The Take(4)

“Tickets?” he asked the attractive blond woman accompanying him.

“Right here,” said Lucy Brown, slipping them from her purse.

“Stay close once we’re inside.”

“Like I’m your girlfriend,” she said, threading her arm through his.

“My assistant,” Simon corrected her and gently freed himself.

He was a compact man, an American, markedly fit in a bespoke navy suit, white cotton shirt open at the collar. His hair was dark and thick, receding violently at the temples, and cut to the nub with a number two razor. He had his father’s dark complexion and brooding good looks and his mother’s beryl-green eyes. People mistook him for a European—Italian, Slavic, something Mediterranean. His nose was too bold, too chiseled. His chin, too strong. Take off the suit, add a day’s stubble, and he’d fit in hooking bales of Egyptian cotton across a dock in Naples.

The night was warm and humid, the air alive with the scent of brine and exhaust. The first star winked from the violet canopy. Across the river, Big Ben and the spires of Whitehall cut a noble profile. Riske enjoyed a surge of contentment. He was thankful to be a free man.

His destination was a modern exhibition hall, all mirrored glass and shiny metal girders. Banners advertising fine French champagne and luxury Swiss watches lined the path. All around him, elegantly dressed men and women moved eagerly, drawn by a common excitement.

The event was Sotheby’s annual classic car auction. In an hour, thirty of the world’s most valuable automobiles were to be sold to the highest bidder. Ferrari, Lamborghini, Mercedes, Porsche. Estimates ranged from two hundred thousand dollars to twenty million.

But Simon Riske had not come to bid on an automobile.

“You ready?” he asked, pausing ten paces from the entry.

“All I have to do is show me bits and brass,” said Lucy Brown. “Easy enough.”

Simon appraised his companion. If memory served, she was twenty-three years of age. Far too young for him. She’d dressed in a white skirt and a navy blouse. Though conservative, the garments did little to hide her toned legs and generous cleavage. No one would be watching him with her anywhere nearby.

“Don’t really show them,” he said. “Just…well, you know. Do as I told you.”

“Of course, boss.”

“And the glasses.” He’d insisted she wear a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles to tone things down. It was a classy event, after all. To spite him, she’d tucked them into her shirt.

“Must I?”

Simon nodded.

Grudgingly, she put on the glasses. “Happy?”

“Thank you,” he said. “Much better.” He extended an arm. “After you.”

Simon was given a sales catalogue at the door. Lucy led them inside. The hall was vast, dimmed lights making it impossible to gauge its true size. A stage occupied the right-hand side with a dozen rows of chairs set up in front of it. The automobiles to be auctioned were situated across the floor on raised platforms and bathed in flattering spotlights.

“See him?” asked Lucy.

“Just look for his bodyguards,” said Simon. “He never goes anywhere with less than four. They’re as big as Stalin skyscrapers.”

“What skyscrapers?”

“The buildings in Moscow built by Joseph…Never mind. They’re tall. You can’t miss them.”

Lucy wrinkled her nose. “What’s he so frightened of?”

“He’s Russian. He’s a billionaire. And he’s a gangster. Take your pick.”

Simon flipped through the catalogue as he strolled. At one time all these people wandering the hall, laughing easily, holding their drinks with aplomb, had been his peers. Not long afterward, they were the enemy, adversaries to be shorn of their valuables—essentially prey. Today, they occupied a middle ground.

Simon was a man between classes. An outsider by choice and by circumstance. The tailored suit, the easygoing smile, the splash of Acqua di Parma. All of it was no more than a silk sheath over a razor.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced a dignified voice on the public address system. “The auction will commence in fifteen minutes’ time. Please make your way to your seats.”

A waiter approached carrying a tray overloaded with flutes of champagne. “Madam, a drink prior to the bidding?”

“Why, thank you,” said Lucy, reaching for a glass.

“But, no,” cut in Simon, taking her by a shoulder and guiding her in the opposite direction. “This is work.”

“It’s free.”

“I’ll buy you a case of the stuff,” said Simon. “After we’re done.”

“Promise?”

“Watch yourself. I’ll put you on paint duty tomorrow.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

On the side, Simon was the owner of a small but well-regarded automotive shop in a quiet neighborhood not far from Wimbledon that specialized in European cars, namely Ferraris and Lamborghinis. He didn’t just fix their engines, he rebuilt them from top to bottom, a process that could last two years and run to hundreds of thousands of dollars. In such cases, one of the first tasks was to strip the paint off the chassis. It was a tedious and exhausting job done with a heating gun and a scraper.