The guy and his bow tie didn’t say anything while examining the painting, not a word about what he was thinking. His verdict came after he stepped back, turned to Laszlo, and gave her all she needed to know. A simple nod.
Although it’s debatable whether a nod that triggers a fifty-million-dollar transaction can really qualify as simple.
Julian and I were beholden to Tracy and wherever he was looking, but as he took turns gauging the reactions of both Brunetti and Laszlo, it was Laszlo’s expression that clearly stood out. She was elated, and as much as she surely wanted to play it cool, she couldn’t. Ms. Prim and Proper, measured and exacting, even managed to flash a spot of dry wit, as Julian might say.
“Cash or check?” she asked, turning to Brunetti.
The answer was, of course, neither. The details of the payment were prearranged, a negotiation that Tracy oversaw and mediated as any art broker would. Laszlo, on behalf of her government, was insistent that there could be no paper trail—nothing spelled out or signed or codified in any way. That wasn’t a problem for Brunetti. He wasn’t exactly intending to give her a receipt.
No, there was easy agreement on the lack of documentation. No one wanted to deal with a printed form of payment. Buyer and seller agreed on a wire transfer. They even agreed on the currency. US dollars. What had to be negotiated, however, was the banks that would carry out the transaction. Laszlo needed their payment to land offshore, meaning not on US territory. In return, Brunetti demanded that no third-party bank be involved. He needed to be paid directly from the Magyar Nemzeti Bank, otherwise known as the central bank of Hungary. It was the only way he could know for sure that he was selling the painting to the one buyer who truly had more to lose than he did if the sale was to somehow be made public.
“Deal,” said both sides.
Brunetti reached into a side pocket of the portfolio case, removing a laptop. No one else could see the screen, but he presumably had it in sleep mode, having already accessed the hotel’s internet. He needed to make only a few keystrokes before handing the laptop over to Laszlo.
It was her turn. Her government’s turn. She was the only one who could see the screen now, but there was little mystery as to where we were in the process. Brunetti’s offshore account required a bank routing number and an authorization code for the transfer of the fifty million. Laszlo pecked at the keyboard, slowly and deliberately, as if each number were being written in stone.
No more than thirty seconds later, it was done. The money had been moved. She handed the laptop back to Brunetti so he could see the confirmation. He nodded, smiling.
“Enjoy your painting,” he said. “I’ll even throw in the carrying case for free.”
And that was that. Only it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. There was something that wasn’t right, something we weren’t seeing. But what? What was the problem?
There wasn’t one. That was it. After all the planning, all the maneuvering to bring Laszlo and Brunetti together, I couldn’t help this nagging feeling that the transaction had gone too smoothly. Sometimes the only thing more troubling than failure is success.
Still, I couldn’t put my finger on it. There was nothing I could whisper in Tracy’s ear, no advice. While I did have one question, it was the equivalent of opening Pandora’s box. This deal was closed. Sealed. I wasn’t about to do anything that might unseal it. Merely asking the question would risk Brunetti’s wrath. I was convinced it wasn’t worth it.
That’s when I noticed what had caught Tracy’s eyeline.
He was no longer looking at Brunetti or Laszlo. His focus was on the authenticator, who was about to wrap up the Monet with the moving blanket.
“I’m just curious,” said Tracy. “How did you know so quickly that the painting is real?”
I could only guess the expression on Brunetti’s face. If looks could kill. Tracy didn’t even glance at him, though. He knew better. If only Tracy also knew better than to have asked the question. That was my immediate thought…right up until the moment the authenticator hesitated before finally answering. It was as if he were deciding whether to share a secret.
“Truth be told, I didn’t even have to look at the front of the painting,” he said, picking it up. He turned it around, holding up the back. “Do you see it?”
“That depends,” said Tracy. “What am I looking for?”
Whatever it was, I couldn’t see it, either. Tracy leaned in. “Oh,” he said finally. “I see what you mean.”
I saw it, too. So did Julian.
Shit. We were screwed.