The School of Turin

by Dale Nelson

  They proceeded immediately to the lower right corner of the exhibition. Jack walked with his hands clasped behind his back, keeping his head declined slightly. He kept to the outer edge of the exhibits. He spotted the first of the pieces they were to get, unclasped his hands, and turned, putting his back to the cases. That was Enzo’s signal.

  Jack acted as lookout. It was still early in the morning, for Italy anyway, and there wasn’t much tourist traffic in the hall yet. There were disinterested security guards in the hall, but they were positioned near the exits and didn’t have a good line of sight on the entire hall. Still, they’d have to move quickly once they were through the physical security because even if the guards didn’t pick them up, the eyes-in-the-sky certainly would. Jack marveled at how poorly set up this place was. The room was kept very dark, with little to no direct ambient light in order to maximize the contrast and highlight the jewelry pieces. It was difficult to make out the details of facial features beyond fifteen or twenty feet. There was also the lack of sight lines because of the size and distribution of the display cases, when rendered the security guards almost ineffectual. It seemed impossible that they wouldn’t be patrolling the hall for that exact reason, but they seemed content to remain stuck to the walls.

  Jack stood, appearing to admire the jewels, keeping one eye on the security guards and another on Enzo.

  Enzo reached into his jacket. He’d be activating the scrambler that would disrupt the RF signals being sent from the locks around the display cases to the security control room.

  Enzo leaned in, lockpicks in hand.

  Jack made ready to move over and open the cabinet.

  Twelve

  Danzig arrived at Paris’s Charles DeGaulle Airport, where she met Randall Heidegger. She was surprised to find a shorter, slightly bookish man with a thick head of black hair instead of the Ivy League rowing champion she’d envisioned. He was personable and friendly, and she warmed to him quickly. “You could’ve sent a car,” she said.

  “I know, but the ambassador wanted to meet with you today, and I thought you’d appreciate the prep. Given traffic, we’ll have about forty-five minutes to get to the consulate, and depending on her schedule, another one to five hours before we meet with the ambassador,” Heidegger said, punctuating it with a laugh.

  Danzig was impressed by the gesture and was frankly surprised. She’d learned how cold and isolating the bureau could be in the last four years. It was especially true when you didn’t have someone looking out for you. While she had the reputation of being a dogged, tenacious investigator, she’d also earned one of being reckless and inconsiderate. All that meant that people didn’t want to work with her, and worse they didn’t want her working for them.

  Her boss in Miami, Angela Mendez, was a smart, capable agent and was moving places quick. They had come through the academy within a year of each other, and Danzig knew of her by reputation, though they’d never crossed paths until Miami. When Danzig approached her with this, Mendez was surprisingly supportive. But also wary. She didn’t say it, but Danzig knew that on some level Mendez had to worry about this blowing back on her if it didn’t go well. She’d also be losing an agent from an underfunded squad for an indefinite period of time. But the political ramifications of denying a request from that level could be disastrous. Danzig played it straight with her and asked for her advice before going.

  Mendez told her that she’d done very good work on the task force and was earning her way back to where she wanted to be. To Danzig’s surprise, Mendez authorized her departure. She also urged Danzig to be cautious. She knew how much this case meant to her and knew, without Danzig saying anything, that it was a chance to prove she’d been right all along, that the bureau should have gone after Jack Burdette when they’d had the chance. But she urged caution. “Katrina, if it doesn’t look like it’s going to break your way, drop it and walk. Let the LEGAT own it. I can pull you out, say you’re needed for a sting or something here and that your advisory period has to be cut short. I hope it doesn’t come to that, I really don’t, but please be careful. I’ve seen these interagency things go south, and they always want a scapegoat.”

  And Danzig made the most convenient one.

  “I will. Thank you.” Danzig collected her things and made to leave.

  “Katrina,” Mendez said, softly but resolute.

  Danzig stopped.

  “I screwed up once early on in my career. I’m going to give you some advice that my boss at the time gave me. I took it, and it has served me well.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Even Jesus could only get resurrected once.”

  Danzig thought about those words a lot on the flight over. She knew that Mendez was far too savvy a player to be entirely altruistic, but Danzig also thought that both the advice and the offer to help were genuine. Was she making a mistake in doing this?

  Worse, did she trust herself to walk away, let Burdette walk away if the case wasn’t going to break her way?

  Danzig knew the answer to that.

  And it scared her.

  Danzig followed Heidegger out the arrivals door and found the black Suburban waiting for them. A French police car was sitting in front of it. The cop was out of his car and talking with the driver. A State Department Diplomatic Security Service officer greeted her and opened the door.

  “I’ll take your bag, ma’am.”

  Heidegger climbed in after her, and the DSS agent closed the door. “So, how did this get on the ambassador’s radar?”

  “Well, as I’m sure you know, relations between the US and the French aren’t particularly good at the moment. She’s mostly concerned about heading off any potential embarrassment for the country, so we’re briefing her people weekly on any Americans who have gotten in trouble here. Most of the time, it’s nothing. I think we’ve filed ten reports this year, and it’s nearly always stupid shit. Our countrymen have this annoying habit of believing only American laws apply to them when they’re not on American soil.”

