The Monarch

by Jack Soren

  “The room across the hall is another bedroom. There’s a dumbwaiter in it that goes all the way to the wine cellar in the basement. I don’t think it will hold us both, but we can take turns. If we can get over there,” Jonathan said in a hushed voice.

  “How do you know all this?” Lew asked. “Did he give you a tour or something?”

  “Occupational hazard,” Jonathan said, smiling. “Even if I’m just doing a handoff, I always gather data on where I’m going—­blueprints, staff, security, etcetera.”

  “What’s around the corner from where that guard is sitting?” Lew asked.

  “Another long hallway of rooms. Around the next corner is a staircase leading down to the main floor.”

  “So nobody will notice if he’s gone?”

  “Unless they come up here.”

  “That party isn’t even half done. No one’s coming up here,” Lew said. He knew Jonathan understood what he was saying. It was obvious from his face he didn’t like the idea. Which made sense. He was a spook. In and out with no traces. Lew was army. Left to him, he’d toss a grenade down the hall and run for the prize when the bits started flying. They needed a middle ground.

  “Okay,” Jonathan said after he looked around the room for a bit. He obviously saw no alternatives. “What’s your plan?”

  “Keep it simple. Open the door and yell something in Spanish down the hall. He comes to investigate. We jump him.”

  “That might work . . . if we were in a country that spoke Spanish.”

  “Oh. What do they—­”

  “Portuguese.” Lew’s Spanish was terrible. He wouldn’t know Portuguese if he heard it. “Yes,” Jonathan said before Lew could ask him if he spoke Portuguese. “Well, enough to get him to come in here, anyways.”

  “Works for me,” Lew said. He picked a small statue up off a table by the door and held it like a club.

  “Don’t kill him,” Jonathan said before he eased the door open and backed away. Lew put the statue down and nodded that he was ready. “Ajuda! Alguém me ajude!” Jonathan called out the door and then backed away himself.

  Lew didn’t know what he’d yelled, but the next thing he heard were footsteps coming down the hall.

  “Olá? Quem disse isso?” the guard called as he approached. Jonathan stood with his back to the door, leaning on one of the bedposts, hunched over with his hand to his chest. When the guard entered he raised his gun for a moment, but then lowered it when he saw Jonathan’s apparent condition. “Você precisa de ajuda?” the guard said. Lew assumed he was asking if Jonathan needed help.

  Jonathan turned to reveal his hand wasn’t on his chest, but holding an automatic.

  “Not as much as you, brother,” Jonathan said before Lew grabbed him from behind with a chokehold. A minute later, the guard was out cold.

  They tied, gagged, and slid him under the bed.

  “Let’s go,” Jonathan said. They checked the hall and then entered the bedroom across the hall.

  It was similar to the one they’d just been in, but light colors and pastels decorated it. In the corner was the dumbwaiter.

  “The party looks catered, so they shouldn’t need to use this,” Jonathan said, climbing in to go down first.

  “And if they do?” Lew asked.

  “Then you get to kill someone. Probably us,” Jonathan said.

  “Well, then maybe we should—­” Lew again was alone as Jonathan pressed the button for the wine cellar and the door slid shut. A slight hum rumbled at first, but then it dissipated as the car traveled down.

  “That’s really getting annoying.”

  About five minutes later the dumbwaiter started to rumble again and then the door opened. A single bottle of wine sat inside. Lew smiled and took it out, putting the bottle on the floor.

  “I’ll save you for later,” Lew said. He climbed in the dumbwaiter, the wood creaking and moaning. He didn’t remember it doing that for Jonathan. “Here we go.” He reached around, felt the control buttons, and pressed one. The door slid shut and the rumbling started, much louder from inside the car. It shook and jolted and then started to ease downward.

