Taking Stock

by C J West

  A jagged slope descended toward a tiny village. He followed down into the valley and circled until he found a familiar pattern of lights. He climbed high to make his approach, cut the engine, and silently glided the Cessna toward the dark field. Vincent wouldn’t hear the engine from his house two miles away. Odd he hadn’t figured out how Jean-Claude made his way across after so many trips. There were other ways, all terrain vehicles and trains. He could sneak across in the trunk of a car, but apparently, Vincent wasn’t curious enough or smart enough to figure it out. Maybe he didn’t want to upset the arrangement. Jean-Claude would rather land on his farm and save the two-mile hike, but there was no need to tell Vincent now. Better to limit him to chauffeuring.

  Jean-Claude switched on the landing lights as he descended to the level of the grassy field. A moment later the craft touched down, bumping and hopping over the uneven terrain, rolling to a stop tucked in a corner of the field. The dark shapes at the edge of the clearing gave no hint of trouble. The only structure in sight was an old shack, shadowy and still, that seemed to stoop more and more with each visit. When he was convinced it was safe, Jean-Claude jumped down from the plane with his briefcase in one hand and a machete in the other. He chopped two dozen saplings and piled them against the front of the plane until he was satisfied it would go unnoticed for the day.

  He stored the machete and headed off into the trees.

  The rocky slope was dense with waist-high bushes that rustled and cracked with every movement. Any creature within six hundred yards heard his labored climb up to the dirt road that led to Vincent’s farm. Passage on the packed earth of the road was quieter and he moved along in near silence.

  A burst of rustling leaves startled Jean-Claude, freezing him as he listened to the sounds of the forest. He raised the .45 and swept the terrain ahead, ready to shoot anything that moved in his path. The deafening sound would frighten off any creature he’d encounter. The two-mile trek in the dark woods unnerved him. Crossing with a strong light had been easier until he realized it exposed his every move. Darkness concealed him, so he adjusted to walking by moonlight, calming the anxious voices in his head with assurances he didn’t really believe. For a thousand bucks he could have bought night-vision goggles online. He had no idea why he hadn’t.

  Jean-Claude holstered the gun and moved on down the road. If he stepped on a snake, it would wrap itself around his leg biting his calves over and over with sharp fangs. The leather sneakers offered no protection.

  Fifty yards down the road, he heard a loud rustling in the trees. Something heavy dashed downhill away from him, directly toward the farm. He pictured himself bumping into a bear and feeling its claws swipe him off his feet. The animal’s crushing weight would pin him, squeezing the breath from his lungs as the enormous front teeth gnawed his flesh. The image froze him and again he drew the .45.

  Before he made another step, he whispered, “Mr. Bear, I suggest you pick on someone who’s not carrying a semi-automatic handgun.”

  He moved on with the gun leveled in front of him, a steady trickle of sweat dropping from his forehead to sting his eyes as he maneuvered through the darkness.

  The road paralleled the path of the animal he’d spooked. He walked along hesitantly, attuned to every sound in the trees ahead. Every step brought him closer to the mauling he anticipated, but the animal didn’t show itself. Several times a falling branch or a scurrying in the leaves immobilized him with fear. He told himself these little explosions of ruckus were squirrels or rabbits, but he didn’t think these animals nocturnal. He pushed along nervously silent, dreading his next encounter.

  A discarded tire at the roadside marked his approach to Vincent’s farm. He left the road and descended a tree covered slope. Progress was noisy, alerting any creature nearby to his approach and at the same time deafening him to their movements. He stopped every several yards to listen for anyone or anything attracted by the breaking branches and rustling leaves.

  Snap. A breaking twig echoed in the stillness fifty yards away.

  Jean-Claude’s head whipped toward the sound.

  A light flickered twice.

  Jean-Claude whistled out a low note followed by a shrill ending and repeated his call two more times.

  The light flickered three more times, signaling him to come forward.

