by Nate Hawk
Kelly’s eyes began to perk up as he took more interest in the developing story. Megan had heard it already on the long drive down the eastern seaboard. Although it was a fascinating story, she was silent in the back as her thoughts stayed on Kelly’s decline and what a shame it was. He had been a good-looking man, after all and she knew he had a good personality hidden underneath the indifference that he currently had put on display.
Owen continued, “You won’t believe the history of the painting. Turns out the painting was one that Hitler had stolen from Poland during the invasion of ’39. Hitler then proceeded to put this painting in his own personal collection in Linz. You know how the next half-decade turned out for Hitler: not so good, right? So after he dies one of Hitler’s buddies took the painting back to Krakow where it disappeared and has been lost from the world ever since.”
“Hold on here,” Kelly said with a growing engagement. “This painting that you saw isn’t the original, right? I mean it’s some kind of forgery?”
“So that’s what I’m thinking at the time. I mean this guy Rick works for the CIA, he’s not a fuck’n Rothschild. Believe me, I paid close attention to the colors and the brush strokes. I eyed the backing of the wooden panel very closely. I’m talking a high-grade, authentic looking piece, here. It was hundreds of years old.”
“But a fake, nonetheless?” Kelly pressed.
“Here’s where it’s complicated. Most of the time fakes are obvious and easily distinguished. But the truly high-grade pieces are on a different level. They can be hundreds of years old. They could have been painted side by side of the real thing by the actual painter. They could have been painted in the same era but by a student or protégé. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Look: high-grade fakes have sold for tens of millions of dollars.
“So which is it?”
“It was good enough that I couldn’t tell the difference,” Owen said as he pulled the electric vehicle behind a clump of bushes that overlooked Southern Florida Import and Export’s open warehouse doors.
***
Lou was giving a group of five sport bikers a poetically obscene verbal reprimand for getting his organization involved in such a petty situation with the unknown stranger. All beginning with the harassment of some washed-up bum.
“Now we know where this guy keeps his boat but we’ve got the Key West Police driving by the marina every five minutes. How the hell are you gonna wack ‘em with an audience of law enforcement officers constantly driving by? Why you guys chose to assault him in such a public place, I’ll never quite understand. I pay you to be low key unless I need you to be high profile. Remember who’s signing the checks around here you unappreciative boneheads.”
As he continued to reprimand the group of swollen men a black Ford Excursion pulled up. Three serious looking men exited on the passenger side and began walking towards the motley crew of muscle bound importers and exporters. The three men spread out and walked in a line as the bigger men advanced toward them, Lou in tow. Both groups squared off in defensive posturing, neither quite understanding who or what the other group was.
“Those guys have CIA written all over them,” Owen said in disbelief from the electric vehicle. “I can read it from here.”
The group of men that had emerged from Southern Florida Import and Export were twice the size and twice the number of the three plain dressed CIA agents. The biggest difference may have been that the CIA men were armed with large pistols that were sloppily concealed under their t-shirts. Owen, Kelly and Megan saw this and so did the thick-necked body builders.
One of the CIA guys said, “I want you to take a look at this photo.” He took a few steps forward and handed it over. “Have you seen this guy?”
Owen suspected that it was a profile picture of himself. He knew the men were there for him. Before Lou could tell his men to keep their yaps shut, one of them spoke up.
“I saw this guy by that asshole’s boat last night. There was a redhead with him, too. I remember 'cos I dreamed about tap’n that fine ass all night.”
The man shook his head in annoyance. “That’s great. I’ll give you guys $2000 for the address if you promise to forget us. Lie to us or fuck with us and we’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
The big guys looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders thinking, yeah right! Take us out, huh? The CIA knew the men wouldn’t keep quiet about their appearance but they also realized that they could use some added sets of eyes to locate Owen and any of his associates. Hopefully the money would keep these clowns quiet long enough to kill Owen. Then the CIA kill team would come back to eliminate the growing list of witnesses and burn down any trace of them being associated with the import business.
One of the operators handed Deluca (obviously the man in charge) a paper with something scribbled on it. “Here’s a phone number you can reach me at if you see the black guy. Just call us and we’ll take care of everything.”
Kelly looked towards Owen with concern.
“How the hell did the CIA track you to Key West?” Kelly asked. “And to this business? This is nuts! I’d say that you and Megan gotta be put’n me on but if this is a joke it sure is getting complex.”
Owen knew an explanation was in order.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. The other reason we’re here is because Rick Quinn’s painting was shipped to Germany via Southern Florida Import and Export. I glanced at the Customs declaration when I was in his office helping him hang the damn painting. Sure as anything, it was shipped through this business and the export slip was signed by a Lou Deluca. I’m guessing he’s the brain in charge over there.”
“I see,” Kelly said. “You’re thinking you can check their records to see where it originated from so you can figure out who sent it.”
