Swindler & Son

by Ted Krever

  -Can we have a bit more detail, please? Staff names and a capsule of each?

  Staff of three that day. It’s been bigger a few times and smaller several, usually before bankruptcies or absconding across the border.

  Sonya is probably in her sixties but maybe older, built like a pumpkin, dresses like a baroness fallen on hard times, brings incredible quiche to work at least once a week.

  Clarice is 33, not pretty but a vamp—sexy, funny, full of confidence and someone who shares nothing about herself, so we’re all fascinated by her.

  Diamante is Dominican, six-foot-three, speaks four languages, is made of marble, with a juvenile streak a mile wide. As I come in, he’s test-flying a drone—in the office—and playing some video game on an elaborate setup in the corner. He looks up as I approach and the drone smashes into the wall. I pick it up and throw it on a pile with the others.

  “The Swedish cars arrived in Klaipeda six hours early,” he reports.

  -Swedish cars? What’s this?

  The Swedes don’t have more accidents than anyone else, as far as I know, but their accidents take place just a day’s shipping from Lithuania and I happen to know a guy who works the docks at Klaipeda—

  -In Lithuania.

  Right. So we buy junkers from Sweden, pay maybe €350-500 for them, straighten them out, get them running just enough and ship them to Ivan, who works in Customs—

  -In Klaipeda.

  Right. Ivan drives the cars home off the lot, one or two at a time like they’re his personal property, which saves us the Customs duty.

  -No one notices?

  Everyone notices—until they get paid, at which point they develop selective glaucoma. Okay?

  -I see.

  I’m not holding back on you, you have to admit. After this conversation, you could start your own semi-legitimate shipping business—except, what’s the point, since I already have one functioning and available for your use, cheap? Have you ever had a better offer?

  -Go on.

  Ivan sells the cars for €15,ooo-20,ooo apiece and we split the profit. It’s not big money but it is reliable and low-risk. The problem in this case is that there was actually good weather in the Baltic, which isn’t usual a couple days before Christmas and the ship arrived six hours early.

  “What’s the problem?” I say. “Just have them wait.”

  “The port keeps telling them they’re next in line to dock,” Diamante answers.

  “So just have Ivan hustle down and take delivery.”

  “His wife’s giving birth.”

  “Christ! She’s not a team player. Okay, have the ship tell Shore Control they’ve got malaria on board.”

  “Malaria? From Sweden?”

  “Say they were in Panama last week and the quarantine runs out tomorrow—then buy Ivan’s wife a C-section. That shouldn’t cost more than half a car, right?”

  I climb the steps to my office. Sonya follows me with a phone message—from Rahim.

  -Rahim—Prince Rahim?

  Sure. Prince Rahim, your boss, the man who’s waiting outside for all the answers to all the questions. Rahim Suleiman Musafa Hattan, nephew of the King of Wadiirah, fifty miles of land along the Persian Gulf and one insane island in it, 140,000 citizens, twice that in non-citizens on work visas and 11.8% of the world’s oil, trusted aide to the King and a prudent, soft-spoken family man. Three wives, to be exact, with two or three kids apiece.

  -You think I don’t know this?

  I want you to know that I know it. And knew it before any of this started.

  -What did Rah—uh, Prince Rahim—want?

  The message said he had a watch to sell.

  -He sells items through you? Legitimate items?

  Rahim is always legitimate.

  -I never thought otherwise.

  Of course not. What you’re wondering is, why is he dealing through me?

  -I don’t make inquiries about the Prince’s business.

  That’s very wise but you’re asking for my story and this is part of it.

  Look at it this way—Rahim is a pivotal figure in the most progressive country in the Middle East. Iran and Saudi Arabia both have consulates here even though they won’t walk on the same side of the street. Israel has a trade bureau, along with Russia, China, Myanmar, the Philippines, Libya, Cuba, Amnesty International, Doctors without Borders and the usual free-market Western crowd. So, naturally, all the other Middle Eastern countries hate Wadiirah—while finding it useful for making backdoor deals and diplomatic contacts they don’t have to admit to.

