“I’ll look into commercial options for you too,” Special Agent Rawlings said.
Danzig looked to another member of the squad. “Pierce, you’re on the bank. We have an American involved, so we have jurisdiction. The US government can make things difficult for them if they like.”
“On it.”
38
Money didn’t sleep, and neither did the people who had it.
At least, not the ones who didn’t have to do much to get it, which seemed like most of the population of Monaco.
One of the reasons Jack chose the spot that he did for the handoff was that there was a large port on the northern side of the peninsula the fortress was built on. There would be parties on the yachts moored there late into the night. It wouldn’t be the same as a public spot, but it might deter someone from shooting. Jack thought about a public location but ruled it out because he wanted to be able to see everyone around him and know if someone other than who he expected to see was there. But being close to so many people, even if they were floating in the docks, gave him the level of security that he’d need.
“Nine o’clock,” he said in a gruff voice after dialing the number that Cannizzaro gave him. “We’ll meet at the amphitheater at Fort Antoine. There isn’t a performance tonight. I checked. The gate will be unlocked. Be ready to transfer the money to me or the deal is off.”
“It will be ready.” The response came in accented English but was practiced and well formed.
“You will be alone. If I think anything is up, I disappear. You understand?”
“I understand. You gave the instructions to Cannizzaro, he gave them to me.” The voice was irritated now. “It’s not that hard.”
“Then let’s not make it that way,” Jack said and hung up.
He ate dinner in his room but opted for coffee instead of wine. He didn’t want to dull any edges. At seven thirty, Jack called Enzo from the burner.
“Are you in position?”
“I am,” Enzo said.
“Any issues logging in to the account?”
“Nope.”
As soon as Jack got away, he’d transfer Enzo’s half of the money to an account he had set up, and then Jack would shut this account down. It was layered inside a Russian nesting doll of shell corporations only accessible by people who didn’t exist. It would be nearly impossible to trace, even if the bank wanted to cooperate with the US government.
Jack pulled the case containing the diamonds out from under his bed. Then he dressed.
Jack put on a black Canali suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie. He was dressed for anything short of a night at the Monte Carlo. He didn’t have a gun and, on the edges of his mind, was questioning that logic.
He buttoned his jacket and regarded himself in the mirror, nodding once. Jack walked over to the window, then drew back the orange curtains so that he could look out at the sea. It had become slightly overcast in the early evening, and now scattered clouds partially blocked out the moon. Even better. Jack closed the curtains and turned back to the bed. He called for the car and waited ten minutes for it to be brought around. Jack opened his bag, grabbed a set of lock picks, and slid them into his jacket pocket. He took both his Jack Burdette phone, silenced, and the burner. It was bulkier than he wanted to be, but he thought he might need both. Especially if he had to run. He also took his passport.
Jack thought a moment about taking his bag with him. He’d be leaving behind fingerprints in the event that the meeting was burned and he had to leave quickly. However, if he was in a situation that involved fingerprinting, that would mean he was likely in police custody and the whole thing was fucked anyway. Jack grabbed the hardshell and left the room, making his way through the elegant resort to the grand lobby.
Jack scanned the crowd as he walked through the lobby, looking for anyone that might be looking for him. This was one of the few places on earth he could wear a five-thousand-dollar suit and look like a pauper by comparison.
He stepped out into the warm evening, bathed in the bright glow of the overhead lights, flanked by palms and succulents. A valet walked up to him and handed him the keys to the Porsche. “Right this way, Mr. Southerland,” he said and guided Jack to the idling Targa. Jack tipped the valet, said he could handle the case, and got in.
