Spoils of the Game Read online

  SPOILS

  of the

  GAME

  LEE LAMOND

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  Copyright © 2014 by Lee Lamond

  ISBN 978-0-7414-9856-4 Paperback

  ISBN 978-0-7414-9857-1 eBook

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013916486

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published April 2014

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  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  Chapter 1

  Paris

  It was about four o’clock on Monday afternoon when Claude Badeau received a call on his cell phone. It had been a bad day dealing with the conflict between his expectations and the performance of some of the people in his department at the Louvre, and he just didn’t need any more issues in his life. He looked at the number on the phone and didn’t recognize it. For a second he debated not answering, but his ego wouldn’t allow it.

  “Bonjour, Badeau speaking.”

  “Monsieur Badeau, my name is Simon, and I am calling at the instruction of Antonio Caron.”

  The mention of Caron’s name captured Badeau’s attention. It was a name that deserved respect, if not fear, and it was a name he wished he didn’t know.

  “Monsieur Badeau, Monsieur Caron wants you, your wife, and your associate to attend a meeting at the Galerie Louis Bergeron tomorrow at ten.”

  Claude Badeau mentally checked his calendar and realized he would need to make some changes to attend. “I believe that ten will be fine. Is there anything that I should prepare for the meeting?”

  “No. I just recommend that you not be late,” said Simon with an instructional tone.

  As the director of the Renaissance department at the Louvre Museum, Claude Badeau could make an excuse for attending, especially since Caron’s wife was a noted contributor to the Louvre and because his intuition suggested that not attending would be unwise. Antonio Caron identified himself as a businessman with his offices in Marseilles. A check with the French National Police would reveal a different perspective that suggested he was a key member in the French underworld, with connections to drugs, extortion, and prostitution. The child of a Sicilian mother and a French father, a more detailed study would reveal a life of street crime, time in some of France’s more notorious prisons, and a list of murders for which he was a suspect but had not been convicted. In his later years Caron had taken to cleaning up his image, and often he could be found in public, making contributions to a hospital or to a museum with money that came from what were identified as legitimate businesses. Regardless of his contrived image, he was still the same Antonio Caron and a man to be feared.

  Badeau put his phone back in his pocket, and for a few seconds his mind was flooded with thoughts. Was there a problem, or perhaps a new opportunity? Perhaps the style, if not rudeness, of the invitation was just a reflection of the faceless person named Simon. Whatever the reason, Badeau was concerned and unprepared.

  Badeau had been with the Louvre for over twenty-five years, and two years ago he was given the opportunity to become a department director. He was perhaps one of the most respected authorities on Renaissance art in France, and the promotion made sense to some. Badeau was a small man with very thick glasses. His thinning black hair, poor posture, and limp (given to him by a bad hip) made him look older than his fifty years. Unfortunately he was not a good manager of people, and resentment had developed quickly within the department. Few could satisfy Monsieur Badeau, and many that worked for the man had given up trying.

  The invitation had included Badeau’s wife, Catherine, who was the official owner and president of the Galerie Seine, a small art investment company; and the “associate.” as Simon called him, was a Monsieur Phillip Bertrand. In this city of style and glamour, Catherine had a matronly appearance. She was the face of the company, but it was the influence and expertise of her husband, Claude Badeau, that people saw when they did business with Catherine.

  Monsieur Phillip Bertrand was an art consultant who sometimes worked for them in acquiring art for clients. He was large man with a large waistline. Gold rings could be found on each of his fingers, and he was always very well dressed with a slightly feminine touch. His small mouth almost always presented a smile, surrounded by large cheeks on his red face.

  The relationship of the small group with Antonio Caron had been casual, with a few sales to Caron’s wife. Badeau had to be careful to maintain the appearance that the Galerie Seine was his wife’s venture; as an executive at the Louvre, he could have no official involvement. But the invitation to meet with Caron was personal, and he had no option but to attend.

