Page 52 of The Picasso Heist

BERGAMO FOLDS HIS arms tightly as we wait in the alley for his car to be brought around. He’s looking straight ahead, trying his damnedest to ignore my stare. He can’t do it.

“What?” he finally asks.

“I’m just making sure you understand,” I say.

“Of course I understand. I told you I understood.”

“No, you told Shen.”

“That’s right, and you heard me,” he says.

“I need to hear it again,” I tell him. “Shen brought you down into that basement of his to show you exactly what he meant. If you’re to get those vases, they’re for your eyes only. It can’t ever get back to his people that someone other than their own now has them.”

“It won’t,” says Bergamo.

His Porsche arrives; he tips the guy twenty bucks and proceeds to walk around to the front passenger seat.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“What do you mean? You kicked my driver out of the car.”

“That was just to get here.”

“Good,” he says. “Now get me back to him.”

“Diva,” I mumble under my breath.

“I heard that.”

I settle in behind the wheel and pull out of the alley. We go a few blocks before we hit a red light. I look in the rearview mirror, then do a double take.

“What is it?” asks Bergamo.

“I’m not sure yet.”

He starts to look, and I tell him to stop.

“You think we’re being followed?” he asks.

“Like I said, I’m not sure yet.”

“Well, let’s get sure. Take the next right after the light.”

“Not so fast,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“We need to know first.”

He leans forward a bit, eyeing the side-view mirror. “Which car?”

“It’s a van.”

“The white one?”

“Yeah. When we came out of the alley, I saw it pull away from the curb after we passed it. It’s been hanging back behind us ever since. Could just be a coincidence.”

“Or it could be Nikolov… his thugs. Maybe he—”

“Knows what we did to him? If he did, we’d be dead already.”

“Not if he wants the real Picasso.”

“Decent point.”

The light turns green and I continue straight up First Avenue, only a little slower.

“Still behind us?” asks Bergamo.

“Yeah. Still hanging back too. Keeping the same distance between us. Now we make those turns,” I say. “Okay, you can look.”

I hang a left at the next light. Bergamo stares over his shoulder. I can hear his breathing. He waits and watches, his eyes fixed out the back. “Shit.”

We both see the white van make the turn. It’s official. We’re being followed.