Dragon Bones (31 page)

AT SIX, DAVID DRESSED IN HIS NEW SUIT, GRABBED THE CATALOG
, and walked the few blocks to the Ritz-Carlton. The storm was about to hit Hong Kong, and the wind was furious, but this hadn’t deterred a group of demonstrators from parading outside the Ritz with plastic-wrapped placards in English and Chinese that read,
DON’T SELL OUR HERITAGE, OUR HERITAGE BELONGS IN CHINA
, and
RETURN OUR HERITAGE TO THE MOTHERLAND.
David was here to see if he couldn’t help some of those slogans come true. As Fitzwilliams had said, there wasn’t time today to stop the auction through legal means, but tonight David could watch where the pieces that matched Ma’s descriptions went and on Monday begin litigation against their new owners if the Cultural Relics Bureau wanted him to.

He pushed through the revolving doors and into an immense air-conditioned lobby scented by bouquets of lilies and tuberoses. He rode the elevator upstairs with Daisy Ting, a Red Princess from Beijing. David had been at her daughter’s wedding last year—a lavish affair at the Palace Hotel. As soon as he got off the elevator, he recognized another couple of people from Beijing, including Nixon Chen, Hulan’s old lawyer friend who’d vouched for David’s abilities to Director Ho.

“Are you here on business or pleasure?” Nixon asked after they’d shaken hands. “We all know that your dear wife has one of the best art collections in the capital.” It was Nixon all over—florid, unctuous, but fully aware of what he was doing. Soon he’d be hauling out the American metaphors that he loved so well but usually mangled.

“Those are Liu family pieces,” Daisy Ting corrected, sidling into the conversation. “Everyone knows that Hulan’s mother’s family had some of the most beautiful artworks in the country.”

“
Had
is right. Those things were destroyed or confiscated,” David said.

“In the Ting family too.”

“And even in my family,” added Nixon, “which is why I’m here.” He angled in close to David. “If I may ask, what are you bidding on tonight?”

“Nothing,” David answered. “I’m here for the Cultural Relics Bureau.”

“Of course! Now we’ll learn nothing! Attorney-client privilege! Attorney Stark always plays his cards close to his vest, just like you, Daisy. I know you have your eye on those Song Dynasty ceramics.”

“And you, dear Nixon, on the snuff bottles,” Daisy bandied back. “No one tonight has a chance against you.”

“You rank me too high,” Nixon said modestly.

“Tell me who here today does not already know the strength of your paddle?”

Nixon burbled happily at the subtle innuendo, then he and Daisy drifted off. A young woman approached and in an efficient though extremely polite succession of questions determined David’s needs. Since he already had his catalog, he wouldn’t need to check in unless he wanted to bid. If he wanted to bid and didn’t already have a Cosgrove’s account, he’d need to make financial arrangements based on how much he might spend this evening. That this was Saturday night wouldn’t be a problem as long as Mr. Stark could provide his banker’s home phone number. None of this was necessary if he wanted to pay in cash. When David said that he didn’t think he’d be bidding, the young woman said that he should go into the ballroom then and enjoy the last few minutes of the preview.

Just inside the ballroom, a staff of uniformed men stood at the ready with flutes of champagne on silver trays. The paintings David had seen in the catalog hung on the walls. The other artworks stood on risers around the perimeter of the room. Folding chairs lacquered a glossy deep forest green filled the middle. A center aisle through the chairs led straight to a podium that had been set up on a platform at the front of the room. Two huge screens flanked this. To the right were lined long tables with computers and other electronic equipment, while on the left another elevated platform provided space for a table thirty feet long with fifteen chairs set behind it. On top of the table were telephones, pads of paper, pitchers of water, and glasses, all set just so.

Most of the hundred or so people here mingled around the risers, turning the objects this way and that to admire the detail, check for artist marks, and look for imperfections. None of the pieces was behind glass, and the number of security guards seemed paltry given the value of the objects and the fact that people could handle them so freely.

