The Vermeer

"Flo? Why did you ask the question?"

"Sam I'm not working for them..."

"Why did you ask the question? I told you not to."

"Everything that transpired was exactly as I described, I didn't make anything up or leave anything out."

"Why did you ask the fucking question, Flo?" My fists were clenched. I could feel the blood in my head.

"I don't know. It was innocent. Out of curiosity." She was cowering.

I took a deep breath. "Well curiosity is going to get this little cat killed. Don't fucking do that again, Flo."

She scared the fuck out of me. I was shaking. I wanted to believe her, but I couldn't be sure.

Fuck.

I took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Flo, this is all very terrifying."

"Sam, I'm not co-operating with the police. You have to trust me."

"Yes, I know I have to. That's what's terrifying me. That and..." I broke off before saying anything else.

Fully dressed, she sat on the bed, pulling her shoes on.

"Sam, this is such a great experience, absolute brilliant fun except for one thing."

"What's that?" I simply took a deep breath and exhaled.

"You've got to understand. I love the intrigue, me telling the Met what to do. I asked for and got a letter of immunity signed by the Director at Scotland Yard and a QC, even if I don't get a hundred thousand pounds, even if it's just a fraction, this is all so cool. And sex with you was fantastic. I'm like a real life female James Bond. I don't want to let this go. It's brilliant fun."

I took a deep breath trying to calm my nerves.

"Except for one thing," she said.

"What's that?"

"You."

"Me?"

"You scare me sometimes."

I took another deep breath and picked up her hand. "Flo, you should be scared."

"Why? Are you planning to hurt me?" She stood up.

"No, I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me? How?"

"Flo, sit down." She did. "If you give them an inch, they will try to take a mile."

She simply blinked as she looked up to me.

"They see a young, naïve, inexperienced woman that they think that they can bend any which way they want. They will threaten, they will cajole and here's the harsh reality Flo: they can harm. You and yours. Sorry to break that to you."

"Harm?"

"Would that surprise you in say... Saudi Arabia? That the authorities land up harming the citizens?"

"No. But we're not Saudi Arabia."

"No we're not. I'm just suggesting that Britain is on that same slippery slope."

She was incredulous, at least to a degree.

"Flo. I need you to listen to me. Carefully. I'm going to be very serious."

She gazed at me.

"If all of a sudden you don't hear from me again, seemingly inexplicably, it is because my head has been severed from my torso."

I watched to make sure she heard and understood what I just said. Her expression seemingly didn't change.

"That is going to happen unless I can collect. And it's not just me, but my family too. This is not a fucking game."

She turned white, she was scared. I saw it in her eyes. In her whole face. That in itself was good. Was she really on board?

*****

As soon as Flo left and after I collected the coin code from her bag, I further wiped the room down as well as I could manage and then quickly checked my alias self out of The Kings Arms.

At The Glades shopping mall in Bromley I purchased, with cash, a quality Hewlett Packard inkjet printer, additional ink and the correct cables to connect to my laptop. In addition, I needed and purchased photo quality paper, an envelope and labels.

My alias, together with the printer in an oversized shopping bag checked into The Crown Inn on the A21 in Chislehurst, just outside of Bromley. The quaint little hotel was built in a Tudor style and featured delicious local Kentish ales of which I enjoyed a few that night. No video cameras as far as I could tell. The food was excellent, too.

A brown envelope with high quality inkjet photographs was addressed to Florence Ashworth at her Blackheath office. A courier picked it up just as I was getting ready to check out the next morning.

As I checked out, I explained to the lad at the little wooden hotel counter that I didn't want to transport the printer on the plane, that it would cost too much, "Would you mind keeping it for yourselves; it's perfectly fine, or simply toss it in the rubbish bin."

He joyfully agreed. It was clean of DNA.

As the courier was on his way delivering the envelope to Flo at her office, I drove my rented car to Heathrow on the M25.

I knew that my fast timing getting the prints confirmed that the Vermeer was in the UK. I hoped that because I was so fast that the suspicion would be that it was in London.

I called Flo from the terminal.

"Yes, I just got them. I'll call Jill. Oh and Sam, one thing I forgot to tell you yesterday. She did ask me if I have access to the other items taken during the robbery."

"And what did you say?"

"I said maybe."

"Perfect. Let's leave it at that."

