Kenzie's bidder dropped out. She hung up the phone and glanced around.
On the far side of the gallery, Hannes was patrolling the aisle, and on this side, Charley was doing likewise. In front of each of the three sets of double doors stood a pair of armed, uniformed guards, hands clasped behind their backs.
Her eyes skimmed over Zandra and Karl-Heinz, Dina and Robert Goldsmith. In the back row, she caught sight of her old nemesis, Bambi Parker.
"Thirty million dollars."
Kenzie realized that during the minute she'd permitted her mind to wander, the bids had shot through the roof, and the atmosphere had reached that supercharged moment during which no one dared breathe.
"Thirty million, one hundred thousand ... thirty million, two hundred thousand ..."
A handful of numbered paddles went up and down, up and down; discreet signals were semaphored: the Middle Eastern sultan rubbing his chin, the Hong Kong banker tapping the side of his nose.
And still Fairey kept the bids coming, playing to his audience and cajoling, exhorting, inciting them on, the astronomical numbers swirling hypnotically, spiraling up like some magical genie.... This was auction at its finest—equal parts shopping, high-stakes gambling, and theatrical drama.
"Forty million dollars!"
Forty—?
Kenzie snapped her head toward the lectern, where Sheldon D. Fairey surveyed the electrified room.
Surely there's some mistake! she thought. I couldn't—could not!— have heard right!
The hushed silence was broken when Arnold, telephone to his ear, gave a signal.
"Forty-two million."
Kenzie's involuntary gasp of shock joined the others which rolled, like an ocean swell, along the rows of seats.
Forty-two million dollars? Appalled, fascinated ... then feeling a burgeoning sense of triumph, she glanced at the easel on which the target of this bidding was displayed.
The gilt-framed portrait of the infanta stared out of the canvas with a child's seventeenth-century hauteur while, overhead, like a departures and arrivals board at a busy airport, the bright LED numbers rippled, instantly converting the latest bid from dollars to six other currencies:
BURGHLEY S
FOUNDED 1719
LOT 17
US $ $42000000
BR POUND 24990000
FR FRANC 268443000
D MARK 79422000
LIRA '000' 58096500
SW FRANC 70896000
YEN '000' 5628000
All conversions approximate
The expectant hush grew, the tension now a living entity, so real one could almost see it stretching the room like elastic. Kenzie had to consciously will herself to breathe.
God in heaven, she wondered. How much higher can the bids go?
But even she, veteran of countless auctions, had no idea. Quality, scarcity, and market value aside, one overriding wild card made conjecture impossible. It had been owned by Becky V.
What that's worth is anybody's guess. We'll just have to wait and see.
Charley turned to the wall and spoke quietly into his wrist transmitter. "Hannes? You read me?"
Static crackled, then Hannes's murmur burst in his ear. "Yes, Charley."
"I'm going to check out the security-control room. Keep your eye on things, will you?"
"No problem."
"Over and out." Charley turned around, adjusted his cuff, and glanced across the sea of heads to the far side of the gallery. He exchanged nods with Hannes, then glanced up at the dais.
For the moment, at least, he might as well have been invisible. Kenzie's attention, like everyone else's, was riveted on the skyrocketing bids. He felt a pluck of resentment, then shook his head with irritation.
"Forty-four million," Fairey was saying. "Do I have a bid for forty- four million, one hundred thousand?"
The outrageous sums seduced, cast a hypnotic spell.
Jesus H. Christ! Charley thought. You'd think these people would be inured to these numbers. But they're as entranced as any audience watching a game show.
Abruptly disgusted, he strode rapidly toward the nearest exit, bestowing glares at the two overweight security guards who were following the bidding as avidly as anyone else. "Look alive!" he snapped, forcing them aside to push on the heavy steel swinging doors.
Walking swiftly down the corridor, he shook his head in exasperation. The guards' inattention nagged at his sense of well-being. Dumb, dim-witted simpletons! Didn't they realize they were supposed to offer protection?
