“Interesting. Renting a safe deposit box is not something you are likely to forget,” I said.
“During the conversation, she questioned what identification the bank used. They sent the picture ID on file, a driver’s license. Once they took a closer look at it, the woman in the photo on the license wore glasses in the photograph which should have been a red flag as the DMV makes you take glasses off for the photo. It slipped by the person who opened the box as this is not a thing most bank agents are trained to notice. Anyway, Dr. Collier couldn’t make it down today. She said she had to pick up her aunt this afternoon and wouldn’t get to the bank until morning. We need to get a solid statement and decided to send local suits to her tonight,” he added.
“Christ, Aunt Mary,” I laughed.
“Pardon?” he questioned.
“Aunt Mary. She’ll be picking up Aunt Mary. The woman is a hoot. When she is in a funk, she thinks she is back in World War II and that everyone around her is either a spy or a communist. And Lord, she can drink anyone under the table and still drive you home. You ever watch the TV show Golden Girls?’’
“Sure,” he said. “Why?”
“Well, picture Bea Arthur’s mother on the Golden Girls. That’s Aunt Mary. Black Owl glasses, puffy white hair and feisty as hell. I’m surprised I didn’t know about this visit. I’m one of Aunt Mary’s favorites. She says she approves of the way my ass fits in my pants.” I shook my head and laughed.
“Yeah, your head is swollen enough. Keep that ass in your pants when Mary’s around,” he laughed.
“How are we playing this? Should I mention anything about the breach to Emma? Was it on TV or the radio? I don’t want to step on anyone’s work here.” I also didn’t want to appear too nosy.
“No, see if she says anything. If she does, see where it leads. Hold on a minute. Jesus shit. I’m looking at a bulletin from Communications. It appears the guys who were trailing White lost him yesterday. They had him when he left the museum and lost him as they dodged downtown construction. They can’t figure out if he went home or somewhere else. Our satellite tracker lost contact an hour from when he left the museum. It was operational, and then it went totally dead. We can’t track him to his cell either. Thomas is sending someone to walk around the house perimeter to see if he’s home or been there recently. You have information if your girl is there?” he asked.
“She should be on her way to the university. We have a class this morning. I’ll buzz her when we hang up. If she’s still there and there’s a problem, I’ll call or text you,” I said trying to sip my coffee while driving.
“Christ, could this be any more of a clusterfuck?” His surly language and anger were not a good combination. “I’m looking at an email I just opened, and now the Customs guy we had our eye on at the dock who we thought was part of this operation has disappeared. I’ve got to make some calls. We’ve lost track of White and the package White had with him. We don’t know where it is or where it will land. That’s a lot of plates spinning in the air. Run to the satellite office and check if that stolen Madrid painting is any closer to making its way toward Qatar. I know sure as shit that the painting is a major piece of the puzzle. Gotta buzz. Keep it tight,” he instructed.
“Okay. Tell Thomas I’ll hit him up later,” I said.
“Will do.” He disconnected our call.
I hit the speed dial for Jackson, my undercover partner and assignment roommate. He answered with, “Yo! I just left you, what’s up?”
“Heard from Matthews. Last night a Boston bank’s security deposit vault was breached from a remote location. Apparently, a box in there under Emma’s name was monitored by Homeland. We don’t know if the box in question was breached,” I said.
“No shit? Well, this makes things a little more interesting,” he said. His breathing was heavy so I must have caught him coming back from a run.
“If by interesting you mean complicated, then hell yes. The reason I called is Thad told me White picked up the paintings we’re watching from the gallery, but they lost him after he left the museum. He’s not reading off any cell tower, and the tracker is not transmitting. They are sending someone out to look around the house. I’ll call Emma. I might be able to tell if she’s heard anything from him. I need a secure server to check documents and emails. I’m swinging by the satellite office for a few minutes before class. Can you set up the computer so we are ready to rock when I get to class?”
