The wild beast of Wuhan al-3

by Ian Hamilton

  “You have nothing to say?” he said.

  “This seems to be your meeting. I’m just a spectator.”

  “If you want seventy-odd million, and if you want it sooner rather than later, then the resolution to both our problems is behind you on my walls.”

  She looked up. “You’ll give us paintings?”

  “Yes, and not just any paintings,” he said, standing up. “Come with me; I’ll show you something.”

  He came to her side and extended a hand towards her. Ava ignored it as she got to her feet.

  Hughes walked to the back of the room, Ava trailing. He stopped and pointed up. “That is a Picasso. To the left there, two over, a Gauguin. They would fetch you at least seventy million at auction. I’ll give them to you, today if you want, though I think it would be wise to let me manage their sale or consignment to auction.”

  “Are they real?”

  “Of course not,” Hughes said.

  (28)

  Ava left Hughes’ townhouse at twelve thirty, walked over to Fifth Avenue, turned right, and began the long walk around Central Park. It was close to two thirty when she arrived at the Mandarin Oriental, no more certain about what she was going to do than when she had left Glen Hughes.

  In her ten years with Uncle she thought she had seen and heard just about everything. None of it came close to what Hughes was proposing. On the surface it was audacious, risky, and undoubtedly criminal. Yet, as Hughes explained to her how the process would work, how his checks and balances would come into play, how the Wongs would be insulated from any fallout if it all went south, she had come to admit that it was workable. It was still criminal, but it was workable. Ava hadn’t refused his offer.

  “First things first,” she had told him. “I need to confirm that the Liechtenstein account is as barren as you claim. I need you to instruct Georges Brun to make available to me everything connected to the account.” He agreed, and offered to do it by conference call there and then. She took him up on it, listening as he called Brun to confirm a current balance of just over a hundred thousand dollars and to bemoan his bad run of luck.

  She asked for his bank account information, PINs, and passwords. He gave the details to her and then sat next to her at his computer as she accessed the account and found minimal cash holdings. She then asked to see the deed to the house and his mortgage agreement. He had paid just over four million for it two years before and had mortgaged half.

  “Those other paintings,” she said, motioning to the walls, “how many of them are real?”

  “Most.”

  “What are they worth?”

  “In ten years, maybe millions. Right now, they’re investments in young artists.”

  She did a rough calculation. If she took all his cash and sold the house she might net four million, but there was no guarantee, given the state of the housing market. “How did you burn through so much money?” she asked.

  “I have three ex-wives. They all took a big chunk since, like you, I prefer a one-time payment rather than a monthly bloodletting. And then, of course, I have led quite a comfortable life.”

  “Your brother mentioned some other assets, like a yacht.”

  “You’re welcome to it, but you’ll have to pay some marina costs to get access to it, and then there’s the bank loan against it.”

  “Stocks and bonds?”

  “Dribs and drabs.”

  “I’d still like to see the accounts.”

  Ten minutes later she had found another few hundred thousand.

  He sensed her frustration. “You do know, I hope, that what I propose is very practical and very doable. If your clients truly want their money back, this is the quickest and most direct way to make it happen.”

  “You mentioned auction — that isn’t a dangerous route to take?”

  “Not if you manage it properly, go to the right auction house.”

  “Harrington’s, of course” she said.

  He nodded.

  “With Sam Rice authenticating whatever you want him to sign off on.”

  His lips went taut and his eyes became more focused on Ava. “That isn’t a name we should be throwing about.”

  “How many do you propose selling through Harrington’s?”

  “I’d sell them both through Harrington’s, but only one — the Picasso — at auction. I believe they already have a private buyer lined up for the Gauguin. Not many Gauguins come onto the open market, so there’s a waiting list for his work.”

  “So you’ve already talked this over with Sam Rice?”

  He looked annoyed. “Naturally.”

  “What commission would they take?”

  “At auction, probably twenty percent; on a private brokered sale it would be around ten percent.”

  She stared at the wall. “Are the paintings that well done?”

  “They are superb.”

  “Who did them?”

  “That doesn’t matter, does it? It wasn’t Maurice O’Toole, of course. This chap may actually be better than Maurice. They’re hard to find, people with this kind of talent. I found this one just eight months ago.”

  “I’m surprised, given your financial situation, that you haven’t sold them by now.”

  A painful grimace crept onto his face. “I haven’t had them that long. I was getting ready to send the Picasso to market, but then you unfortunately dropped into my life.”

  “So why go through Harrington’s? Why not broker your own private sale, pocket the money, and pay us off?”

  “We need the aura of respectability and integrity, the cloak of academic professionalism that Harrington’s provides. And then there’s Sam himself. If Sam Rice puts his reputation behind a piece of art, not many people in my business would challenge him.”

  Questions kept popping into her head but there was no structure to them. She needed time to think, to put things into some kind of rational context. “I need time,” she said.

  “I’ll be here,” he said.

  “I’ll call before I come back, but expect it to be sooner rather than later. We can’t let this thing linger.”

