The Monarch (9 page)

 

8

Cuiabâ, Brazil

Sixteen years ago

A
N HOUR AFTER
making their inebriated decision, Jonathan and Lew climbed aboard a plane and spent almost fourteen hours alternating between making plans and fitful sleep. In the sober light of day, Lew half expected Jonathan to recant and chalk his decision up to drunken courage. Not only hadn't that happened, but Jonathan had taken the lead in their little adventure. That was fine with Lew. He was used to taking orders. Sort of.

“Faster, Spyboy,” Lew said from his position at the edge of the villa's balcony. He peeked around the corner at the courtyard below where an evening party was in full swing. From the uniforms and bodyguards sprinkled throughout the crowd, Jonathan hadn't been exaggerating about this guy's connections.

“Don't rush me,” Jonathan said as he teased the balcony door's lock with his pick tools. “This is a lot easier when your head doesn't feel like a busted papaya.”

“I feel fine,” Lew said. He was lying. He actually had to concentrate to keep from falling off the edge of the balcony onto one of the Mercedes parked below.

They'd decided to go in tonight because of the party, their condition aside. At first Jonathan had wanted to wait for a less busy night, but Lew knew if they waited too long they'd lose their nerve. Besides, if everyone was down at the party, they wouldn't be in the house. Or so he hoped. “I guess you just can't hold your—­”

Lew stopped talking when he saw he was on the balcony alone, the door open. Lew eased himself back onto the balcony and went inside.

The bedroom—­a guest bedroom, Jonathan had said—­was immense and looked meant for someone in a royal family. Tapestries and artwork decorated the walls. The floor was a rich caramel gold carpet with an inlaid black and red pattern that looked Mayan. Against one wall was a four-­poster bed you'd need a stepladder to get into, the frame and posts a rich red brown oak.

Across the room, Jonathan eased the door to the hallway open and peered out.

“Don't mind if I come in, do you?” Lew said. Jonathan just held his finger to his lips. Lew reached for his gun, but Jonathan shook his head. He waved for Lew to come closer.

Lew stepped lightly to the door and looked where Jonathan was pointing. There was a guard sitting in a chair that looked like a throne at the end of the hall. What Lew noticed most was the machine pistol in his lap. Jonathan eased the door shut.

“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! Algué
m 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 best 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.

S
EVERAL 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—­”