by Dale Nelson
Having Andelić be the button-man was the easy answer that everyone seemed to want, if not need.
That same part of her mind also told her not to dig.
Whatever the truth was would remain with Jack Burdette and with the dead.
She owed her friend that much.
Thirty-Five
Jack returned to the United States with Hugh Coughlin, flanked by two US Marshals who had been deployed to Rome to bring him home. They didn’t handcuff him during the flight. Danzig had apparently arranged that much, and Jack was grateful. But they wouldn’t let him drink on the flight, and they had to ride in economy, which was like being handcuffed. Upon reaching New York, Jack was placed in a hotel under guard until meeting with the federal judge and the US Attorney the following day.
On a warm spring day in lower Manhattan, Jack Burdette became a convicted felon.
The process unfolded basically as Danzig said it would, though not exactly as Jack imagined. The judge actually praised Jack for his willingness to put himself at risk to prevent a bank robbery. He further cited Jack’s bravery in helping to capture Andelić. He said these two things made Jack’s other actions extraordinarily baffling. The judge expounded in great detail on how Jack betrayed the trust of his fellow citizens by fraudulently procuring passports and undermining the entire international system. He actually said that forging passports to commit petty crimes abroad makes it harder to catch the real bad guys—terrorists, human traffickers, drug smugglers, and the like. Jack thought it was a little thick, but he said nothing. The judge did allow that Jack was placed in these circumstances due to an elaborate extortion scheme designed to manipulate him into further criminal behavior. Whether Danzig or the US Attorney said anything about Jack’s past escapades, he didn’t know, but there was nothing in the discovery materials about his work prior to the Hôtel Ritz.
Castro’s death must have hit her incredibly hard, Jack thought.
He knew that it did him.
The judge lectured him for about fifteen minutes and admonished him on what would happen if he violated his parole or the conditions of his deal. Then the judge rapped his gavel, and it was done.
Jack was processed out of the courtroom as a felon, serving a ten-year probation. Under the terms laid down by the US Attorney, Jack would need to fly back to Manhattan once a month to check in with his probation officer, but Hugh felt confident that they could get that changed.
They stepped out of the federal courthouse in lower Manhattan and into the bright sunshine. Hugh put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “It’s over,” he said.
Was it though?
There were still so many untied threads.
Rusty stuck to his story that the shooting was an attempted carjacking gone wrong. The time of night and car he was driving certainly supported that. Enzo got him out of the hospital before the Carabinieri figured out that the Maserati he was driving was stolen. Though, given everything that had happened in Rome that week, they all knew it would be some time before the local authorities had the resources or the interest to run a registration.
Enzo brought Rusty to Switzerland, where he had a safe house and could recuperate. Vito shot him with a .22. It was a small caliber bullet and only fatal when fired up close. The leg would heal quickly, but the punctured lung would take more time. Rusty would be sedentary for some time and moving with a cane for some months, but he didn’t necessarily need either of those things to search for Vito Verrazano. Rusty was engaging the remainder of his assets to find the old thief. That wouldn’t be easy because Danzig locked him down hard, but Rusty was a man with renewed purpose.
On the phone, he told Jack, “I never told you what I did when I was in the FBI.”
“That’s right,” Jack said, content to leave it at that. He was a man who appreciated secrecy.
“Counterintelligence,” Rusty said. “I hunted spies. I can find a seventy-year-old thief with few places to hide.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jack said.
That explained a lot.
Jack also contacted everyone he used to work with—the syndicate in Turkey, the unscrupulous buyers in Amsterdam and Brussels, anyone that Jack had sold a diamond to in the past.
Thieves stole from other thieves all the time. This was a profession that was stripped bare of nobility. That was one of the main reasons Jack always made sure people on his crews got an equal share. It reduced the inclination for a double-cross later. Jack didn’t tell any of these dealers that Vito had a massive quantity of diamonds on him; they’d just kill him and take them. Instead, he simply asked them to make sure that Vito was closed off to them.
They needed to close off as many avenues as Vito had to sell those stones in order to flush him out in the open. It would take time, Jack knew, but they would get him. Vito had been out of the game for a long time, and he didn’t have a safe way to move those stones. The nagging thought that Jack couldn’t push away, though, is that this was not action one took without a plan. Vito wouldn’t steal those stones out from under Jack and Enzo, two people who knew him well, and Rusty, a man whose resourcefulness Vito was already well aware of. Jack hadn’t spoken to him in twenty years, and Enzo had only started speaking to him in the last few years. They assumed Vito went clean after he got out of prison, but they didn’t know. His age certainly suggested he should have, but again, they didn’t know.
As to who he could be working with?
That would be hard to unravel.
Jack’s information network in Europe was trashed. Additionally, the realization that Aleksander used Remy LeClerc to set up the Ritz job told him that there was literally no one in Europe he could trust. Rusty believed that his law enforcement connections were all used up thanks to Agent Danzig.
And Jack was painfully reminded that he didn’t have anyone in Italian law enforcement he could speak to.
