Ian Bloom wrote Fate at age 34, returning from Tokyo, Frankfurt, Geneva, Zürich, 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 Samouraï 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.