Page 7 of The Picasso Heist
“LAST SUMMER, BEFORE my senior year of college, I interned at Echelon, which is—”
“The auction house,” says Nikolov. “Yes, I know what Echelon is.”
Of course he does. Anyone with a lot of money does.
Although not every art collector with a lot of money gets to belong.
Echelon is the ultra-elite, members-only auction house in Manhattan that out-snobs both Christie’s and Sotheby’s.
Their manufactured exclusivity is a gimmick, but then again, so is everything in the entire art world.
In art, there is no reality other than perception, and if you are accepted as a member of Echelon, you are perceived as having scaled the Mount Everest of art high society.
“At the end of my internship,” I continue, “I was offered a full-time position in their valuations department after I graduated this year. I asked if I could have the summer off before starting so I could travel around Europe, and because traveling around Europe is a very Echelon thing to do, they said yes. My first day on the job is Friday.”
“Three days from now.”
“That’s right.”
“Congratulations.” Nikolov crosses his legs and folds his arms. He’s smiling but it’s more like a Doberman showing his teeth. “Now get to the fucking painting,” he says.
“Sorry, yes. The painting. It’s a Picasso, but not just any Picasso.
No one in the world knew this particular one existed until two years ago.
Not even its owner, who was the live-in maid for some French guy who died and left her his villa in Nice.
The painting had been wrapped in cheesecloth and stored in the attic of this villa for fifty years. ”
“Has it been authenticated?” he asks.
This is the first time Anton Nikolov lets on that he’s a little more familiar with art than the average tourist walking around in circles at the Guggenheim. A noncollector would never think to ask that question right off the bat.
“Yes, it’s been authenticated,” I say. “Twice, in fact. Once in Paris and then again last summer by Echelon. It was during my internship. That’s how I learned about the painting.”
“How was this not in the news? Why haven’t I heard about it?”
“Because of a very smart female attorney who’s representing the maid.
Now ask me how the maid knew to hire her.
I’ll tell you: She didn’t. After the French guy died, the maid went to work for this lawyer, cleaning her house, and no, I don’t know why she didn’t just sell the villa and retire.
Maybe she loves her job. Anyway, a month later, the maid finds the painting in the attic of the old guy’s villa, which now belongs to her, and she tells the lawyer about it. ”
“Let me guess,” says Nikolov. “The dead Frenchman has kids.”
“Two. A son and a daughter, both in their forties. They were pissed about the villa going to the maid but they were hardly left out of the will. I heard they split the rest of the estate, about two million euros each. But of course, were they to learn about an original Picasso stuffed away in the attic…”
“How much is it valued at?”
“Echelon is expecting it to go for around a hundred million dollars. If it sold for exactly a hundred million, that would make it the—”
“Sixth-highest-selling Picasso ever.”
“You know your art,” I say. “I’m impressed.”
“No, you’re not. You did your homework on me, that’s all.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be impressed.”
He picks a piece of lint off the thigh of his pants. “So, a hundred million, huh?”
“The bidding could go even higher, although I’m sure the record for Les Femmes d’Alger at a hundred and sixty-nine point four million is more than safe.”
“A hundred and seventy-nine point four million,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Les Femmes d’Alger, Version O, actually sold for a hundred and seventy-nine point four million.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Positive,” he says.
It’s easy to make a man think he’s smarter than you. All you have to do is let him correct you once. That’s all it takes.
“So,” I say, leaning in, “what can I tell you about the plan?”
“Everything. But first, I want to see the painting,” says Nikolov. “I assume you have a picture of it?”
“The auction hasn’t been announced yet but I got somebody at Echelon to email me one.” I reach into my pocket. Then the other pocket. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I don’t have my phone. Your guys took it from me.”
Nikolov pulls his phone out of his pocket because of course a mob boss never goes anywhere without his cell, even in his own house. “Here, you can use mine,” he says. He logs out of his various accounts and hands me the phone. “Go ahead. You just need to sign in.”
I now have about thirty seconds to bring up the picture of the Picasso on Nikolov’s phone. Any longer than that and he might suspect something. And we absolutely, positively can’t have that.
Okay, Skip, it’s time to work your magic.