The painting serves as nothing more than a vehicle for moving money. Nicholas complicated that transaction by adding the anthrax.
But why?
The seller must have commissioned the theft ofDr. Gachetand the procurement of the anthrax. They combined the two, turning the painting into a mule for the bioweapon.
The buyers intend to exchange cash for the painting and obtain the anthrax. I have no idea what the market value of weaponized anthrax might be, but the numbers don't add up.
Whoever buys the painting will be able to sell it for nearly as much as they paid, perhaps more. The puzzle nags at me.
I've yet to place a bid, but I'm tracking those in the crowd who are actively bidding. Urakov screws with the whole process. He's too obvious and too eager. His attempts to outbid his competitors unnecessarily raise the price.
I scan the room again, looking for Vivianne. Someone here works for the terrorist cell Interpol is trying to take down, and I can't let my distraction undermine that goal.
Is Interpol even aware of the bioweapons exchange?
There was no mention of it in my talks with Agent Radcliffe. It was always about tracing the flow of money, identifying the buyer, and tracking them down. I'm not even tasked with securingDr. Gachet.
The Americans and Interpol have more critical concerns than whether a painting goes missing. Their intelligence never mentioned a transaction of weapons-grade anthrax. Either they don't trust me with that information, or they don't have a clue.
Urakov's frantic bidding skyrockets the price until the bid frequency drops. Still no Vivianne.
Unlike those I'm working with, I want that painting. I'll let Urakov confiscate the anthrax and return it to his homeland, but the painting belongs to me.
As for the buyers?
There are only three men actively left in the bidding war.
Within seconds of placing my bid, someone outbids me. It isn't Urakov. The Russian shifts on the balls of his feet and rubs the back of his neck. Perhaps his countrymen's pockets aren't as deep as he thought, which works in my favor.
The price climbs, and one of the three men drops out of the bidding, leaving me in competition with two others. I take another look around, making certain I'm not missing someone.
As the price edges past twenty million, another bidder bows out, leaving me going head-to-head with Bald Willy.
Why would William Teniford IV be mixed in with terrorists?
The price climbs, and Bald Willy grows nervous. My bid stands, but another is placed before the announcer pronounces it sold—not by Bald Willy and not by either of the other men.
What the hell?
I scan the room and nearly miss placing my next bid. Annabelle LaCroix, the woman who spoke with Vivianne. In her tight-fisted grip, she swipes the screen—the bid price changes.
I respond, placing my bid, and track her thumb. Unlike me, she isn't paying attention to the crowd. She focuses on the painting and the screen behind it, signaling the current bid price.
She swipes again, and the price ticks upward. I place an answering bid.
We play the game for a time, inching the bid out of the twenties and into the thirty-million range. Merlin would raise a brow, but I'm not concerned. After all, we have the painting's twin squirreled away in the cave.
The arrogant Japanese businessman, who spent more than eighty-two million, thinks to keep it hidden, crated, and stored in a warehouse in Japan, but he owns nothing more than another Starling masterpiece.
The version I bid on now isn't worth thirty million, but the pair will bring in well over a hundred million as a set.
The woman twists toward her date, leaning close to confer in a hurried whisper. Too far to hear, and I can't read her lips, but I can guess.
Like Urakov, they are reaching the limits of their funds.
My bid sits on the screen. The auctioneer raps the gavel.
Once.
