Beside Billy, the Frenchman peruses the in-flight menu and murmurs to himself: ‘Should I have the chicken or the beef?’
‘How about the shhh, I’m reading? I hear that’s excellent.’ Billy skims the Formula One article then turns the page and sees it contains the race schedule for the year, with all the dates and locations included.
He studies it for a moment. ‘Christ, it’s a menu.’ He swipes open his iPhone and looks at the photograph he took of Kurt’s iPad.
Claude turns to him, half interested. ‘What’s that?’
‘You were just reading that menu and banging on about what you were going to eat and it made me think, could the list be a menu for the thieves, for the places they’re going to hit?’
The Frenchman frowns.
‘What’s that face?’
‘Is there a word in English for “I don’t believe you but I’m trying to be polite”?’
‘I don’t know but that expression pretty much nails it. Anyway, if you look at the first line —’ Billy points at it on the iPhone. ‘14TICSM3. The fourteenth was the day of the month of the first heist, right?’
Claude leans over and looks at it. ‘Oui.’
Billy then points at the first race on the list in the magazine. ‘And the first race weekend took place from the fourteenth to the sixteenth right?’
The Frenchman nods again. ‘You’re speaking but not really saying anything.’
Billy ignores him and moves his finger from the six to TI. ‘So what does TI stand for?’
‘It’s the chemical symbol for Titanium.’
‘Thank’s for the science lesson, Stephen Hawking, but I’m pretty sure it’s the first two letters in the word Tiffany, as in Tiffany &C Co., as in where the armoured car was about to deliver the diamonds.’
‘Ouuui.’ Claude is still unconvinced but less than before. ‘So what does CS stand for?’
‘Where was the Tiffany’s located?’
Claude takes a moment, then works it out: ‘Collins Street.’
Billy nods. ‘In Melbourne. And that’s what the M signifies.’
‘And the three is for, what?’
‘March. The third month. The month the heist took place.’ Billy looks at Claude. ‘So, what do you think? Am I onto something or am I onto something?’
Claude glances from the iPhone to the magazine to the iPhone, clearly less sceptical now. ‘Okay, what about the second line?’
The Australian points at 28JTPTKL3. ‘Okay. Twenty-eighth day, which was yesterday, then what does JT stand for?’ He thinks about it.
Claude does the same. ‘JT. JT … Justin Timberlake?’
‘Really? That’s what you think it means?’
‘Umm, John Travolta?’
‘Oh for godssake ... jewellery. It’s jewellery something.’
‘Jewellery trader!’ Claude’s getting into it now.
Billy points at the Parisian. ‘Jewellery trader! And who was robbed yesterday? A wholesale jewellery trader. So then PT stands for . . . Petronas Towers!’
‘And KL is Kuala Lumpur.’
‘And three is the month of March.’
The Frenchman is stunned. ‘That was—that was surprisingly easy. So what about the last one?’
They study the letters and numbers on the third and final line. 4TIMED4.
Billy starts. ‘Going by what we already know this should be the next robbery. On the fourth of April. At Tiffany’s. In Dubai, where the next race is. All the numbers and letters line up.’
‘Okay, but what is ME?’
‘I don’t—hold on.’ Billy swipes open his iPhone’s screen.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Googling my good man.’ He types onto the screen. ‘Googling at forty thousand feet.’
‘Googling what?’
‘To confirm I’m the smartest mofo on this plane.’ He reads the screen. ‘The Mall of the Emirates.’ He stresses the ‘M’ in mall and the ‘E’ in Emirates. ‘Did you hear what I did with the M and the E?’
‘I did. So it has a Tiffany’s?’
‘It sure does, Home Slice. I tapped in Dubai, Tiffany’s, ME and just like magic it gave up the answer. So the next heist will occur at Tiffany’s in the Mall of the Emirates in four days time.’
Claude nods thoughtfully. ‘Right.’
‘What was that? There’s no “right”. This is an “Oh yeah!” moment. You’re not allowed to be so casual about it. All the letters and numbers line up. This is real. We got ‘em.’
‘Let’s just see how it plays out.’
‘Spoiler alert! I know how it plays out. We wait for these guys to turn up, arrest them as they rob the store and we’re back at the hotel in time for dinner. Or lunch, depending on when they turn up.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Why are you harshing my buzz?’
‘What does that even mean?’
‘It means you’re raining on my parade, bursting my bubble, being a bit of a Claude about it. It’s very annoying. I can’t be the only one who’s ever mentioned this.’
‘I’m just being, how you say, judicious.’
‘Well, don’t. I did it. I cracked the case wide open while you were deciding between the chicken and the beef. You should thank me.
