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“A million five,” Fitzwilliams picked up. “Fair warning then.”
Stuart lifted his paddle. The crowd murmured quietly. Fitzwilliams scowled like a scolding parent, immediately silencing the audience.
“We have a new bidder,” he resumed. “A million six, seven, eight, nine, two million. Two million one, two, three, four, five.” Again the bidding halted, only this time it was Stuart who refused to go on. “Are you sure, sir?” Fitzwilliams asked.
“Too rich for my blood, I’m afraid,” Stuart conceded.
Fitzwilliams’s stern gaze squelched the smattering laughter.
“Two million five Hong Kong dollars. Fair warning.” Fitzwilliams’s eyes swept the room one more time. “Are we all through then?”
“Sir,” the woman at the phone bank called out.
“A new bidder?”
“Yes, Mr. Fitzwilliams, sir.”
“Two six it is,” the auctioneer announced.
The price for the lowly ruyi had just passed that for the blue-and-white Ming Dynasty bowl, which had been billed as the most valuable piece in the auction. There were intakes of breath as the audience absorbed this.
Then the man in the front row said something audible only to Fitzwilliams, who rang out, “Twenty million Hong Kong dollars! Thank you, sir!”
This was nearly ten times the last bid and well over $2 million U.S.
“Twenty million,” Fitzwilliams repeated, then gestured casually from the man in the front row over to the woman on the phone, his motions no different than they’d been for the sale of one of Nixon Chen’s snuff bottles. The woman on the phone lifted a finger; the man in the front responded with another tip of the head. Back and forth Fitzwilliams went until the price reached 25 million Hong Kong dollars. Whoever the woman had on the phone held the bid. “It’s to the gentleman in the front row.” Nothing happened. “Want to go once more? You’re here. Whoever’s on the phone is not. His or her top price might be twenty-five million. Want to go one more shot?”
Bill Tang finally nodded.
“Twenty-six million,” Fitzwilliams said triumphantly, but before anyone could applaud, the woman at the phone bank lifted her hand. “Twenty-seven.” The audience let out a collective sigh of disappointment. Everyone was caught up in the drama with the man in the front row, even if they didn’t know who he was, while the person on the phone remained nameless and faceless. “We’re at twenty-seven. Coming in again, sir? Want to make it twenty-eight?”
It seemed to David that Tang’s paddle stayed steady, but Fitzwilliams said, “No? Then fair warning to you. Selling…. Sold for twenty-eight million Hong Kong dollars.”
The audience that one moment before had been with Bill Tang in spirit now erupted in wild applause. The ruyi had sold for a thousand times its top estimated value, and more than $3 million U.S. But the applause was cut short when Bill Tang jumped to his feet and shouted, “You cheated!”
Fitzwilliams looked down from the podium with an expression of utter contempt. “It is a sad fact of auctions that we can’t always win.”
“You didn’t recognize me!” Tang still hadn’t turned around, but his posture was aggressive.
“Of course I recognized you. You were in the front row. You lowered your paddle. I saw it clearly.”
“You shouldn’t have closed the bidding! I had my paddle up! I want to see the videotape!”
“Sorry, Mr. Tang, but we don’t tape our sessions.”
Fitzwilliams made a slight motion to one of the security guards, which Bill Tang caught. He turned and quickly pushed his way up the center aisle to the row where Stuart Miller sat. Madame Wang had the presence of mind to stand and edge out of the way. Tang threw her chair into the aisle and shoved his face to just inches from Stuart’s.
“You took what’s mine!”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong there, Bill,” Stuart responded good-naturedly. “Everyone in this room saw me bow out.”
A pair of guards reached Bill Tang, but when they tried to take his arms he shook them off and grabbed Stuart by the lapels. “You took what’s mine, and I’ll get it back!”
Stuart stayed relaxed as he said evenly, “I may have driven up the price a bit. I’ll happily admit to that.” The words and the smile on Stuart’s face further infuriated Tang. He shoved the entrepreneur back with such force that his chair toppled over, which caused the two people behind Stuart to fall as well. Then Tang scuffled with the guards and was led to the back of the room. David helped Stuart to his feet. Madame Wang brushed him off and straightened his jacket and tie. After a little flurry of activity as chairs were righted and more champagne poured, the auction resumed for the last lots as though nothing had happened.
But something very significant had happened. David had recognized Bill Tang as soon has he’d come barging up the center aisle. The man whom Stuart Miller knew as Bill Tang, a foreign-born high-tech industrialist from the Silicon Valley, David had seen just last night standing on a ledge in a cave on the banks of the Yangzi River. Bill Tang was the man who called himself Tang Wenting, a lieutenant in the All-Patriotic Society, who just four days ago in Tiananmen Square had labeled Hulan “mother killer,” and who last night in the cave had singled out Stuart Miller for special censure.
David had desperately and repeatedly tried to shift Hulan’s focus away from the All-Patriotic Society in an effort to unlock her heart, but she’d been right all along. The cult was at the center of this, although he still had no idea what this was. The questions were startling and confusing. Who was the unnamed bidder on the other end of the telephone line? Who— what—was Bill Tang? What exactly was this ruyi—which was valued at three thousand dollars but had just sold for more than $3 million? Had last night in the cave been a ruse to push Hulan into investigating Stuart at the dam, thereby delaying or halting entirely the entrepreneur’s trip to the auction? Or had it been designed to get Hulan away from Bashan for some as yet unknown reason? David didn’t know the answers, but he had to get them, because Hulan was up there in Bashan without a clue that any of this had happened.