He accelerated quickly out of the loading area and to the long, curving road with alternating spotlights and palm trees that led him out to Avenue Princess Grace. Jack drove quickly to the fort. He passed by the large Port Hercule complex on his left, then the road disappeared into the mountain. There was another brief opening and then another short tunnel, the road going through the mountain upon which the fortress was built. The theater was all that remained of the original structure. Now it was a large park with a twisting labyrinth of wooded footpaths that snaked across the mountain in the shadows of Monaco’s government building and a library named for Princess Grace. Jack slowed as the Porsche neared the exit of the second, longer tunnel. He saw a white-and-gray triangle-shaped checkered pattern painted on the street that read BUS, and here the road split. The street terminated in a massive parking structure that also doubled as the Formula Two racing paddock. According to the signage, buses and motorcycles parked on this level and cars stayed to the right, descending to the next lower level. Jack took his parking ticket and drove through. He easily found a spot near the exit ramp on the opposite side and parked.
Jack got out of the car, taking the case with him, and walked back up the exit ramp rather than taking the stairs, because he didn’t know where exactly they’d deposit him. Once outside, he found a wide footpath of red clay that, in full daylight, would be a faded pink. There was a small, wildly curving stone staircase that descended to a tiny rocky beach no more than a few hundred feet long. Say this about the principality, they knew how to economize space. This ran along the mountain and had been part of the original fortress. Beneath the walkway, one could still see the stone masonry that formed the outer wall. He walked along the pathway, staying close to the sheer stone cliff that had vegetation and trees growing out from the cracks. It was about a five-minute walk to the amphitheater.
Jack passed the opening between the tunnels as he walked. Here, he could see the fort and the park looming above him, now just alternating patterns of light stone and dark trees. But like everything else in Monaco, the pathway and the fortress were brightly lit. The stairs leading up to the theater were just on the other side of the gap. Beyond that, there was the Solarium Beach, which were rows of tiered concrete benches that simply faced the sea. This extended to a long dock, jutting out like an angry finger, that formed the southern edge of the U-shaped Port Hercule complex. This was one of the locations where cruise ships docked.
Jack reached the stone staircase that led up to the theater, which was shaped like a tower at the apex of the fortress. The staircase zigzagged up the side of the tower; most of that four- to five-story climb was in the shade of a large tree that looked to Jack like a kind of cypress. That was good, as it would hide him once he completed the initial ascent and the stairs turned back away from the tower. Once he was safely in the shadows beneath the tree canopy, Jack slowed his pace so that his shoes didn’t make as much noise. There was a wrought iron gate at the end of the path, blocking entry. He removed the set of lock picks from his jacket and popped the lock on the iron gate in seconds. Jack pushed the gate open, wincing as it creaked, and he slid through quickly, closing it behind him.
Jack entered the amphitheater.
It was a wide circle, with seven tiers of stone benches rising up from half of it. The other side was a tall hedge planted in a stone base that completely obscured the theater from outside view. There were spotlights surrounding the fortress and dotting the park above, but the theater itself was dark. It was the perfect place for a covert exchange, and there was only one way in, unless you were the staff. Beyond the wall on the north side, he could see the lights of Port Hercule and could hear the sounds of myriad parties happening o
n the yachts within it. He could picture the neat rows of boats reaching into the marina. The sounds and music of a score of different parties mixed with the salt air, carried in by a cool breeze from the sea.
Jack walked over to the tiers of benches and climbed up to the second row. Here, there was a small stone platform at the end of the seating area that held some landscaping beneath two large cypresses. The amphitheater was black, and he had a perfect view of the entry gate.
He texted Enzo to let him know that he was in position. Enzo replied again with, Bon chance.
Jack smiled. Gaston would have loved this.
The Frenchman, their former partner, had been a soldier and demolitions expert in the French Foreign Legion. He lived modestly, was never interested in big scores—what he loved was executing the job. When they’d worked together, Jack always avoided situations that called for this kind of cloak and dagger. They had fences they knew and trusted, as much as one could in this business, but by the time they got to the handoff to the buyer, the risk was largely over. Gaston would have reveled in the planning of this.
At five to nine, Jack heard the gate open and watched the dark outline of a man step through. The man closed it behind him.
