But now he had all but mended the breach, and in the process the queen had fallen in love with him and vice versa. While he thought himself above such sentimentality, Rohan could not deny that his desire to attain the position of prime minister had now been overshadowed by his desire to attain other positions with the queen herself.
He hadn’t brought the letter with him, as he was sure the queen would see doing so as a foolish indiscretion, but he did not need to have the letter in hand to read it. Every word, every stroke of the pen, was locked in his mind, easily accessible. He thought of the last sentence again and felt his confidence rise. The letter was certainly genuine, Cagliostro had assured him. That or it was the work of the greatest forger in all of Europe.
A short distance away, enveloped in the darkness and partially obscured by honey locust trees, sat Count Cagliostro, the greatest forger in all of Europe. To his left sat Madame de LaMotte. She called herself the Countess de LaMotte, but she was no more a countess than Cagliostro was a count. He had sought her out after hearing of her tireless bids for a place at court. A woman who wanted something so singularly could be easily manipulated.
It had been Cagliostro who had suggested to the jewelers Böhmer and Bassange that they might approach the Countess de LaMotte, who was, after all, very close to the queen, and offer her a commission should she be able to facilitate the sale of the necklace. The dupes had agreed, not knowing that this would mean paying de LaMotte to steal their own prized necklace. It had also been Cagliostro who had, during a divination session, introduced to Cardinal de Rohan’s mind the idea that the same de LaMotte might be the key to his reentering the queen’s good graces.
The meeting tonight was a bit of a risk, granted, but if it went well, all doubt would be banished from the cardinal’s mind and Cagliostro’s design could move forward unfettered. As the tone of the letters grew more heated, Cardinal de Rohan had insisted with increasing fervor that de LaMotte orchestrate a personal meeting between himself and the queen, until his fervor had quite literally knocked her to the ground, leaving her left shoulder blade badly bruised.
News of the altercation had gotten little rise out of de LaMotte’s husband, who would be playing the role of the queen’s valet tonight and, if things went well, again when the necklace was purchased.
The queen herself would be a streetwalker and actress. Or, rather, a streetwalker would be queen. Cagliostro had seen the woman performing as Marie Antoinette on a corner in Paris and was immediately intrigued by the resemblance she bore to Her Highness. With the addition of a veil and illuminated only by the dim light of the quarter moon, she was the exact image of the monarch as she emerged from the shadows wearing a replica of the lawn dress in which the queen had been famously painted the year before and holding in her dainty hands a single rose.
From their place in the garden, where to any passersby they appeared to be two lovers enjoying the night, the self-identified count and countess could see immediately that the rendezvous would go as planned. At the sight of the prostitute queen, Rohan began shifting his weight back and forth between his feet in the sort of jig one would expect from a child. He would believe her to be the queen. He would believe her when she told him all was forgiven. And he would believe her when she said that she secretly coveted the necklace.
CHAPTER 26
I also will have the hippy hash,” Happy said gleefully, “and a cup of the strongest coffee you’ve got. In fact, you’d better brew another pot just for us. Thick.”
The waitress drew down the corners of her mouth for a moment before reading back the order: “I’ve got three hippy hash breakfasts and four cups of coffee. You sure you don’t want anything to eat?” she asked Dante.
The three of them cranked their heads toward the newcomer.
“Trick? No hippy hash?” Andrew asked. “It’s kind of a ritual with us.”
“No thanks. Just the coffee.”
The waitress turned on her heels and wordlessly couriered their order to the kitchen window.
“Why do the girls here wear scrubs now?” Happy asked, watching the waitress disappear. “That’s kinda gross if you think about it. What are they, hooking up IVs and cleaning bedpans between orders? I don’t want to think about that when I’m eating.”
“That’s where you draw the line?” Dante asked. “Scrubs? This whole place is disgusting.” He sat straight, his back not touching the seat behind him. “And that van. Unsanitary, man. Worse than the county jail.”
