by Dale Nelson
Jack scanned the street once more before climbing the steps to the patio.
He walked the length of the patio, conscious to keep his head low but not obviously so, turning in and quickly ascended the short steps that connected the patio with the street. Jack stepped under the awning and into the shade. He counted off two sets of French doors and placed his gloved hand on the carefully polished brass handle of the third. He pulled. The door opened as promised with a soft, barely audible click.
Jack pulled the scarf up over his nose and mouth and stepped inside the salon.
As soon as he cleared the door, Jack’s right hand went from the handle to the small of his back and the Beretta 92FS pressed inside the waistband.
There were five men in the salon. Ehud Arshavin, two other men in suits—one Middle Eastern and one European—and a pair of uniformed security guards. Jack checked their hips and ears. They didn’t even have radios, let alone side arms. Arshavin noticed him first, followed by the guards. By the look of it, they were running way behind schedule. Only half of the jewelry cases had been filled, and the rest of the exhibition stones were still in their transit cases.
Four steps and Jack was in the center of the room, pistol out in front of him.
“You two,” directed at the guards, “on the ground facing away. Hands above your heads. Now.”
The guards dropped. They clearly weren’t being paid enough to pretend they didn’t understand English as a stalling tactic or to care too much about protecting Hassar’s wares. Jack’s head remained fixed forward, but behind the glasses, his eyes flicked from the guards to the other three, making sure they weren’t about to try something stupid. Jack waited a few solid breaths until he was sure there weren’t any heroes in the room. Then, he addressed the others. “Empty out the display cases. Put the jewels in the sacks and put the sacks in this case.” Jack dropped the side case and pushed it farther into the room. Arshavin and his companions stood frozen. “Now!” Jack said sternly, implying the threat instead of overtly stating it.
Arshavin cleared the fog first. Tentatively, he reached over to one of the black, velvet-lined sacks that sat folded on top of a display case, which he unlocked with a nervous hand and began loading its contents into the sack. Hands shaking, Hassar’s lieutenant scooped up diamonds and other loose jewels by the handful and dumps them into the sack. Then he moved onto the next case. The other two followed Arshavin’s lead, Jack directing one of them to worry about emptying the contents of the transit case into his.
The whole thing took a little over a minute.
Arshavin stepped away from Jack’s case saying, “Th-that’s everything.”
Jack batted the air twice with his pistol, indicating to Arshavin to back up. When he did, Jack bent down, not taking his eyes off the men in the room, picked up the case, and started backing toward the door. Jack stuffed the pistol into his front pocket, opened the door, and stepped out. Under the cover of the awning, Jack pulled the t-shirt up over the pistol and pulled the scarf down off his nose and mouth. He made fast steps for the balustrade, planted his free hand on the white cement, and leaped over it.
But Jack dragged his foot just slightly and caught his foot the edge of the balustrade as he vaulted it. The impact threw the timing of the jump off just enough that Jack rolled slightly off balance in midair. Reflexively, Jack let go of the case in midair to brace for impact, and the anodized steel box crashed hard onto the sidewalk next to him. He landed with a hard smack and bounced his knee off the pavement. A shock of pain shot through Jack’s leg. The force of the impact caused the case to open like a shiny, drunken clam, vomiting its contents all over the sidewalk. Some of the jewels spilled out of their velvet bags and onto the sidewalk. Jack quickly scooped up as many of the loose jewels as he could into his hands, dumping them back into the case.
Jack was on the corner of the Boulevard de la Croisette and Henri Ruhl. Still in a crouch, he looked up from his diamond grab long enough to see he’d earned the attention of at least a few pedestrians. Fortunately for him, most were on the far side of the boulevard, which was a four-lane road divided by a palm-lined median. No one was close enough for a credible eyewitness account. Still, Jack swore under his breath, turned his back to them and pulled the Beretta out from his pants, which he thrust into the case. He’d never liked the idea of a handgun in his crotch and always thought the people he saw do that in movies were idiots begging for disaster. Jack grabbed the case, stood, and dashed across to the opposite corner where he’d stashed the motorcycle.
