“Irresistible. So when Pete Butterworth saw Sitwell leaving the house, he hadn’t broken in — he’d popped round to take the plate off Cartwright’s hands for safe-keeping.”
“The two of them must have come up with the plan together,” said Sarah. “I suspect they did it by text and phone mostly — but there are enough emails here to prove pretty conclusively that they stole the plate themselves.”
“And they smashed the window at the back?”
“Exactly — and Sitwell left with a random assortment of Cartwright’s coins and miniatures.”
“Just enough to make it look like a genuine theft,” said Jack.
“The big surprise for them both was the damage to the front door. They’re still emailing each other about that, wondering who did it.”
“Poor old Jerry,” said Jack, shaking his head. “If he hadn’t tried to break in, the police might have been more suspicious of the back door damage.”
“They couldn’t believe their luck when the investigation pointed at the art gang. In fact, they’re still gloating about it. Not for long though.”
“What do you mean?” said Jack.
“Well — we’ve bust them wide open, haven’t we?” said Sarah. “All we need to do now is pass on the emails to the police — and Alan gets his arrests.”
“As if.”
Sarah felt confused — all this work — it was a rock solid case, wasn’t it?
“What do you mean?”
“Sarah — that’s the very last thing we can do.”
Jack stood up, went to the office door and pressed it gently shut.
“If you show this stuff to the police, it won’t be them that gets arrested — it’ll be you.”
“Oh.”
“And even if they didn’t arrest you — not only would they not be able to use it in court they wouldn’t even be able to look at it themselves. It’s been illegally obtained — it’s completely inadmissible.”
“But that’s crazy!” said Sarah. “They’re guilty. They stole the plate.”
“You know that. I know that. But we can’t tell anyone else.”
Sarah sat back in her chair exhausted and frustrated. All of yesterday, all of the morning so far — a total waste of time.
“You know — right now — Lawrence Sitwell is logging onto sites that traffic in artefacts and telling the whole world he’s got something very interesting to sell. And we can’t touch him?”
“Nope.”
She took a deep breath and got up, went over to the window and looked down into the square. The shops were open. In the village hall opposite, the Tuesday Pilates class had got underway. People were going to work, going to school.
And just across the square, Peregrine Cartwright — she was sure of it — sat drinking his morning tea, reading The Times, eating bacon and eggs, utterly unconcerned that he was depriving Pete Butterworth, Jerry, Baz, Lady Repton and Cherringham itself of the just rewards of their extraordinary find.
She felt angry. No, furious.
She wanted to go downstairs, cross the square, bang on Cartwright’s door, grab his cooked breakfast and shove it in his flabby, pompous face.
And then she thought of a much better solution.
She turned from the window, suddenly filled with excitement.
“How’s your Texan, Jack?”
18. Lovely Boating Weather
Jack adjusted his silk cravat and opened one more button on his pressed pink cotton shirt. His face itched from the beard and moustache which Sarah had spent an hour gluing on that morning. With that, a Stetson and a false tan he was beginning to wish he’d never agreed to the crazy idea.
“I’m not so sure about this, Sarah. Looks to me more like something out of Jeeves and Wooster than Houston Texas.”
Sarah handed him one of his long cigars.
“If in doubt — stick a cigar in your mouth Jack and think of Dallas.”
“Hmm. I missed the re-runs of that show so you’ll have to forgive the accent.”
“Make it up. You think these guys know a real Texan from a Manhattan cop?”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Besides — don’t forget that they want you to be true.”
He turned from the mirror in the yacht’s cabin to inspect the rest of his crew.
Sarah’s father, Michael, was dressed in impeccable whites, with a captain’s cap.
“Ready when you are, Mr Fielding sir,” said Michael with a big grin.
He’s loving this, thought Jack. Guess it’s like being back in action.
Grace — Sarah’s assistant — had a smart little black dress, and looked the part of the perfect PA.
