14

He had never felt this outraged, this crushed. Chartier’s warrior had gotten away. He had just discovered this after hours making more phone calls than he could count in search of the incompetent intermediary he’d chosen. The man was a slippery eel.

Duverger had a bitter taste in his mouth, one that he swore he would never taste again. The appraiser was a sore loser, so he made sure he never lost. He much preferred countering to being countered. Born to a family of diplomats and the youngest of five “good-for-nothing brats”—as they were called—he had too often been rejected and pushed to the sidelines while his older siblings took the trophies. That was long ago. Now his own trophy had slipped from his grasp, and he had no intention of just waiting for it to resurface.

He pulled his cigarette case from his leather jacket. It was empty. He threw it against the car seat and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder with so much anger, the driver almost swerved off the road.

“A Cuban, Marco. In the glove box. There’s got to be a few left.”

“No one does that to me,” he muttered, sinking deeper into the luxury car’s cream-colored leather seat.

Everything should have gone down perfectly. The members of his ring had acted as soon as Chartier’s sculpture hit the market. They had neutralized all other middlemen and had appointed a single acquirer. With the competition significantly weakened, they were set to acquire the piece at a price that was significantly lower than its value. Then they would organize an unofficial auction and sell the sculpture at a price much closer to its real value. The members of the ring would split the profit: the difference between what they had paid for the sculpture and the price that it fetched at the second auction. Although it was illegal, such collusion was common. Duverger’s intermediary was supposed to be the bidder who acquired the sculpture. But Ozenberg had derailed the whole plan. He had swooped in and made off with the piece himself.

Laurent Duverger nervously tapped his foot.

Ozenberg—a man with a lopsided life, a man who was obsessed with money and pleasure—had won by a nose. And at the last second! How had he beat out the best in the business? How did he have the moxie or the money to short-circuit the collusion? How had he worked the game so cleverly that the sculpture had wound up in Marion’s hands?

“I should’ve handled this personally, but it was too risky,” he said to himself. “No one can know I’m in the same arena as Marion. What a mess.”

Inside his Bentley-turned-private-club with its big-screen entertainment system and mini-bar, Laurent Duverger opened his fridge and poured himself a glass of Russian vodka. He downed it in one gulp. Then he took a deep breath. His facial muscles released their tension as the alcohol took effect. The appraiser needed to start plotting again.

“I must have that warrior. I don’t care what it takes. I must have it,” he said out loud.