Page 36 of The Picasso Heist

AGENT SIGMA WASN’T sure how he ended up being the designated photographer, although of the “Two Greeks,” as everyone in the New York field office called them—though neither one was actually Greek—Sigma was viewed as the more tech-savvy.

He knew it wasn’t necessarily true, but his partner, Tau, still used a flip phone, so there was no convincing anyone otherwise.

Whatever.

Tau spoke the names of the people with Halston as if taking attendance, his eyes going back and forth from the binoculars to the cheat sheet of headshots arranged on the inside of a manila folder like a family tree. “The Frenchman, Dejarnette,” he said. “Walking next to her.”

“Got him,” said Sigma. Click, click, click.

“Waxman, behind them. The CEO.”

“Yep.” Click, click, click. “Man, that’s some slick-looking hair.”

“What’s he got on there, shoe polish?” asked Tau.

“More like Valvoline.”

Tau jerked his head, shifted the binoculars. “Next to Waxman. You see him, right? Bergamo?”

“Hard to miss.” Click, click, click. “Jesus, buddy, don’t trip.”

Sigma zoomed in tighter on the padded case Bergamo was gripping with both hands and snapped a few more shots. He barely had to move his long-range lens to include Echelon’s security guard, who was practically joined at the hip with Bergamo.

“Anyone missing?” asked Tau.

“Just the thief himself,” said Sigma, pulling back from the camera for a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Olly, olly, oxen free, motherfucker.”

Tau panned left, right, up, and down, and his hands suddenly locked. “Six o’clock, black T-shirt, heading right for them,” he said.

There was no headshot, no cheat sheet for the thief. There was only the intel that said he’d be coming, and coming fast, on his own. Solo. The bigger the heist, the smaller the footprint.

Sigma put his eye back against the camera and aimed south down the block. “Got ’im,” he said. “Damn, he’s flying. Here we go.”

“Stay on him,” said Tau.

“Trying to. Switching to vid. What about the girl?”

Tau shifted back up the block to view Halston. “She just saw him. Quick peek.”

“Anybody else see him?” asked Sigma.

“No. No one’s looking that way. They’re all—oh, shit!”

“What?”

“We’ve got company,” said Tau.

“Who?”

“Don’t know, but he shouldn’t be there.”

Sigma hastily zoomed out. “Where is he?”

“Nine o’clock, across the street. Leaning against the building.”

“In the raincoat?” asked Sigma.

“That’s him.”

“There’s not a cloud in the sky.”

“Exactly,” said Tau. “Right knee. Is that…”

Sigma zoomed back in, filling his frame with the guy in the raincoat. There it was—the tip of an AK-47 sticking out by his knee. “Shit! It is.”

Tau threw down the binoculars and scooped up his Delta 5 Pro long-range rifle. “What the hell’s the ROE on this?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Sigma.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Rules of engagement had never been discussed. Not in the briefing, not ever.

“No matter what, stay with the painting,” said Tau, resting the bipod of the rifle on the edge of the rooftop.

“You got the shot?” asked Sigma.

“Not yet.”

“Hurry.”

“I am.”

“Hurry faster.”

“I am, damn it,” said Tau, adjusting his scope. It sounded a lot like Sigma’s camera—click, click, click.

“Any day now, partner,” said Sigma.

“I’m close.”

“Horseshoes and hand grenades.”

“You’re not helping,” said Tau. Click, click. “And don’t say it.”

Too late. “That’s right, the FBI,” cracked Sigma. “Fun Beyond Imagination.”

Click.

“Got it!” said Tau. “I’ve got the shot.”