* * *
Northam drove the limo slowly through gaudy canals of high street stores. Late-night shoppers watched wide-eyed. He didn't say a word. As they turned onto New Bond Street, Julie saw a line of cars and limos blocking the road, then an awning over the red carpet at the entrance to Sotheby's, and finally, ranks of paparazzi held at bay by suited security personnel. She swallowed hard, wondering what she'd be doing right now if she had turned down the assignment—enjoying a drink with friends? Snuggling up on the settee to watch a DVD? She'd be perfectly entitled. But no, she was at the mouth of the lion's den, shipped first class to the auction to end all auctions.
Sotheby & Co.
Sale of
An Eclectic Array of Antique Treasures
And
'The Archangel’ by the Mayan king, Vichama
Courtesy of Esther May Morrow
Admit one to the Main Sale Room
Mrs. Dorothy A. Buchan
Thursday, 3 September, at 8.30 pm precisely
For a few moments, her mind spun like a Catherine wheel as she stepped out into the chilly night air. Northam tipped his chauffeur's cap and got back into the car. He'd be waiting for her outside after the auction, he'd assured her. My hero, she thought sarcastically.
Strutting along the red carpet, she felt the warm stings of flash photography on her legs and gaping cleavage. It lifted her confidence. When the uniformed commissionaire asked to see her invitation, she scoffed and snatched the catalogue he offered her. A mixture of strong tobacco and perfume filled the broad staircase. Not that anyone was permitted to smoke inside, but no doubt the limos all had ashtrays. The exquisite gallery led into the main auction hall itself—a room sleepy as Victorian England, kept awake by two brilliant chandeliers and about a hundred guests being shown to their seats, while a blind covered the glass roof for the night. About the size of a tennis court, the hall was adorned with traditional paintings and, on one side, a striking mural depiction of the Battle of Trafalgar.
Seated on the back row, Julie discreetly surveyed the room for cameras. No press had been admitted. We'll be using the CCTV cameras, she thought, counting half a dozen. Surprisingly little chatter emerged from the congregation as everyone took to their seats. There were far more women than she'd expected—over half of the gathering, actually—and the fact baffled her. Entwistle had suggested these people were proxies for nefarious organisations. Then why so many women?
A middle-aged Chinese man sat next to her; he was unremarkable except for having only half an index finger on his left hand. Pretty much every nationality was represented. The thought bucked the imprudence of her alter-ego. “Any more wogs and we'd have ourselves a war dance,” she snarled. The Chinese man cleared his throat.
The last woman to enter the room was Caucasian, dark-haired, slim and around forty-five. She wore a very ordinary white-and-red summer dress and a straw bonnet with a cute red bow. As all the other seats were taken, Julie, usually good at reading faces, eyed the woman intently as she approached the back row. A slight scowl betrayed Esther May Morrow's 1940's beach belle appearance. She reminded Julie of a less icy Barbara Stanwyck.
"Hello, darling.” Julie thought she'd overdone the accent, but Ms. Morrow smiled warmly.
"Hi. Nice to meet you. Full house, I see. Good, it should be a fun night. I'm Esther May Morrow, by the way."
"Dorothy Buchan, dear. And yes indeed, splendid turn-out. I've got my eye on quite a few delicacies tonight.” She shifted her weight to lean closer. “The dish in the third row, for instance. Delectable, even for a wop.” She quietly cringed. Not only was it the first time she'd spoken that nickname, it came across as awkward, forced ... or perhaps that effect was intrinsic and would apply to all her racist jibes tonight.
To her surprise, Ms. Morrow whispered back, “They know a thing or two about how to please a woman. I'll vouch for that."
Julie eased slightly, adjusted her scarf. “You know him?"
"Not personally, no.” Ms. Morrow stole a predacious glance at a long-haired man to her left, a few rows ahead. She pointed him out. “But I can recommend his countryman."
