The Heist

by Daniel Silva

“Are you carrying a gun, Sam?”

  “No.”

  “Take off your blazer.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see if there’s anything underneath it that’s not supposed to be there.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “Do you want to see the painting or not?”

  The man placed the guidebook and phone on the steps, removed his blazer, and draped it over his arm. Then he picked up the phone again and said, “Satisfied?”

  “Turn around and face the church.”

  The man rotated about forty-five degrees.

  “More.”

  Another forty-five.

  “Very good.”

  The man returned to his original orientation and asked, “What now?”

  “You take a walk.”

  “I don’t feel like walking.”

  “Don’t worry, Sam. It won’t be a long walk.”

  “Where do you want me to go?”

  “Down the boulevard toward the Latin Quarter. Do you know the way to the Latin Quarter, Sam?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re familiar with Paris?”

  “Very.”

  “Don’t look over your shoulder or make any stops. And don’t use your phone, either. You might miss my next call.”

  Gabriel severed the connection and rejoined Keller.

  “Well?” asked the Englishman.

  “I think we just found Samir. And I think he’s a professional.”

  “Are we in play?”

  “We’ll know in a minute.”

  On the other side of the square, Sam was pulling on his sport coat. He slipped the mobile phone into his breast pocket, dropped the guidebook into a rubbish bin, and then made his way to the boulevard Saint-Germain. A right turn would take him in the direction of Les Invalides; a left, to the Latin Quarter. He hesitated for a moment and then turned to the left. Gabriel counted slowly to twenty before rising to his feet and following after him.

  If nothing else, he was capable of following instructions. He walked a straight line down the boulevard, past the shops and crowded cafés, never once pausing or glancing over his shoulder. This allowed Gabriel to focus on his primary task, which was countersurveillance. He saw nothing to suggest that Sam was working with an accomplice. Nor did it appear as though he were being followed by the French police. He was clean, thought Gabriel. As clean as a buyer of stolen art could be.

  After ten minutes of steady walking, Sam was nearing the point where the boulevard met the Seine. Gabriel, a half-block in his wake, drew his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed. Again Sam answered immediately, with the same cordial “Bonjour.”

  “Turn left into the rue du Cardinal Lemoine and follow it to the Seine. Cross the bridge to the Île Saint-Louis and then keep walking straight until you hear from me again.”

  “How much farther?”

  “Not far, Sam. You’re almost there.”

  Sam made the turn as instructed and crossed the Pont de la Tournelle to the small island in the middle of the Seine. A series of picturesque quays ran along the perimeter of the island, but only a single street, the rue Saint-Louis en l’Île, stretched the length of it. With a phone call, Gabriel instructed Sam to turn to the left again.

  “How much farther?”

  “Just a little more, Sam. And don’t look over your shoulder.”

  It was a narrow street, with tourists wandering aimlessly past shop windows. At the western end was an ice cream parlor, and next to the parlor was a brasserie with a fine view of Notre Dame. Gabriel called Sam and issued his final instructions.

  “How long do you intend to keep me waiting?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for lunch, Sam. I’m just the hired help.”

  Gabriel severed the connection without another word and watched Sam enter the brasserie. A waiter greeted him, then gestured toward a sidewalk table occupied by an Englishman with blond hair and blue-tinted glasses. The Englishman rose and, smiling, extended his hand. “I’m Reg,” Gabriel heard him say as he rounded the corner. “Reg Bartholomew. And you must be Sam.”

  22

  ÎLE SAINT-LOUIS, PARIS

  I WOULD LIKE TO BEGIN THIS conversation, Mr. Bartholomew, by offering you my congratulations. That was an impressive transaction you and your men carried out in Amsterdam.”

  “Who’s to say I didn’t do it alone?”

  “It’s not the sort of thing one generally does alone. You surely had help,” Sam added. “Like your friend who was on the phone with me. He speaks French very well, but he isn’t French, is he?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “One likes to have a sense of who one is doing business with.” “This isn’t Harrods, luv.”

  Sam surveyed the street with the languor of a tourist who’d visited too many museums in too brief a time. “He’s out there somewhere, is he not?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “And there are others?”

  “Several.”

  “And yet I was required to come alone.”

  “It’s a seller’s market.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Sam resumed his study of the street. He was still wearing his boater and his sunglasses, which left only the lower half of his face visible. It was closely shaven and judiciously fragranced. The cheekbones were high and prominent, the chin was notched, the teeth were even and very white. His hands had no scars or tattoos. He wore no rings on his fingers or bracelets on his wrists, only a large gold Rolex to indicate he was a man of means. He had the polished mannerisms of a well-born Arab but with a harder edge.

  “One hears other things as well,” Sam continued after a moment. “Those who’ve seen the merchandise say you managed to get it out of Amsterdam with minimal damage.”

  “None, actually.”

  “One also hears there are Polaroids.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Sam smiled unpleasantly. “This is going to take much longer than necessary if you insist on playing these games, Mr. Bartholomew.” “One likes to have a sense of who one is doing business with,” Keller said pointedly.

