Too Damn Rich (30 page)

The thundering from inside the conference
room burst through the closed door like a warning. Kenzie, hand on
the knob, fortified herself with a deep breath. Then, willing
herself small, unimportant, invisible, she turned the knob and
slipped inside.

The mahogany blinds were angled against the
wintry sun, and seated at the head of the long table, Sheldon D.
Fairey was a commanding silhouette against the cold slats of
horizontal light.

"How the hell a mess of this ... this
stupefying magnitude could occur to begin with is entirely beyond
me ..."

Kenzie soundlessly shut the door and tiptoed
to the far end of the conference table, where he and his small,
captive audience were clustered.

"... but occur it has, and we are faced not
only with a legal and public relations debacle, but an incident
which has sparked a diplomatic crisis between the United States and
Germany! I find this situation quite intolerable."

His audience flinched, but whether or not he
even noticed was impossible to tell. For, like a beast catching a
whiff of fresh prey, he slowly swiveled around on the ergonomic
armchair from which, thanks to Dina Goldsmith, he was now forced to
preside, and turned his flinty eyes in Kenzie's direction.

"Ah, the prodigal Ms. Turner, unless my eyes
deceive me."

Kenzie froze, one tiptoeing foot ridiculously
poised in midair.

"How kind of you to honor us with your
presence," he said mockingly. "I haven't, by any chance,
inconvenienced you by calling this meeting?"

Kenzie flushed brightly. "No, sir. Sorry I'm
late."

He waited, but no excuse was forthcoming,
which seemed to pacify him. "Please sit down, Ms. Turner."

"Yes, sir." Kenzie lowered her foot and
darted the last few steps to the table, where she pulled out the
empty chair beside Zandra's and quickly sat down. One look around
confirmed her worst suspicions.

This was definitely a power meet. All the big
wheels were out in full force.

Allison Steele, Burghley's chief operating
officer. David W. Bunker, Jr., senior vice president. Ileane K.
Ochsenberg, senior in-house counsel. Eunice Ffolkes, head of public
relations. Fred Cummings, the chief comptroller. Plus the crew from
Old Masters: Bambi Parker, Arnold Li, Zandra, and now Kenzie.

Sheldon D. Fairey was looking down the table
at her. "As I was telling your colleagues, Ms. Turner, I received a
call from the secretary of state. You wouldn't, by any chance, be
able to venture a guess as to what we discussed?"

"Yes, sir. It's got to concern the
Holbein."

"Very good." Fairey smiled a little, or
rather, bared some teeth. "I was informed," he sighed, "that the
German ambassador has lodged an official complaint over the sale of
a stolen national treasure. Also, that at the general prosecutor's
office in Frankfurt, the German Cultural Institute has filed a
criminal charge of theft against person or persons unknown."

"Ouch." Kenzie winced.

"Ouch, indeed." Resting his manicured hands
on the tabletop, Fairey laced his fingers and looked down,
ostensibly inspecting his knuckles. "Tell me something, Ms. Turner.
You were one of Mr. Spotts's bright young protegees." Raising his
head, he once again glanced at her and made eye contact. "Would you
be so kind as to tell us how you, personally, would rectify this
appalling situation?"

Kenzie didn't hesitate. "Well, that's easy
enough," she said. "We don't really have a choice, do we? I mean,
that painting should never have been accepted for consignment in
the first place. If you'll recall, I circulated a memo last
November in which I detailed its shaky provenance, and argued that
we either do not proceed with the sale, or at least hold off on it
until the provenance could be established beyond all doubt. The
memo was cosigned by both Mr. Li and Ms. von
Hohenburg-Willemlohe."

"Yes, yes, yes," Fairey said testily. "But
that's all water under the bridge. What I want to know is, what
course of action would you take now?"

"The way I see it, we are faced with two
unalterable facts. One: the painting was accepted for consignment.
And two: it's featured right on the catalogue cover." Kenzie picked
up a copy from in front of her and held it up. "There's no escaping
this. The harm's already been done." She tossed the catalogue back
down. "In my opinion, the most we can hope for is to contain the
fallout."

