Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

“First things first,” she had told him. “I need to confirm that the Liechtenstein account is as barren as you claim. I need you to instruct Georges Brun to make available to me everything connected to the account.” He agreed, and offered to do it by conference call there and then. She took him up on it, listening as he called Brun to confirm a current balance of just over a hundred thousand dollars and to bemoan his bad run of luck.

She asked for his bank account information, PINs, and passwords. He gave the details to her and then sat next to her at his computer as she accessed the account and found minimal cash holdings. She then asked to see the deed to the house and his mortgage agreement. He had paid just over four million for it two years before and had mortgaged half.

“Those other paintings,” she said, motioning to the walls, “how many of them are real?”

“Most.”

“What are they worth?”

“In ten years, maybe millions. Right now, they’re investments in young artists.”

She did a rough calculation. If she took all his cash and sold the house she might net four million, but there was no guarantee, given the state of the housing market. “How did you burn through so much money?” she asked.

“I have three ex-wives. They all took a big chunk since, like you, I prefer a one-time payment rather than a monthly bloodletting. And then, of course, I have led quite a comfortable life.”

“Your brother mentioned some other assets, like a yacht.”

“You’re welcome to it, but you’ll have to pay some marina costs to get access to it, and then there’s the bank loan against it.”

“Stocks and bonds?”

“Dribs and drabs.”

“I’d still like to see the accounts.”

Ten minutes later she had found another few hundred thousand.

He sensed her frustration. “You do know, I hope, that what I propose is very practical and very doable. If your clients truly want their money back, this is the quickest and most direct way to make it happen.”

“You mentioned auction — that isn’t a dangerous route to take?”

“Not if you manage it properly, go to the right auction house.”

“Harrington’s, of course” she said.

He nodded.

“With Sam Rice authenticating whatever you want him to sign off on.”

His lips went taut and his eyes became more focused on Ava. “That isn’t a name we should be throwing about.”

“How many do you propose selling through Harrington’s?”

“I’d sell them both through Harrington’s, but only one — the Picasso — at auction. I believe they already have a private buyer lined up for the Gauguin. Not many Gauguins come onto the open market, so there’s a waiting list for his work.”

“So you’ve already talked this over with Sam Rice?”

He looked annoyed. “Naturally.”

“What commission would they take?”

“At auction, probably twenty percent; on a private brokered sale it would be around ten percent.”

She stared at the wall. “Are the paintings that well done?”

“They are superb.”

“Who did them?”

“That doesn’t matter, does it? It wasn’t Maurice O’Toole, of course. This chap may actually be better than Maurice. They’re hard to find, people with this kind of talent. I found this one just eight months ago.”

“I’m surprised, given your financial situation, that you haven’t sold them by now.”

A painful grimace crept onto his face. “I haven’t had them that long. I was getting ready to send the Picasso to market, but then you unfortunately dropped into my life.”

“So why go through Harrington’s? Why not broker your own private sale, pocket the money, and pay us off?”

“We need the aura of respectability and integrity, the cloak of academic professionalism that Harrington’s provides. And then there’s Sam himself. If Sam Rice puts his reputation behind a piece of art, not many people in my business would challenge him.”

Questions kept popping into her head but there was no structure to them. She needed time to think, to put things into some kind of rational context. “I need time,” she said.

“I’ll be here,” he said.

“I’ll call before I come back, but expect it to be sooner rather than later. We can’t let this thing linger.”

She had turned off her cellphone while she walked, not wanting any disruption of her thought process. She turned it on while she was riding the elevator back to her room; her heart sank when she saw that May Ling Wong had called three times, twice in the past hour. It was two a.m. in Wuhan. Uncle had called as well, Ava guessing because May Ling and maybe even Changxing were all over him. And finally Frederick Locke had phoned, his voicemail message sounding nervous and guilty.

Sam Rice, Ava thought instantly. Frederick Locke had talked to Rice, Rice had called Glen Hughes, and Hughes had thrown her some bullshit story about tracking her down through Hong Kong. That was why Hughes was so prepared. He and Rice had had time to concoct their scheme.

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.