The Chase (26 page)

Kate and Nick waited until Huck disappeared into the hole. They removed their ski masks and went outside. The two trucks parked behind the museum, the one left by Huck’s crew and the other driven by Willie, served as a barricade blocking the rear of the museum from view on the street.

Willie and Joe got out of the cab and opened the back of the truck for Kate and Nick. They were just four more movers on Avenue Lincoln, loading IKEA boxes into a truck. Nobody noticed them. If anything was attracting attention, it was all the trucks from New York and their crews unloading tons of stuff onto the sidewalk in front of the Château Florentiny, much to the dismay of the other people trying to move in and out of the building.

The four thieves got into their truck and drove away with three Rembrandts worth $375 million.

It was a twenty-minute drive out of the city, over the St. Lawrence River, and south to the suburb of Brossard and one of the many body shops tucked away amid the clutter of car dealerships along Taschereau Boulevard. Willie stopped the truck in front of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded a run-down body shop, leaned out the window, and typed a code into a security keypad. The gate slid open and she drove up to a garage door, opened it with a remote, and eased the truck inside.

There were four bays in the garage. A two-year-old Camry was parked in one. A late model Chevy Malibu was parked in another. The new Ford E-150 panel van Willie and Joe had driven up from New York a week ago was parked in the third. Willie parked the moving van next to the E-150, and Kate opened the van’s back door and jumped out. She took the smallest Rembrandt from Nick and carried it to a worktable. Joe took the second, and Nick took the last and largest.

Large sheets of construction-grade Styrofoam leaned against the table, plus preassembled cardboard boxes. The boxes were the exact size needed for the three paintings. The Styrofoam was cut
and securely taped around each painting, creating a snug container, which was then slipped into a cardboard box. The packing would protect the paintings from shaking and damage on their short journey. Once the packaging was completed for each Rembrandt, Willie climbed into the Ford E-150, started the ignition, put the car into neutral, moved the passenger side mirror forward while pressing the brake, and then lowered her window halfway. That combination of specific actions activated the hydraulics that simultaneously opened hidden compartments in the ceiling and side panels.

Nick had bought the van for cash from an underworld contact with a body shop on Jerome Avenue in the Bronx. The street was known among smugglers, porn stars, rappers, major league athletes, and the very rich as “the Rodeo Drive of Trap Cars.” Trap cars were vehicles outfitted with the latest innovations in secret stash compartments for hiding drugs, weapons, cash, stolen objects, jewelry, and other valuable goods. And it was entirely legal. There were no federal laws against altering cars to create hidden compartments, only against some of the things that might be put into them.

“That is so cool,” Joe said. “I’ve got to get a stash pot like that in my Camaro.”

“What for?” Kate asked. “You don’t have anything to stash.”

“I have my cell phone and sunglasses,” Joe said.

“You could put them in the glovebox.”

“But that won’t get me laid,” Joe said, gesturing to the secret compartment in the ceiling. “That will.”

“He’s got a point,” Nick said.

“No, he doesn’t,” Kate said. “What kind of woman would be turned on by that?”

“I’m kind of turned on,” Willie said.

Kate didn’t think that was much of an endorsement. Willie was turned on by grass growing.

They placed a Rembrandt in each of the side panels and in the roof compartment. From the driver’s seat Willie closed up the hiding places with another, different combination of switches and actions.

Nick leaned on the driver’s side door and looked at Willie.

“Take it slow and enjoy the drive.”

“I can’t do both,” Willie said.

She opened the garage door with the remote and drove out.

“Do you think they’ll have any problems at the border?” Kate asked.

“Their passports are good, and it’s the same small crossing at Hemmingford they drove through a week ago in the same car. Besides, it’s not as if Customs has a dog that can sniff out Rembrandts.”

Nick had chosen that particular border crossing because it was small and rarely had a long line of cars. The last thing they wanted was for the van to be mired in a holiday backup at the border when word trickled down to Customs about the museum theft. Unless the Musée de Florentiny guards managed to wriggle free, the theft wouldn’t be discovered for at least an hour, and it might be another few hours on top of that before Customs heard anything about it. By then Willie and Joe would be in the clear.