Once David figured out the numbering system for the lots, he made his way to the display area for the three
ruyi
s. They lay side by side and were as different from each other as could be, although they all followed the same scepterlike design that Ma had drawn in the dirt the day before yesterday. The first was composed of turquoise cloisonné with an interlocking lotus design in red, yellow, and white. The catalog said it was from the sixteenth century and listed the estimated price between fifty thousand and seventy thousand Hong Kong dollars.

The second
ruyi,
dating from the late Qing Dynasty, was far less colorful but no less ornate. An elaborate rendering of the Eight Immortals had been carved into the jadeite shaft and head. Although this
ruyi
came with its own carrying case, the estimate was a meager HK$1,500 to HK$2,000.

The third
ruyi
was completely different, yet immediately recognizable from Ma’s description. It looked like a dried mushroom on a stick. The estimated price was HK$22,500 to HK$38,000, or $3,000 to $5,000 U.S. David felt like a bumbling philistine: He didn’t know a lot about art, but he knew what he liked. And he just didn’t see how any of these
ruyi
s could be so valuable or what anyone would do with them if they owned them.

“David Stark.”

David turned at the sound of the familiar voice and saw Stuart Miller dressed in an elegant suit of beige linen. A middle-aged woman in a skintight
cheongsam
hung on his arm.

“I thought you were at the dam,” David said.

“I was.”

“I thought you were supposed to stay in China.”

“In case you haven’t heard, Hong Kong was returned to China,” Stuart said lightly.

“Does Inspector Liu know?”

Stuart grinned as if his hand had been caught in the proverbial cookie jar. “Your wife….” He let out a low whistle. “We had a nice chat this morning, but my hat’s off to you, buddy. She’s tough.”

“Which doesn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t tell her my plans. There’s nothing to worry about, though. I have my project to finish. I’ll be back.”

“Is everything okay up there? I heard a report on the weather.”

“Yeah, it’s a bitch. I took back roads down to Wuhan, then took a commercial flight. Same as you, I’ll bet.” Stuart smiled disarmingly, then gestured to the woman at his side. “Have you met Madame Wang? How would you like to be introduced, dear? Shall I say you’re the absentee owner of the Panda Guesthouse?”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Madame Wang answered.

A waiter appeared and silently refilled their glasses with Mumm’s. As soon as he’d stepped away, Stuart said, “I’m here for a few days. Why don’t you come up for breakfast tomorrow morning?” Then he made quite a show of offering his card to David in the Hong Kong manner, cupping it in both hands in presentation and bowing slightly. Stuart then returned to scrutinizing the competition. “David, have you been to an auction like this before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Bidding?” Stuart asked with feigned disinterest.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Then you’re in for quite an experience. An auction like this is full of drama. Those two men by the bronzes are dealers from New York. Even though each believes himself to be specialized, there’s a lot of overlap in what they buy. So right now they’re negotiating over who’s going to bid on what. They’re competitors but they’re also businessmen, and there’s no need to drive up the price unnecessarily.”

“Sounds like price fixing.”

“Except that price fixing is against house rules.” Though Stuart spoke graciously, his eyes still surveyed the room. “No, we certainly don’t want to call it that, especially not after the Sotheby’s and Christie’s price-fixing fiasco. Of course that was between the houses themselves over sellers’ commissions, and not between buyers. But if the auction houses can call it friendly conversation, so can the dealers and collectors. This is high-stakes poker. Right now Cosgrove’s is shuffling the deck, and we, the players, are rolling up our sleeves and checking out who our opponents are and how high they’ll bid.”

This explained Nixon’s jocular inquiries, though even David—an absolute neophyte to the proceedings—could see that Hulan’s old friend was not a poker player of Stuart’s caliber.

David asked, “How many of these people do you know?”

“Tonight, in this room? Almost everyone, including Nixon Chen and Daisy Ting. We saw you talking to them earlier.”

“Nixon Chen and his snuff bottles.” Madame Wang sniffed dismissively. “But I saw Daisy examining the two Song
dingyao
s. They’re both fine pieces, but did you see the chip on the rim of the one with the ducks and lotus pattern?” When David shook his head, the woman appraised him with steely determination. “Which one will she be bidding on?”

“I don’t know,” David answered honestly.

“Dear, let the poor man alone. Here, why don’t you go and take another look? Don’t worry about what the others do. You can bid as you please.”