"You mean, by withdrawing it from the
auction."

"Yes, sir. And publicizing our intent to
pursue a further investigation of its provenance. I'm afraid
anything less would ... well, to put it bluntly, sir, would give
the impression that we deal in stolen plunder."

Fairey grimaced at the last two words.
"Well?" he asked, glancing around the table. "Would anyone like to
comment on Ms. Turner's evaluation?"

"Yes," Allison Steele said. "Ms. Turner,
isn't it possible that you might be reacting with undue haste and
alarm?"

Kenzie shook her head. "On the contrary, Ms.
Steele. In this particular case, I don't believe we can act hastily
enough. And as far as alarm is concerned, I wasn't the one who
called this emergency meeting."

There was no refuting that, and an
uncomfortable silence hung in the room.

"We have a lot riding on that painting," Fred
Cummings, the comptroller, spoke up. "First and foremost, there's
the presale estimate of twenty-five million. If the painting's
withdrawn from the auction, we lose two-and-a-half million in
buyer's commission, and the same amount in seller's." He tapped the
notepad with the end of the pen. "That's an outright loss of five
million dollars. More, if it would sell above the estimate."

"With all due respect, Mr. Cummings," Kenzie
countered, "but I have to disagree."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Kenzie nodded. "You're calculating on
the assumption that the painting will reach its reserve price and
sell. However, we all know that lots in every auction, even
important lots, often go unsold. In other words, you're not talking
about a bird in the hand, but about two in the bush. According to
my calculations, Burghley's won't suffer any loss if we withdraw
the Holbein, for the simple reason that we have no guarantee it
will sell."

"True," Cummings conceded. He put down his
pen, carefully aligned it with the edge of the notepad, and
frowned. "But we must also remember that the Holbein is the star of
this sale. Without it, a lot of important buyers are going to stay
away."

"Yes," Kenzie agreed, "they might. But I feel
that's a risk we're going to have to take."

"Even if it means shrinking the presale
estimate from a hundred and twenty million down to
ninety-five?"

"Yes."

"Ms. Turner," David Bunker, the senior vice
president, said in a plummy voice. "Is it not true that without the
Holbein, if other items in the sale go for below their estimates,
or some do not sell at all, our actual sales figures could be much
lower than the revised estimate of ninety- five million?"

She was beginning to feel like a witness
undergoing interrogation. "That could very well be the case. Yes,
sir."

"And you are resigned to the fact that, next
to Christie's and Sotheby's, our Old Masters totals for the season
might... er ... turn out to be spectacularly awful?"

"That's right."

"The shareholders won't be pleased," he
murmured with a vinegary expression.

"No," Kenzie agreed, "I expect they
won't."

It was like hearing the voice of doom. In the
ensuing silence, there was no sound other than the ominous ticking
of the longcase Dutch staartklok between the windows. Then, as if
someone was slowly turning up the volume, the harsh sounds of the
city filtered through the double- glazed windows: the honks of
perpetually gridlocked traffic, the wails of converging sirens, the
high-pitched screams of a car alarm, a jet scratching its way
across the sky.

Finally, Sheldon D. Fairey cleared his
throat, and the noises of the city once again receded. "David's
brought up a valid point," he said. "Ms. Turner, indulge me, if you
will. What would you tell a roomful of angry shareholders?"

Kenzie locked eyes with him. "Why not the
truth?" she said bluntly.

"The truth!" There was chiding mockery in the
rich fruity tones, in the strained, unpleasant little smile.
"Surely, Ms. Turner, you are not as naive as all that! Unless, of
course, shareholders suddenly care more about 'the truth,' as you
call it, than about their quarterly dividends?"

"They might care," Kenzie declared, "if
somebody told them how our coming out of this crisis—reputation
intact—is directly linked to their profits!"

Her face was obstinate, passionate, almost
childlike in its shining intensity.

"Pray do continue," he murmured, steepling
his fingers and tapping them against his lips.

Kenzie raked a hand through her hair. "I
mean, my God, sir!" she burst out, rolling back her chair and
jumping to her feet. "Think about it! What's the financial loss
from one item compared to Burghley's single most precious asset,
its reputation? That—nearly three hundred years of unblighted
consumer confidence—is the thing we must protect at all costs,
everything else be damned!"

