Once a Thief (Gentleman Jack Burdette Book 3)

by Dale M. Nelson

  Jack shook his head. “That’s just two or three more guys that know about this and want a split, maybe more than they think they’re entitled to. Besides, the longer we give Cannizzaro, the more time he has to plan something. We’re better off doing the handoff as quickly as possible.”

  Enzo lifted his beer, and looking out the window, he said, “You ever think about not giving the diamonds over to Cannizzaro? Maybe this Russian takes him out.”

  “Problem is, there’s too many people that know we were involved. Not only that, but we don’t know what happened to Nico. When I was looking at the people that the police had in custody back in LA, I didn’t see him. He’s still out there, and there’s always the chance he teams up with the Russian for a cut. No, I think the safest thing is for us to give Cannizzaro what he wants and be done with it. It’s the only way I see that we get to walk away.”

  “I understand why you want to play it that way,” Enzo said, in the way that meant he got it but didn’t like it. That was fine with Jack. The fewer people that knew what he was planning, the better.

  Jack hadn’t told Enzo about his phone call with Danzig or the deal she offered him, and he wouldn’t. Not after Rusty.

  Danzig wanted those diamonds in Europe, and that’s exactly what Jack was going to do. There wasn’t another way. Jack spent a lot of hours thinking about her proposal and what he kept coming back to was that he didn’t have a convincing story to give her to explain where he got the diamonds. Vito would be followed when he was let out of police custody, so Jack couldn’t use that as a story, and they knew about Reginald’s movements. There was another angle to play, however. It was risky, but it might be his only chance to pull something off.

  They finished their beers and Jack checked his watch. His side hurt. The last thing he wanted was to sit on a plane for seven hours. He outlined the plan for Enzo, the part that he needed to know. Enzo would be at a separate location on a laptop and he would confirm for Jack over the phone that the money had posted. Once it did, Jack would hand over the diamonds to Cannizzaro’s man. Even though he was giving Enzo access to view it, Jack had the account locked down so that no money could be transferred out unless he called the bank. As soon as he was clear, Jack would transfer Enzo’s half to him and it would be over. Roughly seventeen million each.

  “Who did you say you were?” Enzo asked.

  “Just some guy,” Jack said.

  He wanted to trust Enzo, he genuinely did, but there was something lingering, some holdover from Rusty that convinced Jack the less he said, the better. If he couldn’t trust Enzo, he was well and truly alone, but maybe that was the best chance for them to see the other side of this.

  The name he gave them, Clint Sturdevant, was someone he hadn’t thought about or heard from in twenty-five years. Clint was a thief that had worked with Reginald, a dangerous and violent man they’d pulled that disastrous armored car depot job with. When the job fell apart, Sturdevant turned on them and tried to get Reginald’s and Jack’s split too. Reg shot him but not fatally. They’d only learned that when Jack went to look for the body and didn’t find one.

  Reginald didn’t talk about Sturdevant after that but Jack knew he’d kept tabs. Reginald always liked to know where his enemies were. Jack didn’t know where Sturdevant was now, whether he was loose or in prison, alive or dead, the only thing he did know was that the sick son of a bitch never found religion and became a priest. Sturdevant might be out there still pulling down jobs right now, he might be retired. In the end, it didn’t matter.

  Jack needed a name and decided to give one that the police could verify, just in case it made its way back to Danzig. His rationale was, if it was just an obviously made-up name, there was always the chance that the authorities would simply assume it was him. But if he gave the name of a known criminal, that would start some rabbit holing. Even better if Sturdevant had an alibi for that night or he was dead, that would waste all kinds of time. And it could never be traced back to Jack—Jack and Reginald were never identified on that armored car job, and Reginald and Jack were the only two who knew everyone’s real name. Only one member survived to be arrested, the idiot who put it together, and he only had their aliases.

  Besides, Sturdevant was a psychopath who’d tried to kill him. If Jack had to give a name, it might as well be his.

  Jack arrived at his gate and hugged his friend.

