glad to see you've done some research!"
"He's my role model," Dante admitted sheepishly.
"I should have guessed. No doubt Andreas will be bidding on behalf of his father, Dmitri. Doubtful the Romanovs will stay the course. Most of their resources are tied up in a cold war of attrition with the Tsar. Andreas is here to be seen and to see what everyone else does."
Next on to the red-carpeted steps outside the casino was Mikhail Deriabin, media baron and House of Bolshoi patriarch. His curly brown hair swept back from a pinched face, a monocle held in front of his right eye. He was clad in a finely tailored dinner jacket of black and blue, his head tossed back at a haughty angle. At his side stood a poised, elegant woman in a simple silk gown of red and orange. Brockman appeared from inside the casino and began interviewing his boss, simpering with obsequiousness.
"Arse-licker," Dante sneered. "Who's the woman with Deriabin?"
"The Firebird," Di Grizov replied, his face alive with admiration as he watched her on screen. "She is Ballerina Queen of the Danse Macabre, the greatest dancer of our age. I saw her perform once when I was playing a long con. Such elegance, such finesse."
The last to arrive for the auction was a cruel-faced man with closely cropped black hair. He was alone and refused to be interviewed by Brockman, waving the presenter away with a curt gesture.
"Doctor Fabergè - I wonder what he's doing here?" Di Grizov stroked his chin thoughtfully, watching the final guest disappear inside.
"Fabergè? Like the egg guy?" Dante asked.
"Carl Fabergè was the jeweller who designed the Imperial Easter Eggs. He died hundreds of years ago. The man who just arrived is a scientist called Dr Karl Fabergè. He and Raoul Sequanna co-founded GenetiCo, a genetics research company much favoured by the Tsar. But why come to an event like this? He can't imagine being able to successfully bid for the egg..."
Dante shrugged. "Guess we'll find out tonight. The auction starts soon."
"Hello and welcome back to our live and exclusive coverage of the Auction of the Century! I'm Kurt Brockman, your host for this evening's event here on the House of Bolshoi Arts Channel." The presenter paused and looked over his shoulder at the assembled throng of the rich and famous. "Well, it seems anybody who's anybody is here in this room tonight, waiting for their chance to bid on the fabled Steel Military Egg. The only noble dynasty not represented is that of our beloved Tsar, the House of Makarov. Could the Tsar be the mystery seller of this much-vaunted item? Sotheby's have refused to be drawn on the seller's identity, but speculation remains-" Brockman stopped to hold a finger up to one ear, his face a mask of concentration. "I'm hearing the auction is about to begin, so I'll let the action speak for itself from now on..."
In the auction room a hush descended upon those assembled. All one hundred seats were occupied by some of the best-fed posteriors in the Empire. Ladies fanned themselves with sale programmes as heat from the television lights began to overwhelm the casino's air conditioning system. Those who had arrived too late to claim a seat stood around the walls, Di Grizov and Dante scattered among them, the two men careful to avoid each other.
After an awkward pause a chubby auctioneer appeared from between two curtains of crimson velvet and approached the podium. At his signal the curtains parted to reveal the egg on its pedestal, surrounded by security guards. The audience found their voices again, a babble of excitement passing round the chamber. The auctioneer dabbed a white cotton handkerchief against his sweaty brow and gripped the podium. He clasped a small wooden gavel and rapped it three times against a wooden disc. "Thank you, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. It is now time for the main event of the evening: Lot forty-two, the Steel Military Egg, designed in 1916 by Carl Fabergè." The auctioneer paused, then leaned on the podium. "Ten million roubles I am bid."
A whisper of awe rippled through the room. This opening sum was more than had been bid on the previous forty-one lots, auctioned a day earlier, including some of the most precious artefacts of the millennium. History was being made and everybody knew it.