  All of which puts Rahim in a sensitive spot whenever he has to dispose of something discreetly. Who can you trust when you have so many wealthy and powerful enemies? I’m the essence of transparency. My business depends on discretion. No party to my deals ever knows the other parties and if I called CNN, no one would believe a word I said. You see the advantages?

  -I suppose.

  Oh, don’t sulk, for Christ’s sake. I’m just playing the spy game without the government halo. You should admire my balls, if nothing else.

  So apparently, Rahim has a watch—a very nice one, surely—to sell. And the message asks me to keep an eye out for a ‘special’ race car for him. A Formula One champion—a Schumacher Ferrari, a Senna McLaren—or a Le Mans winner, maybe. Something prestigious, because Lamborghini’s and custom Bugatti’s are so common in his neighborhood.

  -Did you call him back?

  No. The message got lost in the shuffle at that point. It became important later on, though.

  -I see.

  No, you don’t—but you will.

  Harry Time

  Just a few minutes later, the call ripples out from Sonya and Clarice at their desks overlooking the street.

  “Harry time.”

  “Harry time.”

  The whole place springs into action, consolidating piles of paper, shoveling odd magazines and bits of clothing into closets. The place is still a mess but the effort gets everyone fluttering up to Harry speed.

  I grab a fat research report off the glossy cabinet by the door and pretend to scan as the elevator creaks to a halt and Harry sweeps in, escorting a severely thin woman in a glittering brocade jacket and a glaze of very expensive makeup.

  “…one devotes one’s life to service and then the rewards find us—Good day, all!”

  “Good day, Harry!”

  “So this is our cozy corner, Dame Helena,” Harry says, just peeking through the doorcrack. “Now let’s off to lunch.”

  ‘Oh nooo,” says Dame Helena, pushing the door open with a shudder, “it’s so wonderfully colorful. You must give me the full tour.”

  “Maybe Dame Helena could help with our research,” I say and the game begins. How much of this do you actually need to know?

  -Don’t hold back. You don’t know what details might be crucial. We have to be comfortable with you.

  Who’s this ‘we’? It’s just you and me here.

  -There are others—

  —listening in, you mean…

  -who will have to be satisfied at the end of the day.

  But what do you mean, ‘crucial’? ‘Crucial’ to what? It’s all over now, isnt it?

  -Not until the questions are answered. The public record must be satisfied.

  If you say so. ‘Satisfied’ in terms of what, specifically?

  -Specifically, in terms of who takes the blame. Who goes to jail, for example.

  That’s a hell of an example. So if you’re all satisfied with my story at the end of the day, you’ll stand by me?

  -If we’re satisfied.

  But you’re not going to give me any guidance about the type of story that would satisfy you, are you?

  -We’re not in the guidance business.

  No offense but you’re not making much of an argument for cooperating. Not much security for anybody other than you, down the line.

  -For you,‘down the line’ is distinctly a luxury at this point. You were explaining the
game—

  Okay, fine. In the last ten years, it’s become clear that, while digital technology has made some aspects of the job easier—for example, researching and identifying customers and merchandise, moving money across borders—it’s also made the old con game virtually impossible, that classic con where you drop in on some blueblood, fleece them for all they’re worth and just disappear.

  Let me be clear: it’s still possible to fleece a mark. It’s the disappearing part that’s become impossible. There are lots more billionaires than there used to be—hell, a million is the new hundred thousand—but they still tend to travel in packs. They use the same stable or the same boat basin or timeshare in Davos or their security guy knows the other guy’s security guy. It’s just about impossible to stay under the radar for long. You become notorious so fast to relations and friends or even Facebook friends.

  So the game has transformed. Now the question is: how to do the con without disappearing, continuing to operate under the noses of people you’ve taken—not just staying out of jail, but actually building a stable, predictable business?

  To make that happen, you need rules. HARRY’S RULES.

  “There’s no point,” Harry told me early on, “trying to devise something so clever that no one will ever figure it out. Someone always figures it out eventually—that’s why they keep hiring policemen. The trick is to keep them from squawking when they do.”

  -To keep what? To keep your victims from squawking when they realize they’ve been taken?

