Ortoli’s security seemed very good. They were professional and well trained. During the day, there was always a man outside the house and one somewhere inside. At night, just one guard plus probably remotely monitored systems. They didn’t lose focus, slip away for a smoke, get caught up in conversations with people from the neighborhood. As I had suspected, they were not native French speakers. By using a shotgun mic I was able to determine that they spoke Corsican when conversing with Ortoli. If my plan ended up requiring me to interact with them, I would hopefully be able to speak limited French without giving away my non-native speaker status. I needed to figure out some sort of convincing ruse to get inside and case the house. I had to see the interior before I would be able to plan my next step but it wasn’t going to be easy. It was time to call on my partner Ashna.
It felt weird to call Ashna my partner but after I recovered my friend Valerie’s stolen painting—with a fair amount of help from Ashna—she had convinced me she wanted to be a full accomplice the next time I took on a job. I normally liked to plan, work out details, and execute on my own. I had always been a loner when it came to my work—be it art, or my past career as a cat burglar. There weren’t many people I could see myself partnering with but something about Ashna made me think it might work out. Longtime friend, highly skilled programmer and hacker, intense and no-nonsense personality—she was a huge asset and definitely worth a fifty-fifty split.
The morning of my third day I made coffee and sat down in the chair I had dragged over to the open window overlooking the street. It was sunny and warm and the window was angled enough toward the east to admit a shaft of sunlight. The owner of the apartment had a window box full of nasturtiums in full bloom. I inhaled the sweet aroma of the flowers and sipped my coffee while composing a quick text to Ashna.
—Need some help. Sending details via email.—
It was late evening in San Francisco but she responded within a few minutes.
—Cool. Awaiting your communiqué.—
I opened my laptop and quickly typed up the details including a brief outline of the job, Ortoli’s Paris address, and my observations. I encrypted the document with a ridiculously strong password Ashna had forced me to commit to memory, and then sent it off to her from my Protonmail account. After I sent it I deleted the unencrypted version and spent a few minutes writing an email to an old friend who lived in Paris, letting him know I was around for a few days. Soon, my phone buzzed with an incoming text message:
—Doing some digging. Will reply soon.—
I went for a walk around the neighborhood and stopped at the local brasserie for breakfast. The setup had me a little perplexed. Normally I liked to enter buildings only when they were empty. Lately, I had found myself needing to break that rule more often than I liked. A new set of skills and a reconsideration of strategy was needed. On my way back in, I ran into the concierge in the lobby mopping the floor. I nodded hello to her and was about to continue upstairs but, on a sudden instinct, decided to ask her about Ortoli. Apartment building concierges in Paris were famous for knowing everyone’s business. They were discreet but watchful and knowledgeable, not just of their own buildings but of the neighborhood.
“Pardon, Madame. The house across the street,” I said in my halting French, gesturing toward it. “Does a celebrity live there? Someone famous? There are always security men outside.”
She stopped mopping and leaned on the handle, happy to talk. “A rich man,” she responded, wiping her forehead with a handkerchief from the pocket of her gray smock. “Some kind of gangster. Corsican.” The word sounded like a truly vile insult the way she said it. She looked back and forth as if checking to see that no one else was nearby to hear, then held her hand up to her nose, twisting it back and forth in a very French gesture I recognized to mean intoxicated. “Always drunk,” she said. “Every night passing out. I see the guards and his woman carry him out of the car sometimes. Other times, I see him stumble home from the bar.”
I shook my head, trying to feign a scandalized look. “Oh well,” I responded. “Many people drink too much. It’s a sad affliction.”
“Also, the smuggling. Things go out but I don’t see them go in. Trucks in the night. Very bad. From where do they come?"
“I can’t say Madame. It sounds very disturbing," I replied, shrugging. She shrugged too, shaking her head sadly, and went back to sweeping. This was interesting intelligence. If things came out of the house that were not seen going in, it could mean there was a secret entrance.
Upstairs, I checked my email and saw a response from Ashna waiting. I clicked to open it, entered the password to decrypt the file, and began reading.
