The Freeport Robbery

by Michael P. King

  Nicole looked down at Ron. “Are you okay?”

  “Just have to catch my breath.”

  Police sirens howled in the distance. Nicole held out her hand. “We have to go.”

  Ron grabbed her hand, put his other hand on the wall, and got to his feet. She gripped his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Just feeling old. But look at you, wearing your superhero suit and everything.”

  “This is no time to kid. I was afraid you were stabbed.”

  “I’m okay, Nicki. You can let go.”

  “I can’t believe I missed that guy point-blank.”

  “It happens. Lucky he ran out of ammo.” He watched the Transit disappear around a corner. “There goes the casket.” He turned and looked at the bullet-ridden truck. “And we won’t be following. Let’s check for evidence and make our way to the rendezvous.”

  “Think it’s safe?”

  “It’s the only way I know to get out of here.”

  The inside of the truck was broken glass, torn upholstery, and shell casings—nothing that could lead back to them. They jogged back to the loading dock, hyperaware, guns out, expecting an ambush behind every dumpster or blind spot, but they were alone. The loading dock behind the vault was just more pocked concrete, smashed hollow-point bullets, and shell casings. The police sirens were getting louder.

  They took a left down another alley between two warehouses, took off their security guard shirts and put them in a dumpster that reeked of used machine oil, and started jogging. Every few blocks, Ron checked their location on his smartphone until they came out behind an old, brick warehouse with flaking white paint. Across a hundred yards of weeds, old tractor-trailer tires, twisted steel cable, and rusty sheet metal parts was the chain-link fence to the private airfield. A long row of airplane hangars backed up to the fence. At the third fence post they checked, the chain-link had been cut just high enough for them to crawl through. Once inside the airfield, they stayed in the shadows as they moved between the hangars, until they came to the one with “Learn to fly with Bob” painted in red on the side. The side door under the green awning was locked. The customer parking was empty.

  “Looks like Aaron is an asshole,” Nicole said.

  “Let me try the burner,” Ron said. He took out the throwaway cell phone that Rickover had given them and called the only number in the address book. It rolled over to a message that the voice mail hadn’t been set up. He put the phone back in his pocket. “Nothing.” He took out his own phone and speed-dialed Rickover’s cell phone. The voice mail asked him to leave a message. “And his regular phone is off.”

  He glanced up and down the street. “We better ditch these guns and get indoors.”

  They wiped off the guns and holsters and put them in the trash barrel by the customer parking, and then took off their latex gloves and put them in their pockets. They walked along the backs of the airplane hangars, staying out of the view of surveillance cameras, until they could see the front gate of the airfield. Ron called a taxi. They stood in the shadow and waited. Nicole dusted off her pants. “So you think Aaron set us up?”

  “It’s either that, or someone else was trying for the same object at the same time on the same day.”

  “You think it’s that bad? Really? After all the work we’ve done with him?”

  “Maybe he’s dead. Maybe it went sideways from what he planned, and he couldn’t get in touch. Right now we have no way of knowing what’s what; all I know is we need to get paid.”

  A yellow taxi pulled up to the gate of the airfield. Ron and Nicole walked out the gate and got into the cab. The cabbie, an elderly black man wearing a gray cap, didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. “Where to?”

  They gave an address a few blocks from their apartment. The cabbie pulled away from the curb. “Waiting long?”

  “No,” Nicole said.

  “Had a hard time getting in here. Hell of a jam at the main airport. Cops all over the place. Traffic will be backed up for an hour at least. Lucky there’s the cutoff from this side.”

  “Lucky we didn’t fly commercial,” Nicole replied.

  After the cabbie dropped them off, they stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive away before they walked up one block and over two more to their apartment building. There was no one suspicious on the street. All the streetlamps were working just fine. The living room light in their second-floor apartment was on, just as they had left it, and there were no strange shadows in the room. The downstairs door was locked, just as it should be, and the stairwell was quiet. Their neighbors were all civilians with regular jobs, so they were all tucked in for the night. Ron and Nicole stopped outside their door and listened. Nothing. The toothpick that Ron had broken off in the crack between the door and the doorjamb was still there.

  “We’re good.”

  He pushed open the door and let Nicole in first. She pulled her black top off over her head and kicked her shoes and her pants off onto the oak floor on her way to the bathroom. Ron bolted the door. He emptied his pockets into the blue bowl on the side table under the light switch. Then he pulled off his T-shirt and pants, dropped them on the floor next to Nicole’s clothes, and padded into the kitchenette to get a garbage bag from the under sink cabinet. He shoved their clothes into the bag and then carried it into the bathroom to retrieve her underwear and socks. He could see her in the shower through the glass door. He took off his own underwear and socks and put them in the bag before he tossed the bag out of the bathroom and shut the door. “Hey.”

  From inside the shower, she replied, “Hey.”

  He opened the shower door and stepped in. She moved over. Her head was under the spray. Soapy water ran down her body and swirled in the drain at her feet. “Let me look at you.”