Jack checked his surroundings once more to be clear of onlookers. There was no one in the alley, so he then hooked the side case onto the bike. He traded the ball cap for the helmet, depositing the cap into the case before locking it and starting the motorcycle. Police sirens began to dot the background noise, lancing the lazy serenity of the Mediterranean morning with a chorus of wails that grew in number like a haphazard orchestra.
Ten
The story broke overnight and had been picked up by most of the U.S. news outlets by now, but they had already begun to repeat their information, which Reginald knew meant that they hadn’t learned anything new. Still, he sat in the small parking lot for a short while flipping between BBC World Service and the cable news stations that simulcast over satellite radio, just in case they had a breaking detail.
He’d been awake. Waiting.
When he didn’t get the expected call from Enzo, Reginald grew concerned. He knew the Italian wouldn’t walk out on him. Reginald knew too many people who could get to him, and Enzo was well aware of that. Reginald began to suspect Jack’s involvement when the realization of what happened sank in. The timing of his call the other day was too coincidental, the indignation a bit too fiery for Jack’s usual response. In hindsight, the usually measured man was trying to appear furious, and Reginald had to admit that he’d bought it at the time.
Then, Enzo failed to contact him.
Then, Reginald saw the news.
There were things he didn’t want to believe Jack was capable of, and certainly would never have given him credit for, but now seeing for the first time that Jack was obviously leading a parallel existence, LeGrande didn’t know how far Jack would go.
Reginald sighed.
There was no use delaying the inevitable, he reasoned. Reginald was truly sorry it had come to this, but he didn’t see that he had any newer, better options. And Jack had placed himself in this position. All Reginald was doing was protecting his interests. Well, perhaps there was a little more to it than just that.
He shut off the rented Impala and got out, gravel crunching under his feet. He’d never spent any time in wine country, but Reginald could understand its appeal. He set the tall Peet’s cup on top of the Impala and stared across the half-full parking lot to the long hacienda-style building. Reginald retrieved his coffee and walked inside.
The Kingfisher tasting room was cool despite the warm July day. He counted six people standing at the bar attended to by a pair of young, smiling staff members. An older man with steely hair stood back a bit, occasionally checking in on his people but otherwise busying himself with a clipboard and lists of paper. The man, Reginald assumed was the manager, didn’t acknowledge Reginald until he approached the bar and became a customer.
“What can I get you?” the man asked him affably.
Reginald removed a pair of reading glasses from his sport coat’s breast pocket and examined the menu standing on the bar inside a clear plastic stand. He scanned it for a moment and selected the merlot. While the manager was pouring his wine, Reginald looked around the bar, finally settling on a picture of a group of seven or eight people standing outside this very building with a twenty dollar bill taped to it. Sure enough, Gentleman Jack Burdette was right there in the center with one arm around a woman’s shoulder and the other around the tasting room manager. The photo was captioned “6/09.”
So this is what you do, Reginald thought. He’d tracked Jack’s phone—the one R
eginald gave his erstwhile protégé—using the device’s GPS and knew from the number of hits that this was where Jack spent most of his time, but Reginald didn’t know in what capacity at the time. Looked like owned it.
Patterns began to form, and empty puzzle pieces came together.
Jack was building a business to move his money through. Interesting.
The manager turned back around, set the merlot on a round paper napkin that bore the winery’s name, and asked Reginald if there was anything else he’d like.
“Actually, I’d like to speak with the owner, if that’s possible.” Reginald paused for a moment. “I’m a distributor.”
Part of Reginald honestly wished the man’s response would be, He’s right out back, let me get him for you, and then have Jack appear. There would be an awkward conversation followed by a heated exchange and certainly burned trust for a time, but that all could be repaired. What it would mean was that Jack was here and Reginald had been wrong. Jack hadn’t gone to Cannes and stolen those goddamned jewels.