“Jesus, I thought I had a day off here. This teacher’s assistant position that I got stuck with as part of the assignment is a pain in my ass. It’s low on the food chain, and I am getting sick of being your gofer. Coffee, paper preparation, running computers. I am ready for this undercover assignment to be over,” he whined. “Why they needed two agents on board watching Emma escapes me. That woman’s life is even more boring than watching paint dry. I want out already.”
“Right. Tell it to someone who cares. See you in a few.” I disconnected the phone call.
My next call was to number six on my speed dial. I waited three rings before Emma picked up.
“Cillian. What’s up?” Her tone sounded edgy.
“Okay, a quick change of plans. I have Jackson getting everything up and running for class. I’m behind several minutes, and I hope it doesn’t mess with anything you have planned,” I said.
She blew out a breath. “I’m a little panicked here. I’m late as well.”
“Did something happen after I spoke to you? You sound a little off,” I said to segue the bank issue.
“Yes . . . No. I’m frustrated, frazzled, and tired. I had a strange night with Eloise, and I must pick Aunt Mary up today. So, I’m not firing on all pistons this morning.” Her voice sounded strained and somewhat disconnected from our conversation.
“Well, Jackson is setting things up for class and I still have that muffin, so your day just got a little brighter. By the way, how’s Jude? He hasn’t been a topic of conversation lately. You finally kill and bury him?” God, she probably thinks I’ve traded in my man card for morning gossip.
“At this point, that’s not a joke. I am at my wit’s end. Jude is MIA, and I am royally pissed. I am writing an article for Art International Journal due tomorrow. Mind you, this was Jude’s brainstorm. Trust me it was not a small undertaking. I am missing some important annotations for the research. He was supposed to retrieve the material from the director of the Boston museum. Jude knows I am on a tight deadline and never returned home last night with the material. He hasn’t answered my calls or texts. He’s the one who pushes me to publish, publish, publish, get my name in art journals, build my credentials as an expert, but he left me high and dry on this deadline piece.” Her voice escalated, then there was silence.
“Sorry, Cillian. I’m sorting through some personal issues, and I am exhausted this morning. Before class, I have to make a quick stop at the administration building to see Dean Buchanan. He’s giving me fifteen minutes for a quick meeting. I am such a time conscious person that you can only imagine how I detest that I must tell Buchanan I need a few extra days to wrap up my article. Which in the end might not meet the publication deadline anyway.”
“Why does Buchanan even care about this article? Is it something that he slipped into your contract renewal last year that is an obligation?”
“Oh, hell no. This is all courtesy of Jude. Jude came up with this idea for the article so that I can start building my credentials as a Kandinsky expert. Using my academia background, I can springboard into the more lucrative part of the art world. How I got caught up in his wants over my own I don’t know. All I want to do is teach. I do not see myself working in the private sector authenticating and valuating paintings, but for some reason, he thinks it’s essential to build my credentials in that realm. When Jude spoke to Buchanan at the Wheal’s exhibit, Jude oversold the importance of this article to Buchanan. Why should he care about my academic career or what Buchanan thinks? He made every effort to convince him it would pu
t me on the map as a Kandinsky expert which would bode favorably for the university and give me the opportunity to offer services as a lecturer on behalf of the university. In the end, the attention would circle back to pumping up my credentials toward authenticating and valuating paintings—something that holds no interest for me. It was horrible. He sounded like some sleazy car salesman trying to sell Buchanan a lemon. And now I can’t meet my deadline without the annotations, so the article will probably fall through. If you don’t mind, start class without me. I shouldn’t be that long.” She sounded exasperated.
I captured the information needed from our phone conversation—she wasn’t at home and White was MIA.
This teaching position to get close to Emma was a sweet gig for an undercover operation, and undercovers can go sideways fast. I loved teaching and felt comfortable in Maine. Although not a hub of activity, it was busy enough to stay satisfied.