He had a good mind to beef up security by pulling some seasoned cops in off the street... but their job was outside, patrolling the perimeter of Burghley's. That was where their presence was really required. If worse came to worst, danger would come from without, not from within.
Even so, once he got to the security control room, it wouldn't hurt to rattle the cage. Raise a little hell.
"Fifty million dollars," Sheldon D. Fairey called out. "I have a bid for fifty million dollars."
A murmur, like a tidal wave, surged through the auction room while, quick as a flash, the overhead LED numbers converted the amount.
"Do I have a bid for fifty million, one hundred thousand?"
On the left side of the gallery, the Italian tycoon's paddle went up.
Arnold's bidder had dropped out; Annalisa, still on the phone, raised her pencil.
"I have two bids for fifty million, one hundred thousand. Do I have a bid for fifty million, two hundred thousand?"
Again, the tycoon's paddle was raised, and again, Annalisa signaled with her pencil.
There was a gasp of thunderstruck awe. Even Kenzie found herself openmouthed with disbelief. Over fifty million? OVER FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS? It was not to be believed! Never before in history had an Old Master brought such a mind-boggling bid. The highest ever paid was when the Getty Museum shelled out 35.2 million at Christie's for Jacopo da Pontormo's portrait of Cosimo de' Medici.
But fifty million, two hundred thousand—?
Kenzie sat there in shock. The entire room was frozen, and it seemed the infanta's gaze was tauntingly amused by the silence.
"Fifty-one million," a regal, balding gentleman in a Savile Row dinner suit called out calmly, raising the ante by $800,000.
Everyone started, as though an electric jolt had shot through their plush red seats; heads swiveled to eye the new bidder. Annalisa spoke rapidly into her telephone, then hung up.
"Do I hear fifty-one million, one hundred thousand?"
Utter silence. Excitement had reached a crescendo. Noses twitched, scenting the air for the next exorbitant bid.
"Going for fifty-one million dollars," Fairey announced. "Going once, going twice..."
He raised his gavel, but before he could bang it down, everything suddenly became a kaleidoscope of confusion and death.
Eight men, in eight of the corner seats, bent down and released their spring-loaded seat bottoms. When they jumped to their feet, each brandished an Uzi .45 semi-automatic assault pistol in each hand.
What in bloody hell—? thought Kenzie. Where had those come from? And then she knew. The seats! The vandalized seats which had been sent out to be recovered!
But things were happening too fast for her to grasp. She caught horrifying split-second images, as though nightmarish scenes were momentarily frozen in the strobelike glare of flashbulbs.
One of the guards, realizing what was going down, yelled, "Freeze!" and valiantly reached for his revolver.
He was too late; they were all too late. The ex-navy SEAL and the Colombian brothers whirled around, each firing two pistols apiece.
Staccato bursts of semiautomatic gunfire exploded—rat-tat-tat-tat- tat!—and the guards twitched like puppets, their chests, arms, and legs erupting in clouds of blood. Bullets ricocheted off the steel doors; zinged in all directions.
A terrified chorus of screams rent the air, and the well-dressed crowd ducked down in their seats or dove to the floor.
When the firing finally stopped, the gallery was eerily silent.
No one dared move.
No one dared make a sound.
The smell of cordite, and the stench of fear and death, were strong in the air.
On the dais, Kenzie, Arnold, and Annalisa sat frozen, too shocked to have moved or dived for cover. Sheldon D. Fairey was gripping the lectern, his face ashen, his knuckles white.
Below, the Japanese, the German, and the Libyan sprang into action. Each raced to one of the exits, kicked the dead guards out of the way, and slammed two connected, magnetic explosives devices on each of the swinging doors.
A movement in the aisle caught Kenzie's eye. The former Israeli commando had Hannes covered.
The sight was like a physical pain. She stifled a gasp and willed Hannes to be docile. Please, God, she beseeched, don't let Hannes do anything stupid.
