Page 22 of The Picasso Heist

WOLFGANG DOESN’T LIKE surprises. What forger would? As he told me when I hired him, “My world is expectation and duplication. Lather, rinse, repeat.”

Those words quickly come back to me the second he opens his door and angrily points a paintbrush at Enzio Bergamo. “Who the hell is this?” he asks.

Bergamo’s more amused than insulted. “Really, kid? You don’t know who I am?” He peeks into Wolfgang’s windowless basement studio. “You really need to get out more.”

I make the formal introductions and apologize to Wolfgang for not giving him a heads-up. Then I roll my eyes at Bergamo as I walk into the studio. “Not everyone reads Vogue and Page Six of the Post,” I say.

This gets a chuckle from both Blaggy and Anton Nikolov, who are bringing up the rear of our cozy foursome on this field trip to inspect our fake Picasso.

It’s just another Wednesday night in Manhattan.

Me, a Bulgarian crime boss, his right-hand man, and a famous fashion designer, albeit one who’s not quite as famous as he thinks he is.

But it’s not Bergamo’s humility we need. It’s his commitment. And I can tell that Nikolov has his doubts.

Yes, we have the recording of Bergamo making a pass at me at his party.

It should be more than enough to keep him in check, especially since Bergamo has no prenup with his wife, Deborah.

Excuse me, De-bore-ah. When the two of them married, Bergamo’s fledgling fashion company was a household name in only one house—his own.

Still, Nikolov knows Bergamo. Although he’s the one who roped him in, he’s still wary. Nothing’s a done deal until it’s a done deal.

“Okay, so where is this masterpiece?” asks Bergamo.

So much for any small talk. Wolfgang walks us back to the far wall of his studio. The place is a mess. I don’t know if Wolfgang truly needs to get out more but he for damn sure needs a maid.

“Here it is,” he says, pointing with his paintbrush.

“What’s with the glass box?” asks Bergamo.

“Or maybe ‘Wow, that looks incredible, and I could never tell the difference between this one and the real one,’” I say. “Maybe start with that?”

“‘Wow, that looks incredible, and I could never tell the difference between this one and the real one,’” Bergamo parrots back. “Now, what’s with the glass box?”

“It’s actually Lucite,” says Wolfgang. “And the box is an oxidizing accelerator.”

Bergamo knows about fine art, but he’s a novice in the world of fakes and forgeries. The same goes for Nikolov. My only request of Wolfgang prior to the meeting was that he educate them a bit. But not that much. “Talk over their heads for the most part,” I told him. “They’ll nod along.”

Wolfgang steps next to the painting in the Lucite case, which is sealed except for two hose attachments in the back that are connected to a device the size of a microwave oven.

“We’re not re-creating some Dutch master from the seventeenth century, so we don’t have to be concerned with carbon dating or even white-lead dating for verification purposes,” says Wolfgang.

“And while Picasso was known to paint over his own paintings, there are plenty of works that he did using a fresh canvas. Thankfully, the piece discovered in that old Frenchman’s attic was one of them, so no one will bother x-raying the fake. Still, the attic presents a challenge.”

I’m waiting for Nikolov to engage. He finally does. “How so?” he asks. “What’s the challenge?”

“Craquelure,” says Wolfgang.

“In English,” says Nikolov.

“As a painting ages, it develops random, unique formations known as craquelure. In other words, cracks in the paint. Using computer mapping, these cracks can be measured to establish a digital fingerprint, if you will, of the original artwork. A Picasso, or any painting from only the past century, wouldn’t normally experience significant craquelure, but this particular painting is a little different.

Sitting in that attic for so many years, it experienced massive fluctuations in temperature between hot and cold. ”

Nikolov nods. “It got old a lot faster, is what you’re saying.”

“Exactly,” says Wolfgang. “So this oxidizing accelerator is an attempt to mimic the craquelure.”

Bergamo steps forward, takes a closer look at the painting. “An attempt?” he asks.

“Like I said, the pattern is random and unique. There’s no way to duplicate it exactly,” says Wolfgang.

“And it’s the authenticator who does the scan?” asks Bergamo.

“Actually, no. It would be the insurance company on behalf of the buyer,” says Wolfgang. “They would send a representative to Echelon after the auction to do it before the painting left the premises.”

Bergamo spins on his heel and fixes his worried stare on me. “That’s going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” I answer. “It’ll be fine.”

He’s hardly convinced. “How is it not going to be a problem?”

“Just trust me.”

“Trust you? I have T-shirts older than you.”

“That didn’t stop you from wanting to fuck her,” says Nikolov. “And if you don’t want to trust her, trust me. It’s not going to be a problem. If I thought it was, I wouldn’t be putting up the money.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one putting up the paddle,” says Bergamo.

“It’s my neck out there. My name. My reputation.

” He’s pacing, working himself into a frenzy.

“You know what? Fuck it, play that little recording for my wife, I don’t care.

I’d rather her take me to the cleaners than end up in jail. I’m out.”

“You’re not going to jail,” says Nikolov. “And you’re not out. You’re very much in.”

“The hell I am,” says Bergamo.

“The hell you are,” says Blaggy, stepping forward. He’s pointing something, but it’s not a paintbrush. It’s a gun. He’s picked a fine time to join the conversation.

“Whoa!” says Wolfgang. He drops his brush and puts both hands up, full surrender. The gun isn’t even pointed at him.

“Please lower that,” I tell Blaggy. “There’s no reason for—”

“Keep it right where it is,” says Nikolov, cutting me off with a look that says Shut the hell up.

He shoots that same look at Bergamo. “This is the first and last time we’re having this conversation.

We told you the plan, and you agreed. There’s no changing the plan, and there’s no changing your mind. Do you understand?”

Bergamo’s eyes dart back and forth from Nikolov to the barrel of Blaggy’s gun. Wolfgang keeps inching farther away, surely thinking this wasn’t part of the bargain. I stand, frozen, waiting for Bergamo to make up his mind.

He’s a proud man. He’s a stubborn man. Question is, is he a stupid man?

No. He’s definitely not. Bergamo fakes a tension-defusing laugh. “This goddamn plan better work,” he says.