  She moved out from under the spray and turned slowly with her eyes closed. He took her hand. “Scraped elbow. Pretty big bruise on your hip. A number of little nicks.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  She opened her eyes. “Your turn.”

  He turned in a slow circle. She put her hand on his chest and maneuvered him under the spray. “Bruise on your shoulder blade. Flesh wound on your left side. From the look of your right knee, you might be limping tomorrow. Lots of little cuts, but no purple heart for you, mister.”

  She got the soap off the shelf and started washing his back while he shampooed his hair. When he’d finished rinsing his head, she said, “I’m pretty angry.”

  He turned to face her. “What about?”

  She handed him the soap. He started washing the rest of his body. “You almost died today.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. It was a close thing, but it didn’t happen.” He put the soap back on the shelf and rinsed off.

  “That was more than just a close thing.”

  He pulled her into the spray. “You’re right. You angry with me for being a testosterone-fueled idiot? For not just walking away?”

  She shook her head. “I ought to be, but I’m not. They might have killed us if we’d laid down our guns.”

  He ran his hand up and down her arm. “So, what?”

  “I’m angry with Aaron. I want to see him hurt. I want him to feel what I felt right then, when I thought I was too late.”

  “Me too.” He kissed her lips and held her tight, the spray falling down on them.

  Then she said, “That’s what I feel, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt so crazy angry to kill someone. I got to say it scares me.”

  He took her face in his hands. “I’m going to take care of you,” he said. “We’re in a bad patch. But our relationship and our professionalism will carry us through. It always has. Us, together—we always save each other.”

  They kissed. She pushed him against the tile wall and reached down between his legs. He turned off the water. “Bad knee, remember?”

  She opened the shower door and pulled him out onto the rug in front of the shower stall. They kissed
again, their hands moving with the comfortable knowledge of each other’s body, falling into rhythm as they rolled back and forth across the rug. Afterward, they toweled each other off. “You hungry?” he said. “I’m hungry. We’ve got to go out. Let’s get something to eat.”

  Nicole hung up her towel. “Who’s still open?”

  “Nina’s is open twenty-four seven.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Pancakes and eggs?”

  “You got it.”

  She kissed him lightly. “What about Aaron?”

  “We’ll deal with him tomorrow.”

  They parked the Cadillac in the on-street parking at Cabot Park, a small city park across the street from Nina’s, an all-night diner where they liked the coffee. Ron got out of the passenger’s side with the trash bag containing their clothes from the job tucked under his arm. Nicole waited at the curb while he dumped the bag in a park trash can. Then they crossed the street holding hands.

  Nina’s was a traditional diner, with a long counter and bar stools running the length of the back and a row of red vinyl booths along the front windows. The place was empty. They slid into one of the booths where they had a good view of the park. The waitress, a middle-aged woman wearing a sunflower yellow uniform that smelled of cigarette smoke, brought an insulated pitcher of coffee and glasses of water when she came to take their order. “Glad to see you folks,” she said.

  “Glad you’re open,” Ron replied.

  She pulled her pad from her apron. “What’ll it be?”

  Ron looked at Nicole. She nodded. “Pancakes and eggs over easy, patty sausage, glass of milk.”

  “Me, too,” he said.

  In a few minutes, their food arrived. Ron slid his sausage off its plate and onto the plate with his pancakes and eggs. He scooped the whipped butter out of the paper container and smeared it across the top of his pancakes. Then he poured syrup over everything, including his eggs. Nicole shook her head. “I never get used to watching you eat breakfast.”

  “This isn’t a five-star restaurant, okay?”

  “Whatever.” She cut her eggs into bite-size pieces and ate them first. They sat there, eating slowly, enjoying the pleasure of eating, not saying anything to each other, just watching the park without seeming to watch the park. When Nicole stopped eating, half her sausage and most of her pancakes were still on the plates. Ron’s plate only had a few bites of pancake left. “I’m done,” she said. “Do you want any of mine?”

  “I’m full,” he said, but he speared the sausage onto his plate. Just then, over in the park, they saw a gray-bearded man, wearing a coat and pushing a shopping cart, stop at the park trash can, pull out their bag of clothes, and put it in his cart. Ron tapped his fingers on the table. “Mission accomplished. Let’s just pay at the counter.”

  At an interstate rest stop north of the city, the white Ford Transit sat in a parking space far away from the building and the other cars that were coming and going in the dark. A “dog-walking area” sign was posted in the nearby grass and three empty concrete picnic tables were close at hand. The sprinkler system was watering the grass, the hissing of the water competing with the chirping of the insects. The red-bearded man, dressed in old jeans, a black T-shirt and work boots, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail, leaned against the side of the van smoking a cigarette.

  A Camry pulled into the space one car over, and Aaron Rickover got out. “Tommy,” he said.

  Tommy threw down his cigarette. “What the fuck, Aaron? That was some bullshit you sent us on.”

  Rickover held his hands up and took a step back. “Hey, calm down. What happened?”

  “That guy who was supposed to fold up? He went Rambo on us. Lost two of my guys.”

  “Did you put him down?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “Christ, Tommy, it was five to two. And an ambush.”

