Chapter One

Swiss biotech multibillionaire and philanthropist Peter Carli’s private jet glided through the snowy clouds over Miami. A painting hung on the cabin’s wall rattled. Its silver frame reflected a shaft of sunlight from the window, piercing the eyelids of the passenger sitting on a white leather chair. The checkered-patterned cushion slipped from his head as art dealer Alex Hubert opened his eyes, swallowing hard.

I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.

He jumped up from the chair. The seatbelt’s buckle dropped to the floor with a thud. Alex’s eyes landed on the multicolored painting hanging on the wall. It was a piece of contemporary art—a collage of fake Leonardo Da Vinci drawings of human organs. Each organ was painted in sparkling colors, shining like jewels.

This isn’t the painting I’m in charge of. I gotta protect S. L. Babel’s new digital art.

The airplane sank and shook again. Alex stumbled, crawling to the cabinet along the plane’s wall. The forty-inch monitor on the cabinet was playing the movie Scarface. As Alex pulled the cabinet door, actor Al Pacino barked, a gunshot erupting from the monitor. Alex’s heart raced then calmed when the cabinet door swung open.

A huge briefcase encasing American digital artist S. L. Babel’s work, which Alex picked up at Geneva Freeport, lay in the dark corner of the cabinet. The golden 3-dial combination lock glinted. Alex even remembered the position of the tiny specks of dust that had surrounded the briefcase before departure from Geneva, Switzerland. Nobody had touched the case.

“Alex, what are you doing? Do you think someone stole Babel’s new work while you were sleeping?”

A hoarse voice reverberated from behind Alex. His eyes traveled over the damask carpet toward another plush armchair near the shower room. Peter Carli put his cappuccino cup on the saucer, staring at him. Alex rubbed his misty eyes. Contemporary art imitating Da Vinci’s piece, luxurious interior décor, the roaring engine of the airplane, and S. L. Babel’s digital art in the cabinet… The tiny pieces started to come together in Alex’s drowsy mind. Alex was in the airplane owned by the Peter Carli Foundation, which aimed to distribute anti-HIV medicines developed by Peter’s biotech company to the Global South. By using his philanthropic organization, Peter didn’t need to pay property taxes for this plane. Moreover, Peter was actively buying expensive pieces of art in Geneva Freeport—a warehouse in Geneva where the trade of artwork wasn’t subject to taxes—and moving them outside Switzerland using this private jet.

Alex jerked his head, looking up at the cabin’s ceiling covered with a painting. It was a portrait of Peter’s wife, created by a contemporary artist ranked among the top ten on artprice.com. The blond, slim woman with an olive scarf, thirty-seven years younger than Peter, smiled nonchalantly, looking down at Alex. A diamond necklace shone between her collarbones.

Suddenly, a memory of his first meeting with silver-haired Peter Carli in his mansion along Lake Geneva flashed in Alex’s mind. They were sitting on black-leathered plush sofas in the drawing room. Through the French windows, Alex could see Peter’s wife taking a walk with her Golden Retriever in the garden along Lake Geneva. As her dog dived into the fountain with a Venus statue, Peter started to talk to him.

“Alex, as you know, Swiss matrimonial law isn’t applied to offshore assets held by a trust registered outside Switzerland.”

Peter’s deep voice from three months ago resounded in Alex’s mind like hot waves.

“You know what I mean?” Peter continued, dropping his voice, his eyes maliciously flashing. “I want to divorce her. But I don’t want to pay for her at all. That’s why I want to buy great pieces of art and keep them outside Switzerland. I heard you’re the best art dealer in U.S. business. I’m happy to offer you four hundred thousand dollars annually if you help me with this deal.”

“Peter, can I ask why you want to divorce her? She’s so beautiful,” Alex asked quietly, eyeing his wife dragging her Golden Retriever out of the fountain.

“There are only two things that billionaires can’t buy on the planet. And neither is love—I bought her love, you know,” Peter Carli said gruffly, rubbing his chin covered with a silver beard. “They are health and youth. It’s inevitable that I’ll die someday. But when I die, my money should be used to fund my unfinished endeavors. I don’t wanna bequeath my fortune to my wife, who doesn’t understand my noble mission. I wanna pour most of my assets into the Peter Carli Foundation and its scientific research. Is that clear?”

“Fair enough,” said Alex, pretending to be calm. “What kind of art would you like to collect? I’d recommend classical paintings. They should be stable assets…”

“I wanna buy the works of S. L. Babel, the rising and secret American digital artist,” said Peter enthusiastically.

“Why?” Alex was so surprised that he nearly lifted off the sofa.