This Ortoli character uses France Telecom for internet access. I got an associate who speaks native French to call up and report internet access down at the address. He managed to get the tech on the line to give him the static IP address for the router. Social engineering FTW! Anyway, with the IP address, I was able to compromise the router and get onto the local network. His house is a hacker dream come true—all the latest IOT gadgets. He’s got HVAC, appliances, TVs, lights, and security system all online. The HVAC would be the easiest to hack. There’s an embedded control system with a default password. Let me know what you need hacked and I’ll get on it.
I pondered for a minute. HVAC might be a good way to get in. An unusual heat wave was blanketing the city. If the AC went down in the house I could pose as a repairman to gain entry. I would need to rent a van and get some gear. I turned back to my laptop and composed a reply to Ashna.
You’re awesome. Please work on the HVAC. I’ll need to you to shut down the AC at a specific date/time. I’ll follow up with details.
****
The next day was even warmer. I waited around the corner in my rented van, a bead of sweat running down my forehead. I’d worked up a logo in Photoshop for my imaginary AC repair service and had it printed as a magnetic car decal. It was stuck to the side of the van. I also had it stenciled on the back of my new work shirt. I had hand cut the stencil out of thick cardboard and spray painted it on the shirt but it looked fairly convincing. In the back of the van was a toolbox full of tools an AC repairman would carry. I had purchased them at a couple of different pawn shops in the outer arrondissements so they wouldn’t look suspiciously new if inspected.
I checked the time. Ashna would be turning off the AC at any moment. I would wait ten minutes then drive around the corner and park in front of Ortoli’s house.
Exactly ten minutes later I pulled up and turned off the engine. The guard barred my way as soon as I stepped out of the van, looming over me, obviously sweltering in his dark blazer and black button up. A drop of sweat meandered down through his close-cropped black hair and slid onto his acne scarred cheek, picking up speed. I’d used Google translate to figure out what I would say and had been practicing it since the evening before, trying to improve my accent.
“Central maintenance sent me out. They got a system down alert for the AC at this address.”
He held up a hand and talked into his lapel mic, holding the other hand to his ear piece. After a short conversation with the person on the other end, he turned back to me.
“They’re checking,” he said and stood impassively for a minute. I tried to look bored. This part was the weakest link in my plan. There was no central maintenance office monitoring the AC in the house. I was counting on them not to know that bit of information. People tend to be fatalistic about technology and just accept that everything is constantly monitored—their cars, their TVs, even their AC units. Finally someone’s voice spoke in his ear and he nodded. “Yeah, AC’s down. My boss is coming to escort you.”
A couple of minutes later another man I recognized from my surveillance, older and less bulky but still highly capable looking, pushed the front door open and gestured to me. I picked up my toolbox and headed for the entrance but was stopped short by the door guardʼs extended arm. He squinted at me, forehead wrinkling, and held o
ut his hand for the tool box. I set it down and opened it. He inspected the contents slowly and carefully then, satisfied, handed it back and inclined his head toward the door where the other guard still waited. I turned and entered, following the older man inside. I was glad it was warm out. The sweat patches under my arms were not entirely from the heat. These guys made me nervous.
As soon as we were inside I switched my brain to record mode and took in as much information as possible. It reminded me of a nice, business class hotel lobby. Some people’s houses and furnishings say a lot about who they are and what they value. Ortoli’s house so far said only “I hired a somewhat competent interior decorator.” I saw a security camera in the entry hall, facing the front door. I did not see any motion detectors.
“AC unit is downstairs.” The guard said, opening the door next to the elevator with a key from the set hanging on his belt. He held it open for me and I walked through. Wooden stairs led up toward the higher floors, switching back and forth. Concrete stairs led down into a gloomy, damp smelling basement. There did not seem to be any cameras in the stairwell. I descended slowly and found myself in a vaulted cellar with a dusty stone floor. It looked like spider territory. Dim lamps hung down, casting just enough light to see by but not enough to illuminate the many shadowy corners and alcoves. The guard pushed past me and led me to a back corner where a squat central AC unit sat on an elevated pad next to a gas furnace.