"Twelve million. Fourteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty. Twenty million roubles I am bid. And five? Twenty-five million. Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty. Forty-five. Fifty. Fifty million roubles I am bid." The auctioneer paused to let the audience applaud and mopped his brow once more. So far the bids had been almost non-stop, but the world record price was fast approaching and most would blanch at exceeding that psychological barrier. "Do I hear fifty-five million?"
Dante wiped his palms on the legs of his trousers. Fifty million roubles! The sum was astronomical, almost beyond imagining. In his young life Dante had rarely possessed more than a few hundred roubles at once, but as soon as the auction was completed he would be helping Jim steal lot forty-two. Just watching the sale was causing an unpleasant quiver in Dante's lower intestine. How would he cope with being part of the greatest heist in history? If they pulled it off, his reputation as a leading light in the Vorovskoi Mir would be assured. If they failed and were caught, well, he'd be lucky to survive the night. "Live fast, die young, leave a handsome corpse," Dante told himself.
He concentrated on trying to detect who was still in the bidding. Most of the signals to the auctioneer were almost imperceptible, unless the bidder wanted others to know their identity. Andreas Romanov had made no secret of his interest, expansively gesturing with a waft of his catalogue. When the top bid passed forty million he had waved the auctioneer away and smiled broadly to those among him. Honour had been satisfied, it seemed.
Fifty million proved to be the pain barrier for Princess Marie-Anne. She closed her catalogue and rested it on her lap, the merest shake of her head indicating her withdrawal. But who had bid the top price? Dante peered at those present but remained none the wiser. The auctioneer was still calling for fresh bids, hoping to push the price on to the world record and beyond.
"Fifty-five? Do I hear fifty-five? Last chance for this rare and very special lot, going once at fifty million roubles. Going twice. Go-"
"Sixty million!"
All heads turned to see who had called out. In most auctions it was considered bad form to look over your shoulder in search of rival bidders. Calling out your bid was also sneered upon but the figure standing against the back wall did not seem concerned by that.
The auctioneer arched an eyebrow at the newcomer. "We have a fresh bidder - sixty million roubles."
Dante smiled at the audience, all of whom had twisted round to stare at him. He couldn't explain what had happened, even to himself. One moment he was scanning the crowd, the next he was yelping out a bid despite not having two roubles to rub together. Keep a low profile, Jim had reminded him a thousand times; a good grifter never draws attention to himself. Dante did not dare look in his mentor's direction, lest he be struck dead by the venomous glare no doubt being directed at him. Instead he nodded to the auctioneer.
"Sixty million it is," the rotund man with the gravel confirmed. "Do I hear sixty-five? Sixty-five it is."
"Seventy," Dante squeaked, his voice an octave above its normal pitch.
"And seventy, I am bid. Now seventy-five." The auctioneer looked at Dante once more. "The bid is seventy-five million roubles, against you sir."
Dante smiled, shrugged and waved him away. Only when the audience had resumed ignoring him did the youth let out a sigh of relief.
The auctioneer was close to concluding the sale. The world record price of eighty-seven million roubles had been too much to hope for, but lot 42 had gone close. "The bid is seventy-five million roubles. Final chance, selling now at seventy-five million roubles?"
In the audience Deriabin had sudde
nly begun to smile broadly, unable to quell his pride any longer. Plainly he was the top bidder. His hands clutched the sale catalogue tightly, waiting for the gavel to be struck for the last time.
"Selling now at seventy-five million roubles... Eighty million!"
There was a collective gasp of astonishment. Who was this new bidder? Why had they entered the fray so late on? And who could afford to spend such a sum on anything, even an item this exquisite?
Deriabin's face was a snarl of anger, his knuckles white on the hand clutching the catalogue. The media mogul made no attempt to hide his next bid, visibly twitching his catalogue.
"And eighty-five. Any advance on eighty-five? I'll accept eighty-seven and a half," the auctioneer offered. "No? Then the final bid is eighty-five million roubles. Eighty-five million..." The gavel twitched. "Eighty-seven and a half million roubles! I am bid eighty-seven and a half million roubles!"
