Page 8 of The Picasso Heist
“How much is it valued at?”
“Echelon is expecting it to go for around a hundred million dollars. If it sold for exactly a hundred million, that would make it the—”
“Sixth-highest-selling Picasso ever.”
“You know your art,” I say. “I’m impressed.”
“No, you’re not. You did your homework on me, that’s all.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be impressed.”
He picks a piece of lint off the thigh of his pants. “So, a hundred million, huh?”
“The bidding could go even higher, although I’m sure the record forLes Femmes d’Algerat a hundred and sixty-nine point four million is more than safe.”
“A hundred and seventy-nine point four million,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Les Femmes d’Alger,Version O, actually sold for a hundred andseventy-nine point four million.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Positive,” he says.
It’s easy to make a man think he’s smarter than you. All you have to do is let him correct you once. That’s all it takes.
“So,” I say, leaning in, “what can I tell you about the plan?”
“Everything. But first, I want to see the painting,” says Nikolov. “I assume you have a picture of it?”
“The auction hasn’t been announced yet but I got somebody at Echelon to email me one.” I reach into my pocket. Then the other pocket. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I don’t have my phone. Your guys took it from me.”
Nikolov pulls his phone out of his pocket because of course amob boss never goes anywhere without his cell, even in his own house. “Here, you can use mine,” he says. He logs out of his various accounts and hands me the phone. “Go ahead. You just need to sign in.”
I now have about thirty seconds to bring up the picture of the Picasso on Nikolov’s phone. Any longer than that and he might suspect something. And we absolutely, positively can’t have that.
Okay, Skip, it’s time to work your magic.
CHAPTER8
THE SECRET TOconvincing anyone of anything comes down to a single moment of clarity.
It might be a sentence, certain words artfully strung together, or maybe a gesture or a demonstration of some sort, something that transcends the limits of language.
I had told Anton Nikolov about my plan and what it would require. I’d shown him a picture of the painting, and he had commented that it was clearly no ordinary Picasso—it was extraordinary.
Still, he wasn’t sold. There was one aspect of the plan he had doubts about, serious doubts, and there was nothing more I could say to him to change his mind. Someone else would have to do it for me.
Mr. Nikolov, I’d like you to meet Wolfgang.
I wasn’t so much released as furloughed from Nikolov’s home to my SoHo apartment. I slept for a few hours, showered, and skedaddled over to the Museum of Modern Art, better known as MoMA, hurrying so I could be there at the appointed time, ten a.m.For the record, Nikolov did the appointing. “Don’t be late,” he added after telling Blaggy to give me back my phone, “and don’t even think of not showing up.”
I had no intention of doing either.
