Too Damn Rich (29 page)

Then Kenzie, only too happy to get off the
phone—she was hanging up on Charley for the second time that day
and had already hung up on Hannes once—showed her to their shared
office, where she introduced Arnold Li.

He rose politely from behind his desk.
"Herro," he said solemnly, shaking Zandra's hand and giving his
best Asian bow. "Prease caw me Arnod. Rov'ry to meet you."

For a moment he had Zandra fooled.

"Don't be taken in by that routine," Kenzie
said with a touch of exasperation. "He speaks perfect American
English. If you want my advice, don't even hesitate—whenever he
starts, just tell him to shut up."

"I will do." And Zandra turned to Arnold and
said, "Shut up."

They all three burst into laughter, and their
friendship was cemented right then and there.

For Zandra, that first day at Burghley's flew
by in a blur. This was what she had always wanted. A real job,
where she would be earning her keep while doing something
constructive. No other employment ever after could compare, of that
she was certain.

And how amazing that it should be in a field
so familiar to her, as if her entire life, spent among the
masterpieces in her various relatives' stately homes, had been in
preparation for this very position!

Any self-doubts concerning her abilities
disappeared on that first day. At last, she had found her niche in
the working world. And how familiar, this singular atmosphere of
riches and breeding! And yet how unstuffy and wonderfully casual,
especially compared to that stiff-upper-lip world she had left
behind. She felt like a caged bird must after it had been set free
and allowed to soar.

She loved it here. She adored it. In fact,
she couldn't imagine working anywhere else. Even the most mundane
of tasks seemed novel and exciting.

Kenzie and Arnold introduced her to employees
of various other sections, and explained the fundamentals of how
the Old Masters department operated. They gave her stacks of past
auction catalogues and sale results lists, so that she might
compare estimates versus actual prices. Finally, they took her down
to the vast, climate-controlled, subterranean vaults to view the
three hundred twelve lots which would comprise the next Old Masters
auction.

And it was there, surrounded by the
staggering profusion of paintings, that Zandra surprised Kenzie and
Arnold—and most of all herself—with knowledge she was not even
aware she possessed: "Oh. Gosh. An Oudry. He was terribly good at
these sweet little animals, wasn't he?"

And: "Definitely French School. Eighteenth
century. Her dress is the clue. I'd say the sitter was definitely
English."

And: "Oh, bugger it! Why ever did they
restore this? Makes it much less desirable, don't you think?"

And: "What an absolutely marvelous still
life. Cristofaro Munari, unless my eyes deceive me ... should fetch
a fortune."

And: "My goodness! However did that slip in?
Patent fake, I'm afraid. Best check the provenance thoroughly.
Someone's bound to have cooked it up."

She caught Arnold and Kenzie staring at her
with open mouths.

"Oh. Sorry! I must be barmy. I didn't mean to
be presumptuous or try to show off. Gosh no. It's just that my
dreary relatives all have such frightfully huge collections—"

"It's not that," Arnold explained gently.
"It's just that after Bambi Parker, we didn't expect someone this
fired-up, let alone knowledgeable."

He was so sweet that Zandra was thoroughly
charmed, and a faint blush colored her cheeks. "Bambi Parker?" She
frowned. "Should I know her?"

"You will," Kenzie assured her dryly, "you
will. God! I don't know how that painting got past us," she fretted
anxiously. "But now that you mentioned it—"

"Don't worry, darling," Zandra said. "I'll
get on it first thing. Oh. And what's the best newspaper for flat
listings?"

"You mean apartments?"

Zandra nodded. "I'll be needing my own
place."

"Well, unless you're independently wealthy,
good luck," Kenzie said. "For all the prestige, working here
doesn't exactly buy you champagne and caviar." She added dryly,
"Rice and beans is more like it."

"So what do you suggest? I'll be needing a
place to live."

"How fussy are you?"

"On my budget? A room with kitchen and bath
privileges will suit me fine. So long as it's on the cheap."

