Too Damn Rich (85 page)

"Fifty million dollars," Sheldon D. Fairey
called out. "I have a bid for fifty million dollars."

A murmur, like a tidal wave, surged through
the auction room while, quick as a flash, the overhead LED numbers
converted the amount.

"Do I have a bid for fifty million, one
hundred thousand?"

On the left side of the gallery, the Italian
tycoon's paddle went up.

Arnold's bidder had dropped out; Annalisa,
still on the phone, raised her pencil.

"I have two bids for fifty million, one
hundred thousand. Do I have a bid for fifty million, two hundred
thousand?"

Again, the tycoon's paddle was raised, and
again, Annalisa signaled with her pencil.

There was a gasp of thunderstruck awe. Even
Kenzie found herself openmouthed with disbelief.
Over fifty
million? OVER FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS?
It was not to be believed!
Never before in history had an Old Master brought such a
mind-boggling bid. The highest ever paid was when the Getty Museum
shelled out 35.2 million at Christie's for Jacopo da Pontormo's
portrait of Cosimo de' Medici.

But fifty million, two hundred
thousand—?

Kenzie sat there in shock. The entire room
was frozen, and it seemed the infanta's gaze was tauntingly amused
by the silence.

"Fifty-one million," a regal, balding
gentleman in a Savile Row dinner suit called out calmly, raising
the ante by $800,000.

Everyone started, as though an electric jolt
had shot through their plush red seats; heads swiveled to eye the
new bidder. Annalisa spoke rapidly into her telephone, then hung
up.

"Do I hear fifty-one million, one hundred
thousand?"

Utter silence. Excitement had reached a
crescendo. Noses twitched, scenting the air for the next exorbitant
bid.

"Going for fifty-one million dollars," Fairey
announced. "Going once, going twice..."

He raised his gavel, but before he could bang
it down, everything suddenly became a kaleidoscope of confusion and
death.

Eight men, in eight of the corner seats, bent
down and released their spring-loaded seat bottoms. When they
jumped to their feet, each brandished an Uzi .45 semi-automatic
assault pistol in each hand.

What in bloody hell—? thought Kenzie. Where
had those come from? And then she knew. The seats! The vandalized
seats which had been sent out to be recovered!

But things were happening too fast for her to
grasp. She caught horrifying split-second images, as though
nightmarish scenes were momentarily frozen in the strobelike glare
of flashbulbs.

One of the guards, realizing what was going
down, yelled, "Freeze!" and valiantly reached for his revolver.

He was too late; they were all too late. The
ex-navy SEAL and the Colombian brothers whirled around, each firing
two pistols apiece.

Staccato bursts of semiautomatic gunfire
exploded—
rat-tat-tat-tat- tat!
—and the guards twitched like
puppets, their chests, arms, and legs erupting in clouds of blood.
Bullets ricocheted off the steel doors; zinged in all
directions.

A terrified chorus of screams rent the air,
and the well-dressed crowd ducked down in their seats or dove to
the floor.

When the firing finally stopped, the gallery
was eerily silent.

No one dared move.

No one dared make a sound.

The smell of cordite, and the stench of fear
and death, were strong in the air.

On the dais, Kenzie, Arnold, and Annalisa sat
frozen, too shocked to have moved or dived for cover. Sheldon D.
Fairey was gripping the lectern, his face ashen, his knuckles
white.

Below, the Japanese, the German, and the
Libyan sprang into action. Each raced to one of the exits, kicked
the dead guards out of the way, and slammed two connected, magnetic
explosives devices on each of the swinging doors.

A movement in the aisle caught Kenzie's eye.
The former Israeli commando had Hannes covered.

The sight was like a physical pain. She
stifled a gasp and willed Hannes to be docile. Please, God, she
beseeched, don't let Hannes do anything stupid.

He didn't. Slowly, carefully, he raised his
arms in surrender, and she felt a rush of dizzying, sickening
relief. He was frisked and relieved of his revolver, transmitter,
and earphone. The latter two were tossed to the ex- SEAL, who
proceeded to don them. Then Hannes was shoved brutally toward the
rows of seats.

