Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(52)

‘You mustn’t become paranoid about him,’ said William. ‘He’s not worth it.’

‘What does paranoid mean?’ asked Artemisia.

? ? ?

This was one meeting Booth Watson wasn’t going to be late for. He’d never visited the Connaught Hotel before, but was well aware of its reputation. Old-world, luxurious, the finest cuisine, and always fully booked for months in advance. Americans, they’d discovered, were happy to be parted from their money as long as it was masked in the cloak of tradition, especially as the hotel was almost as old as their country.

Miles had once complained to Booth Watson that he hadn’t been able to make a booking in the hotel’s restaurant despite several attempts. His lawyer didn’t explain why they wouldn’t have offered him a table even if they’d been empty.

Booth Watson gave his name to the receptionist who, without bothering to check, said, ‘Mr Lee is expecting you, sir. If you’ll take the lift to the top floor, someone will meet you.’

‘What’s his room number?’

‘There is only one suite on the top floor, sir,’ the receptionist said, the courteous smile never leaving her face.

Booth Watson crossed the lobby to the lift, now even more convinced that he’d found the right man. A profile in Forbes magazine had described Lee as a successful Chinese businessman with banking and real estate interests, whose hobbies included collecting art and fine wines. He had outbid Miles at Bonhams for a Blue Period Picasso a few years before.

Booth Watson stepped into a lift that had only one button, and proceeded without interruption to the top floor. When the doors opened, he was greeted by a young woman dressed in a red silk cheongsam. She bowed low and said, ‘Please follow me, Mr Booth Watson.’

Without another word she led him along a thickly carpeted corridor towards an oak-panelled door, which she opened before standing aside.

Booth Watson entered a large, ornately furnished room, bedecked with a fresh flower arrangement on almost every available surface. But what struck him most were the superb paintings that adorned every wall. Miles would have both admired and envied the collection. It was obvious why no one else was permitted to book this particular suite.

‘Can I offer you some tea while you’re waiting?’ asked the young woman.

‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson, just as a door on the far side of the room opened and a tall, grey-haired man dressed in a double-breasted suit, white shirt and silk tie walked across to welcome his guest. A typical Hong Kong businessman, who knew no international borders, was Booth Watson’s first impression.

‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Mr Booth Watson,’ Lee said as they shook hands. ‘The phone always seems to ring just as a guest is about to appear.’

‘What a magnificent art collection you have,’ said Booth Watson as the young woman reappeared carrying a laden tea tray which she placed on the table, before lowering herself to her knees and serving the two men.

‘How kind of you to say so,’ said Lee. ‘I confess that what began as a hobby has over the years become something of an obsession.’

‘Milk and sugar?’ asked the young woman.

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Booth Watson.

‘I have never mastered the English tradition of small talk,’ said Lee. ‘So I’ll put this as delicately as I can. Would I be right in thinking that due to his present circumstances, Mr Miles Faulkner is considering parting with his fabled art collection?’

‘That is correct. But I would stress,’ said Booth Watson, ‘he is only considering.’

‘I once spent a couple of years in such an establishment,’ said Lee, taking Booth Watson by surprise, ‘as a rebellious student during the revolution.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was released, but only because my side won.’ Both men laughed as the young woman returned carrying a plate of salmon and cucumber sandwiches, which she placed on the table between them.

‘I confess,’ Lee continued, ‘to have learnt almost as much in prison as I did at the Harvard Business School. And indeed, the contacts I made there proved every bit as useful.’

Booth Watson helped himself to a sandwich before returning to the subject they both wanted to discuss. ‘Are you familiar with Mr Faulkner’s collection?’ he asked.

‘Indeed I am. When he put his villa in Monte Carlo on the market several years ago, I viewed the house as a prospective buyer. I took photographs of all one hundred and seventy-three paintings, as well as the twenty-one sculptures in the garden, every one of which I was later able to verify in the relevant catalogues raisonnés. I particularly admired the reclining nude by Henry Moore.’

‘There are actually a hundred and ninety-one paintings and twenty-six sculptures in the collection,’ said Booth Watson after selecting another sandwich.

‘Then eighteen of the paintings and five of the sculptures must have been acquired after he moved into his most recent home just outside Barcelona,’ Lee said casually, once again taking Booth Watson by surprise. ‘In any case,’ continued Lee, ‘I’m sure Mr Faulkner has a view on what his collection is worth.’

‘According to the experts,’ said Booth Watson, ‘somewhere in the region of three hundred million.’

‘We all have experts to advise us, Mr Booth Watson, and they usually know if their client is a buyer or a seller. Mine consider one hundred million is nearer the mark.’