He didn't. Slowly, carefully, he raised his arms in surrender, and she felt a rush of dizzying, sickening relief. He was frisked and relieved of his revolver, transmitter, and earphone. The latter two were tossed to the ex- SEAL, who proceeded to don them. Then Hannes was shoved brutally toward the rows of seats.
He lost his footing and fell, but he was alive, thank God. They hadn't killed him!
Kenzie offered up a silent prayer of thanks ...
... and realized that in the sudden commotion she'd completely lost track of Charley.
Charley!
Where is he? she wondered frantically. And who are these murdering bastards, and what do they want?
She had the nasty feeling she'd soon find out.
"The fuck is goin' on?" Charley shouted, bursting into the security- control room. "My earpiece just went berserk—"
The ten operators monitoring the built-in banks of black-and-white video screens, which were augmented by dozens more in neat rows on shelves against the other two walls, jumped in alarm. Ignoring them, he headed straight to the monitors, which showed bird's-eye views of the auction gallery.
He was silent, leaning his weight on the counter; his knuckles white, his face suddenly weary. "Aw, shit," he said softly.
"You right about that." One of the operators, a black man in his forties, scooted back his chair and looked up. "You might say the, ah, effluvia has hit the fan."
Charley kept his eyes on the monitors. "You notify the PC?"
"Just got off the horn with him. He pissed as all hell."
"He's not the only one," Charley said grimly. He tapped one of the screens. "The guards. Wounded or dead?"
"They dead. Gotta be, considering what they took."
" Semiautomatics ?"
"That's right. All multiple direct hits. I watched the whole thing."
"Damn!"
Charley took deep and regular breaths to calm his churning stomach and racing heart. We fucked up, he thought bleakly, trying to subdue his angry frustration. But where did we go wrong? How—?
He turned to the black man. "Any other casualties?" he asked tightly.
"Too early to tell."
Charley nodded. He pulled back his cuff, raised his wrist to his mouth, and said: "Hannes. Come in, Hannes. You read me?"
The airwaves were silent, save for the rushing of static.
"Hannes. Do you copy?"
"Yo!" a stranger blurted in his ear. "Who're you?" The voice was taut and edgy and held the faintest trace of a drawl.
"I might ask you the same thing."
"Except you're in no position to ask for anything."
"Where's Hannes?"
"He the guy wore this contraption?"
"That's right."
"He's neutralized, but fine. 'Less he decides to be a hero, that is."
"Maybe you'd like to tell me what's going on down there."
"You watching? On video?"
"That's right."
"Then I'll give you the advantage of putting a face to the voice."
Charley saw the formally clad gunman saunter toward a camera and raise his face. A moment later, he brought up both revolvers and fired.
The picture on the monitor turned to snow.
"Shit," Charley muttered, moving to another screen.
Seeing Kenzie seated onstage, he felt a massive surge of relief. He raised his wrist again. "If you're holding those people hostage, you obviously want something. What is it?"
But his question went unanswered.
"One word of warning," came the voice in his ear. "All entrances are wired with Semtec. That's just in case somebody gets the bright idea to come storming in. Anyone touches a door and breaks the connection— pow! It's adios for you guys and half the people in here. You capiche?"
Charley gnashed his teeth. "Yeah," he said quietly, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I capiche."
He didn't know when he'd felt so helpless.
I should be down there, he thought, staring at a monitor. If I had been, maybe I could have headed this off.
Suddenly it occurred to him that it was just as well he wasn't. Chances are, I'd be dead already. Then I'd really be useless. At least this way I can do something.
If only he knew what.
A telephone rang and the black man snatched up the receiver. "Security control. Yes, sit, he's right here. I'll tell him. Yes, sir. At once." He hung up.
Charley looked at him questioningly. "Who was that?"
"The PC. He's in the lobby assembling a strike force. He, ah, wants to end this situation before it gets any stickier."