*****

It was early afternoon local time when the airliner touched down in Toronto. I called Flo from a bench in the little dog-shit parkette near my home. No cameras around as far as I could tell.

"She was thrilled to view the photos, I had her come by my office." said Flo.

"Great. Flo, listen, just as a precaution on the phone, don't use the name of the artist or the museum or any proper names, we don't want our conversation kicking off any software that's monitoring overseas calls, okay?"

"Okay."

"Did she give you any indication of when she'll be able to come up with the advance?"

"No, but she did indicate that she's already been in touch with the museum with a guy named Anthony. They asked that everything be filtered through the local, I'm not going to use the acronym, office. She told me the name of the contact but I can't remember it. It was either Kelly or Jeff, and through another guy, I have his name at the, investigator's office. The impression I got was that she is simply emailing the museum and copying the other two."

"But no feedback?"

"Not yet. My letter has been forwarded to them. Jill told them that I've got immunity."

"Okay, so far so good, I guess. Keep your phone charged."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I scared you."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too," I paused for a moment, "and I'm sorry that I got angry."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for the... meeting. It was fun."

"It was. I'll call you, Flo."

I called her the next day from a different bench but the same parkette near my home. She hadn't heard back from Jill or anyone else.

The following day, before I turned my prepaid phone on, I noticed an unmarked van in the parkette's little parking lot. It was bristling with radio equipment.

That fast. Fuck! I kept walking down the street, my heart was racing. Her pre-paid cell phone was compromised!

I was in a rage as I walked home the long way around the block. My mind was screaming. How can a pre-paid anonymous cell phone in Canada that's calling a pre-paid anonymous cell phone in Britain track back a GPS location of the caller? There are too many random calls. We didn't say any trigger words like 'jihad' or 'Vermeer.' Fuuuck! She had to have given them her pre-paid phone and they retrieved the number.

Fuuuuck!

I was hyperventilating as I walked down the street.

Unless, I rationalized, they have the technology to figure out, okay here's Flo's GPS location, she has her cell phone in her purse, what other cell phones are within a ten foot GPS radius of Flo's, and which ones are engaged in overseas calls. Maybe they had the ability to track her physical location and match it with cell phones in the corresponding location? I wouldn't put it past them.

I was sweating and in a rage as I walked.

Can they fucking do that, or did she simply co-operate with Scotland Yard? Or maybe she carelessly left the pre-paid phone on her desk and went to the washroom while Jill or whoever was in her office?

Fuuuck!

I wanted to believe that I could trust her, but I couldn't. I had to face it, the most likely and reasonable explanation for that cop car being there was that she was cooperating with Scotland Yard.

I had to get a hold of my emotions and think rationally. Two things I was certain of.

The first was that it was an unmarked van at the parkette, probably CSIS, the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service, or the RCMP, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The radio equipment, as seemingly inconspicuous bumps on the vehicle, betrayed the high end of the vehicle. That wasn't local cops looking to bust a couple of fourteen-year-olds for smoking pot.

The second thing that I was absolutely certain of was that if Flo wasn't actively co-operating with the police, then at the very least, they were following and tracking her. Big time.

Also, I was fairly certain, that vehicle's presence had nothing to do with my drug running and money laundering business. I would have smelled that coming.

I had to proceed. I had no choice.

I wondered if NSA had a record of our phone calls in spite of the precautions.

"Hey Johnny," I called my friend and colleague, "let me buy you an espresso. Can I meet you at Angelo's in an hour?"

"Sure Ben."

After the niceties I slipped Johnny three thousand in cash. "I need five pre-paid cell phones. Each one has to be purchased from a different location, by as many different people as you can manage, in disguise. Change the number of minutes on each, the phone itself and as many different carriers. Once they are purchased, they have to be turned off, the SIM chip pulled and taped to the outside and batteries pulled once they're fully charged. Make sure I get at least one charger for each type of phone. Is three grand going to be enough?"

"Should be plenty. Ben, I get the routine. No video records of the purchases."

"Sorry. I need them in twenty four hours."

"Okay. Meet here?"

"Yeah, or at least leave them here with Angelo."

Angelo handed me a note on the way out. Somebody had come by just that morning looking for me and had left a message.

'Ben,

Will you be supporting the Colombian team in the next World Cup?