So far so good.
Jack detached himself from the shadow and walked to the center. He stopped when he was about ten paces from the other person.
Then his heart stopped.
Niccoló Bartolo stepped into the half-light, and he had a gun.
39
Nico regarded him with a mirthless smile.
“Clint Sturdevant,” he said coldly. “I’m not surprised Salvatore didn’t pick up on it.”
“Put the gun away, Nico. You were warned.”
“Maybe I learned not to take chances.”
“Maybe you didn’t. You see those woods behind me?”
“So?”
“Enzo Bachetti is up there with a sniper rifle and a night vision scope. If anything happens to me, if anything goes any other way than how I precisely scripted it out, he’s going to put your skull into orbit.” Jack’s voice was calm and even.
Nico craned his neck up, futilely searching the inky darkness for the invisible sniper. “What the fuck does Enzo know about a rifle?”
“He grew up hunting, for one thing. For another, you haven’t seen him in twenty-five years. People learn new skills.” Jack paused and let that sink in.
“So it’s a standoff, then,” Nico said, not making it a question. “I shoot you, Enzo shoots me, Enzo gets the diamonds.”
“Only if you’re stupid, Nico. You can walk away rich or die broke.”
Niccoló Bartolo, master thief, onetime head of the School of Turin, laughed at that. Jack wished he could see Nico’s eyes. Jack guessed that he was again scanning the mottled indigo and black mountainside, looking for a sign of Enzo in the trees, calculating his odds. The darkness was instrumental to his plan, but this was the one flaw. He couldn’t really see what his opponent was doing.
Jack wished he had a gun.
His mind went back to that night in 1997 when Jack learned that his friend and fellow thief, Giovanni Castro, was actually an undercover officer with the Italian Polizia di Stato. When he learned that the target was Niccoló Bartolo and his School of Turin. When he learned that Giovanni was going to let him slip out because they were friends and because he jokingly said arresting an American would be more paperwork than it was worth. Jack made one phone call—to Enzo, to warn him. Everyone else, Bartolo, Vito Verrazano, they were on their own. By that point, Jack had developed a healthy fear of Bartolo and wasn’t sorry to see him get busted. Jack had raced through the dark streets of Turin to the apartment he shared with Giulia Montalto. They’d flee together.
Only, Giulia had made other plans.
Apparently, Bartolo suspected there was a rat in his organization, he just didn’t know who it was. He lured Giulia away from Jack, that wasn’t surprising, Nico was handsome, suave, and charming.
Jack went to the apartment he shared with Giulia and found Nico waiting for him. Nico’s suspicions were confirmed, and a gun was drawn. Bartolo acted too quickly; he didn’t wait for Jack to get all the way in the apartment. Jack was close enough to it that he could slip back through the front door in just a few steps. The memory was no doubt clouded by the passing of years, but in Jack’s mind’s eye, Bartolo fired as soon as he saw Jack walk through the door. Jack stood there comically, foolishly, processing the scene. Bartolo next to Giulia. Giulia, dark-haired and stunning, not making a move for him. Jack shot back and nearly hit Giulia. He dropped the weapon in horror, and it would be nearly fifteen years before he touched a pistol again. Jack was out the door by the time Bartolo got his second shot off, taking the stairs two at a time, a blurred image in his mind he still didn’t remember. He sped off into the dark of Turin and drove until the car he stole was out of gas.
Nico escaped the state police sting, but the School of Turin was smashed and much of his stable went to prison. When it came time to pull the Antwerp diamond heist five years later, he was rolling with the B team, and it cost him. Nico blamed Jack for Giovanni’s penetration, for the sting, and for not being present in Antwerp.
Sixteen years later, Bartolo was relegated to the role of errand boy, sent to collect the very diamonds he’d worked so hard to steal.
Funny how things worked out.
Then, still chuckling, Bartolo nodded.
