Katie called Kevin O’Keeffe to ask, “So, how’s this all work now?”
         “The auction house will quickly put out a short brochure and probably a press release to the effect that the painting has been authenticated and bidders should apply for entry to the auction.”
         “Do you think anyone will challenge the authentication?”
         “Not at this point,” said O’Keeffe. “If the painting is ever shown to the public, I expect there will be years of discussion about whether or not it’s a fake, just as what’s been going on for decades with the other, more dubious Vermeer still under debate.”
         “Will any doubt like that affect the price?”
         “Probably not. It’s got the rubber stamp of authenticity now, the buyer gets what he wants, and, I suspect, we may never again see the painting for a long time, if ever.”
         “After all this brouhaha?” asked Katie.
         “As in all things, Ms. Cavuto—even in the art world—life goes on till the next big thing comes along. Till then, people and museums will be digging in their attics and cellars to find that next big thing. And, believe me, those masterpieces are out there somewhere, gathering dust, being eaten up by worms and moths. But finding another Vermeer is a very, very long shot.”
         “Will Crofthouse set a starting price or a reserve?”
         “A reserve, I don’t know. I’m sure the Chinese can just yank the painting if they’re not getting what they think they should. But, yes, the auctioneer will start the bidding at a certain price. If there is a reserve, it’s usually about two-thirds of the low estimate or the low estimate itself.  It’s never published, but word of mouth and deliberate leaks from the auction house make it easily available by sale day.”
         “Like how much?”
         “Jesus, that’s tough. If that van Gogh sold for eighty-two point five, they might start the Vermeer at eighty, maybe more. That will get any of the curiosity seekers out of the bidding.”
         “I would think. So you believe it will come down to just, say, what, ten bidders?”
         “If that. There’s been a lot of bad press in Art Today that has made some of the leading contenders skittish about putting out that kind of money, thinking someone might leak their name. There might be a few museums, primarily the Getty, who would at least make an attempt at bidding low. It’s possible some benefactor might put up the money on behalf of a museum, but this is a lot of money. This is all way out of the ordinary.”
         Katie was not about to reel off her list of potential bidders or to tell O’Keeffe that several of them were missing or severely injured. She figured he already knew, with the exception of Correia, of whom there was still no news out of Brazil.
         As time drew near to the auction—one month away—Katie began to question how much of a story she would have to report in McClure’s. She knew she could write a piece that revealed the kind of shadowy world the global art market was and how big money played in the game. She felt confident that she could detail how so many collectors were as shady as hell. Big fortunes, big crimes. Yet in some ways, she thought that was just what Coleman had already done, shown the seamy side, and that wasn’t enough for McClure’s.
   The key was to prove that the elimination of other bidders, accomplished or attempted, could be plausibly tied to one source or another, whether it was one of the competing collectors or the Russians or Brazilian kidnappers. Without that proof, she had a story without a pay-off, and one her editor might not even publish. She could hear Dobell saying, “This is very, very thin, Katie, and prying open the lid on the art world is not exactly what we do at McClure’s. That’s what Vanity Fair does: Names big names in a glamour industry, wink but don’t accuse.”
         And that’s pretty much what he did say when Katie filled him in at his office on what she’d gathered so far. Dobell still hadn’t completely bought Katie and David’s conspiracy theory, and he feared ending up with a story that didn’t amount to much beyond gossip.
         “It hasn’t come to a conclusion yet,” argued Katie.
         “And what if the conclusion is ‘Vermeer painting sells for $100 million to a billionaire creep,’” answered Dobell. “It’s not enough for McClure’s. We need to make the reader gasp.”
         Katie knew her boss was right. “I hear you, Alan, and you’ve given me a long leash. But remember, this theory of ours is being taken seriously by Interpol.”
         “Who, you tell me, is not doing anything about it yet, right?”
         “They can’t act until there’s a crime, and for the moment they—we—can’t prove one has occurred. But they are on top of it, Alan. They’re taking all this very seriously.”
         Dobell didn’t know that only one Interpol agent, Gerald Kiley, was taking it all that seriously, but said, “All right, Katie. What do you think would allow you and David to prove there was definitely—not circumstantially—a crime at the bottom of this?”
         Katie hesitated, preparing for a barrage of laughter, then said, “Alan, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think if David and I can interview at least a couple of these billionaires, besides Lauden, who are still in the game that we can prove what we believe to be the modus operandi here.”
        “Hold on, Katie,” said Dobell, looking at the list of billionaires. “You’ve already talked to Lauden and he can’t think of anyone trying to kill him. This Brazilian billionaire is missing, but may only be the victim of a run-of-the-mill kidnapping. Stepanossky drove over a land mine. Shui is sitting pretty in Taiwan. The Greek guy is on his yacht, and you don’t even know where the Dutch guy is. You’re asking me to send you all over several continents in the hope you and David can find proof of something not even Interpol can find? And you want to do this in, what, one month before the auction?  You know what that would cost?”
         “I know, I know,” said Katie, “so, okay, just let me go see Shui, for starters. After all, he’s the guy whose family might very well have brought the Vermeer into China. If nothing else, that’s a big part of the story, if it’s true. Stepanossky, I’ll admit, is going to be hard to get to, but maybe David can work his contacts, or Kiley at Interpol. So I won’t even ask. I can put Dorenbosch and Danielides on the back burner until I find out more from Shui.”
         Dobell was looking at the ceiling and rocking in his office chair.
         “I don’t know, Katie. You’re a good reporter and I think your instincts are sound.  You’ve got a good nose for news, but . . .”         “And David has the contacts.”
         “All right, you find out what it’ll cost for you two to fly to Taiwan, and I’ll take a look at it and give you an answer ASAP, okay?”
        Katie thanked Dobell profusely, telling him, “If I screw this up, Alan, I’ll write the article for free.”
        “No, if you write the article and it doesn’t work, then I’ll kill it and chain you to your desk here in the pound.”
         Katie could not speak for David but said, “Okay, two tix, coach class to Taiwan. A couple of days on the ground, and if I don’t bring back something really, really promising, I’ll pay you back the airfare.”
         “Don’t be coy, Katie. Just get the goddamn story. And it better make the reader gasp. A big gasp!”
         The next day Dobell called Katie and, without saying hello, asked, “Before I approve this wild goose chase to Taiwan, how much have you spent so far on this story?”
         “Now that you ask,” said Katie, “not all that much. Except for the trip to Las Vegas, the only expenses have been taxis, phone calls and a couple of lunches.”
         “Ballpark figure.”
         “I don’t know, I guess, maybe, $3,000, max.”
         Dobell was quiet for a moment, thinking how much more than that Katie and David had spent on the award-winning Capone story and how Katie was now on salary—the highest at the magazine for a reporter—not paid by the story.
         “Okay, just keep the expenses down and bring me back a thousand year-old duck egg.”
         “I’ll bring you a dozen.”
         “No, that’ll push up your expense account. But seriously, Katie, make this story work. I’m not going to publish some exposé of a lot of way-too-rich art collectors who are crazy enough to spend a hundred million bucks on one small painting.”
         “Understood. We’ll be back before you know it.”
         By that afternoon, Katie had booked two tickets, coach class, to Taipei for the following week.