Operation Samarium

CARLOS USÍN

Copyright © 2022 Carlos Usín

All rights reserved.

RPI: M-002157/2022

Cover design: Marta Fernández García

Translator: Amanda Witan

DEDICATION

For Cuchy

Contents

1.      The theft

2.      Grigori and Vasili

3.      The theft is discovered

4.      Ivan Orlov

5.      Bukowski and the picture

6.      Daniel Olavarría and Bukowski

7.      Daniel Olavarría and his musings

8.      The police begin their investigation

9.      The bodies are discovered

10.      Daniel visits the prison

11.      Grigori and Vasili scarper

12.      The police gather leads

13.      The IRINA arrives in Monaco

14.      Daniel and Frutos

15.      Vasili and Grigori in Rota

16.      Daniel and Bukowski

17.      The mole

18.      Casting the net

19.      Daniel and the yacht Irina

20.      Vasili and Grigori remain in hiding

21.      The police now have plenty of leads to follow

22.      Daniel in Monaco

23.      Ivan Orlov retires to Marbella

24.      The Police, Vasili and Grigori

25.      Daniel in Monaco (2)

26.      Start of stage two - Vietnam

27.      Frutos: good news and bad news

28.      Oleg travels to Moscow

29.      Daniel travels to Qatar

30.      A party in Hanoi

31.      Daniel recovers the picture

32.      Oleg travels to Vietnam

33.      The sabotage

34.      The mole exposed

35.      The demise of the mole

36.      The evidence against “the mole”

37.      Daniel Olavarría: Mission accomplished

38.      Operation Babel

39.      The celebration

40.      EPILOGUE

THANKS

I want to express my sincere gratitude to my friend and fellow writer Mercedes Freedman.

She has contributed selflessly and with her usual enthusiasm to refine this novel, using her knowledge, her acute sense of critique and her immense ability to delve deep into the text and develop its full potential.

I have always admired her, not only for her finesse in writing, but also for her incredible flair for discovering the most unsuspected nuances however elusive they may seem.

The theft

Under the cover of darkness, the two men had no trouble leaving the house, unobserved by anyone. It was early morning and the quiet calm of the neighbourhood was only disturbed by a few crickets. They walked slowly towards their security van, parked in front of the main entrance of the villa, one of the many in this luxury private estate designed exclusively for the rich and powerful of Marbella.

All the security cameras in the house had been disabled, just as they had been told they would be. The only evidence the police would later glean from them was two uniformed security guards carrying out a routine inspection of one of the properties.

No one would have suspected, even if there had been direct witnesses, that under his uniform one of them was hiding a work of art worth more than sixty million euros, owned by a wealthy businessman named Aaron Bukowski. They, of course, had been kept in the dark as to the identity of the owner and indeed the true value of what they had stolen.

As they drove back to the checkpoint to end their shift, they both agreed that they found it astonishing that so many security measures had achieved nothing. Nor did they understand why such a small drawing – a mere 40 x 30 centimetres – had been targeted, when they saw much larger pictures on the walls that were surely worth far more.

Up to that point, everything had gone smoothly and in exact accordance with the plan they had been instructed to follow. Thanks to the maps they had been given, they easily identified the private estate, its location and the villa to be burgled. They turned up dead on time. They presented their fake ID cards at the checkpoint, signed in and set out to do the job of patrolling, which would conceal their real intentions. At the appointed time, they went to the designated property. They entered with the key they had been given and found the picture in the place that had been indicated. They took it, wrapped it up as they had been told to do, left the house, got into the security van, finished their shift and signed out. They drove to the place they had been ordered to make the exchange in the same van they had used to get to the residential estate. This vehicle had been provided to them the day before with precise instructions to use it exclusively for this job.

As they drove to the site chosen for the handover, Vasili, who was driving, began to have second thoughts. He was growing nervous and all types of dreadful scenarios were passing through his mind. He should have thought about it before accepting the job, but the smell of the money they had been promised was too much of a temptation for any objective consideration.

