“There’s a restaurant called Asiate on the thirty-fifth floor of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Columbus Circle. Can you meet me there for dinner tonight at seven?” she asked.
“Gladly.”
Ava called downstairs, made the reservation, and turned on her computer. Hughes hadn’t been exaggerating about Sam Rice. The Harrington’s website, naturally enough, made him out to be the world’s greatest authority on twentieth-century painting. Other sites weren’t quite so effusive but were certainly respectful. Ava recognized the names of some of the museums and galleries that used him as a consultant. It seemed that Hughes was right — a Sam Rice authentication went a very long way.
She searched for his photo online. He had a round, moonlike face with a small, pert nose and close-set eyes. His lips were large, out of proportion to his other features. He was bald, with only a fringe of grey hair running around his head like a train track. He and the elegant Glen Hughes weren’t exactly a physical match.
Ava logged on to an art site to look at Gauguin and Picasso values. The numbers startled her. Gauguin paintings had fetched prices north of thirty million; Picassos had sold in the eighty- and ninety-million-dollar range. What a hell of a business, she thought.
(29)
At a quarter to seven Ava walked into Asiate. It was still light outside, and she managed to get a table that looked directly onto Central Park through floor-to-ceiling glass. The park was alive with activity, boarders and in-line skaters vying for space with joggers, walkers, and nannies and mothers pushing baby carriages. I’ll take a run in the morning, she thought, and tried to remember the last time she’d run in three great parks on one job.
The restaurant positioned itself as pan-Asian. Ava generally wasn’t a fan of fusion cuisine, but she had eaten here before and the fish had been tremendous.
Her cellphone rang and she moved to answer it, only to have a waiter appear almost immediately at her table. “No cellphones are permitted in the restaurant,” he said.
She checked the incoming number to make sure it wasn’t Glen Hughes. It was Uncle. She turned off the phone and slipped it back into her bag.
“Thank you,” the waiter said, and then asked if she wanted something to drink. She ordered a sparkling water to tide her over until Hughes got there.
He showed up exactly on time, the blue silk pyjamas replaced by a black linen shirt, beige cotton slacks with cuffs, and a pair of gorgeous brown leather shoes. He and Edwin, she guessed, had their shoes made at the same place. As he walked across the room towards her, she saw several heads turn in his direction. He was the kind of man who looked like someone you should know.
“Nice view,” he said as he sat down. “I’ve never been here before.” Then he looked at her glass. “Water?”
“I was waiting for you before ordering anything else.”
“I’m a wine drinker.”
“Me too. White, preferably, and tonight white certainly, because I’m going to order fish.”
“I can drink white with anything.”
She picked up the wine menu.
“No, let me look after choosing the wine,” he said. He read the list intently. Ava would have just turned to the white burgundies and ordered something moderately priced. Hughes turned his selection process into a production. The waiter came back to the table and waited while Hughes turned the pages back and forth.
“I fancy a Riesling. Are you okay with that?” he finally said.
“That’s fine.”
“They have a Trimbach Clos Sainte Hune that looks interesting. It’s three hundred dollars, but I’m in a bit of a mood for celebrating,” he said, and then grinned at Ava. “We are here to celebrate, I assume?”
“I’d love to try the Riesling,” she said.
When the waiter left, Hughes poured himself a glass of water and sat back in his chair. “I was awfully glad you called. The other options, as I saw them, weren’t the least appealing.”
“I looked up Sam Rice on the Internet. He does have credentials.”
“As I said.”
“I also looked up Gauguin and Picasso prices, and unless I’m totally wrong, the two of them should sell for closer to a hundred million dollars.”
“We do have commissions to look after.”
“Even then there’s going to be some money left over.”
“Sam and I need some additional retirement funds.”
“I’m prepared to concede you that as long as I get everything else I want,” she said.
Hughes’ grin turned into a very large smile. His teeth were capped, perfectly straight and white as paper, with just the right amount of gum showing. “I’m so happy to hear you say that.”
“You don’t know what I want yet.”
The waiter interrupted and the wine ritual ensued, with Hughes an active participant. When their drinks were finally poured, the waiter asked if they’d like to order. Ava didn’t hesitate, ordering foie gras and black sea bass with oyster mushrooms. Hughes dithered around again before settling on Hawaiian blue prawns and wagyu beef tenderloin.
“Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass.
“ Salut.”
“Can we talk business now?” he asked, setting down his glass.
“Sure. Look, I spent the afternoon reviewing what happened this morning, and I do agree with you: my clients’ only chance of retrieving a substantial part of their money is through the sale of those two paintings. And I think that between you and Sam Rice there’s enough credibility to make it happen.”
“Thank you for including me with Sam.”
“But — ”
“Ah, the big but.”
“Not so big, and there are three of them.”
“I’m listening.”
“First of all, and most important to me, it is absolutely essential that only four people in the world know about these paintings — me, you, Sam Rice, and the artist. And I want your complete assurance that you have the artist under control.”
“He will not say a word. He has a bit of a reputation himself, and it’s growing. He won’t do anything to endanger it.”
“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.”