The Great Art Con

The gunfire in the distance was sporadic now, just the Germans shooting at shadows. Garrison touched Chief on the shoulder and motioned him forward. Without a sound, the Indian rose from his crouch and melted into the thick fog and darkness of the alley. At his touch, Goniff followed Chief. Then Actor. Chief and Goniff had always been able to move silently. Casino and Actor had learned.

When he touched Casino's arm, his hand came away sticky-wet. Blood. Casino was hit. But the safe cracker had already disappeared into the darkness, following the others. Garrison gathered a breath. As he rose and hurried into the alley after his team, he hoped to God it wasn't serious, because they weren't going to have a chance to deal with it any time soon.

Dressed in black, their faces smeared with mud, they were practically invisible in the moonless night, just a formless dark mass where Chief had brought them to a stop behind a warehouse. Garrison crouched next to them, and Chief pointed up at a partially open window. Garrison heard what had brought Chief up short — German voices inside, and flashlight beams sweeping the interior. Patrols were already scouring the wharf, searching for them. When he listened carefully, he could hear the fog-muffled shouts of others in the distance, closing in.

A beam flashed out through the window, flaring into the fog. Instinctively they all slid into the shadows, taking what cover they could against the wall, behind discarded crates and a rotting dingy. Garrison held his breath as the beam did its best to illuminate the alley. It turned downward to shine on the spot they'd just vacated, then angled left and right, coming within inches of his foot. After a second sweep of the beam, the Kraut with the flashlight turned away and shouted for his comrades to follow him on to the next warehouse.

Garrison sat motionless, listening to the patrol move on, and he thought about the explosions — one right after another — that had shaken the ground, flashed the black night into blinding light, and sent flames and debris hundreds of feet into the air. They'd just blown up three docks of the Germans' newest submarine base at La Havre, and damaged at least that many U-boats. The Nazis probably didn't have the resources to rebuild it anytime soon. It was only an unlucky twist of fate that had gotten them discovered as they'd made their getaway, and only the blessing of the moonless night and the dense fog that had allowed them to escape. Their missions almost always hinged on luck, but when it wasn't on their side, this team — his team — had the skill, training and daring to turn it around and make it work. That was the true reason they were all still alive and doing this job.

When he was satisfied that the patrol was out of earshot, Garrison motioned them all back under the window and indicated that he wanted them to climb in. Actor easily hoisted himself up and through, as did Goniff. When Casino tried, his left arm gave out and he fell awkwardly back to the ground. Chief was instantly at his side, locking his fingers together to give Casino the lift he needed to get through the window. Chief was up and through in one fluid motion, and Garrison followed.

Inside the cavernous space, the odors of gasoline and dead fish clung to the still air. He joined the guys where they sheltered behind a row of wooden casks, and he stooped down beside Casino, who was breathing hard. Even in the near-total darkness, he could see that Casino was clutching his left arm to his side, but his casual shrug and half smile told Garrison he was okay for the moment.

While his own breathing slowed, Garrison considered their next move. They couldn't stay here. This warehouse had already been searched, but there was no guarantee that it wouldn't be searched again. And trying to get out of La Havre to find Emil and radio for the sub was too risky now, with German patrols swarming the area. They needed to disappear.

The sound of a boat's rigging creaked nearby, and he realized they were close to the water. He snapped his fingers softly to get the guys' attention, then motioned that they should stay put while he went to investigate. There was barely enough light to let him move among the stacks of crates and rows of shelving without tripping over something. When he reached the far side, he felt his way along the wall until he found a door and its latch. He tried to time the sound of the hinges squeaking open to the rattle of the rigging.

Twenty yards away across the wharf, a light from inside the pilothouse of a fishing boat glowed in an eerie halo, rocking with the boat on the gentle tide. It silhouetted four German soldiers disembarking down the gangplank— probably the same squad who'd searched the warehouse. Their words were too indistinct to understand, but they headed east, following their flashlight beams away from the docks.

This was going to be tricky, but it might be their only chance. In less than an hour, the sun would be up and burning off the fog. Garrison went back to gather his team and led the way through the maze of the warehouse, then out across the wharf, to where the boat was moored. If any of them questioned what he was doing, no one spoke up. The need for silence evidently outweighed any misgivings they might have had about the wisdom of his plan. But if things went sideways, he knew he'd hear about it.

As they climbed the gangplank at midship, Garrison pointed first left and then right, and his men understood the silent commands. Actor and Goniff headed aft while Casino and Chief peeled off toward the bow. Garrison eased quietly into the pilothouse. The boat's captain, dressed ready for a day on the Channel, puffed on a cigarette as he studied the charts in front of him. When the man sensed he wasn't alone, he turned casually, as if he were expecting someone. He started to say something, until he looked up to find a gun pointed at his head.

"J'ai besoin de votre bateau," Garrison told him, then repeated it in English, so the guy understood exactly who he was dealing with. "I need your boat."