The deception part of our job—building trust and then pulling the proverbial rug out from under good people—troubled me. Deception of criminals was a plus in my book. Deception is what criminals deserved. The people around the criminals who didn’t deserve to be hurt became collateral damage. Emma could easily be in the wrong place at the wrong time. At another time, in another life, our friendship might have developed into a long-term relationship. Emma is smart as a whip, kind, a good listener to her students, and a hard worker. Emma is the full package. What the hell she is doing with a low life like Jude White beats the hell out of me.
I arrived at the Bureau’s satellite office and I read through the highly sensitive email documents on the computer terminal. What I discovered was the El Greco painting stolen from the Prado could be bleeding into our case involving White and Roselov. I just couldn’t make that one needed connection yet.
Art Crimes was recently piggybacked into an operation that involved the CIA and the Spanish intelligence agency, the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia, in Madrid. Leads had both agencies tracking the painting as it made its way across the globe to Qatar to be sold to a private collector. They had learned that the funds received from the sold painting would purchase illegal arms. But the painting’s travel had come to a virtual standstill in Miami and remained in a secure container. Agents implanted in Miami had gone radio silent. All the CIA knew in relation to this investigation was that an order had been placed for weapons and they did not know the point of origin of the weapons. Two missile-armed planes, three tanks, enough Napalm to blow up a city, cesium, surface-to-air missile launchers, and eighty high-power Russian weapons stored at an unknown location sat ready and waiting for payment. Even with all our satellites, technology, and intelligence, we did not know where the arsenal was stashed or where it was headed. Something had happened to clog the money pipe, and the payment was not forthcoming. But right now, that was the CIA and counterterrorism’s problem. We just monitored the journey of the painting which would fund the terrorism. No painting, no payment. But that painting that sat in Miami was just part of the payment for the arsenal of arms, planes and chemical weapons on order. Not much I can do about that right now. I had a class to teach.
As I left the building, I felt that, somehow, we had missed something important. That someone had slipped under our radar, and a new game was afoot with new rules.
I arrived late for class and breezed through the old heavy wooden door among a rush of students. The building had a slightly musty smell and made you feel nostalgic when you entered. I surmised the art classes were consigned to the older building because they were not the courses which kept the campus in business. The university reserved the newly constructed buildings for the business and computer science classes. In this building, the class was sometimes interrupted by the loud hiss and groan of steam from the pipes, but we embraced it. Art in academia was a far cry from the billion-dollar art market that flourished in New York, London, and Paris.
Rounding the corner, I saw my FBI partner posing as my teacher’s aide, Jackson, had set up my PowerPoint presentation on Picasso so I could rock-and-roll. As I took a measure of the students and the room, I tossed my old leather satchel on the desk and clapped my hands together sharply to bring class to order. I couldn’t help but wonder as I stood thinking about today’s lecture. Would any of these students choose a life like Jude White did that revolved around greed, deception, and betrayal? Would any of them choose a path pushing fakes and forgeries that often threw the art world into chaos? Would any of them fake a provenance or undervalue or overvalue a work of art for money? Will I target any of these young faces in the future?
Emma hadn’t slipped in, and she wasn’t one to be this late. “All right, let’s get started. Professor Collier will be here shortly and we are a step behind,” I said. “Let me call your attention to the first slide. Cubism.”
I muddled through my lecture and watched the faces of my students as recognition and sometimes awe struck them. Mostly, they listened and asked questions.
When the lights came on and the students started filing out, I noticed Emma tucked in the back-left corner. She must have slipped in without my notice. As I was about to walk her way, my phone vibrated and a text popped up on my phone from Thad. Roselov entered the country and went through Immigration twenty minutes ago. Call me when you can. Roselov had never entered the US before. And since he was on the watch list, the powers that be must have drawn him here.
My eyes met Emma’s troubled eyes, and I walked toward her.
