Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely convinced.”

“Next, this morning you talked about consigning the paintings in your name to Harrington’s and then having them pay the Wongs from the proceeds. I don’t want to do that. I want the proceeds to be deposited into your Liechtenstein account and then have them transferred to whatever bank account I designate.”

“I thought you would have trusted Harrington’s more than me.”

“It isn’t a matter of trust. I need to insulate my clients from any potential fallout. This makes them three times removed and puts that Liechtenstein account into play as another barrier. Besides, if you do anything funny, we know where to find you.”

“That sounds sinister.”

“Not everyone on my side plays as nicely as I do.”

“Noted,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“And last, there’s the matter of timing and attention. Bluntly speaking, I don’t want to wait for an auction and I don’t want the risk attached to the publicity an auction might generate. So sell both of the paintings privately. Take a discount on the Picasso if you have to, but just get Harrington’s to sell it as fast as they can.”

“We would save on commissions,” he said.

“All the better — that can accommodate the discount.”

“Is that it? Have we covered the buts?”

Ava sipped her wine. It was lighter than what she was used to and it was going down very easily. She had no doubt they would go through the first bottle in no time. “Yes, though I still want to talk about timing.”

“Sam is waiting up for me in London to find out if we have an arrangement. Since we do, he’ll instruct some people from his New York office to come by the house in the morning. They’ll crate the two paintings and ship them to England by courier, accompanied by all the appropriate paperwork and provenance. It will be up to Sam to judge the best time for him to officially put his seal of approval on them and to start contacting potential buyers.”

“What is a normal timeline for authentication?”

“Could be weeks, months even. No two situations are the same. In this case the provenance is quite straightforward and Sam has my written professional opinion that the paintings are wonderfully genuine, so in theory he could do it in a day. Though he won’t.”

“Best guess?”

“A month.”

“I don’t want it to take that long.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A week.”

Hughes sighed. “I’m concerned about the optics. These are two important paintings, and Sam can’t seem to be in a rush. He’ll likely have more than one buyer for them and he’ll want to play the buyers against one another, get the highest price we can. Besides, the longer it takes, the better it will look.”

“Why don’t the two of you come up with a story saying you contacted him about them several months ago. That’s feasible, no?”

“Yes, it is possible.”

“You could say it was then that you sent him the detailed photos, copies of the provenance, and whatever else, short of his having actual physical possession of the paintings. Couldn’t that shorten his timeline?”

“Are you always this creative?” he asked as their food arrived.

They ate silently, the wine, as she had predicted, extending to a second bottle. Ava hoped Hughes was concentrating on ways to meet her deadline. Her thoughts turned to Uncle. There was no way she could tell him how she intended to reclaim the money. As he got older he was becoming more and more cautious, and he might not approve of her involving them and the Wongs — however far removed — in a fraud, even if to correct the first fraud. So Ava would have to go it alone on this one. In all their years together, she had never barefaced lied to him, although she had once in a while withheld information. She hoped he wouldn’t push her too hard to find out exactly how she had come up with the money. Uncle had often said that he trusted her judgement when it came to making big decisions. This was a time when she’d run with that trust.

“How is your fish?” Glen Hughes asked, spiking her thoughts.

“As good as last time,” she said, and noticed that he had made quick work of his wagyu. When he was done, he waited for her to finish, his impatience beginning to show. She suspected he was anxious to call Sam Rice.

“You can leave anytime,” she said.

“We’re finished?”

“I am.”

“You don’t want anything in writing? You seemed keen enough to get my brother to put his foibles on paper.”

“Between Maurice O’Toole and Edwin I have everything I need to ensure your continuing co-operation.”

“Our agreement?”

“The last thing I want on paper.”

“So that’s it?”

“No, not quite,” Ava said, dipping into her bag. “We’ll need to keep in touch. My cellphone number and email address are on that card. Let me know how your conversation goes with Sam Rice, and keep me up to date on the timeline. Don’t be surprised if I contact you now and then as well. When the paintings are eventually sold and the money is in your possession, I’ll give you details of the bank account where I want it sent.”

“You’re leaving New York?”

“That’s the plan, unless you think there’s a need for me to be here.”

“No, I’ll handle things.”

“I’m counting on it,” Ava said.

Hughes called for the bill. With the tip, Ava figured it would be close to a thousand dollars. Adding in her spa treatment and two nights at the hotel, she had put more than $3,500 into the Mandarin Oriental’s till. Thank God for expense accounts, she thought.

They walked out of the restaurant together as heads swivelled in their direction. “We are a striking couple,” Hughes said.

“You’re the attraction,” Ava said. “I’m just the sideshow.”

Ava waited until nine thirty before calling Uncle. By then she figured he’d be eating breakfast with his cronies at one of the many restaurants that surrounded his apartment in Kowloon, and would be unable to question her in any great detail. Her objective was simple: tell him what he and the Wongs wanted to hear, go to bed, and get a morning flight out of New York for Toronto. After that it was up to Sam Rice and Glen Hughes.

So Ava was surprised when Lourdes answered his cellphone. “He isn’t well, Ava,” she said. “He woke with a fever and went back to bed.”

“Have him call me when he gets up. Tell him it’s important.”

She groaned — she had been primed.

The wine was now having an effect on her. She lay on the bed fully clothed and turned on the television. She had gotten no more than five minutes into a reality show before she fell asleep.

She woke up suddenly, the duvet wrapped clumsily around her, with an urgent need to pee. She stumbled to the bathroom with no real sense of time or place. It wasn’t until she came back into the bedroom and saw the clock that Ava realized she had slept in her clothes for eight and a half hours.

She checked her cellphone. No calls. What’s going on with Uncle? she thought.

She took off her shirt and slacks and climbed back into bed in her panties and bra. The duvet was still warm. She dozed, her mind flitting back and forth between the deal she’d struck with Glen Hughes and all the things that could go wrong. After half an hour she hauled herself out of bed and called Hong Kong.

Lourdes again answered Uncle’s phone. “He had food poisoning, I think. He’s spent all day between the bathroom and the bed. He’s just putting on some clothes to go out for dinner, so he must feel a little better. Hold on.”

“ Wei,” the familiar voice said a few minutes later.