“Well, that was my original thought. If I could make some sense out of where it came from then maybe I could figure out a way to get me and Megan out of the crosshairs.”
Just then the window on the black SUV was rolled down and a familiar face came into view. Kelly had seen this man briefly in Munich and he knew who it was.
Owen said, “Shit! There’s Rick Quinn. I knew that asshole was behind this!”
***
Chapter 8
Kelly, Owen and Megan sat motionless, hidden in the shade of the electric vehicle’s canopy as the CIA team loaded up in the SUV. The Ford sped out of the lot in reckless abandon, a much quicker fashion of driving than the locals seemed to prefer. The SUV’s once shiny black sheen was now covered in a muted coat of corral dust as it roared back in a westerly direction, on towards Kelly’s boat. The men of the import and export profession strolled back inside fanning their newly acquired handfuls of cash.
“Listen to those guy’s advice and forget you ever saw them,” Lou suggested to the others. “Sure sounds like they are gonna take care of that stranger on his boat too. Now we can get back to business and get the next shipment up to Miami. You guys know how that Miami crew is. They’re still pissed off that our last shipment was late. We can’t let that happen again. They start thinking we’re fucking with them they’ll send guys down here to start poking around in our business. We sure as shit don’t want that!”
“You know we’re always ready to ride, boss.”
“Hell yeah,” another man said. “Even got some fresh dough in our pockets! Shape’n up to be a good day!”
The men’s voices trailed off as they walked inside the building and pulled the loading doors closed behind them. Kelly had a good idea of what the CIA was capable of. Megan and Owen certainly knew. The killers would probably poison Kelly’s food and hang around long enough to make sure that everyone on board keeled over. Perhaps they would ambush them or sneak up behind and simply shoot them in the head execution style. Or maybe they’d have a much more creative way of killing them that Kelly didn’t know anything about. He did know it was a good thing they were staying in the heart of old town at the Artist House B&B off of Eaton Street. The cro
wds should help them blend in. The trio had even splurged on the Turret Suite where they could climb a small rounded staircase to the turret for an incredible view of the island. Staying away from Kelly’s boat should at least buy them some more time. Kelly turned sideways in his seat so he could look at Owen and Megan.
“I think I’ve got an idea,” he said. “First, I need to buy a couple of important things.”
“Where should I drive to?” Owen asked.
“There’s a Walgreens off of Duval Street. Let’s head there.”
“We’ve got a trained team of CIA killers on our ass and you want to go shopping at Walgreens?” he asked skeptically as he steered the electric vehicle away from the bush that had been concealing it. “Do you need some photos developed or what?” he asked.
“First things, first. I need barber’s sheers and a disposable razor. It’s time to get rid of this mess,” he said as he pointed to the overgrowth that had become his head and face.
Megan spoke up for the first time in awhile. “You’re addicted to action, aren’t you Kelly? You’ve had a little flirt with it and now you’re ready to come back from the dead. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see you transform yourself from… from this,” she said not wanting to hurt his feelings. “Whatever it takes, I guess.”
Kelly gave her a smile, which would have brightened Megan up if she could have seen it through the jungly growth on his face. He shrugged his shoulders. “Action is what I’m good at,” he said.
***
“… and do you know why southern Florida is the most desirable region in the entire world? Is it because we have the most unique and stylish architecture? Or could it be because we have the most alluring nightlife?” Swanson asked the large crowd that had assembled near the Miami courthouse. “Maybe it’s the thousands of buildings with seaside views,” he exclaimed as he looked around momentarily, preparing to drive his point home. “All those things are great, sure! But none of them are the number one reason. What is the number one reason, you ask? That reason is, simply stated, you! Southern Florida’s people are the reason that hordes of tourists flock here. This community is why people longingly move here to call this fine place home. And that’s why I’ve allocated a fresh round of federal funding to strengthen the coffers of the local churches and social outreach programs. And I’d like to use this occasion to announce that Uncle Sam has agreed to provide all of the funding for a new community center right here near Miami Beach!”
The crowd that had assembled roared in celebration at the promise of revitalizing their community. Perhaps Congressman Swanson had gotten off to a slow start in Washington and all, but damn if he hadn’t begun making a name for himself! He was fighting the good fight in Washington and he was heroically bringing home the bacon. The Congressman continued sharing with the crowd his recent political successes that had lead to loosening the purse strings in D.C. This year was sure to turn out just splendid for the fine folks in southern Florida.
Swanson continued transforming his humble speech into a downright rally. Even he himself was impressed at the metamorphosis that the crowd had undergone during the ten minutes that he’d had the spotlight. He would have preferred to keep the grandstanding going as his ego had shot into a level of the stratosphere that even Swanson rarely felt. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t keep it going because he knew it was time to get down to Key West and get some answers. He had to figure out who this Deep Throat character was and eliminate him from presenting a threat. He had come much too far in the world of politics for it all to be ravaged over a secret from his past. Damn that Deep Throat!