Finding Vito would take time, but they would find him.
They weren’t letting him walk with eighty million dollars.
They weren’t letting him walk on shooting Rusty and leaving him to die.
They weren’t letting him walk. Period.
Jack thought on the judge’s words—about his opportunity to reform, to have a second chance.
But he was a man renewed with grim purpose. Jack placed trust in very few people. It was a commodity almost as rare and valuable as diamonds in his business. When that trust was betrayed, there would be consequences.
Yes, they just needed time.
More time than Viktor Petrić had, apparently. Jack saw on the news that he’d been apprehended at the Italian-Croatian border with a backpack full of invaluable jewelry pieces.
Jack stepped into the sunshine a relatively free man. He asked Hugh if he wanted to get some lunch, but Hugh told him that he’d had some things to take care of. Jack didn’t ask what. His relationship with Hugh had taken a serious hit, and it was doubtful that it would ever recover. Jack once promised him that he quit stealing, and it cut his friend deeply to know that he’d been lied to. There were few lines one couldn’t cross with Hugh, but that was one.
Jack knew there would come a time when he’d be forced to account for everything he’d done. When that happened, he’d be forced to confront the decisions he made over the last six years, squandering a legitimate way out of this way of life on the pretense that he had to keep going. Decisions that cost him his friendship with Hugh and Castro his life.
Even if they’d gotten the diamonds, that wouldn’t have been worth it.
Hugh told Jack he knew a good wine bar in Chelsea and that they should meet up for a drink that night.
“Thank you,” Jack said, “for everything.”
Hugh didn’t say anything. He simply nodded and walked away.
Jack arrived at the appointed time, six-thirty, but Hugh never showed.
Instead, sitting at a table by herself was Megan McKinney.
Megan wore a jacket over a white T-shirt and jeans, her auburn hair pulled back in a tight
tail. There was a bottle on the table and two glasses. When Jack approached, he saw it was a 2013 Peregrine. That was the last wine they made together. Jack was almost as surprised to see it as he was to see her sitting behind it.
“Hey, Megs,” he said, standing awkwardly behind the empty chair.
“I heard you might show up here,” she said.
Jack sat in the chair opposite her, and she poured him a glass.
“They had Peregrine here?”
“No, I brought it with. Corkage,” she said.
“Where is Hugh?”
“I don’t think he’ll be here. He’s catching a late flight back home,” she said. There was a sad, regretful note in her voice, and Jack knew Hugh was gone.
Jack took a drink and closed his eyes. There were wines he made that were technically superior to this one, particularly the vintages made with the grapes from the Sine Metu plot that had been described as “ephemeral,” but this one would always be his favorite. He’d kept two cases for himself, and he knew Megan had at least the same. Still, it was a rare thing.
“I’m really glad to see you,” he said. “You didn’t have to fly all this way.”
“I thought you could use a friend,” was all she said for a while. They drank in silence for a few moments. “Hugh told me what you did … and what happened. I don’t even know what to say.”
Jack knew what he wanted her to say. Seeing her here after everything that happened to him was a salve for his soul. But without some affirmation of where they stood, Jack found himself still on a nervous edge.
“When we spoke last, I told you someone was forcing me to commit a crime for him. I decided I’d rather take my chances than do that.”
“You could have been killed. That seems pretty cavalier.”
Was he hearing her right?
“You’re not suggesting I should have gone through with it,” Jack said.
“No,” she replied, but there was an edge in her voice. “I don’t know, Frank. I have a hard time processing the world you live in.”
“That makes two of us,” he said.
Megan closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was … that was harsh of me. I can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through these last few weeks. I don’t know what to make of any of this, so I think I’m just lashing out.”
“I get it.” Maybe, Jack realized, it was time to let the people he loved off the hook. Let them go. They deserved better in life than a serial jewelry store robber who tried to pretend that he was a legitimate businessman. “Look, Megs, I lied to you and Hugh. I told you both that I was giving it up, and I didn’t. My reasons for it aren’t good enough. I can say that I wished I didn’t, and while that’s true, I’m not going to insult you by saying it. I know this was too much for Hugh to take, and it’s cost me his friendship.” Jack’s heart plummeted when Megan didn’t correct him. “I don’t deserve you either. As a friend or as anything else. But I do love you, for whatever that may be worth.”
Megan looked away, and as she did, there was a glint in her eye reflecting off the dim light, which he realized quickly was a tear forming. “Hugh doesn’t think you can quit,” she said.
“I know,” Jack replied. “He told me about his son.” It was clear, then, that the reason Hugh was walking away was not really that Jack had lied to him, but that he couldn’t put himself through this again. He wouldn’t take the risk that he would put his faith in Jack to do the right thing, only to learn that he hadn’t. Hugh had been through that too many times with his own son.
The realization of that was crushing.
“What are you going to do?” Megan asked.
“I’m going to go home, and I’m going to make wine.”
And he would. It just wasn’t all he would do.