  After what seemed like minutes, the car stopped and the doors slid open. Lew knew instantly he’d pressed the wrong button. In front of him, in a small kitchen, were two ­people dressed in white chef outfits—­mostly. Both their pants were on the floor and one of the kitchen workers was definitely female, Lew reasoned, from the white jacket that was open displaying her mocha breasts. The male kitchen worker had his back to the dumbwaiter and was busy squeezing one of those mounds and making movements with his hips that said he didn’t hear his own breathing right now, never mind the dumbwaiter. Lew reached out and made sure he pressed the bottommost button this time. As the door slid shut again, he leaned down to keep his view of the kitchen staff as long as possible.

  “Any problems?” Jonathan asked as he helped Lew out of the cramped car.

  “Problems? Nope. Easy as . . . pie,” Lew said.

  They made their way out of the wine cellar and down the stairs to another short hallway, this one with only two doors. Jonathan ignored the doors and walked to the end of the hallway where a basin with flowers sat against the wall.

  “What are you doing?” Lew asked.

  “Watch.”

  Jonathan gripped the basin and pulled up. Lew heard a click and the wall popped out slightly. Jonathan slipped his fingers around the edge and opened the wall, which was really a hidden door. He reached in and flipped the switch on the wall. Inside the small room was a vault door with a tumbler and a large wheel handle that looked like the thing you used to steer a ship.

  “Did you get the combination when you were here before?” Lew asked.

  “Better,” Jonathan said. “I saw he was so confident”—­Jonathan grabbed the wheel and pulled—­“that he never bothers to lock it.” The door swung open. As it did, lights inside flickered on. First the ones closest to the vault door, and then farther and farther back in the vault. The click and flicker of the lights echoed in the vastness of the chamber’s concrete walls.

  “Jesus. We’re robbing Batman,” Lew said.

  Their footsteps echoed as they descended into the vault. It was an awesome sight. Works of art were not only on the walls—­each illuminated from above by an individual light—­but there were statues and sculptures on pedestals, glass cases filled with jewelry and icons, and bookcases stuffed with the rich, brown leather spines of books, manuscripts, and rolled documents on yellowing parchment. But the centerpiece was at the back of the chamber. Almost glowing under its private illumination, van Gogh’s Sunflowers hung on the wall. It was one of the most recognizable of van Gogh’s paintings and even Lew, who thought dogs playing poker was the height of art appreciation, recognized the painting.

  “Unbelievable,” Lew said.

  “Last year thieves stole twenty van Gogh paintings from the museum. They were supposedly found a few hours later just sitting in the getaway car. The thieves, of course, were nowhere to be found,” Jonathan said.

  “If they were found, then how is this—­”

  “It was a scam. The paintings left in the car were forgeries. So good they were works of art in their own right, but forgeries all the same. They had been painted months ahead of time and chemically aged to match their original counterparts. The plan had always been to leave them in the car for the authorities to find. Then the thieves would be free to sell the originals to private collectors like this asshole.”

  “The best crime is one that no one knows was committed,” Lew said.

  “Exactly,” Jonathan said. He carefully removed the canvas from the frame and rolled it up. He took a plastic tube from his pocket and slipped the painting inside.

  “What is something like that worth anyways?” Lew asked. He was starting to wonder if this whole Robin Hood approach was the bes
t idea.

  “Ten million dollars,” Jonathan said.

  “And there were twenty of them!?” Lew was honestly shocked. Then he spotted the jewels in the case by the wall. “Maybe we make this worth our while,” he said with a nod of his head.

  “You do and you’re on your own. That’s not why I did this. Speaking of which,” Jonathan said, pulling something out of his pocket. Lew saw it was a stick of charcoal. He stepped up to the wall where the painting had been and drew a large flat oval. On either side he drew what looked like mirror images of the number three. When he was done, he stepped back and admired his work.

  “I don’t get it. What’s a butterfly got to do with van Gogh,” Lew said, looking at the image.

