“That’s convenient. But she might open up to me.”
“Don’t bet on it just because you’re a woman. Nadia Novikov doesn’t relate to other women. She’s the type of manhunter who considers women competition.”
“Detective Michelangelo, you are underestimating this woman’s ability to deal with other people. If there’s anything I’ve come to understand after years in the art business, it’s that the common trait of just about everyone with a whole bunch of money is greed. They all want more—money, power, status, envy. Remember the scene in Key Largo when the gangster Rocco who had everything told Humphrey Bogart that he wanted more. Rocco wants more, he said. Or something like that. Well, that’s how people are. Nadia the model got millions from the sale of that Siva. And she’s sitting on other pieces that can get her plenty more if she can figure out a way to get around the scandal of the Siva being a fake.”
“You have the perfect background to approach someone about dealing in contraband art … is that it?”
Bastard. “What’s Nadia’s address?”
He didn’t have an address for Nadia but gave me the name of the Hong Kong art gallery that arranged the New York sale of the Siva—Cheung Dragon Antiques. “They told the Hong Kong police Daveydenko lied to them about how he got the Siva.”
I called Bolger and asked to him to check out Nadia and the art dealer who handled the New York sale. I told him I’d talk to him on my cell phone when I hit Hong Kong.
When I came into the lobby to check out, the clerk had a message for me from Kirk. Call me. He had tracked me down.
I trashed the message and headed to the Angkor airport.
WHO OWNS HISTORY?
Many countries have rich cultural histories, producing objets d’art over the eons that are today considered priceless museum pieces.
Egypt, Iraq, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Mexico, Peru, China, and Cambodia are just a few of the countries that have amazingly rich pasts that produced fine statues, vases, weapons, ceramics, and hundreds of other items that today are considered “museum pieces.”
Many of these magnificent relics of the past were produced over the eons by long-gone empires. And are often located in “third world countries” which lack the resources to properly protect them from looters and the wear and tear of time.
Some people argue not only that the “history” of long-gone empires belongs to the world at large, but that the museums and collectors in the rich industrialized nations of the world have a right and duty to keep and preserve artifacts that are part of the cultural history of less fortunate nations.
There’s some merit to the argument. Of course, it ignores what would happen if the Iraqis suddenly started dismantling pre-Columbian native American buildings in the southwest to ship to Baghdad … if the Turks suddenly started taking down Britain’s Hadrian’s Wall to ship it to Istanbul … if the Cambodians suddenly started digging for Jomon pottery in Tokyo.
In other words, what if the shoe was on the other foot?
30
Hong Kong
I chose the Peninsula Hotel in the Kowloon District. The hotel had old snob appeal and was famous for its white-gloved doormen who attended a line of Roll-Royce “taxis.” My budget called for Motel 6, but if I had to give Nadia or the art dealer the name of my hotel, I wanted it to be one that fit my profile of a woman who could talk millions. Even if I was a buyer’s agent, which is how I planned to pass myself off, I still had to have the smell of money.
Hong Kong wasn’t very big, basically a whole lot of islands and a large peninsula, but it had many geographical and governmental divisions. As the name of the hotel revealed, it was on the peninsula—in this case Kowloon. The south end of Kowloon was separated from the central government and business district on Hong Kong Island by Victoria Harbor. The district spilled across the harbor and spread into Kowloon’s Tsim Sha Tsui district and adjoining areas.
The Peninsula had an enormous colonnaded lobby, fancy restaurants, a shopping arcade, and high tea in the lobby bar. Flipping through the description in the guidebook, it had only one feature besides snob appeal that appealed to me: body massages. My body and soul needed some TLC.
It was hard to imagine that this bustling postage-stamp commercial entity filled with hurrying people, predatory business types, and concrete towers for more than a decade had been a special administrative region of China. Red China.
I took a walk around the area after I checked into the hotel. It wasn’t long before people edged closer to me and whispered, “Handbag?”
Shades of Chinatown.
The art dealer who set up the New York sale for the Siva would be my first stop. Regardless of what he told the police, he would know who sold Daveydenko the pieces in the first place. Probably not a good chance he would tell me but it was worth a try on my part. I also wanted the dealer’s insight about Nadia.
Getting information would not be easy. Art dealers were more secretive than magicians. And just as tricky when it came to sleight of hand.
In the taxi to the hotel, I called Bolger to find out what he had discovered about the dealer and let him know I was in Hong Kong … just in case one day I mysteriously fell off the radar and my body—sans identification—was later found floating facedown in the harbor. After my discussion with Detective Anthony in which he had expressed no concern for me, I wanted to make sure someone who cared knew where I was.
Whenever I had these thoughts of my premature demise, I reminded myself that just months ago I didn’t think this way and someday my life would be back to normal.
“I read that Hong Kong has more than two hundred stores selling Chinese antiques,” I said, showing off my guidebook knowledge. “So maybe I’ll bring home a tea set that belonged to a Ming emperor.”
“Your guidebook won’t help if you’re caught doing it. China doesn’t allow it’s priceless cultural treasures to be slipped into Hong Kong and sold to the world at large. But don’t worry about that—your chances of getting a genuine Chinese antique ceramic in hand are about nil.”
