Sotheby’s was on Manhattan’s exclusive Upper East Side, where York Avenue intersected with Seventy-second Street. The February sky was a gunmetal gray that threatened flurries. Ignoring a cold wind, Malone kept his hands in the pockets of a fleece-lined leather bomber jacket and watched the entrance to the block-long auction house from a bus stop on the opposite side of the street. A succession of taxis and limousines halted in front, their well-dressed passengers entering the building.

The time was shortly after 10:00 A.M. When Malone had arrived at Kennedy Airport late the previous afternoon, there had been just enough time to phone Sotheby’s before it closed and find out the subject of its auction today – Expressionist paintings – as well as the time the auction began – 10:15. He had spent a restless night at the Parker Meridian.

Doug Fennerman had said that he’d be meeting Bellasar and Potter here this morning. Malone hoped that the plan hadn’t changed. His own plan depended on it. Having agreed to cooperate with Jeb, he had tried to think of a way to accept Bellasar’s commission without arousing suspicion. After all, he had been adamant in his refusal to do the portraits. Now that Bellasar had gone to considerable expense to punish Malone by tearing apart his life, would Bellasar believe it likely that Malone would simply throw up his hands in surrender, admit the error of his ways, and agree to do the portraits? Wouldn’t Bellasar question this reaction? Wasn’t it more in character for Malone to respond with rage?

Do what I intended to do before Jeb showed up, Malone had decided. The only thing that’s changed is, I’m getting even in a different way than I imagined. His face felt burned by anger as much as the cold. He checked his watch again – 10:08 – returned his gaze to Sotheby’s entrance, and saw two muscular men get out of a limousine. Their cropped hair and rigid bearing suggested they had recently been in the military. Their slightly too-large suits allowed for concealed firearms while giving their bodies room to maneuver if they needed to act in a hurry. After scanning the area, they nodded toward the limo to indicate it was safe to get out.

Malone felt a spark shoot through his nervous system when Potter stepped into view. The short, somber man wore a funereal overcoat that emphasized the pallor of his skin. His thinning hair was tugged by the wind as he stepped back to allow another man to emerge from the limo. Malone stiffened.

From a dossier Jeb had shown him, Malone knew that the second man was sixty-one, but amazingly he seemed only in his late forties. He was tall but had a presence that made him appear to have even more stature. He had thick, wavy dark hair and broad, handsome features that Malone associated with Mediterranean countries. He had a solid-looking physique. He wore a white silk scarf over a superbly cut dark brown blazer and light brown slacks. No overcoat – he was oblivious to the weather. The impressiveness of the man’s separate parts was heightened by their totality, producing a sense of power and strength that made those around him seem insubstantial.

Derek Bellasar. Potter had said Bellasar didn’t allow his photograph to be taken, but Jeb had shown Malone photos taken secretly from a distance. There was no mistaking him.

Immediately, another man appeared, rushing out of Sotheby’s revolving door, smiling broadly, extending his right hand in welcome. He was Malone’s art dealer, Doug Fennerman, his red hair matched by his flushed face. Bellasar responded with only a cursory greeting. The gang’s all here, Malone thought, crossing the street, walking quickly closer but unable to reach the group before all of them disappeared into Sotheby’s.

He entered the reception area about fifteen seconds after they did. Making his way through the crowd, he saw Doug give Bellasar a catalog of the auction, retaining one for himself along with a small numbered paddle that was used for bidding. Evidently, Doug was here to act as an adviser to Bellasar and do the bidding for him. Bellasar must have thought it demeaning to raise his own hand. The group, including the bodyguards, went up a marble staircase with brass railings and turned to the left toward a spacious auction room.

Upstairs, Malone reached a desk where a Sotheby’s employee was registering anyone who intended to bid on the paintings. This close to the start of the auction, most of the attendees had already put in their names, so it took only a minute for Malone to present his driver’s license, give his name and address, and provide a signature.

“Chase Malone?” the man asked in surprise. “Are you the -”

Before the man could say anything about his work, Malone went into the brightly lit, green-carpeted auction room.

The murmurs of several hundred people filled it. Scanning the crowd, Malone spotted Bellasar, Potter, and Doug halfway down the middle aisle. The bodyguards stood at each side of the room, studying everyone. As the only voice became that of the auctioneer, Malone leaned against a stone pillar at the back and waited.

The first piece, a not-bad Kandinsky, went for $600,000. Watching the price displayed in various currencies on an electronic board at the front of the auction room, Malone couldn’t help remembering that, ten years earlier, his own work had been priced at a hundred dollars. Now it went for hundreds of thousands. Given the poverty in the world, was any painting, no matter who created it, worth these exorbitant amounts? His complaint was hypocritical, he knew, for until now, he hadn’t refused any money. Most of his earnings had been saved to protect his independence. A good thing, he mentally added, for if the gamble he was about to take failed, he was going to need all his financial resources.

The next item, a better-than-average Klee, went for $850,000. But it wasn’t until the auctioneer introduced the third painting, a starkly bleak Munch in the style of his famous The Scream, that a whisper went through the room. In the catalog, the item had a minimum estimated value of $1.2 million. As was customary, the auctioneer began the bidding at 50 percent of that figure: $600,000.

Malone noticed a shift in the way Bellasar sat, a compacting of muscles, a gathering of energy. Doug made a slight gesture with his paddle, indicating to the auctioneer that he would open the bid at the requested amount. The auctioneer automatically raised the bid to $650,000, which someone else took and which Doug capped as soon as the auctioneer went to $700,000. That was the pattern. With barely a motion of his paddle, Doug outdid every offer. The signal was clear. Others in the room could bid all they wanted, but Doug would always go higher.

The bidding languished at $1 million.

“Going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going twice.”

“One point one,” Malone said.

The auctioneer steadied his gaze toward the back of the room, seeming to ask for confirmation.

“One point one,” Malone repeated.

Puzzled, Doug turned to see who was bidding against him and blinked in surprise when he saw Malone. Something he said made Bellasar and Potter spin.

“One point one million,” the auctioneer said. “The bid is one point one. Do I have -”

“Two,” Doug said.

“Three,” Malone said.

“Four.”

“Five.”

Even from a distance, it was obvious that the auctioneer was sizing up Malone, troubled by his sneakers, jeans, and leather jacket, wondering if he had the money to back up his bid. “Sir, if -”

An assistant approached the auctioneer and whispered into his ear. What he said was presumably what several members of the audience were already telling one another. They had recognized Malone. His name was being murmured.