"Well . . . I'm looking for a roommate,"
Kenzie said slowly.

"Brilliant!"

"Not so fast. Before you take the plunge, I
think you'd better drop by and check it out for yourself."

"May I? After work all right?"

"After work's fine. But I've got to warn you.
You're going to be awfully disappointed."

Zandra smiled. "Somehow I seriously doubt
that."

At noon, Zandra dashed to Citibank, where she
cashed her advance on her paycheck and opened a checking account.
Lunch was a deli sandwich grabbed on the run, and the rest of the
afternoon was spent examining the suspect painting and
investigating its provenance, a painstaking process of tracing its
ownership backward through time.

Zandra found it exhilarating, more like
playing detective than working.

At quitting time, she walked home with Kenzie
to check out her apartment.

"I'm afraid you're used to a lot better,"
Kenzie murmured as she tackled the last of the five locks. The
tumbler clicked, she pushed on the door, reached around the jamb,
and hit the lights. "After you."

Once inside, Zandra craned her neck this way
and that.

"Kenzie! It's terrif! So grand, and yet
almost English in comfort. Gosh. However did you do it?"

Flipping on lights as she went, Kenzie showed
her around: "... Here's your basic, out-of-date Manhattan kitchen
... circa 1920s bathroom ... my bedroom—"

Zandra peeked inside. "Oh, but it's
positively dee-voon. And so wonderfully welcoming. I do love cozy
rooms. They're so intimate."

"Small, you mean." Kenzie smiled, shrugging.
"But what can I say? The price is right." She opened the door
across the hall and stepped aside. "And this," she said, "ta-da!—is
the spare bedroom. It would be yours. Hopefully, you won't mind its
being furnished."

Zandra went inside and looked around. It was,
she thought, surely the most delightfully eclectic room she had
ever seen.

"All auction sleepers I picked up for a
song," Kenzie explained with a sheepish grin. "As you can see, I'm
a sucker for bargains."

"Oh, but it's absolutely marvelous. I'd love
to take it. Gosh, there I go again—being awfully presumptuous ... I
should say, I'll take it if you're willing to have me."

"Have you!" Kenzie looked taken aback. "Of
course I'll have you," she said staunchly. "Why wouldn't I?"

Nowhere, Nevada, November 22

It was not the name of the place; there was
simply nothing else for miles around.

The old Texaco filling station on this
lonely, mountainous stretch of U.S. Highway 95, halfway between
Vegas and Reno, had stood derelict for close to a decade now.

But tonight, two different vehicles, each
arriving separately, had pulled into the overgrown island where gas
pumps had once ruled proud. After dousing their headlamps, they
drove stealthily on around back, where they were hidden from view
of any motorists who happened by.

The Jeep Cherokee had been driven up from
Vegas.

The four-by-four pickup had come down from
Reno.

Here, in the middle of nowhere, they parked
side by side, but facing in opposite directions so the drivers had
only to roll down their windows with leather-seamed hands.

Both were alone. And both looked as they had
in Macao, human only in form. Jumpsuited and hooded, faces rendered
insectile by convex black lenses and strapped-on electronic voice
distorters—like Saturday matinee aliens, but lethal as all
hell.

The man in the Cherokee was the first to
speak. "What have you to report?" His altered monosyllabic words
had a metallic, robotic edge.

"Of the ten specialists you requested," came
the equally synthesized reply, "all have been contacted. Five have
already arrived at the safe house. That includes the first of the
four prison inmates. We sprang him just last week."

"The helicopter escape from the Mexican
prison yard?"

"That is the one. Ortez. We smuggled him
across the Texas border that very same day."

Laughter rasped like a scythe on rusty
metal.

"Damn fools are still turning Mexico upside
down looking for him!"

"And the three still in prison?"

"We are working on that. The one in Colombia
and the one in Turkey are as good as sprung. But the IRA explosives
expert is another story. That British prison is like a fortress. I
take it there is still no timetable?"

