Spoils of the Game (2 page)

“A fake? It couldn’t be a fake,” Badeau said to himself. He looked to Bertrand for some form of assurance.

Caron continued, “A month ago my wife noted the same painting listed for an auction in Tokyo. I knew that we must have the original and the other was the fake, but I spent five thousand euros to have our painting authenticated. I have learned a lot in the past month about fakes, and it is a very interesting business. We had this painting studied by the best in the business. Here is their report,” said Caron, tossing a copy of the report at Badeau.

“You can argue with them if you like, but one of the very simple tests involves the paint. With my permission they removed a tiny piece of paint, put it into one of their fancy machines, and determined that the type of paint used didn’t exist when the artist would have painted the work. Claude, I am very angry about this problem, and I blame myself for not checking this more carefully. I know now that I should have had professionals review this piece before I bought it, but I am also very disappointed in you. I trusted you. Monsieur Badeau, I am going to ask you a simple question, and I want a very simple answer—and I assure you that you will have a lot riding on the answer.”

“Yes, sir,” said Badeau acknowledging the importance of the question while trying not to piss in his pants.

“Claude, did you or any of your people have any information that may have even suggested that this painting was a fake before you sold it to my wife?”

Badeau looked again at Bertrand and then said, with as much respect that he could gather, “No, sir. We had every reason to believe that this was a genuine Giacomo Coppi. It is well documented, and we are very familiar with the source.”

Caron took his seat again, leaned back in the chair, looked at the ceiling, and then brought his lethal stare down again toward Badeau. Nothing was said for perhaps thirty seconds. To Claude Badeau the thirty seconds seem like the rest of his life.

Suddenly Caron changed his approach. “Claude, I am a businessman, and I am not crazy. My wife says that I must be more of a gentleman when dealing with people in the art world. I can be very nice to people I believe are my friends, and I can be very bad to those I suspect are not my friends. Claude, I am genuinely concerned, and I want you to appreciate the value of our relationship. The world is crazy these days, and a lot of people—good people—are getting hurt. Crime is getting into everything, and a lot of people are not as polite as me. As long as you and I are friends, even casual friends, no one will threaten you.”

Caron looked toward Simon and then back at Badeau. “Claude, perhaps you heard of a gentleman in southern France that died last month. According to the papers, the guy drowned in a bowl of warm urine. I find this very unusual, and I doubt that it was a suicide.”

Simon, seated at the end of the table, chuckled.

“I mean, how does this type of thing happen?” continued Caron, looking at Simon.”

“Perhaps he had help,” suggested Simon.

“But where do you get enough urine?” asked Caron with a little sarcasm.

“Three guys and a lot of beer,” said Simon in an almost matter-of-fact way.

“Claude, if people knew that he was my friend, this would not have happened. Now, let’s get back to the topic of you and me. I want a check for one hundred and fifty thousand euros in twenty-four hours. My associate, Monsieur Simon here, will be at your office at the Louvre tomorrow about noon. Please have a bank check ready.”

Badeau’s mind raced. He did not have the immediate funds available or the lines of credit to cover the check, and he certainly did not have an appetite for warm urine or any other diabolical scheme.

“Do we have a deal, Monsieur?” asked Caron, who already knew the answer.

“Yes, sir,” said Badeau, out of panic. What would be worse, saying no or being late with the money?

Caron again changed his personality. Leaning over the table, in a low voice he began another conversation with Claude Badeau.

“Claude, I like you, and on many occasions I have told some of my associates that I have the highest respect for you. In the past month I have learned that even the best in this business have been fooled, so when you tell me that you had no knowledge that the painting was a fake, I can believe you. I also do not want you or your friends here to get the wrong impression of me. I can be a very reasonable person.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Badeau saw a smirk develop on Simon’s face.

