Fate
Ian Bloom wrote Fate at age 34, returning from Tokyo, Frankfurt, Geneva, Z rich, and Milan - a man between centuries, walking like a ghost through freeports, tombs, and private airfields. A screen novel stripped to the bone, yet tectonic in consequence.
Fate is a sovereign thriller of art-world espionage, Nazi-looted paintings, and diplomatic immunity, all wrapped around the cold anatomy of trust and betrayal. From the catacombs of Switzerland to the vaults of Bel Air, Bloom conjures a postmodern samurai saga: Le Samoura by way of Michael Clayton, if ghostwritten by Nietszche.
Jean Barry is an American art dealer with customs clearance and a conscience on the line. When a Goya resurfaces from the ashes of history - blood-stamped, war-stolen, and insured by no one - Jean is forced into the underworld of masked power brokers, hollow estates, and off-ledger transactions. But this isn't about art. It's about leverage. And the deal is already done.
Written with Bloom's signature restraint and militarized style - cigarette pauses, gloved elegance, and dialogue like scalpel-play - Fate moves like a professional killer: silent, direct, cinematic. It is noir without the romanticism, espionage without the gadgets, and myth without the safety net.
This isn't a heist story.
It's a reckoning.
A metaphysical finance thriller.
A gospel of betrayal, forged in Cartier time and Swiss blood.
The rules are fixed. The players are masked.
But Jean plays for keeps.
And Fate has a return policy.
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