  “You didn’t tell us his partner was a woman.”

  “What difference does that make?” Rickover patted his hands together and sucked on his lip. “How noisy was it?”

  “It was noisy. We barely got out of there ahead of the cops.”

  “This job was supposed to be completely under the radar. No police involvement.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “But you got the box?”

  “Yeah, we got it.”

  Rickover reached into the inside pocket of his blue blazer and pulled out an envelope. “Here’s your down payment.”

  Tommy glared at him.

  “Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry about your guys. I gave you the best info I had.” He waved the envelope in his hand.

  “You’re an asshole,” Tommy said.

  “Yeah, probably. But we’re here to make money, right? And you won’t make any if you don’t give me the box.”

  Tommy opened the side door on the Transit, unzipped the duffel, and held it open so that Rickover could see the wooden crate.

  “Excellent. Bring it over.” Rickover opened the Camry’s trunk. Tommy hugged the duffel over to the Camry. Rickover handed him the envelope. “Just like always. You’ll get the rest of your cut as soon as it’s sold. A week or two, max.”

  “It’s still a load of bullshit.”

  “I wish it went differently, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.” He stuck out his hand. “No hard feelings.”

  Tommy knocked his hand away. “You didn’t lose two friends today.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Rickover got back into his car.

  Lying in the weeds up on the hill in the dark, Grace Mosley, an FBI agent specializing in stolen art, took one last picture of the red-bearded man and Rickover. Then she put the lens cap back on her camera and waited for the Camry and the Transit to leave the rest stop. After she saw the Transit’s taillights disappear onto the interstate, she stood up, rolled up the blanket she’d been lying on, and made her way carefully through the brush and dry weeds back down to the parking lot, where her car was waiting.

  Thirty minutes later, she was at her condo, a two-bedroom in a recently built gated community on the north side of the city, standing at the black granite counter that divided her kitchen from her living room area, swirling a glass of red wine. Grace was forty-three years old. She looked good and she knew it. She wasn’t thin anymore, but she carried the hard muscle of a middle-aged athlete. She was still dressed for work. Her dark hair was tied back at her neck; she wore a black pants suit with a white, open-collared shirt. A small gold cross hung from a thin chain around her neck. Rickover sat on the sofa facing her, his blue blazer lying on the arm of a nearby easy chair, a glass of wine in front of him on the coffee table. “Okay,” she started, “I’ve been patient. I took the pictures for you. What’s this all about?”

  Rickover took a minute to wipe his glasses with his handkerchief. “You know how I’ve been investigating the use of freeports to stash stolen art. I’ve developed a cover as a crook to gather evidence.”

  “Risky move.”

  “You know how my situation is. With the divorce, I need a raise. I’m topped out. To get a raise, I’ve got to get a promotion.” He sipped his wine. “Anyway, Philips figured out that the painting I sold him was a forgery. He wants his money back, which forced my hand. So I faked the theft of the Cellini casket to put my plan in motion.”

  “That was your shit show out at the airport?”

  “Yeah. Turned out to be a little messy, but my guys got the casket. Out at the rest stop? You took pictures of the handover.”

  “Local cops know what you’re up to?”

  “Can’t trust them.”

  “You shouldn’t mess with Philips; you know that, don’t you? If he finds out about you, you’re dead. You should just pay him and buy the time to work your other leads.”

  “Look, Philips is on me, and I don’t have the money to pay him. Besides, all I have to do is take the casket to the rendezvous with the buyer at the Nohamay freeport vault and then wait for Philips to come for his money.”

  “Why there
? Isn’t that tribal land?”

  “The Nohamay Nation has a casino and a freeport down in the corner of their reservation. It’s all run by a Singaporean corporation. NewTrust. No cops at all—just security personnel, which is why Philips feels safe keeping a locker in the vault there. Only the FBI has jurisdiction, and the corporation is prickly about anyone stepping on its turf, so they fight every search warrant. But when you arrest Philips in Nohamay City for trafficking in stolen art—”

  “When I arrest him?”

  “Consider it a present. Anyway, then we’ll have probable cause to search his vault locker. And once we get into his locker, we’ll have all the evidence we need to put him away for good. We’ll get Philips and the buyer, and we’ll get the casket back.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider.” She sat down next to him. “Sure, if this works, you’ll be the stuff of legends. No doubt. But if you lose the casket, you’ll go to jail. And if Philips finds out, he’ll kill you. There’s got to be another way.”

  He shook his head. “It’s going to work. I need a big win to solve my problems. I’ve been playing it safe way too long.”

  Mosley set her wine on the coffee table. “When was the last time you saw your kids?”

  “Three weeks ago. I missed last week and Melody won’t let me switch weekends.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. The girls didn’t see me that much before, so I don’t know if it’s that big a deal.”

  “That’s stupid talk. Of course they miss you. You’ve got to find the time to be their dad.”

  He drank some wine. “As soon as I’m done with this case, I’ll make supervisor. Then I’ll be able to make some changes.” He set his glass down. “What about you? How’s your daughter doing?”