A Legitimate Businessman

by Dale Nelson

  “Is Hassar an option?” Rusty asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell him about LeGrande. Likely, he’ll just take out the bastard as a precaution.”

  Jack had considered that as well, but he had always stopped short having Reginald killed. Jack abhorred violence of any kind. He had never practiced it and wouldn’t work with people who plied it in their trade. There was a cold, easy logic to what Rusty was suggesting. It seemed the only logical response to a betrayal at such a fundamental level, and yet Jack couldn’t bring himself to do it. This was still taking a human life. For as much as crime and violence were romanticized, even glamorized, in popular culture, it was a line that Jack knew he would not, could not ever cross.

  He chose a different rationale in his response to Rusty, though he suspected the ex-cop knew the truth. “Hassar came to me because he wanted this done quietly. I can’t go to him and say that someone else knows about the job.”

  “But someone does know about the job, Jack.” Rusty’s phone buzzed. He checked it and then set it back on the table, face down. “Okay, my crew is about five minutes away. You two need to get out of here now. Enzo, you’re in no condition to drive. I’ll take you somewhere to lay low for a bit until you’re well enough to drive on your own. Just stay out of sight until I’m ready to leave. It won’t be long. Jack, I’ll put some feelers out, and if Reginald does give you up to the FBI, I should be able to find out about it. Meantime, try to think of anything else you’ve got on him.” They stood and began walking back inside. Rusty put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Maybe I can run some interference once he contacts the bureau, try to preemptively discredit him.”

  “Jack,” Enzo said, suddenly sounding lucid. “What happens if you don’t come back?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You said Hassar is broke and was doing this to make his money back.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “What if he decides, once he’s got the diamonds, that he’d like to have that thirty million too?”

  “Well,” Jack said and drew in a long breath of warm, fragrant summer air, “if that happens you’ll be in the same place as you are now, broke and with a bullet wound. But you’ll be alive.”

  Jack entered the house and avoided the kitchen, instead moving through the dining room and around through the living room to the den, hallway, and finally the master bedroom where he collected his bag. Rusty caught up with him when he was climbing into the GranTurismo.

  Rusty handed him a flip phone inside a Ziploc bag.

  “This is a totally clean phone with no GPS. There’s one number in it, which is mine. Use this only to call me. Break it apart and toss it in the trash when you leave Rome.”

  Jack nodded and tossed it on the front seat next to his bag and the motorcycle case.

  Jack drove.

  For once, he wanted to stay in a place that someone didn’t set up for him—one that couldn’t be compromised.

  He traveled across town to the St. Regis, valeted the Maserati took his two pieces of luggage to the hotel desk and he asked for whatever they had available. There was a suite for fifteen hundred a night.

  Perfect.

  Jack handed the woman behind the counter Frank Fischer’s credit card and passport. He also told her that he was here on a sensitive negotiation for his business and would appreciate discretion if anyone called asking about him. She understood. It was a common request given the number of celebrities that often stayed there. Before he left, he asked for an eight a.m. wake-up call.

  Jack went to his room and fell into one of the deepest, blackest sleeps of his life.

  Fifteen

  Jack woke on the hotel staff’s fourth wake-up call.

  He asked room service to send up breakfast and a pot of coffee. While he waited for breakfast, Jack stretched out on the floor and went through a yoga routine to loosen up. After breakfast, Jack took a shower, bringing the case of Carlton jewels with him into the bathroom. After the events of the past two days, he was not letting them out of his sight.

  At ten a.m., he finally powered on his phone and called Hassar, or rather, Hassar’s lieutenant. His actual number two, not the army of executive functionaries, like Arshavin. This was an undisclosed number, likely on a cell phone that would be smashed and discarded after this call. Hassar’s assistant, if that really was the right way to think of him, told Jack to meet them at the Rome Cavalieri Hotel. The assistant would meet Jack in the lobby himself and escort Jack to the penthouse suite.