"Not yet, but there will be as soon as our
friend in England is freed. Everything hinges upon him."

"Can no one else do it?"

"No!" The man in the Cherokee shook his head
adamantly. Explosives experts were a dime a dozen, but the Irishman
was the only one he could trust to do this particular job. Donough
Kildare was an artist in his trade, and could detonate entire
buildings using a few ordinary household materials.

Materials so innocuous that they would pass
unnoticed before even the most suspicious and skillful team of
arson investigators in the world.

An accident! he would instruct the Irishman.
That is what it must look like! That is the conclusion the
investigators and analysts and adjusters who will sift through the
rubble have to come to! A verdict of accidental death—

—accidental! Nothing less would do, for this
explosion was the foundation—the very cornerstone!—of the entire
operation. The "accident" had to occur for the timetable to
begin!

One fiery chance. That was all the Irishman
would be permitted, or else all the intricate plotting and planning
would have been a waste, the entire operation aborted.

"It has to be Kildare!" the Cherokee driver
reiterated harshly. "There can be no substitute! You must get
him!"

The other nodded. "And the target?"

"You do not want to know!" reverberated the
reply. "Advance knowledge of that carries an automatic sentence of
death!"

Strident amplified breaths punctuated the
warning, rasped distortedly. Then: "And the Irishman?" the driver
of the pickup asked. "He will be privy to that information. After
he has served his purpose, what is to become of him?"

"What do you think? Dead men tell no
tales."

The one in the pickup nodded approvingly.
"And the ten million he has coming? What happens to that?"

"That is a little bonus we shall split
between us two. But remember! You must deliver the goods! The
Irishman is the key! Unless you can spring him, the entire
operation will be cancelled." There was a pause. "Is that
understood?"

"Roger."

"Good. Then we are in agreement. Now, if
there is nothing else, we can leave. I will keep in touch by the
usual method."

Taking that as his cue, the driver of the
pickup started his engine and put the vehicle into gear. Slowly,
without lights, he drove around to the front of the filling
station. Looked both ways.

Highway 95 stretched empty in either
direction.

Cramping the steering column hard to the
right, he stepped on the gas. Only after the pickup jumped onto the
asphalt did he switch on his brights. Then, chasing the swath of
his headlights, he listened to Tammy Wynette stand by her man as he
sped north through the night.

North, back to Reno. Back to "The Biggest
Little City in the World."

The driver of the Cherokee waited a few
minutes before starting his engine. Pocketing his dark shades, he
used his night vision and four-wheel drive to bounce around to the
side of the old Texaco station. There, he stopped, looked, and
listened.

He could see the lights of a northward-bound
car approaching from far off to the south, and waited patiently
until it had whooshed past. Then, swinging a hard left, he hit the
halogens and floored the accelerator.

The Cherokee gobbled up the miles as he
headed south.

South, back to Vegas. Back to that garish,
neon-painted whore in the middle of the Mojave.

A hundred-and-fifty-odd miles and he would be
there.

Dispute Surrounds Planned Sale of a Holbein

NEW YORK, Jan. 9 (AP)—Burghley's yesterday maintained
that it would proceed with the sale this month of a painting whose
provenance has come under fire from dealers and auction house
experts on both sides of the Atlantic.

The painting, Hans Holbein the Younger's Girl With
Flowers and a Spaniel is an I8V4 by 12y2-inch portrait painted
during the artist's second stay in England, after 1532.

While many experts say the work was stolen from a
castle near Darmstadt after World War II, Burghley's maintains it
has sworn evidence that the painting had actually been sold to an
American military officer, who has since died, and whose heirs have
put it up for sale.

Allison Steele, Burghley's chief operating officer
for North America, said that under the law, the seller and not the
auction house guarantees the title of a work of art. Sheldon D.
Fairey, Burghley's chairman, president, and chief auctioneer, was
traveling yesterday, and could not be reached for comment....

New York City, January 4

Goddammit! Surely somebody in this room is
responsible for this disaster!"