The truth was, they knew damn all about this individual they were about to meet, and that was a risk. They were told that it was an insurance scam, that in exchange for the stolen picture they would be given two envelopes, each containing two thousand five hundred euros, the remaining half of the agreed money.

While he was brooding on this, he turned to his friend, sat in the passenger seat:

‘What if this guy puts a couple of bullets into us to take us out of the picture?’ he blurted out.

‘It’s a bit late to think about that now, isn’t it?’ Grigori replied, looking alarmed. ‘What can we do? We’ve got no weapons and neither of us has ever killed anyone.’

‘You’re right, there’s nothing we can do, except pray. Are you any good at praying, Grigori?’

Grigori stared at him, saying nothing, feeling a mixture of concern and sympathy. He never imagined that his companion would end up thinking about praying to save his own skin. Vasili was always the one who took the initiative, who invariably saw the bright side of things, who came up with the most ingenious solutions to problems. He was his friend, yes, but he was also his mentor. And now he was talking about praying. He must have been really scared and that just wasn't like him.

Vasili continued blathering on, which made it clear to Grigori that his pal was indeed genuinely afraid. He only did that when he was really worried and things were getting out of hand.

‘Well, at least we know that the guy who hired us is called Oleg.’

‘Take it easy, Vasili. Sometimes I think you’re losing it. Let’s just look at things calmly. Firstly, that’s not going to be much use to you if you’re dead.’

‘You’re right about that.’

‘And if we live to tell the tale, I think you’d better forget about him. He’s not the kind of guy I’d like to have on my back.’

‘Yeah, you’re right about that too.’

‘Secondly, are you sure his name is Oleg? A guy who broke into our house, who knows where we live, who knows our phone numbers and who got us perfectly fitting uniforms, just to steal a small picture, worth who knows how much, is he going to tell you his real name?’

‘You’re right, Grigori.’

After a brief pause, Grigori thought that Vasili had got a grip on himself and accepting that the die had been cast, had calmed down and would shut up. But he was wrong.

‘And Marina? Her name was Marina, wasn’t it? You know, that waitress from the club. God, I’ve never seen longer legs in my life! Did you see her tits? She was hot, huh?’

Once again, Grigori gave him a concerned look. His friend was trying to escape from reality, dreaming of a woman who was only available to millionaires and classy people. In addition, Oleg had already made it clear to them that this waitress was his property. You could tell by the way he gave her instructions, with a simple nod, and because at the end of their meeting he had warned them both that she was out of bounds.

‘Vasili, listen to me, that guy Oleg or whatever his name is, told you to forget about her. And you’d better do it. That little beauty wouldn’t even say good morning to you. She’s out of your league.’

Finally, they arrived at the spot where the exchange was to take place. It was a relatively remote area and at that time of day there was nothing going on. What’s more, they didn’t know the individual by sight, they had just been told to wait for someone.

Suddenly, there was a flash of headlights from among the parked cars and they headed that way. Vasili stopped the car, about ten metres from the other vehicle. It was a distance he considered prudent and safe in case of complications. Then a man got out of the other car and walked straight towards them with his hands in his jacket pockets.

‘Vasili.’

‘What?’

‘Tell me it’s going to be alright.’

‘I hope so, Grigori. I bloody hope so. But just in case, I want you to know that you are the best mate ever.’

‘And you feel you have to tell me that at this precise moment?’

The man approached the car. Bending down, he looked at the men inside, still dressed in their security guard uniforms. Vasili and Grigori were scared to death. And the fake smile of the man standing at their window did nothing to reassure them.

‘Privet,’ he greeted them in Russian.

‘Privet,’ Vasili responded.

Then Vasili turned around, took the stolen goods from the back seat and handed it over to the stranger. The man took his hands out of his pockets and without even verifying the package, reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. At that moment, Grigori and Vasili both flinched and for a few seconds wondered whether to knock the guy out and run away, saying goodbye to the money, or whether they should beg for mercy. They were sure he was about to pull out a gun with a silencer and they would be found rigid and dead the next morning. Vasili’s idea of praying didn't seem so stupid now, though it sure as hell wasn’t going to save their skins. In any case, Grigori was as good as praying, repeating over and over to himself something his mother had taught him as a child.