  Jean-Claude dragged his feet through the tangled underbrush toward the small circle of light. The commotion of branches and leaves underfoot didn’t concern him anymore. He was almost out. The short, thin figure waiting for him waggled the light as he pushed the last few yards to the narrow path. Vincent shook his hand and lit the way as they hiked along the edges of the fields that sloped down toward his home.

  The moonlight cast a glow on rows of seedlings dancing in the light breeze. With Vincent beside him and a wide field of view to assure him no animals were nearby, Jean-Claude relaxed for the first time in hours.

  “Vinny, what would I ever do without you?” Jean-Claude asked.

  “You could cross over in a car like everyone else.”

  “Sounds easy.”

  “Yes, and there are lights,” Vincent chuckled, knowing how nervous the dark woods made Jean-Claude. Vincent worked this land season after season. He was at home here. Nothing in the forest bothered him unless it ventured into his fields to graze.

  “Driving would ease your nerves,” Vincent said. “But I’m not complaining. This work’s easier than farming.”

  Brad looked back at the woods and wondered about the animal he’d heard running this way. He hoped it would move on before his return hike the next morning. That would be his final crossing.

  Vincent was glad for the company this time of year. The isolated farm made an ideal layover point, but Vincent had months of pent up conversation to let loose. He endlessly recounted the happenings on the farm since Jean-Claude’s last visit. The chatter continued into the stone farmhouse and didn’t stop when Jean-Claude stretched out on the couch to get some sleep. The accented English rambled on into his dreams.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Jean-Claude’s eyes popped open as Vincent emerged from the kitchen, paced across the tiny living area and disappeared into the hall, only to step out of the kitchen again a moment later. Vincent had been circling all morning, peering out over the fields that surrounded the tiny house as if he expected an army to assemble among the vegetables and attack.

  “Relax. You’re making me nervous,” Jean-Claude barked.

  “Better to be prepared, no?”

  “I hiked here in the middle of the night. No one knows I’m here.”

  “Marcus knows. There must be others.”

  “We’ve got nothing worth stealing.” Jean-Claude kicked the empty briefcase under the coffee table. “When that’s full, we’ll both worry.”

  “Si, Si.” Vincent collapsed into a reclining chair, pretending not to watch the long dirt driveway.

  The hours before the trek to town stretched Vincent’s nerves and Jean-Claude’s tolerance, until the two men buckled into the glistening Mercedes parked out front. The contrast between the pristine automobile and the ancient stone building couldn’t have been more glaring. The sagging roofline and peeling paint were neglected, but Vincent bought himself plush leather seats and satellite radio.

  Jean-Claude turned a bewildered eye to Vincent’s dark profile. “How can you afford this car?”

  “You afford it for me.”

  Vincent’s cut was enough for a few payments, but not a new car. Did he think this was going to go on forever? Jean-Claude couldn’t tell him this was the last trip. Vincent would discover it for himself soon enough. He’d have to find another way to earn his payments or he’d be forced to sell the car. Vincent drove on unencumbered by the guilt Jean-Claude suffered in the passenger’s seat. He was enthralled by the performance of his new car as he raced it up to speed and banked hard through tight turns. He slowed at the edge of town and they turned off the main road and wound down densely packed streets. T
hey squeezed between a row of cars on one side and trash cans and debris that spilled off the opposite curb careful not to scratch the paint. They rolled to a stop beyond a small alley. The clogged back street would slow their exit, but Jean-Claude avoided showing himself in town as much as possible.

  They stalked down the alley on foot skirting cardboard boxes and trashcans between the low stone buildings. Jean-Claude stopped a few paces from the wide sidewalk and scanned the faces in the park across the street. A group of mothers sat with several children toddling around. Beyond them, the fountain bustled with neatly dressed people enjoying an early lunch. Several older men read the paper and tossed crumbs to the birds jostling for position at their feet. None of them looked threatening.

  Jean-Claude led Vincent out onto sidewalk and briskly toward the bank.

  The people rushing past took no notice of them, but up ahead on the street-side bench, one man watched their approach with interest. He was thin and young, a man who should be working on Thursday afternoon. Maybe he was.

