by Ian Hamilton
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 anything 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 wa
iter 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.”
“That sounds sinister.”
“Not everyone on my side plays as nicely as I do.”
“Noted,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“And last, there’s the matter of timing and attention. Bluntly speaking, I don’t want to wait for an auction and I don’t want the risk attached to the publicity an auction might generate. So sell both of the paintings privately. Take a discount on the Picasso if you have to, but just get Harrington’s to sell it as fast as they can.”
“We would save on commissions,” he said.
“All the better — that can accommodate the discount.”
“Is that it? Have we covered the buts?”
Ava sipped her wine. It was lighter than what she was used to and it was going down very easily. She had no doubt they would go through the first bottle in no time. “Yes, though I still want to talk about timing.”
“Sam is waiting up for me in London to find out if we have an arrangement. Since we do, he’ll instruct some people from his New York office to come by the house in the morning. They’ll crate the two paintings and ship them to England by courier, accompanied by all the appropriate paperwork and provenance. It will be up to Sam to judge the best time for him to officially put his seal of approval on them and to start contacting potential buyers.”
“What is a normal timeline for authentication?”
“Could be weeks, months even. No two situations are the same. In this case the provenance is quite straightforward and Sam has my written professional opinion that the paintings are wonderfully genuine, so in theory he could do it in a day. Though he won’t.”
“Best guess?”
“A month.”
“I don’t want it to take that long.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A week.”
Hughes sighed. “I’m concerned about the optics. These are two important paintings, and Sam can’t seem to be in a rush. He’ll likely have more than one buyer for them and he’ll want to play the buyers against one another, get the highest price we can. Besides, the longer it takes, the better it will look.”
“Why don’t the two of you come up with a story saying you contacted him about them several months ago. That’s feasible, no?”
“Yes, it is possible.”
“You could say it was then that you sent him the detailed photos, copies of the provenance, and whatever else, short of his having actual physical possession of the paintings. Couldn’t that shorten his timeline?”
“Are you always this creative?” he asked as their food arrived.
They ate silently, the wine, as she had predicted, extending to a second bottle. Ava hoped Hughes was concentrating on ways to meet her deadline. Her thoughts turned to Uncle. There was no way she could tell him how she intended to reclaim the money. As he got older he was becoming more and more cautious, and he might not approve of her involving them and the Wongs — however far removed — in a fraud, even if to correct the first fraud. So Ava would have to go it alone on this one. In all their years together, she had never barefaced lied to him, although she had once in a while withheld information. She hoped he wouldn’t push her too hard to find out exactly how she had come up with the money. Uncle had often said that he trusted her judgement when it came to making big decisions. This was a time when she’d run with that trust.
“How is your fish?” Glen Hughes asked, spiking her thoughts.
“As good as last time,” she said, and noticed that he had made quick work of his wagyu. When he was done, he waited for her to finish, his impatience beginning to show. She suspected he was anxious to call Sam Rice.
“You can leave anytime,” she said.
“We’re finished?”
“I am.”
“You don’t want anything in writing? You seemed keen enough to get my brother to put his foibles on paper.”
“Between Maurice O’Toole and Edwin I have everything I need to ensure your continuing co-operation.”
“Our agreement?”
“The last thing I want on paper.”
“So that’s it?”
“No, not quite,” Ava said, dipping into her bag. “We’ll need to keep in touch. My cellphone number and email address are on that card. Let m
e know how your conversation goes with Sam Rice, and keep me up to date on the timeline. Don’t be surprised if I contact you now and then as well. When the paintings are eventually sold and the money is in your possession, I’ll give you details of the bank account where I want it sent.”
“You’re leaving New York?”
“That’s the plan, unless you think there’s a need for me to be here.”
“No, I’ll handle things.”
“I’m counting on it,” Ava said.
Hughes called for the bill. With the tip, Ava figured it would be close to a thousand dollars. Adding in her spa treatment and two nights at the hotel, she had put more than $3,500 into the Mandarin Oriental’s till. Thank God for expense accounts, she thought.
They walked out of the restaurant together as heads swivelled in their direction. “We are a striking couple,” Hughes said.
“You’re the attraction,” Ava said. “I’m just the sideshow.”
( 30 )
Ava waited until nine thirty before calling Uncle. By then she figured he’d be eating breakfast with his cronies at one of the many restaurants that surrounded his apartment in Kowloon, and would be unable to question her in any great detail. Her objective was simple: tell him what he and the Wongs wanted to hear, go to bed, and get a morning flight out of New York for Toronto. After that it was up to Sam Rice and Glen Hughes.
So Ava was surprised when Lourdes answered his cellphone. “He isn’t well, Ava,” she said. “He woke with a fever and went back to bed.”
“Have him call me when he gets up. Tell him it’s important.”
She groaned — she had been primed.
The wine was now having an effect on her. She lay on the bed fully clothed and turned on the television. She had gotten no more than five minutes into a reality show before she fell asleep.
She woke up suddenly, the duvet wrapped clumsily around her, with an urgent need to pee. She stumbled to the bathroom with no real sense of time or place. It wasn’t until she came back into the bedroom and saw the clock that Ava realized she had slept in her clothes for eight and a half hours.
