Page 58 of The Picasso Heist
AND I THOUGHTEchelon had a cool basement.
We follow Shen through a door that leads to a room with a pristine marble floor made up of black and white squares, like a chessboard. The room is about the size of a two-car garage but it’s completely unfurnished, empty. Also, there’s no other way in or out. I spin around, taking it all in, the weird nothingness. Bergamo’s doing the same; the two of us are standing in the middle of the room like a couple of tourists.
“Over here,” says Shen off in a corner. We take a few steps toward him. He motions with his hand. “Closer.”
I assume he wants to tell us something, but he simply looks at our feet, waiting. For what, I don’t know. Then I do.
We needed to cross the invisible line.
Shen presses a button on a small fob that I didn’t realize he was holding. Suddenly, our section of the floor begins to move. We’re going down. Like an elevator, only slower.
“Whoa,” says Bergamo.
We’re surrounded by concrete as we drop amid a mechanical hum. Two sliding doors appear. They open the moment we come to a stop.
“Whoa,” says Bergamo again, looking out at the room before us.
I’m thinking the same thing as we walk into the ultimate art collector’s man cave. Echelon’s basement could be described the same way, but this is different. The paintings hanging on the walls are recognizably by well-known artists—Banksy, Hockney, Warhol—all privately commissioned. For the very rich, art is an investment. For the superrich, it’s simply about the pleasure of owning.
And no group seeks that pleasure more than Chinese billionaires. Shen is their go-between.
“Please,” he says, pointing to two black leather sofas in the center of the room.
Bergamo and I sit. Shen walks over to a credenza and pours himself a finger of cognac. Not just any cognac—Louis XIII.
“Can I change my mind about that drink?” asks Bergamo, eyeing the bottle.
Shen doesn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t hear him or maybe he’s choosing to pretend he didn’t. Knowing Shen, I think it’s the latter, but I don’t let on. Bergamo looks at me, puzzled. I simply shrug.
Shen sits across from us, cradling the cognac in his palm. To Bergamo, he says, “This is the first time I’ve ever brought a stranger such as yourself down here.” Every word is deliberate. He stares at Bergamo. “Do you know why?”
Bergamo’s not sure if it’s a rhetorical question. It isn’t. Shen waits.
“It’s because of Halston, I assume,” says Bergamo.
“No.” Shen raises the snifter to his lips, takes a sip.“Xinrèn.”
Bergamo leans forward. “Excuse me?”
“That’s the Chinese word for ‘trust,’” says Shen. “Xinrèn. Because of the relationship you had with Halston’s father and what transpired years ago, I’m choosing to show you first what I will now expect in return.”
“Trust,” says Bergamo.
Shen nods, takes another sip. “We have a buyer for the Picasso.”
“Are we allowed to know who it is?” asks Bergamo.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that,” says Shen.
What matters is that there’s a buyer, not who it is. Bergamo nods.“Xinrèn,”he says. Trust.
Shen nods back. “The far more difficult task has been securing your request for—”
“Yes, such vases are very rare,” says Bergamo. He’s interrupted Shen. I reach over, place my hand on Bergamo’s forearm. Now he gets it. “Oh. My apologies. I’m sorry.”
Shen continues. “The difficulty is not securing the vases. The problem is who they’re going to.”
“You mean me,” says Bergamo. “It’s because of who I am.”
