Legacy
Title: Legacy, Part III
Author's Name: frostian
Genre: RPS, AU
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for language and violence
Word count: ~34k
Warning: Artistic license taken and abused.
Summary: With his father's death, Jared has inherited a painting that has to be returned to its rightful owner. In his quest to fulfill his father's last wishes, he stumbles over a motley crew of strongman, grifter, and a friend whom he'd never stopped caring for. But as they draw up a plan to return the stolen Modigliani, they realize that more than technology stands in their way.
Disclaimer: So much fiction, it could be spotted from an orbiting satellite!
Notes: Adapted from Something Wicked This Way Comes, written for j2_everafter.
Day Thirty-One
“He might have been your bestest buddy, Jen, but the guy’s a liability,” Chris said without any heat. “We have no idea how he’ll react to a pressure situation much less a full-on confrontation with the police. Or worse.”
“We’ll have him tag along but the moment he cracks I’ll send him home.”
“You serious about that?” Chris looked hard at his friend. “Maybe it’s just me but the guy looks like he got more than his fair share of the stubborn fool gene.”
“Trust me; Jared will do whatever I say,” Jensen said. “Stop fussing like a Sunday School Auntie.”
“All righty then, it’s your show.”
Chris polished off his beer and left without any further conversation.
Jensen didn’t feel at all insulted by Chris’ questioning his decisions. In fact, this constant give and take was one of the reasons why their friendship had survived for more than two years and under circumstances that would’ve crushed long-term marriages.
Without thinking about it, Jensen dug up a shoebox from the back of his bedroom closet. He flipped through photographs with folded corners and fading Polaroid snapshots. Jensen found what he was looking for at the bottom.
The two boys in the picture were drenched; their jeans clinging precariously to their bony hips. But if the soaked clothing caused any discomfort, neither boy showed it. The one on the right was painfully skinny with sunken chest and a riot of brown hair that hung almost to the shoulders. Even though he was younger, he was nearly as tall as his companion who was obviously breaching the walls of puberty.
Jensen never wondered why he made friends with a neighborhood clown who was four years younger than he was, and had so little in common.
It was the first time he witnessed Jared’s smile.
Not that the smile in it of itself made Jensen come out of his shell. It was why the younger boy had grinned from ear to ear.
Jared had met up with Jensen’s older brother, who had probably the worst day in the history of High School and was more than willing to take it out on a little whelp who crossed his path by sheer chance.
And yet, when confronted with a near stranger who looked as if pondering mass murder, Jared smiled.
It was then Jensen realized how rare someone like Jared was. People rarely smiled when confronted with the unknown or the immeasurable. And yet, here was an nine-year-old who grinned like Christmas came early when faced with a situation that would make an adult cringe as a measure of self-protection.
Jensen decided right then and there that such person was necessary in his life. And he held onto that belief even after his father lost his job and they were forced to sell their home.
Even so, the last thing he expected was to have Jared return to his life and under such dire circumstances.
Jensen closed his eyes and fought off the temptation to start counting. Instead, he delved further into the old shoebox and found a snapshot of him perfecting his Iron Cross on the rings his father had rigged in their backyard.
Gouts of memories sprang from his mind and drowned him in their bittersweet rain.
Buenos Aires International Airport, Argentina
Day Twenty-seven
Jensen adjusted his reading glasses and pulled out a novel written in Spanish. Though he didn’t boast it, because of his work, Jensen had gotten fluent in many languages. However, it was Spanish he was most comfortable with. And the stories were both racy and hilariously entertaining. Of course there was more serious, erudite literature, but Jensen preferred trashy novels as a form of entertainment.
His lifestyle was such a pressure cooker that whenever possible, Jensen sought out as much diversion as he could possibly afford.
“Excuse me,” a young man in his early twenties said as he took the window seat next to Jensen who found the stranger’s rolling accent difficult to place.
“Not a problem,” Jensen replied after the man sat settled in the window seat. “It sucks to travel in cattle class.”
The stranger smiled brilliantly and shrugged. “But how else would a poor art student travel these days?”
“Or a poor tourist,” Jensen confided.
“My name is Rico.”
“Name’s Jim.”
Jensen found the flight from Buenos Aires to Rome both diverting and entertaining. And the trashy spy novel sat unread on his lap as he conversed with his fellow passenger about the vagaries of the cities they were planning to explore. And from their talks Jensen learned of great many secrets about Venice, including its famous canals.
JFK, New York
Jared sipped his second champagne glass, ignoring Chris’ baleful look from across the aisle. He thought he was going to be traveling alone until Chris dropped in his seat, giving Jared a nasty shock.
The fucker’s doing it on purpose, Jared thought peevishly. Probably gets off on it like a thirteen-year-old does with Penthouse. Son of a bitch.
Jared thought about asking for a third glass of champagne but decided not to. Even with his size, he knew better than to consume so much alcohol during flight. Usually, an hour in, he’d be chugging down water and busy with his work correspondence if not the presentation he was scheduled to give at the end of his travels.
He wondered how Chad was going to smuggle the Modigliani in. Jared had complete faith in Jensen’s judgment and Jensen seemed to trust Chad to ferry the painting into Venice. So, Jared should trust Chad, but he kept having nightmares where the grifter just checked it in like a piece of luggage, and then having it crushed because of a particularly turbulent flight.
Jared realized that would not be a bad outcome, but he also had a feeling he wouldn’t get off so easily. He was sorely tempted to strike a conversation with Chris, just to aggravate the man, but decided to turn his attention to the tour books about Venice. He’d even managed to purchase a map of the city, but was told by the sales rep that the map was woefully lacking in many things:
“There are just too many undocumented labyrinths and side-roads for anyone to create an accurate map.”
Jared wondered if this was good news or not. He decided that it didn’t matter. With cautious fingers he unfolded the map and began memorizing each sector.
Dulles International Airport, Virginia
Chad finished his bottled water and sat back. A moment later the pretty stewardess who’d been shamelessly flirting with him swung by his seat again.
“Another water?” she asked.
“No thanks, Tina,” Chad said.
She eyed the occupied seat next to him. “What is that, exactly?”
“Oh, a painting I’ve sold to a private buyer,” Chad said eagerly. “You want to see it?”
Tina nodded, leaning over and showing off generous amount of bosom.
Chad peeled off the linen bag and proudly displayed what was most certainly not a Modigliani. The painting was definitely done in the neo-Romanticism period, but the nude was displayed in such a manner that it bordered on soft pornography.
Tina’s mouth dropped open slightly in surprise, but she managed to remain quiet.
“Beaut, isn’t it?”
“Definitely an original,” Tina managed to strangle out. She went straight to the front of the plane where she hid behind a curtain from where laughter emanated soon thereafter.
Chad tucked the painting back into its bag and sat back with a smirk. He knew better than to smuggle a painting into a country like Italy. Better to do so brazenly and with everyone watching.
He’d purchased the semi-pornographic nineteenth century portrait because it was almost the exact size as the Modigliani’s. He’d cut the nude out of its frame and had placed it gingerly over its much more precious counterpart.
The fit was perfect, and unless someone turned the frame upside down and shook violently, the nude would stay in place: an ideal cover.
Chad sat back, flipped open Newton’s Principia to where he’d left off and began reading. The page’s margins were nearly all black because of his scribblings, and the book itself was so tattered that Chad was tempted to buy a new one as a replacement.
But Cohen’s and Whitman’s translation had a special place in his heart, and Chad could not bear to part with it. So, he treated it as if it were first edition, handed to him by Isaac Newton himself. Even the pen he’d chosen to write with was a classic fountain pen he’d bought in Glasgow. The antique dealer was reluctant to part with it but he was convinced to sell it after Chad had doubled the asking price.
The Sheaffer had never been empty of ink since.
After the plane had reached cruising altitude, Tina had strolled by twice and was completely taken surprise by the change she’d seen of the passenger who’d shown her a nineteenth century Playboy spread. That man with a flashy smile and flashier jewelry was now buried under a furrowed eyebrow and concentrated look. And from the book in front of him Tina knew there was more to Mr. Washington than she’d originally thought.
Unfortunately he seemed to have lost interest in her and didn’t bother to raise his head even when she’d asked if he wanted something to drink.
Tina felt sharp loss as he continued to ignore her for the rest of the flight.
Venice, Italy
Day Twenty-Six
Jared fanned himself the moment he stepped out of the train. Even though he’d been raised in Texas, he found the weather in Venice sticky, robbing him of air and energy. He quickly made his way to the station where water taxis waited.
He found a group of taxi pilots huddled in a spot where a refreshing breeze blew by. Jared signaled for help and a man parted ways from his friends.
Jared wordlessly gave the scribbled address in the Dorsoduro, on of six sestieri in Venice along with a generous tip. The pilot smiled and helped Jared put his baggage into his boat. He politely waited until his fare sat down in the cabin before navigating the taxi away from its slip.
Jared watched the scenery and couldn’t stop admiring the view. Even in daylight with all its decay so visible, Venice was magnificent. In spite of better judgment Jared pulled out his camera and stepped outside.
As if sensing his client’s desire, the pilot slowed down the taxi so Jared could take pictures. Jared ended up filling his memory card by the time the taxi swung itself to a set of steps that led the street right into the water.
Jared pulled out his phone and looked around. He’d received a picture of the building and found it right at the corner as Jake had indicated in his e-mails. The pilot deposited Jared’s luggage onto the street, gave a perfunctory wave of farewell before taking off.
Jared dragged his bags, once again cursing himself for his inability to pack properly. Unfortunately for him and his wallet, Jared liked to be prepared for all types of emergencies. This practice forced him to develop an atrocious habit of overpacking everything from shoes to hats.
He’d even stashed an umbrella just in case.
Jared looked up at the cloudless blue sky and mentally kicked himself before ringing the bell for the third floor apartment.
“What?!”
Chris’ bark of greeting shocked Jared. “How the fuck did you get here before me?!”
“You got enough luggage to outfit an entire platoon,” was the gruff reply.
The door buzzed open and Jared stepped in, feeling instant relief as the marble hall still managed to retain its coolness. Unfortunately, his happy disposition didn’t last long when Jared realized there weren’t any elevators.
“Oh fuck,” he muttered and took the smallest handheld upstairs first, fervently hoping that someone from the team would take pity on him and help him with the other three.