“This will take a little time,” I said, rounding the unit and crouching down. I found the access panel at the back and glanced over at him. He hovered, seemingly unsure whether he should stay or leave me to my work. Just then, his phone rang and he answered it. I could hear a gruff voice on the other end. The security guard answered obsequiously, speaking rapid Corsican. He glanced back at me as the barking continued, then put his hand over the phone and stage whispered ‘hurry’ before heading back up the stairs.
I popped the right bit onto my socket driver, unscrewed the panel, and pulled it off. There was nothing really for me to do. Ashna would turn the system back on when I gave her the signal. I wanted to look busy if the guard came back down though. I stood and walked around, surveying the cellar. Ten feet away from the furnace I found another set of steps leading down to a sub-basement. The concierge’s information about trucks loading out when nothing had gone in came back to me. Could the house have a secret way in and out? Intrigued, I pulled out my flashlight and hurried down. There was a heavy door at the bottom but it was unlocked and opened easily, leading into a wine cellar. I walked through, admiring the collection of neatly racked bottles. They looked like they were dusted and rotated frequently. On the opposite wall was another door, this one locked and double dead-bolted with high quality hardware. I unlocked it, curious what I would find, flashing back for a moment to Patrice Antonetti’s underground art gallery. Beyond the door, though, I found not another chamber but an ancient looking tunnel with a bare, hand hewn stone floor, leading downward into darkness. I used my phone’s flashlight mode to dispel the shadows. There seemed to be a gate of vertical steel bars farther down the tunnel. The catacombs! It had to be. The winding maze of tunnels ran under this whole section of Paris. I pulled a sharpie out of a cargo pocket, quickly drew an X on the tunnel side of the door, and closed it again, locking only the knob set. It would take some work but I had a good idea how I would get into Ortoli’s house. Why he had a secret entrance to the catacombs I could only guess. Maybe for smuggling as the concierge had said. Maybe a kind of escape hatch in case the police came for him.
Back in the basement, crouched behind the AC unit, I texted Ashna, hoping my single bar of cell service would suffice. A minute later the unit chugged to life. I replaced the cover, packed my tools, and headed for the exit, sending a quick thank you to Ashna on my way out.
****
Later, the van returned to the rental company, I sat in my rented apartment and began researching the catacombs. There were official tours but they covered only a small percentage of the tunnels. Vast sections were closed off and forbidden to civilians. Artists and urban adventurers, however, had taken to breaking in, exploring, and throwing parties and events down in the dark chambers and galleries below Paris. I found an article detailing how a shadowy group had started an illegal movie house in a giant, previously unmapped cavern they came across. It was like the old rave scene in Manchester except instead of abandoned warehouses they were going literally underground. Plenty of photos and videos could be found online, posted by illicit explorers. If the door in Ortoli’s basement really connected to the catacombs it should not be too difficult to find from the other side. I would need someone to guide me though. I had a friend in Paris, an old comrade from my art school days. His name was Sebastian and he was just the kind of guy who would know someone, or at least know of someone, who could get me into the catacombs and show me around.
****
Two days later I crouched between two parked cars on a quiet street a few blocks from Ortoli’s house. I leaned against the bumper of the van behind me and rubbed my hands together. It was late, the street nearly deserted. Sebastian crouched next to me and, next to him, his friend Jabez, a documentary filmmaker working on a piece about the catacombs and the secretive groups who explored and even sometimes inhabited the tunnels. A big, meaty guy and something of a dandy, Jabez wore a midnight blue velvet suit, riding boots, and a deerstalker hat. Sebastian, as skinny, tall, and dark as I remembered him, hummed tunelessly, watching the road. It had been years but he didn’t seem to have changed. Still quiet and sardonic and happy to help a friend. I had just met Jabez but I liked him already. He proved more than willing to show us a way into the underground and help us explore. A true obsessive, he knew everything about the catacombs. We had met at a nearby brasserie and he had been talking our ears off ever since, explaining the history and the politics.