  Jack wore his cream-colored suit with a robin’s egg Oxford, a blue-and-gold striped tie and his McQueens. The Beretta was tucked inside the glove box. Jack knew he’d be searched as soon as he got into Hassar’s hotel room—that was to be expected—but if the events of the past twenty-four hours had taught him anything, he wasn’t making the trip across town empty-handed. Jack allowed himself to be caught off guard last night. That wouldn’t happen again.

  Jack took a circuitous route across town, doubling back several times and making turns that would have confounded the GPS in his phone if he’d had that on. Luckily for him, Rome was a city he knew well.

  He arrived at the Rome Cavalieri at 10:40. Jack guided the GranTurismo counterclockwise through the wide roundabout that circled a perfectly manicured garden with trees and a small pavilion designed to look like an ancient Roman structure with a triangular roof supported by columns. The hotel itself was a massive, sprawling structure set in the center of a fifteen-acre park overlooking central Rome. Lush, leafy plants hung from each of the hotel’s three hundred seventy private balconies to appear like an ancient hanging garden. Prior to the hotel’s acquisition by the Hilton chain and subsequent inclusion in their Waldorf-Astoria collection, the Cavalieri sported one of the finest art collections in Italy.

  Jack stepped out of the car with the case in hand, accepted the valet ticket, and told the valet that he was not a guest, would not be staying long, and would prefer if his car were kept out front. He handed the man a twenty Euro note to make sure that happened and then walked around the front of the vehicle as he fastened his jacket. He entered the lobby. It was ostentatious, even for his taste.

  The central lobby sat beneath a ring of large, globe-shaped lamps, though the ring itself was also lit. Four huge, white marble columns just inside the ring linked the floor with the slightly vaulted wood ceiling. The bank of reception and concierge desks sat along the far walls beneath banks of recessed lighting, over which hung Renaissance paintings. Jack allowed himself a smirk when he noted that the floors were a similar style to the Carlton InterContinental in Cannes, golden marble with ivory accents. Burdette walked quickly to the center of the lobby beneath that giant ring of lights. He was absolutely on edge but considerably less so than if they were meeting in a truly private location. A double cross was certainly possible, but his initial, albeit natural, fear of it being a lethal encounter abated somewhat knowing that they were in one of the most exclusive hotels in Rome, if not the world. One could likely pay to keep a high profile tryst secret in a place like this, a murder not so much.

  Still, betrayals didn’t always end in body counts.

  It was a risk, Jack knew, but one he would have to live with.

  “Mr. Burdette?”

  Jack turned to the heavily accented voice. He wore a gray suit, open collared with no ornamentation, no cufflinks or pocket square. It was well made, as were his black oxfords, but simple. He was naturally tanned, close-cropped blond hair and eyes whose color were hard for Jack to place in the dark lobby. The man said, “Follow me, please.”

  Jack noted that he did not introduce himself.

  Jack followed the man in the gray suit to a bank of elevators where he produced a key card and pressed the button for the penthouse suite. They rode up in silence, but Jack’s mind was far from quiet. He was nervous for all of the expected reasons and a few that were not. This wasn’t a business built on trust, it was built on the tolerance of risk. Jack k
new he couldn’t trust Hassar not to kill him and save the payout. He’d simply calculated that the mogul would not. If Hassar was going to do it, it wasn’t going to be here at the rooftop of Rome.

  The elevator stopped on the top floor. Hassar’s man stepped into the hallway and began walking, saying only, “This way, please.”

  Jack followed.

  The man stopped at a door after several steps and again produced the key card, this time holding the door open for Jack. When Burdette looked to him, the man simply nodded, and Jack stepped into the suite. The doorway opened to the corner of a short hallway so that anyone entering the room couldn’t immediately see into it. Hassar’s assistant stepped around Jack and walked into the living room. There was a wet bar to his right set inside a beautifully designed wood cabinet that occupied most of that side of the room. Two men, similarly dressed as his nameless guide, sat on a plush couch watching the television that Jack saw was to his immediate right. The men on the couch looked up at him as he entered to register, but not acknowledge, his presence.

