Free The Other Crowd by Alex Archer Page A

while sitting in the customs office. He knew when to bow to authority and when it was best to make a fuss and start threatening subordinates.
    To his credit, the man who’d contacted the German consulate to verify his passport had been polite and efficient. He’d wanted to get Garin through customs as quickly as he could, and Garin appreciated that.
    “What time have you got?” he asked the driver.
    “Ten after three, Mr. Braden. I’ll try my best, but the auction started at three.”
    “Damn it.”
    Roux had called while he’d been crossing the Atlantic Ocean to let him know his bidding paddle would be waiting. He wasn’t sure of the order of items to be auctioned off. He might still make it, unless the Fouquet went first.
    “I can call in my bid. I’ll have to. Roux wanted me to take a look at it first, but it’s got to be the painting,” he mumbled to himself.
    He slapped his suit coat, mining for his cell phone. “Hell!”
    “You have a phone up there, Stephan?”
    “Sorry, Mr. Braden. My daughter dropped it in the toilet this morning. Did you forget yours?”
    “It’s back at the airport.” He turned, assessing which would be faster—making the turn and getting back on the ring road that surrounded the airport, or driving straight on and crossing his fingers this limo could fly.
    Neither seemed a viable option.
    “You have any painkillers up there, Stephan?”
     
     
    R EMARKABLY, HE ARRIVED at the doors to Christie’s at twenty minutes to four. Garin rushed through the entrance, his presence and sheer size keeping most from questioning his determined path toward the auction room. He stopped at the reception desk and showed ID to get his bid paddle. At least he still had his wallet.
    “Has the Fouquet been offered yet?”
    The woman in thin, black-rimmed spectacles drew up the auction list on her computer and scanned it. “You mean the painting in the style of Jean Fouquet? Yes, Mr. Braden. That was just purchased. Is it what you’ve come for? I’m very sorry. We are offering a Parker, which is similar in style.”
    “Not interested. Can you tell me who did win the Fouquet?”
    “That information is private, Mr. Braden.”
    Beyond the glasses, the woman’s eyes gleamed brightly. Her skin was pale and flawless. Her features were delicate, even disguised beneath the stiff and proper gray suit. A butterfly struggling to explode from her cocoon.
    Garin leaned across the marble desk, lowering his voice and tendering it softly. “Would you deny the winning bidder the opportunity to double their money from someone who is interested in obtaining the work?”
    “Well…” She looked over her shoulder, checking all corners and the closed office door.
    Garin followed her finger as she trailed it across a line detailing the buyer’s name and address. He read upside down, and committed the information to memory.
    “Thank you, Miss…”
    “Haversham.”
    “A lovely name,” he said. “But not so lovely as you.”
    “Oh.” She glanced aside without the expected blush. “It’s a pity you missed the bidding.”
    “It is. But I’m not a man accustomed to being denied anything he wants.”
    She lowered her gaze and now she did blush. “I guessed that about you.”
    “Good afternoon, Miss Haversham. It was a pleasure.” He winked and turned to stroll out, controlling his need to punch the wall as he did so.
    So close. And the damned painting had gone for five hundred thousand. Was he willing to lay down a cool million for something he’d hoped would be burned and never again see the light of day?
    “Not if I can take it for free,” he said.

10
     
    Somewhere in the thatched cottage half a mile north of the dig site, a clock chimed 10:00 p.m. Annja noted that it was difficult to track each chime for the ambient noise of smaller clocks ticking, infinity balls clicking one steel ball against the other, alarms chirping and one small wooden stick man climbing up a ladder.
    Mrs. Collins’s home,