"What do you think of this?" he asked. "The gallery claims it's from his Paris period, but the colour palette feels earlier to me. Munich, perhaps."
A test.
I recognized it for what it was immediately. He wanted to know if I was as good as my reputation claimed. Wanted to see ifI could back up the expertise that had made him reach out in the first place.
And because it was about art—because it was the one thing I knew how to do, the one domain where my brain became an asset instead of a liability—I forgot to be terrified for a moment.
I stepped closer to the painting, my body moving without conscious permission, drawn into the work the way I always was when something interesting presented itself. The anxiety receded to background noise. The fluorescent lights stopped pressing down quite so hard.
"You're right," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. "The blues are wrong for Paris."
I leaned in, examining the brushwork. The layering technique. The way the pigments sat against each other.
"He developed a different relationship with blue after the move. Softer, more translucent. These blues are still aggressive—see how they push against the yellows instead of harmonizing? That's his Munich sensibility. Kandinsky didn't learn to trust color until later."
I pointed to the lower third of the composition, careful not to touch the canvas.
"And the composition. See how the tension sits here, in this corner? He abandoned that structural approach after 1914. The Russian years changed him, made him think more about balance than conflict."
I straightened, turning back to face him.
"This is 1912, maybe 1913. The gallery's paperwork is either wrong or deliberately misleading."
He was smiling.
Not a polite smile, not a professional expression of acknowledgment. An actual smile—a slight curve of his mouth that did devastating things to his already-devastating face. His eyes had warmed with something that looked like genuinepleasure, and the flutter in my chest intensified into something that felt dangerously like want.
"Impressive," he said. The word seemed inadequate for what his expression was conveying. "You identified the problem faster than the gallery's own expert, and he's been studying Kandinsky for thirty years."
"It's what I do."
The words came out more defensive than I'd intended. I didn't know how to receive compliments from beautiful men who looked at me like I'd just performed a magic trick.
"Yes," he said. "I can see that."
He was still watching me with that unsettling intensity, and I had the sudden, irrational feeling that this was only the beginning of the test. That the Kandinsky had been just the warm-up, and the real examination was still coming.
"Shall we sit?" He gestured toward a pair of leather chairs arranged near the windows. "I'd like to explain what I'm looking for, and you can decide whether it's something you're willing to take on."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
As I walked toward the chairs, I was acutely aware of him moving beside me. The subtle scent of his cologne—warm, woodsy, expensive without being overwhelming. The way his presence seemed to occupy space, claiming territory without aggression.
My skin prickled with awareness.
I was in so much trouble.
"I'm tracking someone," he said. His voice was measured, each word chosen with care. "Someone dangerous. Someone who's using the art world to move money through galleries and auction houses and what I'll politely call 'charitable foundations' that exist only on paper."
He didn't name names. Didn't explain exactly what "dangerous" meant or how he was connected to it. But I'd spent ten years in the art world, authenticating works that passed through the hands of collectors who didn't want to explain where their money came from. I could read between the lines.
Organized crime. The kind of shadowy underworld I'd always sensed lurking at the edges of high-end art dealing, where provenance got creative and questions weren't welcome. The kind of world where paintings became pipelines and authenticity was just another fiction to be manufactured.
"The man I'm tracking is using a particular pattern," Maksim continued. "He acquires works through legitimate channels—auction houses, established galleries—using shell companies layered deep enough to obscure his ownership. The purchases look clean. The provenance checks out. But I believe he's specifically choosing works that allow for creative valuation."
Creative valuation. A polite term for fraud.
"He buys a painting valued at two million," I said slowly, working through the logic. "Then later claims it's worth ten million, based on questionable authentication and conveniently discovered provenance. The difference between purchase price and claimed value becomes legitimate-looking profit."
