as I told you, Mr Berezin, all the artists are here, Shiskin, Ropin, and Aivazovsky.” Her voice cracked.
“Where is Brodsky? I particularly wanted him.”
“I don’t know.”
“You told me in all certainty there would be works by Brodsky in this collection, didn’t you?”
“I said I wasn’t certain, but it could be possible. I don’t know. How could I?”
“You got it wrong, Anna, very wrong. I’m disappointed with you. This is a gross error. You’ve missed a dazzling opportunity and in doing so have disappointed and infuriated me. Your incompetence has cost me money.” He pressed a red button beneath his desk and shuffled across towards her, as he watched her expression shift.
“Don’t touch me!”
The door opened behind her, and without a sound, the dark presence of Anton Petrovitch slid in.
~ * ~
Later, from the windows, Berezin watched the snow falling on the icy streets of Saint Petersburg down below. In the dusky light arose a honey-coloured hue, highlighting icicles glittering like the chandeliers in his meeting area. But Berezin didn’t really see the view. His mind was busy thinking about an intriguing report that had been passed down to him.
Chapter Six
Perth, Australia, 26 March
M anton shifted in his seat as Hartley the auctioneer announced lot 275, a pair of paintings that an aproned porter held up for the bidders to see, moving the pictures around one-by-one for all to view. His stomach gave a hollow lurch, causing him to take a strong intake of breath.
His gaze had never left the paintings,although now his concerns shifted to the dangers of other bidders. There had been some serious bidding for what quality there was, notably a rare and early pair of bronze Arab racehorses by the French animalièr sculptor, P J Mêne. The winning bid of four thousand dollars had come in over the phone. That the auction house had unexpectedly attracted some global attention raised his nerve levels to a new height. There were no reserve or commission bids left on lot 275. He’d noted a girl on one of the phones nod at the auctioneer. That meant someone else was interested.
“A pair of unusual paintings here.” His voice boomed across the packed saleroom. “The artist unknown and believed to be from the 1930s and of European origin. Nice lot this, who’ll start me off at three hundred?”
Not one hand was raised.
Hartley glanced around the room. “C’mon, you lot, let’s say two hundred?”
A solitary arm rose without enthusiasm from the back of the room.
“Two-twenty anyone?”
Another hand went up.
“Two-fifty?”
The bidding moved up to three-fifty.
“Are we all done at three-fifty?”
A bid from the phone took it to three-seventy.
“Are we all done?”
Manton raised his hand, taking the bid to four hundred.
The phone bid went to four-fifty.
The bids continued leapfrogging each other and Manton guessed somebody else liked them or had a good idea of their value. He began to feel uneasy. An unnatural calmness descended in the room and the focus of attention had shifted between him and the telephone bidder.
“Nine-fifty on the phone.”
Manton pushed it to a thousand.
The bidding continued and now went upwards in hundreds. “On the phone, one thousand-one-hundred.” He turned to Manton.
“Twelve-hundred.” He raised his catalogue attempting to look casual.
“Thirteen-hundred on the phone.”
Manton kept with it step-by-step. “On the phone, one-thousand nine-hundred.” He knew his limit had arrived. A hot sweat broke out behind his neck. He couldn’t afford to go beyond the next marker, when the bids would increase two hundred at each bid.
“Two thousand.” His heart began sinking.
“Two thousand from the floor,” shouted Hartley, turning towards the girl holding the phone. She spoke at speed into the mouthpiece, looked back at Hartley and shook her head. Her bidder had withdrawn. A rush of pleasure and an awareness that his shirt was sticking to his
“Where is Brodsky? I particularly wanted him.”
“I don’t know.”
“You told me in all certainty there would be works by Brodsky in this collection, didn’t you?”
“I said I wasn’t certain, but it could be possible. I don’t know. How could I?”
“You got it wrong, Anna, very wrong. I’m disappointed with you. This is a gross error. You’ve missed a dazzling opportunity and in doing so have disappointed and infuriated me. Your incompetence has cost me money.” He pressed a red button beneath his desk and shuffled across towards her, as he watched her expression shift.
“Don’t touch me!”
The door opened behind her, and without a sound, the dark presence of Anton Petrovitch slid in.
~ * ~
Later, from the windows, Berezin watched the snow falling on the icy streets of Saint Petersburg down below. In the dusky light arose a honey-coloured hue, highlighting icicles glittering like the chandeliers in his meeting area. But Berezin didn’t really see the view. His mind was busy thinking about an intriguing report that had been passed down to him.
Chapter Six
Perth, Australia, 26 March
M anton shifted in his seat as Hartley the auctioneer announced lot 275, a pair of paintings that an aproned porter held up for the bidders to see, moving the pictures around one-by-one for all to view. His stomach gave a hollow lurch, causing him to take a strong intake of breath.
His gaze had never left the paintings,although now his concerns shifted to the dangers of other bidders. There had been some serious bidding for what quality there was, notably a rare and early pair of bronze Arab racehorses by the French animalièr sculptor, P J Mêne. The winning bid of four thousand dollars had come in over the phone. That the auction house had unexpectedly attracted some global attention raised his nerve levels to a new height. There were no reserve or commission bids left on lot 275. He’d noted a girl on one of the phones nod at the auctioneer. That meant someone else was interested.
“A pair of unusual paintings here.” His voice boomed across the packed saleroom. “The artist unknown and believed to be from the 1930s and of European origin. Nice lot this, who’ll start me off at three hundred?”
Not one hand was raised.
Hartley glanced around the room. “C’mon, you lot, let’s say two hundred?”
A solitary arm rose without enthusiasm from the back of the room.
“Two-twenty anyone?”
Another hand went up.
“Two-fifty?”
The bidding moved up to three-fifty.
“Are we all done at three-fifty?”
A bid from the phone took it to three-seventy.
“Are we all done?”
Manton raised his hand, taking the bid to four hundred.
The phone bid went to four-fifty.
The bids continued leapfrogging each other and Manton guessed somebody else liked them or had a good idea of their value. He began to feel uneasy. An unnatural calmness descended in the room and the focus of attention had shifted between him and the telephone bidder.
“Nine-fifty on the phone.”
Manton pushed it to a thousand.
The bidding continued and now went upwards in hundreds. “On the phone, one thousand-one-hundred.” He turned to Manton.
“Twelve-hundred.” He raised his catalogue attempting to look casual.
“Thirteen-hundred on the phone.”
Manton kept with it step-by-step. “On the phone, one-thousand nine-hundred.” He knew his limit had arrived. A hot sweat broke out behind his neck. He couldn’t afford to go beyond the next marker, when the bids would increase two hundred at each bid.
“Two thousand.” His heart began sinking.
“Two thousand from the floor,” shouted Hartley, turning towards the girl holding the phone. She spoke at speed into the mouthpiece, looked back at Hartley and shook her head. Her bidder had withdrawn. A rush of pleasure and an awareness that his shirt was sticking to his
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