First impression—Julie liked the woman. She was a card, easy to know, a little cheeky. Under different circumstances, they'd probably be good friends. Maybe the powers-that-be had her all wrong. Her veined hands tapping playfully on her knee, Ms. Morrow obviously couldn't wait to engage Julie again. “This is amazing. It's only my third auction, would you believe. You've my fiancé to thank for all this—deciding which things to sell, choosing who to invite. If only he was here to see it."
How odd. Neither Entwistle, Northam, nor Warwick had told her the woman had a fiancé. Perhaps they just didn't know. In fact, they hadn't told her much of anything about Esther May Morrow. Phantom citizen ... tight-lipped ... spinster who owns a gift shop ... with treasures to attract the attention of the world? It didn't fit. From obscurity to celebrity with a few phone calls. What was she really doing here?
"Oh? Where is he, darling?” asked Julie. “I'd love to meet the man responsible for all this."
"He was killed a few months ago.” Ms. Morrow's expression didn't change in the slightest, but she did study Dorothy Buchan's reaction, which was an overdone, self-conscious approximation of surprise.
"I'm sorry, dear.” Julie turned away, pretending sudden distraction. In reality, she didn't know what the hell to do next. The woman she'd been sent here to watch had just watched her; scrutinised her closely. Christ, who's marked who?
"Yes, it was quite a shock,” Ms. Morrow continued, now speaking quietly while studying the rows of foreigners with the same frown she'd displayed upon entering. “His name was Sean. Can you keep a secret?"
Julie nodded, leaning across the arm of her chair.
"The person who killed him is somewhere in this room."
Chatter subsided. The auctioneer made his way onto the raised wooden pulpit. A dark-haired man of around thirty-five, he was impeccably smart, reasonably handsome in a boyish, public school alumnus sort of way, and oozed charisma. Two middle-aged women on aisle seats to the right fluttered their catalogues as they whispered giddily.
The gears in Julie's head ground, stuttered. What the hell was going on? Her assignment was to calibrate proceedings, measure the mettle of this mysterious woman. Find out if she had an agenda. Well, the woman had an agenda alright! But what exactly was her strategy to find her fiancé's killer?
Hmm, maybe I can help, thought Julie. We're at cross purposes, but it would be a good way to gather some inside information. Find out who and what she knows. Murder or not, lot sixty-two is still the focus of this hornet's nest.
Ms. Morrow whispered garrulously to the buyer on her left—a black African woman with permed hair and a two-piece purple dress that seemed too baggy for her slim figure. During every pause, Ms. Morrow glanced to a different part of the congregation, perhaps sifting grit from insouciance—searching for an inkling of recognition, nervous body language, a face she could vaguely connect to Sean. Whatever the plan, Julie felt sure something untoward was going to happen tonight.
"Twenty thousand pounds I am bid,” said the auctioneer. “Against you, sir.” His voice was empty, stationary like the silver goblet stood on the porter's purple velvet tray. “I have twenty-five thousand pounds. And thirty. Forty.” A glance to the front row right. “Fifty. I am bid fifty thousand pounds. Do I have sixty?” He brought his wooden gavel down by the head. “Yours, madam."
A sales clerk hustled across to confirm the buyer's identity.
"What are we up to?” Julie asked Ms. Morrow.
"Lot Forty-Seven. They're really flying through these now. Haven't you seen anything you're interested in, Mrs. Buchan?"
"One or two. I was going to make a late grab at the Persian necklace, but those towel-heads don't half cling to their mascots. Same with the gooks. I'm biding my time though, darling.” She leaned in close once again. “Any leads? Your fiancé's killer, I mean. I wouldn't trust most of these
foreigners—cruel lot. If there's anything I can do to help."
Ms. Morrow uncrossed her legs and patted Julie's shoulder with her catalogue. “I tell you what, there's an interesting piece coming up shortly—Lot Fifty-Five. A very unusual clock. Sean received all sorts of offers for it, from all kinds of collectors, but he never sold. Between that and The Archangel, I dare say we received more threats to sell than for all the others combined. We often said those fanatical buyers would go to any length to get hold of these prizes. Mark my words, whoever bids high for that clock tonight is on my shortlist. You could help me out by playing a little bluff—push the bidders beyond a reasonable price. I'll let you know when to quit. It would be a big help."
