The Good Thief Read online

  She sighed. Maybe that was true. Maybe not. She didn’t allow herself to judge or guess at what people did with the money exchanged in the buys. Her job was to serve clients who could not get justice through the legal system. Insurance companies, private businesses and individuals—at one time or another, she’d negotiated a deal for them all. The black-market buybacks sometimes felt a little shady. After all, her clients didn’t like paying for items they rightfully owned. But if her fees sometimes felt like thievery, she at least had the consolation of knowing she was a good thief, on the side of justice.

  A man at a nearby table cleared his throat and stared at Lindsey’s hand. She stopped drumming. Why hadn’t she at least ordered coffee? She recalculated the time to reach CapodimontePark, the site of the exchange. She’d set up the buyback there not just because the location was convenient and public, but also because of the poetic justice involved. The CapodimontePalace, built in the late 1700s and now the site of the art museum, displayed what was perhaps Artemisia’s best-known piece, done in the chiaroscuro style of the more famous, but in Lindsey’s opinion not more talented, Caravaggio, and entitled Judith Slaying Holophernes. Lindsey would buy back a piece of stolen art under the caring eye, so to speak, of the artist herself in the sense that Artemisia lived on in her work.

  Lindsey checked her watch. 12:56. Still early. But Savin obviously wasn’t. Maybe he’d had a hard time renting a motorcycle on such short notice? She hated last-minute changes.

  If she were meeting a friend or even doing business for NSI—Novak Sicurezza Internazionale, her father’s security company—time could be experienced Italian style…casual. She had, however, never worked with Marko Savin before, and today’s exchange, like all buys, was potentially dangerous. Everything had to be executed with care. That included timing.

  When Lindsey, in a rush early this morning, had called her father from the Florence airport, explaining that a motorcycle accident resulting in a seriously pulled muscle had put her usual backup, Tito, temporarily out of commission, her dad, former Colonel Anton “K-bar” Novak, had highly recommended Marko Savin. “They don’t come better,” K-bar had said. “I can get him down to Naples for you quickly, no problem.”

  She crossed her long legs the other direction, black leather pants creaking with the motion. All five-foot-nine of her was in black: black leather, a black turtleneck cashmere sweater under the jacket, black boots. She’d secured her long, dark-red hair in a French braid at the back of her head, pulling it severely away from her face and slicking her bangs away from her forehead. No gentle femininity when dealing with thieves.

  Art thieves as a rule didn’t engage in violence. She didn’t anticipate any problems today, but an unbreakable rule was to show strength—and be prepared for anything. More than once, a seller had tried to double-cross her, taking the money and then attempting to flee with the art. Instant wire transfers were not as common even five years ago and unmarked cash was a terrible temptation. Twice she had barely escaped from attempts by third parties to kill both her and the seller and steal the art. You just never knew. She worked carefully. She did not take unnecessary risks.

  12:58. She watched the traffic streaming past the museum, the tourists strolling in and out, and finished off her water. Some of Lindsey’s own handiwork could be seen in the museum, which gave her a thrill. Between her junior and senior years at the AthenaAcademy, she had volunteered as a gofer and assistant for an art restorer in Pompeii, and two pieces Lindsey had researched and assisted in restoring were displayed right across the street. How cool was that!

  AthenaAcademy. Memories rushed her. The Dianas. The painful shame of losing the senior triathlon. The Dianas had, of course, eventually forgiven her for that awful blunder. She’d even been reinstated as “head daredevil.” But her ten-year reunion was this year, and part of her dreaded going, knowing she’d take terrible teasing. Oh, Lindsey, I’ll never forget how you looked with all that glow-in-the-dark paint splattered over your head. Ha-ha-ha.

  She shook her head. Was it ever possible to fully escape shames of the past?

  Time? 1:02.

  A motorcycle zipped into a spot two doors down from the restaurant. A man she judged to be a couple of years older than she, shut it off and dismounted. He looked toward the restaurant, and Lindsey figured he had to be Marko Savin. She’d not only picked this time and place, she’d told her dad that she wanted Savin to rent a motorcycle, not a car. “I drive a car,” she had explained to K-bar. “Tito is always on a bike.”

  Good-looking, she thought as Savin strode toward her. Confident. Maybe even cocky. That could also mean excessive risk-taker, but she would keep an open mind.

  He walked straight to her, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat.

  “You’re late,” she said before she could stop herself. Now why had that popped out? She hadn’t meant to launch their day with criticism.

  “No, I’m not,” he countered, grinning.

  Maybe she’d been thrown off stride by his looks. She took in the short-cropped dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, ever-so-male five o’clock shadow and an intriguing scar under his left eye that she immediately wanted to touch, if not kiss.

  I’ve been without sex way too long.

  She stuck out her wrist, displaying her black watch’s neon-blue time display, at the same moment he stuck out his wrist, displaying his silver watch’s black numerals. They both checked the time, and laughed. His watch said 1:00, hers, 1:02.

  “It’s nice we’re both right,” she said, happy for a chance to get back on a positive track.

