by Scott Soloff
"I see you managed to give TJ my instructions."
"Aye, lad. Trust everything went according to plan."
"Too early to say, Uncle. We'll just have to wait and see." I stepped out into the cool evening air. Overcast. Might rain.
It was more than a couple of hours. More like six. Nevertheless, Kelly was parked outside waiting for me.
"Waiting long?"
"Not really. TJ called about half an hour ago. What's the next move?"
"Connor."
Back home Kelly made some sandwiches. I grabbed two Bass Ales from the fridge. Set the laptop up on the kitchen table. Put a CD into the player. Kato spun in a few circles and sat at my feet.
It was time to get Connor involved. I was playing catch up and the only way to get in front of this situation was to learn the identities of the players.
Louis Armstrong's 'It's A Wonderful Life' started playing. I could hear rain hitting the roof.
The first step was to upload the surveillance videos, from both my home and City Hall to my Amazon S3 account. Amazon Simple Storage Service, hence the S3, allows for the storing and retrieving of data at anytime from anywhere.
Next, I set up a temporary wall at droneme.com. These walls require no registration and cease to exist after a prearranged period of time. My wall was set up with the tag ‘picker’ and was set to expire after twenty-four hours. I posted the url where the videos were stored on the Amazon S3 account.
I also posted the following message: 'identify players asap include aka'. Although I already had the names of the two feds, I was asking my brother to follow up with all known associates. Plus, I was looking forward to discovering who No Name was.
Conner checks the anonymous wall at least once per day. Hopefully, he could use his network to uncover what the hell was going on.
We started in on the sandwiches. I filled Kelly in what I just did. She said, "Tell me how you learned about your brother."
Up until now I've been reluctant to talk about him. What the hell. I relay the story about the solicitor in London calling me, being met at the airport by a very well dressed chauffeur, arriving at 150 Piccadilly and my introduction into the world of fine cigars.
"We left The Ritz and decided to walk and enjoy the cigars. Connor managed to talk but revealed very little. Mostly, he pointed out landmarks, briefly covered the weather and made some tasteful comments about some of the women we passed.”
“Did you know that he was your brother?” Kelly asked.
“No idea. But I found his company to be quite pleasant and decided that I liked him. There are times in life when you meet someone and hit it off. I got the very strong impression that I already knew him and that somehow we could become close friends. Little did I know. We arrived at 33 St James's Square in less than ten minutes.”
"We found our way to the solicitor's office. Harold P. Smythe. He was very gracious and showed us to a couple of leather chairs."
HPS: "Well, Mr. Picker, I imagine that all of this might come as something as a shock."
Harold didn't manage to tut-tut or pip-pip, but I swore he came awfully close. "You might say that."
"In that case, let's get down to it. This is a copy of Simon Jones' last will and testament. Your father. My secretary will provide you with a copy. Essentially, it conveys what you are to receive from his estate."
Smythe rummaged in the middle drawer of his desk and retrieved a DVD. Reached over the desk and handed it to me. Appearing to be just a tad absent minded, he looked in the right hand drawer and pulled out a set of keys. He also handed them to me.
Harold continued, "There are one or two personal effects that your father wished you to have. Your brother here will arrange to get them to you. Any questions?"
Sonofabitch. I looked over at Connor and raise an eyebrow. Could it be? He's about my height, close to my weight and even my age. His eyes are brown, like mine, but his hair is dark. The build is lanky, although he is slightly broader in the chest and shoulders. The head is square and his nose is better proportioned that mine. All in all, quite handsome.
"Surprised?" he asked.
"I'll say. Didn't know I had any family. That is, except for my Uncle."
Connor smiled. "You mean Uncle Moe?"
Sonofabitch. Did I say that already?
I turned to Kelly, said, "It's time for bed."
"But, there's more. I want to hear it."
"I will, promise."
We went upstairs. Her being a woman and me being a man, well, you know, we did the things that those people do. Then we went to sleep.
September 1975 Philadelphia
"How are you feeling?"
Emily was five months pregnant. Simon was both thrilled and nervous. The future was uncertain; it made him highly uncomfortable.
"Good, considering. Finding a position to sleep isn't easy. Other than that, fine."
Simon had come from the studio. Copy number one was complete. He had discussed the various methods of getting it to Price undetected with Anthony.
"Messenger service," Anthony suggested.
Simon nodded. Simple, elegant, virtually undetectable. "Who?"
Anthony lifted his eyebrows and tucked his chin. "My oldest boy. Anthony, Jr."
"Shit, Anthony. Are you sure? I don't want to expose your family."
"Low risk, high reward. In essence, the painting doesn't leave our hands until it reaches the museum. You'll have to consider how to pass it off though. You seem to think that Price is being observed."
