“All bids are to be made in U.S. dollars and must be settled immediately either in cash or by confirmed electronic transfer. Bids are binding and there is no appeal, so think twice before coughing.” Again the audience laughed apprehensively. This time, the man did not smile.
“If there are no questions, then I will begin.”
The assembled buyers remained silent and with a slight nod from the man, who was clearly acting as the auctioneer for the evening, a small door set into the wall to the side of the platform opened. Two muscled figures emerged holding a gilt-framed painting, which they set down on an easel to the left of the auctioneer’s podium. With a theatrical flourish one of them threw back the green cloth that had been laid over the canvas. Tom breathed in sharply.
“What is it?” asked Jennifer.
“Vermeer,” whispered Tom. “Stolen in the Isabella Stewart Gardner job. I’d heard it had been destroyed. Cassius must be selling off his best stuff.”
“The Concert by Jan Vermeer, painted in 1665 to ’66. The bidding will start at three million dollars. Can anyone give me three million. Thank you, sir. Three million, two-hundred thousand…?”
The bidding was fast and uncomplicated. There were no mobile phones or computer screens, no delays or deliberations, no live links to New York and Tokyo. The buyers had clearly come with detailed instructions from their employers on what to buy and how much to bid. The Vermeer went for just over $6 million. A Rembrandt that Tom identified as Storm on the Sea of Galilee, taken in the same job as the Vermeer, for $8 million. A Giacometti sculpture recently stolen from a museum in Hamburg and replaced with a wooden replica under the noses of the guards, for $300,000.
“This could be us,” hissed Tom suddenly.
One of the auctioneer’s assistants had stepped onto the platform holding a slim metallic case about ten inches long by three inches wide.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, an extremely rare item.” The auctioneer surveyed his expectant audience as the man holding the silvery case opened it and angled it to the light so they could see its contents.
“There are only eight surviving examples of the four hundred fifty thousand, five hundred Double Eagles minted by the U.S. Treasury in 1933 and then destroyed in 1937 by presidential decree. Five of them are offered here. I’m going to start the bidding at twenty million dollars. Do I hear twenty million?”
Four hands shot into the air just as a deafening boom thundered through the cistern and a section of the roof collapsed into the water below.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The door at the top of the stairs exploded open, the force of the charge laid next to it ripping it from its hinges and sending it pirouetting down onto the platform where it narrowly missed the front row of seats.
Through the smoke, five masked men burst into the room, firing silenced machine guns over their heads, the bullets spitting into the brickwork and showering the bewildered people below with shards of hot stone, spent shells coughing out and hitting the water with a hiss. Two ropes spiraled down through the gaping hole in the roof and four more men slid down into the room, their heavy boots splashing down noisily on the cistern floor. Within seconds, the dazed people on the platform had been surrounded and the auctioneer and his two assistants disarmed without anyone putting up a struggle.
Jennifer jumped to her feet but Tom dragged her back.
“Stay down.”
Tom raised his binoculars and studied the unfolding scene below. The men were well-drilled, probably ex-military, moving deliberately and in close coordination. They were heavily armed, grenades hanging off their webbing, their hands clutching Heckler & Koch MP5SD6s, the silenced version of the weapon of choice for the world’s elite military and paramilitary units.
Their commander stood at the foot of the stairs, barking instructions, his shoulders broad as the side of a small car. As Tom watched, he smashed the butt of his gun into the small of someone’s back who had not knelt down quickly enough.
Another figure, also masked and dressed in black, appeared through the swirling dust and smoke at the top of the stairs. He made his way silently down to the auctioneer’s assistant, now on his knees, but still holding the metallic coin case in his left hand. The man took the case from him, opened it to check its contents, then slipped it inside his jacket.
He nodded to the commander, turned and walked back up the stairs. The auctioneer began to scream hysterically.
“You are all dead men! You don’t know who you’re fucking with! Nobody steals from Cassius!”
The man stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back over his shoulder at the kneeling figure, his gelled hair dusty and dishevelled, his face chiseled with hate. The auctioneer spat in the man’s direction, the gelatinous glob hitting the side of the brick staircase and snailing down to the floor. The man turned and made his way back down to the platform.
Without saying a word, he slipped a shiny silver Sig P228 out of his holster and pressed it against the auctioneer’s mouth. He levered it between his lips, rattling the smooth muzzle against his teeth, cutting into his gums as he tried to force it in, until the blood was dripping out of the corner of the auctioneer’s mouth onto the floor. Still, the auctioneer kept his jaws clamped firmly shut, his eyes staring defiantly ahead, until with a stomach-churning crunch, he lost his two front teeth. He screamed and as his mouth opened in agony the man slid the gun in, penetrating him until the trigger guard was jammed against his lips.
The auctioneer started to gag on the barrel, his body convulsing as the cold metal pressed against the back of his throat. Then a single, muffled shot rang out, the noise deadened by the auctioneer’s skull. The back of his head exploded as he slumped at the man’s feet, his jaw hanging off on one side from the force of the explosion. One of his eyes had burst down his lifeless cheek.
Tom surveyed the macabre scene through his binoculars, a grim look on his face. For as the man had pulled the trigger, the sleeve on his black flak jacket had ridden up onto his wrist. Tom had recognized the watch he was wearing instantly.
It had a black face and a pink-gold case, one of only fifteen like it in the world. It was a Lange & Söhne. It was the same watch that Van Simson wore.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Indifferent to the execution that they had just witnessed, the armed men started to edge toward the staircase, still covering their cowering captives with their guns. A thick red cloud billowed in the water beneath the platform as the auctioneer leaked blood.
“They’re getting away,” said Jennifer, rising to her feet. “We’ve got to stop them.”
“Wait. We can get them later. I know who it is.”
He grabbed Jennifer by the shoulder but her momentum knocked him off balance and he tripped, falling heavily against the grille. Years of corrosion had clearly taken their toll. The grille gave way under Tom’s weight and he plunged headfirst down into the cistern.
At the noise three men, still at the foot of the stairs, spun round and opened fire blindly in Tom’s direction, the bullets fizzing overhead and slamming into the wall behind him.
“Hold your fire.” The killer had reappeared at the top of the stairs, his silver gun still drawn and flecked with blood, skin and pieces of the auctioneer’s teeth.
“I want him alive,” he barked. “Bring him with us.”