Too Damn Rich (83 page)

"Good morning, Mrs. Goldsmith," the security
guard greeted.

"Good morning, Carmine. I see you're looking
sharp."

Passing him, Gaby pointed at his shoes. When
he looked down, she quickly tweaked his cheek.

On they marched, to the sound of Gaby's
silent drum and trumpet flourishes.

First on Dina's agenda: The showroom
galleries, where the last exhibit before the Becky V
auction—Impressionist and Modern Paintings, Drawings, Watercolors
and Sculpture—was being taken down.

Next stop: The auction gallery proper, where
the theaterlike red velvet seats, which she had insisted upon last
October (A year? Can it really have been that long?) curved in
elegant amphitheater-type rows.

A vast improvement over those cheap metal
folding chairs, Dina thought, even if I say so myself.

Suddenly she stopped walking and stood there,
frozen. "What the hell?" she said softly.

Then, charging up and down the center aisle,
she pointed an accusing finger left and right in outrage. There and
there and there ... there, there there ... The upholstery of
fifteen red velvet fold-down seats had been slashed open, exposing
the white stuffing and springs.

"Vandals!" Dina exclaimed. "My God! Vandals
in Burghley's! What is the world coming to?"

She marched furiously back out, her face
grim, and sought out the nearest security guard.

"Ma'am?"

"Who permitted someone to vandalize the seats
in the auction gallery?" Dina snapped.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am?"

"Call the head of Security. Tell him to meet
me in Sheldon D. Fairey's office. Now."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Gaby?"

"Right here."

"See that the damaged seats are removed and
reupholstered. At once."

"Will do."

"Make sure the fabric matches!"

"Right."

"And call those two detectives. You know the
ones. I want this reported at once."

He watched the slashed seats being loaded
into the panel truck,
CHANTILLY & CIE CUSTOM UPHOLSTERERS
was emblazoned on the sides of the vehicle, along with a Long
Island City address and a 718 phone number. He memorized
both.

It was so ludicrously simple. Child's play,
really. Just one of many security gaps, and not even a highly
original one at that.

People would do well to remember the
classics, he thought. It was the story of the Trojan Horse all over
again, but with a slight variation. When the seats returned, they
would be stuffed with goodies. Explosives, semi- automatics,
handguns, ammo.

So simple.

So ancient.

So beautiful.

So deadly
.

He could hardly wait.

Near Wilmington, Delaware, November 7

"Ninety-four hours and eighteen minutes until
zero hour."

The hooded figure's electronically distorted
voice echoed eerily in cavernous space.

The old pesticide packaging plant on the
banks of the stagnant, polluted canal—like the idle buildings
surrounding it—was a relic of a reckless past, and thus ideal. This
was the fourth industrial space they had occupied since Long Island
City.

There was survival in unpredictability,
safety in staying on the move.

As usual, all the lights save one had been
doused for his arrival. The single naked bulb glared, swinging in
an arc from its overhead wire, and threw shadow monsters against
pitted cinderblock walls.

From between the slit in his convex lenses,
he eyed his handpicked crew. With Kildare out of the way, that left
eight men and one woman.

"Everything is in readiness?"

"Everything."
The former Israeli
commando
.

"Weapons? Explosives?"

"Already in place."
The ex-navy SEAL
.
"Piece of cake."

"Getaway?"

"All prepared."
The French
daredevil
.

"Appropriate attire?"

"Black tie for the men."
The woman
.
"No labels to trace the purchases."

"Invitations?"

"In hand."
The Japanese
. "Hacking into
their computer was child's play. All I had to do was put our false
names on the list. The invitations were waiting in the various post
office boxes."

"Everyone familiar with the layout?"

"Familiar enough to find our way around that
place in the dark."
The Libyan
.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

The hooded man's breathing was amplified,
like a horror movie's soundtrack.

"Any last-minute qualms?"

Laughter.
The Colombian brothers
.