“I’ve got the pre-lunch drinks chilling up in the top deck cooler, and the starters all prepped to serve once we get under way, Jack,” she said. “Oops — I mean Mr Fielding sir! Sorry sir!”
Jack laughed — Grace was going to pull this off brilliantly and he knew whatever happened he’d be able to rely on her.
Only Sarah wasn’t dressed up in disguise — but then if everything went according to her plan, she wouldn’t be appearing till it was all over.
“You got everything set up?” he said.
“I’ve got a digital recorder up top which can store a day’s worth of recording, plus our own Wi-Fi network.”
“And my little cover story?”
“Any time you want to show the guys your ’lil place back home’ I’ve got your Facebook page lined up with photos of the mansion, the horses, the pretty wife, the two beautiful kids at Harvard, the private jet …”
“Missing it already,” said Jack. “How we doing on time?”
“Curtain up in ten — if they’re on time.”
“Well, I guess we should take our places for the opening number,” said Jack. “All on top who are going on top …”
Jack sat back in the plump, white leather armchair on the deck of the Mercury 80 ’executive yacht’ and surveyed the scene.
They were moored on a beautiful tree-lined stretch of the Thames, just up from the centre of Oxford. Other day boats and houseboats were moored alongside them — but the brilliant white sweeping lines of the Mercury screamed ostentatious spare-no-expense wealth.
The perfect boat for visiting Texan oil millionaire, Osgood Fielding, a man with unlimited cash to spend on Roman treasure and a shared desire to keep the deal out of sight of the authorities.
Jack had been surprised how quickly the scam had fallen into place — but then Sarah was not only one hell of a hard worker, but she knew her way around all things digital.
Within a few hours she’d created an online identity for Jack as a prodigious buyer of artefacts on some of the dark sites that Sitwell and Cartwright frequented.
And within a day of his first posts going out onto message boards — under the pseudonym ’Croesus’, announcing that he was in the UK looking for ’unique pieces’ — he’d been pinged by the professors suggesting a meeting to discuss a ’business proposition’.
Sarah had come up with the idea of the yacht. Her father had borrowed one — The Emerald Princess — from a friend in the village — ’one of those gin palaces you love to hate, Jack’. And Grace had begged to play a role in ’taking that Sitwell bloke down a peg or two’.
All of which had led them here to Oxford. They’d motored downriver to the City at dawn, sorted Jack’s disguise, taken in supplies for an extravagant lunch on the way …
Lobster and champagne, I can hardly wait, he thought.
… then promised the two academics a leisurely cruise and the possibility of an exchange — in cash — at the end of it, if the ’unique artefact’ passed muster.
The bait had been set — and the greedy professors had taken it.
And here they are, bang on time, thought Jack.
For just downriver, he could see two familiar figures crossing over the little iron bridge that led from the City towards their mooring.
They were carrying a bag. And Jack could
see it was heavy.
He called gently down into the well of the boat, “It’s show-time folks. Better get into position. And don’t forget — I’m Mr. Osgood Fielding and I am made of more money than I know what to do with.”
“Break a leg,” called Sarah gently from down in one of the cabins.
Jack laughed to himself.
Boy, was he going to enjoy this.
Taking Professor Lawrence Sitwell (retired) and Professor Peregrine Cartwright (retired) for the ride of their lives …
Jack stood up, champagne glass in hand as the two professors walked up the gangplank onto The Emerald Princess.
Far cry from the Grey Goose, Jack thought.
This yacht probably could handle a stormy North Sea without a problem.
Cartwright looked to be taking it all in as he spotted Jack, in his Stetson, waiting.
“Permission to … come aboard?” he said gleefully.
Sitwell, holding the bag with — Jack hoped — the plate, seemed in a grimmer mood, eyes scanning left and right.
With perfect timing, Grace appeared carrying a silver tray with two flutes of bubbly.
“Hell, ya,” Jack said (and immediately reminded himself not to overplay the Texas thing). “Welcome aboard, gents.”
