Best Kept Secret

He turned the page of his catalogue to look at the masterpiece he admired, but for which, ironically, he still hoped to end up as the under-bidder.

'Lot number twenty-nine, Auguste Rodin's The Thinker,' said Mr Wilson. 'If you look in your catalogue you will see that this is a lifetime cast by Alexis Rudier. The work is on display at the entrance to the sale room,' the auctioneer added. Several heads turned to admire the massive bronze sculpture. 'Considerable interest has been shown in this piece, so I shall open the bidding at forty thousand pounds. Thank you, sir,' said the auctioneer, pointing to a gentleman sitting directly in front of him on the centre aisle. Several more heads turned, this time in the hope of identifying who the bidder might be.

Sir Alan responded with a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

'Fifty thousand,' declared the auctioneer, his attention returning to the man seated on the aisle, who raised his hand again. 'I have sixty thousand.' With no more than a glance in Sir Alan's direction, Mr Wilson received the same slight nod, turned back to the man on the centre aisle and suggested £80,000, but was greeted with a frown of disappointment, followed by a firm shake of the head.

'I have seventy thousand pounds,' he said, looking back at Sir Alan, who felt a creeping doubt entering his mind. But then Mr Wilson looked to his left and said, 'Eighty thousand. I have a bid on the telephone at eighty thousand.' He immediately switched his attention back to Sir Alan. '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

THE 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 Diego. He took the envelope out of his pocket, extracted the banker's draft  -  an instrument that ensured the buyer could never be traced  -  and placed it on the counter.

'Shall we deliver the piece, sir, or would you prefer to pick it up?'

'I will collect it in one hour's time.'

'I'm not sure that will be possible,' said the young man. 'You see, sir, the day after a major sale we're always run off our feet.'

Diego took out his wallet and placed a five-pound note on the counter, probably more than the young man earned in a week.

'Make those feet run in my direction,' he said. 'And if the package is waiting for me when I return in an hour, there'll be two more where this one came from.'

The young man slipped the note into a back pocket to confirm the deal had been closed.

Diego returned to the waiting taxi and this time gave the driver an address in Victoria. When he pulled up outside the building, Diego got out of the cab and parted with another of his father's five-pound notes. He waited for the change, and placed two real pound notes in his wallet and gave the cabbie sixpence. He walked into the building and went straight up to the only available sales assistant.

'May I help you?' asked a young woman dressed in a brown and yellow uniform.

'My name is Martinez,' he said. 'I called earlier this morning and booked a large heavy-duty truck.'

Once Diego had filled in the obligatory form he parted with another five-pound note, and placed three more legal notes in his wallet.

'Thank you, sir. You'll find the truck in the back yard. It's parked in bay number seventy-one.' She handed him a key.