The Vermeer

Her hand touched my shoulder startling me. I hadn't seen her reflection approach in the mirror, "Certainly," her wad of toilet paper found its way into the toilet which had just finished flushing and was now in the fill-back-up mode.

She smiled at me. The two muscles under her lower lip stood proud.

As I stepped back into the bedroom looking for my clothes, the thought crossed me, am I being played here? If I am, she's fucking good.

I had to press on.

"So is everything set up for your meeting with Jill this afternoon?

Flo sat down naked onto the side of the bed with pen and pad as I slipped my underwear back on and then picked up my jacket and reached into the inner pocket.

"As far as I know, yes."

"Are the other two other guys, the Tate guy and Gardner museum guy going to be there, too?"

Flo held out her arms, one with pen in hand the other with pad of stationary paper, "I don't know," she shrugged, "let's hope so."

"Jill suggested that the other two guys may be there, too, you know the FBI and the DA guys."

"That's fine. Are they going to be there?"

She shrugged again.

I took a deep breath knowing that it's all too rushed.

"I need you to jot all this down. Here's a key."

It slipped from a little plastic bag into her palm. She saw 105 embossed in the metal. As I dressed myself I told her the name of the bank and the address of the bank in Douglas, Isle of Man.

"Grab a cab and take the morning 'easyjet' flight from London City Airport to Douglas. Rent a plane if you have to. Give the others instructions that they are to meet you at The Old Courthouse, it's an upscale bar and restaurant at 11:30 in the morning. It's a big white building on the corner of Athol and Church Streets. It's just a short walk to the bank from there. Don't worry about them, they're cops, they can get there in time."

She was jotting notes like a secretary or school child. Her handwriting was big, round, feminine and neat.

"Have a drink or a cup of tea together, take the time to explain what will happen, but only so much, and plan on being at the bank, no later than 12:15."

She jotted.

"All you will need is your passport and some other picture ID, like a driver's license, your one key to get back into your home, pre-paid phones #4 and #5, the key that I just gave you, that's very important, your own personal cell phone and maybe a thin sweater. I'll provide everything else. Don't bring any make-up, or hair brushes, nothing like that." She noted it all down in point form. "If you must have a bag or a purse, grab one from the back of your closet that you haven't used in years. Got one like that?"

"Lots," she said as she continued jotting down notes.

From another baggy an envelope slipped out.

"Is this for me?"

"Yeah, open it up."

She did. Her eyes widened.

"US cash and pounds Sterling. It all converts to about five thousand in US. Travelling money."

"Thank you," she smiled.

"You will have to show two pieces of ID to the bank and you are already authorized to access the safety box in their vault. The safety box is number 105, as numbered on the key. It's 36" x 36" by about six inches deep. The staff would normally carry it for you, put it on the big desk and lock you inside the viewing room."

I paused to make sure she's following was I was saying. She and her notes seemed to be okay.

"The Vermeer is in it."

Her eyes were wide open. So was her pussy. Her tampon string hung gaudily down to her puckered and still greasy bumhole.

"In this instance arrange for just yourself, the representative from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and the expert from the Tate to go in, get locked in to view the contents of the safety box. Everybody else, Jill, the FBI, the DA and whoever else is there will have to wait outside in the bank. Once they have verified for themselves that the painting is genuine, put it back into the safety box and have the bank personnel lock everything up again and return the key to you."

"Okay."

"Once everything is locked back up, the three of you can exit the vault's viewing room and join the others."

"Okay."

"Write this down," I gave her the area code and the phone number of one of the unused pre-paid cell phones I had. She wrote it down. "When the representative from the Gardner Museum signs-off, verbally, or otherwise agrees that the Vermeer is genuine and they agree to accept it, using phone #4 you text the number I just gave you the words, 'Done deal.'"

She was still jotting down.

"I will then text you back the account number and the transit number where the five mil needs to be wired. It will be to an account at that same Isle of Man bank."

"Okay."

"You will then pass that phone over to the museum's representative and they will have to somehow signal or phone their bank to send funds to that Isle of Man account. Right away, not the next day. At the same time, give them your bank account info. They have to send the five million US to the Isle of Man account and the balance of your contract into your account at Barclays."

"Okay."

I walked over to the bathroom and found a packet of bubble-bath and popped the plug into the drain.

