The rest went like clockwork. Twenty minutes later, a dozen invaluable paintings were carefully wrapped in the back of their van, and they were on their way to the docks.
The exchange would be made there. And the ship and its new cargo would be in international waters before noon.
The haul was a fine initiation of their American enterprise.
Wallace opened his midtown gallery earlier than usual that day. He’d stayed at his Hamptons estate last night. But he’d never gone to sleep. Instead, he’d sat up all night, staring at the paintings he so loved, and drinking his cognac.
He’d gotten a phone call on his private, unlisted line just before midnight. He knew who it was. And he knew he had to answer—for good or for bad.
This time it was for good.
There was another Renoir about to become available. And not just any Renoir. One that he’d coveted forever. It literally took his breath away, and infused a semblance of life back into his soul.
He had to have that painting.
But, stolen or not, the asking price was $900,000—10 percent of the $9 million it would be worth hanging in a museum or at a collector’s estate.
He had only a week to come up with the money. That would mean liquidating a substantial chunk of his assets. And with his art partnership under such close scrutiny by the FBI, it was bound to raise red flags.
There had to be another way. He’d racked his brain all night, trying to come up with an answer. But it always came back to the same thing—the only way to bring in a large sum of money without arousing suspicion was to sell at least four or five of his more valuable paintings. That was called business, and no one could question its legitimacy.
As he drove into Manhattan, the sun barely peeking up over the horizon, a solution occurred to him. True, he’d dropped off the radar of the financial industry the day he’d left investment banking. Many of his former colleagues had forgotten he ever existed. But others had stayed in touch—especially those who were fellow patrons of the arts. He saw them at the Met, at MoMA, and at art auctions at both Sotheby’s and Christie’s. They all knew of Sophie’s tragic death and how hard Wallace had taken his enormous personal loss. And they sympathized with—if not understood—his need to leave the demanding world of high finance and to reinvest his sizable assets in the less stressful arena of acquiring and overseeing his own art galleries.
In their minds, he was a semiretired rich guy with no dependents and very few financial obligations. That would work in his favor. There was no way he could compromise his reputation by going to them and asking for monetary assistance. But he could certainly invite them to an exhibit at his Manhattan gallery, and then let nature take its course.
A philanthropic gesture; a festive wine-and-cheese hour; and a beautiful, talented, and charismatic woman—one who reminded him so much of…
No. He couldn’t go there now. He had to think of the gala scenario he’d just conjured up.
All the components added up to money. Lots of it.
The more Wallace mulled over the idea, the more he liked it.
He would introduce Cindy Liu to the highbrow world she was so eager to meet. And he’d do it by hosting a party at his gallery.
Cindy wasn’t surprised when she received the phone call. She was gratified that Wallace Johnson had taken the bait so quickly. It was the first step toward success. Her A Sook was going to be so pleased.
She was looking forward to the lunch later today that Wallace had invited her to, so they could compare schedules and select a date for her debut party.
This enemy of her uncle’s was turning out to be an easy mark.
Rich was almost finished packing his bag and making final arrangements for his flight to Munich, when the phone rang.
It was Jane Brennan, coordinator of the art-theft program at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.
The news she had for Rich was startling. He listened carefully, taking notes as he did.
This heist was a shocker. Not the method, but the venue. Right here in the States. Rich had seen these Eurasian art-theft rings blast their way through art-rich countries in Europe, Asia, and Scandinavia.
But striking on American soil was an anomaly.
To begin with, traveling here would be a major risk. They’d have to be well funded and extremely well paid, not to mention armed with detailed plans, to make this daring act worth their while. There was no way they could pull this off on their own. Someone would have to be masterminding it.
An improbable scenario—one that made Rich suspect that the Armonk heist was a copycat crime. Well executed and grisly, but a copycat nonetheless.
On the other hand, the method, the timing, the Slavic accents, the violence, and most of all, the end goal—it was either one hell of a copycat or it was the real deal. And if it was the latter, he was operating with a whole new set of rules.
Rich hung up with Jane and abandoned his packing. The Armonk police were at the victims’ estate, interviewing them in quiet seclusion, far from the media’s eye. Theodore and Leona Campbell were in shock, as was the entire staff. But the Campbells were acutely traumatized, having just experienced the horror of watching masked killers hold guns to their children’s heads after murdering their butler and terrorizing their staff.