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This Wednesday afternoon was no exception. The long gallery given over to Baroque masters had its usual sprinkle of art lovers. A young woman and a man of about the same age—obviously students by their clothing—huddled together on a marble bench in front of a Vermeer. The woman was sketching while her companion whispered urgently in her ear about the blue tones in the painting. A small group of Japanese tourists marched through, clustered around a tour guide with an upraised flag. An elderly couple held hands and gazed longingly at a small but exquisite Caravaggio. Other visitors moved past them in ones and twos, and no one paid any special attention to the rather fat man in a seersucker suit with an Atlanta Braves cap perched atop his round and sweating face. The fat man came slowly down the long room and paused, wheezing, by a large metal door bearing a sign that read, “EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY—ALARM WILL SOUND.”
No one noticed, either, that he had paused and wheezed at every door and window inside the museum, or that the Braves logo on his cap had a very small pinhole hidden carefully in the middle of the bright red tomahawk logo—a pinhole that close examination might show contained a tiny dot that seemed to reflect light. But the pinhole was very small, and no one had any reason to stare or come closer. The fat man took his time, consulting a laminated map of the museum—only $14.95 in the gift shop—and looking carefully at several of the paintings before moving on to wheeze at the next window. After that, he stopped to lean on a marble pillar, next to one of the museum’s uniformed security guards. The guard looked up, took in the man’s size and his red and sweaty face.
“Are you all right, sir?” the guard asked the fat man.
“Oh, yes, yes, I’m gone be jest fine,” the man answered in a thick South Georgia accent. “I jest carryin’ around too much weight these days,” he said with a smile, patting his great wobbly belly. “’Specially in this heat! Got to catch my breath.”
“Well, you take your time,” the guard told him.
“Thank you kindly, sir.” After a minute the fat man’s breathing leveled off to a more normal pace. “Lovely collection you all have here,” he said at last. “Wonderful. But I guess it don’t hold a candle to those Persian jewels y’all are getting in.” He cocked his head. “You seen ’em yet?”
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The guard snorted. “No, and I’m not going to see ’em, neither—unless I pay my twenty-five bucks like everybody else. Which I won’t do—not to get into the place I work at for fifteen years.”
“Pay your— Why, they surely won’t send all you guards home with a treasure like this on display?”
“Yes, they will,” the guard said, obviously disgusted. “Because we aren’t good enough for the job. They’re bringing in a whole new crew from Black Hat.”
“Black Hat—you mean they’re outlaws or somethin’?”
The guard shook his head. “Naw. They’re professional soldiers—you know, mercenaries.”
“Mercenaries!” the fat man exclaimed. “Well, I never heard tell of such a thing!”
“Right? And me with six years in the Army, ten years a New York cop, and I ain’t good enough for the job.”
“Well, bless your heart,” the fat man said. “Don’t seem right.”
“Ah,” the guard said. “Those Black Hat guys? Bunch of trigger-happy assholes—but they sure as hell know what they’re doing.”
“Do they now?”
“Hell yes. They’re all ex–Special Forces guys. They get recruited right out the Rangers or SEALs, you know. Best-trained, best-equipped private army in the world. And if that ain’t enough—” The guard lowered his voice as if he were imparting confidential information. “There’s going to be a bunch of hotshot Iranian soldiers, too. The Revolutionary Guard.”
“Why, I heard of those old boys!” the fat man said. “They supposed to be meaner than a bucket of copperheads.”
“Damn straight,” the guard said. “Anybody tries to pull something funny, they’re just itching to shoot ’em.”
“Well, well,” the fat man said. “I guess those jewels are gonna be pretty safe.”
“You can bet your life on it,” the guard said. “Anybody tries anything, they’re gonna end up dead.”
“Well, sir, I sure do wish I was going to be in town to come see those jewels when they get here. Yes, sir, that’s gone be somethin’ to see all right. Oh,” he said, holding up the laminated map. “Now where would I find that Leonardo da Vinci sketch y’all are so proud of?”
“Next gallery over,” the guard said, pointing to the right. “Take it easy, buddy.”
“Yes, thank you, I will,” the fat man said, and he wandered off slowly to find the Leonardo sketch—
Except that as soon as he was around the corner, he turned left and went straight out the front door, climbed into a cab, and was gone.
* * *
—
The next night, right after the night security staff came on duty, Freddy Lagerfeldt took his first trip around the outside perimeter. Freddy had been out of the Army for two years, and he loved this job. He even liked working the night shift since it paid fifty cents an hour more, and that wasn’t bad, times being what they were. New York at night didn’t scare him at all. He’d grown up in Queens—and after two tours of Afghanistan, the East Side of Manhattan at night was absolutely soothing.
Freddy took his time, checking the doors, shining his flashlight into all the small dark spots, working his way around the building until he came to the back. An alley there led to the loading dock, and a large dumpster was pushed back to the wall opposite. Normally, Freddy would just shine the light, have a good look, and move on. The dumpster was filled with all the garbage from the café, among other fragrant items, and in this heat the smell tended to be overwhelming.
