Illegal Action

21

As the Bentley nosed down New Bond Street in the early evening’s light rain, Liz, sitting in the front seat, watched Jerry Simmons out of the corner of her eye. The cream leather driving seat was pushed far back to accommodate his long legs and his large, muscular frame amply filled it. His face was expressionless as he wove the big car through the traffic with calm confidence but his eyes were alert and she noticed that the rear-view mirror was angled so he could see the passengers in the back seat. Michael Fane had told her that Simmons was fully on board and Liz hoped he was right. If he was cooperating he could be very useful, and in a fight you would certainly want him on your side.

Nestled comfortably next to Brunovsky, his girlfriend, Monica Hetherington, was checking her make-up in her seat’s vanity mirror. She was quite lovely to look at, with fair, flawless skin. She could have passed as Russian or Polish with her blonde good looks, and although her surname was English enough, there was a trace to her accent which suggested years spent abroad—South Africa or Australia, Liz guessed, rather than an Eastern European country. Introduced to Liz, she had been friendly and polite but she gave no hint of being interested in anyone much beyond herself.

Next to Monica, Brunovsky fidgeted, peering impatiently over the driver’s shoulder to check their progress. He had greeted Liz like an old friend when she’d arrived at the Belgravia house, seeming to forget that her role as a Pashko enthusiast was a fabrication—and his own idea. “Tomorrow the gap in the dining-room wall will be filled,” he had crowed, like a little boy on Christmas Eve. Now as they drew closer to the saleroom, his excitement was growing.

Across from him on a jump seat, his PA Tamara spoke briskly in Russian. Brunovsky glanced at his watch and shrugged. Unlike her boss, Tamara had been tight-lipped seeing Liz again, almost frosty. She flicked back a strand of corn-coloured hair now—dyed, Liz decided, her mocha brown eyebrows gave that away. She had on the barest hint of make-up, and her gaunt face looked pale, though not unattractive. She was wearing the same maroon jacket and skirt she’d had on all day, and her only jewellery was a thick gold ring on her middle finger.

“Stop here, Jerry,” Brunovsky said, leaning forward to speak to the driver. The car slid effortlessly to the curb, and the chauffeur got out quickly and opened the back door.

Inside, the saleroom was already crowded and buzzing with conversation. Most of the seats were occupied and people were standing in the aisles on either side of the long room. A television camera crew had set up near the rostrum, a complication that Liz had not expected—she had no wish to have her cover blown on TV—and she was relieved to see that the camera was focused on the rostrum set up on an elevated dais, rather than on the bidders.

Spotting Brunovsky, an attendant came up and led them to a row near the front, where seats had been held for them. Liz noticed that Tamara had disappeared. She found herself sitting between Monica and a stranger in horn-rimmed glasses who promptly introduced himself. “Harry Forbes,” he said, extending a hand. “Hi, Nikita,” he said loudly to the Russian, who was on the other side of Monica. Turning back to Liz, he said more quietly, “I’m Nikita’s banker.” Then added with a chuckle, “Or one of them.”

Forbes wore the banker’s uniform of grey pinstriped suit, and Liz caught the flash of red braces beneath his jacket. Chatting easily in his East Coast American drawl, he explained that he wasn’t at the auction in a professional capacity but as an art lover in his own right. Learning that Liz was a recent acquaintance of Brunovsky’s and new on the London art-auction scene, he began pointing out people in the crowd, most of them Russian—an Abramovich sidekick and Rostrokov, a political dissident, said to be worth £2 billion.

“See that fellow,” Forbes said, gesturing towards a tall, lean figure with a shaved head and a stubbly beard who was sitting several seats along the row from them. His face was lined with deep grooves and he looked tense and uneasy. “That’s Morozov. He likes to compete with Nikita. We might see some fireworks tonight as the bidding gets going.”

Liz nodded. She’d heard of Morozov, but she was surprised to see him at such a high-profile occasion. He had a reputation as a quiet family man; she’d read something in a newspaper recently about his son, though she couldn’t remember offhand what it was. Her attention returned to the brightly lit, expectant room. She knew that it was not just the calibre of the painting that was attracting so much attention, but the fact it hadn’t been seen for over sixty years. Called Blue Field, it had been painted by Pashko during the years before the Bolshevik Revolution when he lived in self-imposed exile in Dublin, with the Irish artist Mona O’Dwyer. When Pashko left Ireland to return to Russia after the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, he left many of his paintings behind with her. On her death in 1981, they had gone to the Irish National Gallery.

