“Marco and Antonio are the best,” Gunther Hartog had assured him. “They’re both world class at what they do.”
And what exactly do they do, Gunther? Jeff thought now. Hang out in bars looking like the strongman from a traveling circus and blow off important meetings? Worse than that, someone had obviously been bragging about the planned heist. Jeff had heard whispers almost the moment he got off the plane. He knew he hadn’t said anything, and Gunther was far too discreet. Which only left one of these clowns.
Jeff waited for a woman to walk by before whispering in Marco’s ear.
“Everything has to be ready by tomorrow night. You both need to know your roles inside out. Wednesday is our one shot to do this, you do realize that?”
“Of course.”
“There can be no more delays.”
“Don’t worry, my friend.” The mustachioed man smiled broadly. “We have completed many such jobs in Roma in the past. Very many.”
“Not like this you haven’t,” said Jeff. “I’ll see you both at ten. Don’t be late.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, IN bed, he turned on his laptop and reread the file Gunther had sent him on Roberto Klimt. Revulsion and anger swept through him again, hardening his resolve.
A notorious predator, Klimt had sexually abused and raped two young Gypsy boys two years ago. Posing as a wealthy mentor who could offer them an education and a better life, he had paid the boys’ mother a thousand euros to have them accompany him on a tour of Europe. The older child reported Klimt to the authorities on their return to Rome, but thanks to the art dealer’s connections and deep pockets, the case never made it to trial. A few weeks later, rejected by their own families thanks to some obscure Roma honor code, the boys leaped from the roof of a tenement building to their deaths. They were ten and twelve years old.
Jeff would never forget Wilbur Trawick, the disgusting old tarot-card reader at his uncle Willie’s carnival. Wilbur had abused countless carnie kids before he made a pass at Jeff, who had ended the old man’s career with a deftly placed knee to groin. Wilbur Trawick had been grotesque, but he had never wielded the kind of power of a man like Roberto Klimt. Klimt knew that the law couldn’t touch him.
But I can, thought Jeff. I’m going to hit him where it hurts.
He prayed Gunther was right about Marco and Antonio, that they wouldn’t let him down. Jeff’s plan was bold and daring, but it required absolute precision timing, and it could not be done alone.
Klimt’s security team was SAS standard. Thanks to somebody’s loose lips, they already knew that Nero’s bowl was a target.
Jeff felt the adrenaline begin to pump through his veins.
It was on.
“HIS NAME IS JEFF Stevens and he’s posing as an art dealer.”
Roberto Klimt was irritated. He was supposed to be at his country house by now, enjoying a professional blow job from his beautiful new boy. Instead he was still in Rome, locked in a meeting with the head of his security team, a fat, middle-aged man with sweat patches the size of dinner plates under each arm.
“He’s checked in at the Russie under the name ‘Duval.’ ”
“So? Have him arrested,” Klimt snapped. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
“Unfortunately he has not yet committed a crime. The police have an irritating reluctance to arrest apparently innocent foreign citizens going about their business.”
“Are you tailing him?”
The security expert looked affronted. “Of course. It appears he is planning to hit the apartment. He met with one of the top safe crackers in Southern Europe yesterday, Marco Rizzolio.”
Roberto Klimt thought for a while.
“Should we move the bowl today? As an additional precaution?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. I want to make sure the transit is totally secure. Angelo’s sick, so I’m still vetting the new driver. But we can move it tomorrow. That’s a day earlier than planned and should be enough to throw off our Mr. Stevens and his friend.”
Roberto Klimt stretched and yawned, like a bored cat. “I’ll stay another night too, in that case. I don’t like to leave it here in the apartment without me. I’ll also put in a call to my friends at the police department. See if we can’t nudge them a little.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Klimt. My team and I can handle this. To be frank, police involvement may do more harm than good.”
“I don’t doubt that you are taking the necessary precautions. But I want to see this Jeff Stevens character spend the rest of his life in an Italian jail. For that, we need the Polizia. It will all be off the record, don’t worry.”