“Of course, of course.” Madame Wang languidly glided away.

“Once you get up into these prices,” Stuart continued, his eyes admiring Madame Wang’s figure as she insinuated herself into another knot of Hong Kong’s elite, “Asian art is a very small world, made up of collectors, dealers, and executive directors from museums. They all have their own reasons for buying, their own strategies, their own customers. See that woman over there? She’s from a museum in Singapore. The museum’s endowment is tremendous, and you could say that for her the sky’s the limit in terms of bidding, until you consider the new dot-commers out of the Silicon Valley. She’s probably trying to figure out if they were hit by the downturn. What she doesn’t know—and neither do I—is who’s going to phone in bids, who’s placed absentee bids, or who has someone in the room that none of us knows who’ll be bidding for him or her.”

“And the dealers?”

“They’re unique creatures unto themselves. For many of them it’s not about the art; it’s about the end sale. They’re buying on margin and hoping to turn over a piece within the ten days before the final funds are due at Cosgrove’s, making a quick twenty or so percent. But if a dealer hasn’t sold a piece within those ten days, he’s fucked.” Stuart grinned.

“They can’t all buy on margin.”

“True, but I love to watch the ones who do, because there’s this moment when they get this great look of triumph mingled with that pit of the stomach sick feeling that says, This one could break me for good. I love it. Sit with me and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

“Won’t you be bidding?”

“I have my eye on a few things. Come on, say yes, and join us for the reception and dinner afterward. The banquet’s across the hall.”

David thought of Fitzwilliams. “I don’t think they’ll have room for me.”

“The auction is a Cosgrove’s event, but the dinner is a benefit for the Hong Kong Museum Council. Madame Wang is the chair. A place will be made.”

“Then I accept.”

At 6:45, a bevy of pretty women circulated through the room, reminding everyone that the auction would start promptly at 7:00. Unlike most social occasions, when the news that dinner was about to be served was virtually ignored until the third or fourth announcement, the people here quickly took seats.

As the crowd thinned along the sides of the room, David spotted Dr. Ma talking to Angus Fitzwilliams by one of the risers about twenty feet from the edge of the phone bank. Even from this distance, he could see Ma’s face red with anger. Fitzwilliams’s posture was stiff, and he was shaking his head no in the same jerking movements that David had experienced earlier today when the executive director wanted to show just how opposed he was to an unpleasant subject or idea.

“Come along, David, let’s get a good position,” Stuart said, already striding purposefully away.

But David went in the opposite direction. Reaching Ma and Fitzwilliams, he saw that they were standing before a riser displaying several jade objects.

“You know these are stolen artifacts,” Ma seethed.

“I know nothing of the kind, sir,” came Fitzwilliams’s frustratingly bland response. “We have documents showing provenance for every article you see here.”

“And you know that
that
is a lie. When this comes out, Cosgrove’s will be very sorry. My government will make sure you are put out of business in Hong Kong.”

Fitzwilliams was unmoved. “If there’s something here that appeals to you, then I suggest you use your paddle. Your money’s as good as anyone else’s.”

A young woman approached and very gently touched Fitzwilliams’s sleeve. “Mr. Fitzwilliams, sir, it’s time.”

“Yes, of course.” Without another word to Dr. Ma or even a glance in David’s direction, Fitzwilliams walked with deliberate purpose to the front of the room and up the stairs of the dais to the podium. He brought the gavel down firmly three times. “Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice came out warmly over the sophisticated sound system. “Welcome to Cosgrove’s auction of fine Chinese ceramics, works of art, and jade carvings. I’ll begin with some ground rules….”

David turned back to Dr. Ma, who was staring at the jade— several perforated disks and another object that had been shaved into a long, smooth shape that looked like a cross between a boomerang and an ax head. Lights had been placed in such a way as to catch the subtle carvings on the stones. Well lit and mounted, they made very attractive decorative pieces, although their prices—HK$25,000 to HK$50,000 apiece—seemed steep for a decorative element to add to a living room.

“Are these disks the
bi
s you told me about?” David inquired.

“Yes,” Ma answered.

“Can you prove they’re from Site 518?”