Emma
I WAS STILL SHELL-SHOCKED FROM my conference with Dean Buchanan not more than a half hour ago. My intent was to deliver the news of the possibility of a delay in my article. Instead, I left our meeting after Buchanan informed me the school chose not to renew my teaching contract because of cutbacks in the university’s art department. Regardless of my disappointment and inability to deal with the outcome of what I’d learned, I had to move forward in this fog-like state and pick up Aunt Mary. But first I needed a quick word with Cillian and to apologize for leaving him to teach the class himself.
I had tiptoed in and sat in the back of the room where I thought I could disappear behind the mass of students and brood but that placement offered no shield. I rose and waited for him to walk the distance down the aisle.
“Everything okay?” Cillian asked as he stepped into my space and stroked my arm. I could not recall the last time Jude had touched me. Neither Jude nor I were satisfied with our relationship, and I was tired of being lonely and alone.
“The dean told me my full-time contract would not be renewed due to budget cuts. So, all is peachy keen,” I responded with an obviously fake smile.
Stunned by the news, his head jerked back. “What? That can’t be true.”
“Oh, it’s true all right. Numbers are lower than last year. Parents want a more practical education to jettison their offspring into financial success. The computer and business departments received more applicants than they can accommodate. They plan to hire more instructors for those departments, so they have to trim the fat somewhere.” The way Cillian looked at me made me want to hide my face in my hands.
In an unexpected move, he clutched me in a tight bear hug. He rubbed my back and held me tightly as if to infuse his strength of will and sympathy into me. Unwillingly, I was the one to break this welcomed connection. All I needed was a student or other faculty to gossip or tittle-tattle this public display of affection to the administration, and then I’d be done for sure.
“Thanks, Cillian, it has been the most unusual twenty-four hours of my life,” I summed up as I moved back a proper distance.
Locking eyes, he gave what comfort he could. “I hope you understand how important you are to me. If there is anything you need, I will always be here for you to lean on and will support you unconditionally.”
Grateful for the support but reluctant and incapable of accepting the substantial changes approaching, I just nodded. I could not deliver the words. It made it too real. Remaining in denial was my only choice.
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“Em?” he asked. I broke myself from my trance to find him searching my eyes.
“Sorry. Look, I hate to cut and run, but I have to pick up Aunt Mary, so I better get going.” Even I knew that small effort at an excuse was weak. I felt sorry for myself, and I wanted to wallow in self-pity. But there was no need to drag him into my dramatic despair.
His megawatt smile and deep dimples appeared at the mention of Aunt Mary’s name. “Ah, my greatest fan. Do you need a ride-along in case she isn’t in the best of shape and decides to escape from the car again?”
Oh God, I’d forgotten about that fiasco. The day of our museum trip she was in rare form. She was confident that Russians were following us into the museum. Then she said she overheard them speaking about us. But each time we tried to listen, or she pointed out they were staring at us, the people in question were minding their own business.
On the way home from the museum, I convinced myself she had settled down. That was a mistake. The first stop light we came to a halt, she escaped lithely from the vehicle. Stuck in downtown Boston, I had to leave the car in traffic to chase her down the street and soon the police joined the foot chase. When we finally captured her, she doled out a tongue lashing for thwarting her escape. What a nightmare.
“No, but thank you for the offer. I am told the doctors have her on a new medication that has leveled her out. A bit of a miracle if you ask me. I would die if those Russians came back again.” I chuckled.
“Russians, what Russians?” His face grew serious.
“I guess I didn’t give you all the details of that drama-filled afternoon, did I? When we were in the Gardner museum and after we passed by the exhibit that should display the now stolen Rembrandt, she grew irritated. I had chalked it up to her being a Rembrandt fan all her life, and the museum theft had upset her. But her anxiousness escalated, and I decided to cut our visit short. She probably overheard tourists talking and her mind probably jumbled it up. In her mind, we were a target for Russians. She was convinced that Russians had followed us into the museum. Then when we were in the car, she thought they were in the car behind us. And voila that’s what led to her great escape.” I laughed and threw in a hand flutter for good measure.
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