A few seconds passed as the aide relayed the information. He said, “At all costs.”
“It will be an honor,” Spenser said as he thought back on the history.
THE Golden Buddha dated from 1288, when the rulers of what would later become Vietnam commissioned the work to celebrate their victory over the forces of Kublai Khan. Five hundred and ninety-six pounds of solid gold mined in Laos had been formed into a six-foot likeness of the Enlightened One. Chunks of jade from Siam had formed the eyes, while a ring of Burmese rubies wound around the neck. Buddha’s potbelly had been outlined in sapphires from Thailand and his belly button was a large rounded opal that glowed iridescently. The icon had been given as a gift to the first Dalai Lama in the year 1372.
For 587 years, the Golden Buddha had remained in a monastery in Tibet and then accompanied the Dalai Lama into exile. While being transported with the Dalai Lama on a trip to the United States for display, however, it had disappeared from the airport in Manila.
President Ferdinand Marcos had always been the prime suspect. Since then, the ownership had always remained cloudy, until suddenly it had mysteriously reappeared for the auction. The seller’s identity would
remain an enigma.
While it was almost impossible to place a value on such a rare artifact, that was exactly what was about to happen. The preauction estimates had conservatively placed the value at between $100 million and $120 million.
“WE will start the bidding at fifty million U.S. dollars,” the auctioneer said.
A low starting point, Spenser thought. The gold alone was worth twice that. It was the history, not the beauty, that made it a priceless piece of art. Must be the weak world economic climate, Spenser concluded.
“We have fifty million,” the auctioneer said, “now sixty.”
Talbot raised his paddle as the bid hit eighty.
“Eighty, now ninety,” the auctioneer said in a monotone.
Spenser glanced across the room at Talbot. Typical American, ear on a satellite telephone, paddle in his hand, as if he were worried the auctioneer would miss his signal.
“Ninety, now a hundred,” the auctioneer droned.
The hundred bid was from a South African dealer Spenser knew. The dealer’s patron had made his fortune in diamonds. Spenser admired the woman—they’d shared a glass of sherry more than once—but he also knew her patron’s habits. When the value exceeded what he felt he could sell it for later, he’d drop out. The man loved art, but he only bought at his price and if he could someday make a profit.
One hundred ten million came from the rear of the room. Spenser turned to stare at the bidder. The man’s age was hard to determine, but if Spenser had to hazard a guess, he’d pick the low side of sixty, based primarily on the bidder’s flowing gray hair and beard. Two things were odd, though. Spenser knew practically everyone in the room at least by sight or reputation, but this man was an unknown. And he seemed totally unconcerned, as if he were bidding on a weekend trip to a spa at a local charity auction instead of tendering a bid in the amount of a small country’s yearly budget. The man was obviously qualified—the auction company would have made sure of that—but who was he?
One hundred twenty from a German pharmaceutical magnate.
“One twenty, now one thirty.”
Talbot again, waving his paddle like a landing semaphore.
The bidding began to stall at $140 million, bid again by the gray-haired man. Spenser turned again and felt a touch of apprehension. The man was staring directly into his eyes. Then the man winked. A chill ran down Spenser’s spine.
He turned to the side, where he could see Talbot talking animatedly into his telephone. He could sense then that the Silicon Valley billionaire was flagging.
“Tell him,” Spenser whispered in his phone, “it’s slowed at one fifty, with maybe one more bid still forthcoming.”
“He wants to know if you’ve bid yet.”
“No,” Spenser said, “but they know I’m here.”
Spenser had bought from the auctioneer many times; the man had been watching him like a hawk. Any smile, flinch or gesture of his would be taken as a bid.
“He asks that you bid two hundred,” the aide relayed, “and blow them out.”
“Acknowledged,” Spenser said.
Then in almost slow motion, he placed two spread apart fingers to his lips.
“The bid is two hundred million,” the auctioneer said emotionlessly.
A raise of fifty million when the auctioneer was begging for ten.