  Danzig laughed.

  “So, when your boy popped up, that was something. This was the first time since we started reporting that I think the ambassador took an interest.”

  “She shit a brick, actually,” the DSS agent in the passenger seat said.

  Danzig was annoyed that he was listening in, and she caught the look on Heidegger’s face to see that he was as well. They’d both expected these guys to be a bit more discreet. Heidegger waited a long moment and then continued. “We’re to lend any and all support to local authorities.”

  “Do you have anything else from the Paris Police?”

  “Lead detective is a guy named Henri. Good man. I’ve worked with him. They arrested four guys. Three of them were small time and pretty inexperienced. It was one of those idiots who discharged his weapon in the bar. Said he was trying to scare people into staying put. Now, French law says that they have to charge them within seventy-two hours or let them go. They’ve done that, but they know there is a fifth man, so they’re holding these guys until they can wrap up the fifth person. Unfortunately, after they all spoke with their lawyers, they clammed up fast. Wouldn’t say anything else and wouldn’t give up the name of the fifth.”

  “That’s helpful,” she quipped.

  “So, how it went down, the three young ones were arrested in the hotel. The alarms tripped after the gun went off, and they were all trapped inside. The fourth one, named Alonso Villareal, was arrested separately. We found him with a bag of jewelry.”

  “And this Villareal. He’s Spanish? Not a player, I take it.”

  “Yeah and no. Fifty-five, long career. Eleven years total behind bars, mostly in Spain. He’s not talking now either.”

  “Do these guys all have the same lawyer?”

  “No. Villareal’s lawyer is Spanish. The Three Stooges have someone local, but this whole thing smells.”

  Danzig stared out the window. “First thing I’d want to do is run down the attorneys
. Find out who they’re working for.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Burdette is organized, networked. It’s not likely that three junior players would get representation that fast, or at all, not if they are as big of morons as you said in your report. We want to figure out who is trying to get them out of trouble. Follow the money. Anything else on Villareal?”

  “Yeah. Of the four of them, he’s the one looking at serious time. He was arrested the night of the robbery because he was going the wrong way on a one-way street with a backpack full of jewelry. I think there’s juice to squeeze there.”

  Danzig shared everything she knew about Gentleman Jack Burdette going back to her time in Europe. She told Heidegger about the scores Burdette was believed to have pulled, his known associates, and the aliases that she believed he used.

  Almost everything.

  When Danzig confronted Jack at his winery, trying to force him into a corner that she could exploit—which she now admitted was grossly overstepping—Burdette told her two things that gave her pause. At the time she thought it was just another bluff, but now she wasn’t so sure. The first thing he said was that Ari Hassar had paid him to steal the jewels from the Carlton. That Hassar believed someone was going to steal his stones, so he paid Jack to do it before they could. Most of that story didn’t hold water for her, but the part that did was the massive insurance check that Hassar cashed.

  The second thing, the one line that shook her in the months and years since Jack had said it, was just the kind of mind-fuck bullshit that someone like him would say to shake her confidence. Maybe Jack Burdette is just a name thieves make up to confuse people like you.

  But that didn’t mean that it couldn’t be true.

  The vehicle arrived at the consulate, and Heidegger took Danzig to the Legal Attaché office. Danzig had taken the red eye in order to be there for their 2:20 p.m. appointment. The ambassador was running two hours late.

  When Heidegger got the call that the ambassador was finally ready, they went up to her offices, where they held in a waiting area for another twenty minutes. The art collection at the embassy was amazing, and the salon where those waiting for an appointment with the US Ambassador was even more impressive. The walls were a robin’s egg blue, and they were adorned with black and gold tapestries, watercolors of lilies, and gilded moldings.

  The doors opened, and an aide emerged to escort them to the ambassador. She was standing in front of her desk, looking down at her phone. Danzig knew she was tall, but the ambassador was much taller than she expected. She was blonde and striking, appearing several years younger than she was. She was slender and had a firm jaw. Danzig knew she had to guard against forming biases. Normally, ambassadorships with important allies like France were reserved for career diplomats or those with expert knowledge of the culture. Donors usually got countries like Luxembourg—places you couldn’t screw up too badly in, and even if you did, it wouldn’t make the news. But Ambassador McMillan seemed different. There was an air about her, a commanding presence.

  The ambassador put her phone down and set it on the massive desk behind her. Then she stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and extended a hand. “You must be Katrina Danzig. Claire McMillan. Very nice to meet you, and thank you for coming out here on such short notice. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.” The ambassador’s voice was airy and welcoming, but also direct. Like most successful politicians and businesspeople, she had the ability to make herself seem humble even though you were doing exactly what she wanted.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Danzig said. “I’ve been on this case for a very long time. I’m grateful for the opportunity to keep at it.”

  “Great,” the ambassador said, and Danzig knew her mind was already on something else, solving other problems. “I told Special Agent Heidegger, but want you to hear it from me too, that if there’s anything you need from the consulate or my office, just let me know. I understand that this Burdette is very mobile. If you need me to alert any of the other embassies in Europe, I’ll contact them personally.”