"I know he is. Set it up. I'll call Price."
Simon walked down to the pharmacy and called from the pay phone. "The package will arrive tomorrow at noon. Have your secretary pick it up from the front desk. Do not get it yourself."
From there he drove over to a cafe on South Street. He met Emily at a small table out front.
"How is your 'project' coming along?" She couldn't help but smile. Simon realized that most women would be appalled. Emily, for some reason, found the whole episode highly amusing.
"Great. By tomorrow at this time I'll be the proud owner of, albeit temporarily, the real deal."
Emily gasped, slightly. "You mean to say..."
"Shhh... Not here."
"By the way, I have some interesting news. Uncle Moe is coming to visit."
Emily was curious. "What can you tell me about him?"
"Uncle Moe is quite the character." Simon took a sip of his wine. "Let me tell you a story. Moses Aronson was born into a poor Jewish family in Ireland at the turn of the century. His dream from a very young age was to see the world. At sixteen he lies about his age and signs up for military service. He proved to have a talent with guns. Most of his service was spent as a sniper. He once hit a ‘target’ at 2,710 yards. Which is interesting because he beat the world’s official record by three yards. Moe does his twenty years and gets out at the relatively young age of thirty six.
The wanderlust is not quite out of his system. With his small pension and ability to hustle antiques he continues roaming the globe. At one point he's aboard a ship traveling through the South China Sea. One evening, there is a violent storm and the ship is destroyed just off of Borneo.
The survivors are captured by cannibals; their wrists and feet bound; hoisted on long wooden poles and carried deep into the jungle."
At this point in the story Emily's eyes have grown wide. "You're absolutely making this up."
"Listen, it gets better. The captives, bound on these long poles, are placed upon spits. Piles of logs, twigs and leaves are placed under each survivor. Men with knives remove the clothes of their prisoners. They get to Uncle Moe; loud words are exchanged between the warrior with the knife and his chief.
"Moe, at this point naked as a newborn, is cut down and lead over to the chief of the tribe. The chief is speaking rapidly in a language that Moses doesn’t understand. Then, the chief points to Moe's legs. The other penny drops. Moses Aronson has suffered from eczema his entire life. His legs are cove
red with red rashes which are crusty; flaking; blistering; cracking and even oozing. The obvious conclusion is that he is 'unclean' and not fit to eat."
Emily giggles, takes a deep breath and asks, "Well, how did he get out?"
"He didn't, at least not right away. Moses actually stuck around for a few months, became friendly with the chief; learned the language and kept a diary of what he learned about the Pygmies. One of the guides eventually led him from the forest back to civilization where he hitched a ride on a freighter.
"He returned to London with his diary and a couple of trunks of artifacts. Moe wrote a monograph on the life of the Borneo Pygmies; rented a hall and advertised his lectures in the local papers. When each lecture was over he sold copies of his small book and the articles brought back from the island."
"I'm almost afraid to ask. What did Uncle Moe bring back with him?"
"Blow guns, poison darts, shrunken heads and native jewelry made from ivory. He made a small fortune."
"That is the most incredible story that I have ever heard. It can't possibly be true."
"You can decide for yourself when you meet him. Uncle Moe once told me that it was the best bar story that he ever had. He drank for free in pubs all over the world for years on that tale alone."
We get kidnapped
They came at 3:00am.
Someone was wiggling my big toe. "Have to get up, laddie. They'll be here in just a few minutes."
Huh? I shouldn't have been able to feel that.
"They'll be hurtin' the dog. Hide her." To Uncle Moe, all dogs were female.
I gave Kelly a shove to wake up. Rolled out of bed and took three large steps across the room. Opened the door to the dumb waiter, snapped my fingers and pointed. Kato jumped in, sat and looked me in the eyes expectantly. "Stay! Not a word," and lowered the contraption into the basement.
"What the hell?" Kelly jumped out of bed sensing my urgency.
"They'll be here any moment, put on some clothes."
Kelly looks at me strangely. “How in the hell do you know... Oh, never mind, it's that damn ghost."
Pulled on some jeans, slipped on running shoes. As I was pulling a t-shirt over my head two men burst into the bedroom. Dressed entirely in black, including ski masks and matching Glocks.
Shit.
Like some poorly performed choreography, we both raised our hands simultaneously.
"You boys play for keeps, don't ya."
Gunman A, the one to my left, shouts, "Shut up."
Gunman B, the guy to my right, shouts, "Where's the painting?"
Here we go again. "Which is it fellas? Shut up or tell you where the painting is."
GA: "Listen, wise guy, give us the painting now or your girlfriend here gets pumped with lead."
