The Take(5)

Lucy Brown worked in his shop as an apprentice mechanic. It was a long story.

“Let’s find our man,” he said. “He’ll be bidding on the prized lot. That’s as good a place as any to start.”

Simon rolled up the catalogue and headed toward the center of the hall, where a crowd was gathered around a red sports car. The vehicle was a 1964 Ferrari 275, one of just twenty-three to roll out of the factory in Maranello, Italy. Of these, fewer than ten were in working order. LOT 31, as the Ferrari was labeled, was a prime example, and the first to come up for sale in a decade. Bidding began at fifteen million dollars.

Simon scanned the crowd surrounding the car. He didn’t need a description to find Boris Blatt. The man was in the tabloids every other day. Blatt was in the process of building the largest house in London, a ninety-thousand-square-foot mansion atop Highgate Hill. Not a day passed without a neighbor, contractor, or city official having something ill to report. Simon couldn’t buy a tin of Altoids at the corner kiosk without seeing Blatt’s elfin features leering back at him.

“Excuse me.” A security guard brushed past, nudging his shoulder. A second guard followed close behind.

“Go right ahead,” said Simon, making way.

“What’s that all about?” asked Lucy.

There was a commotion to his right. An emergency exit opened. The alarm sounded briefly, then died. Security guards formed a cordon to allow someone to enter. Simon spotted a large man with hulking shoulders and a crew cut leading the way. Another man identical to him followed behind. Simon’s pulse quickened. Blatt’s gorillas.

“He’s here.”

Cameras flashed. A murmur rippled through the crowd. He caught sight of a pale, fat man with close-cropped white hair. Boris Blatt was dressed in a black suit and open-collar shirt, his eyes focused on the ground ahead of him.

“Let’s go, then.” Simon took Lucy’s hand and pushed through the crowd. He needed proximity to his target. Once everyone was seated, his window of opportunity would be gone.

“You can’t be serious,” protested Lucy, getting her first look at Blatt’s bodyguards. “They’re big as mountains.”

“Don’t think I can take care of myself?”

“They’ll snap you like a twig.”

“Probably right,” he said. “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Thank God,” said Lucy, relaxing. “Can we go, then?”

“What about that case of bubbly?”

“I’m happy with a pint at the Dog and Duck.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Lucy nodded emphatically.

By now, Blatt was standing next to Lot 31, conversing with a slim blond man dressed immaculately in a dove-gray suit. The man was Alastair Quince, the evening’s auctioneer and Sotheby’s chief automotive expert.

“Let’s take a closer look,” said Simon.

“At Blatt?”

Simon smiled easily. “Forget Blatt. I mean the Ferrari. Might be the only chance we get to see one in person.” It was a lie, but he needed Lucy relaxed. She had little experience in this line of work. It was essential she appear calm and at ease.

“Must we?” she asked, resisting the pull of his hand.

“We must,” said Simon.

Blatt’s arrival had drawn a crowd to the Ferrari, with more people arriving every moment. Simon maneuvered through the cluster of guests until he was standing behind Blatt’s bodyguards. He formed a space for Lucy to join him, then tapped one on the shoulder. “Do you mind? The lady would like to take a closer look.”

The bodyguard glared at Simon before catching a glance of Lucy. Simon squeezed her hand. As instructed, she smiled at him. The bodyguard’s eyes widened and he rushed to clear a space for her. Simon followed close behind. Like that, he was standing next to Boris Blatt.

“But, Mr. Quince, we must fix your commission,” Blatt was complaining heatedly to the auctioneer. “The seller is already paying you too much.”

“Not if I do my job well,” said Alastair Quince, shining and dapper and much too polished.

“Exactly my point,” said Blatt. “To charge me another five percent on top…it is an insult.”

Unconsciously, Simon tightened his fist into a ball and ran his thumb across the knuckles. In all manner of robbery, speed was essential. In pickpocketing, it was more than that. He had come to attempt something far more difficult than lifting a wallet.

“Alastair. Good to see you.”

“Oh, Simon, hello. You here about this beauty?” Quince leaned forward to shake Simon’s hand. The two knew each other in passing. A car restored by Simon’s shop had sold for a handsome price. Still, it was apparent Quince wasn’t pleased to be interrupted. “For a client, perhaps?”

“’Fraid not. Just wanted to take a closer look. I’ll leave it for Mr. Blatt. Won’t you introduce us?”

Quince forced a smile. “Boris Blatt. This is Simon Riske. He owns a small operation restoring Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Top quality workmanship.”

Simon had his business card ready. “Not that this one needs any work,” he said, then leaned closer to the car. “Though the paint on the hood appears a little spotty.”

Ferraris in their original factory condition had a nasty reputation for shoddy paintwork. The men who’d designed and manufactured the cars in the 1960s had been concerned with speed and handling. Things like chassis fitting and paint had been of secondary importance.