The Girl with the Pearl Herring. Part 6

“Rehab said it would be here, and there it is.” JAQUES’ trousers were wet from the brush in the trees. He asked Lincoln, “New jacket ?”

“Yeah,” Lincoln replied, “I just got it, I thought the patagucci was kind of bright, and it’s reflective. What do you think?” He turned slowly.

“Nice,” approved Jaques, “very nice is that FUBU?”

The building the satellite had found was a two story warehouse. Lincoln and JAQUES walked around it, looking for sensors or trip wires. After one circumnavigation they compared notes.

“One road, in and out,” Jaques reported, “looks like some serious gates across it.”

“Rear windows, low louvered no obvious alarm system. Looks empty.” was Lincoln's contribution.

There was the sound of a door being opened from the front of the building and they heard voices.

“Or not,” quipped JAQUES.

Two teams of two, all four recognizable by bruises and lumps, set off around the building. One pair of men went clockwise, the other pair went counterclockwise. Both pairs walked by Lincoln and JAQUES. When the first pair was ten meters past them, Lincoln stood up and started after them.

“Lincoln, what in god's name are you doing?” Hissed JAQUES.

“Mothers jumped me,” Lincoln whispered back angrily, “I’m going to see how they like it.”

“No,” Jaques put more command in his voice than usual, “we are here for a sneak and peek, not a punch and kick.”

Lincoln, conceding the point, melted back into the trees muttering in what JAQUES had learned was the only foreign language he spoke. Eventually they made their way to the rear of the building and slithered over the sill of an open window. The inside of the building was open, roof supports came down two full stories every ten yards or so. There was a transit sprinter van, rear cargo doors open, with half a dozen boxes or so in the cargo area. What looked like another 15 were stacked up, waiting to be loaded.

JAQUES did a quick mental calculation. At 10 million euros each box, and 26 boxes that he could see, he figured he was looking at just north of 30 million Euros in gold. To him, it was a mind boggling display of avarice.

Lincoln and Jaques heard the door in the front of the garage roll up, and the four men walked in. Again Lincoln bristled, but ducked, with JAQUES, behind the sprinter. The men went back to loading the van after one of them set a large analog timer for an hour. One hour later the timer buzzed and the loaders trooped out for another perimeter check. Lincoln and JAQUES, taking one last look at the remaining boxes of gold on the concrete floor of the garage, slithered back out of the window, walked to their car, and had a delightful late, by American standards, supper.

“Is this dinner or supper?” Lincoln asked after they had ordered.

“Supper,” replied Jaques, who seemed to know every inconsequential tidbit of information, “Dinner is eaten earlier than a supper, and is usually less formal.”

“If you say so,” said Lincoln, “I guess I'll have to trust you on this one.”

When they went back to the warehouse the next morning the gold Mclaran that had passed them in Germany was parked next to the fully loaded sprinter van, low on its springs, at the back of the warehouse. JAQUES pointed and smiled.

“Would you look at that magnificent embarrassment?”

“Oh yeah,” said Lincoln, “there she is, hideous as the day I first saw her”.

“You know no Neo Nazi gold thief deserves that ride right?” asked Jaques, “you know what we have to do.”

“Yeah, but…” Lincoln started lamely.

“Brev,” Jaques said solemnly, “He had his men jump you, jump me, jump us. We have to do it, it is written.”

“You don't mean…” Lincoln’s pitch rose in incredulity, “you, you, want to bash it? Unthinkable.”

“Totes thinkable,” Jaques said with a feral smile. “It’s the way of the word, from Singapore to Savannah, Copenhagen to Cape Town. Fuck with me, I end you. it is our obligation to rebalance the scales.”

“Yeah but a Mclaren though?”

“Let me tell you a story of my youth,” Jaques said to Lincoln, “and maybe you will understand”

Lincoln shrugged helplessly, glancing over at the Mclaren, choking up at what he feared he was going to have to do.

“When I was 18 months old, my dad would take me to playgroups on Saturdays. I was too young to remember this, but I have heard the story from enough people who were there that there is no doubt in my mind it is true.  I’m 18 months old, playing with the blocks, minding my own business when a bigger, older kid comes over, shelves me away from my tower, knocks it down, and begins to build a wall.  At least that is the way my dad tells it.  So, the woman who ran the center says I went to the other side of the room, looked at my dad, shook my head, and started playing with the plastic trucks.  I think the head shake thing is made up, but never let the truth get in the way of a good story right?”

“Right,” said Lincoln, getting caught up in the story, “Then what happened?”

“Nothing until snack time, “Jaques continued” but they say I made a point of sitting next to the big kid, who was smiling.  It seems he had knocked over every block tower and hoarded all the blocks in a corner for himself.”

“What a little shit,” said Lincoln, “What happened to him?”

“Who, Lonagan?” asked Jaques, “He became a cop, but that's not the point. Everybody says I reached over and took one of this kid's pretzel sticks, held it in both hands in front of his face, looked him in his eyes and snapped it.  Dah says he started to cry when I mike dropped the two pieces in his lap, his babysitter says it wasn't until I started eating my pretzels and ignored him.  Either way, he grandmother had to come and get him he was crying so hard”

“Goddamn,” said Lincoln, “at 18 months? Shit, remind me not to fuck with you.”

“I just did,” said Jaques. He set skinheads after us, had his boys jab me in the ass with some knockout drug, and tried to kidnap our dog. We are breaking this prick's pretzel stick.”