The guy did not pull out a weapon. Instead, he handed them two envelopes. They looked in them and found two thousand five hundred euros in each. He got into his car and drove off. They both took a deep breath. Their legs were shaking and their hearts were beating so fast they felt like they would burst. They would have given anything to have a shot of vodka at that moment. But the job wasn’t over yet.

When they had caught their breath a little, following the instructions they had been given, they changed out of their uniforms leaving them in the car that had been provided and putting on their own clothes which they had left in Vasili’s car, parked there the day before.

‘Grigori.’

‘Yes?’

‘We need new phone numbers.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Burners, I reckon.’

‘Sure.’

‘And we need to move house.’

‘Yeah, I agree. I’m not having Oleg, or whatever his name is, rummaging through my wardrobe again.’

They took the SIMs out of their mobiles and threw them out of the window.

‘OK, then. Where do we go from here?’

‘No idea. Any suggestions?’

‘No. But anywhere’s better than here.’

Vasili started the engine and they headed for the motorway, with no clear plan, but in the direction of Algeciras. All they wanted to do was get the hell out of there as soon as possible. Then Vasili saw the headlights of a car in the rear-view mirror. He hadn't seen anyone arrive while they were stopped. In other words, whoever it was, had already been there keeping watch. Vasili kept his eyes on the mirror, but without saying anything to his friend, who hadn't noticed anything. Finally, just before they merged onto the motorway, the ghost car turned and Vasili took a deep breath. They were not being followed. Or so it appeared.

***

The man now in possession of the stolen picture went directly to Puerto Banús following the orders he had been given. When he arrived, he left the car he had been given and walked to the pontoon they had specified. A huge yacht was moored there, with the name IRINA in gold letters on the side. That was the spot where the handover was to take place.

He approached the access ladder at the stern of the boat. As he set foot on the first step, several figures appeared on the deck at the top of the ladder. The one who appeared to be the boss was protected by three others standing behind him, all of them giant short-necked monsters with enough weapons to launch an invasion. The man figured that every one of those necks was pretty much the width of his thighs. They must have weighed a hundred and thirty kilos each and stood about two metres tall. Their suits looked as if they were about to burst open at any moment. The whole effect was unsettling, and if that wasn't intimidating enough, he wasn't reassured by the distrustful looks that greeted him. But he couldn’t back out now. He climbed to the top of the ladder. All he had to do was complete the job: deliver a package. That’s what he did. No one said a word. In return, the boss handed him an envelope, then turned away while his bodyguards stood there waiting for the visitor to leave. He, too, turned away from the gorillas with a slight nod of his head, accompanied by a forced smile, half out of politeness, half out of panic. It was only when he stepped back onto dry land that the heavies withdrew inside the yacht. He opened the envelope and checked that the money was as agreed and headed for a taxi. His job was done.

The head man made a phone call to report back and get further instructions.

‘You already know what you have to do,’ was the order he received.

‘Very good, sir.’

He hung up and went to find the captain in his cabin. He knocked, and the captain, looking sleepy, opened the door.

‘We’re leaving, Captain.’

‘Destination?’

‘Monte Carlo.’

‘Very well, sir. We’ll be departing in a short while.’

After shaking himself awake and putting on his uniform, the captain made his way to the bridge, rousing the rest of the crew as he went. While he waited for them to arrive, he poured himself a strong cup of coffee and spent a few minutes checking instruments and charts and calculating how long the trip would take.

The yacht Irina was one of those vessels that attracted attention wherever it docked. Its three decks and forty metres length provided comfortable accommodation for ten passengers and eight crew members, not to mention the owner’s extravagances, including a sauna and gold bathroom fittings.