The door to the rental was open so Jared took a step in only to be stopped by a wall of heat.
“What … how…” Jared looked around to see Chris looking composed and relaxed, sitting on a sofa. Jensen was too busy chugging down cold water to answer Jared’s stumble of a question.
“What - how?” Chris echoed mockingly.
“This place is supposed to be air conditioned!” Jared yelped, dropping his bag.
“Looks like it’s either broken or you were lied to,” Jensen said.
“Can’t be,” Jared countered. “Jake would never do that to me!”
Chris threw open his arms and said, “Well, something went haywire!”
“Oh man,” Jared whimpered and stepped into the apartment.
“Is that all your luggage?” Jensen asked, throwing a questioning look at Chris.
Jared narrowed his eyes towards Chris and said, “No, I got few more. I was hoping you guys could help me bring them up.”
“I’ll help,” Jensen said. He turned to Chris and ordered, “See what you can do. If this place really has air conditioning then the unit has to be somewhere around here. They wouldn’t dare place it on the roof.”
“All right.” Chris didn’t budge from the seat. Instead he smiled and sat back as if to watch them trek up and down with Jared’s luggage.
Jensen let out a bark of laughter when he saw the pile waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. “Do you really think you’re going to get a chance to wear all these clothes?!”
Jared gave a small shrug of embarrassment. “I like to be prepared.”
“I’m too afraid to ask for what,” Jensen quipped. He picked up the second largest bag along with a carry-on, leaving the largest suitcase for Jared.
The two men trudged up the thin marble steps whose centers were carved into dips because of centuries of usage.
They were halfway up when the front door opened below.
“Hey, there you are,” Chad said as he jogged up to them.
“Where’s the painting?” Jensen asked.
“I stashed it somewhere safe,” Chad answered. “I didn’t want it anywhere near us until the night of the job.”
“Sounds good,” Jensen answered. He took a look at Chad’s backpack. “Is that all you brought?”
“Dude, it’s Italy. Why in hell would I want to bring clothes here when I can buy them?”
Jared felt a rush of temptation to kick Chad down the marble stairs.
Chad continued to jog up the steps and left them with a jaunty “See you at the top!”
Jared regretted resisting the violent urge and managed to give a feeble snarl instead.
“We can’t kill him, we need him,” Jensen said.
“Seriously? Is he really that necessary for this?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Jensen’s lips quirked into a smile. “But after the job’s done - he’s all yours.”
“Christmas is going to come early for me,” Jared said cheerfully. However his good mood faded the moment they entered the flat. The two men unceremoniously dumped the bags by the door and made a beeline to the fridge.
“Oh my God, this is the pits,” Chad complained as he vigorously fanned himself with a straw hat.
Jared rolled his eyes and took a chug from the water bottle. “It’s August in Italy, you moron. This is when the natives all head for the shores or the mountains.”
“Dumb me: I thought hey, ten-thousand-dollars-a-week pad? A fucking air conditioner…”
Chad didn’t finish his sentence as a loud hum droned over their heads. It was followed closely by a cool blast of air.
All the men in the room closed their eyes and sighed blissfully. Chris came into the den and said,
“Sorry it took so long. Man, the wiring in this pad’s complete shit.” He chugged down half a liter of bottle of Pellegrino and grinned. “I thought this stuff was too foofy but it’s starting to grow on me.”
“And now you know how bad the wiring could be, no matter how expensive or updated the place is,” Jensen said.
“So we should expect more of the same with Landau’s place?” Jared asked.
“Palace,” Jensen corrected. “She owns the entire building.”
“But that’s good, right?” Jared asked. “Aren’t those places usually right next to a canal?”
“Yeah, but the odds are good that the broad…” Chad caught Jared’s hard glare and corrected, “… lady had blocked all the usual entries when she moved in.”
“Maybe not everything,” Chris said. “Venice floods practically every year, and unless she wants her palace to be under half a ton of sewage water, she has to make sure the drainage systems work.”
“Which brings us back to the first problem,” Jensen said. “We also need to scope out her people.”
“Shouldn’t we find more about her place first?” Jared asked cautiously.
“Actually, no. The more men there are, the more eyes around to spot us. Nowadays, the guards will all be outfitted with cameras alongside their earpieces. So even if we do take down their surveillance system, they could still take photos of us.” Jensen shook his head. “I can’t afford to have my picture taken.”
“Okay, I can understand that,” Jared said. “So find out how many scary men she hired, and what they do for her.”
“After that we could scope out the place,” Chad added with an agreeable shrug.
Chris shook his head. “No, we don’t need to waste precious time for that. Chad could tail the men and I’ll tag the palace. It shouldn’t be that hard.”
“How could that not be hard?” Chad looked at Chris. “The thing’s a fortress.”
“I’ll find a way,” Chris answered. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You just follow the guards and see what they up to.”
“Consider it done.” Chad peeled himself away from the open fridge. “I’ll call if anything interesting crops up.”
Chad disappeared while talking busily into his cell. To Jared’s astonishment Chad’s Italian sounded nearly flawless.
“He’s the best,” Jensen explained. “In spite of his outwardly demeanor, Chad’s a bona fide genius. He’s fluent in ten languages, Mandarin included.”
Jared turned to Jensen. “So … why … why…”
“So, why is he in my world?” Jensen asked. “I never bothered to ask. From what I understand there was a girl, a misunderstanding, and a whole lot of heartbreak.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Chris said. “Look, I better get going too. I’m going to check and see if Landau has any scheduled maintenance coming up. It makes sense to do it during August since supply and demand’s to her favor.”
“Take care,” Jensen said. “Be careful.”
“Don’t worry about me!” Chris cheerfully exclaimed over his right shoulder.
Day Twenty-Five
Chad drank his wine, surreptitiously eyeing the two men at the bar. Though this was officially called a wine bar, it was really a hole in the wall, and the wall being more than five hundred years old - there were quite a few holes.
The bar itself fit only fifteen people and the menu was limited. But the locals didn’t come here to dine: they came to talk. And after a bottle of wine, the two men were talking freely. Chad listened all the while reading his phone. To the rest of the clientele, he was like any other tourist, smarter than most to patronize the local hangout after having heard about the place.
Chad sipped his prosecco and quietly munched on his order of toast with pickled sardines. All the while filing away the information the two men were trading.
“You’d think with all her money, she would try to at least attempt to find a decent engineer to fix the air system!”
The smaller of the two grunted and rolled his eyes. Then, with an unpleasant smirk he said, “She’s a Jew, and you know what they’re like.”
“Is she Jewish? I thought she was a Russian hostess girl who married up.”
“Who in hell knows,” the older one grumbled. “I can’t breathe whenever I’m on the third floor!”
“I fall on my knees and give thanks whenever I’m on the fourth. At least the air conditioning there works!”
“The money-grubber knows better than to mistreat her art. They are worth millions.”
“Ugly things, though. Maybe not the Renoir but that Van Gogh is a blasphemy. If given a choice, I’d toss it into the canal with a smile on my face.”
“It’s modern art, though I wouldn’t call it art. Let’s go, our break’s almost over.”
Chad leaned against the front glass window and watched them disappear to the right. He counted to twenty before following them. He always kept fifteen paces behind the men, and since he was following them through Venice, it was easy to dodge behind tourists. He watched them enter a beautiful building, outstanding in a sea of breathless architectural masterpieces. But Chad’s sharp eyes noticed the reinforced doors and windows. He spotted couple of thin wires running above a window frame yellowed with age and knew as old as the wood was, it was also wired to the hilt.
Pressure sensors, probably, Chad guessed. Though I don’t know if they would also have vibration calibrators since it’s next to a busy canal.
Chad dared not hesitate any longer. He strolled away, leisurely looking at the rest of the buildings and comparing them with a tour book he’d bought in the States.
“We were expecting that,” Jensen said after listening to Chad’s report. “The artwork has to be in a temperature controlled environment.”
“But only that floor,” Chris said. “Which means she’s smart. She knows better than to try that for the entire palace. So, she’s focused on that floor.”
“I bet her bedroom is on the fourth floor, also,” Jensen guessed. “And her safe’s there, too.”
“That’s good news,” Chris said.
“How?” Jared asked. Then he blurted out, “Wait a minute … okay, I think I know.”
Jensen smiled. “Okay, why is it good news?”
“Because the alarm system’s wired equally to both the safe and her gallery,” Jared answered. “If you could compromise the one to the safe…”
“The one to the gallery’s also shot to shit,” Jensen finished. “But we can’t be sure.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Chris said. “But I have something lined up.”
“Care to share?” Chad asked with a lazy smile. “The tension is killing me.”
“There’s a private electrical company in Mestre whose head of business is an American. The firm’s got very good reputation and services a lot of the hoity-toity on this side of the Laguna. I’m thinking Landau’s one of their clients or will be since a lot of the other companies are on their vacations right now.”
“Sucks to work for an American,” Jensen chimed in. “You got a plan on how to get in?”
“Been working on that for since before I landed,” Chris said. “I’m suppose to meet the guy for an interview of sorts in a couple of days.”
“Dinner interview?” Jared asked.
“Nothing that fancy: just sharing some grappa,” Chris answered.
“You’re going to get the guy hammered so he’d offer you a job?” Jared asked, smiling.
“Something like that,” Chris’ smile turned Cheshire Cat-like. “Make him all nostalgic with my good ol’ boy accent.”
“That’s if he likes good ol’ boys,” Jensen cautioned.
“Oh he does,” Chris answered. “I tapped into his e-mail. He constantly writes to his brothers about how much he misses Kansas City barbeques. It’s kind of sad, actually.”
“I know you hate to hear it, but be careful,” Jensen said. “You don’t have a record but people know you.”
“Don’t I feel flattered,” Chris shot back. He stood up, grabbed his cowboy hat and said, “I’m going to do some more scouting. Take care of the competition if need be.”
Jared waited until Chris was out of the room before asking, “Dare I ask what ‘taking care of competition’ means?”
“Sabotage, nothing spectacular,” Jensen said.
“Not in Toledo,” Chad said. “That made the six o’clock news.”
“Okay, not Toledo,” Jensen conceded. “But he had cause.”
“How did you meet him?” Jared asked.
“He nearly killed me,” Jensen answered promptly.
“What?”