Fletcher frowned. “Like the man said, this is our ritual. We come here and eat this particular slop and talk through the job before we carry it out. Join the team, Trick.”
“I’ve got no use for superstitious grifters,” Dante said. “And if we’re going to talk through the job, let’s get started before you jokers are stuffing your gobs with whatever you call that junk.”
“Hippy hash,” the three chorused.
They were situated in a remote corner booth at the Olympic Diner—their booth—bathed in orange sunlight and out of earshot of any other diners.
“Trick’s right,” Andrew said. “Let’s get to it.” He passed out photocopies of the floor plan, each bearing the Ultima Insurance Company logo in the lower right corner.
“So you grifted someone at the insurance company?” Dante asked.
“Yep.”
“Why not go right to the security firm so you know you’ve got the latest information?”
Andrew leaned back in the booth. “You new at this or something, Trick? The kind of low-level peon you can rope on the fly and squeeze for information wouldn’t have access to alarm schematics of multimillion dollar homes—not at a security firm. But insurance companies are far more lax. Any cube jockey can bring up a client’s file, especially a guy who works in IT and holds all the passwords. Belltower’s file was a click away for our mark—including a list of security measures in the home. Without that, no one would insure him for millions in art.”
“Sure,” Dante said, “but it might not be complete.”
“I’m confident that it is,” Andrew said, annoyance bleeding through the words. “That’s the good news. But let’s run the bad news first, because there’s a whole lot of it.
“I’m going to be approaching from the east, out of these woods.” He pointed at his map with a felt-tip marker. “Happy’s set up at a high point in the same woods, right about here, where he’ll have a panoramic view. The property is isolated, surrounded by a barbed wire fence and equipped with proximity alarms. Anything bigger than a squirrel approaches and alarms go off inside, accompanied by a closed-circuit video feed of the intruder.
“The exterior of the house is also retrofitted with a variety of cameras, but the real danger is being ripped to pieces by the pack of very unfriendly dogs roaming the yard.”
His three partners mapped out the plan and scribbled notes on their own copies.
“Assuming I get past all that, in addition to the security lock on the side door, there are three independent alarm systems to deal with—meaning we can’t knock them all out at once.
“First, there’s a keypad at the door that controls the electronic dead bolt and triggers an internal alarm if it’s tampered with. The code changes every day. Inside the house we’ve got motion sensors and sound sensors, both expertly calibrated. If we succeed in taking those out, then I just need to locate the safe, crack it, and get the contents back to Happy’s position without being seen or tripping any of the aforementioned alarms. And all within half an hour, so we don’t bump into the night security guy clocking in.”
Fletcher let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of bad news.”
“And again,” Dante said, “you’re assuming the insurance company’s file is comprehensive. There could be more.”
“No, that’s all they’ve got,” Happy assured him. “Every three years Faust renews the guy’s policy, and every three years he submits pretty much the same thing. Two minor upgrades in two decades.”
�
��Answer me this, Andrew,” Dante said. “The thing we’re there to steal—is it listed on an inventory in that folder?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you think all his security’s listed there?”
Anger welled up visibly around Andrew’s jaw, then melted away.
“That brings us to the good news,” he said. “Trick wants to know why we didn’t go to the security firm. How about this? There isn’t one. This whole thing was designed and implemented by Julian Faust, and it’s all run by him. Here’s what we know about the guy: He’s got a military and intelligence background, full of decorations and accolades. He led scores of men into battle against enemies who outnumbered them and always came out on top. The buck stops with him as far as he’s concerned, so he’s learned to rely entirely on himself and his instincts. That’s his weakness. He doesn’t trust technology. He doesn’t trust law enforcement. Not one of these alarm systems makes a call out; it’s all internal, all designed to alert Faust so he can deal with the intruder. Or one of his little clones; he only hires ex-military guys with a similar skill set.”
“So, wait,” Fletcher said, “the good news is that we’re dealing with a group of hard-core commandos and killers who would rather take care of us on the spot than call the police. That’s comforting.”