  “Are you asking me for information about the man I represent, Mr. Bartholomew?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  There was a silence.

  “My client is a businessman,” Sam said finally. “Quite successful, very wealthy. He is also a lover of the arts. He collects widely, but like many serious collectors he has grown frustrated by the fact there are very few good pictures for sale any longer. He has been interested in acquiring a van Gogh for many years. You are now in possession of a very good one. My client would like it.”

  “So would a lot of other people.”

  Sam appeared untroubled by this. “And what about you?” he asked after a moment. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

  “I steal things for a living.”

  “You’re English?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ve always been fond of the English.”

  “I won’t hold that against you.”

  A waiter appeared and handed them each a menu. Sam ordered a bottle of mineral water; Keller, a glass of wine he had no intention of drinking.

  “Let me make one thing clear from the outset,” he said when they were alone again. “I’m not interested in drugs, or guns, or girls, or a condominium in Boca Raton, Florida. This is a cash-only proposition.”

  “How much cash are we talking about, Mr. Bartholomew?”

  “I have an offer of twenty million on the table.”

  “What flavor?”

  “Euros.”

  “Is it a firm offer?”

  “I delayed the sale to meet with you.”

  “How flattering. Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Because I hear your client, whoever he is, is a man of deep pockets.”

  “Very deep.” Another smile, only slightly more plea
sant than the first. “So how shall we proceed, Mr. Bartholomew?”

  “I need to know whether you’re interested in beating the offer on the table.”

  “I am.”

  “By how much?”

  “I suppose I could offer you something trivial, like an additional five hundred thousand, but my client doesn’t like auctions.” He paused, then asked, “Would twenty-five million be sufficient to take the painting off the table?”

  “It would indeed, Sam.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “Perhaps now would be a good time for you to show me the Polaroids.”

  The Polaroids were in the glove box of a rented Mercedes parked along a quiet street behind Notre Dame. Keller and Sam walked there together and climbed inside, Keller behind the wheel, Sam in the passenger seat. Keller subjected him to a quick but thorough search before popping the hatch of the glove box and fishing out the photos. There were four in all—one full shot, three detail images. Sam leafed through them skeptically.

  “It looks a bit like the van Gogh that hangs above the bed in my hotel room.”

  “It isn’t.”

  He made a face to indicate he wasn’t convinced. “The painting in this photograph could be a copy. And you could be a clever con man who’s trying to cash in on the theft in Amsterdam.”

  “Take off your sunglasses and have a better look, Sam.”

  “I intend to.” He handed the pictures back to Keller. “I need to see the real thing, not photographs.”

  “I’m not running a museum, Sam.”

  “Your point?”

  “I can’t show the van Gogh to anyone who wants to see it. I need to know whether you’re serious about acquiring it.”

  “I’ve offered you twenty-five million euros in cash for it.”

  “It’s easy to offer twenty-five million, Sam. Handing it over is quite another thing.”

  “My client is a man of extraordinary wealth.”

  “Then I’m sure he didn’t send you to Paris empty-handed.” Keller returned the photos to the glove box and closed the lid firmly.

  “Is this the way your scam works? You demand to see money before showing the painting and then you steal it?”

  “If I was running a scam, you and your client would have already heard about it by now.”

  He had no answer for that.

  “I can’t get more than ten thousand in cash on such short notice.”

  “I’ll need to see a million.”

  He snorted, as if to say a million was out of the question.

  “If you want to see a van Gogh for less than a million,” Keller said, “you can go to the Louvre or the Musée d’Orsay. But if you want to see my van Gogh, you’re going to have to show me the money.”

  “It’s not safe to walk around the streets of Paris with that kind of cash.”

  “Something tells me you can look after yourself just fine.”

  Sam gave a capitulatory exhalation of breath. “Where and when?”

  “Saint-Germain-des-Prés, two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. No friends. No guns.”

  Sam climbed out of the car without another word and walked away.

  He crossed the Seine to the Right Bank and walked along the rue de Rivoli, past the northern wing of the Louvre, to the Jardin des Tuileries. He spent much of that time on the telephone, and twice he engaged in rudimentary tradecraft to see whether he was being followed. Even so, he did not appear to notice Gabriel walking fifty meters in his wake.

  Before reaching the Jeu de Paume, he cut over to the rue Saint-Honoré and entered an exclusive shop that sold costly leather goods for men. He emerged ten minutes later with a new attaché case, which he carried to a branch of the HSBC Private Bank on the boulevard Haussmann. He remained there twenty-two minutes precisely, and when he reappeared the attaché case looked heavier than when he had entered. He bore it swiftly to the Place de la Concorde and then through the grand entrance of the Hôtel de Crillon. Watching from a distance, Gabriel smiled. Nothing but the best for the representative of Mr. Big. As he walked away, he rang Keller and told him the news. They were in play, he said. They were definitely in play.

  23

  BOULEVARD SAINT-GERMAIN, PARIS

  HE WAS STANDING OUTSIDE THE red door of the church at two the following afternoon, with his hat and sunglasses firmly in place and the new attaché case clutched in his right hand. Gabriel waited five minutes before calling him.