“Claude,” continued Caron, “the money is not the issue. The real issue is trust. I have to be able to trust the people around me. It is a business principle that has been a key to my success. I want to continue to work with you in the future, and I want both of us to get rich in the art business. My wife’s happiness is also very important to me, and when she learned that the painting was a fake, it made her sad. I have mellowed a little bit in my old age, and I knew we could work this out. I have another meeting in a few minutes, and I must bring this meeting to an end. I am glad that you and I agreed on the resolution of the problem, and I think we can put this issue behind us. Getting the money back is a move in the right direction, but I must tell you that I want to rebuild my trust in you, and I might have to ask for a favor or two in the future. I am sure you understand.”

Badeau did not respond to these last comments, but he heard them. Caron’s comments were so ambiguous.
What the hell is a favor?
he thought to himself. Claude Badeau was a well-respected member of the Louvre family and well known in Paris and in the world art community. He never had liked the fact that his wife, Catherine, and her small gallery had built a relationship with Caron’s wife, but that had the appearance of a respectable business relationship. He also did not like the fact that through his wife, Caron had become a benefactor to the museum, but at least that was not Badeau’s area of responsibility.

Caron said, “Claude, I suggest that when you leave, you confirm your plans with my associate Simon. The next time I am in Paris, we can perhaps have dinner, and we can laugh about this unfortunate event.”

“Monsieur Caron, again we want to express our regret, and I can promise that this type of problem will never happen again,” stated Badeau, whose mind was spinning and hands were shaking.

“Oh, I agree with you,” replied Caron.

Badeau reached across the table to take possession of the painting, and Caron quickly stopped him.

“Claude, I want to hold on to this painting for a while, if you don’t mind. It has taught me a great lesson, and now that we know that it is not genuine, you must agree that it has little value. Why don’t you take the copy of the report I received, and you can address any issues you have with your sources? If any of these people become a problem, just call me.”

Badeau was dumbfounded and could not put together a good reply. This was an unfair fight, and Caron had all of the ammunition. Caron and his wife rose from their chairs, and Simon opened the conference room door. Within seconds Badeau, his wife, Phillip Bertrand, and Simon had exited the galley and were standing in the rain.

“Simon, we may have some difficulty obtaining the money by this time tomorrow. I may have to sell some securities and talk with my banker. Would Thursday be satisfactory?”

Simon paused as if he was thinking and then provided his decree. “No. I will see you tomorrow at noon at your office at the Louvre. Thank you for coming.”

With that, the man named Simon turned and reentered the gallery.

Badeau and his wife were in shock. Their friend and consultant Phillip Bertrand seemed more composed.

“I need a drink, and we have to talk,” said Badeau. There was a cafe around the corner, and the three took a table in the corner.

Badeau held his face in his hands as his wife wiped tears from her eyes. Bertrand took the opportunity to order wine for all three.

“Catherine, how much money do we have in the business?” asked Claude.

She hesitated before saying, “Perhaps forty thousand euros. We just purchased those three paintings in Amsterdam, and that was almost two hundred thousand. We would have been in a better position if this had happened last week.”

“I should never have agreed to a twenty-four-hour limit. It is impossible to raise the cash by tomorrow.”

Phillip Bertrand did not let the pain continue. “Claude, I can provide the cash, but I must have the three paintings you mentioned. I hate to let it appear that I am being mercenary in my offer, but I also need to be protected. Perhaps we can talk about using the paintings as collateral, but I have to be compensated for the money I give you … and under the circumstances, the risk might be high. Unfortunately I don’t know when I can expect to see the money again.”

“Phillip, you were at that meeting as well, and you are on Caron’s list, so be careful,” said Badeau.

“I don’t see it that way. I am a minor player, but if you see me as one under threat because of your company’s actions, then all the more reason for needing the three paintings to advance you the money. If I am to get the money transferred to your account, I must leave you now. I will be at your wife’s office this afternoon to pick up the paintings” Bertrand eased himself from the table and slowly moved his large frame out of the café and into the rain.