The captain checked the radio and confirmed that all the instrumentation was functioning correctly. Then he calculated the time of arrival. Her two diesel engines with a total capacity of six thousand horsepower gave her a top speed of twenty-five knots, without pushing it to the limit. Her diesel tanks, filled to the brim, held up to twenty-nine thousand litres, giving her full range to make the journey without stopovers.

Ahead of them lay some seven hundred miles of sailing through a calm autumn Mediterranean, which meant almost two days of voyage at an average speed of seventeen knots.

The night was warm, the sky was full of stars and the weather forecast indicated that the sea would be calm. It would be a peaceful crossing, although it was important to keep an eye out for the surprises that night at sea can bring: boats full of immigrants trying to reach the Spanish coast, others lost and without bearings, smugglers speeding across with their powerful outboards in search of the mother ship, all of them without running lights.

But none of that could hinder or slow the yacht’s progress. The instructions were clear and precise.

Grigori and Vasili

Once they had exchanged the merchandise for money and checked that no one was following them, Vasili seemed calmer. In fact, the irrepressible jabbering of earlier was replaced by complete silence, much to Grigori’s relief. It meant he could snatch a quick nap.

While Vasili was driving the car to get them away from Marbella, he considered how they had got themselves into this dodgy situation and embarked on a review of recent events. At this time of day, traffic was non-existent and he was cruising at a moderate speed, so he could let his mind wander.

The range of possibilities for entertainment offered to Grigori and Vasili was fairly limited. It basically depended on their financial resources, which fluctuated between meagre and pitiful. Their usual habit - if the budget did not allow for more, which was most of the time - was to go into a bar and drink a few beers while watching a football match on TV. If their finances were a bit more buoyant, they could replace beer with vodka, albeit cheap and of abysmal quality. Only occasionally, and under certain special, infrequent and singular circumstances, could they afford to treat themselves to a visit to a nightclub, striptease included, even if the dancers were a little well upholstered and had probably left their grandchildren in the care of a neighbour.

So it was that on that Thursday, one rash midweek day, they decided to go to San Pedro de Alcantara and treat themselves to a special night out. Little did they imagine what they were about to get involved in.

While they were enjoying the spectacle - sad, decadent and pathetic - drinking a third-rate vodka and hoping to be able to convince one of the women in the room to have sex at a reasonable price, a guy came up to their table.

The man, whom they had never seen there before, started talking to them, commenting on the strippers' bodies and in particular their tits. Then, out of the blue, he made them a proposition:

‘Would you like to earn yourselves some easy cash? Then you could up your game and fuck a far classier tart than any of these here.’

The idea of being able to afford a whore that was above their usual standard got them on the hook. Besides, the stranger had told them that it would be easy money. They wanted to believe him.

The man had style. He spoke with an educated accent that sounded like it was from eastern Europe, although they couldn't be sure he was Russian. He was no small-time punk. He dressed well, in an expensive suit, so he must be successful in business and know how to earn a penny. In fact, they wondered how such an individual, looking like that, had stumbled into a dump like that.

The stranger invited them to discuss the matter further, but in a more discreet place.

‘Do you have a car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Follow me, please.’

They left the nightclub and watched as their new friend got into his car, an 800hp V-12 Lamborghini Aventador. They followed him in theirs, a second-hand Audi A4. He drove to Puerto Banús.

The club he took them to was right in front of the marina. Stopping at the entrance, they left the cars with the valet and went inside. A huge bouncer, his head shaved like a billiard ball, stood at the door, checking out the visitors. When he saw who it was, he let them through and greeted their new friend as if he knew him and he was there frequently.

‘Come with me,’ the man ordered, as the gorilla gave a nod indicating that he understood the situation.

The place was called Irina la dulce, which was either a demonstration of the owner’s lack of imagination when looking for a name, or else a subtle irony with reference to the film Irma la Douce (Irma, the sweet one) in which the main character was a prostitute. In any case, Grigori and Vasili had never even heard of Jack Lemmon or Shirley MacLaine and had certainly never seen the film.