“There’s no reason to suspect Willie and Joe of anything,” Nick said. “They don’t resemble us physically and their passports are authentic and in perfect order. Even if the van is searched for some reason, it’s nothing to worry about. The secret compartments are
undetectable to the naked eye, and they can’t be opened unless someone is sitting in the driver’s seat and hits the right combination of buttons in perfect sequence.”

“It feels risky,” Kate said.

“I’ve done dozens of border crossings like this before,” Nick said. “And I’ve never been caught at it.”

“That was you,” she said. “This is them.”

Kate left a few moments later in the Malibu, and Nick left twenty minutes after that. They were both headed to the Montreal airport to take separate flights to different places.

Kate took the 1:45 Delta Air Lines flight to New York City, and Nick departed on the 2:10 Air Canada flight to Washington, D.C.

Kate arrived in New York at 3:30 and took a taxi to an unoccupied loft in SoHo that Nick had found. It belonged to an investment broker who was serving a fifteen-year prison sentence for fraud and embezzlement. The loft was one of the broker’s many properties that were in limbo while his bilked clients, the brokerage house he worked for, and the government fought for his assets.

Kate settled in and waited for Willie and Joe to arrive that night with the paintings.

Nick arrived in D.C. a little after four in the afternoon and took a taxi to Gelman’s Haberdashery in Dupont Circle, getting there just as Gelman was closing up shop for the day.

Zev Gelman greeted him at the door and leaned on his gnarled cane. “How did it go with the autodialer on that Hemmler J507?”

“A sky-high success.”

“Glad to hear it. Be sure to give me a good review on Yelp.”

Gelman stepped aside to let Nick pass. He closed the door and secured it with a simple deadbolt and turned around to see Nick grinning at him. “What’s so funny?”

“You relying on that simple deadbolt when you’ve got cutting-edge security systems for sale in that hidden showroom of yours.”

“Shows how little you know about locks. That deadbolt is the best theft deterrent I’ve got. If I had anything fancier on the door, people would think I had something more valuable in here than handmade shirts. Who’s going to steal a shirt?”

“I would,” Nick said. “Those are nice shirts.”

“You didn’t come here for clothes, though you ought to let me make you a suit sometime.”

“I will, but tonight I’m looking for a small tracking device.”

“How small is small?”

Gelman stepped up to the full-length mirror and pressed the hidden button on the frame. The green beam of the retina scanner behind the glass passed over his right eye. He stepped back as the wall slid open to reveal the showroom, the polished metal paneling gleaming under the bright lights.

“Virtually undetectable to the human eye,” Nick said as they walked inside and stood beside the tall glass-topped counter in the center of the showroom.

“The smallest GPS tracker I’ve got is about the size of a quarter.”

Nick shook his head. “That’s way too big.”

“I see.” Gelman put both hands on top of his gnarled cane and thought about that for a moment. “How much do you have to spend?”

“You’re asking me to negotiate with myself.”

“I’m asking what you can afford.”

“Assume that money is no object.”

“Funny you should say that. Because ‘money is no object’ is how much the Pentagon told defense contractors they were willing to spend on tracking technology after 9/11. They invested tens of billions of dollars to develop smartdust that tiny drones the size of hummingbirds could spray on Osama bin Anybody without him noticing.”

“What is smartdust?”

“It’s sticky electromagnetic taggant particles that allow satellites to track your movements, or a predator drone to lock a missile onto you. It’s highly classified technology.” Gelman pointed his cane at a slim silver briefcase on a high shelf. “Can you get that for me?”

Nick reached up and brought it down, setting it carefully on the glass-topped counter. Inside the case, resting in foam cutouts, were a jam-size jar filled with what looked like black pepper and a device similar to a highway patrolman’s radar gun but with a much larger display screen above the grip.

“What is this?” Nick asked.

