The Vermeer

He simply smiled his big toothy grin, "I'm a lawyer Ben, not a master criminal." Then he added, "Trust but verify."

"Okay."

"Good luck, call me if you need anything."

"Thanks, Christo."

With that I walked out of Christo's office with my head swimming.

Of course, the girls weren't home when I got back and nothing was on for dinner.

I grabbed my laptop and headed out to Angelo's for an early dinner. My friend Angelo has a little bar/café in Vaughan, just north of Toronto. The big screen TV is always tuned to international soccer, football or the Maple Leafs. He's got free wi-fi, plus I can get a nice pasta dish with bread, salad and a glass or two of Nero D'Avola, Sicilian red wine.

I searched the internet for solicitors in the London area.

I found a few potential ones. The top of my list was a young woman in Blackheath, away from central London.

I also managed to book an overnight redeye flight to London for later that evening.

The girls were in when I got back home. "Daddy!" They both ran to me. I hugged and kissed them both.

Nikki is the younger of the two. She's nine, in grade four. She's skinny as a rail and has two big dark brown eyes that simply make me melt. She always has a little bit of a mischievous smile, and when she's on her Barbie pink bicycle, she rides around with a bit of maniacal look on her face as her mane of brown hair flaps in the air behind her. You can't put a helmet on her. Nikki always seems to have at least one bandage on and is perpetually in need of a good bath.

Danielle is eleven, in grade six. She, too, has dark hair and brown eyes and has always been the more serious of the two, which is a good thing, because she keeps an eye out for Nikki the whole time. Where Nikki has an undeniable cuteness about her, Danielle is going to be, in my view, the knock-out beauty. Both kids, but especially Danielle, inherited their good looks from their mother. I noticed, too, just in the last few weeks, Danielle was starting to grow little bumps on her chest. I was baffled as to how I, as her dad, should approach that subject with her. Or rather, I hadn't figured out quite what to say yet.

Thankfully, both kids were doing well at school and both had good friends in the neighborhood. Also, luckily, they were close enough in age, that they could be friends, or good sisters, and entertain themselves.

Marcie sure as hell wouldn't. The most she did was plop them in front of a TV and hand them some Mac and Cheese.

Ten grand a month? Seriously?

After too short a time, I had to excuse myself from the girls to go and pack for the airport. The airline limo was already on the way. "I'll see you girls in a couple of days. Daddy has to fly to Europe on business. You two girls be good. You know I love you both very much."

"We know and we love you, too," said Danielle. Nikki was already hugging me.

How sweet. My heart melted.

I flew to Heathrow with a bit of a game plan already in place, but not all of it. Normally, passengers are expected to nod off for a few minutes during the red-eye flight to the UK.

I couldn't sleep.

I couldn't figure out how to ensure, with one hundred percent certainty, that my middle man would not cooperate with the police, or simply run off with the painting or reward money.

*****

"May I speak with Florence Ashworth please?"

"Flo is not in right now," she said in a lovely British accent, "my name is Laura Berger, may I be of assistance?"

"Do you know when she will be back in the office?"

"I'm sorry, she's out at meetings. I don't have her itinerary; would you care to leave a message for her?"

"Yes, but is it possible that I could have her cell phone number?"

"Mmm... how about if I take yours and have Flo give you a call?"

What a pro. "That would be fine." I gave Laura my number, calling myself Sam.

Flo called two minutes later.

"Is this Sam?" Such a lovely voice with a proper British accent, almost like the Queen.

"Yes, may I call you Flo?"

"Yes. What can I do for you, Sam?"

"You can meet with me and have a drink. I'd like to discuss a very special project with you."

"Can you come by my office?"

"I could... but I'd prefer not. A pub would be fine."

"That's fine. Sam, do I know you? Who recommended me to you?"

"You did, I saw your online profile and you fit the bill. You're young and I assume energetic and your office is in the right part of town."

"Does this involve an estate, a property?"

"I don't want to get into details on the phone, but yes, it was part of an estate once."

"Sure, Sam, where and when?"

"I'm free right now. Are you? Physically, where are you?"

"I'm driving back to my office from Croydon, I should be back in about twenty minutes, and yes, I'm relatively free this afternoon. Shall I meet you there?"