E.'

How fucking subtle.

"Angelo," What did he look like?"

"Eh, he was just a young guy. Maybe thirty. Ordinary looking mangiacake, he seemed harmless."

"Angelo, trust me, he wasn't fucking harmless."

"Benny, what do you want me to say?"

"Well, Angelo, if he comes back looking for an answer, the answer is an enthusiastic yes."

"You're not going to be supporting the Italian team?"

"Angelo, after the Italians." What a stupid thing to ask.

"Sure thing, Benny."

Just fucking great. I took a deep breath. I'll be sure to be on the lookout for a thirtyish, ordinary looking, harmless WASP.

I needed to get in touch with Flo right away. Wearing a Red Sox baseball cap, I bought a pre-paid phone with cash from a booth manned by some little pimply nerd kid at Vaughan Mills shopping mall. I kept my head down all the way.

I had to figure out a way for her to change phones too.

*****

"Sean, I need a favour." I made arrangements to meet him and his brother in Dublin.

*****

"Don't say a word and don't answer me. Flo meet me in the pub we first met at, at 4:30 on Thursday. Don't answer, just hang up, turn this phone off and get rid of it." I hung up the phone when I heard her disconnect.

I hope she got the message. I tossed my cell phone into a garbage bin at a McDonalds.

Johnny came through with my new phones.

*****

Using a set of fake IDs I boarded an overnight redeye flight to Dublin. I had three pre-paid phones with me, two with their batteries pulled and the SIM chips pulled out.

I met Sean and Seamus at The Quay's Bar at the appointed hour for breakfast.

I slipped them fifteen hundred Euros each. "Lads, don't sit down. I've only got four hours before I have to go back to the airport. I need five pre-paid cell phones with chargers from each of you. Buy each of them from separate places. Pay cash. Try to have blocked numbers. Make sure you are not surreptitiously caught on video making the purchases. Wear hats, keep your faces hidden as much as possible. Don't get the same model numbers or use the same carrier. Go get your girlfriends, their sisters, whoever else you need involved. I'm doing this to save your skins, lads. And make sure the phones are all turned off as soon as they've been purchased, pull the SIM chip out and tape it to the phone."

They both looked at me with disbelief.

"I'll see you back here in four hours. Go." Off they went.

After finishing my absolutely stunning breakfast of fried eggs, blood sausage, regular pork sausage, bacon, beans, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, potato bread with cheesy top crust, coffee and orange juice, I cleaned and then slipped the steak knife that I had requested from the waiter into my case side pocket and then parked my suitcase with the bartender and went for a stroll. My belly was full. Dublin really does have some nice touristy areas I realized, as I tried to walk it off. I waddled back to the pub an hour and a half later with a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses. After a satisfying trip to the toilet, I sat down into a booth. The bar was open, so I ordered a pint of Guinness and continued reading.

Seamus returned first, although a little late and handed me five phones. I zipped them up into my little black suitcase. I had a flight to catch, I was getting antsy.

Sean came in a few minutes later. He looked very flustered, pale almost.

"Ben, they're in my motor. Just behind, in the alley."

You fucking little idiot. I packed my copy of Ulysses into my flight bag and furtively pulled the steak knife from my case side pocket, slid it up my sleeve and then slipped it into my right back pocket as I stood up. Was he that stupid that he thought he could eliminate his debt by eliminating me? That was precisely why I had kept the blade. Seamus knew I was growing impatient to get to the airport.

"Okay, let's go. Bye Seamus." I followed Sean out. I was rolling my flight bag behind me on the cobblestones.

As soon as I turned the corner I noticed there was no car. I reached to pull the knife out of my back pocket. Sean reached into his jean jacket pocket and was pulling out a pistol as he turned, "I'm sorry, Ben..."

In a single lunge move that I learnt in fencing class years ago, I covered the seven foot distance between us. The knife plunged deep into Sean's throat. His eyes bulged out as I rapidly saw-cut to the left, I turned my wrist over and saw-cut to the right making sure to have positive contact with the carotid arteries, whilst avoiding his spine.

Blood gushed out as the gun, and then he, dropped to the cobblestone alley in a dark red, oozing, crumpled mess. Such a fucking shame. Just a kid. How stupid.