  “It’s not a butterfly. Before we crossed paths, I did a few years in Africa, mostly around Kenya and the Gold Coast. There are African symbols everywhere down there, and they’re so old no one knows who made them or when they were first used. This is the hye wo nyhe. It means ‘the one who burns you, be not burned.’ ”

  “Sure, whatever you say,” Lew said. He didn’t get it at all. All he got was that it wasn’t okay to steal something you could sell, but it was okay to draw on the walls with a crayon.

  “It’s a symbol of forgiveness,” Jonathan said, as they turned and headed out.

  “Forgiveness? You’re forgiving this asshole after what you told me about him?” Lew thought he could know this guy for years and would never understand him completely. But he did think it was a pretty cool symbol.

  They made their way back out to the balcony without incident, leaving the guard tied up. If they let him go, he’d be shot for sure. Not that he had much chance now. Lew didn’t know how Jonathan felt, but he had to admit, taking anything else would have made it a whole different event. He felt like he’d done something good with the skills the army had given him, for the first time in a long time. He’d feel even better once they unloaded the painting and weren’t walking around with a ten-­million-­dollar bull’s-­eye on their backs.

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Jonathan hung up a payphone and ran across the street, almost getting clipped by a cab in the morning rush hour. He made it to the table at the outdoor café where Lew was sitting, gnawing down the closest thing to a McMuffin that he could order.

  “You look like you just won at the track,” Lew said. “Did you set up the exchange with the museum? How’d they take the idea that they’ve got a fake on the wall?”

  “Oh, I set it up all right,” Jonathan said, motioning to the waiter for more coffee. Lew thought the last thing this guy needed was caffeine, the way he was bouncing.

  “And?”

  “They want to do some tests on the one they’ve got before they buy in, but they’re totally on board, trust me. I’m going to call them tonight. We’ll probably do the exchange in Amsterdam in a ­couple of days.”

  “So what’s got you so fired up?” Lew asked.

  “Did you know there’s a finder’s fee for stolen art?” Jonathan asked, holding his cup up for the waiter to fill. Lew had stopped chewing and was eyeing his new friend, trying to see if this was a joke or not.

  “What kind of finder’s fee?”

  Jonathan took his time, taking a sip of his coffee. “Ah, that’s good.”

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” Lew said. “How much?”

  “Since we want to remain anonymous, we had to take a bit of a lower commission, but it’s still—­”

  “How much!?”

  Jonathan smiled and leaned forward. “Eighteen percent.”

  “Of ten million,” Lew said when he stopped choking.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think I just found my purpose in life,” Lew said, holding up his coffee cup.

  “You and me both, my friend,” Jonathan said, clinking his coffee cup to Lew’s like they were drinking champagne, which soon they would be. Lew looked in Jonathan’s eyes and knew they weren’t talking about the same career. Oh, they’d be doing the same thing, but not for the same reasons.

  Not at first, anyway.

  9

  FCI Yazoo City

  Yazoo, Mississippi

  12:10 A.M. Local Time

  LEW MADE SURE the phone was in the exact position it had been before he’d called Jonathan, not that it was likely Quinn would notice if it wasn’t. His desk was a mess of papers, receipts, and electronics manuals. Lew pushed the edge of the blotter to the side and smiled when he saw several travel brochures hidden underneath. If nothing else, this wasn’t a setup. Of course, that didn’t guarantee Quinn would make good on his promise if Lew went through with it. He needed some leverage.

  Before he could search the office any further, he saw Quinn making his way across the yard. He only had moments before he’d have to commit one way or the other. After the phone call, he pretty much knew what he was going to do, but if he feigned indecision it might give him a chance to find that leverage he needed.

  Lew sat down. He looked away from the television. It was just a rerun of Match Game, but the memory of what he’d seen there was still too fresh. He acted bored as he heard Quinn’s footsteps approaching.

  Quinn, damp and smoky, pattered in and immediately unlocked Lew’s cuff. He strained up on his toes and peered out the window like a kid about to steal a cookie. When he was apparently satisfied, he slipped around his desk, fumbled with some keys, and unlocked a drawer.

