Page 27 of The Picasso Heist

“DO I HEAR ninety-six? Ninety-six million?”

My eyes dart from the seats to the phones and back as I try to get a count. We were hoping to be down to a half a dozen bidders by now, but it’s looking close to twice that. Maybe even a baker’s dozen.

“Yes, thank you, ninety-six,” says the auctioneer, pointing at the front row. “Now asking ninety-seven. Ninety-seven million.”

“We’ve lost Tokyo,” says Skip. It’s the first good sign, and it’s quickly followed by the second. “Paris number three is out too.”

It’s not enough. There’re still four active paddles in the room.

Not that they’re all bidding at the same time, but I can tell from their postures, even from behind them.

The way they’re sitting, the straight shoulders.

And their heads are still. At these stakes, there’s no neck swiveling, no checking out the competition.

“Bid ninety-seven… yes, on the aisle there, thank you. We continue, asking ninety-eight… ninety-eight million.”

Only three paddles now. The fourth slumps his shoulders, shakes his head. He’s out. The price is climbing too high. Altitude sickness kicks in.

C’mon, one more. We need one more in the room to drop…

“Ninety-eight, accepted. We have ninety-eight million,” declares the auctioneer, pointing to the end of the phone table.

“Ninety-eight. That’s Mr. Monaco,” says Skip. “Ha. He’s probably French.”

“And he’s probably just getting warmed up,” I say. “It’s time.”

“You’re right,” says Skip. “Give me the signal.”

“Texting him now.”

I get back on my cell and type two letters to Bergamo.

My thumb hovers over the send button, my eyes and ears locking in on the auctioneer, who’s pausing after ninety-eight million.

He’s milking the moment with a sip of water.

To hell with ninety-nine million. The second he puts the glass down, he lets it rip.

No more monotone. Big round numbers always get the hype.

“Ladies and gentlemen, do I hear one hundred million?”

Bang goes my thumb: GO!

Bergamo looks down at his cell, and his paddle immediately shoots up. Current bid plus ten—those were his instructions, and he nails the delivery as he breaks decorum, calling out his bid in a booming voice and raising the stakes high enough to kill the action.

“One hundred and ten million!” Bergamo announces.

Audible gasps fill the room. “Now!” I tell Skip.

I watch the phone table, see a wave of confused looks.

Their lines have all gone dead, only they don’t know it.

No one does. No one’s even looking in their direction; they’re too busy gawking at Bergamo, who overbid by ten million.

Is he a fool? A genius? They can’t figure it out, but when the dust settles, the headline will write itself.

Sometimes you’ve got to spend a small fortune to save an even bigger one.

But the dust is still swirling. The crowd’s murmuring. Still, no one notices the staff at the phone table frantically motioning for their CEO. Waxman makes a beeline toward them while the auctioneer does exactly what he’s supposed to do in this situation: He takes back control. He’s a pro.

“We welcome a new bidder and a new bid,” he smoothly announces. “One hundred and ten million. Do I hear—”

He stops mid-sentence as he finally notices Waxman huddled with his staff at the phone table.

The room follows suit, everyone turning to see what’s holding up the auction.

It’s the moment of truth. Or, in Waxman’s case, the moment he tries to conceal the truth.

The paper-clip-and-chewing-gum fix of the phones has given way; the hub is down.

There’ll be no more phone bids. An hour ago, it could have been chalked up to mechanical difficulties.

Now it’s on Echelon. He owns it. There’s no way Waxman’s stopping the auction. Not now. Not this far.

With a quick, discreet twirl of his index finger, he instructs his auctioneer to carry on.

Bergamo seizes the moment, calling out from his seat, “Let’s go! One hundred and ten million,” he says. “That’s the bid.”

“Indeed it is,” the auctioneer says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, I know those three remaining paddles aren’t going in the air again.

It’s not that they don’t have the money.

It’s that they don’t want to look like idiots.

Bergamo just did something crazy, and only crazy can beat crazy.

The auctioneer knows it too. “One hundred and ten million going once…”

“What’s happening?” asks Skip.

“We’re almost home,” I say.

The auctioneer raises his hammer. “One hundred and ten million going twice…”

“One hundred and eleven,” comes a voice from the back of the room.