“He was a private bodyguard for a rich couple out of Miami. As it turned out the two were desperate for money. They had a lot of artwork but didn’t want to part with it. So, they decided to pull the oldest scam around: steal from themselves.”
Jared winced. “And they found you?”
Jensen nodded. “Yeah, they hired a stooge to get me to steal their collection. Chris had no idea what was going on until they told him to frame me for the theft and then feed my body to the gators.
“He worked me over pretty good when he caught me, but then he had to. Mr. and Mrs. Sociopaths were watching. He kept up the pretense and put my unconscious ass into the trunk of his car in order to drive me to a dumping ground. And kept on driving until we reached Shreveport.”
“Let me guess, he tipped off the insurance people?”
Jensen nodded. “After that we became friends. So, I call him up whenever I need someone like him.”
“It’s almost a cliché, if you think about it,” Jared said.
Jensen grinned and nodded, “A classic. But hey, I’m not complaining.”
“So I can’t either is what you’re saying.”
“Exactly. The guy’s got the largest pair,” Chad said. “No one can argue with that. I wish I could be there to see how Chris is going to charm his way into the company. It’s not every day that you see him brush up on his ‘p’s’ and ‘q’s’ instead of a pair of brass knuckles.”
“Me too,” Jensen confessed. “But it would be best if he doesn’t have an audience. He might think we don’t trust him if he sees one of us hanging around.”
“You mean he’ll think I or Jared won’t trust him,” Chad corrected.
“Something like that.”
“And I know better than piss him off,” Chad said. He finished his glass of wine and stretched. “I’m going to take a siesta then go out for the evening. Paul and Alfonso are going to a party tonight, and from what I hear it’s going to be fantastic.”
“You got an invite?” Jared asked.
“Of course. I’d be slacking if I didn’t have their entire social itinerary memorized after tailing them.”
“Have fun,” Jensen said, “And try not to pick their pockets.”
“How’d you think I know what their calendar looks like?”
With that repost, Chad left for his bedroom which, unsurprisingly, was the most luxurious out of the entire apartment.
“You’re definitely right: he does earn his keep,” Jared said somberly though his eyes were shining with amusement. “He doesn’t act it, makes it seem so easy, but the truth is he’s the master.”
“Which is why it looks so easy.” Jensen picked up the empty glasses and dumped them in the garbage to be disposed of that evening. He wanted to leave behind the least number of traceable materials in the apartment. “I thought he was all bullshit until I saw him in action. He actually managed to tag a CIA operative in Helsinki. And then kept up with the guy for the entire time he was there.”
“CIA?”
“Yeah, and that’s not Culinary Institute of America I’m talking about.” Jensen shook his head in wonder as he remembered the incident. “I’ve never seen anything like it. After that particular demonstration I never questioned his fees again.”
“You got an interesting crew here.”
“That’s because my jobs are never boring,” Jensen said. “People think art theft is this huge romantic claptrap but the truth is just the opposite. It’s usually fucking dull, and chance more than experience makes or breaks the deal.”
“I have to ask - you never stole from a museum?” Jared leaned forward eagerly.
Jensen plopped into a sofa and threw his head back. “No, no, and no.”
“Why? There’s so much money…”
“Three words: Isabella Stewart Gardner.”
Jared frowned; the name sounded familiar. Then he remembered. “Wait, the heist?”
“1990, the biggest art heist in twentieth century, though the Louvre would like to hold onto that prize since it was Mona Lisa that got stolen.”
“Wait a minute: what?!”
“You didn’t know?” Jensen looked taken back by his friend’s ignorance. “Seriously?”
“Hell no! She got stolen?”
“Went missing for two years. As it turned out, a museum employee took it. And you’re going to love this: he practically waltzed out the front door with it under his coat.
“A lot of people believe the museum never put the original back on display because they’re too scared she’d get stolen again.”
“Wow,” Jared pondered for a moment. “So about Isabella Stewart Gardner?”
“When it happened, the backlash was immediate and huge. I don’t think the thieves calculated how badly the public would react to the theft. Then something happened that they honestly couldn't predict, and probably sealed their fate.
“The internet.”
Jared nodded. “The information got spread to every corner on earth.”
“Exactly, and the people these thieves pissed off? Major players in the government, the law enforcement, and every academic who had any juice. They’re on every hit list. The reward is suppose to be five mil but I think the actual amount might be twice that if the Vermeer is found.”
“So you don’t want to swim in those waters,” Jared concluded.
“Too many sharks, and it’s iffy on the buyer side too.”
“Which is why you do only commissioned thefts.”
“Yep,” Jensen said. “There are few buyers who are willing to spend millions and I mean millions on stolen artwork by the masters. And from what I’ve heard they’re uniformly scary sons of bitches. Tin pot dictators, organized crime, and sociopaths with multiple bank accounts including Cyprus. Expensive art is also the fastest growing commodity in the terrorism industry. It’s better than cash and a lot easier to transport.”
“Okay, I guess that makes sense.” Jared thought over for a moment and said, “So, smaller paycheck but smarter crew and less trigger-happy buyers.”
“Also, insurance companies tend to get more involved than law enforcement when it comes to art theft: sad for the victims but good for thieves like me. These guys are willing to take certain risks but they’re not stupid. And they’re certainly not going to waste their employer’s money tracking down a painting across the globe if the painting is worth less than two hundred thousand or insured for that amount.
“Another words, they got a cap system - they’ll spend certain amount of money for certain valuables. Not a penny more unlike the FBI let’s say. But, lucky for me, FBI is nothing like Interpol. And they sure as hell don’t spend money like Interpol when it comes to stolen art.”
“So you’ve been working mostly on our side of the Atlantic,” Jared concluded. “Smart.”
“More cautious than smart, but hey - kept me out of handcuffs so I’m not going to complain.”
“So what happened?” Jared asked. “I remember you saying you were out of commission for a while.”
Jensen’s lips thinned in distaste. “It was the Miami job. Chris worked me over pretty thoroughly before he could get me out. Unfortunately he damaged my right hip so I had to go heal up. It took a while.”
Jared forced himself not to sneak a glance at Jensen’s hips. “Are you physically capable of pulling off this job?”
“Yeah, it’ll be difficult but I’ve had harder cases before,” Jensen answered. “The most worrisome thing is the aftermath. If the Landau woman believes she has the original and that was replaced, then she might make a huge fuss.”
Jared’s eyes widened; he hadn’t even considered that scenario. “Wait a minute - so she’ll report a robbery?”
“Yeah, and before you ask, it’s happened before. Then a boatload of agencies could get involved.” Jensen sat on the chair across from Jared. “Are you sure you have the original? That your dad wasn’t fucked over for some bizarre reason?”
“What?” Jared asked, hating how his voice trembled. “You mean his bosses gave him a fake to screw with his head?”
“Pretty much,” Jensen placed a cautious hand on Jared’s knee. “Think about it: would these people do something like that?”
“In a heartbeat,” Jared answered immediately. “I tried authenticating it myself but I … I didn’t know who to ask. My dad did it twice and both times the expert told him the Modigliani was genuine.”
“Okay,” Jensen said. “But I’d feel a lot better if we did it.”
“Now? How are we going to do that?”
“I can fly in someone from London,” Jensen said. “But it’s going to cost you.”
“Who is he?”
“Used to teach art back in the day, but fell by the wayside after a nasty divorce,” Jensen revealed reluctantly. “She’s good at what she does, and I trust her. Otherwise I wouldn’t think of bringing her in.”
“Do it.”
Day Twenty-Four
“So, Sam, what do you think?” Jensen asked, observing their guest poring over the Modigliani with cold briskness.
She stood up and shook her head. “I’d say it’s the real deal.” Professor Ferris turned to Jared and shook her head. “You know what this is, don’t you? I looked up on the Modigliani after I got the call: this one has a nasty history.”
“I know,” Jared said tersely. “I did my research.”
“Did you do any on Dark and Coogan?”
Jared had to pause at that. “No, I didn’t. Just on the painting and the Landau family.”
Sam bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “Those two were piece of work. I guess you could loosely call them war profiteers though that’d be generous description. They pulled the same fucking stunt they did on the Landau family all over Europe.”
“What?” Jared slowly stood up from his chair. “Are you serious?”
“Serious as a lawsuit,” Sam replied. “They fucked over six Jewish families from Amsterdam. Promised them safe crossing to Bergen, then turned them over to the Nazis at the dock. They did it to at least eleven families in Paris when the city fell in 1940. Dark led them out as far as city outskirts where they were all arrested by Nazi sympathizers who turned them over to their new masters.
“Did it again in Poland, too. And there - my God - the story’s so goddamn awful I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So that’s where they got their wealth,” Jensen said darkly, his face thunderous.
“Not really,” Sam said. “From what I know they had pretty healthy bank accounts all over the place including United States before they decided to buy express tickets to hell.”
“So you’re saying it wasn’t for the money?” Jared couldn’t imagine why anyone would betray humanity so thoroughly. At least greed was an answer of sorts. But to do it for nothing?
“I’m guessing they did it for stuff like your Modigliani,” Sam said. “Every time they offered their ‘services’, they asked for a family heirloom such as a painting or jewelry in return. And the weird thing was they didn’t ask for the best, either. I mean they could’ve afforded to blackmail their clients to give up everything they had, but they didn’t.
“A painting, a brooch, an engagement ring. Some of them weren’t as valuable as this painting either. Most of the time the families were only too glad to part ways with their belongings, thinking Dark and Coogan were actually decent men who only took what was necessary to pay their way to freedom.”
“What was the most valuable thing they took?” Jensen asked.
“A brooch,” Sam answered. “A Fabergé original of a carousel horse. It would fetch an easy seven million on the current market, considering what the other works went for in the last two years.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jared said hoarsely.
“I don’t think Jesus had anything to do with Dark or Coogan,” Sam said. “I came across those two years ago when my parents did some work for a private foundation that helped Jewish families try to recover their valuables. One of the survivors was from Poland and when she told me … you could never forget the names Dark and Coogan after that.”
Sam briskly packed her kit even as she took a long glance at the Modigliani. “You’re really planning to return that to the rightful family?”
“Yes,” Jared said. “I can’t wait to get it out of my hands.”
“Then good luck to you guys,” Sam said. She shook their hands. “I’ll light a prayer stick for you when I get back to London.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Jensen leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And double thanks for coming out so quickly.”