“A covert operative’s tagging kit. There’s enough powder in that jar to target an entire terrorist camp. A few particles are really all you need to tag someone or something.”

“What’s the radar gun for?”

“It’s much more than a radar gun. It’s advanced technology that can home in on a dusted object the same way a missile homes in. The gun can also be used by someone on the ground to tag an object with an invisible beam that guides a missile right to it.”

“That’s a nasty game of tag.”

“It certainly is,” Gelman said. “I assume that’s not what you want this for, not that I am making any judgments, mind you.”

“I don’t have any missiles.”

“I could get you some. The instruction manual would probably be in Russian, though. Do you speak the language?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not in the market.” Nick tapped the case. “How did you get your hands on this stuff?”

“It’s on consignment from a spy with a lot of gambling debts and several mistresses to support.”

“James Bond without the expense account.”

“Or the luck at cards,” Gelman said. “My eight-year-old grandson could beat him at poker.”

“What’s the range of these taggants?”

“Five miles,” Gelman said.

“How long does the dust stay active?”

“Indefinitely. It’s inert until activated by a radar signal.”

Nick nodded, impressed. “What is this going to cost me?”

“Half a million dollars,” Gelman said. “I’m afraid the price is firm and nonnegotiable.”

“Will you throw in a custom-made suit?”

“And a tie.”

“Done,” Nick said, and closed the case.

Carter Grove watched the national evening news on the large flat-screen television in his office. It had been a good day. The armed convoy containing his art collection had arrived safely at his Kentucky ranch, he’d become the owner of a fully armed AeroSystem predator drone, and a fifty-million-dollar payment had come in from African dictator Muktar Diriye Abdullahi to protect his embattled regime from rebels.

The day went from merely good to officially wonderful when the news anchor announced that three Rembrandts had been stolen from the Musée de Florentiny in a brazen robbery committed in broad daylight on Quebec’s national moving day. The museum guards told police that they were overpowered by half a dozen heavily armed thieves who tunneled in from the sewers. Art experts estimated that the combined value of the stolen paintings exceeded $375 million, making it the biggest art theft in Canadian history and the second largest in North America, topped only by
the five-hundred-million-dollar Gardner Museum robbery in March 1990.

Carter had visited the Musée de Florentiny many times and stared for hours at those Rembrandts, longing to have the masterpieces hanging in his home. Now he could make that dream come true. Unless those paintings had been stolen on demand for a particular collector, which Carter doubted, they would soon be available on the blackest of the black markets, the one reserved for the world’s richest men. Only a few dealers catered to that elite clientele, and they all knew Carter’s tastes in art, though they didn’t know him by his real name. They knew him only by the alias “Mr. Wayne,” by the number to call to reach him, by the generous commissions he was willing to pay, and by the fatal consequences involved if they breathed a word of his existence to anyone. He didn’t need to alert them to make him their first call if any of the Rembrandts came into their hands or remind them of the dire penalties if they failed to do so.

He’d allowed Duff to live with his broken bones as an example to those who would dare to discover or divulge his identity. And when the example had served its purpose, Duff would die an even more painful death.

Carter reached for the phone and dialed Veronica Dell.

“Yes, sir?” she said.

“Tell Rocco to make room for three additional paintings beside the Rembrandt when he installs my collection.”

“Of course,” she said.

Bad boy celebrity chef Razzie Olden was known as much for his addictions—namely sex, heroin, and alcohol—as he was for his daring dishes and outrageous restaurants. The bad taste of his décor
often clashed with the exquisite taste of his culinary creations. Olden’s newest restaurant was La Guerre, in Midtown Manhattan. The walls were exposed concrete, the ceilings were draped in camouflage netting, and the sound of distant explosions played from hidden speakers. The waitresses wore helmets, camouflage tops and shorts, and combat boots. The food was served on china that had been pillaged from one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces during the war in Iraq. And all of Olden’s signature dishes were seasoned or garnished with ingredients that could, if not prepared correctly, result in sickness or death, like Jamaican ackee, South American yucca, and elderberry leaves.