"Remember! I want no senseless killing! Only
take out whoever's necessary. Is that understood?"

"Sure,
amigo." The shorter of the two
Colombians. "
We
comprende
."

His sibling chuckled.

"You better
comprende!
"

The Colombian's laugh died in his throat.

"This has taken over a year of planning! Any
of you fuck up—you're dead! You
comprende
that?"

There was silence. Nine heads nodded
somberly.

"Last chance for questions. Anyone have
any?"

No one did.

"Don't worry."
The German
. "They'll
never know what hit them."

"They'd better not!"

On that note, the hooded figure moved
balletically, seemingly without weight or substance, a mere shadow
melting into the dark. A minute later, there was the sound of a car
door slamming. Then a souped-up engine roared to life.

The German pressed a remote control device.
It activated a hidden video camera, fitted with an infrared lens,
over in the loading dock.

They waited until the car had driven off.
Then the German went to collect the tape. Upon his return, he fed
it into the VCR, switched on the monitor, and hit the play
button.

On the screen, a New York license plate was
barely visible—but visible all the same.

He hit freeze frame.

"You have it?"

"Got it."

The Japanese already had his computer booted
up; within half a minute, he'd hacked his way into the New York
State Department of Motor Vehicles.

"Now we'll find out who our boss is," he
said.

The other eight crowded closely around, eyes
on the glowing monitor as his fingers tapped the license number on
the keyboard. Within seconds, the information jumped onto the
screen:

FERRARO, CHARLES, G

7 JONES STREET

NEW YORK NY 10O14

New York City, November 8-11

The months-long whirlwind was over. Three
days before the auction, Burghley's sparkled with spit and polish.
The traveling exhibition of highlights from the Becky V collection
had returned, none the worse for wear, after having attracted
record crowds in Tokyo, Hong Kong, London, Geneva, and Dubai.

Now it was New York's turn, and Burghley's
was ready.

Armed security had been tripled.

Airport-style metal detectors were installed
just inside the front doors.

Fifty extra video cameras tracked the public
areas and corridors.

Each employee, from Sheldon D. Fairey down to
the last janitor, had been issued new credit-cardlike
identification cards, complete with holograms and photographs.

Every door, from the loading dock to the fire
escapes, was under twenty-four-hour guard, and no one was permitted
to use any but the main entrance.

At night, newly installed floodlights washed
the exterior of the building in bright, garish light.

Outside, patrolmen walked the beat, a
high-visibility police presence augmented by slowly cruising
blue-and-whites.

For security reasons, the paintings carried
no estimated prices, neither in the catalogues nor on the
descriptive three-by-five cards affixed to the walls beside them.
Three telling words said it all:
Estimate Upon Request
.

And small wonder.

Never before had such a wealth of treasures
filled a single auction house, and in the climate-controlled
galleries, the hundreds of spotlit paintings hung in hushed
splendor:

Veronese, Bellini, Titian, Rubens, della
Francesca.
Treasures for the richest of the rich, for those two
or three thousand people who could afford them.

Raphael, Leonardo, di Cosimo, Caravaggio,
Poussin.
Treasures for the handful of museums with deep pockets,
and for others which would have to deaccession—sell off lesser
works in order to purchase a true masterpiece.

Rembrandt, Diirer, Tintoretto, Pontormo,
Boucher.
Treasures for investor groups and pension funds,
corporate raiders, and crime lords.

Van Dyck, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Ingres,
Turner.
Treasures for walls in Monaco and Brunei, Riyadh and
Belgravia, Sutton Place and Beverly Hills
.

The paintings went on display at ten o'clock
on the morning of November fourth. Despite the steady cold drizzle,
a queue of hundreds— unheard of for auction exhibitions—had already
been waiting for hours, and the line outside Burghley's stretched
halfway around the block.

For security purposes, only a hundred people
at any one time were permitted inside; as soon as one came out,
another was allowed in.

The line grew. And grew.

