The Crasher (17 page)

It was cold for May. “Bloody cold,” the Brits would call it, and they’d be bloody right. Although—as planned—it was a moonless
night, Alex could still see his breath puffing out like wash from a boat.

Also planned and paid for, an inflatable dinghy was waiting on the riverbank. With Angus, who still described what they were
doing as “a jolly lark”—another example of the incomprehensible British sense of humor—he pushed the dinghy into the dark,
fast-moving water and clambered aboard.

A scene from a James Bond movie came to mind; he couldn’t remember which one, but dressed in black with balaclavas pulled
over their faces, he reckoned they must look like Bond types, if not 007 himself, lean, strong, fearless, ready for action.

Alex’s hands, despite lined leather gloves, were freezing, but rowing would cure that. Gripping the oars, it took them less
than fifteen minutes to cross to the other side of the River Tweed.

He glanced at a recent acquisition, a luminous Rolex watch. They were exactly on schedule. For some reason, tonight he’d expected
to feel more apprehensive, because this job was for a new and most important client. But, no, he was
his usual cool, calm, and collected self, totally in control of his body functions, unlike Angus, who frequently peed in his
pants when he felt they were in danger.

It had happened a few months before, again in Scotland, when they’d set off the house’s main alarm, newly connected to Perth
police headquarters. How they’d laughed in London the next day, reading that as the HQ was at least fifteen miles away, the
police had taken nearly half an hour to get there.

Now they ran swiftly through the deep shadows of old trees until they reached the walls of Muir Castle, the eighteenth-century
family home of the Duke and Duchess of Kirkburghe.

During the last month, they’d joined hundreds of tourists traipsing through the castle. They had been there to carry out their
usual reconnoiter plan with Crisp, who, but for a hangover, would have been with them tonight. Crisp wasn’t reliable. This
was the last time he’d get any work from Alex. Crisp always thought he could hold his drink without effect, but he couldn’t,
although on the wagon he was among the best.

While the tourists pushed their noses against the glass cases holding precious artifacts and stared like zombies into one
roped-off grand room after another, the three of them, once together, twice each on their own, had toured in their own inimitable
way, to learn the floor plan, to check exactly where the required “merchandise” was located, to mark where the alarms were
and to seek out blind spots away from the security cameras. At the dress rehearsal, it had been as cheering as ever to find
that their sketches and notes, made mostly from memory, were practically identical.

Muir Castle, like so many stately homes in Great Britain, had been opened to the public by Their Graces to help pay the punishing
maintenance bills, but “open to the public,” railed the press, was the reason the recent spate of robberies had been so successful.
Few aristocrats were equipped to deal with the professionalism of this new type of thief, who, they guessed, was “stealing
to order.”

The press was right on target, but so far—despite the hue and cry over the recent major art theft from Luton Hoo (alas, not
their job), home of the Queen of England’s husband’s godson, Nicholas Phillips—nothing had changed, as far as they could see,
in terms of extra security. Phillips blamed the theft on the publicity surrounding a movie crew he’d allowed (in return for
a sizable fee) to shoot scenes around the house for a movie with the improbable name of
Four Weddings and a Funeral.

Quentin Peet, who happened to be in London working on a major story about a drug bust at London Airport, appeared on CNN to
mock that supposition, stating it had nothing to do with the movies; it was undoubtedly the work of the same kind of professional,
who knew that Luton Hoo possessed the most incredible collection of Fabergé eggs in the world, and also knew exactly how to
get hold of them for a particular customer, who was ready and waiting to buy.

Peet was impressive, Alex grudgingly had to admit that, but even Mr. Super Sleuth had no idea what was really behind this
era of major heists, and he’d never be allowed to know, either.

There were two hundred rooms in the castle, but tonight they intended to pay an in-and-out visit to only two. Angus began
to drill neatly and fast around a lock on a heavy door on the east side of the building. Open sesame.