After passing the payment booth, they had to climb a staircase with a dozen or so steps, at the top of which there were security staff controlling access. Behind them were huge, heavy velvet curtains whose main function was to isolate the noise, ensure the privacy of the guests and maintain an intimate atmosphere. Behind these curtains and down three steps, you reached the restaurant area with a small number of tables and a bar on the left where you could have a drink.

The club was tall and spacious, in the shape of a huge barrel. At the far end was a brightly lit stage, with a central pole, where a topless dancer gyrated and performed intricate erotic moves to the rhythm of the music. In between the restaurant and the stage, there were tables arranged in a semi-circle where you could take your time to relax and enjoy a drink while watching the show.

As soon as they walked in, they could see that there was a big difference between the strippers they were used to and the ‘escorts’ that filled every corner of this club. Booths were located on the sides of the long barrel, to the left and right. They had curtains drawn across for privacy and a guard outside to ensure that nobody interrupted what was taking place inside.

The type of clientele was also very different. They looked like powerful businessmen, with a lot of money and an even greater desire to show that they had it. You only had to check out the cars parked around the place. They were a lot fancier than the ones they were used to seeing in the dives they frequented.

Their host was perfectly at ease in this establishment. It was obvious that he knew it well or might even be the owner or at least the manager. There were plenty of clues; the way the bouncer at the door greeted him, the reaction of the waiters and the girls when they saw him arrive and the manner in which he moved around without the slightest hesitation. What they did not understand was why a man with a car like that and associated with a place like this, would go out of his way to seek them out. Before the end of the night, they would understand his motives.

He took them to an office tucked away from inquisitive eyes, situated at the far end, to the right of the stage. Inside, it was so well soundproofed that they could barely hear the music accompanying the exotic dancer on stage. They could observe her perfectly through a viewing window, which allowed them to see the show from there without being observed from the other side. They sat on a crescent-shaped leather sofa facing the entertainment. No sooner had they made themselves comfortable than a waitress appeared who left the two guests with their mouths hanging open. She must have been six feet tall with blonde, shoulder-length hair, almond green eyes and amazingly long legs. She wore a miniskirt that covered very little and a white blouse, under which there was nothing but her bare breasts. Her chest must have been at least a size thirty-eight.

‘What would you like to drink, gentlemen?’

They would have liked to answer with the sort of inane banter they were used to, like ‘your juices, baby’, but even they realised that this phrase - or anything similar - was out of place at that moment. As out of place as they themselves were.

‘Vodka?’ their host suggested.

They both nodded. They were feeling so self-conscious that they didn’t dare speak up and let their Siberian peasant accents show. But more than anything they were suspicious. They didn’t trust so much hospitality from someone they had just met. There was a hidden agenda here and they wanted to know what it was.

After a curt nod from the man, the waitress left and later brought a tray with a bottle of the best Beluga vodka and three small glasses. She placed it all on the table and as she bent down, they could see that indeed, under her blouse, only her naked firm breasts were visible.

The host made the same brusque gesture and the girl disappeared. He filled the glasses.

‘Here’s to women and business,’ he said, raising his glass.

The others followed suit and all three drank it in one gulp.

The vodka was excellent. Probably the best they had ever drunk.

Through the one-way window they watched as couples made their way to the private rooms in what looked like the prelude to a happy ending. The ‘escorts’ - all of them stunning - looked as if they had been snatched from a beauty contest. There were plenty of girls with Eastern European features, tall and blonde with blue eyes, but there were also some brunettes who looked South American or Cuban or some such, and a few Asian girls. It seemed that, no matter what might be the sexual predilection of the gentlemen who visited Irina la Dulce, their tastes were provided for. And there they were, two former farm labourers, enjoying vodka and the sight of women they had only seen in the cinema and, what’s more, for free. And on top of that, they were going to be offered a business proposition. Something didn't add up and they still didn't know what it was.

From that point on, their host started talking about himself, basically to big himself up. He endeavoured to impress them by telling them how he had progressed from a squalid suburb of Kiev to there. What he had had to do to get all that he had now and what he was willing to do not to lose it.

