Page 6 of The Picasso Heist
Life is a calculated gamble. Sometimes, so is death. If someone’s willing to kill you over money, they’ll be just as willing not to kill you if you can deliver even more money. Lots and lots of it.
I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. It’s the only way to get the words out.
“I’ll give you better than one reason,” I say. “In fact, I’ll give you fifty million.”
CHAPTER5
BLAGGY HOLDS OFFon killing me.
I’ve talked my way into another car ride, this time without the pillowcase over my head. It’s okay if I see where the big boss lives. Anton Nikolov, the big boss, hides in plain sight.
My hands are still tied but Blaggy doesn’t think I’ll do anything crazy. Or at least, not anything crazier than intentionally getting caught stealing from the notorious Anton Nikolov so I can pitch him the art heist of a lifetime.
I’m in the back seat of the other Escalade, the one Blaggy used to get to the warehouse. He’s riding shotgun, his own driver behind the wheel. The rest of the guys have been sent on their way, wherever that may be. “See you tomorrow,” Blaggy told them, which turns out to be three more words than he says to me during the entire drive to Nikolov’s home in Millburn, New Jersey. I’m taking note of everything; there’s no detail too small. They originally didn’t want me toknow the location of the warehouse, but now I know it’s in Weequahic Park, near the Newark airport.
Blaggy’s silent treatment during the drive is a good thing, a confirmation that I’ve officially explained enough of my plan to him. He’s talking to his boss on the phone, and he’s not peppering me with follow-up questions. Does he trust me? Hell no. He doesn’t have to, not yet. Maybe not ever. But guys like Blaggy and his boss do plenty of business with people they don’t entirely trust. As they say, if you want absolute loyalty, get a dog.
Speaking of which, I can’t help noticing from where I’m sitting that the back of Blaggy’s bald head looks like the rippled coat of a shar-pei, albeit not in a cute way. Just saying.
Welcome to Millburn. It’s the wealthiest town in New Jersey, and Anton Nikolov is one of its wealthiest residents. The feds have tried to link him to organized crime for years, but he pays his team of lawyers extremely well. It helps that he doesn’t claim to be in “waste management.” A legit shipping-container business has helped Nikolov conceal a host of slightly less legit business endeavors. As for his gaming website, it’s fronted by a shell corporation, which is how the gaming license was obtained. Nikolov runs the show but his name isn’t on any piece of paper.
We’re here,no one says as we arrive at his house. No one has to. The giant gates do all the talking. Blaggy’s driver nods at one of the security cameras; the gates part, and we’re heading up a long driveway lined by tall trees that eventually opens up to a brick mansion with two humongous bear topiaries flanking the front door. It’s all as subtle as the security detail milling about, each guy openly carrying an AR-15. I count a half dozen men and there are probably a few more along the perimeter of the property.
As soon as we stop, Blaggy turns to me and gives me his one andonly piece of advice for meeting his boss. What to do and what not to do in the presence of Anton Nikolov.
“You stay shut up until spoken to,” says Blaggy.
It’s not a question but he stares at me intently, waiting for a response.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay what?” asks Blaggy. My answer clearly didn’t cut it.
“I don’t speak unless spoken to.”
He nods. “Good. Now let’s go.”
I don’t get to walk to the front door between the two humongous bears. Instead, Blaggy takes me around to a back entrance and down a long, narrow hall. All the doors are closed, but if I had to guess, I’d say we’re in what was originally the servants’ quarters. Still, even the staff would need a bathroom.
“I have to pee,” I say.
Blaggy’s response is somewhere between a grunt and an exasperated sigh. He’s about to tell me no.
“I really, really have to,” I say, stopping. “I can’t hold it.”
“Okay, fine.” He starts opening doors around us. The first two are closets; the third is a small bathroom. He looks back at me, and I look down at my hands, which are still tied. Out comes a switchblade from his pocket, because of course he carries one on him. With a quick flick of his wrist, he cuts the zip tie. I’m free to pee.
“Thanks,” I say.
He stops me after I take one step. “Wait.”
Blaggy frisks me, checking for a weapon. I don’t have one, at least not the kind he’s looking for. What I do have he’s not going to find. I’ve made sure of that.
Alone inside the bathroom, I remove my right Nike Pegasus running shoe and peel back the insole. They took my phone but I’ve been walking around—literally—with a second one this entire time.
My text to my brother, Skip, is only two words.
I’m in.