  Hassar’s assistant stepped into the living room and motioned with his hand for Jack to follow, indicating to a carpeted stairway set into the wall. The landing was a wide, rounded step, and each subsequent step was slightly smaller until they twisted around the corner and disappeared. Jack caught a glimpse of the bedroom as he stepped into the staircase. There was a Warhol on the wall. It was the “dollar sign” painting.—four dollar signs, each one a different color and style, all looking like they came out of a comic book.

  But it was worth a small fortune because of the name attached.

  The attendant irony was not lost on him.

  Jack was not searched.

  A practiced eye could discover whether or not someone was hiding a gun.

  Or, they simply knew he’d never be that stupid.

  Jack walked up the narrow stairs and found himself on a private terrace overlooking the Eternal City. Even now, it was hot. There was a small Jacuzzi to the left, its surface placid, beneath a large cloth pavilion. Under the pavilion there was a rattan and canvas outdoor sofa and two chairs arranged around a glass table. Beyond that there was an open-air patio with a line of deck chairs that overlooked the hotel pool and the sprawling undulating landscape of the Eternal City.

  Ari Hassar, diamond mogul, billionaire-ish , sat basking in the heat looking out over the city. He wore a loose-fitting white linen shirt, turquoise linen pants, and sandals. There was a second, empty deck chair next to Hassar, and between them was an ice bucket with a bottle carefully wrapped in a white cloth towel that Jack could easily guess was champagne. All of this was for show—the penthouse suite with the goddamned Warhol in one of Rome’s most exclusive hotels, the entourage, the nameless functionary who provided only cursory instructions, even Hassar’s positioning when Jack arrived on the terrace, with his back to Burdette’s arrival and the chilled champagne at eleven in the morning. All of this was to build the pretense that Hassar didn’t desperately need the money that Jack held in his hand.

  Jack waited for a second, guessing that this was all for face. He decided to let the mogul enjoy his moment and then said, “Good morning, Mr. Hassar.”

  Ari Hassar stood. He was deeply tanned and while he still possessed a squat, powerful frame, his prime was clearly behind him. He had a wide face and struck Jack as looking more than a little like a Middle Eastern version of Albert Finney. He couldn’t make out much more of Hassar’s face, as it was largely hidden behind his enormous sunglasses. He was mostly bald with a low halo of stubble around the back. Jack found it curious that a man of such crippling vanity wouldn’t shave, not even for control. The other striking thing about the man was how short he actually was. Five-five, five-six tops.

  Hassar smiled broadly and extended a big hand.

  They were the paws of a man who built his empire by hand, stone by stone.

  Jack stepped tentatively out from under the pavilion and into the sunlight. He shook Hassar’s hand and then drew the McQueens out of his jacket, flipping them open with his right hand and put them on. He couldn’t see Hassar’s eyes for the dark lenses, but he knew they were on the case in Jack’s left hand.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Hassar said.

  “You as well, Mr. Hassar.”

  Hassar smiled. “You live up to your name, I’ll give you that.” Then, “I like that in a man.” He gestured toward the other deck chair. “Please.”

  “Mr. Hassar, perhaps its best that we not do this out in the open. I don’t think it’s a good idea that we’re seen together.”

  Hassar only laughed to spite the heat. “An overabundance of caution, my boy. You and I are the only two here who weren’t Mossad. I can assure you that we’re quite safe.”

  Jack knew that insurance investigators at this level were dogged pursuers, sometimes on par or better than the police themselves and often better resourced. But, in seeing that they were on a hill above central Rome and at least a few miles from a suitable vantage point to take photographs, which could be done, but the equipment required was the kind that the U.S. intelligence agencies possessed, not Lloyd’s of London, Jack relaxed, but only a touch.