He thought it would be risky to invest in S. L. Babel’s digital artwork, as the prices had skyrocketed in recent auctions at Christie’s and Sotheby’s in New York and London. Alex thought it was merely a fad.

Peter Carli became silent for a while, his arms crossed. His wife’s Golden Retriever rushed toward the French windows of the drawing room, barking at the guest, Alex Hubert. Peter’s wife screamed at the dog in French. “Non, non! Arrête!” (“No, no! Stop!”)

“I like Babel’s vision in his art,” Peter said in a low voice.

Alex sensed Peter didn’t want to reveal his real intention to buy Babel’s works. Peter continued without a pause. “Let’s talk about the procedure to move artworks from Geneva Freeport to the US. I have a private jet, which is useful for hiding expensive pieces of art.”

As Alex got to his feet, the soft sound from the fountain in Peter’s mansion receded. The cobalt-blue Lake Geneva, stretching beyond the garden, vanished like melted paint. The raucous sound of the airplane’s engine filled his ears. He felt the floor shaking and lurching.

“YOU ARE IN MY PRIVATE JET, ALEX!” roared Peter Carli, who was sitting on the armchair in the cabin, stretching his arms as if to show off his own land. “Nobody can steal anything here. And nobody can kill you.”

“No, nobody can kill me!” shrieked Alex Hubert, a slight chill rippling down his back.

“You must be careful after landing in Miami, though. All the art dealers who took S. L. Babel’s works out of Geneva Freeport died suspiciously,” said Peter Carli drily, hitting the Enter key on his MacBook Air on the side table. “Did you read this article?”

The monitor on the cabinet, which had been displaying Scarface, switched to an online article from the New York Times. The headline read, “THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF AN ART DEALER WHO TRADED SECRET DIGITAL ARTIST S. L. BABEL’S WORKS.” Three weeks ago, a famous art dealer in New York was found dead. His death was ruled a suicide by overdose.

“I know about this incident. And I knew this art dealer very well,” said Alex, passing his tongue over his dry lips. “He was my friend, but a rival in business at the same time. He was a very ambitious dealer who constantly discovered contemporary art pieces at Art Basel in Switzerland and sold them to American billionaires.”

“Do you believe he committed suicide?” asked Peter, shifting in his armchair.

“Absolutely not,” snapped Alex. “He really loved money, just like me. He was devoting his life to bringing new art from around the world and making money in America. You know, Americans who truly love money and victory never surrender to anything. We never give up. We never commit suicide.”

“I agree,” said Peter, sipping his cappuccino and straightening his body. “By the way, this art dealer wasn’t the only person who suspiciously died. Billionaire investor and collector Hoyt Pence, who bought Babel’s work for nine million dollars from this dealer, also died on his yacht. This article says Hoyt crashed his motor yacht into a rugged sea rock lying seven miles off Neptune Memorial Reef in Florida.”

“Nobody believes it was an accident,” said Alex slyly.

“Have you ever seen the S. L. Babel work Hoyt bought?” asked Peter.

“Not yet,” answered Alex blankly.

Peter scrolled down the monitor’s screen. A video of Christie’s auction house popped up. An auctioneer had hit the gavel. The deceased art collector victoriously raised his hands among the excited crowd, who were gaping at him. The flashlights of cameras shrouded him as he stood in front of S. L. Babel’s digital artwork entitled Your Clone Will Live After Your Death. In this piece, an AI-integrated camera installed in the artwork recognized a viewer’s face, projecting a version of their clone on the screen. Gray-haired Hoyt Pence stepped up to the painting, gawking at it. A sallow, haggard face—the frame and shape were similar to Hoyt’s—materialized in the darkness and smiled back at him. Hoyt winced and fell on his buttocks. Laughter tinged with fear erupted among the crowd in the auction house.

“That artwork really became Hoyt Pence’s clone, then,” said Alex sarcastically. “I mean, he passed away and his clone on screen survived.”

“Indeed,” said Peter flatly.

Alex squinted at the current time displayed on the monitor. It was 9:11 a.m. Eastern Time. He’d slept for only a couple of hours.

“I’ve been really looking forward to seeing my friend James again,” said Peter, his eyes somewhat glaring at the ocean outside the window. “Hoyt Pence invested a lot in James’s company. James looked sad when Hoyt died. But James never stopped collecting S. L. Babel’s digital art.”

