The Take(6)

“Really?” said Blatt, with more than a hint of outrage.

“Absolutely not,” retorted Quince, his cheeks alarmingly flushed. “Mr. Blatt, I promise you…”

Blatt pushed past Simon to study the bodywork. For a second—less, even—shoulder brushed shoulder, arm brushed arm.

“No, no,” said Simon, joining Blatt to look closely at the Ferrari. “I was mistaken. I apologize.”

“You’re certain?” asked Blatt. “Mr.—”

“Riske. And yes. I’m positive. A trick of the light.” Simon threw the auctioneer a look. “Mr. Quince would never let a car get by with a run in the paint.”

“I most certainly would not.”

The public address announced that the auction would start in five minutes. The crowd around the Ferrari began to thin.

“Good luck, then,” said Simon, leaning closer, putting his hand on Blatt’s arm. “She’s a beauty,” he whispered, and Blatt leaned even closer. “But not a penny over twenty million.”

Blatt stepped back and studied the business card. “American? Where from?”

“New York.”

“I have friends there.”

“Is that so?” Simon was quite sure he was acquainted with one or two.

“Maybe I call you,” said Blatt, slipping the card into his jacket.

“Any time.” Simon turned to leave and found himself staring at the chest of one of the bodyguards. “Do you mind?” he asked roughly, speaking a Muscovite’s Russian.

Blatt uttered a command and the bodyguard moved aside.

Simon put his hand on the base of Lucy’s spine. “Shall we?” he whispered, giving her a little shove.

“You speak Russian?” she asked.

“Just go.”

Keeping the smile in his eyes, he steered Lucy away from Lot 31 and Boris Blatt. The light jazz piped in to foster a festive, sophisticated environment stopped playing. Guests headed toward the stage like a tide rushing back into the ocean. The mood shifted palpably. The time for small talk was past. A pall of nervous expectation filled the hall. Bidding on collectible automobiles was a serious business.

Simon carved a path toward the exit. It was a rule to put as much distance as possible between the mark and yourself. Should for any reason he be stopped and searched, he was in possession of stolen merchandise. Until he was clear of the building and had delivered the take to its rightful owner, he was a thief, and punishable as such.

Reaching the main doors, Simon stood aside as a last-minute rush of guests forced their way past. At that moment he saw Blatt take a seat in the front row, extend his left arm, and check the time.

“Leaving already? Mr. Riske, isn’t it?” A hand touched his shoulder. Simon turned to see a member of the Sotheby’s staff. Behind him stood a pair of security guards.

“We’re not feeling well.”

Lucy clutched her stomach. “Too much champagne, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry,” said the man from Sotheby’s.

Simon had his eyes on Blatt, watching the Russian stand and gesture violently to a bodyguard, who rushed over. Words were exchanged.

“Dammit,” whispered Simon, under his breath. “He noticed.”

The bodyguard began to walk up the aisle. Toward Simon.

“What is it?” asked Lucy. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

Simon didn’t respond. The bodyguard was jogging now, his cheeks red. He raised a hand, signaling to him. Lucy turned and spotted the man approaching. “Simon,” she said worriedly. “He’s looking at you.”

“Is he?”

The bodyguard came nearer, the crowd making room for him. He looked directly at Simon, then looked away and continued on another few steps, intercepting a server holding a tray of champagne. Hurriedly, he grabbed two flutes and returned to Blatt.

“Ready to go?” asked Simon as his heart recommenced beating. “I think we’re done here.”

A moment later, they were outside, cutting across the lawn to the parking lot.

“Did you get it?” asked Lucy.

“Keep walking,” said Simon.

“But there were so many people.”

“Exactly.”

“But he didn’t even—”

“Exactly.”

“And you put the other one back on his wrist? How?”

“At one point in my life I had plenty of time on my hands and a very good teacher. That’s enough about that.”

They arrived at the car. Not a Ferrari. A Volkswagen Golf R model. It had more than enough power to get around London as fast as anyone was able. Maybe one day he’d buy himself a Ferrari. But not for a while. He had better uses for his money than a fancy automobile, no matter how much he loved them.

“Your chariot.” He opened Lucy’s door.

“A gentleman,” she said, lingering a moment too long and a step too close.

“Lucy Brown, it’s past your bedtime.”

“What about my champagne?”

“Didn’t you just say you’ve had too much?”

Simon stood aside. Lucy slid into her seat, slamming the door.

Simon rounded the car, pausing to slip the timepiece from his pocket. He held it so the moon glinted off the platinum case and illuminated its ivory-colored dial. The watch was a 1965 Patek Philippe perpetual calendar chronograph with moon phases. Value: three million dollars. A month earlier, a member of Boris Blatt’s criminal organization had stolen it from a jeweler in the north of the city. Simon had been hired by the jeweler’s insurance company to retrieve it.