"My boat, Monsieur, it is not worth much," the sailor stammered, wide-eyed. "It is old, it does not run well…"

"I'm sure it runs just fine." Garrison shoved him toward the control console, keeping the gun pointed at his temple. He took in the instrumentation with a quick glance. It all looked pretty standard, and if the fuel gauge was accurate, the tank was full. But it wouldn't hurt to keep the captain around for good measure. And to keep him from running to the Krauts.

Chief and Casino were the first to show up back at the pilothouse door. "Nobody up front," Chief reported.

Actor and Goniff crossed the deck and appeared behind Casino. "There's no one aft or below, either," Actor told him. "There is some interesting cargo, though."

"We'll worry about that later." Garrison snatched the tattered black watch cap from the captain's head, then gestured at him with his gun. "Take off the slicker."

When the captain had done as he was told, Garrison slipped it on over his own jacket and smiled at the man. "I promise I'll try not to hurt your boat. What's your name?"

"Maurice, Monsieur. Maurice LeGrande."

"What's the name of your boat?"

"Esmerelda, Monsieur."

"Nice name. I like it." Garrison tugged on the watch cap and turned to his men. "Tie him up and keep him quiet. Then cast off the lines and get out of sight while I maneuver us out of here."

While Actor and Casino went on deck to untie the lines, Goniff found a length of rope in a bucket of rusty tools and began binding the captains hands behind him. From the same bucket, Chief snatched up an oil-stained rag and used it as a gag. Together they pushed the sailor to the deck to sit below the pilothouse windows, next to the helm.

"Okay, we cut 'er loose." Casino stood in the cabin doorway, still holding his arm tight against his side. "You sure you know how to drive this thing?"

"Well enough," Garrison shrugged, studying the controls more closely. This wasn't much like any of the pleasure boats he'd piloted, and the English Channel certainly wasn't the Hudson River. But he had no other choice. He turned the key and the engine sputtered to life. "Now get down, out of sight."

Turning the wheel, getting the feel of the rudder, Garrison gently maneuvered the good ship Esmerelda away from her berth and into the harbor, dearly hoping that they didn't look too suspicious heading out before dawn on a fogged-in morning. If their luck held, they'd be well out into the Channel before the Germans could launch search vessels from the damaged submarine base.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

The fog had not burned off. By midday, they'd reached the middle of the Channel, and Garrison still couldn't see ten yards in front of him. They were lucky they hadn't encountered any patrols. Or run into anything. And even luckier that no one seemed to be pursuing them.

He finally pulled his eyes away from the compass and fuel gage and turned his attention to the crowded pilothouse. The captain still sat bound and gagged on the deck next to the helm. Chief sat opposite him with a gun trained at the man's chest. Next to Chief, Casino slumped, his head resting on his knees.

"How's the arm?"

Casino raised his head. "Hurts like hell," he griped, but then added, "It's okay. Just a scratch."

Garrison looked to Actor, who stood in the doorway with an automatic weapon held loosely at his side. Earlier, the conman had cleaned and bandaged Casino's wound using the sparse supplies in the boat's medical kit. Actor nodded a reassuring confirmation, then added, "Would you like me to take over the helm for a while?"

The fuel gage said they still had plenty of gas, but he didn't want to risk wasting any of it. He killed the engine. "No, go drop the anchor. I'm going to radio London and give them our coordinates."

"Do you think that is wise?"

"We should be far enough from the coast to take a chance."

"But do you know our coordinates?"

Garrison smiled at his conman. "More or less."

Actor accepted that with a shrug and went out on deck to do as he was asked.

Goniff was curled into the corner next to the door, facing the wall. Garrison gave him a nudge with his foot. "Wake up, sleepy-head. Nap time's over."

Goniff yawned and turned over. "Where are we? Are we home yet?"

"Not yet. Relieve Chief."

Groaning and stretching, Goniff scooted over to where Chief was sitting and took the pistol from him, waving it at their prisoner. "He don't look so dangerous, now does he?"

Chief pushed to his feet and came to stand at his shoulder as Garrison turned to the radio. "Go below and see if there's anything to eat," he told his scout. "We're probably going to be here for a while."

With a silent nod, Chief headed out of the pilothouse toward the aft hatch.

By the time Garrison had composed and sent a coded message to London, Actor and Chief had returned with a jug of fresh water, some tins of sardines, two cans of beans, and a can opener. Garrison frowned. "That's it?"

"Some rotten fish, too, if you're interested," Chief suggested.

"I think you should come see what else we found in the hold." Actor smiled down at their prisoner. "It seems our intrepid seaman is hauling in more than just flounder."

Garrison followed Actor across the deck to the stern hatch. They needed a flashlight to maneuver down the narrow ladder into the cramped bowels of the boat. Actor trained the beam past a tangle of fishing nets and lobster pots to the far right corner, where a stack of narrow wooden packing crates leaned upright against the bulkhead. "Those did not look like barrels of fish to me."

Garrison held the flashlight while Actor navigated his way around the clutter of gear and removed the top from the first crate. Out of it he lifted a framed painting. The beam illuminated a colorful canvas of reds, blues and yellows splashed across a background of multiple shades of green, looking like a field of summer flowers seen through a rain-streaked window. Garrison raised a questioning eyebrow at his conman and art expert.