I knew that and I knew the process for authenticating a ceramic, but as usual, I let Bolger talk to see what else I could glean.
“You probably remember we use a thermoluminescence test to check authenticity,” he went on. “It involves drilling a small sample. By measuring the amount of light emitted from the sample when it’s heated, it tells the amount of time that has passed since it was fired. But fakers can inject radioactive material to fool the TL test. That’s why you look at other factors: the shape, the color, the consistency with the period in question, the weight, the chop.”
The “chop” was an intricate signature of Chinese characters.
I changed the subject. “I thought this place would remind me of a big Chinatown, but it’s got a life of its own. Like a mini-world. It’s part Chinatown, part Wall Street with Fifth Avenue and Times Square thrown in.”
“You do know that the Brits held Hong Kong for over a hundred and fifty years before the Reds took it back.”
It really wasn’t a question but Bolger’s erudite way of leading into a subject so he could show off his knowledge—at my expense.
“Of course. I do know something about world history beyond London, Paris, and other points west. You always make it sound like I learned all my history from guidebooks I buy at the airport.” Which, I didn’t add, was the source of my knowledge about Hong Kong—other than what I already knew, that they made men’s suits cheap and it was a merchandise pirate’s paradise.
“Then you know all about the Opium Wars.”
I’d heard the phrase but couldn’t remember the history.
Bolger snorted his intellectual contempt for my ignorance. “The Brits and other Westerners made big bucks selling opium to the Chinese. The Chinese government tried to put a stop to it and seized opium warehouses in China. The Brits outgunned them and the Chinese not only had to permit the opium trade, but conceded Hong Kong Island and eventually Kowloon Peninsula and the rest o
f what we call Hong Kong to the British.”
“Thanks for sharing.” I loved these charming stories of how Americans and Europeans screwed over the rest of the world, especially when I was traveling in the places that took the beating.
Even though Hong Kong was civilized territory in comparison to Cambodia, it was also home for some of the infamous Chinese gangs called triads, not to mention where Daveydenko bought the farm.
“Bought the farm” was a nice old expression for death. I asked Bolger about it.
“I think it has something to do with fighter pilots talking about buying a farm to retire on,” he said. “So their pals say they bought the farm when they’re shot down. I can look it up for you.”
“That’s okay, the less I know about ways of getting killed, the better. What about the Hong Kong dealer?”
“Your cop friend is correct,” Bolger told me, “Cheung Dragon Antiques arranged the transfer of the Siva from Nadia to the New York auction house. I spoke to an appraiser for the auction house. He said the Cheung firm claimed it wasn’t involved in Daveydenko originally acquiring the piece. They said it was a transaction between Daveydenko and a private collector.”
“They’d hardly fess up to helping him acquire a piece that later turned out to be a fake,” I said. “What’s the reputation of the dealer?”
“Outstanding. Run by Albert Cheung for decades. I recall examining some pieces he sold to the Met. All were as represented. But Albert retired and his nephew took over and doesn’t have the old man’s pristine reputation. Hong Kong is one of the world centers of fake art and Jimmy Cheung has joined the not-too-exclusive club of peddling things off as genuine if it means a big price tag.”
“You think he made the Siva’s phony provenance for Daveydenko?”
“Maybe. But Russia’s as violent today as Al Capone’s Chicago was in the thirties. In a country where you can buy suitcase A-bombs at flea markets and become a billionaire overnight by starting a bank and stealing the deposits, he could have had a provenance made that tracked the ownership history back to Genghis Khan.”
He gave me the phone number and address of the store on Cat Street. He’d been to Hong Kong antique dealers in the past, but not to the Cheung store.
“Cat Street is off Hollywood Road, the city’s antiques row. It’s probably the place where the expression ‘caveat emptor’ was born. Let the buyer beware should be printed on the shop doors along with the hours of operation. Hollywood Road, by the way, got its name from a colonial administrator’s English manor house. It used to have more brothels than antique shops.”
“Maybe I’ll rummage around the stalls and pick up a rare treasure for you for a buck,” I kidded.
“Yeah, and maybe you should use the dollar to buy a hundred-million-to-one lottery ticket—we’d have a better chance at making a profit. If you decide to buy anything and shake on the deal, count your fingers afterward. Jimmy Cheung isn’t the only dealer in Hong Kong who isn’t particular about what he sells. I’ll bet you don’t know how Cat Street got its name.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Like the Thieves Market in Bangkok, it was once an alley where crooks unloaded their loot. The thieves were called rats and the shopkeepers who bought their stuff were called cats.”
“This anything goes attitude must be contagious in the Far East. I saw it in Cambodia.”
“It’s a worldwide pandemic. We close our eyes here and pretend we’re not as crooked. We are. We’re just holier than thou about it.”
“Were you able to come up with an address for Nadia the model?” I asked.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Which means?”
“I couldn’t get a home address, but I got a business one—sort of.”
“Sort of what?”
“She’s got a booth at the Epicurean Fair.”
“Come again?”
Bolger chuckled. He loved to make me dig for an answer.
