After Jacob threw up in the bathroom, he showered and dressed.
When the room phone chirped, he jumped.
‘Good afternoon, sir. You have visitors. Shall I have them escorted to your room?’
For a slow second, Jacob feared a hit squad. No, the bidding ring.
‘Please. And some coffee.’
‘Of course. And just call when you’re ready to place your lunch order. If I might let you know, today’s special is grilled Maine lobster, with a starter of oysters, served with a remarkable Muscadet.’
‘Okay. Coffee for now.’
He went to the window and waited, wondered if there would be any familiar faces.
No.
Three men, each in his fifties, wearing an expensive grey suit, possessing a neutral face and a hard edge.
They introduced themselves, first names only, to Jacob and the coffee arrived.
The leader of the ring was a man called Richard.
‘The single most important requirement is that we are not identified together at the auction,’ he said. ‘It’s risky enough being seen all in one place,’ he gestured at the room, ‘but I’m banking on the hotel’s reputation for discretion. Tonight, not even a nod, understood? Good. Now we’re not a typical ring in that this is not about us taking possession of the item and then having our own knockout bids later to see who gets to take it home. We’re all aiming for one outcome, which is delivery of the Champagne to Vierte. End of. There are thirteen lots. Twelve individual bottles of Veuve Clicquot and one case of twelve. Our main objective is the case, but I feel that we should pick up an individual bottle or two also.’
‘Will the buyer of the first bottle be offered all the individual bottles at the bid price?’
‘Good question. No. The normal rules do not apply in this situation.’
‘Any idea of guide price?’ asked Jacob.
‘The auctioneer reckons about seventy grand a bottle. The case making maybe six-fifty. We’ll be paying twenty-five percent on top, of course. By the way, the man with the hammer is in our pocket. There will be no phantom bids. So, what are our potential obstacles?’
‘Somebody with more money,’ said Jacob.
‘Good. Nobody has more money than us. But we must beware somebody with a lot of money and some particular obsession with the lots. They will be our greatest threat.’
He nodded to one of the other men.
‘I have accessed the expressions of interest folder on the auctioneer’s secure network,’ he began, opening a laptop and launching a spreadsheet. ‘Most of these are small timers, but I have identified two potential risks. They both have deep pockets and an obsession with pre-Revolutionary France, Louis XVI in particular.’
The ringleader addressed the group. ‘We’ve been monitoring these individuals for the past week. The first will be intercepted before he enters the auction house and will be shown some photographs. He will not proceed.’ Of course he won’t, thought Jacob. Do they know about me? ‘The second threat we don’t have such easy leverage over. She will be drugged before the bidding begins. Nothing too strong, just enough to send her to the ladies’ room for an hour. Jacob, we three will focus on heading off any other unexpected threats. It is your task to deliver the winning bid. As a respected bidding representative, you are perfect for this. There can be no attention on us, so we will only bid if you are outnumbered. Are you confident that you can do this?’
‘You appear to have done your homework,’ said Jacob. ‘I’m confident, yes.’
‘Excellent. Here is the debit card that you will use to complete the transaction, the PIN is 1-9-4-1. It has no limit.’ He laughed. ‘You can return it to your contact when you see her next. Meanwhile, you are authorised to use it for your living costs. Now let’s order some lunch and monitor the online chatter about the auction, see if there are any unknowns swimming into focus.’
The clatter of plates and the crunch of lobster shells brought Sophie into Jacob’s mind. He found it difficult to swallow the rich, white meat, feeling like white meat himself, unable to escape the black, gnawing sensation that he was enduring his last meal.
The congressman had escaped the agents’ relentlessly tedious questions and made his way back to his oasis, to people of like mind, to art, to a level - physically and psychologically - above the boring plebs. To Vierte.
So he sat by the window with a glass of steely, flinty Chablis, its purity and cleanliness cutting through his funk.
Later, when Sophie arrived with Rod, everything seemed to have found its place. She pleaded information about his daughter, that whole finger thing, Rod looking suitably concerned. So he feigned sorrow, with a dash of joy that she was alive. She didn’t mention her visit to Jacob’s apartment with the police. That was interesting.
‘So, what do you think of this place, Sophie?’
She looked around, sniffed the air.
‘I smell truffles.’
‘Of course you do. Here,’ he said, offering a menu, ‘please choose something.’
She saw an opportunity to test the level of cuisine that would be expected of her for the feast. And also an opportunity to feed some cravings. The list of food was interesting. Old school, like the feast menu, but in a good way. Quail, pigeon, lots of pork, plates of Italian delicacies, some German stuff, but she was drawn to the fungus.
‘I’d like to try the buttered pasta with white truffle shavings, please.’
‘Good choice,’ said Rod. ‘The pasta’s made in-house, the butter’s Irish and the white truffles are genuine.’