“My pleasure and that’s not bullshit by the way.” Sam gave a wink at Jared then left the apartment, her walk as brisk and assured as her manners.
“Who was the idiot who let Sam go?” Jared asked as he packed the Modigliani back into the linen bag.
“A complete ass,” Jensen answered promptly.
“Are you seeing her?”
Jensen turned to Jared with a wide grin. “Dude, I’m gay, remember?”
Jared turned beet red. “I wasn’t sure … you were a teenager! For all I knew you could’ve been experimenting. Or just pulling my leg!”
Jensen threw back his head and laughed. Jared stood, unable to move in fear of having Jensen giving away more details about his private life than Jared was comfortable with.
“No, I was sure I was gay when I came out to you,” Jensen said, “in Texas. Things haven’t changed since then.”
“Okay,” Jared said, dying to get away and equally curious to see if Jensen would reveal anything.
“Sam’s a good friend,” Jensen said. “I did a favor for her when her marriage soured.”
Jared narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute - she was your client?”
“Not really, she couldn’t afford my fees, but when I found out what the douchebag of an ex got from her after the divorce - well, I just couldn’t sit by and do nothing.”
Jared grinned broadly. “Oh my God, you pulled a Robin Hood.”
Jensen flipped him a bird and said, “Shut up.”
“Holy shit! And it wasn’t your first time either, was it?!” Jared crowed. “Oh man, you are a complete dork, you know that?!”
“Hey, these pro bono cases I’m doing are damn interesting and keep me on my toes.”
“Pro bono?” Now it was Jared’s turn to laugh.
Jensen didn’t chastise him any further. Instead, he allowed himself to bask in Jared’s warm laughter.
Sam called her contact as soon as she got to her hotel room. “It’s me. And yes, it’s the Modigliani.”
“What are they planning to do with it?” a deep melodious voice asked from the other end.
“Believe it or not, Jeff, they’re going to return it to her.”
“Sam, I have no patience…”
“Jeff!” Sam cut in sharply. “I’m not joking! They’re going to give it back to her but they want to make sure nothing traces back to Padalecki.”
“So … wait a minute, is that why Ackles is there?!”
Sam bit her tongue to prevent laughing at Jeff’s outrage. “Yes, Special Agent Morgan, that’s why Ackles is here. It seems Mr. Padalecki has expressly hired his services to return the painting without having Landau notice the switch.”
“Fuck me twice,” Jeff said, his voice noticeably softened by wonder. “I … I think I just saw a pig fly by my window.”
“Me too,” Sam agreed. “So what do you want to do next?”
“I’ve sent over a man to Venice today. He should arrive at your hotel before three. Give him all the intelligence you’ve gathered. We’ll take it from there.”
“Are you going to arrest them?”
“Well … since technically we have no jurisdiction in Italy I can’t see how,” Jeff confessed. “And I must admit - this is such a novel situation - I don’t see why we should. It’s not as if we’re suffering from lack of cases here.”
“Amen to that,” Sam said. “By the way, what’s your man’s name?”
“Steve Carlson,” Jeff said. “And you should know he doesn’t look like a company man. He’s been undercover for so long he looks like his alternate ego.”
“I understand,” Sam said. “I’ll be here.”
“Thanks a lot, Sam.”
Samantha Ferris waited for Carlson in her room, while dining on risotto and washing it down with a luxurious red wine. She watched tourist-choked gondolas and native-laden vaporettis navigate the canal in front of her hotel.
They really are going to return the Modigliani, Sam mused in wonder. I can’t figure out if they’re really that brave and honest or just completely stupid.
She pondered that problem until the knock on her front door. As Jeff had warned her, Steve Carlson definitely did not resemble a company man. In fact, if she had to pin the agent, it’d be as a second-grade meth dealer from the Midwest with his worn cowboy boots and oversized aviator sunglasses.
“Heya,” Steve said. “I hear you got something for me.”
Sam stepped aside to let him in. “Has your boss filled you in?”
Steve nodded. “Yep, got an earful before I left Kansas.”
“You’re about to get another earful,” Sam cautioned her guest. “By the way, have you contacted any other authorities?”
Steve shook his head. “No, I was specifically ordered not to by Morgan. I guess he didn’t want another fuckup like Montreal.”
Sam winced. “That was pretty bad. And he’s right: it pays to be cautious.”
“Nobody’s going to forget what happened,” Steve admitted. “And it’s been over a decade. Thank God the Canadians aren’t the type to hold a grudge!”
Sam grinned. The story was both funny and sad in that it revealed how slowly the bureaucracy at the FBI worked. Two FBI agents worked undercover sting operation in Canada along with the native law enforcement. The unit managed to successfully brought down a coven of thieves that had stolen thousands of coins from Harvard’s Fogg Museum. Unfortunately they were ordered back to Montreal for the trial. This presented a huge logistical and legal problem: if the agents obeyed, they’d be forced to blow their covers and their informants’ identities. The two men were literally standing outside the courtroom, ready to testify when someone in the Bureau finally got wind of what was happening. Seconds before they were called in, the agents were ordered to skip town, leaving behind a courtroom full of police officers, prosecutors, and an enraged judge to deal with their sudden disappearances.
This did not earn much good will from the gentler neighbors up north.
“Take a seat,” Sam said. “It won’t take long.”
It was a wishful prediction on Sam’s part. Because of Steve’s constant questions, two hours strummed along before Steve left.
By that time Sam had finished another bottle of red and was ready to fly back to London. She’d forgotten how big a headache it was to cooperate with law enforcement, especially the FBI. And though she had done it many times before, Sam vowed once more that she would never contact Morgan again.
A promise she knew she wouldn’t keep, and one that she suspected would amuse Morgan to no end if he ever found out.
Steve muttered few choice words as he circled the same fucking news kiosk for the third time. He looked at the map he had dutifully printed out when he’d gotten the assignment from Morgan. It showed very clearly where the guesthouse was located.
The map even had the names of the road it was on and the ones surrounding the b-n-b.
Unfortunately, the neighborhood had absolutely no street signs whatsoever. So Steve was relegated to winging it. Adding to that the jetlag he was laboring under, and Steve would’ve cheerfully choked the Easter Bunny if it meant finding his room.
Finally, after passing the kiosk for the fourth time, Steve gave up and approached the gummy pensioner manning the newspaper stand.
Though the guy couldn’t speak a lick of English, he knew exactly where the small guesthouse was located and even escorted Steve to the place which stood at the corner of the square, not thirty feet from his livelihood.
Steve didn’t know whether to laugh at his luck or just curse, but after taking a deep breath, he decided that losing his temper was not the best way to end his day.
So, he strolled into the cool house and found a comfortably overweight grandmother manning the battered front desk.
“Hello!” she cried out in perfect English.
“Good afternoon,” Steve replied in a respectful tone. “My name’s Carlson?”
“Oh yes, I was waiting for you.” She frowned a little. “I was expecting you earlier. Did you have trouble at the airport?”
Steve couldn’t help but laugh a little. “No, but I had a little problem finding this place.”
She winced and said in a knowing tone, “Oh, you had a map, didn’t you?”
Steve nodded tiredly. “I thought it’d help.”
“Those Google things are next to useless when it comes to Venice. Best to make friendly with the natives. That way you don’t end up circling the restaurant or the hotel five or six times without success.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Steve was proud he was able to keep all trace of irony out of his voice.
“Come, let me show you your room. By the way, my name is Maria Linney.”
“Linney?” Steve asked, not masking his surprise.
“My husband was a G.I. who was stationed in Rome. I married him then convinced him to stay. We opened this place after retiring.”
“Is he here?” Steve was already getting nostalgic for the English language after spending only few hours away from his fellow countrymen.
“No, he passed away some time ago,” Maria answered. “Bless him. Had the sweetest soul. I could never figure out why Ben thought he’d make a good soldier.”
Steve didn’t say anything and just followed Maria as she led him to the second floor. His bedroom faced away from the canal but there was just enough breeze for him to cool down. In fact, after a quick shower, Steve actually felt something akin to a human being.
He strolled downstairs to find Maria waiting for him. “I though you might like something to eat. Marco, the newspaper stand’s owner, told me what happened to you earlier.”
Steve blushed, and if his stomach hadn’t been emptied for hours, he’d probably resent Marco’s tattling of him. But he was hungry and light-headed from his journey, so instead Steve gave his most charming smile and nodded.
“Come,” Maria said. She led him to a tiny but lovely courtyard where a small iron-wrought table was waiting for its single guest.
Steve almost groaned when he saw the amount of food waiting for him. A plate of pasta, a large bowl of tiny pan-fried fishes, another equally large bowl containing roasted artichokes, and a bottle of red wine which he knew would complement the food spectacularly.
“Thank you,” he whispered fervently.
“Ben told me the best way to earn an American’s trust is to feed him.”
“He was one-hundred-percent correct.”
“Sit down and eat. I’ll bring you some water,” Maria said as she shooed him to the chair. “Do you want beer instead?”
Steve was sorely tempted but shook his head.
“I’ll be back.”
Steve waited until Maria disappeared before checking his iPhone. As Morgan had promised, there were hourly updates from his office. He flipped through few screens before catching Maria’s footfall.
The tired FBI agent decided to treat himself and not read anything. Instead, he focused on the spread in front of him. It took him an hour to finish and then, with Maria’s recommendation, strolled around the working-class neighborhood, which he’d learned was fast becoming a thing of the past thanks to the tourism industry that fueled Venice’s economy.
Steve returned to his room near midnight, after some of the stifling heat had dissipated. Only then did he read the material sent by his office.
Steve concluded that Ackles and his gang were certifiable nutcases. Either that or they were genuinely bored and decided to pull a stunt that Steve had never even heard about.
Are these jokers serious? They’re going to break into a palace to return a painting?
Steve had to admit that, in spite of everything, he was glad the case was assigned to him. It wasn’t every day he was going to witness something this spectacular.
Spectacular or one huge fucking mess in the making. But if this crew succeeds, it’s going to top the Gardner heist. And ain’t that something?
Steve took the special drink that Maria had offered when he’d returned from his stroll. It was sweet dessert wine and paired excellently with the cheese plate she’d left in his room as a late night snack.
For seventy-nine euros, this place is a goddamn bargain. I might just come back here for my vacation next year!