Julie didn't like the calm in the woman's voice or the cut of her plan, but it was too good an opportunity to let slip. To gain Esther May Morrow's confidence a half dozen lots before the big enchilada ... well, what had she got to lose?
She agreed. Ms. Morrow smiled graciously.
The sheer arrogance of throwing away tens, hundreds of thousands of pounds on trinkets, most no bigger than a dinner plate, in such an orderly, emotionless fashion, stabbed repeatedly through Julie's tolerance for the absurd. When wealth meets fashion, she thought, the higher the brain function, the lower the sanity. She flicked to the pertinent page in her catalogue:
Lot #55—A copper terrestrial globe, each continent of raised, sculpted silver, with an exquisite ruby cushioned by a circle of diamonds pinpointing Belgium, a trail of emeralds marking the artist's eastward route to China, blue-painted oceans, and a unique silver clock face with working copper hands accurate to a half a second every year, welded over North and South America.
Sounds clever, she thought, but why all the hullabaloo? What's wrong with a good old wall clock?
The time quickly arrived, and with it, the timepiece. The porter carried it more carefully on his tray than he had the previous items. It had a flat base, but only a small one. If he wasn't careful, Earth would roll off into space. “On to Lot Number Fifty-Five,” said the auctioneer—one Martin Caruthers, according to the catalogue. “A Belgian timepiece by Lars Verdeignen. The bidding starts at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Do I have ... to you, sir, two-fifty. Two-seventy-five I am bid. Three hundred. Against you, madam, three hundred and fifty."
Julie swallowed. The prices rose quicker than her heart rate, which now tore acutely at her right shoulder. Take it easy, damn it. Don't forget to breathe. At five hundred thousand pounds, she held her rolled-up catalogue aloft. “The lady at the back has bid me five hundred. Against you, sir. I have five hundred and fifty.” Julie repeated the gesture. “Six hundred. Six-fifty. I am bid seven hundred thousand pounds.” The entire hall erupted in applause. Fending off excited glances, Julie persisted with all the resolve of a play-actor with no understudy. Gasps emerged around her at eight-hundred; while at nine, she felt her shoulder tighten again.
"Against you, sir.” Caruthers aimed his insouciant gaze at a man in the third row. “I am bid one million pounds.” Thunderous, sustained applause. Esther May Morrow gave Julie's arm a nudge. Thank God, she thought.
"Any advance on one million?” The auctioneer held a generous five seconds. Julie Blalock kept both arms on her lap, the fingers of her gloves practically tearing the catalogue a new equator. “Yours, sir, for one million pounds.” He brought his gavel down just in time to smile at a witty remark made in the front row.
"Can you see who he is?” asked Ms. Morrow.
Julie was so relieved at not being a million pounds in debt, she could have shot up like a cannonball on the Trafalgar mural. Instead, she slyly dropped her catalogue behind her so that she was able to stand up and signal for a clerk to retrieve it. In the meantime, she looked forward to the man being questioned—a stocky, blond fellow with a round, red face and a cock-a-hoop expression.
"Looks Swedish,” she said, sitting down. “They normally bore you to tears, but this one looks rather pleased with himself."
"Blond?"
"Yes."
"Amundsen. He's Norwegian. He did make a bid last year, but Sean said he was a gentleman."
"You never know. Those Vikings ... did a lot of pillaging back in the day. It wouldn't surprise me."
Ms. Morrow laughed. “Do you like any foreigners?"
"Only ones I don't know about."
"In that case, you won't be much good at this. You suspect everybody by default. I need neutral eyes."
Back-peddling, Julie replied, “You're right, darling. But I despise killers even more than foreigners. And they're all outbidding me tonight. At least let me help take one down."
