Steal, page 17
“There’s really only one buyer for that painting,” said Tracy.
“Who?”
“The country that stole it in the first place. Who else?”
CHAPTER 69
Tracy checked his watch the second he was outside of the restaurant. He was right on schedule.
He didn’t have to waste time hailing a taxi, either. Patrons of Frankie’s aren’t exactly the Ubering type, and every cabbie in the city knew it. Five of them were lined up waiting along the curb. The taxi in the pole position edged forward before Tracy could even raise his arm.
“The Guggenheim,” Tracy said, sliding into the backseat. He immediately muted the sound on the annoying promo TV underneath the Plexiglas divider, and hit his speed dial for Dylan. The way Dylan answered, sounding so relieved, told Tracy just how much he might have been second-guessing everything.
“We’ve got a seller,” announced Tracy.
He gave Dylan a full rundown, minus his getting punched and having to strip naked. Those were details for another day. Not tonight. Not during intermission. There was still a second act to go, and a buyer to line up for Brunetti. The only true buyer there was, as Tracy had convinced him.
“Bravo,” said Dylan. “I knew you could do it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I wasn’t sure.”
They both laughed. They both knew the truth. If Dylan didn’t think it could work, he never would’ve let Tracy get anywhere near a guy like Brunetti.
“How’s our little girl?” asked Tracy.
“Lucinda said she needed two bedtime stories instead of one but after that she fell right asleep,” said Dylan. “Wait, wait—hold on a second.”
“What is it?”
“Elizabeth just got a text from Danny. He’s asking how close you are.”
Tracy craned his neck, trying to see the next intersection. The driver was taking Amsterdam Avenue up the West Side, surely heading for the transverse at 86th Street to cut through Central Park and over to the East Side. From there the Guggenheim museum was only a few blocks north on Fifth Avenue.
“Just about to pass Damrosch,” said Tracy, seeing the sign for West 61st Street. Damrosch Park, directly behind Lincoln Center, was up ahead at 62nd Street. “With traffic, I figure fifteen minutes until I’m there.”
“Better make it ten,” said Dylan.
“Why?”
“Danny just overheard Laszlo tell someone that she was leaving shortly.”
“Shit. She can’t!”
Tracy didn’t mean to hang up on Dylan but he for sure would understand. There was a taxi driver that needed bribing.
Tracy leaned forward in his seat, talking through the small holes in the Plexiglas. “Excuse me, but I’m really in a rush,” he said. “I’ll give you an extra ten bucks for every red light you run.”
Tracy had read that line in a book once. Unfortunately, the book was fiction.
The driver shot him a look in the rearview mirror, the pine tree car freshener swinging back and forth, just like his head. Not a chance, pal.
“Make it twenty bucks,” said Tracy.
“Deal,” said the driver.
Every man has his price.
An extra sixty dollars later, Tracy hopped out of the cab in front of the Guggenheim, making a beeline for the entrance. The check-in desk for the benefit on behalf of the Council of Europe Art Exhibitions had no line, the festivities having started more than an hour earlier.
“I don’t see your name, sir.”
“Please check again,” said Tracy. Dylan had assured him he’d be on the list.
“D’Alexander.”
“Oh, I thought you said Alexander. I didn’t hear the D,” said the man working the desk. He shifted his attention three letters down on his clipboard, his forefinger finally coming to a stop. “There you are, William D’Alexander. Which hand, left or right?”
Tracy stuck out his left hand, the man wrapping a purple band around his wrist—or at least trying to. He was fumbling with the snap. The clock was ticking. Tracy was slowly dying.
“Here, I’ve got it,” said Tracy, taking over. He quickly fastened the band, moving past the desk.
“Don’t you want a program, sir? It has a map of everything. The exhibits, the food and bar locations…”
“No, thanks,” said Tracy, over his shoulder. There was no map for what—or who—he was looking for. There was also no time.
Is she even still here?
CHAPTER 70
The answer was yes. But just barely.
Tracy was so intent on getting inside the atrium of the museum that at first he didn’t even look at the small line of people gathered at the coat check who were on their way out.
Of course, though. It made perfect sense. She’d wanted to leave.
Even from the side Tracy knew right away it was Dorian Laszlo. He’d seen plenty of photos of her, courtesy of Dylan. There were a half dozen alone on the website for New York’s Consulate General of Hungary. Laszlo, the economic and trade commissioner, was always smiling and shaking hands with some American business leader. The only picture that didn’t look dated, though, was the one with her and a marketing executive from Gojo Industries, the makers of Purell. They were smiling and touching elbows.
Tracy stopped on a dime. “Gordon! Is that you?”
All those photos of Laszlo were so Tracy knew who not to look at as he approached his old friend “Gordon,” who just happened to be standing behind Laszlo in the coat-check line. At no time could Tracy even glance in her direction.
“Bill! I didn’t know you were going to be here,” said Danny, giving Tracy the combo handshake-and-hug.
