by Dale Nelson
Hearing only silence, Jack moved down the long hallway that took him deeper into the house and toward Aleksander’s office. He pulled out his lockpicks out when he reached the door. Working a lock in the dark was not the easiest thing, but it was something he practiced regularly enough. Not surprisingly, the lock that Aleksander had on his office door was of much higher quality than one would expect on a door inside a residence, but it was still a commercial grade lock rather than a security grade one. Even working in total darkness, Jack had opened the lock in less than a minute. He slid through the door and closed it gently behind him. Then he put the lockpicks back in their pouch, which he slid into his pocket, and got out his phone, activating the flashlight.
There were windows in this room, though the blinds covering them were closed. Jack knew he had to be careful with the light. The room was large, about twenty by twenty feet. Aleksander’s desk sat in the center, close to the window He tried to map the room to the mental picture that he’d taken when he first arrived and had been in the room. Jack recalled that there were several pieces of art on the wall. He started there. Jack carefully lifted each one and felt underneath it. He found Aleksander’s safe behind the middle painting. He lifted that and set the painting on the floor so he could examine the safe. Jack shone a flashlight on the safe. It had a digital combination lock. Unfortunately, his cracking abilities ended with simple locks. Jack had no training with safes. He replaced the painting and went over to the desk.
Jack thought back to his theory on how Aleksander collected information on him. If he had that information, it would likely be in the safe or on his computer.
Jack sat down at Aleksander’s desk and touched the mouse to wake the computer. It was locked, and the language wasn’t set to English. The son of a bitch was cautious, Jack would give him that. There came a point in every burglary where he got the sense that he was in a place where he wasn’t supposed to be. Jack began to have that sensation now. If Aleksander caught him in here, Jack would be killed immediately—and violently, if the afternoon’s events were any kind of prologue on his temper.
Not wanting to leave before he found something of value, Jack tried the top and side drawers. Those were locked as well, but those locks were cursory, and Jack was through them in no time. He found a small, leather-bound notebook in the center drawer. Not surprisingly, the contents were written in Aleksander’s native tongue, but Jack knew a way around that. He took a picture of each of the first ten pages and then flipped to the back and then did the same with the last ten or so. The Google Translate app would convert that into English text right from the photograph. He was thankful that Aleksander at least had good penmanship, writing in tall, precise blocks. As long as he wasn’t writing in some kind of shorthand—the way Jack did when mapping a target—he should be able to glean something useful.
Jack put the notebook back in the drawer and used the picks to reengage the lock. He looked in the side drawer next. Inside, he found a large, red hardback notebook and a folder bound together by a thick rubber band. He carefully removed the band and opened the folder. Inside, there was information on a Roman bank. Quickly, because he was starting to get mindful of time, Jack paged through the notebook. It appeared to correlate to the information in the folder. He took a few snapshots of that too and then replaced them both in the drawer, securing them with the rubber band. The notebook was entirely in Serbian, but there were apps now that could translate text from a picture. It was worth a shot. Jack locked the drawer and exited the room. Typical of Europe, there wasn’t a button on the interior of the knob to lock the door, so he had to lock it with his picks, and in the dark, that took time. When he was done, Jack listened. The house still sounded dead.
Jack started back toward his room. He emerged from the hallway and saw a dark form on the stairs. Even in the shadowed half-light, he could tell whomever it was looked right at him. Jack froze. “There are very few rules in this place, but I’m pretty sure one of them is that you’re not allowed in there.”
Guilia.
“I didn’t hear you come down.”
“I know. People usually don’t. That’s how I tend to get into trouble,” she said, but Jack couldn’t tell by the inflection if she’d meant it as a joke. “Are you going to answer my question, or do I need to start waking people up?”
“You didn’t actually ask me a question,” he said, moving slightly closer to her. The closer Jack got to the stairs, the easier a bluff became if someone else showed up.