He didn't seem to have any interest in hearing what his new friends had to say on any subject. As he talked and talked, the glasses were refilled again and again and knocked back in one gulp. But one detail did not escape Vasili’s attention. His new friend spoke in the plural, as if he represented someone, perhaps some group, or more likely, a company.

The two farmhands kept drinking and drinking the vodka and after the second bottle they were beginning to feel its effects, while their host seemed immune to the alcohol. When he thought they were sufficiently mellow, he got to the point.

‘Well, gentlemen, let’s talk business. Would you like to make some easy money?’

They might be a couple of peasant farm workers who had migrated there, but they knew all too well that making easy money was a false concept. However, they were willing to do anything to earn money, even if it was ‘easy’.

‘We want to earn money. If it’s easy, all the better,’ replied Vasili on behalf of both of them.

‘Great! We need you to enter a house and take something.’

Although they were beginning to feel the effects of the dozen or so glasses of vodka that had slipped so easily down their throats, they still had a few functioning neurons left.

‘You want us to commit a robbery.’

The man poured another round and as he drank his vodka, he replied.

‘Well,’ he said, shaking his head slightly, ‘let’s say it’s a matter of retrieving something that shouldn’t be where it is. It’ll be a ten-minute job. No two ways about it. No risk involved. In and out. And five thousand euros each. But you must follow the instructions to the letter.’

They looked at each other and drank the latest shot their new friend had poured out. Five thousand euros! It had been a long time since they had seen that much money in one place. Grigori tried to remember the last time and remembered the bank heist in Sofia, with a couple of plastic guns. But that was a long time ago.

‘What do we have to do?’

‘Come back here in a week’s time. Thursday. Not before midnight. If the doorman gives you any trouble, tell him I’m expecting you. Bring a passport photo. I’ll give you your instructions then.’

‘And if the guy asks us your name, what do we say?’

‘Oleg. And your names are?’

‘I’m Grigori.’

‘And I’m Vasili.’

‘Good. See you next Thursday then.’

As they got up to leave, they passed the blonde waitress who smiled at them with a half-professional, half-mocking look on her face.

‘Thanks for coming. We look forward to seeing you again soon.’

‘Thursday,’ said Vasili, turning his head, just as she turned her back on him and walked towards the booth to retrieve the vodka bottles and glasses.

Once they had left the nightclub, they got into the car and looked for a place where they could have a last drink and compare thoughts. They soon found one, languishing in the middle of nowhere and barely visible, lit by a dim and flickering light that served to frighten off any doubtful customers. They sat down at a secluded table on the terrace and ordered two beers.

They waited for the waitress to bring them before they began to talk freely.

‘What do you think?’ Vasili asked. He had noticed that his friend was very quiet during the discussion at the club.

‘It smells fishy to me, but what do you want me to say? You know as well as I do that we need the cash, and we need it as soon as possible. We’re hardly in a position to pick and choose.’

‘Yeah, but if we get caught...’

‘Well, look on the bright side, Vasili.’

‘Oh, you reckon there’s a bright side?’

‘If they catch us, we get a short spell in comfortable accommodation with three meals a day. And I don’t think life is too bad in Spanish prisons. Certainly nothing compared to others we’ve been in.’

‘You’re right about that. But they won’t deport us, will they? They won’t send us back to Russia?’

‘They don’t do that here.’

‘So, shall we go for it?’

‘Let’s drink to the deal. We’re going to make five thousand euros really easily.’

‘I don’t think it’ll be that easy. There’s a catch here and I haven’t worked out what it is yet.’

‘Relax, Vasili. Just think about what you’re going to do with all that money.’

‘You’re right. Let drink to the deal.’

***

As instructed, the following Thursday they showed up at the club in Puerto Banús. When they got there, before the bouncer could raise any objections, they said:

‘Oleg is expecting us.’

The bouncer stepped aside and let them pass.