Part II * Part IV
Author's Name: frostian
Genre: RPS, AU
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for language and violence
Word count: ~34k
Warning: Artistic license taken and abused.
Summary: With his father's death, Jared has inherited a painting that has to be returned to its rightful owner. In his quest to fulfill his father's last wishes, he stumbles over a motley crew of strongman, grifter, and a friend whom he'd never stopped caring for. But as they draw up a plan to return the stolen Modigliani, they realize that more than technology stands in their way.
Disclaimer: So much fiction, it could be spotted from an orbiting satellite!
Notes: Adapted from Something Wicked This Way Comes, written for j2_everafter.
Day Thirty-One
“He might have been your bestest buddy, Jen, but the guy’s a liability,” Chris said without any heat. “We have no idea how he’ll react to a pressure situation much less a full-on confrontation with the police. Or worse.”
“We’ll have him tag along but the moment he cracks I’ll send him home.”
“You serious about that?” Chris looked hard at his friend. “Maybe it’s just me but the guy looks like he got more than his fair share of the stubborn fool gene.”
“Trust me; Jared will do whatever I say,” Jensen said. “Stop fussing like a Sunday School Auntie.”
“All righty then, it’s your show.”
Chris polished off his beer and left without any further conversation.
Jensen didn’t feel at all insulted by Chris’ questioning his decisions. In fact, this constant give and take was one of the reasons why their friendship had survived for more than two years and under circumstances that would’ve crushed long-term marriages.
Without thinking about it, Jensen dug up a shoebox from the back of his bedroom closet. He flipped through photographs with folded corners and fading Polaroid snapshots. Jensen found what he was looking for at the bottom.
The two boys in the picture were drenched; their jeans clinging precariously to their bony hips. But if the soaked clothing caused any discomfort, neither boy showed it. The one on the right was painfully skinny with sunken chest and a riot of brown hair that hung almost to the shoulders. Even though he was younger, he was nearly as tall as his companion who was obviously breaching the walls of puberty.
Jensen never wondered why he made friends with a neighborhood clown who was four years younger than he was, and had so little in common.
It was the first time he witnessed Jared’s smile.
Not that the smile in it of itself made Jensen come out of his shell. It was why the younger boy had grinned from ear to ear.
Jared had met up with Jensen’s older brother, who had probably the worst day in the history of High School and was more than willing to take it out on a little whelp who crossed his path by sheer chance.
And yet, when confronted with a near stranger who looked as if pondering mass murder, Jared smiled.
It was then Jensen realized how rare someone like Jared was. People rarely smiled when confronted with the unknown or the immeasurable. And yet, here was an nine-year-old who grinned like Christmas came early when faced with a situation that would make an adult cringe as a measure of self-protection.
Jensen decided right then and there that such person was necessary in his life. And he held onto that belief even after his father lost his job and they were forced to sell their home.
Even so, the last thing he expected was to have Jared return to his life and under such dire circumstances.
Jensen closed his eyes and fought off the temptation to start counting. Instead, he delved further into the old shoebox and found a snapshot of him perfecting his Iron Cross on the rings his father had rigged in their backyard.
Gouts of memories sprang from his mind and drowned him in their bittersweet rain.
Buenos Aires International Airport, Argentina
Day Twenty-seven
Jensen adjusted his reading glasses and pulled out a novel written in Spanish. Though he didn’t boast it, because of his work, Jensen had gotten fluent in many languages. However, it was Spanish he was most comfortable with. And the stories were both racy and hilariously entertaining. Of course there was more serious, erudite literature, but Jensen preferred trashy novels as a form of entertainment.
His lifestyle was such a pressure cooker that whenever possible, Jensen sought out as much diversion as he could possibly afford.
“Excuse me,” a young man in his early twenties said as he took the window seat next to Jensen who found the stranger’s rolling accent difficult to place.
“Not a problem,” Jensen replied after the man sat settled in the window seat. “It sucks to travel in cattle class.”
The stranger smiled brilliantly and shrugged. “But how else would a poor art student travel these days?”
“Or a poor tourist,” Jensen confided.
“My name is Rico.”
“Name’s Jim.”
Jensen found the flight from Buenos Aires to Rome both diverting and entertaining. And the trashy spy novel sat unread on his lap as he conversed with his fellow passenger about the vagaries of the cities they were planning to explore. And from their talks Jensen learned of great many secrets about Venice, including its famous canals.
JFK, New York
Jared sipped his second champagne glass, ignoring Chris’ baleful look from across the aisle. He thought he was going to be traveling alone until Chris dropped in his seat, giving Jared a nasty shock.
The fucker’s doing it on purpose, Jared thought peevishly. Probably gets off on it like a thirteen-year-old does with Penthouse. Son of a bitch.
Jared thought about asking for a third glass of champagne but decided not to. Even with his size, he knew better than to consume so much alcohol during flight. Usually, an hour in, he’d be chugging down water and busy with his work correspondence if not the presentation he was scheduled to give at the end of his travels.
He wondered how Chad was going to smuggle the Modigliani in. Jared had complete faith in Jensen’s judgment and Jensen seemed to trust Chad to ferry the painting into Venice. So, Jared should trust Chad, but he kept having nightmares where the grifter just checked it in like a piece of luggage, and then having it crushed because of a particularly turbulent flight.
Jared realized that would not be a bad outcome, but he also had a feeling he wouldn’t get off so easily. He was sorely tempted to strike a conversation with Chris, just to aggravate the man, but decided to turn his attention to the tour books about Venice. He’d even managed to purchase a map of the city, but was told by the sales rep that the map was woefully lacking in many things:
“There are just too many undocumented labyrinths and side-roads for anyone to create an accurate map.”
Jared wondered if this was good news or not. He decided that it didn’t matter. With cautious fingers he unfolded the map and began memorizing each sector.
Dulles International Airport, Virginia
Chad finished his bottled water and sat back. A moment later the pretty stewardess who’d been shamelessly flirting with him swung by his seat again.
“Another water?” she asked.
“No thanks, Tina,” Chad said.
She eyed the occupied seat next to him. “What is that, exactly?”
“Oh, a painting I’ve sold to a private buyer,” Chad said eagerly. “You want to see it?”
Tina nodded, leaning over and showing off generous amount of bosom.
Chad peeled off the linen bag and proudly displayed what was most certainly not a Modigliani. The painting was definitely done in the neo-Romanticism period, but the nude was displayed in such a manner that it bordered on soft pornography.
Tina’s mouth dropped open slightly in surprise, but she managed to remain quiet.
“Beaut, isn’t it?”
“Definitely an original,” Tina managed to strangle out. She went straight to the front of the plane where she hid behind a curtain from where laughter emanated soon thereafter.
Chad tucked the painting back into its bag and sat back with a smirk. He knew better than to smuggle a painting into a country like Italy. Better to do so brazenly and with everyone watching.
He’d purchased the semi-pornographic nineteenth century portrait because it was almost the exact size as the Modigliani’s. He’d cut the nude out of its frame and had placed it gingerly over its much more precious counterpart.
The fit was perfect, and unless someone turned the frame upside down and shook violently, the nude would stay in place: an ideal cover.
Chad sat back, flipped open Newton’s Principia to where he’d left off and began reading. The page’s margins were nearly all black because of his scribblings, and the book itself was so tattered that Chad was tempted to buy a new one as a replacement.
But Cohen’s and Whitman’s translation had a special place in his heart, and Chad could not bear to part with it. So, he treated it as if it were first edition, handed to him by Isaac Newton himself. Even the pen he’d chosen to write with was a classic fountain pen he’d bought in Glasgow. The antique dealer was reluctant to part with it but he was convinced to sell it after Chad had doubled the asking price.
The Sheaffer had never been empty of ink since.
After the plane had reached cruising altitude, Tina had strolled by twice and was completely taken surprise by the change she’d seen of the passenger who’d shown her a nineteenth century Playboy spread. That man with a flashy smile and flashier jewelry was now buried under a furrowed eyebrow and concentrated look. And from the book in front of him Tina knew there was more to Mr. Washington than she’d originally thought.
Unfortunately he seemed to have lost interest in her and didn’t bother to raise his head even when she’d asked if he wanted something to drink.
Tina felt sharp loss as he continued to ignore her for the rest of the flight.
Venice, Italy
Day Twenty-Six
Jared fanned himself the moment he stepped out of the train. Even though he’d been raised in Texas, he found the weather in Venice sticky, robbing him of air and energy. He quickly made his way to the station where water taxis waited.
He found a group of taxi pilots huddled in a spot where a refreshing breeze blew by. Jared signaled for help and a man parted ways from his friends.
Jared wordlessly gave the scribbled address in the Dorsoduro, on of six sestieri in Venice along with a generous tip. The pilot smiled and helped Jared put his baggage into his boat. He politely waited until his fare sat down in the cabin before navigating the taxi away from its slip.
Jared watched the scenery and couldn’t stop admiring the view. Even in daylight with all its decay so visible, Venice was magnificent. In spite of better judgment Jared pulled out his camera and stepped outside.
As if sensing his client’s desire, the pilot slowed down the taxi so Jared could take pictures. Jared ended up filling his memory card by the time the taxi swung itself to a set of steps that led the street right into the water.
Jared pulled out his phone and looked around. He’d received a picture of the building and found it right at the corner as Jake had indicated in his e-mails. The pilot deposited Jared’s luggage onto the street, gave a perfunctory wave of farewell before taking off.
Jared dragged his bags, once again cursing himself for his inability to pack properly. Unfortunately for him and his wallet, Jared liked to be prepared for all types of emergencies. This practice forced him to develop an atrocious habit of overpacking everything from shoes to hats.
He’d even stashed an umbrella just in case.
Jared looked up at the cloudless blue sky and mentally kicked himself before ringing the bell for the third floor apartment.
“What?!”
Chris’ bark of greeting shocked Jared. “How the fuck did you get here before me?!”
“You got enough luggage to outfit an entire platoon,” was the gruff reply.
The door buzzed open and Jared stepped in, feeling instant relief as the marble hall still managed to retain its coolness. Unfortunately, his happy disposition didn’t last long when Jared realized there weren’t any elevators.
“Oh fuck,” he muttered and took the smallest handheld upstairs first, fervently hoping that someone from the team would take pity on him and help him with the other three.
