“WILL Mr. Spenser require anything else?” the waiter asked.
Spenser stared for a moment at the remains of his meal and said, “No, I think that will be all.”
The waiter nodded, removed the plates, then took a brush from his apron and whisked up the few crumbs on the table. Then he silently retreated. No bill was presented, no money changed hands. The cost of the breakfast and the gratuity would appear on the room charge, which Spenser would never see.
In the far corner of the dining room, Michael Talbot stared toward Spenser. Talbot, an art dealer from San Francisco, had crossed paths with Spenser before. Three times in the last year the stodgy Britisher had outbid Talbot’s clients, for Spenser’s own clients seemed to have unlimited resources.
Talbot could only hope today would be different.
Spenser was dressed in a gray suit over a sweater vest, a blue polka-dot bow tie around his neck. His black laceup leather shoes were highly polished, as were his fingernails, and his neatly styled short hair was flecked with gray, as befitted his age, which Talbot estimated at close to sixty years.
Once, when Talbot had been in London on business, he’d tried to visit Spenser’s shop. There was no telephone number available, the small stone building had had no name outside, and aside from an unobtrusive video camera above the buzzer, it could have been suspended in time from a hundred years before. Talbot had pushed the buzzer twice, but no one had answered.
Spenser sensed Talbot staring his way but only glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Of the other seven men Spenser had determined had an interest in the artifact he’d come to purchase, the American would probably bid the highest. Talbot’s buyer was a Silicon Valley software billionaire with a penchant for Asian art and argumentation. The billionaire’s belligerency could only help Spenser. The man’s ego might take him beyond his set price, but as the competition stiffened, he traditionally became angry and dropped out. The new rich are so predictable, Spenser thought. He rose to return to his room. The auction was not until 1 P.M.
“LOT thirty-seven,” the auctioneer said with reverence, “the Golden Buddha.”
A large mahogany crate was wheeled onto the podium and the auctioneer reached for the clasp holding the door closed.
The audience of bidders was small. This was a highly secret auction and the invitations had only gone out to the select few who could afford to pay for art masterworks with somewhat shady histories.
Spenser had yet to bid on anything. Lot twenty-one, a Degas bronze that he knew had been stolen out of a museum twelve years ago, had appealed to him, but the bidding had gone higher than his South American client had authorized him to pay. More and more, Spenser was weaning himself away from clients on a budget, even if the stop price ran into the millions. The auction today was the first step in his plan for retirement. The auctioneer opened the door to the crate at the same time that Spenser pushed a button on the miniaturized satellite telephone in his vest pocket. He spoke into the tiny microphone clasped to his lapel.
“Please tell your employer they have the object on display,” he said to an aide thousands of miles away.
“He asks if it is everything you’d hoped,” the aide asked.
Spenser stared at the massive gold statue as a hush fell over the crowd.
“Everything and more,” Spenser said quietly.
A few seconds passed as the aide relayed the information. He said, “At all costs.”
“It will be an honor,” Spenser said as he thought back on the history.
THE Golden Buddha dated from 1288, when the rulers of what would later become Vietnam commissioned the work to celebrate their victory over the forces of Kublai Khan. Five hundred and ninety-six pounds of solid gold mined in Laos had been formed into a six-foot likeness of the Enlightened One. Chunks of jade from Siam had formed the eyes, while a ring of Burmese rubies wound around the neck. Buddha’s potbelly had been outlined in sapphires from Thailand and his belly button was a large rounded opal that glowed iridescently. The icon had been given as a gift to the first Dalai Lama in the year 1372.
For 587 years, the Golden Buddha had remained in a monastery in Tibet and then accompanied the Dalai Lama into exile. While being transported with the Dalai Lama on a trip to the United States for display, however, it had disappeared from the airport in Manila.
President Ferdinand Marcos had always been the prime suspect. Since then, the ownership had always remained cloudy, until suddenly it had mysteriously reappeared for the auction. The seller’s identity would remain an enigma.
While it was almost impossible to place a value on such a rare artifact, that was exactly what was about to happen. The preauction estimates had conservatively placed the value at between $100 million and $120 million.
“WE will start the bidding at fifty million U.S. dollars,” the auctioneer said.
A low starting point, Spenser thought. The gold alone was worth twice that. It was the history, not the beauty, that made it a priceless piece of art. Must be the weak world economic climate, Spenser concluded.
“We have fifty million,” the auctioneer said, “now sixty.”
Talbot raised his paddle as the bid hit eighty.
“Eighty, now ninety,” the auctioneer said in a monotone.
Spenser glanced across the room at Talbot. Typical American, ear on a satellite telephone, paddle in his hand, as if he were worried the auctioneer would miss his signal.
“Ninety, now a hundred,” the auctioneer droned.
The hundred bid was from a South African dealer Spenser knew. The dealer’s patron had made his fortune in diamonds. Spenser admired the woman—they’d shared a glass of sherry more than once—but he also knew her patron’s habits. When the value exceeded what he felt he could sell it for later, he’d drop out. The man loved art, but he only bought at his price and if he could someday make a profit.
One hundred ten million came from the rear of the room. Spenser turned to stare at the bidder. The man’s age was hard to determine, but if Spenser had to hazard a guess, he’d pick the low side of sixty, based primarily on the bidder’s flowing gray hair and beard. Two things were odd, though. Spenser knew practically everyone in the room at least by sight or reputation, but this man was an unknown. And he seemed totally unconcerned, as if he were bidding on a weekend trip to a spa at a local charity auction instead of tendering a bid in the amount of a small country’s yearly budget. The man was obviously qualified—the auction company would have made sure of that—but who was he?
One hundred twenty from a German pharmaceutical magnate.
“One twenty, now one thirty.”
Talbot again, waving his paddle like a landing semaphore.
The bidding began to stall at $140 million, bid again by the gray-haired man. Spenser turned again and felt a touch of apprehension. The man was staring directly into his eyes. Then the man winked. A chill ran down Spenser’s spine.
He turned to the side, where he could see Talbot talking animatedly into his telephone. He could sense then that the Silicon Valley billionaire was flagging.
“Tell him,” Spenser whispered in his phone, “it’s slowed at one fifty, with maybe one more bid still forthcoming.”
“He wants to know if you’ve bid yet.”
“No,” Spenser said, “but they know I’m here.”
Spenser had bought from the auctioneer many times; the man had been watching him like a hawk. Any smile, flinch or gesture of his would be taken as a bid.
“He asks that you bid two hundred,” the aide relayed, “and blow them out.”
“Acknowledged,” Spenser said.
Then in almost slow motion, he placed two spread apart fingers to his lips.
“The bid is two hundred million,” the auctioneer said emotionlessly.