  “I’ll see you on the other side,” he told Enzo.

  “Bon chance, mon ami,” Enzo said.

  Jack lifted an eyebrow. “You’re speaking French now?”

  “For Gaston,” Enzo said.

  Gaston Broussard, their longtime partner and friend. Gaston had been murdered by the Pink Panther Ozren Stolar, after the Carlton job. He and Enzo had been close.

  Jack gave a wan smile and nodded.

  “For Gaston,” he said back.

  Jack never made promises of retiring. Not to Megan, not even to himself. The only one he’d really told that to was Danzig, because when a federal agent asks you if you ever plan to steal jewels again, there’s really only one right answer. Whatever the outcome, though, he knew he’d never work with Enzo again.

  And he shouldn’t.

  Enzo would have more than enough to retire on, to live out his life on.

  Jack’s gift to his friend wasn’t the money. Enzo earned that.

  Jack’s gift was making sure Enzo lived to spend it.

  36

  The small plane touched down in Nice.

  Gentleman Jack Burdette exited the aircraft wearing a tan suit, navy shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his Persol Steve McQueens. He was ready to steal a lot of goddamn money from some very bad people.

  There was a luxury car rental in Nice that was supposed to have an Aston Martin DB11 Volante waiting for him outside the terminal. Jack checked his watch; the flight had been on time. First, he checked the reservation on the email address he’d used and verified that he had the correct time. Then Jack opened the burner phone, having used that number to make the reservation. Jack purchased a new burner with a European SIM card during his layover at Charles de Gaulle and notified his hotel and rental company of it. There was a voicemail from LuxeDrive instructing him to call as soon as possible.

  It was early afternoon, and there was bright sunshine coating everything. The Nice airport was built along the coast, giving airline passengers a staggering view of the Côte d’Azur on their final approach into the airport. With his back to the building, Jack had an impressive view of the city of Nice. Not that he was particularly interested in the scenery. He wanted to know where in the hell was his car.

  LuxeDrive catered to the traveling elite, and as such, Jack didn’t have to step through the usual dialogue required with most French citizens where they pretended not to understand English until it was clear the transaction wouldn’t proceed unless they serendipitously remembered. Apparently, eighteen hundred a day for an Aston Martin cleared a few hurdles.

  “Bonjour, Mr. Southerland,” the crisp but slightly accented female voice said. “I trust your flight into Nice was pleasant.”

  Jack slipped into character, though under the circumstances, it wasn’t that hard. “It was fine, but there appears to be a problem with my car. Or rather, the lack thereof.”

  “Yes, Mr. Southerland. I do apologize. We left you several messages.”

  “I was in the air,” he said. “For quite some time.”

  “Yes,” she said tentatively. “I’m afraid we are unable to use the method of payment you supplied. Therefore, we could not authorize the vehicle.”

  “Impossible,” Jack said.

  “I am afraid not, sir.”

  She went on to explain that the credit card he’d supplied had been cancelled. It was a corporate card opened in the name of a shell corporation he’d set up to be able to travel anonymously. Jack’s mind went through the possibilities. Was this Rusty’s handlers working to roll him up? Was this Danzig? Or perhaps something else?

&nbs
p; Jack told the woman this was obviously some mistake and that he would have his people sort it out. He disconnected the call.

  The card was burned, so he broke it in two and dropped it in the trash. He had another he could use, but he wasn’t going to do it here. Jack hired a car to drive him the thirty minutes to Monaco and to his hotel, the Monte-Carlo Bay Resort. There was a long, curved approach to the resort beneath rows of palms and a perfect azure sky. Jack checked into his room, a large room with a seaside view, under the Southerland name. He explained that he was changing payment methods and tried a new card. That one appeared to work, and Jack was shown to his room. He tipped the bellman and set his bags down but didn’t unpack them. For the time being, he slid the cases with the diamonds under the bed.