By noon, wooden police barriers had to be
erected, closing off one entire lane of Madison Avenue. By
afternoon, Port-a-Potties were trucked in.

At five o'clock, the galleries were closed to
the general public. For the next four hours, entry was by
invitation and special appointment only.

That first day alone, awed thousands traipsed
through the showrooms in wonder-struck silence.

On the following day, the crowd waiting to
see the exhibition had doubled. The catalogues sold out, and
thousands more had to be printed and shipped overnight.

According to news reports, attendance at the
Metropolitan Museum had dropped to a trickle. Everyone wanted to
see Becky V's treasures.

"Shit!" Robert A. Goldsmith was overheard
muttering. "We shoulda charged admission!"

"Dina!" Robert bawled from his bedroom. "Fix
my goddamn tie, will ya?"

Par for the course: the Wall Street tycoon
was getting dressed.

"Coming, sweetie," Dina called, taking one
last, long look at herself in the mirror.

A runway model looked back at her, which was
exactly the effect she'd sought. Lips reddish-pink, cheekbones
emphasized with five tones of blusher, eyes accentuated with
amethyst shadow and dark mascara.

She was wearing drop-dead Ungaro—a pink lace
bustier with red and black beads blatantly outlining every seam. A
floor-length skirt in burgundy cut-velvet. And a matching,
long-sleeved jacket lined in pink silk.

Plus canary diamonds the size of pocket
change, and black mesh gloves with little black polka dots.

Delectable.

Sweeping into Robert's room, she found him
seated on his bed, cigar clamped between his teeth.

"I hate black tie!" he complained. "Shoulda
nixed it while I had the chance."

"Now, now, sweetie," she soothed, taking
matters into her capable hands and expertly flipping the two ends
into a bow. "You know how handsome you look in black tie."

"Yeah?" He squinted a leer through the cloud
of smoke.

"Yes." She patted his cheek. "Now do come,
sweetie. You know there's champagne before the auction. How would
it look if you aren't there to greet people?"

"I'm coming," he grumbled, heaving himself to
his feet.

She adjusted his off-center cumberbund. "Oh,
sweetie," she cooed, "I'm sooooo excited!"

"As long as ya don't get carried away. Last
thing I need's for ya to start biddin' like crazy!"

"Really, sweetie." She gave him a reproving
look. "You'd better not let anyone at Burghley's hear you talk that
way." She helped him into his jacket. "There. You're all set. Now
button it, and off we go!"

"Your Highness!"

Karl-Heinz and Zandra were about to step into
the elevator when Josef caught up with them, remote phone in
hand.

"Yes, Josef? What is it?" Karl-Heinz
asked.

"It's Dr. Rantzau."

The director of the clinic outside
Augsburg.

Karl-Heinz felt his stomach contract. Please
God, he prayed. Don't let it be bad news.

Somehow he kept his face expressionless.
"Thank you, Josef."

Karl-Heinz let the elevator go and took the
phone. Josef discreetly withdrew.

"Dr. Rantzau?" Karl-Heinz switched to German.
"What can I do for you?"

The doctor answered in the same language.
"It's about your father; Your Highness." His voice was
apologetic.

"Yes?"

"His heart stopped twenty minutes ago."

For a moment Karl-Heinz felt his own heart
stop, too. Then it kicked in again, pounding so furiously it seemed
intent upon escaping his rib cage.

Zandra was frowning and looking at him.
"Heinzie?" she mouthed. "What is it?"

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "My
father," he said quickly.

"Fortunately," Dr. Rantzau was saying, "we
were able to revive him. However, he has become so frail and
brittle that any further such attempts could well do him more harm
than good."

Karl-Heinz took a deep breath. "I understand,
Doctor," he said tightly. "From now on, we let nature take its
course."

"Oh, Heinzie!" Zandra moaned, clutching his
arm.

"Are you certain, Your Highness?" the doctor
asked.

"Absolutely. It is not fair to put my father
through this. I'm certain he would prefer to die with dignity. I
know I would."