The Vermeer

"What's crack..."

"Cracquelure is the random paint cracking pattern in old oil paintings. Extremely hard to forge. The painting's true owner's experts will make an examination of the cracquelure on the new photos submitted and compare them to known photos."

She held up the little baggie of coins. "What's this for?"

"I have a matching set, in the same years. When you sit down with the police at Scotland Yard, ask whoever you are dealing with to arrange the coins randomly but sequentially one to five. You will have to relay to me what that order is and make sure the police make a record for themselves. The corresponding coins will be placed adjacent to the numbers one to five in the detail photos showing the year of issue. It will be absolute proof that the photos are current and genuine. When they see that, they'll be serious."

We were back at the laneway that leads to the pub.

"Do I still have your commitment?"

"Yes, you do." She smiled.

"I'll text you later with the name of the painting and the recovery amount and then you're off to Scotland Yard to get your immunity. And one more thing. I would recommend that you demand a contract from the actual painting owners for your services and that you should get some good faith money up front, and no later than when the proof of life photos are handed over. You're going to have expenses. And make sure your passport is up to date. Okay, off you go. Good luck and please understand this, this is most important, seriously, your life depends on it, resist the pressure and temptation to co-operate with them. From their perspective, it has to be that... you are in charge, you are the one dictating the terms."

She took a deep breath, "Okay."

"Also, whatever else you have going on, in either your professional life or your personal life, it all has to take a backseat to this project," I stared into her eyes, "Is that clear?"

"Yes," she said with perhaps just the slightest hesitation.

"And one last thing, Flo. Time is of the essence. You need to act fast."

She simply stared at me with a bit of awe in her eyes.

I extended my right hand out towards her, "Flo, do we have a deal and do I have your promise and commitment?" I know I had a serious look in my face.

She looked at my outstretched hand and then up into my eyes, "Sam," her hand reached to mine and our palms wrapped together, "we have a deal and I promise that I will do my very best to complete this transaction." She smiled.

Her touch was warm and she was lovely.

"Thanks," I said.

I watched her get into a little white Mercedes and drive away.

What a sexy little doll I stumbled upon.

I sat down at the adjacent pub, The Trafalgar Tavern, and ordered a pint and some steak and mushroom pie. I didn't see any cops come and visit The Yacht.

That was a good sign.

That night, after buying some photo equipment, with Sterling, I used another pre-paid cell phone to text her. 'Vermeer - The Concert - $5 million US -- stolen from Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum'. There was plenty on the internet about the painting and the theft.

*****

The Concert was painted in 1664 by Johannes Vermeer, a Dutch master from Delft. It is painted oil on canvas, 28-1/2" high by 25-1/2" wide. The painting was cut from its frame during the 1990 theft.

The painting shows the interior of a room with the sun coming in from the left. There is a black and white tiled floor, a table to the left in the foreground with cloth and violin on it and a double bass laying on the floor next to it. The back wall is plain but has two large paintings mounted. A young lady sits in profile with her back to the window playing a harpsichord like keyboard; the instrument's top lid is raised to reveal a painted landscape on the underside of the lid. Her hands are just out of view. A man sits on a chair to her right with his back to the viewer. He is playing a lute. To his right, another young lady stands in quarter-profile holding some sheet music, singing. Their clothing all has natural creases and is typical of the period. The tiled floor gives perspective depth to the painting, while light from the window contrasts light and dark, especially on the folds and creases of the clothing.

The viewer can only guess at the relationship among the three. Is it a man and his two daughters? The music teacher and two pupils? Or a man and his two lovers? Either way, in Vermeer's microcosm, they are the only two ladies in the lute player's world.

The painting is calm, serene, elegant and refined. We can almost hear the music. It is a quintessential Dutch masterpiece.

*****

I jumped onto an 'easyjet' flight to Douglas, Isle of Man, the next morning and headed straight to the bank. After a short wait, I was given access to the safety deposit box viewing room. As the clerk retrieved box #105 for me, I was able to re-confirm that there were no internal cameras within the viewing room. I had brought along the photo equipment that I bought the night before: an electronic camera with a high pixel resolution, two small tripods, an extension cord and some portable LED lighting that I set up on one of the tripods after the doors were secured and I was safely ensconced with the Vermeer.