  Exactly—except, they’re not victims. They’re our partners.

  RULE ONE: KNOW YOUR PARTNER. This isn’t a ‘mark’ we’re playing; this is an intimate business relationship. We’ve researched this woman for anywhere from two months to a year. The game is tailored to her—in the end, we’ll all be doing this together.

  However, as Bill Clinton might say, it all hinges on your definition of the word ‘this.’ Both partners see the same events, that doesn’t mean they’re seeing them the same way.

  “Dame Helena doesn’t care for your collectibles,” Harry squawks, stretched out to his full height, head up and back, literally looking down his nose at me. “All this frenzy over a consumer item.”

  “It’s not a ‘consumer item’—the right people would kill for this, if they knew it was available. It’s history.” I see the spark in Dame Helena’s eyes. Maybe not greed, I hear Harry’s voice in my head reminding me greed is vulgar. But desire, maybe? Oh yes, desire, certainly.

  “Harry dear,” Helena says, “I must know more. It sounds fascinating.”

  RULE TWO: THE PARTNER SHOULD SELF-NOMINATE. They must tell you they want in. This becomes crucial when we get to Rule Five.

  “Dame Helena, even the most fabled and influential face challenges—” I begin.

  “—the kind you wouldn’t want your mother knowing about, much less the people who matter,” Harry confides, knowing Dame Helena is big on people who matter.

  “And sometimes their challenges offer us—and maybe you—opportunity.”

  The girl from Kazakhstan has arrived.

  Harry likes having his hair cut while we woo clients in the office. He’s found this cute sex bomb from Kazakhstan, a lithe, raven-haired, five-foot-tall Sophia Loren scale model, poured into a red leather vest and capri slacks (on Christmas, yes). She arrives and Harry will offer the guest the merest possibility of choice, “You don’t mind, do you?”

  They never say ‘no.’

  Harry settles into a shortback green-tufted saloon chair with towels forming a mandala on the floor about him, wearing a red silk smoking jacket and looking like a pasha. And if he ever reads that description, he’ll buy a hookah, just to heighten the illusion. Treading light is not Harry’s way.

  The girl from Kazakhstan bats her eyelashes while laying out her scissors and a formidable straight-razor and they banter like lovers, though it’s obvious to everyone they never will be.

  “The usual?”

  “You know what I like.”

  “Yes, I do. But I’m cutting your hair now. Eyebrows?”

  “No, leave them. They scare people. They make me look like I know more than I do.” Harry has the eyebrows of a cartoon character zapped by lightning.

  All this time, Dame Helena’s anticipation is boiling. Which celebrity has difficulties? Have I heard of them? Do I know them?

  Why is gossip the most indestructible force on Earth? Why is every great magazine in the civilized world gasping for air while the gossip rags keep minting money? Because nothing’s more powerful than the desire to know something really bad that isn’t happening to us.

  “Obviously,” I continue as Harry snip-snip-snips, “if you were in that sort of sensitive situation, you’d want it handled behind closed doors.”

  “Of course!” The woman’s oozing sympathy. She’s already clicking through a list of famous names. Are they going bankrupt? Divorcing? Paying off a mistress, a bank or grand jury?

  “Alright, Nicky, she understands, out with it,” Harry prods—our concerns are intruding on his haircut.

  “I have an item—it’s my responsibility to find it the right home. I think you might know the sort of person I need.” For now, I’m keeping as far from the question of money as is possible. It will come up, of course—but later.

  It’s Harry’s line now. I wait an extra second before stealing a glance in his direction. He’s gone dry. I clear my throat twice and he pops back to reality.

  “You mean the handbag?” he sneers. His delivery’s fine, but we’ve lost the rhythm and will have to recover.

  “It’s not a handbag!”

  “Fine, not a handbag, a Brecken—”

  “Birkin? A Birkin Bag?” Dame Helena’s got it, oh yes she has, eyes wide as the harvest moon.

  -What’s a Birkin bag?

  You’re not married, are you?

  -You don’t need to know that.