With one exception. Blue Field was one of a pair, painted by Pashko in 1903. Its complementary picture, Blue Mountain, had been ruined by a burst water pipe in Pashko’s Dublin flat. Nothing was heard of Blue Field for sixty years, then a young woman had walked into a Dublin art gallery. She’d inherited a picture from her great-aunt, she said, and wondered if it was of any value.

Now at the front of the saleroom, a tall, elegant grey-haired man strode on to the dais and stepped behind the rostrum. At once the audience was hushed and the sale began.

The Pashko was to be auctioned last and Liz sat patiently for almost an hour as the sale moved slowly through some seventy lots, mainly early Russian religious paintings. Bids slowly edged up from the low thousands to six figures for a full-sized portrait of Peter the Great.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we turn now to the final items of the evening, Russian paintings of the twentieth century. May we have Lot 71 please?”

The attendant held up a large canvas which Liz recognised as a constructivist painting, a mechanical-looking assemblage of neat circles and squares ascribed to Vladimir Tatlin. After a gentle beginning, bids suddenly blossomed all around the room and the picture was sold for £320,000.

Things were heating up. Suddenly the mute conventions of a British auction—the nods, the lifted catalogues, the head shakes—were replaced by raised hands and loud voices. A Russian woman in a mink coat tried to bid after the hammer, and protested loudly when told by the suave auctioneer that it was too late. “You should see the sales in Moscow,” said Harry with a laugh. “It’s like a meat market.”

Then suddenly, without any particular fuss, Blue Field was held aloft, and the auctioneer was saying “Lot 77, an early Pashko from 1903. We will start the bidding at £4 million. Do I hear £4 million?”

At first there was no reaction from the audience, because everyone was still looking at the canvas. It was medium-sized, with a rich background of blue-black paint that stretched in waves across its surface. Curiously, for an abstract painting, the sea of dark paint did look vaguely to Liz like a field; a short vertical slash of yellow could perhaps be taken for a distant tree. But who’s kidding? thought Liz. If it had been called Blue Water, I’d see the sea.

The room was hushed, almost in homage, then an almost imperceptible movement in the front row caught the auctioneer’s eye. “Four million pounds. Bids for £4.1 million.” This time it was someone at the back of the room who caught his eye. Liz noticed Brunovsky hadn’t moved.

In fact he did nothing until the price reached £6 million, when she saw him give a short sharp jerk with his chin. Almost at once the bidding reached £6.5 million.

Suddenly the early bidders fell away, like blue tits scared off by a magpie’s arrival. It was now that Morozov, down the row from them, also made his move, signalling with jerky movements of his hand. Another nod from Brunovsky followed, then Morozov’s hand waved again. Within sixty seconds the bidding reached £8 million.

The auctioneer looked over at the aisle, where an attendant stood against the wall, listening to a telephone and raising his hand in the air. Cupping the phone between his collarbone and chin, he used both hands to show nine fingers. Nine million pounds, Liz realised, and turned to Brunovsky to see how he would react to this jump in the bidding war. Almost imperceptibly he raised his catalogue.

Morozov waved excitedly, and suddenly the bidding had reached £10 million. The atmosphere in the room was now electric. When the bidder on the phone jumped by another million, Brunovsky looked distinctly annoyed. He seemed to hesitate, as if no longer so certain of his commitment. The auctioneer looked at him but Brunovsky refused to meet his eye. His face was impassive. Liz noticed that Morozov was leaning forward in his seat, his shaved head perspiring now and shining in the lights. He was watching Brunovsky anxiously. When the auctioneer’s gaze swivelled towards Morozov, he chopped sharply at the air: £11.5 million.

The phone bidder must have been unimpressed, for the bidding moved swiftly to £12 million. Each move saw Morozov uneasily match the anonymous punter, while Brunovsky sat, unmoved. Finally, at £13 million Morozov faltered, and putting a hand to his forehead failed to match the latest bid.

“Ladies and gentlemen, do we have any addition to £13 million?” The auctioneer scanned the room carefully, but nothing stirred. Bang! went the hammer. The picture was sold to the anonymous bidder.

Liz looked over at Brunovsky to see how he took the result. You had to hand it to him—he’d seemed to have his heart set on buying the picture, but he was hiding his disappointment very well. When Monica took his hand in sympathy he even managed a smile.

Further down the row, Morozov stood up to leave. Liz noticed his face had relaxed and he was smiling, too, presumably to mask his own disappointment. She said to Harry Forbes, “Morozov must be very put out.”

The American snorted, then said knowingly, “Look at him. Does he seem upset to you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “All he cared about was keeping Nikita from buying the Pashko. For Morozov, this wasn’t about art. This was about power.”