To make her point, she brought her fist
crashing down on the table. Then, suddenly aware of how carried
away she'd gotten, she blushed and quickly sat back down.

"Sorry," she said in a tiny voice.

"A moment or two longer, Ms. Turner, and I do
believe you would have had me bidding for the Brooklyn Bridge."

Fairey no longer sounded angry, and his
altered mood seemed to soften the hard, wintry light bounced back
by the table's mirrorlike, calamander veneer.

"Perhaps you should address the next
shareholders meeting for me?"

"Thank you, but I'd rather not, sir," she
murmured.

Fairey permitted himself a faint smile. "I
cannot say I blame you," he said. "At any rate, your impassioned
plea has been duly noted. Keeping Burghley's reputation untarnished
should be our first priority. Well, then." He looked at the others.
"Anyone have anything to add? Eunice?"

"From the standpoint of public relations, I'd
have to side with Ms. Turner," said the director of public
relations. "Taking the Holbein off the market is certainly in our
best interests."

Fairey looked at Ileane Ochsenberg. "What
about the legal ramifications? Say the painting's withdrawn from
the sale, but further investigation proves it to be plunder. Could
we, in any way, be held liable for trafficking in stolen
goods?"

"Not at all." Ileane shook her head. "As you
know, under the law the seller, and not his agent, guarantees the
title to the work. Therefore, under normal circumstances the seller
would be held liable. However, in this instance the painting was
inherited, and since the person who originally acquired it is dead,
there is no culprit to convict. An heir cannot be held
culpable."

"Good, good." Sheldon D. Fairey tossed his
splendid silver-coiffed head. "Then that lets us all off the hook."
Fairey was silent for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and
frowned. "Which leaves us with one last dilemma. Our ethical duty
to our client." He pursed his lips. "After all, it was one of our
employees who accepted the painting for consignment."

"And?" Ileane looked at him
questioningly.

"Well, what worries me is, won't withdrawing
it from the auction be construed as deserting our client in order
to save our own skins?"

"I don't see why it should," Ileane said. "We
accepted the painting in good faith, and had every reason to
believe that our client had free and clear title to it. It's not
our fault that he didn't. Nor is this the first time something like
this has ever happened."

"And it won't be the last," gloomed David
Bunker, the senior vice president. "But at least we're not
alone."

"Indeed not." Ileane pushed her glasses
farther up her nose. "There are countless legal precedents . . .
that Joachim Wtewael, which Sotheby's had to withdraw from their
London sale ... the ongoing dispute over the Sevso silver, which
both the former Yugoslavia and Hungary are claiming as theirs."

"Not to mention our own problems over the
Kalimnos Kouros, back in 1982," Fairey murmured.

Ileane smiled. "I purposely left that one
out," she confessed. "But to continue. Our first indication that
the Holbein may have been illegally procured was a result of Ms.
von Hohenburg-Willemlohe's research. We then immediately
corresponded with our client's legal representative, stating that
we couldn't go ahead with the sale unless it was cleared by the
proper German authorities."

"Which," Fairey muttered, "it subsequently
was. Only now they've obviously had second thoughts."

"I'm afraid so," Ileane said. "But we have
copies of every piece of correspondence, all of which prove that we
are above reproach."

"Also," David Bunker interjected, "don't
forget that we—on our client's behalf—were the ones who initially
contacted the Cultural Institute about it. We brought the Holbein
to their attention, not vice versa."

Ileane nodded. "Of course, that's standard
operating procedure in such cases. It gives the original owner the
opportunity to purchase the work at a special price before it goes
on the auction block. However, the reply we received from the
Cultural Institute was that the museum could not afford to buy it,
and that we should proceed with the sale."

"Famous last words," Fairey growled.

"Indeed. Still, there's a bright side,"
Ileane pointed out. "Aside from the unprofessional manner in which
the consignment was initially accepted, our subsequent dealings in
this matter will hold up to the closest scrutiny ... and that
includes any and all legal and ethical questions which may
arise."