Page 28 of The Picasso Heist

DAMN.

That’s the PG version of what I’m thinking and then saying to my brother over and over. Skip’s cursing too. We’re a chorus. We were so close to getting it done. The phones are dead, but suddenly the room is very much alive.

Everyone’s looking to see who made the bid. They heard it, and now they’re all thinking: A woman?

Jesus, Enzio. Don’t you stare at her too. Turn around, you’ve still got a painting to buy. Not that I can blame him. It was a wrap. A done deal. Bergamo had one-upped everyone in the room, and then—boom. Make that almost everyone.

Now there were two. Not to mention the threat of more bidders joining back in, which would spell disaster. Although that threat disappears as fast as—

“One hundred and twelve million,” says Bergamo, raising his paddle.

“One thirteen,” says Chanel. She has a French accent.

Bergamo wastes no time. “One fourteen.”

Neither does she. “One fifteen.”

“One sixteen.”

“One seventeen.”

“One eighteen.”

“One nineteen.”

Shit, shit, shit. Who the hell is she?

We can stomach paying the money—to a certain point—but not losing. And whoever she is, she seems hell-bent on winning. Of course, so does Bergamo. “One twenty,” he says.

“One twenty-one,” she counters.

They’re not even raising their paddles. Echelon members are literally cheering. It’s a free-for-all, a million bucks at a time. A record-breaking sale is happening right before their eyes. The auctioneer, the seasoned pro, has been relegated to the sidelines. But not for long.

“Lady and gentleman, please,” he interrupts the two bidders loudly. “Please.” The bidding stops; the room hushes. All eyes shift back to the auctioneer. “We very much appreciate the enthusiasm, and we all love a horse race.”

“Then take back the reins!” someone yells. Heckling—surely this is a first in the history of Echelon.

The auctioneer, momentarily stunned, gathers himself and glances over at Waxman, who’s still at the phone table, probably working through his conflicting CEO emotions.

He never should’ve let this auction take place without the encrypted phone lines, and yet now he’s presiding over what will be Echelon’s single largest sale ever.

The auctioneer clears his throat. “The bid is a hundred and twenty-one million dollars. Do I hear one twenty-two?”

He doesn’t hear anything. Bergamo raises his paddle without saying a word. The only sound now is the deafening silence of anticipation.

“Is she with anyone?” asks Skip in my ear. His hushed voice sounds like a scream. That’s how quiet the room is.

“I don’t think so. Not that I can tell,” I whisper back. “But she seems really set on taking home this painting.”

The bidding hits one hundred thirty million.

Then one thirty-five… one forty… one forty-five.

If Anton Nikolov were in the room, he’d call the whole thing off.

But he’s not. For the first time I see what looks like a crack in Bergamo’s facade.

He turns around in his seat but not to look at Chanel.

He’s looking for me. He’s looking for guidance.

How high can we go? What now? Our eyes lock, and I do something I don’t even realize I’m doing until after I do it.

I shrug. I honestly don’t know the answer.

Bergamo turns back around. The bid is now one hundred forty-eight million.

“One hundred and forty-eight million going once,” says the auctioneer. Bergamo doesn’t budge. “Going twice…” Everyone’s looking at Bergamo. The buzz is getting louder and louder. The room can’t help itself.

And neither can Bergamo. He raises his paddle.

This isn’t an auction. It’s a tennis match. All eyes swing back to Chanel as the auctioneer takes another sip of water. Another big fat number is coming.

“One hundred and forty-nine million,” he announces. “The bid is now one hundred and forty-nine.”

Going once. Going twice.

Her paddle doesn’t go up. But she does. Chanel stands and walks out of the room. Everyone gasps. For the first time I see her face, and all I can think is Did we just get played?