The audience began to applaud spontaneously; each of them knowing this would be a story to tell their grandchildren. Only Deriabin refused to take part, his arms folded severely across his chest. When the congratulations had died down he flicked his catalogue once more.
"Ninety million. Ninety-two and a half. Ninety-five. Ninety-seven and a half. One hundred million roubles!" More applause but it quickly died away as the bidding continued in a frenzy. "And five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty! I am bid one hundred and forty million roubles!"
At last Dante had detected who was the other bidder. In a corner of the room Doctor Fabergè was signalling his bids with the faintest of nods. Now Deriabin had the upper hand again. Surely this ludicrous sum could grow no higher? A collective madness seemed to have gripped everyone in the room, Dante included. Where would this insanity end?
"A hundred and forty-five million roubles," the auctioneer said after another tiny nod from Fabergè. In the middle of the room Deriabin sat fuming, all eyes staring at him. The egg had only been expected to fetch fifty million roubles, talk of breaking the world record thought to be merely media hype. Now the bids were close to doubling the old mark. After a long, agonising silence Deriabin stood and stalked from the chamber, flinging his crumpled catalogue to the floor.
"I am bid a hundred and forty-five million roubles. Do I hear any advance on that figure?" The auctioneer paused, then slammed his gavel downward, signalling the end of the sale. "Sold!"
Di Grizov found his apprentice in the melee that followed and dragged him to one side. "What the hell were you thinking? Why did you start bidding?"
Dante just shrugged. "Sorry. The excitement got to me!"
"Diavolo, do you ever listen? I should have followed my instincts and reported you to the authorities when we first met. You're a menace, Nikolai Dante, and you're in danger of dragging me down with you. It'll be a miracle if you live to see twenty!"
"Calm down, Jim. Nobody will remember me, not after what just happened - the auction smashing the world record, Deriabin storming out."
Di Grizov had to concede the truth of this. "Nevertheless, pull a stunt like that again and you're finished. I'll personally hand you over to the Raven Corps!"
"Yeah, yeah," Dante replied, having heard it all before. "Shouldn't we be getting close to Fabergè? He's the winning bidder."
The senior grifter jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Fabergè was surrounded by a scrum of cameras and reporters, all demanding to know why he had bid so much for the egg and where the money had come from. "Trust me, the good doctor isn't going anywhere for a while. Let's get back to the suite and prepare for tonight. I may have thought of how we can turn your little display of stupidity to our advantage."
"I don't like to talk about money, it's unseemly." Fabergè was surrounded by reporters, all jostling for a chance to question the winning bidder, hoping to catch his eye. The doctor had escaped the auction room but was now holding an impromptu press conference in the corridor outside. Fabergè kept smiling, even if the expression sat oddly on his severe features. "If you must know, yesterday I sold my half-share of GenetiCo to my co-founder, Raoul Sequanna. The dividend from that transaction enabled me to bid with confidence."
"If I may be so bold, why?" The interrogator was Kurt Brockman, determined to keep his face close to the centre of this story. "What possible reason could you have for spending a small fortune on a piece of jewellery?"
"The Fabergè Eggs have great personal significance for me," the scientist replied. "I was raised in an orphanage by nuns and one of the sisters named me after Carl Fabergè, the acclaimed jeweller who fashioned the eggs. Alas, the nun spelled my first name wrongly on the paperwork!"
His joke was a familiar one to the reporters, since he used it in every interview, but they dutifully laughed along with him. For once the weak jest had acquired an extra significance, just as Fabergè was now a man of greater importance than usual thanks to his bidding coup.
"The concept of the eggs with their hidden surprises has inspired a daring and innovative new direction for research I shall be conducting over the coming months and years. It is work of the utmost importance, with the full support of our glorious leader, Tsar Vladimir. This new project means I am no longer able to involve myself in the day-to-day running of GenetiCo - hence the sale. But the company is in safe hands with Raoul and shall go from strength to strength under his leadership. In the meantime it is enough for me to say I shall treasure this day for many years to come and look forward to having the Steel Military Egg as my most prized possession. That is all."
