“And if he won’t?”
“Then I’ll find another way to get inside information. Classified or not. Even if it means breaking the rules. And even if that means blowing my chances of getting back into the Bureau.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MUNICH, GERMANY
The Kunsthalle München was a rectangular building of concrete and glass, the perfect venue to exhibit modern masterpieces.
Near Barer Strasse, the area was filled with art galleries. But the three men who were casually pushing a twin-size baby stroller weren’t interested in window shopping. They strolled toward the museum entrance, pausing to bend over the stroller, as if trying to appease two fussing infants.
All that changed when they reached the main door.
Straightening, they yanked on their black masks and exploded into the museum, waving their submachine guns and shouting orders to the security guards in Slavic-accented German. They restrained them with Flex-Cufs and, holding them at gunpoint, forced the guards to accompany them upstairs.
They reached the third floor. The guard at the entrance to the main hall was practically asleep. From beneath half-lowered lids, he spotted his comrades walking toward him. Slowly, he came to his feet—and then froze. His eyes widened with fear as he focused on the MP5K now aimed directly at his heart.
The third gunman rushed forward and quickly disarmed him, pocketing the guard’s Glock inside his own inside jacket pocket. He then secured the guard’s hands with another set of Flex-Cufs.
Using their terrified captives as human shields, the gunmen headed down the corridor and toward their objective.
The outer exhibition room contained the Impressionists on their list: Renoir and Sisley. Using his wire cutters, the tallest gunman made quick work of the wires holding the paintings in place. He tucked the two paintings under one arm, snatching up his submachine gun and gripping it tightly in his other hand. He and his two accomplices shoved their hostages toward the inner room that contained the two most valuable paintings: the Van Gogh and the Seurat.
As they were about to enter the room, one of the captured guards yelled out, “Halt!” The three guards protecting the inner sanctum instantly hit the floor facedown, as they’d been trained to do in a hostage situation. Crouched behind metal and glass display cases marking the entrance to the exhibit, two other security guards began firing handguns at the masked thieves.
They were no match for the MP5Ks.
All three gunmen opened fire. Their bullets hammered the guards and annihilated the top
s of the display cases, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. Without pausing to assess the damage, they each loaded another clip into their weapons and continued firing.
The silence that followed was abrupt and eerie. The walls behind each case were splattered with blood, bullet holes, and glass fragments.
The leader motioned one of his accomplices to check the guards. The first guard was dead. A short burst of gunfire finished off the second. A quick wave signaled that the path was clear.
Without the slightest hesitation, the leader pounded the three prone guards with bullets, leaving them dead in rivers of their own blood.
The tallest gunman had been hit in the shoulder. Relieving him of the Renoir and the Sisley, the leader motioned for the other gunman to get the Van Gogh and the Seurat.
Less than two minutes later, their goal was achieved.
With the leader helping the injured gunman, and the third member of the team carrying all four paintings, they hurried downstairs, went through a fire exit in the rear of the museum, and rushed toward the waiting BMW.
The paintings were quickly wrapped in blankets. The sedan lurched from the curb, speeding down Gabelsbergerstrasse. The driver eased onto the Oskar-von-Miller-Ring, and around the center of Munich, en route to A-8 and the Austrian border.
Final destination: Budapest.
Inside SSA Tony Sanchez’s office, a closed-door meeting was going on.
Tony, Derek, and Rich Williams were gathered around Tony’s desk, reviewing the various pieces of the C-6 case against Xiao Long, and how it might factor into the shady provenance surrounding the genuine Rothberg.
“All nine of the recent burglaries on the Upper East Side are tied to Xiao Long,” Derek told Rich. “One break-in every two or three weeks. He’s got a great scheme going. A nephew of his, Eric Hu, a bright kid who graduated from MIT a few years ago, has a start-up computer support company—oh, and an addiction to crack, which is an easy get for Xiao Long. Turns out Hu’s company serviced the computer systems of eight of the nine burglarized apartments. Also turns out all the owners of those apartments are affluent, with lots of expensive jewelry, electronic equipment, and artwork.”
“Hu’s computer support team scopes out the apartments and their owners’ routines,” Rich surmised. “They take note of where all the valuables are, and where the lady of the house keeps her jewelry. They probably take pictures with their cell phones. That way, Xiao Long’s guys know just where to go to get as much as they can, as fast as they can.”
“Right.” Tony tapped his pen against his leg. “We’ve been onto this part of Xiao Long’s business for almost six months—since he started it. He’s coming up in the world. He used to deal in just gambling, drugs, and prostitutes. Now he’s graduated to fencing top-dollar goods.”
“And finding willing buyers for the artwork,” Rich noted. “Keeping that under the radar is easy, unless any of the pieces are collectors’ items or famous masterpieces. Which, judging from the partial list you rattled by me, they’re primarily not.” A glance at Derek. “You said eight of the nine burglaries fit the profile. The ninth, I assume, is Matthew Burbank’s apartment.”