The storm fell on them from a clear night sky. A calm and steady progress quickly became a melee of rigging and screams and high water. The captain was drunk, having tapped into the cargo. He was lolling on his cabin bunk, dictating a new bill of lading to the clerk. The captain was cunning - he'd brought a supply of paper, knowing that this would be his best opportunity to build his pension before France fell to pieces.
The ship's relentless rocking meant that the young scribe made many mistakes. He had finally finished his work when a wall of water slammed into the ship, throwing the captain onto the coarse wooden floor. The roll continued, so the ship capsized and fell gently through the frigid water, finally coming to rest on its side, a hundred fathoms down. The captain and the clerk danced, a slow, black, salty embrace.
***
Three hundred and twenty-one years later, a group of friends from Sweden decided that their July holidays would be spent diving the tideless Baltic Sea. They had hoped to find a plane or a ship from World War Two. A massive algal bloom stayed off to the east, so conditions were excellent for diving.
Descending through the brackish top layer of water and into the more saline, anaerobic layer below, they could not be aware that this lack of oxygen at lower depths - a peculiar feature of the Baltic - would be key to their fortunes being made.
Three shapes drifted down, down through the plankton clouds and herring shoals, the sun glinting from the azure sky in that other, above world. They reached the seabed and worked a search pattern. The sunshine just a light vagueness now, their torches shone on the mud and the weeds and the scuttling things.
There! Gestures, shallow breathing, wasted oxygen. A ship, it must be a ship. The thrill of approaching an artefact, a thing from another time looming from the murk. What if? Mikael, the dive leader, couldn't help but remember the first time he made love, to that Danish girl with the freckles, on another summer holiday, in another time. The feeling was intense.
A hermit crab, scared, retreated into its shell until the shadows passed.
The divers reached the vessel and saw immediately that this was no Nazi gunboat or Finnish cargo ship. It was on its side, covered in a gently sloping, thick layer of mud so, to the casual observer watching a sonar display, it looked much like a natural seabed formation. But there were stumps to one side, masts. Mikael reached it first, touched the mud on the hull, wiped it off in thick clouds until his glove touched oak.
Their excitement was palpable, eyes wide behind the masks, as they surveyed the wreck. On the deck, a gaping hole led into a black question. Mikael checked his watch, yes, enough oxygen for a quick look. He gestured ten minutes to his buddies and careful and in they went.
It only took four minutes for them to discover the bones and the perfectly intact wooden cases with the legend still easily legible.
Veuve Clicquot Champagne.
1786.
***
Jacob had been awake for thirty-two hours straight when he met Julia in a bar on Columbus Circle. It was an Irish-style place, fairly dark, neon Guinness signs, maudlin' music in the hazy background, chatty barman, daytime drunks.
She'd called as he stood on the street outside the police station, wondering What the hell do I do now?
He was on his second screwdriver. The vodka was a blessing to Jacob then, fuzzing reality, lessening the shock of life. He thought of Munch’s The Scream, put his hands on his face, silently became the art. Then she walked in, turning most heads. Jacob half-stood, gestured to the other seat at his table. Christ it was just like the interview room, only with booze.
'What would you like to drink?'
'Nothing here,' glancing around, a vague distaste on her lips 'thank you. If you can just finish up, I'd like to bring you somewhere we can talk.'
She stayed standing while Jacob drained his glass, even taking all the crushed ice into his mouth. He got up and waited for her to lead the way. She hurried out of the place.
They crossed the Circle and over to Central Park West, past the Trump Hotel and to a nearby building that was newly familiar to Jacob. Vierte Corporation? Again?
Jacob admired the building's lines and details. He thought it funny how he'd never noticed the place before, though it was so near his golden triangle of Museum of Modern Art, Metropolitan Museum of Art and Guggenheim. Wrong side of the Park, he figured. They passed through the marbled lobby, the airport-style metal detector remaining silent, two suited security guys, ex-military types, calmly watching from behind a massive desk. They greeted Julia, formally. Usually, two SIG Sauer military issue automatic pistols and a German MP5 sub machine gun lurked in the desk's top drawer. Today, one of the SIG Sauers was missing.
Julia presented a photo ID and asked to sign Jacob in as her guest.
'Welcome back, sir,' said a guard.
