The Professor

by Rachel Renee

  Santi makes no move to respond to me so I do us both a favor and keep an eye on either man, rotating my neck back and forth until we reach the suited man guarding the yellow façade entrance of the bank.

  “Buon pomeriggio. Hai un appuntamento?”

  Santi answers that we have an appointment and gives the man Paolo Rubio’s name. He reaches into his pocket and produces his identification and motions for me to do the same. The older man looks over Santi’s before smiling and handing it back, patting him on the shoulder in acknowledgment. After looking over my passport, he hands it back to me hurriedly, never bothering to look me in the eyes.

  The glass door is opened for us and immediately upon entering, we are ushered inside and through security. We show the officer beyond the detector our IDs once more, the man from the front explaining who we are and that we have an appointment. The officer eyes me warily after shaking Santi’s hand and allowing him and the dolly full of crates to pass by. There is a quick exchange between the doorman and the officer before he hands me back my passport and allows me access as well.

  So far so good as a teller from behind the first bank stall rushes in our direction, smiling from ear to ear. The man who can’t be much older than myself speaks amicably with Santi but so quiet that I can’t quite hear and also comprehend what he’s saying. Not sure if Santi will be able to inform me of the information, I move closer and catch the last of the conversation. The vault can be accessed for no more than forty-five minutes. They will escort us through the tunnels and lock us in the room until we call up that we are finished, are the words I decipher. That was not something Santi informed me of so I’m not sure how we are going to find our way out of the locked room.

  “That will not be necessary,” I hear Santi tell the man with curious eyes. He keeps looking back and forth from me to Santi, from Santi to the crates and back again.

  “Policy,” is the word I hear from the man.

  Santi practically roars as he asks for the manager. An older gentleman turns up, greying at the temples and salt and peppered throughout his dark hair, and saunters from the office to my right. We are now hitting our first bump in the road. The man twirls a key ring on his pointer finger. His right hand is partially covering his mouth, moving his large fingers across his lips and moustache. There is a glare on his glasses as he approaches, which makes it hard for me to see his eyes. The overweight man does not smile. He grumbles when he speaks to his teller before a fake grin is plastered on his face as he reaches his hand out in Santi’s direction.

  After the niceties, Santi explains what he is expecting during this transaction but the manager will not budge on the fact that he will lock us in the vault until we are ready to leave. “The door must remain locked at all times. No exceptions,” he barks.

  “Do you know who my father is?”

  “We have many important people who bank with us. We are trusted and we are secure. We will not bend our rules for some college kid whose daddy sent him on an errand.”

  Santi’s face is bright red. I feel heat emanating from him as I approach even closer to his right side. “We will figure it out,” I whisper. “Let’s just go.”

  He turns slightly and utters, “I can’t pick a lock.”

  I raise my brows. Santi’s lips turn up slightly. “Fine,” he yells toward the manager. “We will abide by your rules. It’s just that I have a fear of enclosed spaces.”

  “And your father sent you to his vault?” The manager almost laughs until he catches my eye. “Right this way, gentlemen.” The manager begins twirling the keyring once more as Santi and I follow like puppies directly behind him. We arrive at the elevator and stow ourselves and our cargo aboard before the man inserts a card and pushes the button for the vaults.

  As we descend, I try to picture what a lock of this magnitude will entail. Will I truly be able to get us out? How will the other men get in? That’s on them. I just have to worry about Santi and me. With all the technology available, I’m uncertain why we even have to obtain the money here. Couldn’t they just wire it to Rubio? Seems to be the more logical choice. But what do I know, I’m just a professor. A professor who will have to show his subject that he knows how to pick a lock.

  When we arrive in the depths of the institution, the double doors open wide, allowing the three of us to step into the dark fortress of door after door along the double-wide hallway. “We are just at the end of the hall,” the manager whom I now know as Giorgio Franco alerts us.

  “I know where our family vault is.” Santi sighs.

  The man ignores him and continues down the long hallway. We pass by at least twenty doors before we arrive at the Rubio vault. I can only imagine the riches in this basement. How many people store their money, their treasure here in this bank. And this is just one of the many that are in this country.

  “After forty-five minutes, the vault will seal and be locked for the remainder of the day. Please conclude your business during this time.” The man unlocks the door with one of the keys from his ring of multiple. He must have them numbered as I can’t imagine he’d just be able to pick the correct one on the first try. “The phone just inside the door will alert the staff upstairs that you are finished and someone will be down to escort you back to the exit.”

  Despite Santi being perturbed at the man, he thanks him as we enter the oversized locker. The moment we are inside, the outer door slams shut and I hear the lock being turned. Santi points to an unseen source on the rear wall before placing a finger up to his lips. There must be a camera or something that records voices built into the wall.