  Well, if you’re married to a woman, ask her what a Birkin bag is. Sara explained it to me on our first date. Shoes and bags, she said, are to women as cars are to men. The high-end models are ridiculously overbuilt for any practical purpose, so enthusiasts obsess over hair-splitting differences in function and style.

  -That’s absurd. A Bugatti Chiron will go 288. That’s thirty miles an hour more than the Veyron and almost a hundred more than most Ferrari’s.

  And neither of us would take any of them over 100, assuming we ever had the cash to rent one. I’d live in mortal terror of scratching the stupid thing the first time I took it on the road.

  A Birkin Bag is the most expensive, exclusive woman’s handbag in the world, and if you think we’re scam artists, check them out. Hermes admits they limit quantities to maintain scarcity. They’re actually handmade in France—can you imagine how expensive that is?—and named after Jane Birkin.

  -I saw a lot of French movies with her.

  I saw a lot of her in French movies.

  She allegedly sketched the first bag for the chairman of Hermes on the back of an airplane barf bag, so at least they have a way with origin stories. And if you’re still scoffing, remember that Bugatti’s, like all cars, depreciate. Birkin’s don’t. Several recently auctioned for over $300,000. They’re better investments than gold or Apple stock. Customers pay for special orders, wait years, then receive something completely different from what they ordered—and are expected to be grateful.

  Anyway, just the mention of a Birkin bag and Dame Helena’s eyes are positively glowing. And now I’m going to blow them out of their sockets.

  RULE THREE: TELL THEM WHAT THEY WANT TO HEAR.

  Years ago, I asked Harry, “How do you keep the partner from suspecting a problem? How can you possibly nail down all the details?”

  “You can’t,” he said. “There’s no perfect scam. The trick,” he winked, “is telling them a story they desperately want to believe. If you’re offering them their dearest fantasy on a platter, they ask few questions and barely listen to the answers.”
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  It’s like buying a Rembrandt—at this late date, nobody can tell you with certainty that any particular painting is really a Rembrandt. But as long as you have a certification from an art historian saying it’s a Rembrandt, you can sell it with a clear conscience and an open wallet. As long as we’ve done our research properly, sized up the client’s history and sweet spot, from here on, it’s paint-by-numbers.

  The room is silent, just the faint scraping of the Khazaki haircut girl sweeping up and gathering her things. As soon as she’s out the door, I let Dame Helena have it.

  “In this case, we’re not discussing a Birkin Bag—we’re discussing the Birkin Bag. The first one, the one Hermes gave Jane Birkin in exchange for using her name. Number Zero, the first point on the compass, where it all started. So, this item needs to be treated with respect and discretion—”

  RULE ONE: KNOW YOUR PARTNER.

  “Well, I—you’ve found the right person, right here. I own six of them already.”

  Dame Helena’s being modest. Our research, long before Harry ‘bumped into her’ at a charity horse show, says she actually owns fourteen Birkins. We paid off one of her maids to double-check.

  Her brood ranges from a white Clemence for a mere €10,000 to a Himalayan Crocodile Palladium for an eye-watering €100,000. Her babies have their own climate-controlled compartment in a walk-in closet the size of my living room on the third floor of her apartment at the Place Des Vosges, where Cardinal Richelieu lived a few centuries ago. That’s the Richelieu who tried unsuccessfully to kill D’artagnan, that Richelieu.

  Once Dame Helena’s owned a Birkin for four years, whether she’s worn it six times or sixty or zero, back it goes to Hermes for ‘refreshing’, to the tune of €3,000-6,000 apiece.

  So, of course, the first thing we have to do now is deny her.

  -Deny her?

  Sure. Having made sure she wants it bad, now we have to tell her she can’t have it.

  RULE FOUR: NOTHING REALLY VALUABLE COMES EASY (OR: MAKE THEM EARN IT)

  “Oh dear, Dame Helena, I’m so sorry…”

  “You see, Nicky, this is what comes of your insensitivity,” Harry scolds.

  “Nicky, I’m the perfect owner. I’ve already had ‘Birkin arm’ surgery! I never go anywhere without—” And she lifts her own personal bag off the chair—not the nicest model, if you ask me—to bolster her case.