"You're kidding me, right." But something tells me not to mess around with these guys. They're not feds and they will shoot. I point to the closet and say, "In there."
They grab the painting that I wrapped and planted earlier in the day. Both of us have our hands secured behind our backs with plastic ties. We're lead outside and placed into the back of a windowless van. This makes it twice in less than a week, and honestly, it beginning to grate on my nerves.
The van travels for what I estimate to be roughly forty-five minutes. It pulls off the main road onto an unpaved surface.
Less than five minutes later we’re pulled from the rear of the van. Directly in front of us is an old, red barn. Up the drive, approximately a hundred yards stands a white clapboard house. We're pushed into the middle of the barn. Gunman A tells us to sit on the ground and secures our feet with plastic ties. He leaves and closes the barn door behind him.
There's one bare light bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling.
Kelly says, "How about finishing the story about your brother. It seems as if we have some time on our hands."
Nearly that same moment I see Uncle Moe walking towards me from the corner of the barn. "Actually, lad, you won't be having much time at all. Someone is on their way to authenticate the painting. After that, those boys are intent on killin' ya. If ya goin' to do something, now would be the time."
I repeat what Moe just said to Kelly. I've got to be honest here; she's beginning to look a little nervous. She said, "We're going to die."
"Yes," I respond, "but not today." I ask Moe, "How far out are they,” meaning TJ.
"Too long, laddie. For the time being, you're on your own."
I look around the room. There are some garden tools in the far corner. I tell Kelly, "We're going to be okay. Take some deep breaths and get ready to move."
I take my bound hands and slide them down over my ass and draw my legs through. Stand up and hop over to where the tools are stored. One of them is a scythe. Great. I rub the plastic restraint over the blade until it breaks. Pick up the implement and slice the ties binding my feet.
I run over to Kelly and repeat the process. Return the scythe to the corner.
Moe practically yells at me, "One of them's coming."
Hurry back to the center of the floor, sit down with my back to Kelly, put my hands behind my back and pull my knees up to my chest. I quickly tell her to do the same.
Gunman B enters, walks over to us and says, "Time to go." He’s pointing the gun at my face with his right hand and hefts me up with his left.
My left hand grabs his right wrist and pushes it towards the ceiling. I punch him in the throat with my right. I grab his gun as he goes down.
"Get his wallet and cell phone and see if he has any keys." I really hate shooting people. I hand Kelly the gun, run back to the corner, grab a shovel, return and hit this guy on the head. He's out. "Oh yeah, take his picture."
Drop the shovel, take the gun back, grab her hand and run for the barn door. Once outside I whisper, "Did you get the keys?"
"Yes."
"Give me his cell phone. There's the van. Get in it and go."
She looks worried. "What about you."
"I'll be right behind you. Just go, now."
Kelly hops into the van and starts it up. I run up towards the house and get cover behind a large oak.
Sure enough, just as I thought, Gunman A comes running out of the main house and points his gun at the van. He’s going to shoot Kelly! I step around the tree, lift the gun with both hands and fire. Once in the chest. He drops.
I don't hesitate. I run up the steps, swing the door open and turn left, then right. Standing ten feet from me is what I can only describe as a very elegant gentleman. Tall, mature, well kept. White hair combed straight back. The suit must cost at least five grand.
"Ah, Mr. Picker, how nice to finally meet you." Slight French accent.
"Wish I could say the same. Empty your pockets, carefully."
He places his keys, wallet and phone on the dining room table. No gun. Interesting. Must be upper management.
I tell him to step back. I place his items into my pocket and snap his picture with B's cell phone.
"Mr. Picker, I think that maybe you are making a big mistake."
"Why do people keep telling me that?" I lead him over to the basement door, very nicely suggest that he goes downstairs and lock the door behind him.
The painting’s on the table in the dining room. It's not the "real" one, but I don't want them to know that. I grab it. Outside is a brand new Chevy sedan. Inconspicuous. These boys, whoever they are, are very sharp. Give credit where credit is due.
Throw the painting into the back seat, start that sucker up and the get the hell out of Dodge.
September 1975 New York City-Next Day
4:00am at the Guggenheim.
Price was in the conservation room removing 'Montagnes à Saint-Rémy' from the frame. A few days earlier he had ordered six paintings taken down for examination and possible care. He placed Van Gogh's masterpiece side by side with the copy. Looking from one to the other it was clear that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish them apart without scientific analysis. Hell, he
couldn’t tell, and he was an expert. The tension drained from his shoulders. For the first time since this nightmare began it appeared as if they might pull it off.
"Sherry, I'm expecting a package at the front desk at noon. Please be there to receive it when it arrives." That was a little more than sixteen hours ago. Price wanted to make sure that the only person to handle it was his secretary.