“Riley, that speech was good. Great in fact! One of your best,” he added, knowing that his assistant had some emotional need to be built up lest he become overly sensitive. “That was just the right amount of schmooze needed to keep me in office. A few more of those speeches and I will be one bulletproof incumbent. Now let’s get the hell out of this stink’n shit hole of a city before one of the natives puts a bullet through the glass that kills us both.” The anonymous black Lincoln Town Car limousine pulled out of the underground parking garage and began working its way in a southerly direction through the city. The men knew that they still had four hours before they would arrive at Southern Florida Import and Export. That was if southbound traffic was running smoothly on US1. But when did that ever happen?
***
Chapter 9
Outside, the island sun beat down steadily. The humidity was still high that time of year but the daytime highs had fallen some from the intensity of the summer temperatures. It was a fresh seventy-two inside the B&B’s room and the energy was a combination of excitement and apprehension and a curiosity of the unknown near future. Owen sat on one bed and Megan on the other. The only background noise was the steady hum of the grooming shears as Kelly went to work on his head. At times it sounded like a weed whacker getting hung up in tall grass, as the machine would bog down. The electric motor’s noise would adjust upwards an octave and would be complemented by Kelly’s grumbling. He’d pick at the electric razor’s blades and then bang it on the sink. Then he’d get back to hacking at his facial landscaping.
After a quick shower, he emerged from the bathroom a new man. His transformation had been remarkable. He had on pants but from the waist up he was uncovered. Megan’s eyes shot to his face as she had a visual reminder of the man that she remembered. Kelly’s hair was operator short and his three-day beard grew low on his jaw line. The front of his face was clear and his attractive facial features could finally show through now that some personal grooming standards had been regained. Megan’s eyes glanced down at Kelly’s uncovered chest. His visible scars served as a reminder of the Boston bomb blast that had nearly killed him.
“Don’t you feel better?” Megan asked.
“Yeah, I do. It’s also nice to see clearly,” he laughed while pretending to wipe hair from his eyes. “You know, without obstructions...”
“You oughta shave it the rest of the way off like mine,” Owen suggested. “Smooth as a Compton player's stride,” he observed as he ran his fingers over his head.
Megan looked from Owen to Kelly. “You mentioned that you have an idea… Tell us, Kelly, how are we going to get ourselves out of this mess?”
“Yes, yes… I will! I want to know more about this painting though, first.”
Owen shrugged his shoulders. “Sure,” he said.
“I want to know what it is or what Rick Quinn thinks it is.”
“Well, here’s the Reader’s Digest version… It’s called Portrait of a Young Man and it is believed to be a portrait of the Renaissance artist Raffaello Sanzio. You’d probably recognize him best as plain old Raphael.”
“Who painted the thing?” Kelly wanted to know.
“It was painted by Raffaello himself so the centuries old debate is whether it is just a portrait of an anonymous man or actually a self portrait of himself.”
“So we’re talking about a self-portrait of Raphael… That sounds like more than just a painting!”
Owen said, “Yes. It’s the most sought after piece of missing Nazi artwork… Or any other piece of missing artwork… Ever!”
Kelly sighed, impressed with the significance of what he’d been told. “What is the approximate value of this thing?” he asked.
“This thing… if it can be authenticated, would fetch upwards of a hundred million dollars.”
“Well, that does sound like a good enough reason to send out a CIA kill team.”
***
Rick Quinn was going to catch that son-of-a-bitch Owen that had gotten involved in something way bigger than he could handle. Owen sure had some nerve. If Rick would have had any idea about Owen’s past then he wouldn’t have asked him to help hang the damn painting in the first place. It was an incredibly stupid mistake that Quinn hadn’t seen coming. He had known at the time that Owen was a smart boy who had grown up in LA. Then he’d joined the Army and worked himself to the elite ranks within Delta Forc
e. He’d been in the right place with the right ticket so Rick had asked him to come work with him. Now Rick was furious at himself for underestimating the amount of culture that Owen had grown up with. Well, Rick knew culture wasn’t quite the word. After all, Owen’s parents were just inner-city art hustlers from that urban crime-ridden ghetto that he called home: Compton. Still, he never would have let him see the painting if he had known about Owen’s knowledgeable background.
None of the plain clothed CIA operators had ever worked with Owen. Rick Quinn had decided to come to Florida to manage the situation himself and to ensure that the proper amount of attention was paid to all of the details. He found this especially important after the fuck-up in Vermont. This had to be done right and he wanted the assurance that they’d gotten the right man. It was too bad this stranger had gotten himself mixed up in the business between Owen and Quinn and then there was the redhead too. He knew that his team had to eliminate the three of them before the network grew any bigger. The scope of the operation seemed to be getting more difficult to contain by the hour.