Inside, they walked swiftly along a gloomy corridor, so ice-cold, their breath danced before them. Alex briefly wondered about
the temperature of the Kirkburghes’ living quarters. Ice-cold, too, he’d bet, remembering a night he’d recently spent in a
stately home in Hampshire, where the sheets in the guest bedroom had been so cold and damp, they’d steamed from the hot-water
bottle he’d had the sense to order before saying goodnight.

Up a short flight of stairs, two lefts and they were outside the display rooms, which held what they’d come to collect—silver
objets d’art, rare enameled ornaments, and three special pieces of heirloom jewelry. While he dealt with the alarm, Angus
made short work of the locked door, taking out a lighter drill to open the cabinets inside.

He now slipped on thin silk gloves to carefully extract two remarkable clocks, one by Fabergé, the other by Cartier, a
necklace like a lace web of brilliantly cut diamonds by Boucheron, a twenty-eight carat blue diamond, another lacelike bracelet
of golden pearls and coral and, from the third cabinet, a collection of eighteenth-century gold and enamel snuffboxes, which
had come to the family’s treasury of possessions straight from the craftsmen in Bilston over two hundred years before. Each
item went into its own specially designed velvet pouch and all pouches went into a large, soft attaché case.

“Shit,” Angus hissed, as in turning he tripped over a carpet runner, which hadn’t been there on earlier fishing expeditions.

In trying to save himself, he shot his gloved hand through the glass of an adjacent cabinet. As the glass shattered, a penetrating
alarm went off. They both grabbed objets and jewelry they hadn’t planned on taking—waste not, want not—then fled down the
stone corridors as the alarm continued to shriek and lights began to go on behind them.

It was a close call. Neither of them calmed down until, agonizingly trying to keep within the speed limit, they turned off
the A699 onto the A68, the main north-south trunk road to London.

By the time
The Evening Standard
arrived at Alex’s rented flat late the following afternoon, with headlines about “The Muir Castle Raid, Planned With Commando
Precision,” much of the haul was already on its way to his new client in Switzerland. Although he didn’t know who the client
was, he’d been told that the man was immensely powerful and rich. The new client had noted not only his professional work,
but also his excellent knowledge of priceless, beautiful things.

Alex had enough sense to know it was best not to inquire into this mysterious gentleman’s identity, but the hint of enormous
benefits to come had piqued his curiosity. Through his own network of contacts he had learned there was a new demand for thieves
with his kind of fine-art knowledge, because there was a new use for stolen masterpieces—in art and recently in jewelry, too.

It was drug related. He didn’t know exactly how. Not ransoms, not egos, not a demand for Van Goghs to hang on drug
czars’ walls. He’d been told very clearly, if he wanted to stay alive, not to wonder why; just do the job and collect. That
was okay by him.

If he had to move into the art world, that was okay, too, although diamonds for drugs suited his modus operandi better. It
wouldn’t be long before he would be called to discuss his future. He couldn’t wait.

He yawned. He was too tired to go to the Eaton Square party with the A-plus guest list. It was, after all, just more work.

The invitation had described “snoozing” entertainment—a piano and cello sonata by some obscure Eastern European group before
dinner, followed by more of the same after—yet he’d accepted because of the jewelry he knew he’d see there, spectacular, important
pieces, some perhaps “entailed,” out of the vault for the evening, or what he called “conscience items,” costly gems, given
by an erring husband or wayward lover, to right the balance on the scales of a dipping relationship.

The jewelry at these grand parties bewitched him; the women who wore it did not, most of them with faces redrawn so radically
by surgery, they reminded him of the wives of Lot. Silly fools. Little did they know this was his opinion of their expensively
maintained looks. On the contrary. He was a much sought after escort and house guest, the ladies doting on him to such an
extent that after only a few months of zeroing in on the best quarry, he was able to keep an up-to-date dossier on the way
they lived their lives, their habits, their movements, and, of course, where they stashed their valuables. It might easily
be a year or so before he used this scrupulously recorded information, but it was as good as money in the bank.

He called Eaton Square to make his regrets, made himself a vodka martini—“shaken, not stirred” à la Mr. Bond—took it into
the small, austerely elegant bathroom and soaked in a hot tub, full of Penhaligon’s salts, sipping a cool sip from time to
time.