‘It’s amazing that most people aren’t aware that their so-called truffle oil doesn’t contain anything from outside a lab.’
‘2-4, dithiapentane doesn’t have quite the sexy ring to it.’
‘To drink, might I suggest an old Bordeaux, perhaps an ‘82 Saint Emilion?’
‘Perfect.’
The order was taken, the wine delivered. Sophie sipped from her glass of Chateau Cheval Blanc, imagining a great white horse thundering through across the meadows as the Park took on its afternoon hues. She felt somehow special, up here, above the city, sipping on expensive wine as the sunshine slanted between the sentinels behind her, bathing the oaks and elms and horse chestnuts and maples and birches. She felt like she did when her mother brought her to see a musical for her eighth birthday, white ankle socks and lollipops. The Wiz.
I heart NY.
‘So, Soph’, said Rod, snapping her from an uneasy reverie, ‘what do you think of the menu?’
‘Interesting, yes. What’s the occasion?’
‘If I might?’ said the congressman. A nod. ‘This foundation has been involved with the arts since the War. We have one of the world’s greatest modern art collections. You name it. Much of our work has been out on loan, but it’s all been brought home for a member show next weekend. It’s to be held right here. It will likely be the greatest art show in modern history. And it’s exclusive. It’s special.’ His eyes glowed with an unfamiliar energy. ‘And to marry with the art, we will present the greatest feast since Louis XVI lost his head. Rod?’
‘Thank you, Sam. Sophie, we are on a journey here. As the world Drops to pieces around us, we have been given a gift. We’re looking at a fusion of great art and great food. I know you, Soph. You probably saw the menu and thought 18th century. Am I right?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Well, you’re right. We’re taking the dinner menu that was enjoyed by the Sun King, Louis XIV, most every night. This was the greatest monarch in history. He was militarily all-conquering. He was loved by his people. He was socially advanced, he wanted to fix his kingdom.’
Rod opened his palms, like this was enough.
‘You know I’m not a big monarchist, Rod,’ she said, smiling a Diana smile. ‘But yeah, I can see where you’re coming from. The Sun King. I get it. I get how some people would adore the concept.’
‘So, the food, we’ll take the very best ingredients, locally sourced and organic, exactly as they would have been for Louis, and introduce the most modern techniques. I’m talking ElBulli here, make the dishes utterly unique, magnificent, unforgettable.’
Sophie nodded, getting it now, just as her pasta with white truffles arrived.
‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘If this dish wins me, I’m with you.’
She dipped a fork, then filled her mouth with a wonderfully pungent, rich and buttery juxtaposition. Textures clashed, then fell in love, flavours actually made love, climaxing right there on her tongue, as if rolling around on the soft, autumnal, Tuscan forest floor, among the beech trees and the oaks, panting, skin clammy, eyelids heavy. So this is what sex tastes like.
‘I’m in.’
‘Nice,’ said Rod. ‘The staff here is excellent. They just need guidance to explore new ideas and a firm hand to get the dishes out on time. So tell me about your dish.’
‘I love how the pasta is cooked to perfection, al dente, smothered in the best butter in the world, seasoned, then garnished with these utterly fucking wonderful white truffles, perfectly proportioned. And this wine? My word.’
‘Great. Look, I just need to grab a menu printout and a document with some of my wine ideas. You okay to talk about it now?’
‘As long as I can eat this first?’
‘Deal. Back in a sec.’
As Rod’s back receded. Sophie rested her fork, turned to her paramour, willing to give him another chance. For the sake of love.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m okay,’ he said, draining his glass, calling the waiter for a top-up. ‘I’m just sickened, what a fucked-up world we live in.’
‘Do the police have any leads?’
‘Your ex was pulled in. Bizarre coincidence that she was found in his apartment.’
There are no coincidences. ‘They brought me down there, yesterday. Apparently this monster thinks he’s a chef.’
‘And is he?’
‘Yes. That eliminates Jacob, far as I’m concerned. He can barely make coffee.’
‘I wonder...’
‘Hnnnh?’
‘I just wonder why this animal would choose Jacob’s place.’
‘Doesn’t add up.’
The waiter returned with two bottles, topped up her Saint Emilion red and his pale green Chablis.
Sophie took in her surroundings, began to truly size up their relationship. ‘How’s Washington?’
‘Christ, what a mess. Everything’s gridlocked, that damned Tea Party. The debt ceiling’s coming up fast – again - and I honestly don’t know if we can fix things in time.’
The debt ceiling was one of those political topics that made most people’s eyes glaze over, Sophie’s included.
‘And what if we can’t fix it? The debt ceiling?’
‘Everything falls apart. And fast. We would default on the national debt which means that the Chinese would stop lending to us. Government workers would stop getting paid, another shutdown, the whole show would come off the rails.’