  There’s a huge metal table in the middle of the room, with drawers and locks along the front and rear of it. Santi releases the dolly and the clunk of metal on metal reverberates throughout the space. He reaches into his tight jeans and pulls out a single key that I think must go to the cabinet. Instead, he walks over to the far wall and inserts the key into an almost invisible hold in front of him. Once it clicks over, a handle pops and a door opens wide. “I’m just going to start unloading these, you wait by the door until I’m finished.” He says this but motions for me to come closer. I remember that we need to get our loaded guns from the crate and that’s exactly what Santi is motioning for me to do. At this point, I realize the recording device must be voice only because after I gather my weapons and hide them, one in my waistband, the other under my left pant leg, he points to the door, encouraging me to get to work on the lock.

  Forty-five minutes seems like plenty of time to drop off a few items, but the fact of the matter is Santi’s plan is to drop the guns off, exit the room, wait thirty minutes until the drop box is opened, grab the money, and get back in the room before our time is up. That doesn’t account for the amount of time it will take the gun purchasers to collect their weapons. I’m guessing that there are other people just like Santi and I hiding out in another vault, or maybe the deposit boxes, biding their time for us to leave so they can attain what they came to Switzerland for. Otherwise, I have no idea how they plan to get to the vault when we’re supposed to be in there. Only one set of visitors at a time is the rule, and apparently, they don’t break it.

  Reaching into my pocket, I grab my phone to use the light so that I may look into the lock and see what I’m working with. Once I spot the mechanism, I grab the bobby pins, bending each in the direction that I’ll need it to fit as precisely as possible into the lock. The wrench pin is placed on the bottom with just enough tension so that I can move the pick part of my tool around, unlocking each pin within as I rotate my bobby, allowing my fingertips to feel where each small tumbler needs to go. Within moments, the converted bobby pins have done their job and the latch has clicked over to unlock.

  “This is taking a while,” Santi yells out. “Sorry about that. There’s a spot for everything and everything has its place.” His small talk is a diversion as he moves closer to me and the unlocked door. “Want to give me a hand?”

  “Absolutely,” I answer.


  The two of us make a bunch of noise as we open the door. “Are you worried about cameras?” I ask once the door is closed but not latched behind us. I asked before with no answer.

  “Padre said it would be taken care of. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. We have to get out of here so our buyers can get in and get their guns.”

  Santi and I round the nearest corner and start working our way down another corridor. Moving slowly and sticking closely to the wall, we travel for a few minutes, weaving in and out of rows. After fifty yards or so, on the path we are currently traveling, we turn right and walk down yet one more row of doors. When we get to a point where we need to decide to turn or keep going straight, Santi falls to the ground, crawling around the next corner and out of sight. I’m not sure what he’s up to but I follow suit, not wanting to be left behind.

  The gun in my pant leg makes a muffled clunk on the ground every time I move my leg forward. I hear Santi’s doing the same just ahead of me. Suddenly, we stop. Santi sits, waving his hand up and down for me to mimic his movement. “We’ll wait here,” he whispers. “How’d you learn to pick a lock?” are the next words out of his mouth.

  “Long story, but childhood is the gist of it.”

  “Do you always carry hairpins?”

  What’s the correct answer here? Yes, I do, but does that make me look suspicious? I considered that Santi may ask about them, so I came up with an answer earlier. “Not really. I just happened to feel them in my pocket when you were talking to the manager. I’m sure I was holding them for Sophia but just forgot.”

  “Lucky for us.” His brows raise.

  I keep engaging. “I agree. I’m not sure how we would have played this if those pins weren’t in my pocket. P.S. Why were we crawling?”

  “If we stay in the shadows, we are less likely to be caught.”

  He’s correct, but if we aren’t worried about cameras, it really doesn’t make sense to be crawling. Walking in the shadows is less likely to draw attention. I don’t mention it though, and let him think he’s got this all figured out. This kid isn’t even an agent but I’m impressed with his forethought.

  There’s a click of a door shutting and muffled voices enter the hallway. Remaining still and silent, Santi and I listen as the footsteps that follow retreat in the direction opposite us. We wait until they are out of earshot and the two of us rise, sticking to the wall and sliding down closer to where we heard the other men. We had wound our way back to where we started, the Rubio vault right in front of us now.

  “Looks like we may need those lock picking skills once more. They shut the vault door all the way.” Santi points to the fact that there is no longer a gap between the door and the wall.

  “Once we get back inside, let’s call the manager to let us out. We’ll alert him to the fact that we need to go to the deposit box.”

  “Great plan.” I wondered why he didn’t think of that before. It had crossed my mind, but Santi had it covered and I had to make it seem I had no idea what I was doing. Seemed the most plausible idea though, which has me wondering why he’s just now mentioning it.

  “I didn’t know how much time we’d have. I had multiple choices running through my head.”

  He thinks like an agent, prepared for anything. I wonder if that’s how his father raised him. Being an agent himself, I’m sure he’s practiced this policy even without directly meaning to teach someone else.

  Retrieving the pins from my pocket, I get to work on the lock. This side is opposite of what I did before so I plan accordingly. I feel Santi breathing down my neck as he tries to watch my actions, wanting to know how lock-picking is done. The moment that last pin clicks, I hear another familiar click directly behind me. The unmistakable feel of hard metal against the back of my head causes the sweat that had been forming on my brow to fall down my face.