“Well,” the man behind the counter said in a long way. “He’s away on business, but our head wine maker is here, and she runs things when he’s gone.”
Reginald sighed, and the corners of his mouth dipped in a half-frown that could just as easily be interpreted as annoyance. He genuinely was sad. He breathed in the cool yeast-and-grape smell of the tasting room and considered his thoughts for the briefest of moments. Finally, he simply said, “Even better.”
The manager dug an iPhone out of his pocket and thumbed out a text. His phone chirped a response a few seconds after, and the man told Reginald that she’d be in to see him shortly.
“That’s a nice photo,” Reginald said, looking at the picture with the twenty taped to it and chinning once in a kind of reverse nod.
“Oh, yeah,” the manager said. Reginald finally picked up on the accent—southern, deep, but gradually fading into a California patois. “Took that when we opened the tasting room. That was a great day.”
“I bet.” Reginald smiled and leaned in, squinting. “Who’s that standing next to you? Is that the owner?”
“Frank? Yeah. Frank Fischer.”
“Ah, Kingfisher Wines,” he said, rolling it around his tongue. “I get it.”
“Frank’s a clever one.”
“I bet,” Reginald said again, but this time his voice flattened. The manager didn’t pick up on it.
A woman in dusty, faded blue jeans and a UC Davis Aggies t-shirt entered the tasting room. She spotted Reginald immediately, but then he was the only one in the room pushing sixty and wearing a sport coat, so he probably fit whatever the manager had typed.
Reginald placed her in her mid-thirties. She was attractive but had that worn look of people who had lived a life and were undecided which way the scales were going to tip in the end. There were trace freckles across her cheeks, and her nose tipped up slightly, which gave her a girlish look despite her apparent age. Reginald liked her immediately, or would’ve, he corrected himself.
“Megan McKinney,” she said, extending a hand.
“Reginald LeGrande,” he told her. Reginald thought about an alias, but he didn’t have anything to back it up. Everything in his wallet said “Reginald LeGrande,” but more importantly, the point of this was for Jack to know that he was here so the ruse would only be for the lady. The only way this was a problem was if Jack had told her who he really was, and if he did, that story would no doubt include Reginald.
Judging by her reaction, Jack had not.
Interesting, Reginald thought. Here Jack was, living and working as this Frank Fischer. He’d concocted an entire life and had been living this for at least the last four years, but probably longer.
“So, Steve tells me you’re a distributor. Who are you with?”
“Yes ma’am.” Reginald took another sip of his merlot and set the glass on the counter. He knew from the article that there were only a small number of national distributors anymore, three or four, he couldn’t remember, but there were still plenty of state and regional ones. Anticipating the question, he said, “D and L Wines.” It sounded innocuous enough and had a ring to it. “I’m based out of Long Beach myself, but most of my trade is in Orange County. My clients are boutique wine shops and mid-scale to upscale restaurants with curated wine lists.” Reginald repeated that almost verbatim from a blog he’d read on his flight up here from Long Beach. “We’ve had our eye on you since your ‘09 Osprey but wanted to give it a few years for the brand to develop.” More bullshit he’d read, swapping whatever wine was in the blog post with one of theirs he found scanning the menu. “Anyway, despite what Jay Lewiston says in WineScout, we like your label and think you’d be a good fit for a lot of our clients.” Megan was smiling, but Reginald could tell that she was being guarded. He didn’t know if name-dropping the wine blogger was a good idea or not, but he wanted to show her that he’d done his research. One of the blogs he’d read on the way up here was a series written by a wine buyer who said that his strategy was always to grab a wine that had a poor rating in a series of good ones to try and grab them at a discount.