"OK. When I need you again, I'll let you know."
Even the clerks sat at a counting desk behind the rostrum—they had barely moved an inch all evening—leaned over to see, for the first time, the most infamous lot in Esther May Morrow's collection, the mysterious Archangel, being brought out publicly to a velvet maroon cushion mounted on a white pedestal. The porter moved reverently to the rostrum, as though this tiny artefact in his charge commanded a divine obedience.
"This is it,” whispered Julie.
Ms. Morrow nodded determinedly, almost turned to say something when...
The entire audience gasped. Punters leapt to their feet like toy soldiers on mechanical springs, infectiously lifting the entire battalion to its feet. Julie's eyes widened as the priceless object, no bigger than her hand, bounced across the carpet toward an alert security guard. The porter had tripped on the step to the rostrum, spilling the Archangel!
"Idiot!” Ms. Morrow shook an angry fist at the porter. A phalanx of clerks started toward the treasure, but the security guard, fearing a melee, kept them at bay with an outstretched hand while he picked it up. Sighs of relief, hands on hearts settled the furore. The guard shook his head at the porter as he placed the Archangel on its cushion atop the pedestal. For this he received a scattered applause.
The aftermath was electric. Julie saw Ms. Morrow's hands tremble. As clerks walked round to hand out sheets of paper, she barely kept hers steady to read the gilded description of Lot #62:
One of only two surviving works by the vaunted Mayan king Vichama, 6,000 B.C, The Archangel is an elaborately conceived golden lock box, shaped as a four-inch crescent moon, weighing an extraordinary two grams, with the nine planets of the solar system proportionately engraved on one side.
The pictorial combination lock cannot be adjusted by hand, and responds only to altitude, its gold dials rotating in accordance with its elevation from the ground. The as-yet-unseen contents are hypothetically a new element with divergent electromagnetic properties.
What the hell is this thing that's got everyone so spooked, she thought. If they suspect it's dangerous at all, the M.O.D. should just confiscate it. No messing. Hmm, but their experts did examine it and raised no objections. Maybe it's just a physical phenomenon we're yet to understand. Much of what was known to ancient civilizations ... we've had to re-discover centuries later. But how can it be almost weightless?
Tap, tap.
Caruthers tried to silence the chatter with his gavel. He finally held up his arms, to which the audience responded obediently.
"Darling, what do you suppose the starting price is for this?"
Ms. Morrow leaned across to whisper, “Two point five million. That was at the lower end of offers I received last year."
Waiting for the auctioneer to begin, Julie eyed the guilty-looking porter as he received sharp glances from his colleagues on his way out. She felt sorry for him. For a stunt like that, he'd be clearing out his locker right away. Accidents happen, she thought, but not tonight, not with this item...
"I am bid two million pounds. Do I have two million and two-fifty? Two-fifty. Against you, madam. Five hundred. Seven-fifty. Three million pounds I am bid."
Julie knew she ought to watch the bidders. It was her mission priority ... well, almost. Entwistle had emphasised the Archangel must not be allowed to leave the room under any c
ircumstances. So why was Julie drawn to the tall, greying security guard in a tuxedo standing at the door? The fall of the Archangel ... Biblical pun aside, it gnawed at her insides the more she thought on it. Given the pressure and nerves of being asked to carry such a treasure, it wasn't inconceivable that the porter could trip on his way up, but, she thought, it was also highly coincidental. She felt sure that notion had occurred to everyone else at the time—their derision had been aimed, like rotten fruit, at the clumsy porter. But what of the hero of the moment, the security guard? If the Archangel had been dropped deliberately, then who would be in the best position to make a switch?
She wanted to empty her head. It was all too far-fetched. The sleight of hand required to swap it on cue, in front of such a charged audience, and under camera surveillance, was simply not possible.
Or was it?
"Five million five hundred thousand pounds."