“Oh, my darling,” she said, now clearly condescending, “that was implied.”
“Can I trust you to keep a secret?”
“No,” she said coyly. “But neither can Aleksander.”
“Then I don’t need to tell you anything,” Jack said and moved past her on the stairs. She moved slightly closer as he walked, forcing him to brush against her as he moved. Guilia was wearing a low cut, black silk negligée that looked like it was hanging on for dear life. He paused. “What are you doing here, is the better question.”
“In this house, or on the stairs?” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I’d like an answer to both,” he said, also whispering.
“It’s like you said, darling.” She turned on the stairs, rubbing her body against his, held it a moment, and then ascended one step. “I don’t need to tell you anything.” She slowly walked up the stairs, accentuating the curves of her body with each step.
Jack realized that his breath had quickened and worked to slow it before continuing. What in the hell was going on here?
He found sleep impossible. How had Guilia known that he was down there? Was she awake as well? Worse, was she spying on him? And why had she gone through the trouble of waiting for him on the stairs, only to avoid his question of what she was doing there? That, he had an answer for, he realized.
She was playing with him.
If she’d stopped him before he went into the office, then she’d have nothing on him. That was just a scare and basically worthless. If she’d waited until Jack emerged from the room, however, she had him.
And he knew it.
Eleven
Jack awoke and felt panic.
He hadn’t realized that he’d fallen asleep, and waking up last put him at a disadvantage. He wouldn’t know what, if anything, had been said. Jack showered and dressed and went downstairs. He found Aleksander on the patio with a tray of coffee, juice, and some fruit. “Ah, good morning,” he said amiably. “Please join me.” Jack thanked him and sat. “Sleep well?”
“Not really,” Jack said.
“Me either.”
Jack’s blood chilled.
“Alcohol,” Aleksander said. “If I drink too much, I’m up at three-thirty on the dot. Doesn’t matter what time I went to bed.” He fixed his gaze on Jack. “Three-thirty seems to be the magic hour.” He held it for a moment and then shifted it to the tray. “Coffee?”
“Thank you.” Jack poured himself a cup. “I was thinking about heading out to Venice today and wanted to make sure I had your permission.”
“Permission? You can come and go as you please.”
What the fu—Jack silenced himself because he could see this tactic for what it was. Aleksander was changing the rules of the game to keep him guessing, to make him feel dependent on his benefactor. Rather than play into that, Jack accepted it for what it was and moved on. “Excellent. I thought I’d get started.”
“Good. I’ll ring Viktor, and you can be on your way.”
“No,” Jack said. “I’m done working with people I don’t know. I agreed to do this job for you, but if I am, I’m going to do it on my terms. If that’s not acceptable to you, I’d be safer on the run.”
Jack said nothing for a time and studied Aleksander’s expression. The two stared each other down, and neither relented. Then Aleksander just shrugged and stabbed another forkful of food.
“You’re planning on doing this alone?”
“No. I’ve got someon
e that I used work with. Someone that I trust. If you want it done, this is your best chance for success.”
Aleksander said, “I trust you.” Then he added, “that far.”
“I’ve done some preliminary research. I won’t know exactly how I’m going to do it until I actually get into the exhibit and walk around, but I’m familiar with the Doge’s Palace and St. Mark’s Square.”
“How much prep time do you need”
“I don’t know yet. Normally, we’d plan this kind of thing over the span of several months. We’d also try to engineer someone on the inside. I used to have a face for that sort of thing, but I gathered from our earlier conversation that time isn’t a luxury.”
“That’s correct.”
“Okay. I’ll contact you once I have a look at the place and let you know if there’s anything additional that I need. Where and when am I delivering the jewels?”
“I’ll have my people meet you at a spot nearby. Most likely, it will be a location that’s a few hours from Venice. Probably a small town. I will let you know the exact details once you have the jewels. When do you plan to leave?”
“My flight is in ninety minutes.”
