“Doesn’t everyone these days?”

“Not me,” he said. “I’m from an era when you didn’t know anything about a man until you met him, and I prefer that.”

I apologized, but Baine waved it off, explained he was semi-retired, “only in the office a day or two a week, mainly to annoy my partners.”

I studied one of his prints, an intricately detailed study of hands. “Is this a Dürer?”

“You know your artists.”

“I teach art history, so…” I shrugged. “You collect old masters?”

“I used to, but no more. I’ve donated almost everything.”

“And you’ve lost the desire to acquire more?”

“At a certain age, one no longer feels the need.” Baine leaned closer to the print. “Beautiful, isn’t it, all that delicate cross-hatching. I’ve had the Dürer print a long time, and a few others—that Rembrandt my secretary said you asked about. A personal favorite I did not want to give up for sentimental reasons, but my serious collecting days are over. I’ve come to think of collecting as a selfish man’s game.” He gave me an earnest look and asked if I collected art.

I told him I couldn’t afford it, though I occasionally swapped a piece with an artist friend.

“So you’re an artist.”

“Well, sort of.”

“Don’t be modest, young man. I did not get to where I am by being modest.” He patted me on the shoulder. “I love talking art with people who know something about it. I studied business, so I knew nothing about art until I started collecting.”

“And you don’t miss it?”

“Not really. I have a few pieces, and they’re enough for me.” He smiled again. “So you’re writing about Rembrandt?”

“For an academic art journal—um, Apollo. It’s based in London, very small. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it,” I said and hoped he hadn’t.

He said no and was surprised I was writing about Rembrandt, that most people didn’t care about him anymore, no matter how synonymous his name was with art.

“I’m one of the people who still thinks Rembrandt is a great artist.”

“Then you must have a look at my Rembrandt print. We’ll have a drink, and you can tell me all about the piece you’re writing—” He stopped, apologized, said he’d forgotten he was leaving for London the day after tomorrow.

I told him that was fine, I could wait until he came back, but he said no.

“I may be gone several weeks, possibly a month. Come by tomorrow evening, six thirty. I’m all set for my trip and will be home with nothing to do.”

“I don’t want to impose,” I said.

“Don’t be silly,” Baine said and handed me a card with his address.

90

The American exits the building, and the Russian lags behind, shielded by a crowd of men and women, all so rich-looking he can’t decide if wants to be them or kill them. He knows the American has just seen one of the people on the list he has taken from the loft—he’s cross-checked the telephone number through a white pages app. Has done a Google search too, knows the man is a financial fat cat, just like the other one, Teivel—whom he followed home from his office after the American left the other day, watched him go into a Park Avenue building with several doormen, all of them nodding.