Her heart jack-hammered. Was she the only one who suspected him? What if she did nothing and the real Archangel vanished without trace—its contents sold to some terrorist organisation with plans for a blood-curdling new weapon? But what if she did make a move, took out the guard, and he really was innocent? Her cover would be blown, the auction likely cancelled. All on a hunch.
"I am bid six million."
The guard shifted his weight. His stare appeared desperately nebulous. His hands, clasped together just below his crotch, did not move at all. Four years as an agent, studying, manipulating mendacious sorts told her this man was distracted. He wasn't securing the room. He was wrong.
On the verge of rising to (pretend to) go to the toilet, Julie saw another man walk stiffly down the aisle ... toward the suspicious guard. He glimpsed her from the corner of his eye. Paranoid? An accomplice? Sensing Esther May Morrow's stare following her fake blonde wig, Julie got up and followed him.
"Against you, sir. Seven million pounds."
She'd never felt so exposed in her life. Nothing was certain but everything told her, intuitively, this was bold burglary. Misdirection, sleight of hand, in the spotlight, it was both too crafty to arouse suspicion and so bold it might very well work ... if Julie Blalock hadn't sniffed them out.
The man's gait remained stiff, steady as she walked quickly up behind him. At the door, the first guard sidestepped. As he did, those hands which hadn't so much as twitched since the incident, suddenly opened the door for his colleague.
There! Clever bastards!
Both men's hands pushed the door at the same time. The distance between them was mere inches, perfectly choreographed to exchange the Archangel. And, with their backs to the hall, the crossover was hidden from public view. Only Julie saw it.
"Eight million two hundred and fifty thousand."
The first guard smiled at her as she approached, even held the door open. Adrenaline flushed through her. She wanted to throw the smug bastard to the ground but there wasn't time. The Archangel had left the room! Shit, she thought, striding after the thief with such pent-up fury that her eight years’ retirement evaporated with those outbid buyers’ hopes behind her. The first guard closed the door. She scurried up behind the thief, her high heels making no sound whatsoever on the plush carpet. Stealthy. Breathless. She made ready to grab his arm and twist it up his back when, insanely, he cupped his hand behind his back and ... held out the Archangel for her to take! Too shocked to think why, she grabbed it. The man strode on down the corridor toward another colleague, leaving Julie Blalock on her own, speechless, at the door to the ladies’ toilets.
She rushed inside and lent over the sink, breathing heavily as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her scarf twitched over her breasts, and she felt a sudden chill. The window was open. “What is this? Some kind of MI6 ruse to smuggle this thing out? They're insane! Why didn't they tell me?” Climbing onto the radiator, peering down through the window, she did indeed see a man waiting below, on his own across the street, talking on a mobile phone. He glanced up. As soon as he saw Julie, he started across the road. A car eased quietly behind him.
Christ! Do they want me to drop it to him? She climbed down to think. Or do they even know it's me? The notion wedged itself sharply between Dorothy Buchan and Julie Blalock. She stared in the mirror again. The guard smiling as he'd opened the door for her—that could have been courtesy, but it could also have been recognition! The other man, too, knew her, and had handed her the Archangel with a rehearsed nonchalance. Was Dorothy Buchan herself in on the theft? Was the man waiting in the street one of her goons? And the ‘clumsy’ porter? Both guards?
She ran the cold tap and swilled water over her face. Her hands shook. The waterproof tanning lotion didn't smudge, but her eye-shadow ran darkly down her cheeks. But which woman was ‘crying'—the agent, bamboozled by her own alter-ego? Or the socialite, unable to deliver the prize? She took a gigantic breath and held it.
"Northam,” she said between gasps.
A gentle vibration itched her right palm as she lifted the Archangel from its resting place on the sink. She inspected it. The dials were moving! Makes sense, she thought. It responds to elevation. But the pictorial wheels did not stop as she held the thing level. Julie frowned. It seemed to have gone haywire. Suddenly the spinning stopped and, before she could drop it, the two crescent halves flung open.
The bathroom blinked to darkness.
Lot 62 Page 3