  The holster rubbed against Jean-Claude’s arm as he walked. Closer now, the man on the bench leaned back casually to disguise his interest. Jean-Claude considered walking past the bank. He slowed, but as he did, Vincent strode ahead completely unaware of the threat Jean-Claude sensed.

  “Vinny,” Jean-Claude blurted in a low whisper.

  Vincent didn’t slow. He stopped only to pull open the door to the bank and by then, he was a full five yards ahead.

  The man on the bench sneered menacingly. This was the man from the airport tunnel. The skinny guy who’d grabbed his hands while his buddy banged him up. Herman had sent him. Maybe Herman knew about the deal with Marcus. Maybe he knew all along and he’d waited until now to get even. The big guy who threw the punches could be idling the car, ready to speed away from the hit.

  Jean-Claude cut in front of Vincent and headed inside behind the protection of the bank’s brick walls.

  The lobby of Banca di Turino was small by American standards. It mainly serviced the farmers and other small businesses in the mountain villages. The lone guard faced the patrons with his back to the wall, where the open lobby afforded him an excellent view, but nowhere to hide during a shootout. Jean-Claude noticed his grey hair and the glasses in his shirt pocket. He wondered how fast the old man could pull the gun and whether he could hit anything once he did.

  Ahead and to the right, three cameras captured activity at the teller windows and the vault entrance. Jean-Claude had arrived precisely on time, but the manager’s door was closed. He veered left to avoid being filmed and settled in a seat with his back to the tellers, the cameras, and the line of customers. Several paintings reflected bits of the lobby behind him. His eyes shifted back and forth, watching the manager’s door to his right and the guard to his left.

  Marcus had never kept him waiting. Three minutes in the lobby seemed endless as images of running police played over and over in his mind. When he subdued thoughts of arrest, he imagined the big guy and his partner rigging explosives under Vincent’s car. Vincent would turn the ignition and a loud click would sound. The flames would rip up through the seats sending body parts flying, blood spattering and thousands of torn green bills fluttering through the alley.

  Jean-Claude shook himself back into the moment.

  Vincent sat opposite watching the patrons transact their business, his face in full view of the cameras. The nervousness from the farmhouse was replaced by a cheery fascination with the other customers. He hummed an unfamiliar tune and tapped a rhythm on his chair.

  When the Manager’s door creaked open, Vincent slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and rose. Jean-Claude stayed fast, watching the man in the manager’s doorway from the corner of his eye. The big guy from the tunnel was talking to Marcus. They shook hands heartily and the big guy walked behind Jean-Claude, across the lobby, and out the front door. Vincent stutter stepped toward the manager’s office, glancing back at Jean-Claude often enough for anyone to know they were together.

  Marcus, the bank’s manager, turned sideways to step through the doorway. His massive round torso brushed the frame on both sides as he passed, his swollen arms hung limp, resting against his sides. He breathed heavily as he met Vincent and Jean-Claude with a broad smile.

  “Ciao, gentlemen,” he said. He gave a reverent nod and labored back into his office. He side-stepped around his desk and squeezed into his chair, his thighs pushing the arms several inches further apart than they were designed to go. Jean-Claude sat across the desk, and Vincent stood beside the window watching the lobby.

  “What was that about?”

  “An acquaintance of yours I believe, checking our progress.”

  “I trust you didn’t overestimate our good fortune.”

  “I may have overlooked two million for you and a small sum for my services.”

  Jean-Claude hadn’t trusted Marcus since he suggested skimming from the account. Marcus took an extra cut, but Jean-Claude always suspected he’d be looking for more. He wouldn’t be above blackmail if he learned Jean-Claude worked for BFS. Hopefully, the goon hadn’t given him any clues.

  “Let’s start with the balance.”

  Jean-Claude scribbled the account number, checked it with his notebook, and slid the slip of paper across the worn desk. Marcus clicked on his computer terminal, wrote a number below Jean-Claude’s, and passed it back. 36,475,058.

  “Dollars, correct?” Jean-Claude asked.

