The Odessa Room had once been a library and still retained the floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books, broken only by mahogany slabs bearing oil paintings under the warm glow of brass tube lights mounted above their frames. For years it had doubled as a more intimate dining room, for parties of less than thirty. Some time in the early 1930s, its recessed ceiling had been installed, an elaborately engineered panel with curving sections that met in the very center, surrounding an oval-shaped, hand-painted depiction of a fox hunt. On its north wall was a marble mantel and its matching hearth, a working fireplace. The mantel was shored up by twin stone columns, carved into which were two nude angels bearing baskets of wheat above their heads of flowing locks. Atop the mantel, two silver candelabra, their new candles unlit, protected a dried arrangement of deep-red roses, wheat straw, and burgundy fruit blossoms.
Around the polished rectangular cherry-topped table sat ten men ranging from thirty to eighty and in every shade of skin: African, Native American, Far Eastern, Caucasian, Hispanic. They represented Reno, Sacramento, Los Angeles, Oakland, Portland, and points in between. They were not unfamiliar to one another.
Philippe, at the head of the table, brought the meeting to order. He thanked them for coming, reached into his black Armani sport coat, and withdrew a plastic jewel case containing a gold CD-ROM, a computer disk capable of storing ten thousand documents. “The highest bidder takes home the entire list. Subsequent sales of the names of individual witnesses, or groups of witnesses, are at the discretion of the buyer.”
A Mexican, who wore a collarless shirt open to a gold chain bearing a St. Christopher, said, “My people tell me a general alarm was put out, that most of the people on that list have fled by now.”
“And that may or may not be true,” Philippe said. “But even so, do you run every time you hear an alarm? Do you uproot your entire family? This list includes everything there is to know about these people. Not just new identities, but employment, banking, known associates. It would take months, years, to regenerate all new data for these people. Whether they run or not, they’re out there, and they’re leaving trails to follow.” He paused, swallowed once, and said, “The bidding will start at ten million dollars.”
A knock on the door-no cell phones, no weapons, were allowed in this room-and Ricardo, who sat to Philippe’s left, was summoned by one of the guards.
Philippe considered Ricardo’s departure carefully, wondering what trick he might be playing. He didn’t want him outside this room where he couldn’t see him.
As the door shut behind Ricardo, Philippe heard whispers that included the words “… your wife…” Fast-moving footsteps followed. It was everything Philippe could do to remain focused as he turned to face the group of raised hands.
“Do I hear fifteen?” he asked.