The Black Madonna Read Online Free PDF Page A

the only world that ever mattered enough to push her heart to the redline. Even on a day as fractured as this.
    â€œItem seventy-six. An intimate portrait by Ivan Pokhitonov, an important Russian realist.”
    A lovely young assistant wearing a starched tuxedo shirt and matching white gloves paraded the oil before the gathering, then settled it on the easel to the right of the auctioneer.
    â€œThe painting, entitled The Red Army Soldier , holds a provenance beyond question. Acquired by the current owner directly from the painter’s son.” The auctioneer tried to inject a note of significance into his windup. But he could not quite keep his gaze from drifting down the aisle to where his next item, an early Modigliani, beckoned. “An excellent example of Russia’s struggle to preserve and reinvigorate their national culture.”
    Storm shared the auctioneer’s unspoken disdain for the portrait. It possessed the rough-hewn quality of many Russian artists of that epoch. Like late-nineteenth-century writers, Russian artists had struggled to redefine their national identity. In Storm’s opinion, Ivan Pavlovich Pokhitonov was remarkable only for his attempts to draw from the nation’s former intense interest in Orthodox mystical religiosity. This particular portrait was supposedly of a Red Army soldier who had saved the artist’s life during one of the numerous uprisings that had sweptthrough the countryside prior to the First World War. The painting revealed a clash between the old Orthodox concept of divine protection and newer, colder Soviet attitudes. In Storm’s opinion, the artist had failed to mesh the two. Yet this had not stopped the price of Pokhitonov’s paintings and that of other pre-Soviet artwork from shooting into the stratosphere, propelled by Russian billionaires and their newfound patriotic fervor. All this had ended, however, when the price of Russian natural gas and oil had tumbled.
    â€œBidding will begin at seventy-five thousand. On my right, seventy-five. Who will offer me eighty?”
    Storm held back until the painting reached what she assumed was the final stage of bidding at two hundred and ten thousand dollars. Bidding hung there for what to Storm felt like an electric eternity. Finally one of the original bidders, a female dealer from Boston with a fullback’s jaw and orange hair, gave her white-knuckled assent.
    â€œI am bid two fifteen by the lady here in the second row. Who will give me two twenty? No one? Two fifteen, going once. Anyone willing to offer me two twenty for this fine example of—”
    Storm raised her paddle.
    â€œTwo hundred and twenty thousand, a new bidder to my right. Who will offer two twenty-five?”
    The woman jerked in surprise but caught herself in the process of turning around. She nodded as much as her rigid muscles permitted.
    â€œBack to you, madame, at two twenty-five. Am I offered two thirty?”
    This time, when Storm raised her paddle, she felt eyes around the room begin to shift in her direction.
    â€œTwo thirty from the lady to my right. Two forty. Anyone? Come now. The price of Russian oil is bound to lift out of the cellar sooner rather than later. Consider this an investment in your company’s future. Thank you, madame. Bidding stands attwo forty.” The auctioneer lifted his gavel at Storm. “Back to you at two fifty. Who will offer me two eighty?”
    The woman’s hesitation granted Storm a chance for some lightning calculations. At two hundred and fifty thousand, her 6 percent commission amounted to fifteen thousand dollars. Not nearly enough to erase their overdraft, but it would halt the banker’s daily tirades, at least for—
    â€œTwo eighty from another new bidder at the back of the room. Who will offer me three?”
    Storm fitted in her Bluetooth earpiece and hit the phone’s redial button.
    The mystery buyer had clearly been waiting for her call, for