Visit her every day. Don’t worry about your work here. If anything changes, call me. Doesn’t matter when. Day or night.” Simon drew a breath. “Her family won’t…Well, we’re all the family she has.”
“Understood, boss.”
“One more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
Simon chose his words with care. “This trip…I’m not exactly sure what I’m getting into. It’s different from my usual line of work. Might be a little out of my depth. Anyway, there’s an envelope in my desk with instructions, you know.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Believe it or not, you, Harry Mason, are the only family I’ve got.”
Harry’s face sagged, caught unawares. “Stop your blathering,” he managed after a moment. “Never heard such a bunch of nonsense. You’ll be fine. Always are.”
“Sure I will be.”
Harry considered this, unhappy to be put upon. “Christ, I didn’t know you were one of them.”
“One of who?”
“What’s Lucy always saying? A ‘drama queen.’”
Simon laughed. For some things, he didn’t have a response.
“Need a lift, then?” asked Harry.
“You bet.”
“Gatwick or Heathrow?”
“Heathrow.”
“What time?”
“Seven thirty.”
Mason looked at his watch. “Cutting it close.”
Simon picked up his bag and threw a hand onto Harry’s back. “We better take the LaFerrari. Let’s see if we can’t get us a speeding ticket on the way.”
Chapter 16
Cannes
Monet or Degas?
Samson Sun studied the brochure from Christie’s listing artworks for sale at the coming auction in London. Lily pads or ballerinas? He wasn’t crazy about either. Or maybe a Van Gogh? He liked sunflowers, and the colors went well with the furniture in his bedroom. Estimated price: ninety million dollars. He wrinkled his nose. Not so much at the price. The problem with Van Gogh was that his friends back home could never pronounce his name correctly. It came out “Wan Gah,” which sounded perilously close to “wanker,” a name he’d been called more than once during his days at Harrow, the elite boarding school located in northwest London.
Sun dropped the brochure on the coffee table as his assistant arrived with a mug of steaming chai and a plate of figs. There was no question that he would replace the stolen work. This time, however, he would avoid the black market. Producers whose motion picture was set to screen on the last night of the Cannes Film Festival—an honor nearly equal to winning the Palme d’Or—did not keep works of questionable provenance on their walls, at sea or on land.
A sip of tea. Sun frowned. “Sugar?”
“Two packets.”
He thrust his mug toward his assistant, displeased. Her name was Jen, and he’d found her bartending at the Soho House in Los Angeles, a six-foot blond gazelle who’d said she would do anything—absolutely anything—to get into the movie business. So far, she’d made good on her word.
“Stevia,” he said. “Stevia, stevia, stevia. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I couldn’t find any at the supermarket,” said Jen.
“Did you ask by the French name?”
“Isn’t stevia the same everywhere?”
“Stévia,” he said, with the accent aigu. Stay-vee-ah. He was proud of his ability with languages.
From Jen, a blank look.
Sun gave up. “Have it flown in,” he said. “By noon.”
Jen nodded and turned for the kitchen, before Sun grabbed the mug of tea. Just this once.
He adjusted his shirt—a loose-fitting batik his aunt had given him—and returned his thoughts to the stolen Monet. He had not yet heard from the police; then again, who was going to tell them about the theft? Still, he imagined he’d be receiving a visit in the not too distant future from an investigator interested to learn from whom exactly he’d acquired the painting. No questions asked, of course.
He was more bothered by the betrayal of a friend. He’d liked Riske. Not his usual type at all. No simpering, no sucking up, no currying favor. For once, a man who didn’t give a damn about his money. Someone with whom he’d shared an authentic mutual interest. They had bonded. Or so he’d thought. In reality, Riske had been an operative sent by one of the insurance companies—Lloyd’s, Swiss Re, it didn’t matter which—on behalf of whatever museum the work had been lifted from who knew how long ago.
He didn’t begrudge Riske doing his job. He only wished that he’d come straight out and asked him for the painting back. Unrealistic, Sun knew. But still…maybe, just maybe, he might have given it to him. A present to cement his friendship with the American with the frightening green eyes.
He enjoyed giving presents to those he liked.
On this day in May, Samson Min Chung Sun was thirty-one years old, stood