Fabergè forced his way through the melee, waving away any further questions as he struggled towards the lifts. A man distinguished by the characteristic crimson blazer of a Sotheby's official shoved his way through the journalists and took the doctor by an elbow. "Sir, if you'll follow me. I shall escort you safely back to your suite. The egg will be delivered to you there later."
"Thank you," Fabergè said once the two men were safely inside a lift, sliding doors shutting out the media. "The gutter press are tiresome, but one must give them a quote or else they make your life a misery!"
"Indeed. Forty-fourth floor, is it sir?"
"Forty-fifth, actually," Fabergè replied. "Some usurper persuaded the casino management to surrender my usual suite! Probably the red-faced upstart who tried to get himself noticed by bidding against Deriabin earlier. I soon showed that gross pretender!"
The lift sighed to a halt on the forty-fifth floor, its doors parting to reveal a tasteful penthouse suite. A dozen Sotheby's employees were waiting, their faces suffused with obsequious civility.
"Welcome to your suite, Doctor Fabergè!"
"Congratulations on your purchase!"
"A wonderful piece of bidding, if I may say so. Audacious yet assured!"
"You lived up to your famous name in every way today, sir!"
"Silence!" Fabergè bellowed. "I've heard enough questions and false compliments to last me a lifetime. All I want is some peace and quiet. Get out of my suite - NOW!"
The auction house staff scuttled towards the lift, eager to satisfy their most important client. Fabergè stopped them with another barked command. "Wait! Where's the man who rescued me from that unseemly mob downstairs? He can stay. The rest of you - get out!"
Di Grizov emerged from the cluster of cowering staff, one hand stroking his false moustache and beard. "Glad to be of service, sir."
Dante took a deep breath and placed a call to the Casino Royale's concierge. "Yes, I'd like to be put through to Doctor Fabergè. No, I'm not surprised to hear he's not taking any calls, but he'll want to take mine. Why? Tell him I have evidence the Steel Military Egg for which he just paid a world record sum is a fake. If he wants to know more, I will be happy to visit his suite in twenty minutes' time. My name? Dante, Nikolai Dante. He'll know me when he sees me."
Since the age of five Karl Fabergè had known of his own genius. Across the Empire all five year-old children were required to undergo intelligence, aptitude and personality testing. From thi
s the authorities could identify potential soldiers, scientists, athletes, artists, thinkers and troublemakers. Those that could be of use were channelled into the best schools and academies, set on a path to best fulfil their latent talents. Those that posed a danger were watched, detained, and in some cases, exterminated with extreme prejudice. There was no mercy for those who could have been a threat to the Tsar and the glorious Empire.
This reign of terror had been the making of Fabergè. A sickly baby, he had been abandoned on the steps of a convent orphanage. One of the nuns doted on this weakling runt, keeping it alive and secretly suckling the infant on her breasts. She was the sister who misnamed the child, calling him her little jewel. Fabergè could still remember her scent, warm and flowery. By the age of four he had rejected the nun's beliefs as superstitious nonsense, substituting science as his catechism. On his fifth birthday Karl was tested by the local education official and declared a genius, with superior intellect and a brilliant scientific mind. The boy was removed from the orphanage and began his studies at the science academy in St Petersburg.
There he emerged as the leading mind of his generation, revolutionising techniques in several fields and challenging accepted scientific thinking. As Fabergè's fame grew, so did his egotism and self-regard. But being the most acclaimed scientist of the twenty-seventh century was not enough for him. Fabergè wanted to be famous across the Empire. Outbidding the media baron Deriabin for the Steel Military Egg was a bold first step towards that goal. Deriabin's competitors would replay the auction footage over and over again to humiliate their rival, putting the name of Dr Karl Fabergè on everyone's lips. But to now be told the egg might be a fake - it did not bear thinking about.