Are we clear on this so far?" I asked from the other room.

"Yes."

I turned the hot and cold water taps on, emptied the bubble-bath packet into the tub and walked back out.

"Have the bank manager put up onto his computer screen the account activity page for that account. When the bank manager is able to show you on his computer screen that five million US dollars was deposited into the Isle of Man account, on the same cell phone #4, text me back with the words 'Money in account.' Got it?"

"Yes. Then what?"

"Wait for my reply."

"Okay."

"After my reply comes and if it is in the affirmative, only at that point do you request the bank manager to register the name of the representative from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum onto the safety box authorized registry. Sign the register, authorizing his name being added and hand him the key. He will have to show two pieces of ID before he can gain access. Got it?"

"Yes."

I stepped back to the bathtub and tested the water temperature. I turned the cold tap down a bit and stepped back out.

"Flo, you don't sign over until I authorize it. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes."

"Good, but if you have to wait more than one hour to see those funds get deposited into the Isle of Man account, then stand up and walk away. The deal's off. That's why when you are talking to them later today, you have to satisfy yourself that they've set it up so the money is there instantly. Otherwise, there's no point in even going to the Isle of Man. Let them know that. They have a few minutes, less than an hour. It will take special arrangements. Banks like to hold onto money."

She was breathing heavily.

"Flo, presumably they are acting in good faith and you will see five million in US funds transfer into that account. When you do, after our text message activity and your sign-off onto the safety box, then, my dear Flo, walk out, and as you said earlier, with your head held high. Disassemble and toss your personal cell phone and cell phone #4 into a rubbish bin on your way back to the airport and then catch the next flight back to Heathrow. Rent a private plane if you have to."

She was smiling. Then her face changed. "What if they just wrestle the safety box key from me?"

"Huh!" I chuckled, she clearly didn't see my mirth. "They won't for three reasons. One, it will be very difficult to explain to the Queen's Council why someone with immunity was treated that way; and two, if they did, they will have just blown their chances of getting the rest of the stolen artworks back; and three, their name won't be on the bank's registry. The bank has to maintain credibility."

She was smiling again.

"Once you land at Heathrow, and only then, plug in the battery and SIM chip and turn on phone #5 and wait for my text or my call. Don't leave Heathrow. You will be going on vacation until everything cools down, so you better let Laura and everyone at work and in your life know that you'll be away for a couple of weeks, maybe three."

At first she seemed a little shocked, which soon after morphed into somewhat perplexed.

I had her read back her notes. She had everything impeccably correct.

"You've got about an hour and twenty minutes before your meeting with Jill. Sorry but you will have to grab a cab back to The Glades to get your car."

"Oh!"

"Good luck, I'll see you in a couple of days."

We kissed.

I checked out leaving her in the bathtub covered in bubbles, scrambling to get cleaned up and out of the tub.

I didn't have a lot of time to get to Heathrow myself.

*****

I got back home late on Tuesday night. There were two messages on the kitchen counter.

'Call Camilo

Urgent'

And the phone number.

'Your dad called, he wants you to call him back.'

I couldn't do that, it was the middle of the night in Italy.

I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I called Camilo.

"Camilo," he answered.

"Camilo, it's Ben. Listen, I'm working on it. Please."

"Ben, listen to me."

He paused breathing hard.

"I know that your brother was killed. I know that you are the only child. When your mother and father die, everything will be going to you right?"

"What the fuck?"

"Is that right?"

"Y-yeah."

"And right now, when you die, your wife and daughters will be the beneficiaries, is that right?"

"Camilo are you fucking crazy?"

"Answer me, you fucker!"

"Camilo, I'm gonna get you the fucking money."

"Answer me!"

"Yesss!"

"Listen to me you fucker, there are only two ways your beneficiaries are going to see the sun go down tomorrow. Either you send me two and one half million, or you send me your will making me the sole beneficiary of your estate. You fucking got it?"

Oh fuck. "I hear you."

"Listen to me. The name on the will has to be Luis Alesandro Sevilla, of Medellin, Colombia." He spelled the name out twice. I copied it down. "You need to phone me tomorrow before the sun goes down asking me for a fax machine number. I want to see that will. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

The line went dead.

