Page 42 of The Picasso Heist

I OPEN THE door and stare at him. He stares back. He smiles.

“Well done, partner,” he says.

“Right back atcha, partner,” I say.

Bergamo hands me a chilled bottle of champagne and walks in, a spring in every step. He still smells like a whiskey house but he’s as sober as a judge. He never wasn’t. Eau de Johnnie Walker. A few dabs here, a gargle there, and—voilà—the scent of inebriation.

He turns around in my foyer and says, half joking, “Although you didn’t have to kick me that hard, did you?”

“No pain, no gain,” I say. “Besides, it was your idea.”

It truly was. Bergamo wanted to make sure we were thoroughly convincing in our finale with Nikolov, and nothing says convincing quite like a kick in the balls.

“Glasses?” he asks, pointing at the champagne.

“Coming right up.”

He follows me into the kitchen. “I don’t know how you kept it together when Anton put the gun to your head.”

“Let’s just say it wasn’t the first time I’ve had that done to me.”

“Still.”

“I know,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You knew everything else that would happen, though. That I’d be the first name he’d think of at Echelon, that I could be blackmailed…”

“Well, you do have a certain reputation with women.”

Bergamo laughs. “I never thought that would work in my favor.”

“You know, if this whole fashion-empire thing of yours ever gets old, there’s always acting.”

“You as well,” he says. “The party at my beach house? You were very believable trying to seduce me.”

“And you were very believable falling for it.” I grab two champagne glasses from a cabinet. “Here,” I say, handing him back the bottle. “You do the honors.”

He unwraps the foil on the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay. I know it’s expensive but I don’t know how expensive, so I ask.

“Three grand a pop,” he answers. “But as someone once told me, when celebrating success, you should never skimp on the champagne. In fact, you know the guy who said it.”

“Who is he?”

“Your father.”

“I should’ve known.”

Bergamo begins untwisting the wire muselet holding down the cork. “But you let me know if I overpaid,” he says with a wink. “Hey, speaking of which, no word on that mystery woman, the one bidding against me?”

“No, but I’m still trying,” I say.

“Sort of moot now, right?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

He pops the cork, pours two glasses. The bubbles look like tiny pearls racing to the top.

“We should toast in front of it,” he says.

“Absolutely.”

I lead him over to the case and unhook the latches. Bergamo can hardly contain himself. The original Picasso, the real real one, waits inside.

Why make just one fake when you can make two?

Everyone saw Bergamo take the original to the back of the van.

What they didn’t see—what they couldn’t see—was where he put it.

We had a hidden compartment built just for the occasion.

It functioned like a trapdoor, and on top of the door was Wolfgang’s second masterpiece waiting to be snatched by the thief.

The thief grabbed the case, took off, and did the exchange with Blaggy.

Everything went according to plan, which included making Anton Nikolov believe that he was the proud owner of the original.

Which he does believe. Fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

And he will always believe it, especially because it’s got Echelon’s stamp of approval on it.

The serial number. Wolfgang duplicated it not once but twice.

Bergamo raises his glass. I raise mine.

“To the art of deception,” he says.

And it’s only just beginning…