Keep control of the situation. "Flo, call me as you are approaching your office in Blackheath, I'll start heading towards where you will be and I'll find a suitable place for us to have a drink and a bit of lunch."

"All right, Sam, I'll call you in about twenty."

"Thanks, Flo."

I knew of a suitable meeting place not far from her office and headed towards it.

Just as I opened the door with a handkerchief, my cell phone rang.

"I'm at The Yacht in Greenwich; do you know where it is?" I asked Flo. I had to explain directions. "I'm early forties, I've a blue jacket on and dark hair." The place was almost empty. I ordered a half pint of Stella Artois and stared out through the window to watch the boat traffic on the River Thames. The shuttle-bus boats skillfully darted between the larger barges.

Ten minutes later, Flo breezed in. She was way prettier in real life than her online picture suggested. She couldn't have been more than thirty, thirty-two maybe. She was perhaps five-four, with straight reddish brown hair to just below her shoulders. She was slim, yet curvy, boobs too small, though. She had tight black pants to just below her knees, absolutely flat shoes. They were black, like dance shoes. She wore an off-white button-up blouse with collar and a thin long sleeve black sweater that came down to mid-thigh. I didn't see a wedding band or engagement ring.

She was a sexy little thing, yet very professional looking.

"Sam," she held out her hand, her fingers were slim, manicured with clear nail polish. The other arm was completely pre-occupied with a big green leather handbag. It may have had a laptop or tablet inside.

"Flo, thank you for meeting me on such short notice," I said as I shook her warm, delicate hand and regarded her features. Big brown eyes, high cheek bones, thin, yet expressive lips, slim sharp nose, not too long, small feminine chin, very pretty. The two well-developed muscles under her bottom lip and her straight white teeth, gave her a lovely, confident smile. She had a thin gold necklace and gold dangly earrings to match.

She sat herself down across from me at the high table in an empty corner. "How can I help you, Sam?" she asked in her fantastic Brit accent.

"You can tell me what you'll have to drink. I'm buying."

She looked over to the bar, "I'd love a glass of white wine," she said with an exhale and then added, "I've already had lunch. The bar white will be fine."

I wasn't sure if I was hungry or not. My body was still in Eastern Standard Time. I walked up to the bar and came back with another half pint of Stella Artois for myself and white wine for her.

"Thank you, Sam." I was aware my fingerprints were on the glasses. "So tell me, what's this all about?"

"I'm sorry about the clandestine nature of this meeting, but I'm afraid it is absolutely necessary."

She sipped her wine and let me go on.

"I'm looking for a London agent to act as a middle man for a business transaction."

"And I would be that agent?"

"Hopefully so, yes."

"And what type of transaction are we looking at?"

"The recovery of a piece of property in return for a reward." I took a big gulp of beer.

She was watching me like a hawk.

"What type of property and what type of reward?" she slowly asked.

I paused as she took a sip of wine.

"Stolen property worth millions of dollars."

She blinked and trembled just a bit.

"Are you American?"

"Flo, this isn't about me. For this to happen I'm Sam Anonymous."

We both sipped of our drinks. She was watching me from the corner of her eye.

"What would my role be? And how would I be paid?"

"Middle man and you will be paid handsomely. In fact, you will set your own terms."

"Stolen goods? I'm sorry; I don't want to get into trouble."

"Yes, stolen goods and I can assure you that you will not be in trouble. In fact, you will be working closely with Scotland Yard, the FBI, probably Interpol and God only knows who else."

She took another sip of her wine and then slowly set it down on the table.

"When you said recovery, what did you mean?" she asked.

"I meant the return of stolen goods to the original owners. There is a reward being offered for the successful recovery."

"And I would get that reward?"

"No, the current holders of the stolen property would. You would be on contract and would earn a fee to act as middle man."

"I see." She sipped her wine.

I wasn't certain that she did. I sipped my beer.

"Who do you work for?" she asked.

"I represent the current holders of the stolen property."

"The thieves," she stated rather than asked.

"Errr... not exactly."

"Hmm...what's the stolen property?"

"I'm sorry, Flo, I can't tell you. Yet."

"Why aren't you acting as the middle man; why do you need me?"

"I'm too close," I said and looked her in the eye. "Come on, finish your drink and let's take a walk outside where we can talk more freely."

