The Cézanne Chase by Thomas Swan Page B

“stop the bleeding.”
    The senior managing partner from New York had come to London to meet with his counterpart about the ominous signs that Lancet ’s largest deal, a once promising investment in high-priced fine art, was about to turn sour. At stake were loans of over $100 million, and also in
the jaws of jeopardy were the partners’ share of profits and the the nearly $3 million deposited to their escrowed “set-aside” accounts.
    Harold “Bud” Samuelson was a thin-lipped, short man with alert, searching eyes, a tan from the sun room in the New York Athletic Club, and a nervous way of talking with his hands and odd shakes of his shoulders. He was forty-two, University of Missouri and Harvard Business School, and known as a shrewd negotiator.
    London’s senior managing partner was Terrance Sloane. Terry Sloane was forty-five and had reached his position through gutsy hard work and a brilliant record in international assignments. He was not old school, only reasonably well-connected socially, but had succeeded on the strength of a sharp business mind, old-fashioned common sense, and a penchant for working twenty-hour days.
    Samuelson had spent his entire flight on the Concorde preparing himself to face the man who had been advanced a kingly sum to acquire a collection of great paintings but who had failed to generate the promised profits. In the process Samuelson had put himself on a sharp edge, and now his face was fixed in taut determination. His first words gave away his pent-up frustration. “The bastard’s going to give us a weary story and demand an extension. Hear what I’m saying, Terry? He’ll go for the fucking initiative and do all the demanding.”
    â€œHe might have a good argument, Bud. Remember, he’s had an incredible loss, made doubly so with the murder of his curator.”
    â€œI’m sorry about Barnes or whatever his name was, and about the painting, too. I didn’t know he owned that kind of stuff.”
    â€œThe curator’s name was Boggs,” Terry Sloane said, “and his ‘stuff,’ as you call it, is first rate.”
    â€œWe were pretty damned stupid to get sucked into a deal where we can’t invade his personal holdings, especially when the bastard’s got God knows how much tied up in his own paintings. He’s got a pair of balls the size of the Tower Bridge, for Christ’s sake.”
    â€œWe were stupid for not knowing more about the art market.”
    Samuelson was not interested in talking further about his or Terry Sloane’s stupidity. “I assume the painting was insured, and pretty well spread around.”
    â€œLloyd’s, probably.”
    â€œYou know damned well he’s going to demand an extension.”
    â€œWouldn’t you?” Terry Sloane asked.
    Samuelson flipped open a folder. “Here’s six pages of all his
goddamned assets—not including his painting. He’s got money. Plenty of it.”
    â€œHe’s leveraged up to his neck.”
    Beverages and ice had been set out on a table beneath the large blue painting with the purple and green streaks. Samuelson poured a tall glass of soda water and returned to the table. As it was customary for the visiting senior partner to sit at the head of the table, Terry Sloane had staked out his position to Samuelson’s right, and in front of the chair to Samuelson’s left were pads, pens, and a telephone.
    â€œHe’ll be exactly ten minutes late,” Terry Sloane predicted, and added wryly, “It’s part of his charm.”
    At that moment the door opened and an attractive woman came into the room. “Hello, Bud,” she said warmly. “You didn’t stop to say hello.”
    Samuelson stood. “You were having a torrid affair behind closed doors.” He held up his glass to her. “I didn’t peek.”
    Her reply was to close her eyes and shake her head