  “Thank you, Madam Ambassador. That’s very generous of you.”

  “I know I’m a diplomat and not a cop, but I want this guy caught, and I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  And just like that, it was over.

  The aide that ushered them in appeared and informed the ambassador that it was time to depart. She was required at a state function. Ambassador McMillan thanked Danzig again for coming out on short notice, wished her luck, and reaffirmed that if there was anything she needed just to contact her office.

  “I’ve been here for four years,” Heidegger said when they got in the elevator. “In that time, I’ve been within five feet of the ambassador three times. Two of them in the last forty-eight hours. Whatever else he is, this Burdette guy is sure good at pissing people off.”

  “That he is,” Danzig said.

  “Well, let’s get started. What do you need?”

  “I want to talk to the Paris police, and I want to get in to see Villareal ASAP. Tonight, if possible. Let’s dig up everything we can on the attorneys that met with those guys. I want to talk to your EUROPOL and INTERPOL liaisons right away, and there’s an old colleague in the Italian Guardia di Finanza that we want to bring on board.”

  Heidegger looked over at her like he needed to catch his breath. “You want coffee or anything?”

  “That’ll be good too.”

  Thirteen

  Megan’s face flashed in Jack’s mind, as did her last words to him.

  You know what I think? I think you could walk away from this any time you want. Could have any time in the last six years. I don’t think you want to because you’re addicted to it.

  He could hear Megan’s voice as plain and as pained as if she were standing right next to him.

  Jack’s hand hovered over the cabinet. He could be in this thing in seconds.

  When Jack got on the plane to return to Europe, it was to do this job. To prove to himself that he still could. Not just to prove to himself that he was still good, but to prove that he was better than the mistakes that he’d made over the last several years. Better than the narrow misses, the jobs that weren’t planned to the last exacting detail because he was split between managing two complicated lives.

  Better than his competition.

  Better than the police.

  But now as he stood here over this collection of priceless jewels, works of art of inestimable value, Jack realized what he had become. He’d never sought to justify his life. He stole things, and that was “wrong,” but he also drew a stark contrast between the work he did and the things people like Aleksander and his ilk did. Jack never hurt anyone.

  This job blurred that line far too much. Was anyone being hurt? No, but these were priceless works of art that Aleksander was stealing to spite a rival. They’d be broken up and sold, lost to history.

  To say nothing of the enemy he’d be making in the Qatari royal family. How long would his involvement in this remain a secret once they brought their intelligence services to bear? He opened this case, and Jack could only look forward to a life on the run. But it was that. At least, it wasn’t only that.

  This cost him his relationship with Hugh, a man that had befriended him, guided him in the wine trade and showed him how to run a successful business. It also cost him Megan, the only woman he’d ever truly loved. God only knew whatever he’d had with Guilia wasn’t that. Yes, their relationship was over now, but she believed that he was beyond saving. She’d move on with her life, find someone else, be happy with him, and Jack would have to live out his days with that.

  Jack knew he didn’t want this life anymore.

  He didn’t want to be Gentleman Jack. He didn’t want to be a thief.

  He wanted to make wine. He wanted to wake up in the same bed every day, without a gun and a fake passport under his pillow. At least, he thought he did. Jack hadn’t seen normal since he was seventeen.
He found that he liked having roots, being part of a community, having people depend on him that weren’t liars and thieves.

  It was too late for Megan’s love, but maybe he could regain her forgiveness.

  “Enzo,” Jack hissed, voice just above a whisper.

  Enzo snapped his head to Jack, who waved his palm flat across the air in their “wave-off” signal.

  It was one of a series of codes they’d developed over the years. This one meant “drop everything and walk.”

  Jack turned, moved past a disinterested security guard, and headed for the stairs.

  They descended into the crowded entry hall, now filled with people who wanted to get in and see the exhibit before it closed.

  It was there, in that confused mass, that Jack and Viktor locked eyes.

  Viktor, here. He was in the center of the entry hall. Judging by his location, it looked like he’d just purchased a ticket and was heading upstairs. There was no mistaking it. Viktor’s face was expressionless, inscrutable, cold, but his gaze did not break with Jack’s.

  Jack froze.

  Stared at Viktor from across the room. Viktor stared back. He was wearing a ball cap, reading glasses, and a windbreaker that looked a size too big. He’d copied Jack’s playbook almost to the letter.

  Jack felt a hand on his shoulder, and he snapped his head around to see Enzo moving past him on the stairs. There was a look of confusion and concern on his face.

  Jack pushed his way past people for the exit. Cool, wet air hit him as they emerged into St. Mark’s Square. They moved west along the waterfront to the Giardini Real, a small park between the massive archeological museum that formed St. Mark’s western edge and the lagoon. On three sides, the park was surrounded by a thin ribbon of blue-green water. They quickly crossed the park, which was not only one of the few truly “open” spaces in Venice, however small, but also one of the only places with trees and one of the main entry points to this part of Venice. It was mid-morning, and the park was beginning to fill. “This is good,” Jack said. He cast a quick look back toward the west and St. Mark’s, but there was no sign of Viktor.