The door to the rental was open so Jared took a step in only to be stopped by a wall of heat.
“What … how…” Jared looked around to see Chris looking composed and relaxed, sitting on a sofa. Jensen was too busy chugging down cold water to answer Jared’s stumble of a question.
“What - how?” Chris echoed mockingly.
“This place is supposed to be air conditioned!” Jared yelped, dropping his bag.
“Looks like it’s either broken or you were lied to,” Jensen said.
“Can’t be,” Jared countered. “Jake would never do that to me!”
Chris threw open his arms and said, “Well, something went haywire!”
“Oh man,” Jared whimpered and stepped into the apartment.
“Is that all your luggage?” Jensen asked, throwing a questioning look at Chris.
Jared narrowed his eyes towards Chris and said, “No, I got few more. I was hoping you guys could help me bring them up.”
“I’ll help,” Jensen said. He turned to Chris and ordered, “See what you can do. If this place really has air conditioning then the unit has to be somewhere around here. They wouldn’t dare place it on the roof.”
“All right.” Chris didn’t budge from the seat. Instead he smiled and sat back as if to watch them trek up and down with Jared’s luggage.
Jensen let out a bark of laughter when he saw the pile waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. “Do you really think you’re going to get a chance to wear all these clothes?!”
Jared gave a small shrug of embarrassment. “I like to be prepared.”
“I’m too afraid to ask for what,” Jensen quipped. He picked up the second largest bag along with a carry-on, leaving the largest suitcase for Jared.
The two men trudged up the thin marble steps whose centers were carved into dips because of centuries of usage.
They were halfway up when the front door opened below.
“Hey, there you are,” Chad said as he jogged up to them.
“Where’s the painting?” Jensen asked.
“I stashed it somewhere safe,” Chad answered. “I didn’t want it anywhere near us until the night of the job.”
“Sounds good,” Jensen answered. He took a look at Chad’s backpack. “Is that all you brought?”
“Dude, it’s Italy. Why in hell would I want to bring clothes here when I can buy them?”
Jared felt a rush of temptation to kick Chad down the marble stairs.
Chad continued to jog up the steps and left them with a jaunty “See you at the top!”
Jared regretted resisting the violent urge and managed to give a feeble snarl instead.
“We can’t kill him, we need him,” Jensen said.
“Seriously? Is he really that necessary for this?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Jensen’s lips quirked into a smile. “But after the job’s done - he’s all yours.”
“Christmas is going to come early for me,” Jared said cheerfully. However his good mood faded the moment they entered the flat. The two men unceremoniously dumped the bags by the door and made a beeline to the fridge.
“Oh my God, this is the pits,” Chad complained as he vigorously fanned himself with a straw hat.
Jared rolled his eyes and took a chug from the water bottle. “It’s August in Italy, you moron. This is when the natives all head for the shores or the mountains.”
“Dumb me: I thought hey, ten-thousand-dollars-a-week pad? A fucking air conditioner…”
Chad didn’t finish his sentence as a loud hum droned over their heads. It was followed closely by a cool blast of air.
All the men in the room closed their eyes and sighed blissfully. Chris came into the den and said,
“Sorry it took so long. Man, the wiring in this pad’s complete shit.” He chugged down half a liter of bottle of Pellegrino and grinned. “I thought this stuff was too foofy but it’s starting to grow on me.”
“And now you know how bad the wiring could be, no matter how expensive or updated the place is,” Jensen said.
“So we should expect more of the same with Landau’s place?” Jared asked.
“Palace,” Jensen corrected. “She owns the entire building.”
“But that’s good, right?” Jared asked. “Aren’t those places usually right next to a canal?”
“Yeah, but the odds are good that the broad…” Chad caught Jared’s hard glare and corrected, “… lady had blocked all the usual entries when she moved in.”
“Maybe not everything,” Chris said. “Venice floods practically every year, and unless she wants her palace to be under half a ton of sewage water, she has to make sure the drainage systems work.”
“Which brings us back to the first problem,” Jensen said. “We also need to scope out her people.”
“Shouldn’t we find more about her place first?” Jared asked cautiously.
“Actually, no. The more men there are, the more eyes around to spot us. Nowadays, the guards will all be outfitted with cameras alongside their earpieces. So even if we do take down their surveillance system, they could still take photos of us.” Jensen shook his head. “I can’t afford to have my picture taken.”
“Okay, I can understand that,” Jared said. “So find out how many scary men she hired, and what they do for her.”
“After that we could scope out the place,” Chad added with an agreeable shrug.
Chris shook his head. “No, we don’t need to waste precious time for that. Chad could tail the men and I’ll tag the palace. It shouldn’t be that hard.”
“How could that not be hard?” Chad looked at Chris. “The thing’s a fortress.”
“I’ll find a way,” Chris answered. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You just follow the guards and see what they up to.”
“Consider it done.” Chad peeled himself away from the open fridge. “I’ll call if anything interesting crops up.”
Chad disappeared while talking busily into his cell. To Jared’s astonishment Chad’s Italian sounded nearly flawless.
“He’s the best,” Jensen explained. “In spite of his outwardly demeanor, Chad’s a bona fide genius. He’s fluent in ten languages, Mandarin included.”
Jared turned to Jensen. “So … why … why…”
“So, why is he in my world?” Jensen asked. “I never bothered to ask. From what I understand there was a girl, a misunderstanding, and a whole lot of heartbreak.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Chris said. “Look, I better get going too. I’m going to check and see if Landau has any scheduled maintenance coming up. It makes sense to do it during August since supply and demand’s to her favor.”
“Take care,” Jensen said. “Be careful.”
“Don’t worry about me!” Chris cheerfully exclaimed over his right shoulder.
Day Twenty-Five
Chad drank his wine, surreptitiously eyeing the two men at the bar. Though this was officially called a wine bar, it was really a hole in the wall, and the wall being more than five hundred years old - there were quite a few holes.
The bar itself fit only fifteen people and the menu was limited. But the locals didn’t come here to dine: they came to talk. And after a bottle of wine, the two men were talking freely. Chad listened all the while reading his phone. To the rest of the clientele, he was like any other tourist, smarter than most to patronize the local hangout after having heard about the place.
Chad sipped his prosecco and quietly munched on his order of toast with pickled sardines. All the while filing away the information the two men were trading.
“You’d think with all her money, she would try to at least attempt to find a decent engineer to fix the air system!”
The smaller of the two grunted and rolled his eyes. Then, with an unpleasant smirk he said, “She’s a Jew, and you know what they’re like.”
“Is she Jewish? I thought she was a Russian hostess girl who married up.”
“Who in hell knows,” the older one grumbled. “I can’t breathe whenever I’m on the third floor!”
“I fall on my knees and give thanks whenever I’m on the fourth. At least the air conditioning there works!”
“The money-grubber knows better than to mistreat her art. They are worth millions.”
“Ugly things, though. Maybe not the Renoir but that Van Gogh is a blasphemy. If given a choice, I’d toss it into the canal with a smile on my face.”
“It’s modern art, though I wouldn’t call it art. Let’s go, our break’s almost over.”
Chad leaned against the front glass window and watched them disappear to the right. He counted to twenty before following them. He always kept fifteen paces behind the men, and since he was following them through Venice, it was easy to dodge behind tourists. He watched them enter a beautiful building, outstanding in a sea of breathless architectural masterpieces. But Chad’s sharp eyes noticed the reinforced doors and windows. He spotted couple of thin wires running above a window frame yellowed with age and knew as old as the wood was, it was also wired to the hilt.
Pressure sensors, probably, Chad guessed. Though I don’t know if they would also have vibration calibrators since it’s next to a busy canal.
Chad dared not hesitate any longer. He strolled away, leisurely looking at the rest of the buildings and comparing them with a tour book he’d bought in the States.
“We were expecting that,” Jensen said after listening to Chad’s report. “The artwork has to be in a temperature controlled environment.”
“But only that floor,” Chris said. “Which means she’s smart. She knows better than to try that for the entire palace. So, she’s focused on that floor.”
“I bet her bedroom is on the fourth floor, also,” Jensen guessed. “And her safe’s there, too.”
“That’s good news,” Chris said.
“How?” Jared asked. Then he blurted out, “Wait a minute … okay, I think I know.”
Jensen smiled. “Okay, why is it good news?”
“Because the alarm system’s wired equally to both the safe and her gallery,” Jared answered. “If you could compromise the one to the safe…”
“The one to the gallery’s also shot to shit,” Jensen finished. “But we can’t be sure.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Chris said. “But I have something lined up.”
“Care to share?” Chad asked with a lazy smile. “The tension is killing me.”
“There’s a private electrical company in Mestre whose head of business is an American. The firm’s got very good reputation and services a lot of the hoity-toity on this side of the Laguna. I’m thinking Landau’s one of their clients or will be since a lot of the other companies are on their vacations right now.”
“Sucks to work for an American,” Jensen chimed in. “You got a plan on how to get in?”
“Been working on that for since before I landed,” Chris said. “I’m suppose to meet the guy for an interview of sorts in a couple of days.”
“Dinner interview?” Jared asked.
“Nothing that fancy: just sharing some grappa,” Chris answered.
“You’re going to get the guy hammered so he’d offer you a job?” Jared asked, smiling.
“Something like that,” Chris’ smile turned Cheshire Cat-like. “Make him all nostalgic with my good ol’ boy accent.”
“That’s if he likes good ol’ boys,” Jensen cautioned.
“Oh he does,” Chris answered. “I tapped into his e-mail. He constantly writes to his brothers about how much he misses Kansas City barbeques. It’s kind of sad, actually.”
“I know you hate to hear it, but be careful,” Jensen said. “You don’t have a record but people know you.”
“Don’t I feel flattered,” Chris shot back. He stood up, grabbed his cowboy hat and said, “I’m going to do some more scouting. Take care of the competition if need be.”
Jared waited until Chris was out of the room before asking, “Dare I ask what ‘taking care of competition’ means?”
“Sabotage, nothing spectacular,” Jensen said.
“Not in Toledo,” Chad said. “That made the six o’clock news.”
“Okay, not Toledo,” Jensen conceded. “But he had cause.”
“How did you meet him?” Jared asked.
“He nearly killed me,” Jensen answered promptly.
“What?”