Jabez checked his watch, poked his head out to look for cars, and nodded to us. “Let’s go,” he said, standing.
We walked to the middle of the road and he carefully lifted a manhole cover with a crowbar, holding it up and motioning for us to enter. Inside, a circular shaft led straight down with ladder rungs set into the wall. Sebastian went first, then me. I looked up and saw Jabez slowly lowering the manhole with one hand while holding on to a rung with the other—an impressive feat of strength. The darkness closed in as soon as the cover was down. We all had headlamps provided by Jabez. I flicked mine on and so did the others. At the bottom of the ladder was a tunnel of fitted stone just tall enough for me. Jabez and Sebastian, both over six feet, stooped.
“This is a sewer access tunnel,” Jabez said. “Just up here we will find a door to one of the catacomb passages. I’ve entered this way a couple of times. Near here there is a good section of tunnels and rooms.” He started off and we followed. We walked about thirty feet and stopped in front of an alcove with an inset door. “Merde!” he spat. “They’ve locked it up.”
I looked over his shoulder and smiled. It was a lock I was familiar with—an Abus 82 series padlock securing a hasp that held the door closed. The Abus 82s were easy to pick but even easier to open with just a sharp steel awl. The actuator was brass so a harder metal could bite in and move it, releasing the spring.
“Give me a second,” I said and crouched in front of the door, already digging in my backpack for my tool kit. I pretended to struggle with it for a while and then quickly popped it. “Got it,” I said, standing and pushing the door open.
“Where did you learn to pick locks?” Sebastian asked, raising an eyebrow, as we passed through into an older looking tunnel hewed out of solid stone.
“Just a hobby,” I answered. “I don’t get a chance to use it very often.”
I pulled the door shut behind us and Jabez led the way, filming with a small digital camera. It felt strangely peaceful underground—quiet and enclosed. I had told Jabez and Sebastian that I was looking for a particular spot underneath the Cimetiere Montparnasse, an alcove with a sculptural
element I had heard about from another artist. I had chosen that direction because it should take us close to Ortoli’s house and the passageway leading to his cellar. There were maps of the catacombs online. They were incomplete and often out of scale but I was fairly sure that by entering where we had and heading toward the cemetery we should be on the right path.
We walked for some time. The air had a still, damp feel and we occasionally passed through inch deep puddles of standing water. Sebastian had warned me and I was prepared with waterproof boots. The tunnel opened wider in places, revealing dim recesses and rough columns behind which lurked shadowy alcoves stacked high with human bones—skulls and femurs carefully piled up, forming a retaining wall that held back the jumble of other, smaller bones. I was keeping track of the distance as well as I could. I felt we should be nearing Ortoli’s house. We passed an alcove, a collapsed tunnel, then finally a passage opened to the left and I stopped, gazing up into the murky gloom.
“Let me check this out,” I said to the others and ducked in. The shaft rose at a slow grade for about thirty feet and stopped at a gate of steel bars. I shined my headlamp through the bars. Twenty feet further on I saw a door. It was marked with an X. My X.
“What did you find?” Sebastian asked, coming up behind me.
“Just a gate. Heavy duty and well locked. Door further up the tunnel.”
“Interesting. Maybe a private entrance. From a cellar in someone’s house or business. It’s not uncommon.”
“Yeah. I wonder where it leads to? Anyway, not where we’re headed tonight. Let’s go back and catch up with Jabez.”
****
Two days later again, I was back on the same street, waiting between parked cars. It was just after eleven PM. Alone this time, I waited for an opening. I had my brought my own crowbar.
Ashna had scored again by finding the architectural drawings created when Ortoli remodeled the house in 2008, submitted as part of the permitting process. I knew now that the master suite was on the third floor and the fourth floor was Ortoli’s office and library. The second floor was guest rooms—probably where the security guards had their monitoring station. I was sure Ortoli would not have the painting there. It had to be either in the master bedroom or the library. My guess was the library. He would want to show it off to the close friends who he brought upstairs. Very few people would ever see it in the master bedroom.
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