The two men, much shorter than Jack, stood side by side, each taking the offered champagne.
Jack kept his sunglasses on — the bright sun making this a near perfect day for a gentle roll upstream.
“You fellas hungry? Had chef prepare a bunch of things. Makes the damndest little lobster rolls. And his cheese puffs? I eat ’em like popcorn.”
The men smiled, maybe feeling they had wandered onto the site of an unbelievable overly-American TV show.
Big Jack and his Billions.
“Yes,” Sitwell said. “Sounds delightful.”
Jack clapped the stiff Sitwell on the back. “Great. And weather’s nice enough that we can sit on the aft deck. Transact our little …” and here Jack leaned close, voice conspiratorial, “business.”
He led the way as — on cue — Sarah’s dad Michael appeared above them on the bridge, in dress whites and captain’s cap.
“Cap’n, you can get us under way pronto.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said with a crisp salute, crisp enough that it almost made Jack laugh.
Think we’re all enjoying this way too much, he thought.
The regular crew of the boat had been asked to actually get the boat under way. All Michael had to do was play the role.
Jack indicated a trio of classic deck chairs at the back, each with a wooden side table to hold drinks and snacks.
“Okay, Professors, just–”
Sitwell looked around, raised a hand. ”We prefer that you not address us as such. One can’t be too careful.”
Another clap on the back. Jack getting it. “Right. Gotcha.”
Jack killed his champagne, and Grace appeared with a tray.
“Would you care for another, Mr Fielding?”
“How about something stronger, Grace. Some bourbon, neat? Gents?”
The two men sat down, shaking their heads, obviously nursing their champagne. Grace went away.
The Emerald Princess began moving up the river, slowly, steadily and Jack sat back in his chair, the brim of his Stetson down.
“So, how about we begin … the ne-go-tia-tions, hmm?”
The men looked at each other, and Jack noted that Stilwell’s hand hadn’t released the bag.
But quick discussions weren’t on offer, so Jack had lunch served as the boat glided upriver past open meadows, woods and small villages and under stone bridges.
Sitwell was sharp enough to ask ’Osgood’ about his collecting practices and areas of interest.
Jack had rehearsed particulars, such as the opportunities that Middle East turmoil created for ’entrepreneurs’ like him.
He finished the bourbon — which was really a few fingers of dark tea.
“But I always knew that there are prizes right here. Just damned hard to get at. Know what I mean?”
Cartwright was all too eager to agree. “Oh, we do. The law is so very strict.”
Now Jack looked around as if concerned that the ship’s walls have ears. “Yeah, damndest law.” He slapped Cartwright on the knee. “Whatever happened to finders-goddamned-keepers?”
“Yes,” Cartwright said, head bobbing.
The boat meanwhile had picked up a bit of speed. Not that either of the two men noticed.
Sitwell — sniffed, cleared his throat.
“Perhaps we should discuss terms?”
“Terms?” Jack shook his head, grinning. “You mean how much I’m going to pay you fellas for this … contraband?”
“Finders … keepers?” Sitwell said.
“Too-shay!” Jack said. “I like you two. Marchin’ to the beat of your own drummer. Right now,” Jack’s voice shifted, suddenly serious. And he hoped … a bit intimidating. “I need to see the item, friends. I’m assuming that since you’re prof — um people who know things, that I have no concern about authenticity, correct?”
“None whatsoever,” Cartwright pronounced. Then he turned to Sitwell, who with a dramatic flair hefted the leather bag onto his lap, unzipped it, and pulled out the oversized plate.
And, now cleaned up by the two men, the plate was indeed a stunning item to see, the silver glistening in the sun.
No wonder people would pay millions for such things.
“Nice,” Jack said. “A real beauty. Gonna look mighty sweet on my mantel on the ranch in Houston.”
Sitwell nodded.
“May I?” Jack said, extending his hands. And as if passing something immensely fragile, Sitwell gave the plate to Jack, who took it and held it up to the sun.