  The Galerie Louis Bergeron was a well-established art galerie reserved for the most exclusive art clients in the world and much more significant than the small firm owned by Badeau’s wife. A person did not walk in off the street to survey the current offerings; admission was by appointment or referral only. The gallery was only a few blocks from the Louvre, in a modern white three-story building with only a small brass plaque to identify the business. Visitors would enter the building through a rear entrance behind a white wall intended to preserve security and anonymity. The receptionist, a petite dark-haired girl, was dressed in a form-fitting white dress and was seated at a large white desk. The walls were white, the carpets were white, and the seating in the lobby and the table and chairs in the conference room were also white. The theory was that the white color provided excellent ambient light and provided a contrast for the works displayed.

  Upon their arrival the next day, Badeau and his associates were immediately ushered into a large private conference room where four paintings were hanging on the wall. Badeau and his small group took seats at the far side of the table and surveyed the art that was before them. Badeau looked at his watch and confirmed that they were on time. In about two minutes, the managing director’s office door opened, and through that door entered Antonio Caron, his wife, Michelle, and a gentleman introduced as Simon. Badeau had hoped for a cordial meeting, but it was clear from the beginning that the atmosphere would be cool. Caron was about sixty years old and perhaps sixty pounds overweight. He was dressed in a well-tailored suit that tried to make him look thinner. Handshakes were exchanged, but something was wrong. Caron took his seat in a very deliberate manner, as if he was in a hurry. His wife, Michelle, was about fort
y-five with long dark hair, stylishly dressed, and very much a lady but with a generous touch of slut. Those who had known her in her former life would have seen some changes to the lovely Michelle, including a new nose, a new chin, and greatly enhanced breasts that seemed to have a mind of their own. The man known as Simon sat at the end of the table in a dark suit, a blue shirt, and a black tie; Badeau did not know his role.

  “So, do you like my wife’s new paintings?” asked Caron as he looked at Badeau and pointed to the paintings on the wall. It was clear that he was being a little sarcastic, and it was also clear that his wife was very happy with the new purchases. Badeau guessed that the value of the four paintings might be as high as one and a half million euros. Regardless of the estimated value, it was very good art from a well-known artists and a valued addition to any collection. Caron’s wife was building a weak reputation as an art collector and a patron to the art community. To those who got to know her, it was also becoming clear that she had not really studied the topic, and she often mispronounced the names of some of the artists whose works she was collecting.

  Caron wasted little time in getting to the purpose of the meeting.

  “Claude, I am in Paris for just two days and have imposed on my friends here at this gallery to let me use this room for some meetings. The first meeting on my list is with you and your associates. Claude … you have a problem. Your problem is that I am angry and very disappointed.”

  Badeau’s mouth went dry. Badeau’s wife reacted with great surprise, knowing full well whom she was dealing with.

  Caron reached under the table and pulled out a small painting with an ornate frame. “Claude, do you recognize this painting?”

  The painting was Madonna and Child with Four Angels by Giacomo Coppi. The painting could be traced back to the painter, with a varied list of previous owners including Napoleon. Claude Badeau had obtained the painting through a meeting established by his friend and consultant Andre Bertrand, who sat quietly to his right.

  “Monsieur Caron, this is the painting that we sold your wife about a year ago,” said Badeau. “It is a beautiful painting, and I believe that she was thrilled that we could provide it.”

  A dispute between two people was a problem, but a dispute with a known member of the French underworld was more than a problem. Badeau was sure he could resolve any issue; perhaps she did not like the frame, or perhaps it needed a cleaning. Whatever the issue, the look on Caron’s face was intimidating.

  “Monsieur Badeau, do you remember how much you charged my wife for this painting?”

  “I believe it was one hundred and fifty thousand euros.” Badeau looked to Bertrand for confirmation.

  Caron stood and looked down at Badeau. Caron’s wife gave the impression that she was distressed, in a manner that suggested poor acting instead of genuine unhappiness.

  “Monsieur Badeau, that would be a very good price for this piece of art, except it is a damned fake!” screamed Caron. “You have embarrassed my wife, and you have cheated me, and I do not like being cheated. My friend Simon will tell you that I have a very small tolerance for those who cross me, and you and your friends have crossed me.”

  “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.