We gulped the rest of our drinks back and both got up to go outside. I motioned for her to go first and I caught the door with my shoe and my shoulder as she walked through first.

"Come on, let's walk along the Thames to the Cutty Sark and back while we talk." I needed the pub staff to have time to clean off the glasses and wipe the table down before I divulged any more information. I pulled a Boston Red Sox baseball cap onto my head. I kept my head tilted down as I walked, which must have seemed natural as she was so much shorter than me.

"Are you interested so far?" I asked as we walked down the cut stone stair to the Thames walkway.

"With caution, yes," she answered.

"Good, because caution is precisely what you will need. That and your wits about you."

On the south side of the River Thames, in Greenwich across from the Isle of Dogs, a stone walkway extends across the front of the grounds of the Old Royal Naval College and the National Maritime Museum. The grounds and the area are rife with history. Time and space literally came together right there. The paved stone walkway is perhaps eight foot wide and has a cast iron railing along its length, protecting people who are strolling along from falling into the river. It's a fantastic space with the Queen Mary Court on the left and King William Court on the right, and an expansive lawn in between. It's the former site of the Greenwich Palace, birthplace to Tudor Queens. It extends from Park Row on the east to the Cutty Sark on the west. The actual ship is in dry dock there.

It was a nice sunny day. You could feel the coolness off the water. The Thames itself has an olfactory presence, yet not unpleasant from our current location. It was London, in its absolute regal finest.

"What exactly will I have to do?" she asked as we strolled along.

"Basically, what I ask you to, nothing less and most definitely, nothing more." I stopped momentarily and looked her straight in the eye as I said that.

We walked along. "It's a painting. Worth a lot. I'll give you details of which painting it is and who holds title and all that stuff once you make a firm commitment to me that you are on board."

"What kind of commitment do you want from me? I'm not giving you any money," she stated quite emphatically.

"Oh, I'm not looking for your money."

"So, what kind of commitment?"

"Just your word. But I haven't told you everything that you need to consider before I ask you for your word. Shall I go on?"

"Yes," she said.

We resumed walking.

"The very first thing that you will need to do is obtain from the Metropolitan Police and whoever else they need to go to, immunity from prosecution, because let's face it, you will be dealing with stolen goods. It's not an unheard-of procedure here in the UK. And until you have that assurance from the authorities here, do not proceed. Do you think you can arrange that?"

"Um... I think so. I think I would have to tell them what the painting is..."

"Oh, most definitely you will," I rejoined instantly.

"Second thing is that you have to understand that the police will want to run a concurrent sting operation. They're probably compelled by law to do so."

She simply looked up at me as we walked.

"Sting operation?"

"Yeah. They are going to want to find me as the first stepping stone to nailing the original thieves."

"But you said you're not the thief?"

"That is correct, Flo. I'm not a thief, nor am I part of a thieving gang."

I paused for a moment before continuing.

"You will be under immense pressure from the police and other authorities to comply with their requests. You must not give in to them. Remember. You are the middle man. I have to trust you and they will have to trust you, too. You can't be their pawn, although they will certainly want you to be."

She said nothing as we walked along.

"Flo, the people holding the painting aren't nice."

She stopped and looked up to me. "Will I ever be in personal danger?"

I looked back down at her. "You're in personal danger right now."

She turned a little white.

"This isn't a game, Flo."

"Why me?"

"You're young, energetic, smart and your office isn't in downtown London."

"What's wrong with downtown London?"

"Too many surveillance cameras."

"Why do I need to hide?"

"You don't, I do." I pulled the front of my cap down a bit. She got the point.

We walked past a newsstand at the Cutty Sark. "Flo, I'm going to ask you to do something that will sound a bit bizarre right now."

"What's that?"

"Go and buy two copies of today's Sun and put them into your bag."

She did and came back. We started walking back.

"The true owners of the painting and the authorities that they deal with have been approached by plenty of fraudsters, confidence men, forgers, crooks, nut-balls, you name it."

We walked for a few moments.

"They will need to be sent proof that the painting exists and is in fine shape. Proof of life."

"How will I do that?"

"This is good, Flo. You said 'I'. I take that as a positive. You're starting to take ownership of this project."