Megan asked him some questions about what price point he’d sell the wines at and how much he wanted. Reginald rattled off some figures that he was mostly making up on the spot, trying to recall what he’d read. He needed to be convincing enough for her to get Jack on the phone. Jack needed to know without a shadow of a doubt where Reginald was calling from, and there was only one way to guarantee that.
The banter went on for a few minutes, and Reginald found he was running out of things to say, reaching the limit of what he’d learned about wine distribution on the flight here. “So, what do you think?”
Megan’s poker face cracked. “Well, I think it all sounds very good. I’d like to run the numbers by Frank to make sure everything makes sense. Can I call you in a couple days?”
“I can certainly understand that, but I came all this way and I’d hate to leave without a yes.” Reginald flashed her a bright, soft smile. “Could we call him? I’d love to close this deal in person.”
Megan looked down at her watch, and Reginald could see her doing the time zone math in her head. Then, she reached for her phone. “Frank is in Switzerland this week on business. It’ll be a little after nine.” She dialed.
“Jack? Hi...How’s it going?...Good. Good. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’ve got a distributor here...yeah. Sounds like it, yeah. No, I know, but he’d like to talk to you about it too. Ok.”
She handed Reginald the phone.
Eleven
Jack made the calculated risk to stay in his Cannes safe house the night of the robbery. He believed that between the Swiss prison break and the Carlton, there would be too much attention at the border, even an open one, and it would be better to travel on a weekday morning when traffic was up. Jack doubted that either French or Italian authorities would stop cars and ask to look inside trunks, but if they did, he had no way out and it simply wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, the house was safe, and he’d ditched the motorcycle in a crowded public parking garage on the other side of town from the Carlton. He took the plates with him, draped his jacket over the carrying case so it looked a little less obtrusive, and hailed a cab.
Jack’s phone rang. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have taken the phone call. He was exhausted and edgy, and sitting around in Cannes was making him crazy, but there weren’t better options. He saw Megan’s picture pop up on his phone and immediately wondered what it was on a Sunday afternoon that would make her want to call. Maybe she just wanted to talk, but probably it was business. Whatever the reason, he just wanted to hear her voice.
Megan ran through the conversation she’d just had, obviously teeing Jack up, with excitement high in her voice. Jack smiled. It was good to hear her, and it was good to hear her sound happy.
“Frank Fischer, so good to finally meet you.” There was a pause. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
&nb
sp; That excitement evaporated the instant Jack heard the “distributor’s” gravelly voice.
The elation Jack felt at just pulling off one of the largest jewelry heists in history evaporated.
Like water in the desert.
Think fast, Jack. “Don’t say another fucking word, Reginald.” He waited a beat, giving Reginald a chance to hang himself or utterly fuck this up. Reginald said nothing. “Now, say your number like you were giving it to me to copy down.” He did, and Jack could practically see the sanctimonious “gotcha” look on the bastard’s face. “Say you’ll talk to me soon and hang up. Leave my tasting room. I will call you back.” Jack disconnected the call. He went to his bag, dug out the iPhone that Reginald set up for him, and then shouted, “Goddamn it!” He shook his head. “That’s how the fucker did it.”
Reginald, whom he trusted, who’d set him up on jobs for years, arranged forged passports, ghosted credit cards, and false identities, who gave him a “clean” phone so that they could communicate.
iPhones had GPS receivers and a program that allowed the owner to track them in case they were stolen.
Jack powered on the phone for the first time since he’d left California. Since he was international and roaming, it was taking longer to pick up a network. He quickly selected the settings and flipped it to airplane mode to buy himself some time to deactivate everything. Once the phone was safe, Jack went through and disabled the location services: Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, anything he could think of that would broadcast his location.
Jack was furious at the invasion of privacy, but he still couldn’t guess at what Reginald’s game was.
Jack opened up the encryption program and dialed Reginald’s phone. As he was doing that, he typed a hasty explanation to Megan on his other phone explaining that he didn’t want to tie her phone up while he negotiated with this guy. He also prayed that Reginald kept his goddamned mouth shut.