  She had turned off her cellphone while she walked, not wanting any disruption of her thought process. She turned it on while she was riding the elevator back to her room; her heart sank when she saw that May Ling Wong had called three times, twice in the past hour. It was two a.m. in Wuhan. Uncle had called as well, Ava guessing because May Ling and maybe even Changxing were all over him. And finally Frederick Locke had phoned, his voicemail message sounding nervous and guilty.

  Sam Rice, Ava thought instantly. Frederick Locke had talked to Rice, Rice had called Glen Hughes, and Hughes had thrown her some bullshit story about tracking her down through Hong Kong. That was why Hughes was so prepared. He and Rice had had time to concoct their scheme.

  Locke was the only one she wanted to talk to, and she didn’t waste any time when he answered his phone.

  “You told Sam Rice about me, about the three paintings, about the Fauvists, about the Hughes brothers — you told Sam Rice absolutely fucking everything,” she said.

  He didn’t respond right away, and she found herself getting angrier. “We had a deal, you weasel. You promised me this would stay between me and you. Now you’ve compromised my position.”

  “Ava, I couldn’t help it. When I checked to see who had authenticated the Modigliani, it was Sam. I nearly shit myself. He’s The Man here. He’s more than my boss — he is Harrington’s. I had to tell him what was going on. I thought he would get upset and tell me that our findings were crap, but he didn’t. He just sort of rolled his eyes and said no one’s perfect and that it was possible he’d made a mistake.”

  “And then he called Glen Hughes.”

  “If you say he did, then he did. I have to tell you, for me this redefines being between a rock and a hard place.”

  She began to calm down. It wasn’t going to do her any good to get Locke more bent out of shape. “Frederick, I’m not going to do any
thing about this, okay? Let’s just take a deep breath and take a step back. I’ve met with Hughes and I’m still negotiating. There may be a way out of this that suits everyone, but in the meantime, keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk to Rice about it. And sure as hell don’t tell anyone else.”

  “I’m not going in to the office tomorrow.”

  “That’s a positive start.”

  “The forgeries — what are you going to do?”

  “Frederick, I told you in London that I would talk to you before I did anything. That’s still our agreement.”

  “Ava, there’s no way I can talk to you about them, or what to do about them, without involving Sam Rice.”

  “Can we please first get to a point where we have something concrete to discuss? I can’t have you running off half-cocked to Sam Rice with every morsel of information I give you,” Ava said, knowing that she had given Locke the last piece of information he would get from her until the case was completely resolved.

  “Yes, I understand,” he said.

  “Then sit tight and keep quiet. I’ll get back to you as soon as there’s something to report.”

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “Thank you,” she said, closing her phone.

  She sat slumped over the desk in her room, feeling like a punching bag. Things seemed to be completely out of control. Locke was talking to Rice. Rice was talking to Hughes. The two of them were organizing a repayment plan that was full of risk, and it was illegal. May Ling Wong was making her crazy, and God knows what she was saying to Uncle. Being on the cruise ship with her mother and Bruce was starting to look like the good old days.

  She needed to unwind. The walk hadn’t done it, and a run was just as unlikely to help. She called the hotel spa and asked how much they charged for a massage. For $625 she could get an hour-and-fifty-minute treatment that would have cost her maybe $30 in Bangkok, double that in Hong Kong. “When can you take me?”

  “Now,” the woman said.

  “I’m on my way.”

  It began with a footbath and moved to a warm body scrub, with two Thai women working her from head to toe. When it was time for the massage, one asked, “How hard?”

  “As hard as you can make it, unless I scream,” Ava said.

  They almost did make her yelp, but somewhere between the work on her hamstrings and her bum muscles, Ava began to think more clearly.

  When the women had her sit up so they could do a simultaneous head and foot massage, she had already made up her mind about what to do and was beginning to relax. “Tell me, do you do both heads?” she asked the woman working on hers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I was in China, in Yantai, I drove past a massage parlour every day. There was a big sign that said ‘head massage’ in English, Chinese, and Korean. But underneath the main sign were a whole bunch of other letters in Korean. When I asked my guide what it meant, he said the parlour claimed to specialize in massaging Korean ‘little heads,’” she said, pointing to her groin.

  The women giggled and nodded. She gave each of them a hundred-dollar tip after the session.

  Ava phoned Glen Hughes from her room. He answered just as it was going to voicemail. He was as suave as ever, but this time with a tinge of eagerness sneaking into his voice. “Ms. Lee, I was hoping you’d call back today.”

  “There’s a restaurant called Asiate on the thirty-fifth floor of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Columbus Circle. Can you meet me there for dinner tonight at seven?” she asked.

  “Gladly.”

  Ava called downstairs, made the reservation, and turned on her computer. Hughes hadn’t been exaggerating about Sam Rice. The Harrington’s website, naturally enough, made him out to be the world’s greatest authority on twentieth-century painting. Other sites weren’t quite so effusive but were certainly respectful. Ava recognized the names of some of the museums and galleries that used him as a consultant. It seemed that Hughes was right — a Sam Rice authentication went a very long way.