‘Are we talking the Apocalypse?’
‘Pretty much.’
She took a long drink.
‘And how’s your wife?’
‘Sedated. I like her best that way,’ he laughed, as Rod returned to their uneasiness.
A birthday cake wafted by, candles lit. The birthday song at a nearby table. They joined in the clapping.
‘Now,’ said Rod, ‘I’ve tried to pair a wine with each course, but -’
‘Sorry to butt in,’ said Sam, standing, ‘but do you mind if I leave you to it?’ He glanced at Rod, ‘I have some business.’
‘Of course,’ said Rod.
Sophie smiled, thinking I don’t know if I ever want to see your face again.
‘As I was saying, we’re going to have something very special. Like how special? Go on. Ask me.’
‘How special?’
‘Veuve Clicquot. 1786.’
‘My God! Are you serious? I’ve heard that it’s the most amazing taste in history.’
‘I believe so too. Notes of tobacco and honey and oak, the golden sweet sunshine captured and preserved from the peak, the zenith, of the French monarchy. Now, how would we drink it? At the beginning with delicate canapés? At the end?’
‘Or as a course all its own?’ she thought aloud, her eyes glancing over the menu. ‘It could work with the oysters, maybe the scallops, maybe the salmon. But this, I don’t know. This is something once in a lifetime. I think we need to separate it from the food. Yes. Do it first. How much do we have?’
‘We don’t have it yet. Jacob is looking after it for us,’ he checked his watch, ‘around about now, actually.’
Jacob arrived at the auction house in a cab, outwardly confident, a wreck inside.
He registered smoothly, read the details of the finding of the Champagne, some backstory on Louis XVI and the lucky diver, a guy called Mikael. The auction room was filling fast, but Jacob had the sense that much of the crowd was media: this was the perfect, global, good news story. The other members of the ring were in place. A shocking thought: could there be another ring? Is there an organisation that wants the Champagne more than Vierte? Is there anyone more ruthless?
Unlikely.
We will soon find out.
Jacob grabbed an espresso, spotted one of the ring guys lounging by the bar, was surprised - though he shouldn’t have been so - to meet Sarah from the magazine. Oh fuck.
‘Jacob! I didn’t know you had this assignment too.’
‘No. I should have realised this would be a big deal for the magazine. I’ve been out of the loop the past couple of days.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘I’m representing a client.’
‘You’re going to buy the stuff,’ her eyes widening, her smile too.
He couldn’t put it off. ‘Listen, Sarah. I don’t appreciate the pickle you put me in. With your friend.’ Pickle?
‘That was some night, Jacob. It’s true what they say, eh?’ A nudge.
‘Eh?’
‘You can teach an old dog new tricks.’
‘Well, turns out she’s only seventeen and somebody found out and now I’m being blackmailed.’
‘Blackmail? That’s not good. Look, here we go.’
The mood music died, Sarah disappeared, the auctioneer took the podium and the screens blinked from a holding message to a live shot of Champagne bottles in a refrigerator.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to our sale today, a truly unique and remarkable opportunity...’
Everything went ultra-slow-mo for Jacob as the bidding began on the first bottle. From fifty to seventy to eighty-five in the blink of an eye.
Then Jacob forgot why he was there. It was a feeling of being lost. Where am I? Why am I? It was deeply, tragically unsettling. He decided that he should just go, leave the place. He turned on his heel, looked to the exit, when a linen-suited man he didn’t know stepped forward and blocked his path. The man shook his head, No, then nodded towards the man with the hammer.
‘Ninety? Do I hear ninety thousand?’
Bang! He was back.
Jacob held up his bidding card. In. Sold.
The linen-suited man stepped back.
He took the fourth bottle for eighty-five and the eighth for eighty-two. There was no discernible pattern to the bidding and he was only vaguely aware of a woman fainting somewhere off to his left. She was carried from the room and the bidding didn’t miss a beat.
Jacob took the last two bottles at eighty-six apiece.
Now for the real show.
Eight hundred thousand. Eight fifty. Sixty. Nine hundred. He jumped in, took the case at nine seventy. Christ, a million bucks plus for a case of booze.
People pumped his hand, squeezed his shoulder, babbled at him, hoping for a rub of his luck, power, wealth. If only you knew.
He heard a whisper that the woman who’d fainted had died. The room swayed.
He pushed through the grinning crowd and paid for the goods with the card. He arranged for delivery, in their refrigerated cases, to Vierte next morning. They would remain in the auction house overnight, under armed guard. Safer that way.
Jacob now believed that the drink was poison, the thought of drinking it like drowning in the cold Baltic. He escaped to the street, where the ringleader was waiting. A trace of a smile and a slight nod. Happy.
Jacob started for home, remembered that he’d be staying in the hotel, a prisoner of Vierte.
He walked the twenty-two blocks.