Page 33 of The Picasso Heist

WOLFGANG WORKS FAST, as he always does.

Within hours he creates an acetate stencil from the picture Bergamo snapped and replicates the serial number to perfection on the back of his forgery. When he shoots me a photo of his handiwork, I could swear it’s what we originally sent him.

Satisfied, Nikolov wires the money to an account in the Cayman Islands already set up by Skip; the entire sum is then transferred through an Irish shell corporation Bergamo uses to avoid taxes and ultimately lands in one of Bergamo’s legit bank accounts here in the States.

From it, Bergamo draws a certified check to cover the price of the real Picasso plus Echelon’s buyer’s premium.

Meanwhile, the painting gets the sign-off from Bergamo’s insurance company. It’s a formality, especially since Bergamo “lets slip” that he intends to keep it in a freeport facility until further notice.

freeport

noun

A government-designated area within a country, most often near a shipping port or airport, where its normal tax and tariff rules don’t apply as long as an otherwise taxable item remains within the area.

Companies that insure fine art absolutely adore these tax havens. A freeport warehouse offers nuclear-bunker-type construction, boasts Fort Knox–level around-the-clock security, and delivers the ultimate in climate-control technology—what’s not to love?

Of course, no one knows that the painting will never arrive there. It won’t even make it out of Manhattan.

“One more time,” I say. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

I’m back in Nikolov’s Tribeca apartment a few nights later for dinner and a final run-through.

Nikolov’s providing the dinner (Chinese takeout) and I’m making sure everyone is on the same page.

My schematic of the streets and the city’s CCTV cameras around the Echelon building doesn’t have a title but if it did it would be “How to Steal a One-Hundred-Forty-Nine-Million-Dollar Painting and Make It Look Like It Gets Smashed to Smithereens a Few Minutes Later.” Catchy, isn’t it?

“The guys know what to do,” says Nikolov. “They’ve got it down cold.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but let’s run it one more time anyway,” I say, looking around the table.

These are Nikolov’s best men, or so he tells me, and they’ve had the plan and the schematic for over a week now.

That hardly reassures me. They’re not brain surgeons; they’re criminals.

Then again, if I had to choose between brain surgeons and criminals for this job, I’d go with the wiseguys every time.

Show them an angle in life, and they’ll never have to think twice about running with it.

In this instance, literally.

I reposition all my props on the table, putting everything back to square one on the schematic. The Chinese takeout has definitely come in handy: Fortune cookies represent the men on Nikolov’s crew; the real and fake paintings are soy sauce packets; and the cement mixer is a leftover egg roll.

The real Picasso, packed by Echelon in a nondescript protective case easily duplicated by Wolfgang, will be brought out of the Echelon building.

The first fortune cookie will sprint up and snatch it before Bergamo hands it over to the courier hired to drive it down to the Delaware freeport facility.

Later, the courier company will be among the first targets of the police, the thinking being that the culprit was somehow connected with the company if not actually employed there.

Either way, it’ll shape up as an inside job.

For that same reason—having explicit knowledge of where the painting was going to be and at what time—the next target of the police investigation will be Echelon.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I slide the first fortune cookie up to the one-forty-nine-million-dollar soy sauce packet and move them both southbound down the block. “And off we go,” I say.

Immediately, Nikolov blocks the path, his hand coming down like a gate. “Tell me again,” he says. “Why won’t the cop draw his gun? What’d you say his name was—Eddie?”

He’s talking about Echelon’s security guard. “First of all, Eddie’s an ex-cop and has been for thirty years,” I say. “Second of all, Eddie hasn’t missed a meal since the day he retired.”

“So he’s fat and old. But he’s still carrying,” says Nikolov.

I know where he’s going with this, and I don’t like it. Not at all. “No one’s shooting anyone, and Eddie’s definitely not shooting anyone.”

“Once again, how can you be sure?” asks Nikolov.

“Remember that chair umpire I told you about, the one I courtsided on through your betting site from one tournament to the next? Slow Hand Luke, I called him.”

“Yeah, I remember. What about him?”

“Eddie would make Slow Hand Luke look like the fastest draw in the West,” I say.

I slide the fortune cookie and soy sauce packet around Nikolov’s hand until they’re all the way down the block and around the corner.

“By the time Eddie even thinks of reaching for his gun, he won’t even know in what direction to aim. ”

“Okay, keep going,” says Nikolov. But from the way he nods when he says it, I know I haven’t quite convinced him. He’s still thinking about what he might and might not do about Eddie being armed.

As if I didn’t have enough things to worry about with this heist, now I have one more.