He lost his footing and fell, but he was
alive, thank God. They hadn't killed him!

Kenzie offered up a silent prayer of thanks
...

... and realized that in the sudden commotion
she'd completely lost track of Charley.

Charley!

Where is he?
she wondered
frantically
. And who are these murdering bastards, and what do
they want?

She had the nasty feeling she'd soon find
out.

"The fuck is goin' on?" Charley shouted,
bursting into the security- control room. "My earpiece just went
berserk—"

The ten operators monitoring the built-in
banks of black-and-white video screens, which were augmented by
dozens more in neat rows on shelves against the other two walls,
jumped in alarm. Ignoring them, he headed straight to the monitors,
which showed bird's-eye views of the auction gallery.

He was silent, leaning his weight on the
counter; his knuckles white, his face suddenly weary. "Aw, shit,"
he said softly.

"You right about that." One of the operators,
a black man in his forties, scooted back his chair and looked up.
"You might say the, ah, effluvia has hit the fan."

Charley kept his eyes on the monitors. "You
notify the PC?"

"Just got off the horn with him. He pissed as
all hell."

"He's not the only one," Charley said grimly.
He tapped one of the screens. "The guards. Wounded or dead?"

"They dead. Gotta be, considering what they
took."

" Semiautomatics ?"

"That's right. All multiple direct hits. I
watched the whole thing."

"Damn!"

Charley took deep and regular breaths to calm
his churning stomach and racing heart. We fucked up, he thought
bleakly, trying to subdue his angry frustration. But where did we
go wrong? How—?

He turned to the black man. "Any other
casualties?" he asked tightly.

"Too early to tell."

Charley nodded. He pulled back his cuff,
raised his wrist to his mouth, and said: "Hannes. Come in, Hannes.
You read me?"

The airwaves were silent, save for the
rushing of static.

"Hannes. Do you copy?"

"Yo!" a stranger blurted in his ear. "Who're
you?" The voice was taut and edgy and held the faintest trace of a
drawl.

"I might ask you the same thing."

"Except you're in no position to ask for
anything."

"Where's Hannes?"

"He the guy wore this contraption?"

"That's right."

"He's neutralized, but fine. 'Less he decides
to be a hero, that is."

"Maybe you'd like to tell me what's going on
down there."

"You watching? On video?"

"That's right."

"Then I'll give you the advantage of putting
a face to the voice."

Charley saw the formally clad gunman saunter
toward a camera and raise his face. A moment later, he brought up
both revolvers and fired.

The picture on the monitor turned to
snow.

"Shit," Charley muttered, moving to another
screen.

Seeing Kenzie seated onstage, he felt a
massive surge of relief. He raised his wrist again. "If you're
holding those people hostage, you obviously want something. What is
it?"

But his question went unanswered.

"One word of warning," came the voice in his
ear. "All entrances are wired with Semtec. That's just in case
somebody gets the bright idea to come storming in. Anyone touches a
door and breaks the connection—
pow!
It's
adios
for
you guys and half the people in here. You
capiche?
"

Charley gnashed his teeth. "Yeah," he said
quietly, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I
capiche
."

He didn't know when he'd felt so
helpless.

I should be down there
, he thought,
staring at a monitor.
If I had been, maybe I could have headed
this off.

Suddenly it occurred to him that it was just
as well he wasn't.
Chances are, I'd be dead already. Then I'd
really be useless. At least this way I can do something
.

If only he knew what.

A telephone rang and the black man snatched
up the receiver. "Security control. Yes, sit, he's right here. I'll
tell him. Yes, sir. At once." He hung up.

Charley looked at him questioningly. "Who was
that?"

"The PC. He's in the lobby assembling a
strike force. He, ah, wants to end this situation before it gets
any stickier."

"Call him back." Charley was already halfway
to the door. "Tell him he can't."

"He'll want to know why."

"They've wired all the entries with
explosives," Charley told him grimly, "that's why. If he sends in
the cavalry, he'll blow everyone to kingdom come. I'm on my way
down to the lobby to see him now."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Watch TV. I want to be kept informed of any
new developments."