I had plenty of batteries for the camera.

The painting had been attached by a previous owner, perhaps Mallory, to a modern white 30" x 30" painter's canvas with what I guessed was double sided tape. It appeared to be in excellent shape.

With the painting flat on a table, with the table covered in black velvet, I took the front shots from above, several times. I took several with the folded copy of "The Sun" in the bottom left corner.

I gently placed five red paper cut-out numbers at interesting, yet random, positions on the painting. Each number was three quarter of an inch high or so. I had to take 5x4x3x2, that is a hundred and twenty photos of each coin in each respective position on the canvas, every permeation mathematically possible. In addition, I had to take an additional twenty five close up shots of each coin at each position.

I had to carefully peel the original painting off of the new painter's canvas. It came away easily with the tape still attached to the original painting. There were definitely marks on the back, including a stamp from the Gardner museum, which I figured the museum would be most interested in seeing. I took a bunch of shots and then placed the painting back onto the painter's canvas right way around, stored it back in the safety box and closed the lid.

I was done and packed up in just over two hours. On my way out, I asked one of the staff what procedure was needed to have someone else be able to access the safety box. Her answer was that I would simply have to register that person's name with the registry for that box at the bank and that that individual, just like I had to, had to show two pieces of ID, or, if not registered, that they would have to come with a certified Power of Attorney document, or a certified Death Certificate document together with Trustee certification, some ID and most importantly, the key.

Perfect, I registered the name Florence Ashworth as having access to the safety box #105 and gave her full signing authority on the safety box account.

I opened yet another account at the bank and gave a standing instruction to the bank that any funds that come into the new account were to be transferred immediately and automatically to an account number I provided. The other account was an unallocated account with the London Bullion Market.

I asked the teller who set up the account, "When money comes into this account, how long will it be in this account before it's transferred out to the other account?"

"Seconds, I would think. Certainly not long enough to earn any interest."

"Show me," I pulled out a ten pound note, "deposit this." She filled out a little slip, I signed it with my alias, carefully minimizing my DNA exposure on the slip. She took the money and placed it in her till, stamped the slip, on her computer she credited the account, filed the slip and then turned her monitor so that I could see.

"Look," she pointed to the account activity screen, "gone."

"Perfect, thank you." I waltzed out.

Everything except the little flash card with the photos was carefully disposed of in a dumpster before I left the Isle of Man. I wore cream coloured latex gloves the whole time. The little flash card was stuffed into my wallet next to my fake ID.

I caught the next flight to Dublin. I had a couple of hours layover in Dublin before I had to be back at the airport to catch a connecting flight to Bogota via Atlanta.

My biggest issue was the Colombians.

The next forty eight hours were going to be scary.

*****

I met the Murphy boys at the appointed hour at The Quay's Bar in Temple Bar Square in the heart of Dublin. It was a picturesque, touristy little pub, painted a quaint green. The pub sat on the corner of two little cobblestone streets. For us, it was handy because it was very random/public, yet tucked into a corner inside, very private.

"Ben, what do want us to say?" Sean said as he sat next to his brother on the other side of corner booth, each of us sipping a pint of Guinness.

They were clearly brothers. Seamus was perhaps a little heavier and not quite as handsome as his older brother, and they both wore thin beards and somewhat tatty jean jackets. Perhaps the ten day shadow look was the deliberate cool look for young men in Ireland these days. Both of the lads needed their curly brown hair cut.

"You do realize that your father owes me 2.7 mil, US?"

They looked at each other and said, "Yes, we understand that. Look we're going to get that for you..."

"We're just having a little difficulty right now...," Seamus added.

Just fucking great.

"Who's going to take over?"

"Me," Sean said.

"Sean and I," said Seamus.

"Who will be in charge? Or let me put it this way...who do I kill first?"

They both turned a little white.

"Mr. Ben. Sir." Sean started, "Our father had a great working relationship with you for years and years. I can't see why we can't continue in his footsteps. As you know, we ran the movement end of the business..."