  “You again,” said Sam glumly.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What now?”

  “We take another walk.”

  “Where now?”

  “Follow the rue Bonaparte to the Place Saint-Sulpice. Same rules as last time. Don’t make any stops and don’t look over your shoulder. No phone calls, either.”

  “How far do you intend to make me walk this time?”

  Gabriel hung up without another word. On the other side of the busy square, Sam started walking. Gabriel counted slowly to twenty and then followed after him.

  He let Sam walk to the Luxembourg Gardens before ringing him again. From there, they headed southwest on the rue de Vaugirard, then north on the boulevard Raspail, to the entrance of the Hôtel Lutetia. Keller was sitting at a table in the bar, reading the Telegraph. Sam joined him as instructed.

  “How was he this time?” asked Keller.

  “As thorough as ever.”

  “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “What a pity.” Keller folded his newspaper. “You’d better take off those sunglasses, Sam. Otherwise, management might get the wrong idea about you.”

  He did as Keller suggested. His eyes were light brown and large. With his face exposed, he was a much less threatening figure.

  “Now the hat,” said Keller. “A gentleman doesn’t wear a hat in the bar of the Lutetia.”

  He removed the boater, revealing a full head of hair, brown but not black, with a bit of gray around the ears. If he was an Arab, he wasn’t from the Peninsula or the Gulf. Keller looked at the attaché case.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  “One million, just as you requested.”

  “Give me a little peek. But be careful,” Keller added. “There’s a surveillance camera over your right shoulder.”

  Sam placed the briefcase on the table, popped the latches, and lifted the lid two inches, just enough for Keller to glimpse the tightly packed rows of hundred-euro banknotes.

  “Close it,” said Keller quietly.

  Sam closed and locked the briefcase. “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Not yet.” Keller stood.

  “Where now?”

  “My room.”

  “Will there be anyone else?”

  “It’ll just be the two of us, Sam. Very romantic.”

  Sam rose to his feet and picked up the attaché case. “I think it’s important that I make something clear before we go upstairs.”

  “What’s that, Sam?”

  “If anything happens to me or my client’s money, you and your friend are going to get hurt very badly.” He slipped on his sunglasses and smiled. “Just so we understand each other, luv.”

  In the entrance hall of the room, beyond the prying eyes of the hotel’s surveillance cameras, Keller searched Sam for weapons or recording devices. Finding nothing objectionable, he placed the attaché case at the end of the bed and popped the latches. Then he removed three bundles of cash and, from each bundle, a single banknote. He inspected each note with a professional-grade hand lens; then, in the darkened bathroom, he subjected them to Gabriel’s ultraviolet lamp. The security strips glowed lime-green; the bills were genuine. He returned the banknotes to their bundles and the bundles to the briefcase. Then he closed the lid and, with a nod, indicated they were ready to go to the next step.

  “When?” asked Sam.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I have a better idea,” he said. “We do it tonight. Otherwise, the deal’s off.”
<
br />   Maurice Durand had told them to expect something like this—a small tactical ploy, a token rebellion, that would allow Sam to feel as though he, and not Keller, were in charge of the negotiating process. Keller pushed back gently, but Sam held his ground. He wanted to be standing in front of the van Gogh before midnight; if he wasn’t, he and his twenty-five million euros were gone. Which left Keller no option but to accede to his opponent’s wishes. He did so with a concessionary smile, as though the change in plan were little more than an inconvenience. Then he quickly laid down the rules for that evening’s viewing. Sam could touch the painting, smell the painting, or make love to the painting. But under no circumstances could he photograph it.

  “Where and when?” asked Sam.

  “We’ll call you at nine o’clock and tell you how to proceed.”

  “Fine.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “You know exactly where I’m staying, Mr. Bartholomew. I’ll be standing in the lobby of the Crillon at nine tonight, no friends, no guns. And tell your friend not to keep me waiting this time.”

  He left the hotel ten minutes later, wearing his hat and sunglasses, and walked to the HSBC Private Bank on the boulevard Haussmann, where, presumably, he returned the one million euros to his client’s safe-deposit box. Afterward, he made his way on foot to the Musée d’Orsay and spent the next two hours studying the paintings of one Vincent van Gogh. By the time he left the museum, it was approaching six. He ate a light supper in a bistro on the Champs-Élysées and then returned to his room at the Crillon. As promised, he was standing in the lobby at nine o’clock sharp, dressed in gray trousers, a black pullover, and a leather jacket. Gabriel knew this because he was sitting a few feet away, in the lobby bar. He waited until two minutes past nine before calling Sam’s number.

  “Do you know how to use the Paris Métro?”

  “Of course.”

  “Walk to the Concorde station and take the Number Twelve to Marx Dormoy. Mr. Bartholomew will be waiting for you.”

  Sam walked out of the lobby. Gabriel remained in the bar for another five minutes. Then he collected his car from the valet and headed for the farmhouse in Picardy.