Chapter 22
22
SAMANTHA
T wo weeks after the freeport conference room was used to welcome Antonio Russo, the space has been converted into an auction house. The Book of Skreen, Braiden’s Irish treasure, is displayed at the front of the room inside a custom-made bulletproof case. Velvet wedges support the ancient wooden boards that cover the hand-lettered pages. One example of the book’s ornate Celtic knotwork is projected on a huge screen. The gold-lined image is twelve hundred years old, but it looks like it could have been painted yesterday.
A buzz of excitement builds as Alix Key enters the room. She’s been conducting auctions at the freeport for a couple of years now, bringing in stunning results for our clients.
I smile as she comes to stand beside me, next to the display case. My role today is primarily moral support. I’ve already drafted the contract and the lengthy disclosure statements that will make the sale official. “Ready for showtime?” I ask her.
She glances at the clock on the wall. “We’ll keep them waiting an extra ten minutes. Build that last-minute excitement.”
“Just in case the Morgan Library changes its mind?”
She offers a rueful grin. “Not likely.”
In a perfect world, the Book of Skreen would cause a bidding frenzy between the world’s most prestigious collectors of illuminated manuscripts. New York’s Morgan Library is famous for a collection build in the nineteenth century. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Getty Center… Museums have built entire rooms around treasures like the Skreen .
But every one of Alix’s advances to public institutions was politely declined. Aside from the shockingly short timetable, museums and libraries are frightened off by the book’s sketchy background. Braiden can’t prove his property wasn’t removed legally from Ireland. There are no prior sales documents to show it wasn’t stolen.
But the room of speculators around us proves private collectors aren’t as concerned by legal uncertainty. Plenty of millionaires—and billionaires too—are willing to take a risk, just so they can claim ownership of one of the most beautiful books in the world.
Alix says, “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” I tell her. “You’re the best in the business.”
As she takes her place at the lectern, I head to the back of the room. Braiden sits in the last row, a look of impatience marring the effect of his perfectly tailored suit. “Ready?” I whisper, as I slide into the empty seat beside him.
“I just wish…” He trails off, making a fist of his right hand.
He just wishes he could bid on the book. Or that I could. Or Trap, or Alix, anyone he knows and trusts. But he’s known the rules all along. Once he consigned the Skreen for auction, he gave up all control.
And Braiden Kelly hates to lose control.
The crowd is getting anxious. I glance around the room, trying to figure out how many of them will actually bid.
Cole Wolf sits near us in the back. He collects Impressionist art; he bought the Monet that was on the block at Alix’s first auction. He won’t bid today; he’s not interested in manuscripts. Instead, he’s here for the pure sport of today’s contest.
Same with Connor Boyle. I’ve never seen him at a freeport auction. But maybe he came to Dover on other business, and the book is Irish, and the caterers are waiting with vintage champagne, so why not waste an hour or so watching other people spend their money?
Braiden shifts his weight, broadcasting frustration like a radio signal. I close my fingers over his fist and squeeze gently. We both sit a little straighter as Alix greets the crowd. She opens the bidding at an easy ten million dollars.
A woman in the third row raises her paddle. Marti Kingston is a relatively new freeport client; she joined us about two years ago after making a fortune leading a New York hedge fund. Now, in retirement, she spends her time decorating her seven homes. She must see the Skreen as a beautiful curiosity.
“Thank you for getting us started,” Alix says with an easy grace. “We’ve got ten million, do I hear ten one?”
A man wearing a long white robe and matching headdress gets in on the bidding. Mohammed Bakir has bought a dozen top-quality paintings at freeport auctions in the last year. He’s rumored to be building a museum in Saudi Arabia.
Alix acknowledges him with a nod. Bidding is brisk for nearly ten minutes, with eight potential buyers. Alix jumps the price steadily, easily clearing fifteen million. Eighteen. Twenty.
Four of the bidders drop out. Alix raises the price to twenty-three million dollars. Another bidder passes. Twenty-four. Twenty-four five.
As sometimes happens at these events, the final bidding is between the two who started. With the entire room watching, Kingston and Bakir alternate bids. Alix guides them up the ladder to twenty-six million dollars, to twenty-seven.
“Thirty million dollars,” comes a bid from the side of the room.
My heart seizes in my chest, even as Braiden half-rises out of his seat. Both of us recognize the voice. Antonio Russo is bidding on the Book of Skreen.
The crowd murmurs in thrilled surprise. No new bidder has raised a paddle for minutes. Kingston turns in her seat, an expression of annoyance on her Fifth Avenue features. Bakir merely sets his paddle in his lap, retiring the fight.
For the first time since taking the stand, Alix hesitates. But then she clears her throat and says, “The current bid is thirty million dollars. Do I hear thirty million, five hundred thousand?”
Kingston says, “Thirty million, five hundred.”
Russo counters. “Thirty-two million.”
Alix raises her eyebrows at the jump. Russo’s bid doesn’t make sense. Kingston might be at her limit. He might be able to get the book for less.
The bid doesn’t make sense for other reasons as well. To my knowledge, Antonio Russo has never expressed the slightest interest in art of any kind. I was in his home when I was a child, and I don’t remember paintings, much less astronomically expensive rare books.
Even if Russo has discovered a love of illuminated manuscripts, he surely doesn’t value Irish work. The man has built his entire illegal career on his Italian heritage.
There’s more at stake here, though. Because Russo might have become an art collector. And he might have a soft spot for Irish manuscripts, But there’s no way in hell that Antonio Russo would ever put a penny in Braiden Kelly’s pocket.
From the tight line of Braiden’s jaw, he’s come to the same conclusion. He climbs to his feet, as if he’s trying to get a better view of the proceedings. Of course, with his height and his broad shoulders, he looks intimidating as hell.
Marti Kingston goes to thirty-three.
Russo hesitates for just a moment. He reaches into his breast pocket, as if he’s checking to make sure he brought his wallet. But instead of taking out a billfold, he takes out something smaller. Something shiny. Something silver.
For one horrified second, I think it’s a weapon. But Russo has cleared extra security to get into today’s auction. He had to pass through a metal detector in the lobby.
His hand works the rectangle of metal like a fidget toy, passing it over his fingers and under, over again and into his palm. He seems unaware of what he’s doing, but that’s a lie, because Antonio Russo has never been unaware of his own behavior, not once in his life.
Alix stands at the front of the room. “The current bid is thirty-three million dollars. Thirty-three million dollars for the Book of Skreen. Do I hear?—”
“Forty million dollars,” Russo says.
As the crowd gasps in amazement, Russo leans back in his chair. He fiddles with the box in his hand. He glances over his shoulder, looking directly at Braiden. And he rolls his thumb over the edge of the box, sending a long finger of flame from the cigarette lighter he holds.