After what he gave Basia for her help, Jack had just over four million dollars that he’d stolen from Aleksander. It was small consolation considering what he’d lost, but it was an enduring fuck you that Aleksander would think about every day in prison. He’d need to split that with Enzo and Rusty, of course, so his take away would probably be a million two or a million three. That was okay. That was a cushion.
“The question is,” Jack said, “what are you going to do?”
Megan held up her wine glass, considering its contents for a time.
“We’ll see,” she said.
Epilogue
The house was quiet and warm with afternoon sun, though it was dark. The shades were all drawn except for those over the deck that looked out over the valley below. It was a magnificent view, and Niccolò Bartolo found himself enjoying it often during the few hours that he’d spent in this house. The mountain hillsides were lush with spring growth and golden sun. So much like Italy.
Nico moved through this house that was not his own, a strange experience. Of course, it was not his first time being in a building that wasn’t his, but then he was a thief. However, this was the first time that he’d spent hours in a place, and probably the first time he’d come to not take something.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He would take something, just not objects. And it wouldn’t be theft. Those things would be freely given.
Or there would be consequences.
Excitement coursed through his veins. He’d been planning this moment since he’d first gained his freedom six months before, when the Belgians finally released him from prison. Of course, things hadn’t exactly gone to plan. In a way, though, this might actually have been for the best.
If he were a younger man, a man with time on his hands and less to lose, perhaps Nico would have simply walked into the Commerce Bank, retrieved his diamonds, and washed his hands of the whole affair, but the Cannizzaros were some spiteful bastards. Nico always had a dicey relationship with his mother’s oldest brother, Vincenzu. His uncle assumed that because they were blood relatives that meant Nico was part of not just the family, but the family. And that was fine until Nico decided to strike it out on his own. He relocated to Turin, where the Cannizzaros had no reach and did incredibly well for himself. Nico’s School of Turin was the scourge of that city, and he achieved a level of notoriety seldom seen in someone not part of one of the mafia families. They wouldn’t touch him because he worked with and for all of the organized crime groups in Turin. He never stole from them, and it bought him a form of protection. Once he became known, became successful, Vincenzu claimed ownership. Said that Nico had to pay tribute. The fat son of a bitch hadn’t lifted a finger to help Nico start his operation and now was trying to claim sovereignty from some provincial island?
First, he demanded a portion of Nico’s earnings as a sign of respect.
Then he demanded Nico use the School of Turin to perform jobs.
Nico denied him.
The men sent to collect were never seen again, and that sealed it.
Vincenzu actually put a price on his head.
Not that Nico was scared, the Cannizzaro hand didn’t extend that far, and they both knew it.
The last nail wasn’t pounded into their relationship’s coffin until after the Antwerp job, however. After that, Uncle Vincenzu said all could be made whole for a portion of that haul. Nico laughed at him over the phone. Vincenzu actually invoked vendetta, like he was a fucking Medici. That’s when he got the idea to hide the diamonds right under Vincenzu’s nose—in his own goddamned bank.
He’d had the box opened years before using an alias, before their relationship truly went south, and before his picture was posted in the manager’s office with orders to shoot him on sight.
Guilia—lovely, pliable Guilia—walked unsuspecting into that lion’s den and hid his diamonds. He told her they’d run away together when he got out of prison. He was originally expecting a six-year sentence and that they’d knock a few off for good behavior. After all, they hadn’t actually caught him with anything, and the owners sure as hell weren’t disclosing how much he’d taken. Who were the real thieves here, really?
But it hadn’t worked out t
hat way.
Vincenzu died while he was in prison. Nico forgot to shed a tear when he’d learned. Unfortunately, his cousin Salvatore, who had been the reasonable one, decided to honor his father’s wishes and continued the vendetta. Nico knew that he couldn’t talk sense into his cousin, and he certainly couldn’t ask for a free pass to go into their bank. Salvatore would know exactly why. Nico also couldn’t go in there himself. He knew who guarded the bank, and more importantly, he knew Nico.
Particularly now that they knew he was out of prison.
Oh, they’d kept tabs. Say what you will about a Sicilian, they did not forgive or forget.
Nico called Guilia when he got out. His wife left him while he was in prison, and between the divorce and the various trials, most of his personal assets were gone. Nico’s first thought was to use Guilia to get the diamonds. She could get them out just as easily as she’d gotten them in. Well, it wouldn’t be quite that simple. He’d need to get documents to indicate that he was Gino Carli, the name he’d opened the safe deposit box in, and then he’d need to contact a lawyer to generate a power of attorney. That was all risky—certainly worth a hundred million though. He changed his mind when he spoke to her.
Guilia wasn’t terribly happy to hear from him after all these years of silence. Whatever money he’d given her had run out long ago. And with Jack Burdette not only at the top of his game, but also seemingly having pulled the largest heist in history, Guilia was feeling as though she’d backed the wrong horse. Nico didn’t think the same trick that he’d used to get the diamonds into the safe would work getting them out. First of all, Guilia was known to them as well. She’d been … prolific … during his time in prison, working her way into the social and political circles in Rome.