‘And I will, when we make an arrest.’
‘Okay then.’ Billy nods, happy to finally extract something positive out of the Frenchman.
‘Cool beans.’
‘Wrong usage.’
‘Really?’ Claude’s disappointed. ‘Anyway, if you are right about the next heist, you shouldn’t think it’ll be easy.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘First, have you ever been to the Mall of the Emirates?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You’ll see. But that won’t be the hard part.’
‘Then what will be?’
‘Arresting your friend.’
Billy takes this in and realises the old Gaul is right. If he’s worked this out correctly he will need to take down an old mate, and that won’t be easy at all.
~ * ~
12
This is what the Frenchman was talking about when he said ‘you’ll see’.
He was talking about the sheer size of this joint.
Billy scans the Mall of the Emirates from his chair outside the coffee shop. The place is enormous, much larger than any shopping mall he’s seen before. It’s so large it has its own ski field for chris-sake. It’s the size of the Melbourne Cricket Ground with a slope one hundred metres high and four hundred metres long. He glances over the railing beside where he sits on the first floor and takes in its entry doors on the ground level below.
He turns back and takes a sip of black coffee, glances at the copy of the Khaleej Times open in front of him. The last four days have been a blur. The hardest part of the job was to familiarise himself with this mall. It’s so large, has so many levels and annexes and entrances that Billy’s original ‘It’ll be a piece of cake’ comment to Claude was humorously naive in retrospect. It took him the better part of two days just to understand the layout which he performed under the guise of a shopping expedition in case the Three Champions were doing something similar and recognised him.
While Billy was busy casing the joint, Claude spent his first two days in Dubai ‘liaising’ with the local authorities so they understood that there was a chance something was about to go down. The local Police Chief was keen to lend his support and understood the public relations value of partnering up with Interpol to crack an international burglary ring.
The Chief, who’s name is Kashif, is an elegant, quietly spoken man who reminds Billy of an Arabic David Bowie, of all people. Kashif quickly sequestered a thirty-man squad, all in plain clothes, to execute the arrest of the Three Champions. Billy was impressed when he first heard the number, but then he saw the size of the mall and realised thirty men would barely cover every exit.
; Billy looks from his newspaper to the Tiffany’s jewellery store thirty metres away. He can see through the glass windows that it’s empty, except for one young guy who walks around and glances at the finery in that nervously nonchalant way a fiancé acts when he’s trying to decide just how many months salary he’s prepared to drop on his beloved’s engagement rock.
Billy looks back at his paper, tries to pretend he’s actually reading the thing, then glances at his watch. It’s three o’clock. He’s been pulling circuits of this floor since the place opened this morning but has never been more than a ten-second sprint away from the store. He should probably do another circuit.
The last time the Frenchman called in was about an hour and forty minutes ago. He reported that Kurt was still in the safety car compound at the Yas Island racetrack. The plan was that Claude would shadow him all day, and when (or if) he headed towards the mall Claude would give Billy a call. The track is an hour and a half from the mall so it would take a while for him to arrive. Billy would then get on the blower to Kashif, who would then set his men in position. They currently wait in a room in a building opposite the mall, ready for action.
The Australian glances at his watch again then looks at the phone and wills it to ring. ‘Come on you bast—’
The iPhone lights up and rattles on the table. He sees it’s Claude calling and picks up. ‘Is he on the move?’
‘He could already be there.’
‘What?!’
‘He gave me the slip.’
Billy can’t believe it. ‘He gave you the slip? How did that—when did you last see him?’
‘Maybe a hundred minutes ago. That’s why I said he could already be there.’
Billy’s eyes instantly swing to the Tiffany’s store. The nervously nonchalant fiancé is still the only shopper. Billy turns and scans the mall, searches for Kurt, or anything out of the ordinary. He sees nothing, but he’s still annoyed. Actually, he’s more than annoyed, he’s royally pissed at Claude. He knows this isn’t the time for recriminations but still. ‘You lost a whole person? How is that even possible?’
‘He entered the safety car garage after lunch. He was in there for a long while. Longer than usual. So I did a walk by, couldn’t see him, then went in to check and he was gone.’
‘Jeezus H!’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there soon.’
‘In ninety minutes!’
The line is silent, then: ‘I’m . . .’ He trails off.
Is this the moment when the Frenchman will finally apologise for something?
‘. . . driving as fast as I can. He might not be the guy we’re looking for.’
‘Well I guess you’ll know for sure in an hour and a half!’ Billy hangs up, furious.
Fuck-a-doodle-doo!
He needs to get Kashif’s men into position asap. He swipes open his phone and texts the Chief. The message has two words: Go now.