“Think about it, Fletch. What’s the peg here? Money’s no object, and yet this guy almost never updates the security system. That tells us something. Faust trusts his senses to a fault. He doesn’t want more sensors and alarms because he values human instinct and intel. But he’s getting older, and his instincts are getting duller.”
Dante nodded. “Intuition can be a good backup. Bailing on a bad feeling has saved my hide more than once, but it’s stupid to lead with instincts. We can exploit that.”
“You’re breaking your own rule here, Bishop,” Fletcher said. “You’re the one who taught me that there’re only two breeds of security guard: RoboCop and—”
“Barney Fife,” Andrew finished. “I know. Always wait for the Barney. But in this case they’re all RoboCops. So we hit them quick and get out of there while there’s only one on-site. And that’s our real edge. We’ve got a team, working together. There’s only one of him.” He circled a room on the east wall of the house. “This is the security hub. Happy’s guessing, what, eight monitors?”
“At least.”
“Have you been inside?” Fletcher asked.
“No,” Happy admitted, “but there’s a fist-sized reinforced steel conduit going through the wall, and according to my readings, almost a quarter of the house’s electricity is consumed in that little room.”
“So as long as Faust is in there, he’s got eyes on everything,” Fletcher said.
“Yeah.” Andrew stared at the plan sketched out before him for a few seconds, his confidence apparently falling, before he snapped back. “Timing’s everything here,” he said. “Faust and the old man usually arrive home at about six. Faust walks the perimeter while the day shift sits on the monitors. Then at eight Mr. Day Shift punches out, leaving Faust to monitor everything himself, which he does for about half an hour before the overnight guy shows up. At about nine Faust does one final sweep and then heads home.”
Dante expelled a breath. “Is that all?”
“Nope,” Andrew said. “The security guys come and go through the same door I’ll be working on.” He tapped it with his pen a few more times, adding to the already extensive collection of black dots on and around the door. “Third shift shows up early or anybody takes an unexpected smoke break, and the whole thing is in danger of going tires up. That’s where you come in, Trick. Anything goes off-script and you pull the Uncle Billy. Anything unforeseen, Fletcher and I will be tied up, it’s on you two”—he pointed at Happy and Dante—“to improvise and keep the ball in play. We screw this up, we could all end up mounted in Julian Faust’s trophy room.”
ANDREW PULLED THE VAN SLOWLY UP INTO THE WOODS ADJACENT to Belltower’s house, headlights off, and killed the engine. Here they diverged, Fletcher heading down the road toward the house and the others feeling their way up through the woods in the twilight, slowly climbing to the perch overlooking the estate where Happy’s equipment had been covered over with a dark-green tarp.
“I hate the woods,” Dante said. He angrily slapped at his arm and then the back of his neck. “Stupid mosquitos.” He was wearing the standard outfit of an Uncle Billy—tattered suit, shirt half-unbuttoned, tie pulled loose—and he’d snagged his clothes on at least a dozen twigs and branches getting there.
Happy yanked back the tarp as if unveiling a work of art and flipped a toggle switch on a small power pack. A number of screens and devices came to life, slightly illuminating Happy’s face with a diffused light. He lay down on his stomach on the incline like a sniper settling into his nest.
“Batteries are good.” He peered through a spotting scope mounted on a low tripod. “And I’ve got visual. How about coms? You hear me, Bishop?”
“Loud and clear,” came the response from Andrew, who was slowly working his way down the hillside toward the fence that marked the property line. He pulled his headset mic another inch back from his mouth. “How about you, Fletch?”
“Yeah, this stupid thing is working,” Fletcher said in the direction of his lapel pin, itself concealing a mic, as was the obnoxious cell phone earpiece in his left ear. He had argued that Jordan Lyons was not the kind of man who would wear a Bluetooth headset, but Happy had insisted that a trained eye like Faust’s might spot a high-tech listening device tucked back into the ear canal, but he would simply scoff at the blinking contraption protruding from Fletcher’s head. At any rate, Fletcher was a grifter and so he would sell it.