  Since he had a seaside view, Jack didn’t have any apprehension about opening the curtains. In fact, that’s why he’d chosen the room. He allowed himself a few minutes to stare at the splendor. Impossibly blue water beneath a differently hued but equally impossible sky. It was no wonder this was the playground of kings.

  Jack picked up the hotel phone.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Southerland?”

  “I neglected to hire a car before I left and was wondering if the hotel could arrange one for me for the day. I have a few appointments in town.”

  “Yes, of course. Do you have a preference?”

  Thirty minutes later, Jack accepted the keys to a cobalt blue Porsche 911 Targa 4S. It wasn’t the DB11, but it would do. Reluctantly, he’d checked the camera case into the hotel safe. Having robbed places like this before, Jack felt reasonably confident in their internal security. The main thing he was watching for in the lobby as he’d done it was anyone watching him. Jack checked the rearview as he pulled out of the hotel to see if any vehicles detached themselves from the landscape.

  Leaving the resort, Jack guided the Porsche around a large traffic circle, taking the nine o’clock exit onto Avenue Princess Grace, and then accelerated. As a boy, Jack had dreamed of this, driving a Formula One racer through the streets of Monaco in the Grand Prix. Now, he was finally realizing that vision in a way, but it was a bitter and ashen version of it, a cruel joke.

  Jack had thought about not staying in Monaco, believing it might be too risky, that perhaps he should stay in a smaller inland town where he could guarantee no one would be looking for him. He’d decided against it, ultimately choosing a hotel that was ten minutes from the place he intended to make the exchange. If all went well, he could go back to his hotel, sleep it off, and head home tomorrow. If it didn’t, Jack had a lot of potential escape routes.

  He had two voicemails on the Jack Burdette phone from Danzig when he’d arrived in Nice. He closed the Targa’s top and called her back, having paired the phone with the car.

  “Burdette, why are you up? Isn’t it the middle of the night for you?” she said.

  “Having trouble sleeping,” he told her as he passed a glittering resort hotel bathed in sunlight.

  “How are we looking?” she said, her voice anxious.

  “I have a couple of leads that I’m running down.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time left, Jack.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I don’t have a network anymore. What happened with Vito?”

  Danzig paused and then sighed. “They let him go. With LeGrande dead, they don’t really have anything to charge him with. Can’t prove the diamonds were illegally imported, and without the diamonds, they can’t charge him with the intent to sell them.”

  “Are you tailing him?”

  “I can’t get into that with you.”

  “Just wondering if I have anything to be concerned about,” Jack said. “I’ve already had one person show up at my house and try to kill me. I don’t have any desire to collect the set.”

  “I understand. If I hear anything, I will let you and the Sonoma County Sheriff know.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Listen, I can maybe drag this out another day, but if you can’t find those diamonds soon, I can’t keep this going.”

  “So, there’s twenty thieves in the world that I know of who could have pulled that job off. Ten of them are in prison, and three of them are dead. Of the ones that are left, it’s a matter of figuring out which one of them might have known Reginald or Vito. I’m leaning toward the former, since it’s looking like Reginald intended to sell Vito out.”

  There was another long pause. “And I suppose you have a theory about that?”

  “Do you know the name Clint Sturdevant?”

  It was a two-mile drive down one of the most expensive stretches of land in the world to Jack’s destination. Fort Antoine was built in the eighteenth century as a fortress to defend the small principality. The Italian army occupied Monaco in the Second World War but were forced to abandon it when the Mussolini regime collapsed. The Nazis moved in and occupied it after the Italians pulled back. The fortress was mostly destroyed in 1944 by the Allies targeting the Germans. In 1953, Monaco’s Prince Rainier III rebuilt part of it and rededicated it as an outdoor amphitheater. Jack turned onto Avenue de la Quarantaine, which wrapped around one of Monaco’s yacht harbors, and as he rounded a bend he could see the remnants of the fortress, a single parapet that looked out over the sea. A cliff rose sharply to his right, its top covered in lush greenery. The fortress was almost hidden in the trees. Jack took the tunnel beneath the fortress, which ended in the entry ramp for a parking garage.