"I'm must say I'm intrigued."

"I haven't told you everything yet."

"Go on then, Sam."

"After you obtain immunity from prosecution, I will be providing to you proof of life photographs, which you will pass on."

I think it was all sinking in. I continued, "Once the true owners are convinced that the stolen painting is fine, you will then have to set up for their experts to physically view the painting to determine that it is indeed the genuine article."

I paused, she was listening intently. "Once that happens," I said, "an exchange, painting for reward money has to be arranged."

"So, is that like a ransom?" Flo asked.

"It's like a ransom, but it's not. It's reward money being paid for the successful recovery of the painting. Public institutions and police departments can't get involved in paying ransom money, but they pay reward money all the time. It's like paying an informant."

"Hmm... and I get a fee to put the deal together?"

"Exactly. You've got to be the middle man. The true owners will be paying you to put the deal together. I'll be driving the deal, but you will have to make it happen."

"Hmm."

I took a few paces to think about what I had to say next.

"If you agree to proceed, there are, as I see it, three possible outcomes for you. One, you will succeed in having the painting returned and your face will be splashed on the tabloids as being a hero and you will have earned a pocketful of coin and let's face it... you will have a high profile jump-start to your career. Two, the negotiations fail for whatever reason and the painting does not get returned and everyone goes home with long faces. And three, they find your body right down there in the Thames," I pointed.

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm merely letting you know what the reality is."

We walked along quietly for a good hundred feet.

"You speak to no one about me. I'm Sam Anonymous. Don't even tell them I have an American accent. Got it? If they ask for a description and they will, or ask where we met, or how, or when will we meet again... you say nothing. Are we clear on that? I have to trust you, Flo."

"Yes."

"But I have to trust and verify."

"How?"

"Leave that up to me. But this I can tell you. If we meet face to face again, it will be on terms which I set out. Only. And the first thing that I'm going to ask you to do, is take all your clothes off."

"What are you, some kind of fucking perv?" She was shocked.

"No, Flo. I will need to verify that you're not wearing a wire and that your clothes and bag haven't been converted into surveillance equipment alla Q, in James Bond."

She stopped walking. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"You're fucking right I am. And if you're wearing a wire or are part of their sting operation, I've been compromised and you'll be in there." I pointed to the Thames.

"Shit."

"No shit."

We walked silently for a few moments. She had a funny look on her face. I couldn't tell if it was a bit of a grin, or maybe fear or apprehension. I just couldn't read it.

"So, do I have your word?" I gambled.

She hesitated, took a deep breath and said... "Yes."

I smiled, "Good, this I can assure you. You will be well paid and it will be the most fun case you will ever have. If you behave and stay on the straight and narrow and by that, I mean no co-operation with the police. None whatsoever."

"So, what's the painting?"

"Not so fast. You do what I tell you, remember?"

"Okay, what do I do?"

"First thing that you have to understand, you are not to ask me any questions. Understood?"

"Okay, fine."

"Flo, you've got to recognize. If you're asking me questions, I don't know if you are asking on behalf of the police or not. So just don't ask me any questions okay?"

"Fine."

"I'll explain everything you need to know in detail."

"Okay."

"Reach into my right hand pocket. There are two objects in there. Pull them out, they're yours."

She pulled out a cell phone and a little plastic baggie with five British coins in it. All clean of course. The coins were: One Penny-2008, Two Pence-2017, Ten Pence-2018, Fifty Pence-1997 and One Pound-1983.

"I call you. You don't call me." With that I pulled out my cell phone and hurled it into the Thames. "In fact, I'll be texting you whenever possible. You'll have to find a charger. There are lots of minutes on the pre-paid plan. Don't use it for anything else. Don't give it to anybody. Don't let it out of your sight."

"Okay. What are the coins for?"

"Can I have one copy of The Sun?" She opened her bag and handed me one copy. "Thanks."

"Very quickly, you will have to give proof of the painting's existence and an indication of its authenticity. The proof of life. I will arrange to have photographs taken of the painting front and back, plus one with this newspaper in front. Bottom left corner as the viewer sees it. Plus, I will take five detail photos showing the pattern of cracquelure and paint strokes for random areas numbered one to five on the painting and one photo showing the numbered locations general arrangement on the painting."