  “Everyone’s either locked down or working the fire,” Quinn said. “The truck is parked at the loading dock. Get it done and then hide in the back with the body. The doc is busy treating some wounded men. The truck driver is locked down in the waiting room. We couldn’t have planned it better.”

  “What do you mean we, paleface. Did I miss the part where I agreed to do this?” Lew said, knowing he could stall for only so long. Quinn was right; if he was on the level, this was the perfect window to get this done.

  Quinn took his hand out of the drawer, and Lew looked down the barrel of a snub-­nosed revolver. A long moment stretched out before Quinn flipped the gun around and offered the handle to Lew.

  “Please,” Quinn said. Lew realized Quinn had gotten himself into a pickle and Lew was the guy’s only way out. The funny thing was Quinn was his way out too. Lew took the gun, careful to remember where he touched it. He’d wipe those spots, and the other fingerprints on the gun would be his insurance.

  “Aren’t you worried that the autopsy will show a stabbed prisoner is full of lead?” Lew asked.

  Quinn’s reaction was silent but telling. “Colero’s not gonna make it to the coroner, is he?”

  “You better hurry” was all Quinn said. Lew stood up, put the gun in his waistband.

  “How is Costa Rica this time of year?” Lew asked. The look on Quinn’s face was priceless. But the good humor didn’t last once Lew thought of what he was about to do.

  LEW PEERED INSIDE the door leading to the loading dock. Miguel Colero sat on a beat-­up picnic table smoking a cigarette and looking bored. Lew figured he must have greased a few more guards to be here instead of in the morgue. Beyond Colero was the coroner’s cube van, the back gate rolled up and waiting to be fed. Inside was a single pine box. Other than that, the van’s cargo space was empty, save for a storage locker in each corner for supplies.

  He eased through the door and across the concrete floor toward Colero. Lew reached for the gun in his waistband just as his victim turned around.

  “What are you doing here, ese?” Colero asked.

  Lew pulled out the gun and pointed it at him. Colero’s demeanor remained unchanged.

  “You’re probably not going to believe this . . .” Lew said, then, “Holy shit!” Lew looked at the truck with shock plain in his eyes. Colero turned and Lew slammed the butt of the gun into the back of his head.

  Colero groaned and fell face first onto the picnic table, like he’d bee
n served up for a feast. Lew ran back and checked the hallway. When he saw it was clear, he put the gun back in his waistband and searched the shelves along one wall. It took him a few minutes, but he finally found some duct tape.

  By the time he had Colero trussed up like a shiny gray mummy, the pint-­sized drug lord started to come around.

  “Chingada Madre,” he said groggily.

  “That’s pretty bad language for an accountant, hombre,” Lew said. He tore off a foot-­long length of tape before he put the roll back on the shelf and checked the door again.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Colero said, fighting his bindings.

  “I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” Lew said.

  “Try me, hijo de puta!”

  “I’m saving your miserable, worthless life,” Lew said. He put the length of tape over Colero’s mouth and then heaved him up on his shoulder. “But I can see how you’d be confused.”

  10

  Washington Heights

  New York City

  1:00 A.M. Local Time

  “SLOW DOWN. YOU’RE not making any sense,” Emily said.

  Dan Cooper, a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, had shown up at her door ten minutes after she’d gotten home.

  He was some sort of intern for the New York Times. He was short, slight, and had shaved his head and sported a patchy goatee in an apparent attempt to look older. It hadn’t worked. He looked like a cancer patient with a dirty face. If he’d paid more than fifty dollars for the suit that hung on him like a sack, it would be a crime. He wore black and white Keds running shoes, one of them with the laces untied. He’d been struggling with a mishmash of folders and rolled-­up tubes under his spindly arms when she’d answered the door. But all of that wasn’t why she’d let him in, it was what he’d said: “I know who murdered those ­people.”

  But he’d been talking nonstop for ten minutes and still wasn’t making any sense. Several of his rolled-­up tubes were unwound on her kitchen table. They were maps of New York, and Dan had drawn on them with several colored markers.