Both Alex and Peter were heading to the mansion of pharmaceutical company CEO and multi-billionaire James Brown on Star Island, Miami. It was the unidentified artist S. L. Babel contacted Swiss-American art dealer Alex Hubert, who could speak English, French, and German and had connections to both New York and European gallerists as well as wealthy art collectors around the world, to hold a private auction in Miami. James Brown accepted the offer to host a private auction in his mansion. As an art dealer, Alex organized small, secret auctions for billionaires several times before. In the art world, art collectors usually didn’t fly to see artwork. The most expensive artwork flew to wealthy art collectors around the world.

“I’ll do my best to let you win the upcoming auction, no matter what, Peter,” said Alex decisively. I was hired by both art collector Peter Carli and the unidentified digital artist S. L. Babel. Alex thought, glancing at the briefcase in the cabinet again. Although this new S. L. Babel work was in his private jet now, Peter hadn’t managed to purchase it yet. S. L. Babel only allowed Peter Carli to attend the upcoming auction in return for the use of Peter’s private jet to bring the new digital art secretly.

“Can you do me a favor, Alex?” said Peter Carli in a silky voice. “Can I see Babel’s new work in the briefcase?”

“No, I’m not allowed to do that,” replied Alex adamantly. “Babel prohibited me from showing anybody his new painting. I actually don’t know the 3-digit PIN to unlock the briefcase. It was already locked when I visited Geneva Freeport. Babel will send me an email to let me unlock the briefcase right before our auction in James Brown’s mansion.”

Alex took his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. His iPhone was always connected to the fast in-flight Wi-Fi. He refreshed his email inbox. Only advertisement emails from subscribed lists and spam emails popped up.

“Babel hasn’t emailed me yet,” said Alex disappointedly.

“Have you ever met S. L. Babel?” asked Peter Carli in an undertone.

“Of course not,” Alex shrugged. “Nobody on the planet knows who S. L. Babel is. Nobody knows his face. Some say Babel is the most excellent AI scientist who realized selling his invention as artwork is lucrative. Others say Babel doesn’t exist, but several Silicon Valley programmers collaborate to sell digital art under a single brand.”

“Interesting,” said Peter Carli with a French accent, clearing his throat. “The mystery of his identity triggered his popularity, too. Alex, how much should I pay for his new work? Or how much should I NOT pay?”

“I’d recommend you don’t offer a bid over twenty million dollars,” said Alex decisively.

“I trust you. I think James will bid more money on this work,” said Peter, eyeing the briefcase inside the cabinet. “Do you know who’ll participate in this private auction?”

“I know only one guest,” said Alex, carefully closing the cabinet door. “Her name is Laura Campbell, a journalist for the Washington Post. She has been covering the mysterious deaths related to S. L. Babel’s works. She received an invitation to the auction at Mr. Brown’s mansion from S. L. Babel himself but couldn’t believe it was genuinely from Babel. So, she emailed me, asking if the message was real. I told her it was authentic, and I was going to attend the same auction.”

“Wait, Alex, you said she’s a journalist?” Peter spat, raising his brow. “What’s the point in making this auction private then? She’ll write about everything she sees during the auction.”

“Yeah, but it’s probably a good idea to have a journalist there this time,” said Alex in an anxious tone. “I mean, a murder is less likely to happen under a journalist’s surveillance.”

“It makes sense,” Peter Carli croaked. “Who else will be invited to the auction?”

“I have no idea. Only S. L. Babel knows,” replied Alex with a shrug. “But I assume the wealthiest people on the planet will gather at Mr. Brown’s mansion since you and Mr. Brown will be there. There’s no point in inviting people who aren’t as rich as you.”

“I see,” said Peter Carli, touching his left stomach and taking a deep breath. His sallow and pale cheeks were trembling.

“Are you sick?” mouthed Alex, squinting his eyes.

“No, not at all.”

As Peter mumbled, the pilot’s dry voice resounded from the announcement system in the cabin. “We’re landing in thirty minutes. Please have a seat and make sure you wear seatbelts.”

Alex sank into the white leather chair, glancing out of the small, soybean-shaped window next to his armchair.

The turquoise ocean along snowy Miami Beach was shining under the sun. Alex pressed his forehead against the window, gazing downward.

Among orange surfing boards and huge waves, the shade of a huge shark with two black wings materialized. As the huge waves crashed over the surfers, the shark twisted its body, flew above the sea surface, and engulfed them.

As the airplane tilted its nose down, the cabinet’s door swung open. Alex’s eyes darted to the cabinet. The briefcase popped out and slid over to his chair. He caught the briefcase between his brown leather shoes.

Once again, Alex glanced at the ocean outside the window. The huge shark with wings had vanished. Instead, the shadow of Peter Carli’s private jet was swimming on the water.