"Oh-oh," the operator said. "There go our
eyes."

He and Charley watched as, one by one, all
the monitors hooked up to the auction gallery went blank.

In the auction gallery, the ex-navy SEAL
hopped up on the dais, elbowed Fairey aside, and stood behind the
lectern, surveying his audience. The auction-goers were still
huddled between the rows of seats, and his seven cohorts patrolled
the three aisles, semiautomatics at the ready.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, "if I
might have your attention, please. You'll be quite safe as long as
you do as you're told. First, I want you all to get back in your
seats."

No one moved, and his automatic weapon
stuttered briefly, spitting warning shots into the ceiling.

"I don't want to have to tell you twice."

There was a lot of rustling as the
billionaires and museum curators, art dealers, and socialites
slowly raised their heads and peered around. Then, cautiously, they
got up from the floor and took their seats. Their confident air of
superiority had vanished. For many, it was the first time in their
lives that they had been totally powerless, and their helplessness
and fear were apparent.

"You're probably wondering what the hell's
going on, so I might as well tell you." His hard eyes didn't match
his grin, and he spoke without inflection. "We're going to have
ourselves a little auction. Also, in case any of you try to make a
run for it, I should tell you that the doors are wired with enough
explosives to blow half this room to kingdom come. I suppose that
makes you a, er, captive audience."

People were moving restlessly in their seats,
looking at each other nervously, and seeking mutual comfort by
holding hands.

"Now then, please allow me to introduce
myself. For all practical purposes, my name is Mr. Jones, and I am
the auctioneer for the rest of this auction. Unfortunately, I am
not licensed by the Department of Consumer Affairs, but I don't
believe that'll present a problem, do you?"

No one spoke.

"I should also mention that the lots and
their numbers have changed. One of my associates—we'll call him Mr.
Smith—is going to pass out a number to each of you. Those are your
lot numbers."

There was dead silence.

"You see, ladies and gentlemen, we are going
to hold the ultimate auction. One in which far more precious
commodities than mere paintings will be sold. The lots are
you."

There was a visible reaction of shock.
Everyone stared at him in disbelief.

"That's right," he continued, "you heard
correctly. Each of you is an individual lot. Your reserve prices
have already been predetermined. Payment is to be made in
negotiable bearer bonds, and delivered here by noon tomorrow. As
soon as your payment is received, you will be released. You may bid
on behalf of yourself, your spouse, and friends."

His cold obsidian eyes roamed the room.

"If anybody cannot make their reserve, or
payment is not delivered in time—" he shrugged "—tough titty. You
will be shot. However, you can rest assured that death will be
mercifully quick. We are not sadists."

He gestured for Sheldon D. Fairey to step
down off the dais.

Fairey stood there possessively. "This ...
this is outrageous!" he sputtered, drawing himself up to his full
height. "Auction indeed! This ... this travesty amounts to nothing
more than pure ransom."

"Mr. Jones's" voice was a whiplash. "Either
step down or face the consequences."

Fairey looked into his eyes. Seeing no mercy,
his confidence and assertiveness evaporated, and he wisely did as
he was told.

"Thank you, sir. Now then. I would like the
two telephone operators at the end—" "Mr. Jones" gestured to Kenzie
and Arnold "—to step down also. The other young lady shall
remain."

Kenzie and Arnold squeezed Annalisa's arm and
quickly followed Fairey. They stood against the side wall, next to
the four green-aproned young men from the temporary painting
storeroom.

"Mr. Smith? If you will kindly pass out the
lot numbers now. In the meantime, as long as no one leaves their
seats, you may confer quietly among yourselves."

"Mr. Jones" glanced at his wristwatch.

"The auction," he said, "shall begin in
exactly ten minutes."

The lobby of Burghley's had taken on the look
of a police command center. The metal detectors had been moved out
of the way, and uniformed patrolmen and detectives in civilian
clothes were everywhere. Outside, Madison Avenue began to look like
a precinct parking lot.