Page 37 of The Picasso Heist

IT’S ALL UNFOLDING in front of me, and I can’t slow it down.

I glance to my left and spot Nikolov’s guy, the first fortune cookie, breaking into a sprint down the block.

Bergamo doesn’t see him; he’s not supposed to.

He keeps talking to Waxman while carrying the painting, completely unaware of what’s about to happen—or so he’ll tell the police.

But Bergamo hears my signal, a quick cough, and he knows he’s got only about ten seconds to hit his mark. C’mon, Enzio. Pick up the pace!

He walks a little faster, making a beeline to the back of the van. I begin counting down in my head. Ten… nine… eight…

Pierre’s by my side as I look over my shoulder and spot Eddie and the holstered gun that he hasn’t touched in years. You can almost see the cobwebs on the grip.

Seven… six…

Bergamo arrives at the back of the van, the doors already open courtesy of his driver, who’s standing off to the side. No one can actually see what Bergamo’s doing but no one has to. He’s obviously loading the painting, securing the case. What else could he be doing?

Five… four…

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see him across the street. Someone who doesn’t belong, who shouldn’t be here.

I know the face. I recognize him from Nikolov’s apartment last night.

He wasn’t seated at the dinner table but he was there, lurking in the background, just as he is now.

There’s no rain in the forecast, nothing but blue sky overhead, and yet he’s wearing a raincoat.

Like a sucker punch, the panic hits me as I spot the reason for the raincoat.

It’s all unfolding in front of me, and I can’t slow it down.

In a blur, the case gets snatched from the rear of the van. Bergamo turned his back on it for only a few seconds, right on cue, to shake hands with and say goodbye to Waxman.

Waxman doesn’t see the thief because he’s blocked by Bergamo, but Pierre gets a good look at the man in the mask sprinting away with the painting. Pierre frantically points. He yells, screams. And that’s when everyone turns to look. Everyone but me.

I’m fixed on Eddie, waiting, hoping he doesn’t make a move for his holster. If he does, he’s a dead man, as sure as that guy across the street has a semiautomatic tucked inside his raincoat.

But no. There’s no time to wait and hope on Eddie.

I can’t risk it. Nothing can happen to him or anyone else.

As soon as Eddie takes a few steps forward, I turn and start running.

I’m chasing after the bad guy with the painting.

Later I know I’ll be asked why I did it, and I’ll say I don’t know, that I just did it.

It was instinct. They’ll never figure out it was the plan from the get-go, and they’ll never question why I bumped into Eddie, given all the commotion.

It was like I had blinders on and all I could see was the thief getting away, I’ll say. Something like that.

I slam into Eddie and he falls hard to the ground, arms flailing.

He’ll have a scrape on his elbow, and his wrist will be sore for a few days, but he’ll have the rest of his life to recover.

He doesn’t go for his gun, he can’t, and as I continue running, I glimpse the man across the street, his raincoat thankfully still closed.

And off I go. To catch a thief.