He picked up the phone and began to dial.
JEFF CALLED GUNTHER.
“I have a bad feeling about this job. Something’s wrong.”
“My dear boy, you always have a bad feeling the night before. It’s stage fright, nothing more.”
“Your guys, Marco and Antonio. You trust them?”
“Completely. Why?”
Jeff told Gunther about the rumors that were sweeping through Rome’s underworld. “Someone’s leaking like a sieve. I’ve had to change the plan twice already. You should see that apartment! Dogs, laser tracking, armed guards. Klimt sleeps with the bowl at night like it’s his teddy bear. They’re waiting for us.”
“Good,” said Gunther.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Do the police know anything?”
“No. All quiet on that front.”
“Even better.”
“Yeah, but we need to move quickly. Even the Italians will wake up and smell the espresso eventually.”
“So when . . . ?”
“Tomorrow. I just hope Antonio’s up to it. He seems so laissez-faire about the whole thing, but if anyone recognizes him in that car . . .”
“You’ll be fine, Jeff.”
Gunther hung up. Jeff wished he felt reassured.
You can still pull out, he told himself. It’s not too late.
Then he thought about the two little Roma boys. It was too late for them.
Go to hell, Roberto Klimt. Tomorrow’s the day.
“TOMORROW’S THE DAY.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Police chief Luigi Valaperti tapped his desk nervously. His source had better be right. Roberto Klimt was not a man Chief Valaperti wished to disappoint, under any circumstances. His predecessor had retired three years ago to a palatial apartment in Venice, bought and paid for by the art dealer. Chief Valaperti already had his eye on a villa outside Pisa. Or more accurately, his wife did. He and his mistress preferred the two-bedroom love nest overlooking the Colosseum, a deal at under two million euros. Klimt probably has bigger dry-cleaning bills. But Luigi Valaperti wasn’t greedy.
“His henchmen are doing the legwork,” the source went on. “You can catch them in the act, make yourself a hero, then pick up Stevens at the airport later. He’ll be trying to board the eight P.M. BA flight to London.”
“Without the bowl?”
“He’ll have the bowl. Or what he thinks is the bowl. We know the drop-off location, so you can plant a decoy.”
Chief Valaperti frowned. “And exactly how did you come by this information? How do I know we can trust . . .”
The line went dead.
ROBERTO KLIMT GAZED OUT of the tinted window of his armored town car as they left the city behind. The hills around Rome, dotted with poplar trees and firs and ancient villas whose terra-cotta-tiled roofs balanced precariously atop crumbling stone walls, had barely changed since the Emperor Nero’s day. Cupping the gold bowl lovingly in his hands, Klimt imagined that legendary, insane, all-powerful man making this very same journey, leaving the stresses of Rome behind for the peace and pleasures of the countryside. Roberto Klimt felt a sublime kinship with Nero in this moment. The priceless gold artifact in his lap belonged to him for a reason. It was meant to be his. The pleasure and pride that that one bowl brought him was immense.
He wondered when, exactly, “Anthony Duval” and his accomplices would make their move on his apartment. Roberto Klimt imagined the scene. The alarms ringing out across the Via Veneto, the metal grilles slamming shut, the police, already waiting in force in the surrounding streets and alleyways, moving in for the kill. He smiled.
Chief Valaperti was a stupid man, but he knew on which side his bread was buttered. He had wisely diverted considerable resources to catching these vicious thieves, even though he knew that the bowl itself was safe. Roberto Klimt was looking forward to meeting the audacious Mr. Jeff Stevens in person. Perhaps at his trial? Or later, in the privacy of Jeff’s prison cell. Apparently Stevens had outwitted some of the finest galleries, jewelers and museums in the world during his long criminal career, along with a prestigious smattering of private collectors.
He met his match with me, Roberto Klimt thought smugly.