I cleaned the knife off on his jacket, holding his lapel with my handkerchief. His eyes were bulging with the last gasp of life.

"Sean, tell your dad I need his help to make things right. I'm sure he doesn't want your brother following your footsteps. You fucked up. I wasn't going to kill you. I need your father's help. Go and make things right."

I swear I saw life pass from his eyes.

I wrapped the knife with the handkerchief and stuffed it into my jacket pocket as I stepped out onto the street with my black suitcase. I was praying no one had seen what transpired. I had to figure Sean knew there were no cameras behind the pub.

As I walked down the cobblestone street it struck me how seeing someone die in real life wasn't anything like the countless times I'd seen it portrayed in film and TV. My heart was completely wrenched. I struggled with my emotions. I wanted to cry.

And he was so fucking young.

I wasn't half a block away when an empty cab came by.

"Airport." I used my sleeve to open the taxi door.

The steak knife and bloody handkerchief were covertly, yet nonchalantly dropped into a garbage bin in the smoking area outside Dublin airport. I had been cleaning my fingerprints and DNA off as best as I could during the entire cab ride to the airport.

On top of everything else, I was now a murderer.

Oh I had threatened people before, in a very credible manner and with full intent to carry through, but I never had to do it. Pops certainly had arranged and done it, but for me it was a first.

Murder. I knew it was more than just self-defense. I could have simply tried to disarm him.

Murderer.

I wasn't happy with myself.

What amazed me was how cold I was at that immediate murder situation. I was aloof. Business-like.

I scared myself.

As far as I was concerned, Seamus still owed me two point seven mil. I knew that now he was motivated and focused just like I had been when my brother was killed. Just as motivated and focused as I was, courtesy of Camilo and Ernesto and the... mild mannered young man.

*****

Thankfully, the airport security people let me through without incident. Including the one attached to my belt, I had eight cell phones. Five less than I hoped to have.

At Heathrow I needed to buy a couple of things and pick up a rental car under a false name.

In my hotel room, I made sure that each phone was fully charged, without the SIM chips inserted. I then cleaned each of the Irish cell phones and chargers. Each Irish cell phone was numbered one to five with a yellow permanent ink marker. The corresponding phone numbers were recorded and double checked before I slipped the list into my wallet. The SIM chips were taped to the back of each phone.

At 3:15, I bought a half pint of Stella at the bar in The Yacht. While having my drink, using a handkerchief, I surreptitiously placed an envelope on the bar. I pretended to talk on my cell phone.

"Excuse me, Sir?" I asked the middle aged, balding publican.

"Wot?"

"Listen, I'm sorry. Can I ask you to do me a big favour?" I handed him a ten pound note. "I was supposed to meet a friend of mine here in about an hour's time but something came up, I've got to run and all I really needed to do was give her this card." I pointed to the envelope that had Flo written on it. Clearly it was a thank you or birthday card with the envelope's tab licked down. "She's on her way here, now, and I can't seem to get through to her cell phone. She's pretty, slim, thirty-one I think, straight reddish brown hair and her name's Flo."

"No problem." He picked up the envelope and put it behind the bar. "And what's your name?"

"Sam."

"No problem, Sam." He stuffed the ten pound note in his shirt pocket.

I handed him another tenner. "Buy her a nice glass of white wine and please say sorry on my behalf."

"Sure, Sam."

I walked out opening the door with a handkerchief.

The thank you card that I left simply instructed Flo to have a glass of wine, to leave her bag and personal cell phone in the boot of her car, what the British call the trunk, and then to take a walk along the River Thames towards the Cutty Sark.

Next door at The Trafalgar Tavern, I took a seat just back from the window, ordered a beer and watched.

I didn't see anything that I could construe as police activity.

At 4:28, Flo's Mercedes pulled up and parked on Park Row right next to the Trafalgar Tavern. She and another woman, in her mid thirties to mid forties got out. The other woman was about Flo's height, had shoulder length light brown hair with either blonde or grey streaks and wore a light blue jacket. They exchanged a few words. Flo walked towards the Yacht. The other woman headed down to the walkway along the Thames. I got up and left.

I followed the other woman, walking past the Museum and Naval College. She had the tiniest bit of limp in her gait. At the Cutty Sark, she appeared to have headed down into the pedestrian foot tunnel that crosses under the Thames to the Isle of Dogs.