Page 55 of The Picasso Heist
“WHAT THE HELL are you doing here?”
“It’s nice to see you too,” I say, breezing past Bergamo and entering his corporate apartment in SoHo, which is conveniently—and secretly—located near his company’s headquarters and flagship store on Spring Street.
He claims only a half a dozen people know about the apartment.
Make that seven now, including me. Lucky seven.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “We agreed to lie low until next week, stay apart.”
“And yet here I am, less than forty-eight hours later.”
“Exactly. What’s wrong? You said it was urgent.”
Before closing the door, Bergamo peeks out into the hallway even though he shares the floor with only one other tenant.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t followed,” I tell him.
“So you say.”
“So I know.”
“How can you be sure?” he asks.
“Because I’m not the one they’re following.” I look around the apartment. Very swanky in all directions. “Do you have any water?”
“Wait. What?”
“Water,” I say, pretending I didn’t just drop a verbal grenade. “You know, to drink? Where’s your kitchen?”
He’s turning beet red, and I’m enjoying every moment of it. “What do you mean, you’re not the one they’re following?” he asks.
“I mean it’s you. You’re the one they’re following.”
“So you know who they are?”
“Nope.”
“Then how do you know I’m the one they’re following?”
“Because I’ve been following them,” I say.
He laughs. He thinks I’m joking. I stare at him, straight-faced. “Hold on,” he says. “You’re actually serious?”
“Yes,” I say. “Now, for real, can I get a water? Is the kitchen this way?”
I start walking down a hall off the foyer.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. It’s the other way,” he says.
I follow him into the kitchen, where I practically have to shield my eyes from the glare. The appliances, the counters, and the cabinets are all stainless steel. He grabs a bottle of Evian from the Sub-Zero, hastily hands it to me.
“Do you have anything else?” I ask. “Evian has a bit of an after-taste.”
He blinks. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. How about anything sparkling?”
Bergamo wants to scream, I can tell. He’s keeping his cool only because he’s desperate for me to keep talking. The Evian quickly gets switched for a bottle of San Pellegrino. “Okay,” he says. “Now talk.”
“There isn’t much to tell beyond the headline. You’re the target,” I say, twisting off the cap of the Pellegrino. I take a sip. “It’s funny. People who are following people never seem to look over their own shoulders.”
“I’ve barely traveled anywhere in the past two days,” he says.
“You traveled enough. Also, what’s with the security team?” I ask.
“What about them?”
“They look like GQ models. Where’d you find them?”
“It was the best I could do at the last minute,” he says. “They worked on Harry Styles’s tour.”
“Great. If you’re attacked by a mob of teenage girls, you’ll be safe.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No, you’re right,” I say. “Sorry, I tend to crack jokes when I’m worried.”
I take out my cell and show him a few pictures of the guys who are following him. They traded in the white van for a black Escalade.
“He sort of looks like that comedian,” says Bergamo, pointing at one of them. “The one who had the TV show.”
“Ray Romano,” I say. “Yeah, I thought the same thing. Only this guy’s been to the gym a little more.”
“I’ll ask it again,” he says. “Do you think they’re with Nikolov?”
“It’s possible. But like I said, if Anton Nikolov truly suspected something, I think we’d know by now.”
“You mean we’d be dead.”
“Yeah. But maybe he’s a little paranoid, so he’s being overcareful, making sure of things,” I say. “I know I’m paranoid, right?”
“And you were smart to be,” he says.
“Good. I’m glad you think that.” I wait a beat, taking another sip. “So you won’t have a problem with what I’m about to suggest.”
Bergamo already knows where I’m heading with this. It’s as if he was just waiting for me to pivot.
“No chance,” he says. “We’re not calling this off. No way!”
“We don’t have to call it off. We simply need to cool it for a bit.”
“A distinction without a difference. Those vases—my vases—are on the water heading here as we speak. If we’re not there to get them when they land, I’ll never get them. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I hesitate. My silence speaks volumes. I can see it on his face, the satisfaction of being right. “You’re not wrong,” I say.
“We need to alter the plan, not throw it out.”
“In other words, we need to make sure you’re not being followed when it matters most.”
“Exactly,” says Bergamo. “Any ideas?”
This is me pretending to think about it for a moment. When you hang around a guy like Bergamo long enough, you learn exactly what makes him tick. Greed. There was no way he was ever going to agree to cool it for a bit. The phrase isn’t in his vocabulary.
“Well, there is one thing we could try,” I say.