Christopher set the portfolio on the restorer’s cluttered desk. “Have a look.”
Bandini unzipped the black leather case and pulled out the small package. It was the size of a coffee-table book, wrapped in a sack of dark brown velvet. He reached in and pulled the framed canvas out and held it in both hands, studying it with pursed lips.
Christopher suppressed a smile as he watched the man’s eyebrows rise and heard him let out an admiring whistle.
“Provenance?”
“Blue-chip,” Christopher replied confidently. “Private seller. I’ve got all the relevant paperwork.”
“Ah,” Bandini observed curiously, “so whoever buys this can actually hang it in his living room.”
Christopher smiled. Most of what he brought to Bandini were works he’d “borrowed” from the museum’s collection. He’d chosen ones that wouldn’t be missed or replaced the ones that might be with forged copies created by Bandini’s own craftsmen. The Botticelli was different. “They can hang it on their front porch for all I care. As long as they pay enough for the pleasure.”
“What do you think that pleasure’s worth?” the restorer asked.
“It’s a great piece, and it’s unquestionably from the master’s own hand, not from some acolyte in his studio-as I’m sure you can see.”
The man frowned. “Don’t sell me, Christopher. I know what it is.”
The curator shrugged. “Three is easily fair, I think. Might get more at auction. But given the circumstances and in the interest of getting it done quickly, I’ll take two-eight for it.”
Christopher studied the restorer’s face, gauging any microreactions that rippled across his features, looking for confirmation that he’d pitched it at the right price but not really expecting to get it. As expected, the restorer didn’t even bat an eyelid. They’d both done this many times before, and like consummate poker players, they both knew how the game was played.
Bandini stayed silent, his face locked in concentration.
“Doable?” Christopher pressed, his mind processing the cut he’d be getting. “Anything above two point five is yours,” Porter had said. At $2.8 million, Christopher stood to clear $300,000. Tax free.
Not bad for an afternoon’s work.
The restorer pondered the question for a moment, his gaze not moving off the painting he was still studying, then his face relaxed. “Possibly. Actually, more than possible. Probable. I think I have the perfect buyer for it.” Bandini grinned at the curator. “A gentleman from the home country.”
“Botticelli would be pleased.”
The restorer set the painting back down onto the portfolio. “I’ll call him tonight.” His expression turned curious. “So you’re in a bit of a rush to get this done. Any reason I should know about?”
“It’s not me. It’s my seller. He’s got time issues.”
“Ah.”
“So… you seem reasonably confident you can get this done, right?”
“I think so,” Bandini said, his tone now noticeably drier.
“So you wouldn’t mind giving me an advance?”
The restorer’s face curdled. “I thought you weren’t in a rush to get paid.”
“I’m not, but…” Christopher hesitated, brushing the man’s question away while feeling droplets of sweat popping out across his forehead. “You know how it is-”
“Are you having money problems, Christopher?” Bandini asked, dead flat, and eyed Christopher’s bandaged finger.
Christopher slid his hand behind his back. “No, I told you, I’m not,” the curator shot back, slightly too strongly, he thought, a second too late. He dredged up a carefree smile. “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? I just thought that since we both know you won’t have too much trouble offloading it, a small advance wouldn’t be an issue.”
The restorer studied Christopher quietly for a moment. “I don’t do advances, my friend. You should know better than to ask. And you know why I don’t do advances?”
Christopher felt his temples heat up. “Why?”
“Because people who need advances have money problems. And people with money problems tend to get desperate, and when people get desperate, they get careless. And that worries me. It worries me a lot.” Bandini’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve done a lot of business together over the years, Christopher. Should I start worrying about you?”
“No, no, no,” the curator insisted. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s fine. Pay me when you sell it, it’s not a problem. All right?” Christopher flashed a radiant, magnetic smile that had played no small role in getting him what he’d wanted throughout his life.
The restorer studied him coldly for a long beat, then his face relaxed as if the strings pulling it taut had snapped. “Of course,” he said, patting Christopher on the shoulder. “It shouldn’t take long. Now, how about that shot of grappa?”
Bandini was deep in thought as he made his way back into his office after seeing Christopher Thomas out.
The painting was good, there was no doubt about it. He knew he’d be able to get more than $3 million for it. He might even orchestrate a mini bidding war for it, he mused. A Botticelli of that quality didn’t come up for sale too often. But something else was worrying him.
The curator. He seemed edgier than normal. Bandini could sense it. And edginess, he knew, was a reliable harbinger of trouble ahead. Trouble that was best avoided-or eliminated.
He called his two favored clients, one after the other, describing the work to them and arranging to drive it around and show it to them in the morning. Then he made another call, this one to a man who was definitely not a client and who wouldn’t know a Botticelli canvas from a Banksy print.
“I need you to keep an eye on someone for me,” he told the man. “My… supplier. You know the one I mean.”
“How close?” the man asked.
“Microscopic,” Bandini replied, before filling him in on what he was worried about.
On the way back to his office, Christopher Thomas was buzzing with nervous energy. He tried to focus on the positives. Bandini hadn’t flinched at the price he was asking. Christopher was pretty certain that the restorer would deliver, and soon. He usually did. But the man had also spooked him with his insistent questioning and his probing stare. Bandini, he knew, was no softie. He may have been supremely talented as a craftsman and as a forger, but he was also as tough as nails and worryingly unforgiving. Christopher had witnessed that firsthand.
The museum’s offices were mostly empty now, with only a few of his staff still around, notably those dealing with the Far East and working around the daunting time difference. He stepped into his sanctum and crossed to the small array of bottles sitting on a gleaming art deco tray, where he poured three fingers of Tyrconnell single malt into a fat crystal tumbler. He raised the glass and watched the light dance across the amber nectar within its chiseled edges, then brought it up to his lips, the spicy bouquet of vanilla and oak tickling his nostrils before the liquid slid down his throat-then he heard her voice. In his office, coming from behind him, by the door.
“Where’d you go? I saw you walk out with a portfolio.”
He turned. Justine was standing there.
Uninvited.
“Most people knock,” he said as he turned away, then took another sip of whiskey. “No, actually, scratch that. Not most people. All people. Everybody.”
He heard the door click shut, then she said, “Most people wouldn’t help you smuggle a small fifteenth-century masterpiece past customs either, would they?”
He turned again, in time to see a small, self-satisfied grin spread across her pretty face.
“Actually, scratch that. No one would. So I guess that buys me some dispensation from the protocol, don’t you think?”
He exhaled slowly, then said, “What do you want, Justine?”