Badeau found Bertrand’s offer welcome but stained by his demands. Hopefully they could resolve their problems once the money was paid. Badeau and his wife sat in the cafe’s dark corner trying to unscramble their lives.

“Catherine, how could that painting have been a fake? Andre knew the dealer we bought it from, and the paperwork was complete. I did not study the painting in detail, and I should have. Why Caron kept the painting is another question. Are we supposed to ask for our money back based on the report he provided? I would even pay for my own analysis if I had the painting. And if the painting is not a fake, we may have just been robbed. Something is not right, but the good news is that we will get past tomorrow. I hate to give Phillip Bertrand the paintings, but he has the money, and we are desperate. I feel so violated. It is almost like Caron and Bertrand set us up. Whatever happens, do not mention this to anyone. I have a reputation at the Louvre to maintain.”

Badeau rose from the table and went to the men’s room. Looking into the mirror he saw the eyes of an older man who, for the first time in his life, was very much afraid. Through the innocent actions of his wife, he was now much too familiar with key people in organized crime. Badeau and his wife had had issues in the past with a few investors that had questioned their methods, if not their honesty, but that had been resolved, and no one had felt they were at personal risk. Now, for the first time, he feared that lives were in danger.

While Badeau searched for a solution, four thousand miles away in Hickory, North Carolina, Austin Clay’s alarm clock began to ring. Although the alarm had done its duty, Austin had been awake for perhaps half an hour, thinking about many things. He reached over to turn off the alarm, not knowing that in the preceding hour, the actions of someone far away would lead to a threat on his life and on the lives of those around him.

Chapter 2

Hickory, North Carolina, and Paris, France

It had been a good week for Austin Clay. As president of Clay Medical he had challenged his company and its employees to achieve their goals on a new project, and it had paid off. Clay Medical was a biomedical company that specialized in novel treatments for many of the primary diseases that have haunted mankind, and its success rate was higher than many others in the business. As thanks, Austin held a luncheon party for his employees at the Twin Creek Country Club, where he and his father had been members for many years.

It was about five o’clock when the party broke up. Austin made his way down to the members’ grill and took a seat at the bar. The bartender was a guy named Eddie. Eddie had been with the club for over twenty years and knew too many secrets. People liked talking to Eddie, and people placed their trust in him, and on occasion they placed their bets with Eddie for a variety of sporting events. Eddie could project a benign sense of interest that invited people to divulge to him personal topics. He knew when to volunteer information and when to keep his mouth shut.

“Hello, Mr. C. What can I get you?”

“Do you have any of the single malt I like?”

“Sure do.”

Eddie looked over his collection on the bar shelves, and Austin looked around the bar and its collection of members. Many had been friends of his father, who was a doctor and the medical pioneer who started the company that was making Austin a very rich man. When Austin’s mother and father died in a car accident, Austin had been ready to take over the company, not because he was smarter than anyone else, but because his father had staffed the company with the best people in the business. This was a practice that Austin continued and one that gave him great comfort. Spending good money for great people was, in his opinion, the cheapest way to run the company.

“Okay, Mr. C, here’s your scotch.”

“Thanks, Eddie.”

“So what is new in your life, Mr. C?”

It was a standard probing question; Eddie was good at those. It allowed people to provide just a little information or to spill their guts. Eddie was a good listener and often could provide a perspective that only bartenders had.

“Things couldn’t be better, Eddie,” said Austin as he stirred his drink with his finger.

“I saw that you had a gang over here today for some big celebration.”

“I have been very lucky, Eddie, and I love to pass the luck around. I spent a lot of money here today, but it is the best money I ever spent.”

Austin Clay was born into a wealthy family and educated in the best schools. He had been a college football star, and now he was the principal stockholder in a prosperous medical hardware company. Some would say it would be difficult for him not to be successful. But with all of his pedigree, Austin’s most important attribute was his ability to make whatever he did appear to be easy. At the age of forty-six, this good-looking man had a reputation for business smarts that made people want to follow his lead, and that was the real secret to his success.