“He was a private bodyguard for a rich couple out of Miami. As it turned out the two were desperate for money. They had a lot of artwork but didn’t want to part with it. So, they decided to pull the oldest scam around: steal from themselves.”
Jared winced. “And they found you?”
Jensen nodded. “Yeah, they hired a stooge to get me to steal their collection. Chris had no idea what was going on until they told him to frame me for the theft and then feed my body to the gators.
“He worked me over pretty good when he caught me, but then he had to. Mr. and Mrs. Sociopaths were watching. He kept up the pretense and put my unconscious ass into the trunk of his car in order to drive me to a dumping ground. And kept on driving until we reached Shreveport.”
“Let me guess, he tipped off the insurance people?”
Jensen nodded. “After that we became friends. So, I call him up whenever I need someone like him.”
“It’s almost a cliché, if you think about it,” Jared said.
Jensen grinned and nodded, “A classic. But hey, I’m not complaining.”
“So I can’t either is what you’re saying.”
“Exactly. The guy’s got the largest pair,” Chad said. “No one can argue with that. I wish I could be there to see how Chris is going to charm his way into the company. It’s not every day that you see him brush up on his ‘p’s’ and ‘q’s’ instead of a pair of brass knuckles.”
“Me too,” Jensen confessed. “But it would be best if he doesn’t have an audience. He might think we don’t trust him if he sees one of us hanging around.”
“You mean he’ll think I or Jared won’t trust him,” Chad corrected.
“Something like that.”
“And I know better than piss him off,” Chad said. He finished his glass of wine and stretched. “I’m going to take a siesta then go out for the evening. Paul and Alfonso are going to a party tonight, and from what I hear it’s going to be fantastic.”
“You got an invite?” Jared asked.
“Of course. I’d be slacking if I didn’t have their entire social itinerary memorized after tailing them.”
“Have fun,” Jensen said, “And try not to pick their pockets.”
“How’d you think I know what their calendar looks like?”
With that repost, Chad left for his bedroom which, unsurprisingly, was the most luxurious out of the entire apartment.
“You’re definitely right: he does earn his keep,” Jared said somberly though his eyes were shining with amusement. “He doesn’t act it, makes it seem so easy, but the truth is he’s the master.”
“Which is why it looks so easy.” Jensen picked up the empty glasses and dumped them in the garbage to be disposed of that evening. He wanted to leave behind the least number of traceable materials in the apartment. “I thought he was all bullshit until I saw him in action. He actually managed to tag a CIA operative in Helsinki. And then kept up with the guy for the entire time he was there.”
“CIA?”
“Yeah, and that’s not Culinary Institute of America I’m talking about.” Jensen shook his head in wonder as he remembered the incident. “I’ve never seen anything like it. After that particular demonstration I never questioned his fees again.”
“You got an interesting crew here.”
“That’s because my jobs are never boring,” Jensen said. “People think art theft is this huge romantic claptrap but the truth is just the opposite. It’s usually fucking dull, and chance more than experience makes or breaks the deal.”
“I have to ask - you never stole from a museum?” Jared leaned forward eagerly.
Jensen plopped into a sofa and threw his head back. “No, no, and no.”
“Why? There’s so much money…”
“Three words: Isabella Stewart Gardner.”
Jared frowned; the name sounded familiar. Then he remembered. “Wait, the heist?”
“1990, the biggest art heist in twentieth century, though the Louvre would like to hold onto that prize since it was Mona Lisa that got stolen.”
“Wait a minute: what?!”
“You didn’t know?” Jensen looked taken back by his friend’s ignorance. “Seriously?”
“Hell no! She got stolen?”
“Went missing for two years. As it turned out, a museum employee took it. And you’re going to love this: he practically waltzed out the front door with it under his coat.
“A lot of people believe the museum never put the original back on display because they’re too scared she’d get stolen again.”
“Wow,” Jared pondered for a moment. “So about Isabella Stewart Gardner?”
“When it happened, the backlash was immediate and huge. I don’t think the thieves calculated how badly the public would react to the theft. Then something happened that they honestly couldn't predict, and probably sealed their fate.
“The internet.”
Jared nodded. “The information got spread to every corner on earth.”
“Exactly, and the people these thieves pissed off? Major players in the government, the law enforcement, and every academic who had any juice. They’re on every hit list. The reward is suppose to be five mil but I think the actual amount might be twice that if the Vermeer is found.”
“So you don’t want to swim in those waters,” Jared concluded.
“Too many sharks, and it’s iffy on the buyer side too.”
“Which is why you do only commissioned thefts.”
“Yep,” Jensen said. “There are few buyers who are willing to spend millions and I mean millions on stolen artwork by the masters. And from what I’ve heard they’re uniformly scary sons of bitches. Tin pot dictators, organized crime, and sociopaths with multiple bank accounts including Cyprus. Expensive art is also the fastest growing commodity in the terrorism industry. It’s better than cash and a lot easier to transport.”
“Okay, I guess that makes sense.” Jared thought over for a moment and said, “So, smaller paycheck but smarter crew and less trigger-happy buyers.”
“Also, insurance companies tend to get more involved than law enforcement when it comes to art theft: sad for the victims but good for thieves like me. These guys are willing to take certain risks but they’re not stupid. And they’re certainly not going to waste their employer’s money tracking down a painting across the globe if the painting is worth less than two hundred thousand or insured for that amount.
“Another words, they got a cap system - they’ll spend certain amount of money for certain valuables. Not a penny more unlike the FBI let’s say. But, lucky for me, FBI is nothing like Interpol. And they sure as hell don’t spend money like Interpol when it comes to stolen art.”
“So you’ve been working mostly on our side of the Atlantic,” Jared concluded. “Smart.”
“More cautious than smart, but hey - kept me out of handcuffs so I’m not going to complain.”
“So what happened?” Jared asked. “I remember you saying you were out of commission for a while.”
Jensen’s lips thinned in distaste. “It was the Miami job. Chris worked me over pretty thoroughly before he could get me out. Unfortunately he damaged my right hip so I had to go heal up. It took a while.”
Jared forced himself not to sneak a glance at Jensen’s hips. “Are you physically capable of pulling off this job?”
“Yeah, it’ll be difficult but I’ve had harder cases before,” Jensen answered. “The most worrisome thing is the aftermath. If the Landau woman believes she has the original and that was replaced, then she might make a huge fuss.”
Jared’s eyes widened; he hadn’t even considered that scenario. “Wait a minute - so she’ll report a robbery?”
“Yeah, and before you ask, it’s happened before. Then a boatload of agencies could get involved.” Jensen sat on the chair across from Jared. “Are you sure you have the original? That your dad wasn’t fucked over for some bizarre reason?”
“What?” Jared asked, hating how his voice trembled. “You mean his bosses gave him a fake to screw with his head?”
“Pretty much,” Jensen placed a cautious hand on Jared’s knee. “Think about it: would these people do something like that?”
“In a heartbeat,” Jared answered immediately. “I tried authenticating it myself but I … I didn’t know who to ask. My dad did it twice and both times the expert told him the Modigliani was genuine.”
“Okay,” Jensen said. “But I’d feel a lot better if we did it.”
“Now? How are we going to do that?”
“I can fly in someone from London,” Jensen said. “But it’s going to cost you.”
“Who is he?”
“Used to teach art back in the day, but fell by the wayside after a nasty divorce,” Jensen revealed reluctantly. “She’s good at what she does, and I trust her. Otherwise I wouldn’t think of bringing her in.”
“Do it.”
Day Twenty-Four
“So, Sam, what do you think?” Jensen asked, observing their guest poring over the Modigliani with cold briskness.
She stood up and shook her head. “I’d say it’s the real deal.” Professor Ferris turned to Jared and shook her head. “You know what this is, don’t you? I looked up on the Modigliani after I got the call: this one has a nasty history.”
“I know,” Jared said tersely. “I did my research.”
“Did you do any on Dark and Coogan?”
Jared had to pause at that. “No, I didn’t. Just on the painting and the Landau family.”
Sam bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “Those two were piece of work. I guess you could loosely call them war profiteers though that’d be generous description. They pulled the same fucking stunt they did on the Landau family all over Europe.”
“What?” Jared slowly stood up from his chair. “Are you serious?”
“Serious as a lawsuit,” Sam replied. “They fucked over six Jewish families from Amsterdam. Promised them safe crossing to Bergen, then turned them over to the Nazis at the dock. They did it to at least eleven families in Paris when the city fell in 1940. Dark led them out as far as city outskirts where they were all arrested by Nazi sympathizers who turned them over to their new masters.
“Did it again in Poland, too. And there - my God - the story’s so goddamn awful I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So that’s where they got their wealth,” Jensen said darkly, his face thunderous.
“Not really,” Sam said. “From what I know they had pretty healthy bank accounts all over the place including United States before they decided to buy express tickets to hell.”
“So you’re saying it wasn’t for the money?” Jared couldn’t imagine why anyone would betray humanity so thoroughly. At least greed was an answer of sorts. But to do it for nothing?
“I’m guessing they did it for stuff like your Modigliani,” Sam said. “Every time they offered their ‘services’, they asked for a family heirloom such as a painting or jewelry in return. And the weird thing was they didn’t ask for the best, either. I mean they could’ve afforded to blackmail their clients to give up everything they had, but they didn’t.
“A painting, a brooch, an engagement ring. Some of them weren’t as valuable as this painting either. Most of the time the families were only too glad to part ways with their belongings, thinking Dark and Coogan were actually decent men who only took what was necessary to pay their way to freedom.”
“What was the most valuable thing they took?” Jensen asked.
“A brooch,” Sam answered. “A Fabergé original of a carousel horse. It would fetch an easy seven million on the current market, considering what the other works went for in the last two years.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jared said hoarsely.
“I don’t think Jesus had anything to do with Dark or Coogan,” Sam said. “I came across those two years ago when my parents did some work for a private foundation that helped Jewish families try to recover their valuables. One of the survivors was from Poland and when she told me … you could never forget the names Dark and Coogan after that.”
Sam briskly packed her kit even as she took a long glance at the Modigliani. “You’re really planning to return that to the rightful family?”
“Yes,” Jared said. “I can’t wait to get it out of my hands.”
“Then good luck to you guys,” Sam said. She shook their hands. “I’ll light a prayer stick for you when I get back to London.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Jensen leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And double thanks for coming out so quickly.”