Jacob filled in his name, cell and social security numbers and stood for a photo. Within seconds, he was presented with a clip-on, laminated photo ID, GUEST across the top.
Jacob glanced at the lists of occupiers on huge boards in the elevator hall. He got a sense of international trade and investment finance.
Then they were alone in the elevator.
'What is this building?' he asked.
'Simply a busy commercial premises,' Julia said. 'It's owned by a trust fund and the offices are leased out to members of a club at preferential rates. We work hard at helping each other out. We have hedge funds, investment banks, accountants, legal, art and antiques brokerages, you name it. Our main trading office is down on Wall Street. That’s where we make the gold. But we keep a duplicate trading floor here. So business isn’t interrupted, in the event of another -'
She didn’t need to say it.
'You work hard together and, I'm guessing, play hard?' Not so subtle, Jacob.
She smiled a fake smile, all business.
They exited the elevator at the top floor - thirty-two - and walked along a pleasant, airy corridor, office doors along each side, potted plants, good light. At the far end of the corridor, a window let the afternoon autumn sunshine flood in, an orange tint to it. Immediately to the right of the window, the last door had no name plaque beside it, just a security camera dome fixed to the wall above. The door handle was different too, not the functional brushed chrome of the others, but something more ornate. Golden.
'Interesting,' said Jacob. 'The handle is in the style of Louis XVI.'
She nodded, taking a beautiful key from her purse. She inserted the key delicately into the lock, twisted it until there was a solid click from deep inside. No ordinary lock, no ordinary key.
A flight of wide, wooden stairs.
The thirty-third floor. A sacred number among Freemasons.
'It's a really lovely building,' said Jacob. 'I like the Art Deco style. 1930s?'
'Just after the War, actually,' she said, locking the door, checking it.
At the top of the stairs was a security desk, an unsmiling Filipino woman sitting behind it, and a large cloakroom. A massive oak double door stood open, the clatter of silver and the gentle buzz of late afternoon conversation escaping.
A stunning, wide open room, glass on three sides, Central Park in front, facing east. An odd hue to the glass, mirrored on the outside, Jacob figured.
Electromagnetically shielded, bullet proof and alarmed also.
A wide, circular column in the centre of the room, bar around it, stools and high tables. Everything made of gleaming brass or the finest polished wood, walnut, mahogany, oak. The smell of timeless money. Maybe twenty or so people enjoying afternoon drinks, mostly at the low tables by the floor-to-ceiling window that faced onto the Park. Amiable-looking people. Wealthy certainly, that you could tell, but something about the group as a whole unsettled Jacob. Something wasn't right. But what?
Utterly priceless view. But Jacob's attention had been hijacked by the art.
On this pedestal, a Roman bust, probably Nero. On that pedestal a Babylonian lion. Glass cabinets with delicate beauties lit by gentle recessed lights. Dalí’s eggs. Fabergé’s too. A Ming vase or three. Along the oak-panelled partition wall at the far side - which seemed to cut off maybe half of the floor area, the smell of a kitchen, a waiter exiting a door there with a tray of jumbo prawn salads - paintings and doors. A really old man, maybe in his eighties or nineties, sat beside a large painting of a unicorn by Swiss symbolist artist Arnold Böcklin and a dark work of a moon over the sea. Jacob knew the moonlight work well, really knew it, but he couldn’t think why. The old man read an antique book, raised his head and smiled enigmatically every so often. Everyone who walked by him, staff member or customer, acknowledged him. Clearly a senior member of the club.
The paintings!
Julia used her exquisitely-manicured index finger to gently push up Jacob's lower jaw. His teeth clunked.
'Sorry, I - . Is that a Van Gogh over there?'
'One of his earlier works. We can take a look after we talk business. Okay?'
'Okay. Okay.'
Julia led him to a table by the window. They sat in le Corbusier armchairs and a waiter appeared within seconds.
'Chateau Margaux, please,' said Julia. 'And some nibbles. Red okay with you, Jacob?'
'Chateau Margaux? God, yes.'
'Is the 2000 vintage suitable, madam?'
'Perfect, thanks.'
Julia relaxed and smiled, studying Jacob as he savoured the view, which included the Guggenheim's delicious curves.
'2000?' he said, frowning slightly. 'So it's bottled sunshine that may as well be from another time, another world entirely. Think about it. The new millennium was a hopeful time. Some said it would be the Age of Aquarius, peace and love and all that. Instead, we got 9/11, wars across the Middle East, global warming, natural disasters, fundamentalism, hatred and, to cap it all off, economic meltdown.'