Jack never fully unpacked his things, so it was an easy thing to grab and go. Aleksander said that he’d have a driver take Jack to the airport. Leaving immediately would also allow him to avoid any accidental confrontation with Guilia. There was certainly a risk in this move. If Jack was away, he couldn’t refute any story that he’d been in Aleksander’s office last night. He was also losing an opportunity to learn more about what Aleksander’s end game was and what Guilia’s introduction truly meant.
But something in how she’d acted last night suggested she wasn’t going to drop the dime on him just yet.
No, Guilia wanted something.
Jack assumed Aleksander had sought her out as a way of getting to him. Though, where that theory fell down was with how it ended. Anyone that knew their story would be crazy to think having her involved would influence him positively.
What does Aleksander want with her? And more importantly, what did she want with Jack?
Twenty years later, and she still had a claw in him. It wasn’t the absence of love, or whatever passed for it. Jack never forgot or forgave what she did to him. No, what Jack lamented was that Guilia taught him never to trust another living thing. Twenty years on, that scar had never fully healed. It just scabbed over.
And she was dangerous. He knew it then but convinced himself it was anything else. Guilia had a way of making men do things just to please her, no matter how out of character. And it was never enough. Jack had seen married men slip their phone numbers to her while their wives weren’t looking. Maître d’s and waiters would linger too long at the table and would happen to show up if Jack left. The worst were the other thieves, men who already had little compunction. Jack learned to be on edge around her. And she ate it up, fed off it like a vampire. She was beautiful, yes, but this ability to draw men in was something more, something ephemeral. It was as though she had a power over them, the men who came into her orbit, even casually or by accident, some kind of animalistic charisma. Even with twenty years to alternate between raw hate and mental abandonment, Jack still felt that pull when she was near. He recognized it for what it was now, and it finally held no sway over him, but he recognized its immutability, like gravity.
And he hated her for it.
Hated her for what she did to him.
Anyone who had examined Jack’s life as thoroughly as Aleksander had would know that, and would know that Guilia Montalto was the last person on Earth that Jack would want anything to do with. What was she doing here? What was her connection to Aleksander, and why did he think he’d be able to use that to his advantage?
Vito.
Jack got pulled into Aleksander’s orbit because of the Ritz job. Vito called him just as that job was falling apart. Then Guilia Montalto appeared at Aleksander’s house.
The probabilities of that being a coincidence were too extreme to even contemplate.
Vito knew where Bartolo’s stash was. Did that mean Guilia did too?
Jack’s plane touched down at Marco Polo Airport just outside of Venice. He tried Rusty, again as soon as he landed. He was going to need transportation out of here as soon as this job was over, and it would have to be by land because of the jewels.
Enzo Bachetti was waiting for him.
Jack had called Enzo from Atlanta, while he was on the layover on his return trip to Spain.
“Jesus,” Enzo said after the greetings. They still spoke often, so there was little in the way of catching up, and Jack made it out to see Enzo a few times a year, which he occasionally used as a cover for a job. “You hear about that fucking shit show in Paris?” he said.
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Amateurs.”
“So, what’s up?”
“I need some advice, and frankly, you’re about the only person on Earth I can talk to about this.”
Enzo chuckled knowingly in response.
“First of all, Paris was me.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Say that part again.”
“Paris was me. I was working with Alonso Villareal, these three rookies Remy LeClerc hooked me up with to act as lookouts and a guy named Viktor Petrić. One of those three opened fire in the hotel, and that’s when it went to shit. But Petrić, he’s the important part. He gets me a ride out of Paris on this chartered jet set up by his boss.” Jack described that strange flight, Raphael Castillo and the stranger day spent with Aleksander Andelić.
“And this Andelić guy says you need to pull a job for him to pay him back for helping you duck the authorities in Paris?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit,” was all Enzo could say. “Well, I can see why you’d call me,” Enzo said, and Jack could just imagine the wry smirk crawling its way up the side of his face. “I have a lot of experience in these matters,” he quipped. “Man, I’d have thought that after Milan and Ozren, you’d be done with the fucking Serbians.”