“You’ve heard of the trade shows held for rich people in different countries around the world?”
“Sure. They rent an auditorium at a five-star hotel and rent booths to high-end vendors. People with too much money come to buy the costliest things on the planet—like hundred-thousand-dollar mink shower curtains.”
“You got it. Besides mink shower curtains, you can buy the finest sheets for the most comfortable mattresses on the planet, a million-dollar car and a hundred-thousand-dollar entertainment system for it, or a baby elephant for your kids to play with. Luxury items from all over the world gathered in one place.”
I knew what he meant. The rich gone wild. A vulgar display of materialistic items for people with money to buy—things that the rest of us couldn’t afford—so they could be envied by other people. Right now, I’d give anything to be one of those ostentatious people with enough money to pamper myself.
“So what has this got to do with Nadia?” I asked.
“She’s started her own line of perfume … ten thousand dollars an ounce.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Nothing smells good enough to sell for that much.”
“People don’t pay for its smell, but its effect. She claims it’s an aphrodisiac.”
“Wow. What a pitch for a scent. What’s in it?”
“That’s a secret that keeps her from selling it in many countries. She’s not telling because it’s supposed to have some banned substances in it.”
“What kind of banned substances?”
“Rumor mill blogs on the Internet claim it has stuff like ground tiger penis and the drug ecstasy in it.”
I howled. “Tiger penis!”
“Don’t laugh. In the Far East, tiger penis sells for a lot more than ten grand an ounce. It’s been a Chinese Viagra for a couple thousand years. Which is part of the reason tigers are on the endangered species list.”
“Does it work?”
“How the hell would I know? Some Chinaman emperor probably got a hard-on after nibbling on one and the rest is history.”
I could see the use of the party drug ecstasy. I’d never taken it but friends who had claimed it made them feel really uninhibited and ready to try about anything. Even if it didn’t make you horny, I suppose making you more amiable toward the idea of sex made it something of an aphrodisiac.
Besides being a pedantic collector of miscellaneous information, Bolger had tons of common sense, so I asked his take on the perfume.
“Bullshit for the mink shower curtain crowd. There are plenty of rich men who will give their lovers an ounce of the stuff just to show off … and who knows, they might get lucky and not get a faked orgasm for once. Consider this—at that price, a gallon of the stuff would bring in over a million dollars. That lady has a sweet little racket.”
Racket was right. “I bet Nadia planted the tiger penis and ecstasy rumors on the Internet.”
I collected the address for the luxury fair and signed off with Bolger.
My next call was to the antique dealer. Jimmy Cheung wasn’t in, but would be back later … hopefully he’d call me back if I passed the acid test of being a big enough buyer to impress him. I told his assistant that I was representing an American collector who wanted a Chinese museum-quality piece for which an export permit could be obtained.
I gave the assistant information about my credentials in the antiquities trade to impress her boss. I left out the part about having once bought a fifty-five-million-dollar fake. But I knew they’d check me out in minutes on the Internet and find out enough to wet the whistle of any self-respecting art dealer who pushed fakes. The Hong Kong art market was closely affiliated with the New York and London markets and my connection to the biggest art scandal in modern history roared through the art world like a tsunami.
Since I was representing someone else, it was my credibility rather than my line of credit that counted. Jimmy Cheung would assume that we spoke the same language after he heard my comment about needing a Chinese museum piece with an export permit: You couldn’t
get a museum piece out of the country without an export permit—and it would be a cold day in hell before you got a permit because China didn’t permit its antiquities to be smuggled into Hong Kong and sold to foreigners.
It just wasn’t done, not unless you were in a venue where officials could be bribed—and bribery wasn’t something to attempt in a country where there was a death penalty for just about everything.
Basically my message implied I had a buyer but something would have to be arranged under the table. And it amounted to an open invitation to sell me a superior fake I could pass off to my collector as the real McCoy—even the best replicas didn’t need an export permit.
* * *
CHEUNG’S SHOP WAS off the street in a short alley that could only be entered by ringing a gate buzzer and being observed through a barred window.
I passed inspection and was admitted inside.
Jimmy was a nephew, but wasn’t a kid. Thin, short, probably fifty, he talked fast in hard-to-understand English. Since my Chinese was limited to saying “Nî hâo” (I pronounced it knee how)—my attempt at saying hello in Mandarin—he was light-years ahead of me in terms of international communications.
I explained I wanted a museum-quality piece of Chinese origin.
“Much problem with export,” he said. This was the third time he explained that he couldn’t sell me something that required an export permit. It was a game we both knew and he knew better than me. He had to give the spiel that he only dealt with aboveboard transactions, but it was all just opening moves in game playing—required before we got down to what it was really all about: money. “No export license approved.”
So tell me something I didn’t know. “Mr. Cheung, what do you have that will please my client?”
That gave him an open invitation to offer me something under the table. He’d sell me Chairman Mao’s eyeteeth and let me figure out how to get it out of the country if there was a big fee in it for him.
“A piece was sold at auction in New York recently,” I said. “A Siva. My client loved the piece. He wants something similar.” The Siva wasn’t Chinese. There wouldn’t be an export license problem.
The Deceivers Page 21