“My pleasure and that’s not bullshit by the way.” Sam gave a wink at Jared then left the apartment, her walk as brisk and assured as her manners.
“Who was the idiot who let Sam go?” Jared asked as he packed the Modigliani back into the linen bag.
“A complete ass,” Jensen answered promptly.
“Are you seeing her?”
Jensen turned to Jared with a wide grin. “Dude, I’m gay, remember?”
Jared turned beet red. “I wasn’t sure … you were a teenager! For all I knew you could’ve been experimenting. Or just pulling my leg!”
Jensen threw back his head and laughed. Jared stood, unable to move in fear of having Jensen giving away more details about his private life than Jared was comfortable with.
“No, I was sure I was gay when I came out to you,” Jensen said, “in Texas. Things haven’t changed since then.”
“Okay,” Jared said, dying to get away and equally curious to see if Jensen would reveal anything.
“Sam’s a good friend,” Jensen said. “I did a favor for her when her marriage soured.”
Jared narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute - she was your client?”
“Not really, she couldn’t afford my fees, but when I found out what the douchebag of an ex got from her after the divorce - well, I just couldn’t sit by and do nothing.”
Jared grinned broadly. “Oh my God, you pulled a Robin Hood.”
Jensen flipped him a bird and said, “Shut up.”
“Holy shit! And it wasn’t your first time either, was it?!” Jared crowed. “Oh man, you are a complete dork, you know that?!”
“Hey, these pro bono cases I’m doing are damn interesting and keep me on my toes.”
“Pro bono?” Now it was Jared’s turn to laugh.
Jensen didn’t chastise him any further. Instead, he allowed himself to bask in Jared’s warm laughter.
Sam called her contact as soon as she got to her hotel room. “It’s me. And yes, it’s the Modigliani.”
“What are they planning to do with it?” a deep melodious voice asked from the other end.
“Believe it or not, Jeff, they’re going to return it to her.”
“Sam, I have no patience…”
“Jeff!” Sam cut in sharply. “I’m not joking! They’re going to give it back to her but they want to make sure nothing traces back to Padalecki.”
“So … wait a minute, is that why Ackles is there?!”
Sam bit her tongue to prevent laughing at Jeff’s outrage. “Yes, Special Agent Morgan, that’s why Ackles is here. It seems Mr. Padalecki has expressly hired his services to return the painting without having Landau notice the switch.”
“Fuck me twice,” Jeff said, his voice noticeably softened by wonder. “I … I think I just saw a pig fly by my window.”
“Me too,” Sam agreed. “So what do you want to do next?”
“I’ve sent over a man to Venice today. He should arrive at your hotel before three. Give him all the intelligence you’ve gathered. We’ll take it from there.”
“Are you going to arrest them?”
“Well … since technically we have no jurisdiction in Italy I can’t see how,” Jeff confessed. “And I must admit - this is such a novel situation - I don’t see why we should. It’s not as if we’re suffering from lack of cases here.”
“Amen to that,” Sam said. “By the way, what’s your man’s name?”
“Steve Carlson,” Jeff said. “And you should know he doesn’t look like a company man. He’s been undercover for so long he looks like his alternate ego.”
“I understand,” Sam said. “I’ll be here.”
“Thanks a lot, Sam.”
Samantha Ferris waited for Carlson in her room, while dining on risotto and washing it down with a luxurious red wine. She watched tourist-choked gondolas and native-laden vaporettis navigate the canal in front of her hotel.
They really are going to return the Modigliani, Sam mused in wonder. I can’t figure out if they’re really that brave and honest or just completely stupid.
She pondered that problem until the knock on her front door. As Jeff had warned her, Steve Carlson definitely did not resemble a company man. In fact, if she had to pin the agent, it’d be as a second-grade meth dealer from the Midwest with his worn cowboy boots and oversized aviator sunglasses.
“Heya,” Steve said. “I hear you got something for me.”
Sam stepped aside to let him in. “Has your boss filled you in?”
Steve nodded. “Yep, got an earful before I left Kansas.”
“You’re about to get another earful,” Sam cautioned her guest. “By the way, have you contacted any other authorities?”
Steve shook his head. “No, I was specifically ordered not to by Morgan. I guess he didn’t want another fuckup like Montreal.”
Sam winced. “That was pretty bad. And he’s right: it pays to be cautious.”
“Nobody’s going to forget what happened,” Steve admitted. “And it’s been over a decade. Thank God the Canadians aren’t the type to hold a grudge!”
Sam grinned. The story was both funny and sad in that it revealed how slowly the bureaucracy at the FBI worked. Two FBI agents worked undercover sting operation in Canada along with the native law enforcement. The unit managed to successfully brought down a coven of thieves that had stolen thousands of coins from Harvard’s Fogg Museum. Unfortunately they were ordered back to Montreal for the trial. This presented a huge logistical and legal problem: if the agents obeyed, they’d be forced to blow their covers and their informants’ identities. The two men were literally standing outside the courtroom, ready to testify when someone in the Bureau finally got wind of what was happening. Seconds before they were called in, the agents were ordered to skip town, leaving behind a courtroom full of police officers, prosecutors, and an enraged judge to deal with their sudden disappearances.
This did not earn much good will from the gentler neighbors up north.
“Take a seat,” Sam said. “It won’t take long.”
It was a wishful prediction on Sam’s part. Because of Steve’s constant questions, two hours strummed along before Steve left.
By that time Sam had finished another bottle of red and was ready to fly back to London. She’d forgotten how big a headache it was to cooperate with law enforcement, especially the FBI. And though she had done it many times before, Sam vowed once more that she would never contact Morgan again.
A promise she knew she wouldn’t keep, and one that she suspected would amuse Morgan to no end if he ever found out.
Steve muttered few choice words as he circled the same fucking news kiosk for the third time. He looked at the map he had dutifully printed out when he’d gotten the assignment from Morgan. It showed very clearly where the guesthouse was located.
The map even had the names of the road it was on and the ones surrounding the b-n-b.
Unfortunately, the neighborhood had absolutely no street signs whatsoever. So Steve was relegated to winging it. Adding to that the jetlag he was laboring under, and Steve would’ve cheerfully choked the Easter Bunny if it meant finding his room.
Finally, after passing the kiosk for the fourth time, Steve gave up and approached the gummy pensioner manning the newspaper stand.
Though the guy couldn’t speak a lick of English, he knew exactly where the small guesthouse was located and even escorted Steve to the place which stood at the corner of the square, not thirty feet from his livelihood.
Steve didn’t know whether to laugh at his luck or just curse, but after taking a deep breath, he decided that losing his temper was not the best way to end his day.
So, he strolled into the cool house and found a comfortably overweight grandmother manning the battered front desk.
“Hello!” she cried out in perfect English.
“Good afternoon,” Steve replied in a respectful tone. “My name’s Carlson?”
“Oh yes, I was waiting for you.” She frowned a little. “I was expecting you earlier. Did you have trouble at the airport?”
Steve couldn’t help but laugh a little. “No, but I had a little problem finding this place.”
She winced and said in a knowing tone, “Oh, you had a map, didn’t you?”
Steve nodded tiredly. “I thought it’d help.”
“Those Google things are next to useless when it comes to Venice. Best to make friendly with the natives. That way you don’t end up circling the restaurant or the hotel five or six times without success.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Steve was proud he was able to keep all trace of irony out of his voice.
“Come, let me show you your room. By the way, my name is Maria Linney.”
“Linney?” Steve asked, not masking his surprise.
“My husband was a G.I. who was stationed in Rome. I married him then convinced him to stay. We opened this place after retiring.”
“Is he here?” Steve was already getting nostalgic for the English language after spending only few hours away from his fellow countrymen.
“No, he passed away some time ago,” Maria answered. “Bless him. Had the sweetest soul. I could never figure out why Ben thought he’d make a good soldier.”
Steve didn’t say anything and just followed Maria as she led him to the second floor. His bedroom faced away from the canal but there was just enough breeze for him to cool down. In fact, after a quick shower, Steve actually felt something akin to a human being.
He strolled downstairs to find Maria waiting for him. “I though you might like something to eat. Marco, the newspaper stand’s owner, told me what happened to you earlier.”
Steve blushed, and if his stomach hadn’t been emptied for hours, he’d probably resent Marco’s tattling of him. But he was hungry and light-headed from his journey, so instead Steve gave his most charming smile and nodded.
“Come,” Maria said. She led him to a tiny but lovely courtyard where a small iron-wrought table was waiting for its single guest.
Steve almost groaned when he saw the amount of food waiting for him. A plate of pasta, a large bowl of tiny pan-fried fishes, another equally large bowl containing roasted artichokes, and a bottle of red wine which he knew would complement the food spectacularly.
“Thank you,” he whispered fervently.
“Ben told me the best way to earn an American’s trust is to feed him.”
“He was one-hundred-percent correct.”
“Sit down and eat. I’ll bring you some water,” Maria said as she shooed him to the chair. “Do you want beer instead?”
Steve was sorely tempted but shook his head.
“I’ll be back.”
Steve waited until Maria disappeared before checking his iPhone. As Morgan had promised, there were hourly updates from his office. He flipped through few screens before catching Maria’s footfall.
The tired FBI agent decided to treat himself and not read anything. Instead, he focused on the spread in front of him. It took him an hour to finish and then, with Maria’s recommendation, strolled around the working-class neighborhood, which he’d learned was fast becoming a thing of the past thanks to the tourism industry that fueled Venice’s economy.
Steve returned to his room near midnight, after some of the stifling heat had dissipated. Only then did he read the material sent by his office.
Steve concluded that Ackles and his gang were certifiable nutcases. Either that or they were genuinely bored and decided to pull a stunt that Steve had never even heard about.
Are these jokers serious? They’re going to break into a palace to return a painting?
Steve had to admit that, in spite of everything, he was glad the case was assigned to him. It wasn’t every day he was going to witness something this spectacular.
Spectacular or one huge fucking mess in the making. But if this crew succeeds, it’s going to top the Gardner heist. And ain’t that something?
Steve took the special drink that Maria had offered when he’d returned from his stroll. It was sweet dessert wine and paired excellently with the cheese plate she’d left in his room as a late night snack.
For seventy-nine euros, this place is a goddamn bargain. I might just come back here for my vacation next year!
Part II * Part IV