Tracy, for sure, didn’t need to glance again at the picture of Danny Sullivan in his breast pocket. This was Ryan Gosling’s would-be brother, all right. Maybe even his doppelgänger. Either way, Tracy could pick him out of a lineup. He literally just had.
The original plan called for some chitchat up front before getting down to business. The conversation had to seem natural and unforced to anyone who might happen to overhear them. But that was then, this was now. Laszlo was only a few people away from handing over her claim ticket and putting on her coat. She’d be out the door. More important, out of earshot. It was time to improvise.
Tracy stepped back from Danny, tripping over his own feet. He nearly fell.
“Whoa,” said Danny, reaching out to catch him. “You okay there?”
“I’m fine, absolutely fine,” said Tracy, slapping the air with his hand the way people do when they’ve had a few drinks. “I’m pretty sure a mob boss wants to kill me but other than that everything’s great.” He slapped the air again. “Whoops. Forget I just told you that.”
There was no wink, no nod, no anything from Danny in return. He simply said what anyone would say after hearing that from a friend. They were off script but on the same page.
“What are you talking about?” asked Danny. “What do you mean mob boss?”
“Shhhh,” said Tracy. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s obviously something. Wait. Is this about that meeting? It is, isn’t it? You wouldn’t tell me who it was with.”
“I still can’t tell you.”
“But you said the whole thing was bullshit.”
“It is bullshit. A mysterious painting that can’t go to auction? It’s probably a tax scam or something.”
“You told the guy that? This mob boss?”
“Hell no.” Tracy laughed. “He would’ve killed me, for sure. What I did was politely explain that I don’t do black-market sales. He said he understood, but, hell, I wasn’t listening to his words. It was his eyes. He wanted to strangle me.”
“Wow.”
“Tell me about it. I went straight from the meeting over to the Palm. It took me three martinis just to stop shaking.” Tracy stuck out his hand. There was still a slight tremble. “Damn, I think I need a fourth. Which way to the bar?”
Danny pointed toward the atrium. “Go straight and then take a left at the giant Rothko,” he said.
“Appreciate it. Hey, you available for lunch next week? We’ll both get drunk and you can tell me if Sotheby’s is really getting that Matisse from the Rockefeller estate.”
“I’ll never tell.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The two repeated the combo handshake-and-hug before Tracy peeled off for the atrium, not once looking back. He’d done all he could do. So had Danny, who stared straight ahead, watching as Laszlo stepped forward in the line. She was next up, ticket in hand.
C’mon, you know you heard us. Take the bait. Okay, maybe get your coat first, but then take the bait. Go track him down, Dorian…
CHAPTER 71
Tracy reached the bar in the atrium, the spiraling levels of Frank Lloyd Wright’s magnum opus rising above him. He looked up, as everyone does at first. But he still didn’t look back.
He was tempted, no doubt. It was like an itch he knew he couldn’t scratch. Just a peek, a glimpse, a little lookie-loo behind him—he’d make it seem oh-so-casual. Natural.
No. Don’t you dare.
She was either heading his way or she wasn’t. He’d know for sure soon enough. Until then, he would continue to—
“Excuse me.”
The tap on his shoulder was even better than the words themselves. It startled Tracy. It shouldn’t have, but it did. He jumped slightly out of his shoes, no acting required. He turned around, clutching his heart.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Laszlo. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Tracy exhaled. “No, that’s quite all right.” He followed that up with a squint. Do I know you?
“I’m Dorian,” she said. “Dorian Laszlo.”
She certainly was. “Bill D’Alexander,” said Tracy.
Laszlo flashed a sheepish grin as they shook hands. “I have a confession to make,” she said.
Tracy leaned in enthusiastically, swaying just a smidge. If she’d heard everything he’d said to Danny back in the coat check line, then he was still supposed to have three martinis sloshing around inside him.
“I absolutely love confessions, always have,” he said. “My mother actually thought I was going to grow up to become a priest. It was a bit odd, considering we were Jewish.”
Laszlo laughed. She was exactly as advertised, according to Dylan. Measured and precise. But Tracy could see her already growing comfortable with him, loosening up a little. Or maybe that was her angle. Her plan. “That’s funny,” she said. She laughed again. “Very funny.”
“So, please. Tell me your sin,” said Tracy. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”
Her voice dropped to a hushed tone. She edged closer to him. “I overheard some of your conversation back there,” she said.
“Back where?”
She pointed down at the long black wool coat draped over her forearm. “I was standing in line in front of your friend you just spoke to. It’s not like I was trying to listen.”
“Of course. So we were talking a little too loud, huh? My apologies.”
“No. If anything, I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
“How so?”
She glanced left and right. They were in a crowd. “If you don’t mind,” she said, nodding to an area off to the side.
Tracy followed her, step for step. “Better?” he asked, leaning against the wall near the gift shop. The store was closed for the event.
“Much,” said Laszlo. “I assume you’re an art dealer or broker of some kind?”
“I am. Yes.”
“I’m also assuming you’re not associated with any auction house, that you work independently.”
“Right again.” He took his phone out of his pocket only to put it back. “Actually, let’s do it on yours,” he said. “My website.”
