The auction began and four items were sold, three paintings and a beautiful piece of mahogany furniture, all from the same estate being liquidated. According to the catalog the 16th-century book would be the fifth offering, and it was brought in by a white-gloved attendant, who laid it before the auctioneer.
Bids were called for. Simon wasted no time.
“Five thousand.”
Malone waited to see if anyone else planned to make a bid. Seeing none, he offered his own.
“Six thousand.”
The auctioneer’s eyes raked the crowd and waited.
“Seven thousand” came Simon’s reply.
“Eight,” Malone quickly added.
“Ten.”
A new voice.
From behind.
He turned to see Matt Schwartz, standing, his arm raised to identify himself.
Simon spotted the newcomer, too, then said, “Twelve.”
Malone decided to see how bad the Austrian, and the Israelis, wanted the book. “Fifty thousand.”
Auctioneers were usually noted for their poker faces, but he’d clearly caught this one off guard. The surprise showed, but was quickly suppressed before he asked, “Any more bids?”
“Seventy-five thousand,” Schwartz said.
“One hundred thousand,” Simon countered.
Apparently they both wanted the book.
Silence.
Neither Schwartz nor Simon countered.
The auctioneer waited thirty seconds before asking for any further bids.
No reply.
“Sold.”
Malone accepted the book, nestled safely inside a clear plastic bag, wrapped in brown paper. The $150,000 had been transferred into the auction company’s account, thanks to an online account he’d accessed with the password Stephanie had provided.
She was going to kill him.
He’d just dropped a chunk of public money on a questionable purchase.
But at least he had everyone’s attention.
He exited the hall and, before leaving the hotel, detoured to the bathroom. There he entered one of the stalls, carefully opened the package, and passed the plastic-encased book beneath the divider. A hand grabbed the offering, then another book appeared—a French novel bought before arriving—which Malone stuffed into the brown wrapping. He left the stall and the bathroom. Dubois would wait five minutes then do the same, heading home with their prize.
He knew it would not be long and, just as he exited the hotel and followed a lighted path toward the street, someone called out.
“You paid far too much for that.”
He stopped and turned. “And you are?”
“The man you outbid. Zachariah Simon.”
The older man stepped closer but offered no hand to shake. Good. He’d prefer to wring the SOB’s neck.
Simon motioned to the package. “What’s your interest?”
He shrugged. “I collect books.”
“Why that one?”
“You already know the answer to that question.”
“Yet why do I feel that you do not? Which is interesting.”
“Enlighten me.”
Simon pointed out beyond the palms, toward the ocean and an ever-darkening sky. “Not far from here was the first place Europeans settled in their New World.”
“La Navidad.”
“Ah, I see you are not wholly ignorant. Thirty-nine men left by Columbus to search for gold and make a colony. But none survived a year. Slaughtered by the Tainos for their cruelty toward the natives.”