"I know that," I interjected. Reality check— Mallory had to recrute his own kids. Everyone else either fled the country, was killed or was drafted into some rag-tag jihadist militia.

"For years," Sean finished his sentence and then continued after a sip of black beer, "we wish to continue, if you will have us."

"I do, but I need to survive the next few days and weeks. Your father owes me...you owe me two point seven, US. I need to pay the South American gentlemen for their gratitude towards us. Right now I can't cover it and I'm stuck with your dad's token IOU."

"A painting of a man and two ladies playing music?" asked Seamus.

"Yes."

"Oh," they both responded simultaneously. "We were going to check on that," Sean added.

"No need to, I've got it. Your father's vault box is empty."

"Congratulations," Sean retorted.

I leant into his face, "Listen buddy, I don't want it. It was a temporary gesture from your father. I want you to buy it back for two point seven...now."

"Ben, Sir," answered Sean, "we're simply not able to right now. Hopefully, soon. You have to understand the challenges we've been going through with the changing middle-east situation. It's been a nightmare. The good news is the Afghani's seem to be back as strong as ever. The problem is their supply lines back to us have been decimated. That's what our father was doing when he and I were in Istanbul, trying to piece it all back together. Now that they know he's dead; he literally died in their arms; they are certainly not just stepping forward and volunteering to us what is owed."

Of course they were right. I knew all this intrinsically, already.

"Well how do you plan on getting that money then?" I asked.

"We're talking to some local people here that should be able to apply some pressure in Istanbul on our behalf, but nothing has been resolved just yet."

Great, they're talking with the Irish gangs.

"Collectively between you two and your father's entire estate, how much is it all worth?"

They paused and looked at each other and then back to me. Sean answered, "If we pooled all of our resources together and sold the family house, it would be close to the money that we owe you. It would take years to get, but I don't see that we need to do that. We simply need to sort a few things out. Ben, please, don't worry, the two point seven will be covered."

"Good." I leaned in, "because I'm not going to die because of your father's bad debt. Do you two understand that? The South Americans that I have to deal with, they're just not fun people. I'm flying from here to go and meet them. I'm going to try to negotiate terms for all three of us. Believe me, they will take me, my parents, my two daughters, you two, your mother and your wives or girlfriends and whatever families you have out, too. You've got to understand, these people have this attitude: they want to impress the world."

"How will they know about us?" asked Seamus.

"Do you honestly think they don't already know? Are you fucking crazy? They don't want us as clients for who we know as contacts to move their product. We work with them because we can, more or less, consistently move their product, and most importantly, consistently move the money that's associated with it, back to them. We're just the horses they see with saddle bags of their product running off to the promised land. They know who the fuck you are. One of their people may be sitting in the booth behind us right now. Don't kid yourself, Seamus. I can't believe you guys are that naïve."

"We're not, Sir, We're not."

"Ben is fine; you don't need to call me Sir, but seriously guys. I'm flying there and I'm going to try to buy us some time. They will be only so patient."

"We'll do everything we can," said Sean. "Absolutely," countered Seamus.

"In the interest of self-preservation, I suggest you do. In the meantime, I'm going to try to unload 'the ladies' as you called them."

"Well if you do that then we've gained debt relief from you," Sean said with a bit of gaiety to his voice.

I leaned into him and looked him straight in the eye. "Sean," and then looked over to his brother, "and Seamus," I paused gathering my words, "it's an IOU. Not Payment. If I manage to keep my head attached to my torso, if I manage to avoid having our collective families murdered by those thugs and if I manage to successfully sell the ladies back to their rightful owner without being taken down by Scotland Yard, your prosecutors offices whatever they're called, Interpol, the FBI, the US District Attorneys and probably the CIA and MI-five, six, seven, whatever they're fucking called, and God only knows who else, you are going to fucking owe me for saving your necks. You got that? That price starts at two point seven. Do you fucking understand that? Me selling the ladies is my relief and only your temporary relief. Or look at it this way. I don't know how much I'll get for the piece, hopefully enough to cover my debt. I'm paying the short term price, you are paying the longer term price for your father's untimely demise. Are we crystal clear?"