  “What the…”

  Laughter, followed by two men conversing, gives me pause. For a split second, I thought Santi had the gun to my head. Now I realize someone had snuck up on us in our attempt to break back into the vault.

  “You can’t do this,” Santi yells. “You got what you came for.”

  “We did. But if we take you and your friend, we get the weapons and the money. Maybe more if we keep you hostage. Your daddy has been stealing money from our pockets for years. Time we got some of that back.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is the first my father has gotten into the arms race.”

  “Maybe so, but he dabbles in other business and that’s where we come in. We were there first, and he strolled in like it was his. Took much from us. We just want to take from him now. It’s our turn.”

  The gun that was jabbed into my skull is digging in so deeply that I’m sure the wetness I’m now feeling is blood. This is my very first mission and I do not plan to die. Closing my eyes momentarily, I think back to everything I’ve learned, every scenario I was ever thrust into. It comes to me immediately. I know exactly what I have to do in order to get out of this mess alive and it isn’t going to be pretty.

  22

  “Daddy’s going to be so upset that his only son wasn’t strong enough to get through one transaction without messing up. Without getting caught with his pants down, so to speak.”

  So, they knew this was Santi’s first mission for his father? My head is shaking back and forth at someone’s ignorance and my heart is pounding in my ears. I’m no longer in training, this is real.

  Standing directly to Santi’s right, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, the fear in his own as the gun to his head is pressed more firmly into his skull. These men don’t know me, so I may be able to escape without recourse. The older gentleman, the one standing firmly against Santi’s backside, cocks his gun, continuing to utter threats. Santi doesn’t have a chance unless I do something drastic.

  I allow myself a few more seconds to gather my knowledge and training before I start talking. “You don’t have to do this.” I try pleading, something Santi is above as he refuses to give in to whatever the man’s threatened abuse means for his future. “You can take the money and the guns. That’s a big enough ‘Fuck You’ that Paolo will get the message that you’re not to be messed with.”

  The man behind me chuckles, the scent of stale coffee invading my nostrils as he moves in closer to me. I knew it wouldn’t work, but I felt better about my decision when I had that out of the way. No amount of simulation can prepare a person for the reality of a loaded weapon pressing into their skin. I’ve never been so nervous in all my life, and the tightness in my chest is almost unbearable. But there’s no time for nerves, I have a job to do. My jaw clenches as I shut my eyes for a second, feeling the man standing behind me, the warmth of his body, the coldness of the gun on my head. I want to be able to tell exactly where he is, and by being this close, I can do just that.

  His friend starts laughing again before rearing back and hitting Santi over the head with the butt of the gun he’d been cocking moments before. My body stiffens, knowing there’s not much time left to act.

  Santi’s assailant’s head tilts backward, signaling to my would-be attacker to do the same, but I see it coming. Mere moments before what would have been impact, I bend forward, reaching for the weapon I have tucked into my pant leg. My finger finds the trigger instantly and I turn, the barrel pointing directly at the man who was on Santi. My heart is beating out of my chest, but it has to happen. No more thinking, my finger pulls back on the lever, a bullet firing in the direction of the man who just knocked my compatriot out.

  The guy behind me was thrown off balance when his weapon hit air instead of my head. I was counting on that because it gave me those few extra seconds to turn toward him and release one more bullet in his direction. Two bullets. Two men. Two head shots.

  I’m glad it ended as quickly as it started but I’m not happy that I had to make such a critical move. My hand is shaking as I pull the gun back down to my side. I had planned for anything to happen today. Even mad
e sure Santi thought about the exact guns we carried, knowing the weapons would need silencers on them. Since we would be in the recesses of the vault, I knew firing a gun would cause one hell of a racket without one. In the back of my mind, I knew discharging a weapon was something that could possibly happen. Beyond a doubt, I didn’t want to imagine that it actually would.

  My heart rate increases and so does my thoughts. What just happened? I didn’t even know those men. Did they have families? Would anyone be at home waiting for them to return from their day’s work? If there was one thing I learned that I didn’t want to have to use so quickly into my career, it was that I have to turn those types of thoughts off. I’m not allowed to dwell. Not allowed to wonder about someone who didn’t pause a moment to consider those things about me before contemplating my demise. The men were evil and greedy. They were killers, cold-blooded. I realize that as long as it got them ahead in life, it mattered not to them who they took down in the process. Including me.

  Even though I’m not supposed to consider them, I am. I can’t help myself. I bend forward, strapping the gun back to my leg, but stay there for a few seconds longer to catch my breath once more. Lifting my head, then standing completely upright, the first thing in my sights is the brain matter splattered across the wall of the bank hallway. The darkness of the hall makes it look almost like textured wallpaper, but I know that’s not the case. My first thoughts aren’t how I’m cleaning up this mess, but I’m hopeful that no one will miss them. If they are as vile as I believe them to be, if no one is there to miss them, I can loosen up a little easier. Even though it may have been them or me, the fact that I had to make that choice is affecting me more than it should as an agent. As a human being, it’s not affecting me enough.