“Alas,” said Gruber, “when one spends so much money on an item, one often likes others to share in his victory. It’s the odd man, indeed, who buys such a masterwork only for the pleasure it affords him.”
Blatt shifted uncomfortably. He was certain Gruber had read about his having bought the Ferrari at Sotheby’s two nights earlier. The tabloids in London had pasted his face on the cover with the headline FERRAR-$KI and indicated in no uncertain terms that he had overpaid for the automobile. The American he’d met at the auction—Riske—had cautioned him not to go above twenty million, but once bidding began, Blatt made the decision the car would be his no matter what the price. And so when the bidding reached twenty-five million dollars, there he was with his hand in the air.
He was still smarting from the deduction to his bank account.
Worse, only yesterday he’d been forced to settle an outstanding invoice from a persistent contractor who’d built the underground Olympic-sized swimming pool beneath his new home in Highgate. He was hemorrhaging money. The watch would cover the cost of the pool, with a bit left over to purchase Bianca a small bijou. There was nothing like a large rock to stoke a woman’s performance in the bedroom.
“How much?”
“I can offer one million,” said Gruber.
“Euros?”
“Dollars.”
“Two million,” said Blatt. “And euros.”
“One and a half,” countered Gruber. “Dollars. And that is final.”
“That’s robbery.”
Gruber set the watch on the tray and pushed it toward Blatt. “If you say so.”
The Russian shot from his chair, taking Bianca by the hand. “I’ll be back in an hour. Have a cashier’s check ready.”
Outside, Blatt spent a moment taking deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. He felt as if he’d been physically violated, raped even. At any other time he would have snatched his watch off the tray and stormed out of the building.
One million five.
The nerve.
Should anyone discover he’d accepted forty cents on the dollar, his reputation would be in shreds. In Moscow, in his salad days, he might have shot the man then and there. At least he could trust Gruber to keep quiet on the matter. Or could he?
Blatt dined with Bianca at the Kronenhalle, allowing himself an extra glass of Dole and a helping of the restaurant’s excellent chocolate mousse to salve his wounds. By the time they left, he’d almost convinced himself that he wasn’t being taken advantage of.
He returned an hour later.
Gruber was waiting in the showroom. Two men sat in the corner, both young, steel-eyed, pistols bulging beneath their jackets.
“What’s this, then?” asked Blatt.
“There is a problem,” said Gruber.
“At the bank?”
“With your watch. It is a counterfeit.”
Blatt regarded Gruber with bewilderment. His men had stolen the watch from the most reputable jeweler in Golders Green, who had been selling it on behalf of a client. There was no question but that it was authentic. “Impossible,” he blurted. “I got it from…” He closed his mouth.
Gruber brought out the baize tray and Blatt observed that the watch had been disassembled. “The case is platinum,” said the Swiss. “That I will grant you, but it was not manufactured by Patek Philippe.”
“By who, then?”
Gruber wedged a loupe in his eye and read the markings from the interior of the case. “The Ming Fung Watch Company, Hong Kong.” He handed Blatt the loupe and the case.
“Holy hell,” said Blatt.
“Quite good, granted, but hardly Swiss.”
