One Day Fiance

I look . . . flashy and expensive. But also like I belong at the upper-crust auction house, either to purchase for myself or perhaps as a personal assistant to someone wealthy enough to purchase things here.

At the front desk, there’s a woman at a computer, typing in a desultory way that tells me she’s not enjoying her job right this moment. The rest of the place is deserted, as planned.

“May I help you?” she says in a bored voice, not looking up from her screen.

I clear my throat, putting on an accent that I’ve practiced for years. I’ve got three, but this one is perfect for this situation—slightly British, but indistinct enough to sound American influenced. “Yes, I represent a potential buyer for several pieces coming up for auction. I’ve been sent to examine and authenticate the pieces he . . .” I dip my chin like I’ve misspoken and add, “or she . . . is interested in.”

The woman’s eyebrows lift as she looks me over, suddenly alert and attentive. Just as planned. “Do you have an appointment?” She knows good and well that I don’t, but this is part of the game.

“My employer isn’t the type to advertise interest. It tends to be bad for the purchase price. I’m sure you understand.” I scrub my chin with a hand, framing a charming smile and exposing my expensive watch. Her memories should be centered around the bling and flash and not the man in the suit.

The woman is hesitant, understandably so considering she works with a wide variety of expensive merchandise. But she also works with wealthy, and sometimes eccentric, buyers. And their representatives.

When she still pauses, I reach into my inner pocket and remove a small envelope, which I slowly place on the desk. It’s obviously got something in it, based on the subtle thickness of the package.

She looks at the envelope carefully, her eyebrows lifting and then lowering.

“Well, I’m sure a little peek wouldn’t hurt, right?”

“Exactly,” I respond, straightening my suit jacket. Actually, I’m slouching some, but again, I’ve learned exactly how to do this to the point of making it look natural.

I follow her down the hall, looking for weaknesses in their systems or protocols. I already know a lot about the site’s security, but I double-check my data on the alarm system and badge scanner, comparing it against what I know as she places an ID against a solid black panel with a small company name engraved on the top. It’s top-notch, as is the sprinkler system. No opportunity for a false fire alarm, no getting in without an ID badge, either stolen or reproduced.

So far, the only obvious flaw in their system is the woman letting a complete stranger in to view upcoming auction merchandise. But a distract and snatch won’t work this time. Their monitoring includes cameras in every room, including this hallway. Hopefully, the fake glasses will do enough to disguise my appearance. As an added bonus, my glasses have a small pinhole camera hidden behind a rhinestone, and I’ll review the footage later, frame by frame.

She scans her ID badge once more and opens the door into a large storage room. The tables are long, set up in labeled sections and filled with treasures. A weaker man would start stuffing his pockets and make a run for it. But that has never been my style.

“Which pieces do you want to see?” the woman says, businesslike but nervous. “We need to be quick. People will be returning from lunch soon.”

“Of course. There are three pieces.” I tell her the titles of the pieces, and she leads me to the first one.

The painting is dramatic, a Viking ship with tattered sails in tumultuous seas backed by thunderous clouds. I pull a magnifying loupe from my pocket and lean forward to examine the signature.

The woman tells me about the piece, a consummate salesperson, but it’s information I already know. After a quick but thorough examination of the brushstrokes, frame, and small chipping along the side edge, I nod.

She smiles and rushes me to the second piece, but again, it’s not the one I’m here for. It is, however, next to the one I’m interested in. I narrow my eyes, scanning the Japanese piece as the woman gives me the details on it while actually looking past it to a rustic stone figurine.

The female figure sculpture is remarkably robust, the weight apparent by the full curves of the stone. Past that, it’s small, roughly the size of my forearm, and primitive in design. Through my surreptitious looks, I verify it’s the piece I want, noting its most unique feature, the well-documented fault line where the figure’s left arm broke off sometime in the last four hundred years.

“The last one?” I ask, straightening up. I want to cast all suspicion away from me when I do steal the stone figure. That’s why I’m looking at three pieces and making sure I show no awareness of the one I’m actually interested in.