  As Jack moved to take the seat, Hassar motioned to his man—still, no one had addressed this guy by name and the suspense was starting to eat at Jack—who walked up and made to take the case, saying only, “Sir.” Jack hesitated for a moment—he hadn’t been paid yet—but at this point there was little he could do. He handed the man the take from the Carlton and took a seat next to the collection’s rightful owner. The aide withdrew to beneath the pavilion, likely to inspect the contents without the glare.

  He sat, and as he did, he saw Hassar accept a nod from his man.

  The mogul, still standing on ceremony, reached into the bucket and drew out the wine to the sound of cascading ice. He poured two flutes and handed one to Jack. Another man in Hassar’s position would have had an assistant do this very simple thing, but again, this was part of the show and the message. Hassar was a man who did things himself. He handed a flute to Jack. Jack raised the glass and said, “Success, to crime.”

  Hassar laughed and said, “Indeed.” The reference was apparently lost on him. It was Sam Spade’s toast with the two detectives and his recognition of the dangerous game he was about to play.

  “I must say, Jack, I admire your style. The one thing we lack in my country is panache. We don’t have the luxury, I’m afraid.”

  “Mr. Hassar,” Jack said with a slight smile, “I don’t think anyone would try to make the point that you don’t have style.”

  That earned a belly laugh.

  “But not like you, my friend. I’ll admit, I was expecting some elaborate scheme, perhaps. Instead, you simply walk into the exhibition like one of your famous Wild West bandits and,” Hassar’s free hand jumped out in a finger-gun, “stick ‘em up,” followed by another heavy belly laugh. Hassar held up his flute, the delicate crystal incongruous in the man’s hairy-fingered paws. “To Gentleman Jack Burdette.”

  “Well, I didn’t have the men for something a little flashier, but then, flash is not exactly my style. Tipping me to Arshavin was a big help,” Jack said, sipping the champagne. Then, from behind a smile, “And the door,” he added, just in case there was a sub-rosa motive at play here, making it clear that Hassar was as much a part of this as Jack was.

  If Jack‘s statement bothered him, Hassar said nothing.

  Jack breathed deep and allowed himself to relax.

  They first met in Milan, while Jack was fresh off the Valencia job and trying to move the take through his Turkish contacts. Hassar’s man pitched Jack on the idea. They were talking because they knew Jack’s reputation for discretion and were paying him fifty thousand just for the sit-down. The man, who didn’t introduce himself then either, laid out the arrangement. Jack would steal the entire collection from the exhibition, preferably before it opened, and then deliver it to them, at which time he’d be paid handsomel
y for his time. On the surface, it seemed like an incredible amount, even to Jack, but he actually was planning and executing one of the largest thefts ever attempted. That the “buyer” was actually the owner was seemingly inconsequential. Hassar’s man would provide limited intelligence, like the fact that Arshavin would have the minute-by-minute details on his person at all times, and that he was easily distracted by pretty faces. French law neutered the security, but Hassar didn’t exactly overdo it either. They also arranged to have the salon’s outer door left unlocked, a seemingly innocuous oversight, though Jack noted the news outlets were already blasting the hotel for such a “monumental oversight.”

  Jack wanted to know why. At first, Hassar’s man demurred, but Jack cautiously pressed, citing his own security and then made to leave when he didn’t relent, saying that he needed to know all the angles before he could take a job like this. He wanted to know that he wasn’t walking into a trap.

  Hassar’s man excused himself and pulled out a cell phone. There was a short, intense conversation in Hebrew, but then every conversation Jack had heard in that language could have been described as such. Two minutes later, the man told him that Hassar needed the money. It made sense, as Jack thought on it. One of the first casualties of the Great Recession was luxury goods, and Americans are the world’s leading consumers of diamonds. Hassar was losing millions a year in excess inventory, and the growing instability in Africa following the Arab Spring only compounded his troubles. Though the countries that his diamond mining operations were in were largely spared, Hassar lost access to valuable ports and eventually major segments of his construction empire because the newly installed religious governments wouldn’t do business with an Israeli.