  She searched for his photo online. He had a round, moonlike face with a small, pert nose and close-set eyes. His lips were large, out of proportion to his other features. He was bald, with only a fringe of grey hair running around his head like a train track. He and the elegant Glen Hughes weren’t exactly a physical match.

  Ava logged on to an art site to look at Gauguin and Picasso values. The numbers startled her. Gauguin paintings had fetched prices north of thirty million; Picassos had sold in the eighty- and ninety-million-dollar range. What a hell of a business, she thought.

  (29)

  At a quarter to seven Ava walked into Asiate. It was still light outside, and she managed to get a table that looked directly onto Central Park through floor-to-ceiling glass. The park was alive with activity, boarders and in-line skaters vying for space with joggers, walkers, and nannies and mothers pushing baby carriages. I’ll take a run in the morning, she thought, and tried to remember the last time she’d run in three great parks on one job.

  The restaurant positioned itself as pan-Asian. Ava generally wasn’t a fan of fusion cuisine, but she had eaten here before and the fish had been tremendous.

  Her cellphone rang and she moved to answer it, only to have a waiter appear almost immediately at her table. “No cellphones are permitted in the restaurant,” he said.

  She checked the incoming number to make sure it wasn’t Glen Hughes. It was Uncle. She turned off the phone and slipped it back into her bag.

  “Thank you,” the waiter said, and then asked if she wanted something to drink. She ordered a sparkling water to tide her over until Hughes got there.

  He showed up exactly on time, the blue silk pyjamas replaced by a black linen shirt, beige cotton slacks with cuffs, and a pair of gorgeous brown leather shoes. He and Edwin, she guessed, had their shoes made at the same place. As he walked across the room towards her, she saw several heads turn in his direction. He was the kind of man who looked like someone you should know.

  “Nice view,” he said as he sat down. “I’ve never been here before.” Then he looked at her glass. “Water?”

  “I was waiting for you before ordering anything else.”

  “I’m a wine drinker.”

  “Me too. White, preferably, and tonight white certainly, because I’m going to order fish.”

  “I can drink white with anything.”

  She picked up the wine menu.

  “No, let me look after choosing the wine,” he said. He read the list intently. Ava would have just turned to the white burgundies and ordered something moderately priced. Hughes turned his selection process into a production. The waiter came back to the table and waited while Hughes turned the pages back and forth.

  “I fancy a Riesling. Are you okay with that?” he finally said.

  “That’s fine.”

  “They have a Trimbach Clos Sainte Hune that looks interesting. It’s three hundred dollars, but I’m in a bit of a mood for celebrating,” he said, and then grinned at Ava. “We are here to celebrate, I assume?”

  “I’d love to try the Riesling,” she said.

  When the waiter left, Hughes poured himself a glass of water and sat back in his chair. “I was awfully glad you called. The other options, as I saw them, weren’t the least appealing.”

  “I looked up Sam Rice on the Internet. He does have credentials.”

  “As I said.”

  “I also looked up Gauguin and Picasso prices, and unless I’m totally wrong, the two of them should sell for closer to a hundred million dollars.”

  “We do have commissions to look after.”

  “Even then there’s going to be some money left over.”

  “Sam and I need some additional retirement funds.”

  “I’m prepared to concede you that as long as I get everything else I want,” she said.

  Hughes’ grin turned into a very large smile. His teeth were capped, perfectly straight and white as paper, with just the right amount of gum showing.
“I’m so happy to hear you say that.”

  “You don’t know what I want yet.”

  The waiter interrupted and the wine ritual ensued, with Hughes an active participant. When their drinks were finally poured, the waiter asked if they’d like to order. Ava didn’t hesitate, ordering foie gras and black sea bass with oyster mushrooms. Hughes dithered around again before settling on Hawaiian blue prawns and wagyu beef tenderloin.

  “Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass.

  “ Salut.”

  “Can we talk business now?” he asked, setting down his glass.

  “Sure. Look, I spent the afternoon reviewing what happened this morning, and I do agree with you: my clients’ only chance of retrieving a substantial part of their money is through the sale of those two paintings. And I think that between you and Sam Rice there’s enough credibility to make it happen.”

  “Thank you for including me with Sam.”

  “But — ”

  “Ah, the big but.”

  “Not so big, and there are three of them.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “First of all, and most important to me, it is absolutely essential that only four people in the world know about these paintings — me, you, Sam Rice, and the artist. And I want your complete assurance that you have the artist under control.”

  “He will not say a word. He has a bit of a reputation himself, and it’s growing. He won’t do anything to endanger it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely convinced.”

  “Next, this morning you talked about consigning the paintings in your name to Harrington’s and then having them pay the Wongs from the proceeds. I don’t want to do that. I want the proceeds to be deposited into your Liechtenstein account and then have them transferred to whatever bank account I designate.”

  “I thought you would have trusted Harrington’s more than me.”

  “It isn’t a matter of trust. I need to insulate my clients from any potential fallout. This makes them three times removed and puts that Liechtenstein account into play as another barrier. Besides, if you do anything funny, we know where to find you.”