"Call him back." Charley was already halfway to the door. "Tell him he can't."
"He'll want to know why."
"They've wired all the entries with explosives," Charley told him grimly, "that's why. If he sends in the cavalry, he'll blow everyone to kingdom come. I'm on my way down to the lobby to see him now."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Watch TV. I want to be kept informed of any new developments."
"Oh-oh," the operator said. "There go our eyes."
He and Charley watched as, one by one, all the monitors hooked up to the auction gallery went blank.
Chapter 64
In the auction gallery, the ex-navy SEAL hopped up on the dais, elbowed Fairey aside, and stood behind the lectern, surveying his audience. The auction-goers were still huddled between the rows of seats, and his seven cohorts patrolled the three aisles, semiautomatics at the ready.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, "if I might have your attention, please. You'll be quite safe as long as you do as you're told. First, I want you all to get back in your seats."
No one moved, and his automatic weapon stuttered briefly, spitting warning shots into the ceiling.
"I don't want to have to tell you twice."
There was a lot of rustling as the billionaires and museum curators, art dealers, and socialites slowly raised their heads and peered around. Then, cautiously, they got up from the floor and took their seats. Their confident air of superiority had vanished. For many, it was the first time in their lives that they had been totally powerless, and their helplessness and fear were apparent.
"You're probably wondering what the hell's going on, so I might as well tell you." His hard eyes didn't match his grin, and he spoke without inflection. "We're going to have ourselves a little auction. Also, in case any of you try to make a run for it, I should tell you that the doors are wired with enough explosives to blow half this room to kingdom come. I suppose that makes you a, er, captive audience."
People were moving restlessly in their seats, looking at each other nervously, and seeking mutual comfort by holding hands.
"Now then, please allow me to introduce myself. For all practical purposes, my name is Mr. Jones, and I am the auctioneer for the rest of this auction. Unfortunately, I am not licensed by the Department of Consumer Affairs, but I don't believe that'll present a problem, do you?"
No one spoke.
"I should also mention that the lots and their numbers have changed. One of my associates—we'll call h
im Mr. Smith—is going to pass out a number to each of you. Those are your lot numbers."
There was dead silence.
"You see, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to hold the ultimate auction. One in which far more precious commodities than mere paintings will be sold. The lots are you."
There was a visible reaction of shock. Everyone stared at him in disbelief.
"That's right," he continued, "you heard correctly. Each of you is an individual lot. Your reserve prices have already been predetermined. Payment is to be made in negotiable bearer bonds, and delivered here by noon tomorrow. As soon as your payment is received, you will be released. You may bid on behalf of yourself, your spouse, and friends."
His cold obsidian eyes roamed the room.
"If anybody cannot make their reserve, or payment is not delivered in time—" he shrugged "—tough titty. You will be shot. However, you can rest assured that death will be mercifully quick. We are not sadists."
He gestured for Sheldon D. Fairey to step down off the dais.
Fairey stood there possessively. "This ... this is outrageous!" he sputtered, drawing himself up to his full height. "Auction indeed! This ... this travesty amounts to nothing more than pure ransom."
"Mr. Jones's" voice was a whiplash. "Either step down or face the consequences."
Fairey looked into his eyes. Seeing no mercy, his confidence and assertiveness evaporated, and he wisely did as he was told.
"Thank you, sir. Now then. I would like the two telephone operators at the end—" "Mr. Jones" gestured to Kenzie and Arnold "—to step down also. The other young lady shall remain."
Kenzie and Arnold squeezed Annalisa's arm and quickly followed Fairey. They stood against the side wall, next to the four green-aproned young men from the temporary painting storeroom.
"Mr. Smith? If you will kindly pass out the lot numbers now. In the meantime, as long as no one leaves their seats, you may confer quietly among yourselves."
"Mr. Jones" glanced at his wristwatch.
Too Damn Rich Page 63
