The Black Madonna Read Online Free PDF

he answered on the first ring. “Where do we stand?”
    â€œBidding is at three hundred thousand and rising in twenty-five-thousand increments.” She lifted her paddle once more. “It is yours at three fifty. But not for long.”
    â€œWho are we up against?”
    â€œAll of the original bidders have dropped out.” Storm turned in her seat. The man lifting his paddle in opposition shot her a furious look. Storm said into her phone, “It’s down to you and Rausch.”
    â€œThe old man?”
    â€œNo. The son.” Storm lifted her paddle. “We’ve just hit four hundred thousand.”
    â€œWho else is bidding?”
    â€œNo one. Sir, as your representative I feel I must tell you that given the current state of this market, four hundred thousand dollars for a Pokhitonov portrait may not be the best use of your—”
    â€œNever mind that. Keep bidding.”
    Storm touched a button on her phone and said, “I am now recording this conversation.”
    â€œGood. Now follow my instructions and acquire that oil.”
    â€œSir, I need to have a limit.”
    â€œWhatever it takes to keep Jacob Rausch from winning this article.” Her client’s accent had grown stronger. “Where are we now?”
    The auctioneer’s voice had lifted a full octave with the excitement of having a bidding war over this most unexpected of items. “I am at five hundred thousand. Who will offer me five fifty?”
    â€œKeep bidding,” said the voice in her ear.
    The auctioneer used his gavel to gesture his acceptance of Storm’s bid and said to Rausch, “Back to you, sir, at five fifty. Who will offer me six?”
    Lifting her paddle had become a struggle against Storm’s own natural instincts. “You understand, sir, that if you do not make good on the full purchase price, you will be out both the auctioneer’s eight percent commission and my own six percent?”
    â€œOf course I understand. Do I sound like a novice to you?”
    â€œI merely wish to make the point perfectly clear, sir.” And to have a recording of his confirmation. Storm lifted her paddle. “We are now at seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
    â€œAnyone else bidding against me besides Rausch?”
    â€œTo be honest, sir, no one in this market would be wise—”
    â€œAnswer the question.”
    â€œNo, sir.” She kept her voice at the proper level for someone who had a keenly attentive audience. “Rausch has just bid eight hundred thousand.”
    â€œStop this nonsense. Go to a million.”
    â€œVery good, sir.” Storm did not so much stand as soar upward. “I offer one million dollars.”
    Even the auctioneer was taken aback. He touched his hair, adjusted his bow tie, smoothed a lapel, and cleared his throat. “Very good, madame. One million dollars to you. Sir, at the back, do you care to respond? No? Anyone else? Item seventy-six, a portrait by Pokhitonov, going once for one million dollars. Going twice. Anyone? Sold to the lady on my right for one million dollars.”
    Storm seated herself to a soft wash of applause and excited chatter. Such moments had become rare. These days, most dramas surrounded high-value items going for pennies. The man next to her beamed, as though delighted with the bidding insanity. Storm took a long breath, willing herself to stop shaking.
    The voice in her earpiece shouted, “Well?”
    â€œSir, the painting is yours for one million dollars.”
    â€œI will immediately forward the funds to your bank. Do not leave today without that painting in your possession. Do you hear what I am saying, Ms. Syrrell? You must take that painting with you.”
    â€œVery good, sir. Might I please remind you to include our commission with your—”
    The phone went dead.

THREE

    S TORM’S BANKER REPORTED, “THE FUNDS were transferred into your account from