“He’s here.”
Cameras flashed. A murmur rippled through the crowd. He caught sight of a pale, fat man with close-cropped white hair. Boris Blatt was dressed in a black suit and open-collar shirt, his eyes focused on the ground ahead of him.
“Let’s go, then.” Simon took Lucy’s hand and pushed through the crowd. He needed proximity to his target. Once everyone was seated, his window of opportunity would be gone.
“You can’t be serious,” protested Lucy, getting her first look at Blatt’s bodyguards. “They’re big as mountains.”
“Don’t think I can take care of myself?”
“They’ll snap you like a twig.”
“Probably right,” he said. “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Thank God,” said Lucy, relaxing. “Can we go, then?”
“What about that case of bubbly?”
“I’m happy with a pint at the Dog and Duck.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Lucy nodded emphatically.
By now, Blatt was standing next to Lot 31, conversing with a slim blond man dressed immaculately in a dove-gray suit. The man was Alastair Quince, the evening’s auctioneer and Sotheby’s chief automotive expert.
“Let’s take a closer look,” said Simon.
“At Blatt?”
Simon smiled easily. “Forget Blatt. I mean the Ferrari. Might be the only chance we get to see one in person.” It was a lie, but he needed Lucy relaxed. She had little experience in this line of work. It was essential she appear calm and at ease.
“Must we?” she asked, resisting the pull of his hand.
“We must,” said Simon.
Blatt’s arrival had drawn a crowd to the Ferrari, with more people arriving every moment. Simon maneuvered through the cluster of guests until he was standing behind Blatt’s bodyguards. He formed a space for Lucy to join him, then tapped one on the shoulder. “Do you mind? The lady would like to take a closer look.”
The bodyguard glared at Simon before catching a glance of Lucy. Simon squeezed her hand. As instructed, she smiled at him. The bodyguard’s eyes widened and he rushed to clear a space for her. Simon followed close behind. Like that, he was standing next to Boris Blatt.
“But, Mr. Quince, we must fix your commission,” Blatt was complaining heatedly to the auctioneer. “The seller is already paying you too much.”
“Not if I do my job well,” said Alastair Quince, shining and dapper and much too polished.
“Exactly my point,” said Blatt. “To charge me another five percent on top…it is an insult.”
Unconsciously, Simon tightened his fist into a ball and ran his thumb across the knuckles. In all manner of robbery, speed was essential. In pickpocketing, it was more than that. He had come to attempt something far more difficult than lifting a wallet.
“Alastair. Good to see you.”
“Oh, Simon, hello. You here about this beauty?” Quince leaned forward to shake Simon’s hand. The two knew each other in passing. A car restored by Simon’s shop had sold for a handsome price. Still, it was apparent Quince wasn’t pleased to be interrupted. “For a client, perhaps?”
“’Fraid not. Just wanted to take a closer look. I’ll leave it for Mr. Blatt. Won’t you introduce us?”
Quince forced a smile. “Boris Blatt. This is Simon Riske. He owns a small operation restoring Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Top quality workmanship.”
Simon had his business card ready. “Not that this one needs any work,” he said, then leaned closer to the car. “Though the paint on the hood appears a little spotty.”
Ferraris in their original factory condition had a nasty reputation for shoddy paintwork. The men who’d designed and manufactured the cars in the 1960s had been concerned with speed and handling. Things like chassis fitting and paint had been of secondary importance.
“Really?” said Blatt, with more than a hint of outrage.
“Absolutely not,” retorted Quince, his cheeks alarmingly flushed. “Mr. Blatt, I promise you…”
Blatt pushed past Simon to study the bodywork. For a second—less, even—shoulder brushed shoulder, arm brushed arm.
“No, no,” said Simon, joining Blatt to look closely at the Ferrari. “I was mistaken. I apologize.”
“You’re certain?” asked Blatt. “Mr.—”
“Riske. And yes. I’m positive. A trick of the light.” Simon threw the auctioneer a look. “Mr. Quince would never let a car get by with a run in the paint.”
“I most certainly would not.”
The public address announced that the auction would start in five minutes. The crowd around the Ferrari began to thin.
“Good luck, then,” said Simon, leaning closer, putting his hand on Blatt’s arm. “She’s a beauty,” he whispered, and Blatt leaned even closer. “But not a penny over twenty million.”
Blatt stepped back and studied the business card. “American? Where from?”
“New York.”
“I have friends there.”
“Is that so?” Simon was quite sure he was acquainted with one or two.
“Maybe I call you,” said Blatt, slipping the card into his jacket.
“Any time.” Simon turned to leave and found himself staring at the chest of one of the bodyguards. “Do you mind?” he asked roughly, speaking a Muscovite’s Russian.
Blatt uttered a command and the bodyguard moved aside.
Simon put his hand on the base of Lucy’s spine. “Shall we?” he whispered, giving her a little shove.
“You speak Russian?” she asked.
“Just go.”
Keeping the smile in his eyes, he steered Lucy away from Lot 31 and Boris Blatt. The light jazz piped in to foster a festive, sophisticated environment stopped playing. Guests headed toward the stage like a tide rushing back into the ocean. The mood shifted palpably. The time for small talk was past. A pall of nervous expectation filled the hall. Bidding on collectible automobiles was a serious business.
Simon carved a path toward the exit. It was a rule to put as much distance as possible between the mark and yourself. Should for any reason he be stopped and searched, he was in possession of stolen merchandise. Until he was clear of the building and had delivered the take to its rightful owner, he was a thief, and punishable as such.
Reaching the main doors, Simon stood aside as a last-minute rush of guests forced their way past. At that moment he saw Blatt take a seat in the front row, extend his left arm, and check the time.
“Leaving already? Mr. Riske, isn’t it?” A hand touched his shoulder. Simon turned to see a member of the Sotheby’s staff. Behind him stood a pair of security guards.
“We’re not feeling well.”
Lucy clutched her stomach. “Too much champagne, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry,” said the man from Sotheby’s.
Simon had his eyes on Blatt, watching the Russian stand and gesture violently to a bodyguard, who rushed over. Words were exchanged.
“Dammit,” whispered Simon, under his breath. “He noticed.”
The bodyguard began to walk up the aisle. Toward Simon.
“What is it?” asked Lucy. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
Simon didn’t respond. The bodyguard was jogging now, his cheeks red. He raised a hand, signaling to him. Lucy turned and spotted the man approaching. “Simon,” she said worriedly. “He’s looking at you.”
“Is he?”
The bodyguard came nearer, the crowd making room for him. He looked directly at Simon, then looked away and continued on another few steps, intercepting a server holding a tray of champagne. Hurriedly, he grabbed two flutes and returned to Blatt.
“Ready to go?” asked Simon as his heart recommenced beating. “I think we’re done here.”
A moment later, they were outside, cutting across the lawn to the parking lot.
“Did you get it?” asked Lucy.
“Keep walking,” said Simon.
“But there were so many people.”
“Exactly.”
“But he didn’t even—”
“Exactly.”
“And you put the other one back on his wrist? How?”