Best Kept Secret

‘Ninety thousand?’ he purred.
    Sir Alan nodded.
    Wilson looked back towards the phone, where a hand was raised a few seconds later. ‘One hundred thousand. One hundred and ten thousand?’ he asked, looking once again at Sir Alan and
giving him his best Cheshire cat smile.
    Could he risk it? For the first time in his life, the cabinet secretary took a gamble. He nodded.
    ‘I have one hundred and ten thousand pounds,’ said Wilson, looking directly at the Sotheby’s employee who was holding the phone to his ear and awaiting his instructions.
    Martinez turned around to see if he could identify who was bidding against him.
    The whispered phone conversation continued for some time. Sir Alan became more nervous with each passing second. He tried not to consider the possibility that Martinez had double-crossed him and
had somehow managed to smuggle £8 million into the country while the SAS had set fire to counterfeits of counterfeits. What felt like an hour to him turned out to be less than twenty seconds.
And then without warning, the man on the phone raised his hand.
    ‘I have a bid of one hundred and twenty thousand on the phone,’ said Wilson, trying not to sound triumphant. He switched his attention back to Sir Alan, who didn’t move a
muscle. ‘I have a bid of one hundred and twenty thousand on the telephone,’ he repeated. ‘I am letting the piece go at a hundred and twenty thousand, this is your last
chance,’ he said, looking directly at Sir Alan, but the cabinet secretary had reverted to his more natural role of mandarin, displaying no expression.
    ‘Sold, for one hundred and twenty thousand pounds,’ said Wilson, bringing the hammer down with a thud as he transferred his smile to the bidder on the telephone.
    Sir Alan breathed a sigh of relief, and was particularly pleased to see the self-satisfied grin on Martinez’s face that convinced him that the Argentinian believed he’d repurchased
his own statue, containing £8 million pounds, for a mere £120,000. And tomorrow, no doubt, he intended to exchange old lamps for new.
    A couple of lots later, Martinez rose from his place in the third row and barged along the line of people without the slightest concern that they might still be following the auction. Once
he’d reached the aisle, he marched back down, a look of satisfaction on his face, and disappeared out of the room. The two young men who followed in his wake had the grace to look
embarrassed.
    Sir Alan waited for half a dozen more lots to find new owners before he slipped out. When he stepped on to Bond Street, it was such a pleasant evening that he decided to walk to his club in Pall
Mall and treat himself to half a dozen oysters and a glass of champagne. He would have given a month’s salary to see Martinez’s face when he discovered that his victory had turned out
to be hollow.

43
    T HE FOLLOWING MORNING , the anonymous telephone bidder made three phone calls before he left 44 Eaton Square a few minutes after ten o’clock. He
hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take him to 19 St James’s Street. When they drew up outside the Midland Bank, he instructed the cabbie to wait.
    He wasn’t surprised that the bank manager was available to see him. After all, he couldn’t have too many customers who had never seen red. The manager invited him into his office,
and once the customer was seated he asked, ‘Who would you like the banker’s draft made out to?’
    ‘Sotheby’s.’
    The manager wrote out the draft, signed it, placed it in an envelope, then passed it to young Mr Martinez, as the banker thought of him. Diego placed the envelope in an inside pocket and left
without another word.
    ‘Sotheby’s,’ was again the only word he uttered as he pulled the taxi door closed and sank into the back seat.
    When the taxi came to a halt outside the Bond Street entrance of the auction house, Diego once again instructed the driver to wait. He got out of the cab, pushed his way through the front door
and headed straight for the settlement desk.
    ‘How can I help you, sir?’ asked the young man standing behind the counter.
    ‘I purchased lot number twenty-nine in last night’s sale,’ said Diego, ‘and I’d like to settle my bill.’ The young man leafed through the catalogue.
    ‘Ah yes, Rodin’s
The Thinker
.’ Diego wondered how many items got the ‘Ah yes’ treatment. ‘That will be one hundred and twenty thousand pounds,
sir.’
    ‘Of course,’ said