When he finished his examination, he placed his expensive cologne back in a Burberry toiletry bag, then left the room to get a midmorning meal. The art auction he was in Geneva for was due to start soon.

WILL MR. SPENSER require anything else?" the waiter asked. Spenser stared for a moment at the remains of his meal and said, "No, I think that will be all."

The waiter nodded, removed the plates, then took a brush from his apron and whisked up the few crumbs on the table. Then he silently retreated. No bill was presented, no money changed hands. The cost of the breakfast and the gratuity would appear on the room charge, which Spenser would never see.

In the far corner of the dining room, Michael Talbot stared toward Spenser. Talbot, an art dealer from San Francisco, had crossed paths with Spenser before. Three times in the last year, the stodgy Britisher had outbid Talbot's clients, for Spenser's own clients seemed to have unlimited resources.

Talbot could only hope today would be different.

Spenser was dressed in a gray suit over a sweater vest, a blue polka-dot bow tie around his neck. His black lace-up leather shoes were highly polished, as were his fingernails, and his neatly styled short hair was flecked with gray, as befitted his age, which Talbot estimated at close to sixty years.

Once, when Talbot had been in London on business, he'd tried to visit Spenser's shop. There was no telephone number available, the small stone building had had no name outside, and aside from an unobtrusive video camera above the buzzer, it could have been suspended in time from a hundred years before. Talbot had pushed the buzzer twice, but no one had answered.

Spenser sensed Talbot staring his way but only glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Of the other seven men Spenser had determined had an interest in the artifact he'd come to purchase, the American would probably bid the highest. Talbot's buyer was a Silicon Valley software billionaire with a penchant for Asian art and argumentation. The billionaire's belligerency could only help Spenser. The man's ego might take him beyond his set price, but as the competition stiffened, he traditionally became angry and dropped out. The new rich are so predictable, Spenser thought. He rose to return to his room. The auction was not until 1 p.m.

"LOT OF THIRTY-SEVEN," the auctioneer said with reverence, "the 'Golden Buddha."

A large mahogany crate was wheeled onto the podium and the auctioneer reached for the clasp holding the door closed.

The audience of bidders was small. This was a highly secret auction and the invitations had only gone out to the select few who could afford to pay for art masterworks with somewhat shady histories.