  Marcus nodded.

  “Excellent. Wire ten million to this account number in the United States.” Jean-Claude carefully copied the number and handed it across.

  “This is unusual.”

  “A surprise for a dear friend who’s helping us.”

  “Quite generous compared to my meager stipend.”

  “Not the type of help you’d want to give.”

  Marcus banged each key as he entered the transfer information into his terminal. His face soured, jealously longing after the huge sum he saw passing through his hands. Certainly he felt the risks he took were worth more, but that was between him and Herman.

  When he was done, he turned the computer screen toward Jean-Claude.

  Jean-Claude verified the numbers and nodded his approval.

  Marcus reclaimed the screen and Jean-Claude sat back, while the machine delivered the money to an unsuspecting recipient. Vincent turned a coin in his fingers and peered through the thick glass into the lobby.

  “Ok, what’s next?” Marcus asked.

  “My two million in cash. Make it tight. Last time it barely fit in the case. I’ll take the rest in two checks – seventy-thirty.”

  “How much do you want to leave?”

  “Ten thousand.” Jean-Claude would have taken it all, but that would signal Marcus that he was losing his most profitable client. Better if he learned the news when Jean-Claude was safely out of the country. Marcus could keep the extra ten thousand.

  Marcus made some calculations and disappeared through the heavy door at the rear of his office. When he did, Jean-Claude rose to watch the lobby. Several customers had left the bank. Vincent walked to the bookshelf and examined the photos displayed on top.

  “Can you believe his family is this big?” Vincent asked.

  The round happy faces all had thick dark hair. All were enormous. He wondered if Vincent referred to their numbers or their size. “Who cares? I just want to get my money and get out of here,” Jean-Claude said.

  For all his earlier nervousness, Vincent seemed inattentive.

  Marcus returned ten minutes later pushing a small cart piled with tightly bound stacks of hundred dollar bills wrapped in plastic. Jean-Claude packed his briefcase to capacity. The two million made the case as heavy as he could manage on the long trip back through the woods. He tucked the two checks deep inside his front pants pocket where they’d be safe.

  Marcus was a risk. He knew the account numbers here and the ones in the states that the money came from. If he ever discover
ed Jean-Claude’s real name, blackmail was a definite possibility. If he told Herman about the millions they’d siphoned off, Jean-Claude would turn up dead in Boston. Marcus could do a lot of damage. Jean-Claude would be much better off if he disappeared. There was no one to stop him from shooting Marcus right here except the feeble guard in the lobby.

  Marcus was so fat he could barely move. A quick clean shot would kill him in his chair before he could lift his flabby arms. Jean-Claude could swing the door open and fire off six or seven shots at the guard before he could draw his gun. He wasn’t sure he could he hit him across the lobby, but the street was a greater risk. The alarm would be blaring when he stepped outside and he could get nabbed by a passing cop. He eyed Marcus as he buckled the briefcase then glanced at Vincent. Vincent would be too stunned to help. He’d probably wet himself when the first shot went off.

  Jean-Claude shoved a stack of bills to Marcus, twenty thousand dollars for his silence. Marcus swept the stack into his top drawer, unaware how close he’d come to a sudden, violent death.

  “Don’t lose those checks now. They’re hard to replace,” Marcus joked, reveling in Jean-Claude’s nervousness.

  “I haven’t lost one yet.”

  The huge man stood up behind his desk. “Take my advice: spende il denaro velocemente,” he said in an eerie voice.

  Jean-Claude’s Italian was poor, but he knew sarcasm when he heard it. He squeezed the meaty hand and shook it deliberately. “Thanks. That goes double for you.”

  The words had no effect on Marcus, but Jean-Claude didn’t care. He was halfway home. He walked through the lobby and out onto the street, swinging the forty pound case back and forth to make it appear lighter than when he entered. The men weren’t on the bench across the street nor were they around the fountain or the lawn. He scanned for their faces in every window and car. Nothing. Halfway down the alley, he left Vincent alone with the briefcase and doubled back. No one moved in their direction.