I lay in bed hyperventilating for a long time. It took me quite a while to get my normal breathing back and my heart rate to settle. From the ringing in my ears I knew my blood pressure was up.

Fuuuck!

After having diarrhea, I returned to my bedroom and tossed and turned all night, sweating the whole time.

*****

I called Pops first thing in the morning.

"What's going on?" He wanted to know.

"Why?"

"I think somebody's been following us."

"Oh great."

"Did you get in touch with Christo?"

"Yeah."

"Did you solve the problem?"

"Not yet."

"Is this guy a hit man?"

"Maybe."

"Fuck you." He hung up.

"Oh God, please help me."

The girls came down for breakfast. They were already dressed for school. I gave them each a big hug and kiss, knowing it might be the last time I saw them.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I headed up to take a shower and get ready to go.

Marcella hadn't returned from dropping the girls off yet when I left a few minutes later. There was a car parked across the street with a young guy, maybe thirty, in it. It had to be Ernesto's hit man.

*****

I sat on a park bench at Dundas Square in Toronto. It was still too early in the morning for the freaks and the homeless to be loitering about. I had two cell phones with me, a large Tim Horton's double-double coffee and an egg and bagel thing. It was 12:30 pm Greenwich Mean Time.

At 1:38 GMT I received a text 'Done Deal.'

I hoped it was true. I texted back the account number and the transit number.

At 1:51 GMT I received a text, 'Money was in account, but disappeared! What do I do?'

That was a good sign.

I texted back, 'Proceed. All is cool. Sign over key.'

I dismantled and stuffed the cell phone into my empty coffee cup and dumped it into a garbage bin as I walked across the square to an unmarked door. I buzzed, gave them my name and was allowed entry.

I sat in a cramped waiting room of an unmarked, non-descript upstairs office just off Dundas Square in downtown Toronto. It had two faded old tourist style framed photographs labeled Haifa and Beirut as decorations on the walls. There were no magazines to distract, just four worn leatherette and pitted chrome chairs under a cheap T-bar ceiling and fluorescent lights. The one diffuser and the one return air grille were both dusty.

I was sweating.

Waiting.

Checking flight times on my cell phone.

Still sweating.

I checked the time on my cell phone. I had trouble calculating. On faith, I determined it was just after two o'clock Greenwich Mean Time.

Sweating.

That was fucking it. The moment of truth. Either Flo turned on me and I've been had and I'd be seeing the inside of my Audi trunk and the family would be dead, or I pulled it off.

I knew how I could have played it. If I were in Flo's position I could have offered my bank account number for the five mil and then tried to deposit ten pounds into the account I had just texted her. Her reaction would have been the same.

You've got to trust your middle man, Christo told me.

She wasn't a stupid woman. Maybe Christo really was hinting at something.

Bloody hell. I couldn't even trust that my breakfast was going to stay down. I was so wound up.

"Mallory, please Mallory, help me come through. I'm sorry I killed your son." I whispered to myself.

"I'm sorry Sir, I didn't quite hear," said the little lad with a yarmulke who sat behind the protective glass screen.

"Are my deliveries ready?" I asked him again, sweating profusely.

The young lad gave me a 'what the hell's wrong with you asshole, I already checked once' look, and made an overt display of going through a pile of paper packets, yet again, in the flat box sitting on his desk, right in front of his face.

I was clearly stressed.

I kept my head down.

I waited. Time slowed down to a crawl.

I was thinking about Nikki and Danielle.

I pulled the piece of paper out of my jacket pocket and read the name 'Luis Alesandro Sevilla, of Medellin, Colombia.' If this wasn't going to happen, the only thing I could do was to go to Christo's office. It didn't matter if he was there or not. One of his clerks could set me up with a new will.

Fuuuuck....

"Sir?"

It was the yarmulke receptionist from the other side of the glass partition. My heart thumped out of control.

"Your deliveries are ready."

"Great," the word almost bled from me.

I stood up on wobbly legs and stuffed the piece of paper back in my jacket pocket. The sliding window opened up and two little paper packets were pushed through towards me. "Thanks," I croaked. I signed the little receipt with the pen that followed the packets and walked out of the waiting room into the corridor.