She reached into her clutch for her phone. “Ready,” she said, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Tracy gave her the address, watching her nod as his website appeared. It’s all she needed to see.
“I’ll get right to the point, then,” she said. “That painting you mentioned to your friend—is it a Monet, by any chance?”
Tracy cocked his head, incredulous. “How would you know that?”
“That depends. How much do you know about its background?”
“Next to nothing. But something tells me the better question might be, how much do I want to know?”
“Here’s what matters most,” she said. “I’ve got a buyer for it.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“I don’t even know who you are,” said Tracy.
Laszlo reached into her clutch again to remedy that. She handed him her business card.
“So the economic and trade commissioner for the Consulate General of Hungary wants to buy a Monet,” he said, amused. “That must be quite a salary you make.”
“My government pays well.”
“Fifty million well?”
“Is that the price?” she asked.
“That’s what the seller wants for it, yes. He seemed pretty fixed on the number.”
“That sounds a lot like something a dealer would say.”
“Not in this case,” said Tracy. “Like I told the seller, I don’t do black-market deals.”
“Yes, I heard what you told your friend.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I do. You don’t do black-market deals. I understand,” she said. “But I think you’re going to do this one. In fact, I’m pretty sure of it.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because you do what you do to make money, and I’m going to guess that the last time you brokered a fifty-million-dollar painting was…never?”
Tracy looked down at Laszlo’s business card again, silently mouthing every word of her job title for full effect. Economic and trade commissioner. In other words, this conversation was directly in her wheelhouse.
“I stand corrected, Dorian,” he said. “Maybe you’re not being paid enough.”
“Is that a yes?” she asked.
“Are you agreeing to the fifty million?”
“I have to get the official okay from my government, but I don’t see a problem.” She motioned to her phone. “Your number’s on the website?”
Tracy nodded. “It’s there.”
“Then I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, putting on her coat. “In the meantime, go tell your seller that you’ve had a change of heart. Maybe he won’t want to kill you anymore.”
CHAPTER 72
The phone call that officially put the exchange into motion the next morning was really a mere formality. I had no doubt that Dorian Laszlo was going to ring Tracy to announce that she and the government of Hungary were all in on Monet’s Woman by the Seine to the tune of fifty million dollars. From an odds standpoint, her making the call fell somewhere between a lock and a sure thing. The reason was simple. We’d not only bugged her office, we’d also tapped her cell.
Tracy hadn’t even returned from the Guggenheim before Laszlo had dialed the Hungarian ambassador to the United States at his home in Washington, DC. She at least had the good sense not to say anything incriminating over an open wireless network. As for her unwittingly installing malware on her cell when she visited a certain art dealer’s website while in the atrium of the museum…well, good sense only gets you so far.
Julian’s handiwork—a program he called Echoing—essentially hijacked the microphone feature on Laszlo’s cell so we could hear every conversation she was having. Alexa, play us some very eager Hungarians…
Laszlo and her country desperately wanted this painting back, and I was banking on their having the same psychological makeup as the climbers who flock to Mount Everest every year. There’s a one-in-sixty chance the climb will kill them somewhere along the way, but all they care about is reaching the summit.
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” I announced as the burner phone sitting in the middle of our kitchen table rang. “With a half hour to spare, no less.”
The over/under bet was that Laszlo would call by noon the next day. Tracy and I had the under, Elizabeth took the over. Too much bureaucratic red tape for it to happen before lunch, she was thinking. Normally, I’d agree with her. Only this wasn’t normally.
The phone rang at 11:30 on the dot. Tracy waited patiently until the third ring before answering. “Bill D’Alexander,” he said calmly.
Tracy had not only kept to the script so far, he’d improved on it. The improvising he did with Danny at the Guggenheim had saved the night, if not the deal itself. Tracy was now beyond playing the part of art dealer, Bill D’Alexander. He had become him—and Dorian Laszlo, along with her government, were about to come through with the biggest sale of his career. But this was still no time for him to sound overly enthusiastic.
“That’s too fast,” he told Laszlo while at the same time flashing Elizabeth and me a thumbs-up. “I need to authenticate the painting.”
Tracy listened as Laszlo explained why the exchange had to happen so quickly. He kept the phone away from his ear just enough that we could hear most of what she was saying. The Hungarian ambassador was flying back to Budapest in two days, and if he didn’t have the painting with him, she no longer had a job. Period. End of story.
The fifty million would be wired by her personally at the time of the exchange to whichever account Frank Brunetti wanted, so long as it was either Swiss or offshore (Caymans, preferably).
“I assumed as much,” said Tracy. “I’ve already addressed it with the seller, and he said no problem.”
As for authenticating the Monet, Laszlo explained that she’d be bringing along her own “expert” so as to expedite things. That seemed odd only because any reputable authenticator would need to spend considerable time analyzing a painting of this nature, as opposed to giving it a once-over, as it were. But then again, standing on the top of Mount Everest must be one of the greatest feelings in the world, right?