“I’m impressed. I see you picked up a few new skills yourself. That makes me happy. I’m putting my gun away.” Bartolo made a slow, exaggerated motion with his right arm. From this distance it was all a dark blur, but when his right arm extended out to his side, Jack could see it was empty. Presumably, Bartolo had slid the pistol into a holster in his jacket.
“Good. Now, call Cannizzaro and tell him to make the exchange.”
“Not until I see diamonds.”
“No dice, Nico. It’s too dark out here to see them, anyway. Make the call or I disappear.”
“If you think that I’m just going to take your word for it, maybe you haven’t learned as much as I thought.”
Jack thumbed the call button on the burner and dialed Enzo.
“Here,” Enzo said.
“I’m kneeling down now to open the case to show Nico the diamonds.”
“Nico?” he said.
“Yeah, it’s reunion week,” Jack said dryly. “Be ready.” Jack knelt down, not taking his eyes off Bartolo. He opened the case, revealing the camera equipment. He popped one of the hidden panels.
Bartolo stepped forward and told Jack he was reaching for his phone. His hand went to his pocket and returned with a phone, then he activated its flashlight function. Bartolo knelt down and ran the light over the compartment, and the diamonds glittered like stars. As he was looking, Jack said, “There are three more compartments just like that. Now, make the call.”
Jack closed the case.
Bartolo stood and dialed.
Jack heard Bartolo call and tell whoever was on the other end of that line to make the transfer.
“They’re transferring the money now,” he told Enzo.
A pause.
It took a few awkward minutes. Cannizzaro, or presumably his accountant, had to speak to a representative at the bank to authorize the transfer. Apparently, even in that place you couldn’t transfer thirty-five million dollars just because you said so.
“I’ve got an inbound transfer,” Enzo said.
“Okay. Look sharp, just in case they try something.”
“Jack?”
“What?”
“This is supposed to be for thirty-five, right? They’re not breaking it up into smaller payments?”
“No, it’s supposed to be the full amount.”
“This is only ten million.”
Jack lowered the phone.
“What’s going on, Nico?”
Nico, in the shadows but still visible, shrugged. “If Salvatore pulled something, it’s news to me. But my gu
ess is you’re being fucked.”
“Explain quickly.”
“He doesn’t have any cash.”
“He owns a bank.”
“But he can’t use that for this because the government has been watching him ever since your little attempted robbery two years ago. All of his money is tied up in real estate and businesses. Well, and guns and drugs, but none of that is liquid, you see. I suspect that he knew that if he didn’t meet your price, you’d just go somewhere else, and that would screw him with the Russian. I’m not part of his plans, but it figures.”
A thirty-five-million-dollar payday was now ten.
“Hold on, Enzo,” Jack said into the phone, then lowered it to his side.
His cut of seventeen down to five, off of what was originally a hundred-million-dollar score.
“So, the question is, Jack, what are you going to do?”
“Kill Vito, for starters.”
Even in the darkness, Jack could see Bartolo’s alligator smile. “Yeah, I get that.” Then he said, “You’ve got three choices. One, you take the deal. It’s less than you planned…a lot less, but you get money and you walk away with your life. Your second choice is you can leave with the diamonds. I’d try to stop you, and I think we know how that ends. The third choice is the three of us fuck him.”
“You’d betray your own cousin? A mafia don, no less?”
“He tried to have me killed,” Nico said flatly. “So, I’m defining ‘family’ a little flexibly these days. But I’m not getting a cut of this. He expects me to be the dutiful courier, do this for the privilege for being welcomed back into the fold. He doesn’t care that without me, there wouldn’t be any diamonds.”
Jack hadn’t closed the phone yet, and Enzo heard all of this.
“What do we do, Jack?” Enzo said.
“I’ll call you back.” He closed the phone and slid it into his pocket.
Once a Thief (Gentleman Jack Burdette Book 3) Page 37