If he wasn’t out “working” a party, he usually liked to be alone the night after a big job, letting down, slowly relaxing
with the things he most appreciated. What would he relax with tonight? The work of an erudite scholar? Mozart, or Elton John
on his fabulous sound machine? No, something more amusing. He would watch
To Catch a Thief,
one of his favorite old movies.

As he watched Cary Grant and Grace Kelly on the Riviera, Grace wearing one more glorious outfit after another, he thought
about Ginny.

He promised himself he would call her soon to see if, with her heart at last on the mend (he’d love to fix that goddamn Italian
swine), she sounded stable enough to help him—inadvertently, of course—with an interesting American project he thought it
was time to pursue. Yes, Alex decided, he’d call Ginny tomorrow.

Ginny was fantasizing, sitting at her number one assistant designer’s desk, surrounded by swatches of material, a pin bag
at her waist, doodling, dreaming of what might have been and what might still be.

She saw herself arriving at the Gosman showroom in her belted, smoky-gray suede suit (her most recent knockout design), interrupting
a passionate embrace between her boss and one of his most ardent fans, a wealthy, over-blonded, crocodile-skinned Palm Beach
widow. Both gasp, then extol her appearance.

“You see, darling Everard, you don’t have to worry,” the client says happily. “You can retire and come with me to Florida,
leaving the business safely in Ms. Walker’s talented hands…”

“Ginny, Mr. G. wants a walk-through of 854 on the double.”

“It needs a fuller vent,” Ginny murmured automatically. To come to life, she drank what remained of her cold coffee, then
sauntered into Gosman’s office.

Since being officially appointed number one assistant designer, Ginny believed Gosman and she were almost buddies
and, as Lee told her at least once a week, she had indeed become “totally indispensable” again.

With bursts of his own “don’ty’ worrygaly’candobett’rthanthatdago” lingo, Gosman had unwittingly been a figurative shoulder
to lean on in the early days of Ricardo’s abandonment. With Alex still in Europe, Ginny didn’t know what she would have done
without him, when without warning, her eyes would fill with tears and, with no comment, he’d hand her huge, crisp, white handkerchiefs
across the desk. He also provided the best antidote for grief—work, work and still more work, without complaining when she
didn’t get around to all of it the same day.

Just as well. Back then, workaholic weeks had been followed by periods of such apathy she could hardly get dressed in the
morning, especially when she stayed in the loft Ricardo had left behind as a going-away present.

In just a matter of days Ricardo’s Chelsea sublet would be up and, thanks to the sentimental heart of the owner, an expatriate
painter who lived most of the time in Dublin, she would become the full-fledged, rent-paying tenant for one year, with a right-to-renew
clause at the end.

Ginny never dreamed she would end up renting Ricardo’s loft. After his departure, she’d drifted into using the place as a
base for apartment hunting, mainly to escape from Sophie’s kind but overpowering fussing.

Time slipped by; friends started dropping in. She bought a ten-foot dark green rattan screen to hide the tiny kitchen. She
finally hung Ricardo’s shadows and lake painting on the west wall, where late afternoon real shadows added to its beauty.
Without realizing it, she began to take possession… and then came the phone calls. From Ricardo.

Fifteen times she’d hung up on him. Then, like the violets arriving with one word or a few words at a time, she began to reply,
never letting her guard down, sometimes courteous, sometimes not, always brief. Only too well did she remember Ricardo’s marathon
calls, the ones she’d sat through with such a fixed look of indifference.

Who was sitting or lying in bed with him in Milan, as with one hand he held the receiver, while with the other he touched,
stroked, caressed… who? Oh, hell, who cared! Did she? Yes—and no.

Did she now look forward to the calls? Yes—and no. She didn’t trust him; she didn’t trust men in general. Over and out.

He’d begun to talk about coming back to see her. Of course, by then, she would have moved. He’d never find her. All the same,
when the lease came up for renewal, she knew she’d sign it, despite the increase in rent. It was only for a year with an option
to renew and Ricardo probably wouldn’t come anyway.