“Yeah,” Jack said at length. “So, the thing about that is—”
“What?” Enzo broke in before Jack could finish.
“Milan and Ozren … Andelić recruited Milan into the Pink Panthers, and Milan brought Ozren in.”
“Jesus Christ, this guy is one of them?”
Enzo’s feelings toward the Pink Panthers were raw fury, remembered pain, unassuaged guilt and wholly justified. Ozren Stolar, once a member of their crew, double-crossed them in Cannes, killing the other two and leaving Enzo for dead.
“I didn’t know,” Jack said.
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where do I meet you?”
“Enzo, I didn’t call you to pull you out of retirement. You earned that. I only called to ask you thoughts. I fucking don’t know what to do, man.”
“Just tell me where,” Enzo said, his voice suddenly honed and dangerous. “We’ll figure it out together. These fucks have taken too much from both of us. Tell me where to meet you.”
So, Jack told him.
Jack smiled when he saw his friend.
Enzo had once been burly and had lifted weights heavily as a youth when he played football competitively for his town club. He looked more like a dockworker than a watchmaker, but that had been his trade, and he was good at it. Unfortunately for Enzo, he married young to a beautiful woman who had aspirations above his humble station. Enzo quickly found himself in debt paying for his wife’s lavish lifestyle. He made watches for Hermes and hoped that the prestige of working for that brand would be enough.
It was not.
She wanted more, demanded more, and Enzo, to his fault, did whatever he could to provide it.
Whatever he could.
Though he was a big man, his fingers were nimble and dexterous, his touch light, and the same deft hands that made him an exceptional watchmaker made him an exceptional safecracker. He began extracurricular w
ork as a thief for one of the numerous criminal gangs in Turin. He was staying ahead of the bills, barely, until he wasn’t, and then Enzo took a risky job that got him caught. He was arrested, and even though the case was dismissed for lack of evidence, his wife couldn’t handle the humiliation of being married to a criminal and left him anyway. Apparently, she’d gained access to a new social circle filled with willing men who didn’t need to steal to be there. Hermes fired him as soon as he was arrested. With no other options, Enzo became a thief.
Now in his late forties, he was still stocky, though with a few less pounds than the last time Jack had seen him. Apparently, the mountain trails of Calabria suited him well. Enzo and Jack were the same height, though the former’s slightly stooped stance made him seem a little shorter. His dark hair was wispy and going to bald atop his head. Enzo wore black pants, a bright blue button-down, and a blue-gray linen sport coat.
Jack walked up to his friend and embraced him. Holding him at arm’s length, Jack said, “You didn’t have to do this, Enzo.”
“Cut the shit, you criminal. You need me, so I’m here.”
Jack studied his friend for a few seconds before dropping his hands. A grin, a genuine one that seemed all too rare these days broke on his face. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”
“It’s like death sometimes,” Enzo said.
They found the water taxi dock outside and chartered a private boat. Ten minutes later, they were in Venice. Venice proper was actually three different islands separated by the serpentine Grand Canal that wove its way through the center and the larger Canale dell Guidecca. But even the larger islands were, in and of themselves, smaller islands clustered together and separated by endless smaller canals that moved through the city like arteries. Seemingly, every square inch of the city had been built upon. It was an actual labyrinth of endless alleys, side streets, bridges, and smaller canals. There were no roads, only footpaths of varying widths. The surrounding buildings were tall and looming, giving the impression of walls closing in. They all seemed to lean, just slightly, toward the water. For the uninitiated, the tourists, navigation without the aid of a phone’s GPS or a map was nearly impossible. This was one of the many reasons that Jack had never planned a job here, despite the numerous high-end jewelry stores. Escape would be like running out of the Labyrinth.