“What is that? A ray gun or something?” Dante asked, his face and tone betraying fresh doubts about his new accomplices.
“No, man—radio waves,” Happy said. “Let’s hope Jules is still carrying our business card.” He directed the device, which did bear a resemblance to some sort of sci-fi weapon, toward the middle of the house where he expected to find Faust. He slowly scanned until a red light came on, dull at first and then at full luster. “Bingo,” he said. “Our boy is watching the feed. Hold your positions. The moment he steps away from that room we are go.”
CHAPTER 27
Three hours earlier the hippy hash had arrived at the grifters’ table to much fanfare. Fletcher’s mouth had watered at the familiar sight and smell.
“What’s in that garbage?” Dante asked.
Fletcher held up his plate like a contestant on a Food Network show. “It’s a base of hash browns and chopped broccoli, mushrooms, and onions, covered in feta cheese and best served topped with a fried egg and absolutely slathered in Red Hot Sauce.”
Dante poured three creamers into his coffee, eyeing the water spots on his spoon suspiciously before plunging it in. “So what we doing about the dogs?” he asked.
Andrew tried to answer with his mouth full, half gagged, and held up a finger until he’d swallowed. “I’ve got the usual canine-repellant pepper spray stuff, like joggers carry, but I won’t need it. I’ve got my own method. Hand me the hot sauce, would you?”
“What’s your secret?” Dante asked, passing the bottle with two fingers.
“Peanut butter.”
“Peanut butter?”
“That’s right. People train dogs to ignore kibble and treats, maybe even a thirty-dollar New York strip, but peanut butter is in a league all its own when it comes to canines. They completely forget everything else. They forget who they are. A tablespoon will keep a dog busy for twenty minutes. He’ll lick away every trace and then sit there licking his own fur for another ten.”
“You really want to wager everything on peanut butter?” Dante asked.
“Meh, high-end professional trainers might not leave us that window, but we’ve been watching these dogs for weeks—undisciplined, lazy. They’re purebred Neapolitan mastiffs, so they’re huge and imposing, but more of a statu
s symbol than a serious guard dog these days. Trust me, these pooches are an afterthought. Anyway, I’ve always got the pepper spray, but that’s risky and noisy—almost guaranteed to draw attention.”
Fletcher’s phone vibrated against the table, heralding the arrival of yet another text.
“The wife again?” Happy asked.
“Yeah.”
How are you feeling?
Fletcher looked down at his heaping plate of hippy hash, hot sauce overflowing from the peak like lava from a volcano, and answered, A little better. Thanks.
“Leave that phone in the van when we get there,” Andrew ordered.
“This isn’t my first job, Mom.”
“You seem a little rusty, is all.”
“Do you think maybe that’s because you got me—?”
“Guys,” Happy interrupted. “You want to quit it? You two need to be exactly in sync for this to work.” He pushed his own copy of the floor plan into the middle of the table. “Proximity alarm will go off when Andrew gets about eight feet from the fence right here.”
“You can’t disable that?” Fletcher asked.
“Won’t need to. I’ve sacrificed the last two weeks’ worth of evenings crouched in the woods laying the groundwork, running a Petrovich on our buddy Faust. Every time someone walks up to the front door, I trip the front east sensor. And they’ve been getting a lot of drop-ins since we listed Belltower’s address on Craigslist under ‘free puppies after 7 pm.’ ” Happy snickered.
Dante folded his arms against his chest. “You think that’s going to work with someone like Faust?”
“It’s classical conditioning: stimulus and response. Works on everyone. When he hears the alarm go off, his heart rate and breathing will increase, his pupils will dilate, and he’ll be ready for action. A moment later he’ll hear the doorbell ring and he’ll suddenly feel calm and relieved, if a little annoyed about the whole puppy thing. Rather than rush to the security hub, where he’d see Andrew climbing the fence up on the monitor, my money is on Faust answering the door.”
The Last Con Page 15