"Yes Sir," was their collective answer. I drank a bit more of my Guinness beer, gently placed the glass on the wooden table and stood up.

"Nice to see you boys again, we'll be in touch." I walked out of the pub and hailed a cab back to the airport. My flight bag bounced as it rolled along the cobblestones.

*****

Bogota is a vibrant city with a massive population. I hired a car and an English speaking driver to take me to Marguerite's tumble down restaurant just outside of La Florida, Cundinamarca, on the road to Medellin. Once outside bustling Bogota, the impression of the countryside is palm trees, lots of vegetation, heat, colourful ramshackle buildings, corrugated metal roofs, random piles of tires on the sidewalk, children running wild, old men sitting smoking, laughing and drinking. Dogs, chickens and lots of faded painted advertizing. I got there during an election, just more advertizing to distract the eye. Colombians, as far as I could tell, were a happy lot in spite of the fact that, outside of Bogota, they seem to be teetering between second world and third world. Except for their football team, their coffee and their cocaine, those good people are... challenged in so many ways.

I got there a couple of minutes early. I had the driver park the car in the shade and wait for me.

Marguerite's is a small café, basically a small store made of breeze block and a corrugated roof. As you walk in you come right up to a service counter. The store is completely packed with coolers and shelves filled with all manner of unpronounceable delicacies.

There's a kitchen in the back, one very rudimentary washroom and access to the small patio that wrapped around the side and the back of the building. The patio is separated from the street with a low iron gate. A metal fence holds back the lush green shrubbery, defining the perimeter of the patio which holds six picnic style tables and an outdoor grille. Each table has a round hole in the centre to accept a big umbrella, but currently there was no sign of rain and hence, no umbrellas. Chickens roamed freely, pecking at the pea gravel and concrete pavers in the sunlight.

I managed to get myself a cold beer and a soda for the driver.

Marguerite, who is somehow related to Camilo, is a short woman with dark hair, probably in her fifties. She has that real exotic native look and a brilliant smile with bright red lipstick, all highlighted by the scarlet begonias tucked into her hair. She was a classic beauty that only refined with age. Sexy as hell. Knowing I was watching her, she smiled as she sang and half danced to herself all the while as she deep fried empanadas on the outdoor grille. She had rings on her fingers. I checked to see if she had bells on her toes, too.

Pity she didn't speak a word of English, though, I would have loved to strike up a conversation with her.

She had three clear glass jars with her homemade salsa 'aji pique' she called it and a big pile of cut up lime quarters waiting next to the grille.

Camilo and his entourage arrived a few minutes later. Of course, Camilo showed up with Ernesto, his main henchman, in a dusty black Mercedes. They were escorted by two battered mini-vans full of tattooed thugs, one in front, the other behind.

Camilo is sixty-five or so, a big heavy guy with leathery skin darkened, I'm sure, from sitting around a pool all day. His hair is still jet black, as are his eyes. We'd only met face to face a few times, but every time I did, it was always at Marguerite's and I'd always come away with the odd impression that he was not capable of smiling.

Camilo was a bona-fide cartel member. He was just one of dozens or hundreds of...call them, lieutenants in the organization. He was the only guy that we dealt with and I knew for a fact that we were not his exclusive exporters. Most of the Colombian coke passes through Mexican hands. We're able to move much smaller amounts of his refined product directly to more profitable markets, albeit for a higher transport fee. That's our niche. Ours is a competitive business.

Ernesto his henchman was mid fifties, a wiry medium built, scary looking man with black hair, a handlebar mustache and an ugly scar along his right jaw line. He always gave me the creeps. Usually his shiny pistol was on prominent display in a black leather holster.

We sat in the back part of the patio. We were well protected, courtesy of Camilo, which I always found strange. With me—alone, straight off a plane, unarmed—he needed a small contingent of an army with him? Could I have been that much of a threat, or was there always something collateral in the back of his mind, associated with my appearance? Maybe it was an ethnic thing? Maybe the road was dangerous. Nevertheless, this was Camilo's turf. I'd been there a half a dozen times before.