The waiter returned with the Pavillon Rouge du Chateau Margaux and two huge wine glasses. He quickly opened the bottle, smelled the cork and poured a mouthful into Julia's glass. She declined the invitation to test it, so he poured both glasses and faded away.
'If the cork has gone mouldy, the waiter will smell it. The whole testing thing is just peasant behaviour. Anyway,' she raised her glass, 'to us.'
'To us,' said Jacob.
Their glasses clinked. Instead of rushing to drink, they both held their glasses up to the light, their eyes drinking in the luxurious, dark, velvety redness of it. Then to the nose, the deep inhalation of fruits and toffee and oak, the barrel still prominent.
Then the taste, that tender first sip. They filled their mouths with it, every tastebud tingling, air drawn in to maximise the oxygenation of the flavour explosion. A creamy, toasty, thick and rich fruit bonanza that lingered in the brain for precious, long seconds to savour. A tannin aftertaste followed. But not bitter: mellow, an added bonus.
'Wow,' said Jacob.
'It can do with another few years in the cellar,' she said, 'but it's certainly drinkable.'
Jacob laughed as he took a mouthful, held it until he coughed, drenching his tongue. Drinkable!
'You can judge the quality of a wine by the length of flavour,' he said. 'This just doesn't want to go away. The taste of another time. A better time.'
'I don't know,' she said. 'The world is in constant flux. It really depends on your perspective. Things have been going well for us here. And you can be part of it.'
A plate of nibbles arrived, delicate little wedges of brie and Camembert, salty crackers and squares of high cocoa plain chocolate. Everything selected to complement the wine.
'The elderly gentleman on the stool,' she began. 'He's the last surviving founder, a life member of our board. Where we are now is open to a very restricted number of members and their guests, but we do try to trawl our nets as widely as possible to get a vibrant cross section of the elite to come and play. But only a tiny number will get into our inner sanctum, our Leader's Club. That door beside our founder, that door leads to our greatest treasures, our greatest secrets, our greatest pleasures. Work with us and I'll get you in there.'
She paused, eyebrows raised. She had him.
'Yes please,' he said.
She nodded.
'Excellent. Now, to business. You're aware of the discovery of King Louis's Champagne in the Baltic Sea last July?'
'Of course. A remarkable find.'
'And you know that two complete cases from the find are up for auction in Christie's on Monday?'
'Yes. Guide of fifty to one hundred grand per bottle. I don't know if they've decided on whether to split up the cases yet.'
'They will be sold as complete cases,' she said firmly. 'And we want both.'
'I can see that they would be remarkable,' mused Jacob. 'Sommeliers have tasted a couple of bottles. I've read that the flavours are quite amazingly complex. Talk about vintage, it doesn't get much better.'
'Exactly, so competition will be fierce but we must have them for a themed event here next Friday night. Failure is simply not an option.'
There was a stirring at the entrance door then, two men in Christie's overalls carried a medium-sized painting box, accompanied by an older man in a suit, plus two uniformed and armed guards from a private security company, and another man in some kind of uniform behind.
'If you'll excuse me for just a moment,' said Julia, standing. 'Our Lichtenstein has arrived.'
'Ohhh... Alright...'
She laughed. 'I like you, Jacob.'
'It's a beautiful piece.'
'True. We already have some of his lesser works which I'm planning to offload soon.'
'So you've just pushed up their value.'
A nod, but her mind was on the delivery, her head already turned away.
A thunderclap then and everything froze, time paused, the world wobbled, stuttered upon its axis. Another explosion. Jacob, his brain already tender, reflexively leapt to his feet, the glasses of Chateau Margaux falling over slowly. Jacob watched them tumble.
Follow the sound, Jacob. The old man sitting alone at the far wall. He was slumped in his chair, his chest red. A hazy cloud of grey smoke. A man with his back to Jacob, right arm outstretched. Another clap. The old man lurched. He's dead! No need to shoot anymore! Guns are so loud! A fourth shot, then a fifth.
Julia ran back towards Jacob. He grabbed her and pulled her down behind the cool leather armchairs. The smell of her hair. Jacob's hands were shaking, his spine hot. He winced as one more shot rang out.