“Lot Twenty-seven, the Titian,” purred Simon Mendenhall, Christie’s slinky chief auctioneer. Simon was the only man in London with a suntan. It was beginning to smudge the collar of his custom-made shirt. “Shall we begin at two million?”
Terry O’Connor, the last Irish tycoon with any money, did the honors. Within thirty seconds, the bid in the room stood at six and a half million pounds. Oliver Dimbleby leaned to his right and murmured, “Still think it was hype, Nicky?”
“We’re still in the first turn,” Lovegrove whispered, “and I hear there’s a strong headwind on the backstretch.”
“I’d recheck the forecast if I were you, Nicky.”
The bidding stalled at seven. Oliver, with a scratch of his nose, nudged it to seven and a half.
“Bastard,” muttered Lovegrove.
“Anytime, Nicky.”
Oliver’s bid reignited the frenzy. Terry O’Connor steamrolled his way through several consecutive bids, but the other contenders refused to back down. The Irishman finally lowered his paddle at twelve, at which point Isherwood accidentally entered the fray when Mendenhall mistook a discreet cough for a bid of twelve and a half million pounds. It was no matter; a few seconds later a telephone bidder stunned the room by offering fifteen million. Lovegrove pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Where do we stand?” asked Mr. Hamdali.
Lovegrove gave him the lay of the land. In the time it had taken him to place the call, the telephone bid had already been eclipsed. It was back in the room with Terry O’Connor at sixteen.
“Mr. O’Connor fancies himself a pugilist, does he not?”
“Welterweight champ at university.”
“Let’s hit him with a stiff uppercut, shall we?”
“How stiff?”
“Enough to know we mean business.”
Lovegrove caught Mendenhall’s eye and raised two fingers.
“I have twenty million in the room. It’s not with you, madam. Nor with you, sir. And it’s not with Lisa on the telephone. It’s in the room, with Mr. Lovegrove, at twenty million pounds. Do I have twenty million five?”
He did. It was with Julian Isherwood. Terry O’Connor immediately took it to twenty-one. The telephone bidder countered at twenty-two. A second entered at twenty-four, followed soon after by a third at twenty-five. Mendenhall was twisting and turning like a flamenco dancer. The bidding had taken on the quality of a fight to the death, which was exactly what he wanted. Lovegrove lifted his phone to his ear and said, “Something doesn’t smell right to me.”
“Bid again, Mr. Lovegrove.”
“But—”
“Please bid again.”
Lovegrove did as he was instructed.
“The bid is now twenty-six million, in the room, with Mr. Lovegrove. Will someone give me twenty- seven?”
Lisa waved her hand from the telephone desk.
“I have twenty-eight on the telephone. Now it’s twenty-nine at the back of the room. Now thirty. Now it’s at thirty-one with Mr. O’Connor in the room. Thirty-two now. Thirty-three. No, I won’t take thirty-three and half, because I’m looking for thirty-four. And it looks as though I may have it with Mr. Isherwood. Do I? Yes, I do. It’s in the room, thirty-four million, with Mr. Isherwood.”
“Bid again,” said Hamdali.
“I would advise against it.”
“Bid again, Mr. Lovegrove, or my client will find an adviser who will.”
Lovegrove signaled thirty-five. In the space of a few seconds, the telephone bidders ran it past forty.
“Bid again, Mr. Lovegrove.”
“I would—”
“Bid.”
Mendenhall acknowledged Lovegrove’s bid of forty-two million pounds.
“Now it’s forty-three with Lisa on the telephone. Now it’s forty-four with Samantha. And forty-five with Cynthia.”
And then came the lull Lovegrove was looking for. He glanced at Terry O’Connor and saw the fight had gone out of him. To Hamdali he said, “How badly does your client want this painting?”
“Badly enough to bid forty-six.”
Lovegrove did so.
“The bid is now forty-six, in the room, with Mr. Lovegrove,” said Mendenhall. “Will anyone give me forty- seven?”
On the telephone desk, Cynthia began waving her hand as though she were trying to signal a rescue helicopter.
“It’s with Cynthia, on the phone, at forty-seven million pounds.”
No other telephone bidders followed suit.
“Shall we end this?” asked Lovegrove.
“Let’s,” said Hamdali.
“How much?”
“My client likes round numbers.”
Lovegrove arched an eyebrow and raised five fingers.
“The bid is fifty million pounds,” said Mendenhall. “It’s not with you, sir. Nor with Cynthia on the telephone. Fifty million, in the room, for the Titian. Fair warning now. Last chance. All done?”
Not quite. For there was the sharp crack of Mendenhall’s gavel, and the elated gasp of the crowd, and a final excited exchange with Mr. Hamdali that Lovegrove couldn’t quite hear because Oliver Dimbleby was shouting something into his other ear, which he couldn’t quite hear, either. And then there were the disingenuous handshakes with the losers, and the obligatory flirtation with the press over the identity of the buyer, and the long walk upstairs to Christie’s business offices, where the final paperwork was buttoned up with an air of funereal solemnity. It was approaching ten o’clock by the time Lovegrove signed his name to the last document. He emerged from Christie’s portentous doorway to find Oliver and the boys milling about in King Street. They were heading over to Nobu for a spicy tuna roll and a look-see at the latest Russian talent. “Join us, Nicky,” bellowed Oliver. “Revel in the company of your English brethren. You’ve been spending too much time in America. You’re no bloody fun any longer.”
Lovegrove was tempted but knew the outing was likely to end badly, so he saw them into a caravan of taxis and headed back to his hotel on foot. Walking along Duke Street, he saw a man emerge from Mason’s Yard and climb into a waiting car. The man was of medium height and build; the car was a sleek Jaguar sedan that reeked of British officialdom. So did the handsome silver-haired figure already seated in the back. Neither cast so much as a glance in Lovegrove’s direction as he walked past, but he had the uncomfortable impression they were sharing a private joke at his expense.
He felt the same way about the auction—the auction in which he had just played a starring role. Someone had been had tonight; Lovegrove was sure of it. And he feared it was his client. It was no skin off Lovegrove’s back. He had earned several million pounds just for raising his finger in the air a few times. Not a bad way to make a living, he thought, smiling to himself. Perhaps he should have accepted Oliver’s invitation to the post-auction bash. No, he thought, rounding the corner into Piccadilly, it was probably better he’d begged off. Things would end badly. They usually did whenever Oliver was involved.
Chapter 46
Langley, Virginia