I thought I was going to faint. I sat down at the top of the narrow linoleum stairs and looked down at the narrow, seemingly all-white flight. The aluminium stair nosings all of a sudden seemed bright and treacherous. I slipped the packets into my inner jacket pocket. My palms were sweaty. The stairwell walls seemed to pulse in an out in a vertigo maelstrom. Sitting there, I had to take a couple of deep breaths before my heart rate went down and the strength returned to my legs enough to allow me to stand back up and descend the freakazoid stairs. My hand vigilantly gripped the railing with each downward step.

I said a quiet, "Thanks," to God when the sunshine hit me as I walked out of the little doorway.

"And to Mallory," I added.

I punched in a number on my other cell phone. "Camilo, it's Ben I've got something for you."

"The money?"

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"Yes."

He was genuinely happy, maybe even smiling.

"I'll meet you at Marguerite's tomorrow at noon. If my flights fuck up I'll call you and let you know my new ETA. Camilo?"

"Yes?"

"Can you get that hit man out of my living room? And the guy in Naples, too?"

"I'll talk to Ernesto, I hope it's not too late."

"Thanks."

I grabbed a cab to Toronto's Pearson International Airport.

On the way I called Marcella. She was all breathy, like she was in the middle of having sex. "Where are the girls?"

"At school, why?"

What a slut. "Can I talk to the young man?"

"What young man?"

"The guy you're fucking, Marcie."

She was silent for a while and then I heard her with the phone away say, "Ray? It's my husband, he wants to talk to you," followed by, "I don't know."

"Hello?"

"Ray, can you please get in touch with Ernesto right now? It's very important that Ernesto talks to Camilo. It's very important. The problem has been solved, and you can fuck my wife all you want. I don't care. Just don't touch my kids. Call him."

"Okay, I'll call him."

I then texted Flo. I sent her the flight number and confirmation number for her British Airways flight to Miami and then the flight number and confirmation number for an American Airlines flight to Bradshaw International in Basseterre, St. Kitts and Nevis. 'Buy whatever personal items you need in the airport in Miami, your layover will be about four and a half hours. You look great in red.'

*****

Camilo, Ernesto and the gang of thugs were already waiting for me when the driver pulled the cab up to Marguerite's. I was about a half an hour late. I told the driver to wait.

Chickens scattered as I opened the metal gate into the side patio, it looked as if they were in the middle of a frikkin' party. There was food everywhere and drinks of all sorts. I guessed, it really was a cause for celebration.

"Camilo, nice to see you," I shook his hand, "Ernesto, I've been collecting notes from your young guy. Apparently, my wife really likes him." He just stood there like the smug idiot that he is.

"You have something for me, Ben?"

"Yes, I do, Camilo."

I pulled out one of the packets and handed it to Camilo, "And a little something to show my appreciation for your patience." Out of my shirt pocket I pulled out a big fat four carat diamond.

Camilo opened the packet and poured the contents into his palm. The mound sparkled in the noon-day Colombian sunlight, in sharp contrast to his leathery tanned skin. "Two and one half million?" He then dropped the other diamond in with the rest. I had already stacked his packet with an additional diamond to make up for the trade imbalance.

"Plus interest."

"Couldn't you just transfer the money to one of my off-shores? The usual way?"

"Not this time, Camilo. Sorry. Not this time."

"It better not be glass."

"It's not and none of it has serial numbers burned on by laser. Are you going to have trouble changing the stone into paper?"

"No problem. Come on sit down, have something to eat. Whanna a beer?"

"Bud Lite, you're buyin', Camilo." He looked at me funny. "You're the guy with the money," I added.

He almost smiled and then snapped his fingers "Liliana," held up his hand and made a circular motion, "Cervaza Bud Lite." A young lady responded, and very quickly eight beers arrived and were quickly lost amongst the plates and platters. A couple of the tattooed thugs shuffled down a bit to make room for me to sit across the table from Camilo. Together, we were fourteen people sitting along three picnic style tables arranged end to end. Camilo and I were at the center, Ernesto sat on my left. Just so he could stab me in the back if he needed to, I was certain.

"Thanks, Camilo." I said as a plate and cutlery was set down on the table in front of me.

"Eat. Enjoy."

"Wow, this all looks great." My plate was then picked up by Ernesto and passed down to the tat-thug sitting in front of one of the huge platters, I saw him start to pile food on.