  The waiter arrived. “I’m not ordering,” Marko Savin said. He had one of the most beautiful baritone voices she’d ever heard. His English had a mild Italian accent. K-bar had explained that Savin was born and raised in Venice but had traveled widely.

  “We don’t have a lot of time,” she hurried on as the waiter sauntered away. “I appreciate your stepping in at the last moment.”

  “When your father calls, I come. I owe him a great deal.”

  “He said he found you serving in Kosovo, in the French Foreign Legion.”

  He nodded. “The Legion taught me a lot, but it’s a rough crew. Working for your father’s security business is more to my taste. And it let me return to Italy.”

  “What we’re doing today should be an easy job. I don’t know if Dad told you what I do as a side venture, when I’m not selling for and promoting NSI business.”

  Marko Savin angled the free chair at their table and propped one booted foot on it. He wore a black leather jacket with black jeans. “He says you buy back stolen goods for their rightful owners.”

  “Correct. Today I’m purchasing a painting for a million and a half American dollars.” While thinking again how wonderfully deep blue his eyes were, she nodded to the bulky white cotton satchel at her feet. It held a four-foot-long tube which, in turn, held a quality reproduction of the painting. “I’ll trade the tube in this satchel for the tube that has the original. There’s a minor difference in their labels that only I would notice.” On at least four occasions this little bit of confused identification between the original and the copy had worked to good effect for her. A way for her “steal” the painting back if the deal went bad. It might not be needed, but again, better to be prepared for all eventualities than sorry for assuming all would go well.

  She explained the history of the Nazi theft of the painting.

  Savin frowned. “I don’t get it. You’re paying off a thief, an ex-Nazi, for a painting he stole. Owners shouldn’t have to buy back their own stuff.”

  “The owners just want their painting back.”

  “Seems to me that’s a job for the authorities. They catch the bad guys, retrieve the art, return it, and punish the crooks.”

  “I’m hired when owners discover that the authorities aren’t going to be able to retrieve something the owners very much want returned.”

  “Isn’t that sort of interfering with a criminal investigat
ion—for money?”

  His questions were starting to annoy her. “When the authorities can’t deliver, people hire me. They’re willing to pay a substantial retrieval fee. The fee is, of course, gratifying, but the real satisfaction—the reason I take the risks—is because I get to see the joy on my client’s faces when I return what they loved and thought they had lost forever. I can assure you that I only work for legitimate owners or their representatives.”

  “You said the guy is a Nazi! Pretty much scum.”

  She glared at him. “The seller isn’t a Nazi. His grandfather was. But, yeah, I’d deal with a Nazi. I deal with whoever has what owners want returned. And that’s why you’re here. Sometimes things can go sour. So, you in or no?”

  Savin stared right back, then shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Okay. Here’s the action,” she continued. “You and I go to the meet, you on the bike, me in my rental car. We arrive a minute apart—you first—and we make no connection. They aren’t to know I have muscle behind me. I’ve made my reputation—I am the best and intend to stay that way—by never coming armed and making certain that buyers and sellers get what they expect. I presume you’re carrying.”

  He patted his chest where under the leather jacket she assumed he had a gun. She’d already figured out from the bulge on the calf of the leg propped on the chair that he carried a knife.

  “That’s fine,” she continued. “But there’s to be no use of weapons unless it looks like someone is going to kill me. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “What I do, and my reputation, depends on being clever, not violent, but I will get the painting back, and I will not get killed doing it.”

  He smiled. It made his blue eyes twinkle.

  From the white satchel she pulled out a map of the CapodimontePark grounds. She explained where he would park and where Gottschalk was supposed to meet her—on an access road about a hundred and fifty yards away.

  “If I need help, I’ll jab my fist into the air. Or,” she slid a small black box to Savin across the table and as he reached for it, his finger brushed the back of her hand. She felt a quick spurt of warmth to her face, her body’s response to a profound sense of pleasure at his touch.

  Stunned, she drew in a slow breath, then, “If I press this,” she touched the center of a silver moon pendant, “the green light on your box will go red.” The slim moon disk contained a built-in transponder, activated by a three-second touch.

  “Don’t come in unless I signal, okay? Any questions?”

  He shook his head, then said, “I like your earrings. They’re exactly the color of your eyes.”

  For a moment she couldn’t find words, surprised at the sudden shift of topic and tone. Her earrings, a gift from K-bar and her mom when she graduated from the Academy, were half-inch, oval studs set in silver. “They’re gray star sapphires. From India.”

  “Very beautiful.”

  She felt herself warming, knew that her face was reddening. How embarrassing.

  She checked her watch. “It’s time to go.” She lay ample euros on the table, grabbed the satchel and, keeping her eyes off of Marko Savin, headed for the street.

  Chapter 2

  L indsey drove the rented red Fiat uphill from the center of Naples through heavy traffic. The city spread across hills that allowed those spectacular vistas of Vesuvius rising in all its imposing splendor, an ancient sentinel watching over the bay, its peak shrouded in clouds. Everything was going well, even on schedule.

  She kept Marko Savin in sight all the way to CapodimontePark. With Tito, she stayed focused on the deal, but thoughts of the surprising rush of pleasure she’d felt at Marko Savin’s touch kept intruding.