  Monaco had two major problems for someone like Jack—cameras and geography. For the former, they were everywhere and, as he’d already seen, on every parking garage or tunnel that he’d come across. For the latter, one had to know this city well because roads were squeezed into every conceivable surface that wasn’t otherwise built up. Navigating was incredibly difficult and required advance planning. Because of the serpentine construction of the roads (which made for exciting racing) and elevation changes, a street map resembled a multi-level labyrinth designed by a particularly malevolent urban planner.

  Wary of establishing patterns, Jack turned the Porsche around before entering the garage and drove back through the tunnel. He drove along the base of the mountain until he found a road that curved inward and would take him up to the top. He gradually snaked his way up through a park, found a spot to park his car, and got out. He wouldn’t be able to use this approach later on, assuming that the park would be closed, but this would suffice for his recon now. Jack first spent several minutes watching to see if anyone else had taken notice of where he parked. Once he was sure he wasn’t followed, Jack toured the grounds for the next thirty minutes to decide where he was going to set up. He called Enzo to ask if he was ready. Then he called Cannizzaro’s man and told him to be ready for his call.

  With the sun hanging low over the Mediterranean, Jack got into the Porsche and drove back to the hotel.

  It was time.

  37

  “It’s fucking where?” Danzig shouted.

  “Monaco,” Mazza said in a harsh whisper. “I just found out.”

  “Well, who has the diamonds, then?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not telling me. I’m to move money, when he tells me, into a numbered account in the Seychelles. I don’t know how much money yet. He hasn’t told me.”

  “When is this happening?”

  “Soon. I don’t know for certain. He’s not saying much.”

  “You need to do better than that. I have to know who is making the handoff.”

  “All I know is he’s sending two cars and they leave in the morning. I’m doing the best I can,” Mazza said hurriedly. “I’m already risking my life.”

  “You’re a mafia banker,” Danzig said evenly. “Let’s not stretch this too far.” Running informants was a tricky thing. You had to establish, in their eyes at least, a dysfunctional codependent relationship. They had to believe that they needed you as much as you needed them, if not more. You had to cajole and belittle, demand, and then up the ante of satisfa
ction. But every so often, you just had to jerk the chain to remind them they were still on it. Sometimes you had to push them into dangerous situations in order to get the information you needed. How dangerous depended on the informant. If they were a whistleblower, that was one thing. If they were a mafia banker, that was another.

  “Mazza, I expect regular check-ins.”

  “I understand,” he said, sounding scared.

  “But listen to me. I expect to know how much money and when. The instant that transaction goes through, you need to figure out a way to contact me.”

  “I will do this, but you have to get me out of here. I can’t—”

  Danzig hung up.

  Danzig stood. “Listen up,” she said in a loud voice. Every head in her squad (and a few that weren’t) turned to face her. “There’s been a switch. The sale is going down in Monaco. Could be today, could be tomorrow, the next day, we don’t know for certain. What we do know is that Cannizzaro’s people are leaving by car first thing in the morning.” Danzig pulled up her phone and opened the map. “That’s about a six-and-a-half-hour drive.”

  “How credible is the intel?” Choi asked. “Mazza get it firsthand?”

  “As far as I know. It sounds like Cannizzaro is compartmentalizing. Mazza said he just wired money into an escrow account in a bank in the Seychelles. It goes from there into a numbered account once they get instructions from someone on the ground in Monaco. That’s all Mazza knows. Dan, you and I are going to Monaco. There’s an Air Force C-21 squadron in Germany. We can use them to fly us to Nice.”

  “We used them last time, I remember. I’ll get the ask to the LEGAT immediately.” Interagency requests usually took a long time to coordinate, but they did have fast-track procedures for extenuating circumstances. C-21s were militarized Lear jets the Air Force used for transporting senior military, Defense, and State Department officials around Europe. They were based out of Ramstein Air Base in western Germany, about two hours’ flight time from here. “If they can’t get something here first thing, we’ll drive.”