"I would have to study it more closely to be certain, but I believe it is a Monet. Possibly one of his special commissions from his Giverny period. Most of them are held in private hands. Or they were until the Nazis became connoisseurs of fine art."

Garrison couldn't think of one good reason why a French fisherman would be transporting valuable artwork. "Let's go have a little talk with Captain LaGrande."

Back up in the pilothouse, Garrison had Chief remove the captain's oily gag. "That's an interesting cargo you're hauling, Maurice. Why don't you tell me about it?"

gg gg gg gg gg gg

The painting was still in its crate, leaning against the wall in the map room. Such a beautiful work of art should never be hidden. Actor couldn't resist freeing it from its wooden prison to let its color and light brighten the drab room. It begged to be displayed. Glancing around, he quickly singled out the old painting he'd always hated — the ugly, crudely executed portrait of a brooding Elizabethan matron. He lifted it from its hook and shoved it aside, face to the wall, then reverently hung Monet's garden in its place, straightening it just so. He would never know how Monet could make it seem as if the flowers glowed with shimmering sunlight, but he never tired of losing himself among those flowers.

"Don't get attached. It's not staying." Garrison strode past him and circled to the end of the conference table.

"What a pity. It is certainly an improvement over the owner's taste in art."

"The art historian in London verified it's a genuine Monet."

"Did I not tell you that?" Actor leaned in closer to study the detail, a little offended that the powers that be had not accepted his appraisal. "Even the best forgers have never been able to duplicate these brush strokes. They are unique, very delicate. See here how they curve out and just slightly upward…"

"I'm sure they're exquisite," Garrison interrupted. "When we're done with it, it goes into storage until its rightful owner is found."

Actor turned to face his commander, a bit puzzled. And concerned. "When we're done with it? What are we going to do with it?"

"It's our leverage into the smuggling ring."

The other three weren't far behind Garrison, heading to their usual seats around the table. Casino was the first to notice the new art. "Hey, it's about time we did a little redecorating around here. That old broad always gave me the creeps. What we really need are a few nudes."

"I'll second that, mate." Goniff slid into his chair and lit a cigarette. "And I don't mean no paintings neither."

That got a chuckle out of Casino.

"Settle down and listen up," Garrison commanded. "That painting is the key to our mission. We've stumbled onto a smuggling ring, and we've been assigned to shut it down."

Actor pulled himself away from Monet's garden and took his own seat at the table. "I take it our seaman friend has spilled his guts?"

"And then some. He's just a small cog in a bigger Nazi machine that's helping fund their war effort by selling confiscated art work. His job is transporting the art across the Channel to a contact who then delivers them to a wealthy patron. While LeGrande gets a small fee for his efforts, the real money is deposited into an anonymous Swiss bank account."

"Why can't they just go arrest Daddy Warbucks?" Casino wanted to know.

"LeGrande couldn't give us any names. He only deals with a middle man — a guy who calls himself 'The Pirate'. There's a hand-off scheduled for this Friday night at a waterfront bar in London." Garrison came to stand next to Actor and laid a hand on his conman's shoulder. "Only this time, Maurice is bringing with him the Italian who has a special piece to sell."

All eyes turned to Actor. Garrison gave him a wry smile. "Surely you already have a persona that fits the bill."

Actor returned his commander's smile. "Several, actually."

"I thought so. Our mission is to take the guy down and find out what he's been doing with the art."

Actor tapped his pipe on the table, his mind already running through the con, looking for the loop holes. "I would assume that our anonymous buyer already knows his regular supplier. Dealers in stolen art tend to operate in very tight circles. But whoever he is, he should also know of Vittorio Fabretti." Actor straightened in his chair and adjusted the cravat at the neck of his fatigue shirt. "He is the distinguished purveyor of some of the most valuable works on the European black market."

That prompted a slight bow from Garrison. "Signore Fabretti, I presume."

Actor graciously returned the bow.

Garrison went back to the head of the table and turned serious again. "Even with Signore Fabretti's unimpeachable reputation, these guys are going to be suspicious of any change in the routine. You'll have to work the con so that you won't raise too many red flags."

"No need to worry, Warden. Signore Fabretti can be very persuasive."

Goniff stood up, crushed out his cigarette, and started for the door. "Well, that all sounds very interesting, Actor. Good luck, mate, and have fun."

"Sit!"

At Garrison's command, Goniff stopped short and slunk back to his chair. "Well Actor's the conman. Waddaya need us for?"

"We need to be there to watch his back. This is a lot more dangerous than it sounds, especially with so much money at stake." He glanced at his watch. "We'll head into London in a couple of hours."

"We'd better be stayin' in the barracks this time," Casino grumbled, remembering one of their more recent stays at HQ. "'Cause I ain't spendin' another night in that brig."

"We'll be staying in a…ah, hotel," Garrison replied. "Not far from the bar."

"Beautiful. A waterfront flea bag," Casino snorted. "Well, anything's better than a cell."