Five seconds later Billy receives a response: Moving.
Okay. Good. Kashif’s officers will be at their predetermined posts within four minutes.
Billy scans the first floor again. He sees nothing except upwardly mobile families out for a pleasant afternoon’s shopping. He peeks over the railing at the floor below. Again, all he sees is how very elegant and luxurious the place is.
He realises he needs to keep up his façade. He glances at the newspaper, pretends to read, then pretends to find the article so interesting that he must sit back in his chair and stare into the distance to contemplate how awesomely insightful it is, all the while scanning the mall. He must be vigilant, can’t let them sneak up on him. ‘I just have to wait.’
‘Wait for what?’
Christ! Someone just snuck up on me. So much for being vigilant.
Is it Kurt?
He turns.
Franka. She wears jeans, a white T-shirt and yellow-lensed Ray Ban aviators. She is a vision of casual elegance. ‘Hey there.’
‘Hey yourself.’ She sits opposite him. ‘Nobody’s sitting here, are they?’
‘Oh no.’
‘You said: “I just have to wait.” You waiting for someone?’
Yes, I’m waiting for a trio of notorious jewel thieves to rob that Tiffany’s right behind you.
He doesn’t say that. But he does need her to leave right now.
‘Yes, yes I am actually. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll move on as soon as they get here.’ She ices the cake with a dazzling smile. It really is like looking at the sun.
‘Oh, right, yep, that’s —’
‘Girl or boy?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Are you waiting for a girl or a boy?’
‘Oh no, I’m waiting on a friend. A boy friend. No! I mean, he’s not a boy friend, he’s a friend who’s a boy—not a boy boy, a manly boy. That’s not right. He’s not a boy! He’s a man friend of the male persuasion—who isn’t a girl...’ He exhales and hangs his head. He’s not sure he could have screwed that up any worse and he trailed off too.
Right on cue she makes the snaky hand movement, then continues, he’s sure, a little disappointedly: ‘So you’re gay?’
‘God no! I mean, “no” without the “God” bit. That’s not my thing—though it’s fine for everyone else, not that everyone else is gay, obviously, it’s just that of the everyone who is, I’m not one of them, who likes it like that...’
Jeeezus.
‘Okay.’
‘“Likes it like that”?’ He rubs his forehead. ‘Good Lord, did I just say that out loud?’
‘Sure did.’
‘Well, anyway ...’ He trails off.
I really need to stop doing that.
Billy has never been nervous or uncomfortable or clumsy or tongue-tied around a woman before. Not once. But with Franka he has made up for a lifetime of being verbally cool and dexterous with a stream of babbled nonsense that would make George W. Bush cringe.
She studies him.
‘What?’
‘You are quite a strange man.’
‘I guess it’s better than being ordinary.’
‘It is.’ She smiles and it lights up the world.
Time slows.
It’s odd. Billy’s never subscribed to the idea of love at first sight. Like? Absolutely. Lust? Sure. But love? Not so much. He never believed in the thunderbolt moment, where you meet someone and instantly realise that you want to spend the rest of your life with them. He’d always imagined he’d have a series of different relationships of varying lengths but never settle down with one person. He’d be happy to be Mr Rebound or Mr Transitional or Mr Right Now, but never Mr Right, and he knew the reason for it: he didn’t want to feel responsible for someone else’s happiness.
But it strikes him now, and it comes as a quite a shock considering he doesn’t really know her, that he actually wants that responsibility with Franka. For the very first time he feels a connection to another person that is almost cellular. He doesn’t fully understand it except to know that he wants to be there for her, to make her happy, to protect her from the world. He was first aware of it when he saw her at the racetrack in Malaysia, then it stirred in the hotel elevator and now he’s experiencing its full power. Could it be love at first sight stretched across three sightings? He doesn’t know what else to call what he’s feeling except an epiphany. He realises it’s crazy but he wants to tell her what is in his heart, which he has never done with any woman before, on the off chance she might feel the same.
He looks her in the eyes—and something reflects in the yellow tinted lens of her Ray Bans. Three figures stretch and bend across the curved glass.
The Three Champions.
Time speeds up.
Billy turns his head slightly and sees the three figures out of the corner of his eye. They’re just fifteen metres away.
Christ, I really wasn’t vigilant. They completely snuck up on me!
They walk briskly, wear
boots and jeans and leather jackets and helmets—Schumacher, Senna and Hunt—and each carry a long duffel bag.
He needs to move now. He glances back at the woman who he thinks might be his soul mate. She cannot know he works for Interpol, even allowing for his recent epiphany.
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