  K-bar had said Savin wasn’t married. She couldn’t resist wondering what his “type” might be. She had always wanted to share her passions and joys and hardships with a special companion. So far, however, the only man she’d ever had a serious relationship with wanted her to quit taking the risks involved in her art buybacks. And he hadn’t even known about the sometimes extremely dangerous courier jobs she did, in secret, for the U.S. government as an Oracle agent.

  She knew other Athena women who had sacrificed their lives of high risk for family, but that would never be Lindsey. Retrieving art, sometimes masterpieces, stolen and precious to their owners, gave her life meaning. Most of her assignments as a courier were important, some critical to U.S. security, and that also gave her life substance. This was who she was.

  Saying no to the possibility of love and a family of her own had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. Sometimes, alone at night, she would get the blues and think she’d made a mistake, but, she’d inherited her mother’s cheerfulness, and in the morning she’d look forward to the day’s action.

  No one in this life gets everything.

  She pulled over and waited, carefully watching for one minute. Maybe she could risk some fun and adventure with this man. No ties. She would very much like that—if he showed any interest. He had seemed to. Why else comment on her earrings and her eyes with a look that said he couldn’t stop mentally undressing her?

  When the sixty seconds had passed, she drove through the entry and through extensive grounds with spacious lawns, now brown with winter, passing groves of leafless trees and a number of old buildings, including the palace that was now a museum, all of them tied together by looping access roads.

  Heinie Gottschalk was waiting at the prearranged spot, seated in the back of a black Alfa Romeo sedan, parked as directed and accompanied only by his driver. She’d agreed that Heinie could bring one man with him and had said, “Sure, he can be armed.” Her main line of defense against treachery by Heinie, or any seller, didn’t rest on strong-arm measures. She could be counted on by both sides to be an honest broker, no violence, no treachery and total discretion.

  She parked the Fiat in front of the Alfa Romeo and turned off the motor. A hundred and fifty yards away, Marko sat on his bike, apparently studying a map or newspaper.

  Carrying the white satchel with its slightly protruding tube, she strode to the Alfa. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door behind the driver’s seat. Lindsey slid inside, sharing the seat with Heinie. He was perhaps twenty-five with neat shoulder-length blond hair and a flashy pinstripe suit. The diamond stud in his ear had to be at least a carat and a half.

  Heinie spoke English, in which he was fluent. “So, we’re ready to trade?”

  “Let me see the painting,” she countered. As he reached for it, she slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and palmed the tiny GPS transponder, the size of a dime. She had to slip it into the tube with the genuine painting and quickly because in the end, he might refuse to leave her alone with Cleopatra.

  He handed her the tube she had supplied to him. “I need to have a few moments in private to inspect it,” she said.

  “Why the fuck would you need to inspect it? You think I try to cheat you? I know your reputation and I deal in good faith.”

  “Others have tried to cheat. Before we part, you will be able to verify that the wire transfer has been made. Right now I verify the painting’s authenticity. It’s all part of keeping everyone honest.”

  “What’s in your tube there?”

  “The tube has an accurate copy of the painting, in case I need to check any details. You may search it if you’d like.”

  Heinie didn’t move, as rigid as if he were made of stone.

  “If I can’t inspect the painting in private, Heinie, I won’t wire the money. You need to let me do my job. You and your man should stand at the front of the car.”

  Finally he opened his door and hauled himself out. He signaled and the two of them moved to the front of the car, looking across the grounds. Looking toward Marko, actually.

  Lindsey had studied art and art forgery. She knew all the techniques used to establish whether a statue, painting, lithograph, or other work, was the genuine article: pigment analysis, infrared analysis, or X-ray fluorescence to d
etermine the age of the canvas or if metals in a sculpture were too pure. Sometimes these methods could pick up the artist’s fingerprints left in the paint. “Craquelure” was the study of the distinctive network of fine cracks on very old pieces that were virtually impossible to replicate. She could even identify unique brushwork and perspectives to see if these were consistent with known genuine pieces. The problem with this was that forgers made the same analysis, and great forgers were able to re-create them. Even experts could be fooled. But none of these fancy techniques were needed for the Artemisia.

  She opened the tube he’d given her, tilted it, and the painting slid into her hands. As she set the base of the tube on the floor, she dropped the GPS into it and heard it hit with a quiet thunk on the bottom.

  She unrolled the painting just enough to expose the back side, lower right corner. From her pocket she took a small lighter, and held it close to the painting. Her client had informed her that only the family knew the painting had been signed on the back using urine with the three words, Owned by Genovesa.

  Invisible writing had a long history. Milk, vinegar, fruit juices and urine, all had been used and all darkened when heated. The words soon appeared.

  “Hello, honey,” she said, longing to pull it out and gaze. She put away the lighter, returned the painting to its tube and knocked on her window.

  Heinie returned to her. “Satisfied?” he asked in a sulky tone.

  Gee, might he have been raised as a spoiled brat? She ignored him and pulled out her BlackBerry. He watched her intently as she keyed in the information that would transfer one and a half million American dollars to a bank in the Cayman Islands. She waited. Finally she read aloud, “Transfer complete.”