Jack ran his fingers across the intricate silverwork. Satyrs dancing, sea-nymphs and Roman gods, some of which Jack recognised — Bacchus, Pan, Hercules …
He saw Cartwright scan the river bank, maybe worried that someone would see it, know what was happening here.
But this part of the river was quiet, secluded. Then the professor peered at him.
“I wonder, Mr Fielding — have we met before?”
“Hell no — you think I’d ever forget meeting a famous archaeologist like you?” said Jack slapping him on the thigh.
“We’re getting rather close to Cherringham,” Sitwell said, not hiding the nervousness in his voice.
“Are we? Not a place I ever heard of.”
Jack saw the two men share a nervous glance and he knew he had to distract them.
“How about one point five million US dollars?”
And for a second nobody said anything.
19. Money in the Bank
“We were hoping,” Cartwright said, “for–”
“The figure discussed,” Sitwell said, “was two million. That was the agreed-upon sum.”
Jack nodded, sat back in his chair, all smiles gone. “True enough, gents. But y’see, we are talking about an illegal item right here, aren’t we? We’re not in the Hindu Kush where anything goes. No siree. And I would still have to get this beauty out of the country.”
Sitwell did not look pleased.
But Jack knew that being a tough negotiator was part of this deal.
“Tell you what. You two seem like nice fellas.” Now a laugh. “Hate to disappoint you. So how about one point seven five?”
Nothing then — save for the sound of the mammoth Princess’s engine just below them.
Cartwright looked at Sitwell. Sitwell looked at Cartwright.
Their eyes carrying out a form of non-verbal communication.
Then they turned and — in unison — said, “Yes.”
Jack slapped his knee as if he had just leaped off a bucking bronco.
Then he grabbed their hands, shaking both at the same time, nearly rattling them off their deck chairs.
“That’s great, gents. Great!”
The Princess had picked up even more
speed. Jack stood up.
A signal to Michael which would then be passed on to Sarah.
“And the funds?”
Sitwell said.
“No problemo, Professor.”
Jack pointedly ignored the previous injunction to avoid tell-tale titles.
“Pass me your bank details. Bank of Cyprus, yes?”
Sitwell nodded.
“I’ll go, get that cash transferred — a-sap, as they say. You two sit here, enjoy the sun. Have another lobster roll — damn good, right?”
Jacks started towards the middeck and the cabin where Sarah waited.
“Be back in a jiff.”
“How’d it go?” Sarah said.
She heard Jack’s voice as it returned to normal. What she had overheard of his Texan had been so thick.
“Think I overplayed it, but they seemed to enjoy it. Here’s the bank info. Sure you can do this?”
Sarah sat with her MacBook Air open, ready to use Sitwell’s hacked information to make it look like the massive deposit had hit his account.
“It will look completely real, Jack. Wi-Fi is a bit sketchy here. But still.”
She took the bank account information. She could create a false memo, showing the transfer, and then send a secure email to Sitwell.
She had known that they would use the Cyprus bank, far enough away that the transfer might go unnoticed … and it was no doubt perfect for their dream of sunny isles and ouzo.
All about to disappear.
“Okay, think it’s set.”
She scanned it. The account number and bank transfer information looked perfect. The figure was staggering.
She looked up at Jack. “Almost feel sorry for them.”
“Ill-gotten gains,” Jack said. “But you’re right, it is a bit sad, hmm?”
“But not that sad. Hitting … send.”
And in a flash the email was flying at unimagined speed to Sitwell’s mailbox, confirming the life-changing transfer.
“You called Alan?”
“Done,” said Sarah. “Time for the last act, ’Osgood’.”
Jack laughed. “What a name.” And he put his Stetson back on and hurried to the aft deck, the Princess moving at a fast clip.
“We are moving faster, Mr Fielding, aren’t we?”
Cherringham--Thick as Thieves Page 8