As they entered, they instinctively looked for the waitress, and when they spotted her, she motioned for them to follow her. She led them to the same private room as before, where Oleg was waiting for them. Before they sat down, Oleg signalled to the blonde and she made her way to the bar to serve the same drinks as last time to the boss and his guests. When she arrived with the bottle and glasses, they were again able to enjoy the view that was literally offered up in front of their eyes: the perfect breasts of the waitress as naked and as pert as ever, with their perfect proportions. At a gesture from Oleg, the girl remained in the room at a discreet distance.

He treats her like a dog, thought Vasili. With just a slight nod of the head she interprets and obeys.

‘Let’s drink to the success of our venture, gentlemen,’ said Oleg, raising his glass and inviting the other two to do the same.

After finishing the first toast in one gulp, Oleg continued.

‘In case there’s any doubt, you still have time to pull out. If you decide to continue, I want to make it clear that no foolishness on your part will be tolerated. It would be regrettable and, believe me, tragic.’

The two friends got the message.

‘No problem. We’ve made up our minds.’

‘Good. The photos?’

‘Yes, they’re here.’

As they went to hand him the photos, instead of taking them, Oleg signalled to the waitress, who took them away.

‘Don’t worry. She’ll be right back. I will now give you the information you need to do the job. Only the details you need to know. If you are not sure about anything, ask me. When Marina returns,’ Oleg continued, ‘she’ll come back with two IDs used by a security company. You, then, are going to replace two security guards on a residential estate.’

‘Are they ill?’ Grigori asked.

‘Something like that,’ was Oleg's answer.

‘How long are we going to be covering for them?’

‘One night.’

The disappointment and utter bewilderment on the faces of both of them was clear to see. They were going to be paid five thousand euros for just one night’s work?

‘Excuse me,’ Vasili interjected, ‘If I understand you correctly, we’re only going to work one night and we’re going to be paid five thousand euros each. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘That’s right. Exactly. I told you it would be easy money.’

‘OK’ said Vasili after letting out a long breath.

Next, Oleg explained the fine details of exactly what was expected of them.

‘The day before the hit, a car will be delivered to you. You will use it to get to and from the residential complex. After you have received the money in exchange for the picture, you are to leave the car there, at the site of the rendezvous. So, you will have to take another car to the meeting place to drive away in. Is that all clear?’

And he went on.

‘Here is a plan of the housing estate and its location in Marbella. It also shows the location of the house you are to break into. This other plan of the interior of the house indicates where the picture is, and there’s a key to enter the house.

It’s essential that you follow these instructions on how to protect it, how to wrap it and how to ensure that it is not damaged. That is really important. If the buyer were to reject it because of damage, you would be held responsible and believe me, you don’t want that to happen.

When you get to the security checkpoint you have to give the names that correspond to the ID cards. The signatures don’t matter much. Nobody really checks them.

You must enter the house precisely fifteen minutes before the end of your patrol. After that, you sign out, leave the security van for the next guard and leave the scene. You go directly to the appointed meeting place to make the exchange. That information will be given to you 24 hours before the day of the operation.’

And to finish off, he gave them one final important instruction:

‘Once you deliver the picture and receive the money, we will never see each other again. I don’t want to see you turning up here. Oh, and you can forget about Marina, even in your dreams.’

That was the hardest part of the deal, especially for Vasili.

‘Any questions, anything you’re not sure about?’ Oleg prompted.

‘What about security systems? Alarms, cameras, dogs...’ Grigori asked.

‘You don’t need to worry. We’ll take care of all that.’

This “we” worried them. They didn’t know how to interpret it. They weren’t sure if it was something that provided security or some sort of stability, or if, on the contrary, it represented a threat to them.

‘I have another question,’ Vasili said.

‘Go on’

‘If you have all the information and the resources, why don’t you, whoever you are, do it yourselves?’

‘Good question. It deserves a straight answer. A large number of highly competent people have been involved in this job. Each is an expert in his or her field, but none knows the name of any of the others. It’s called watertight compartmentalization and guarantees confidentiality. We have to preserve the identity of certain very important people who should not, cannot, be involved in something like this.’

‘But we’ve met you and we know your name is Oleg,’ said Grigori, letting his big mouth get the better of him.

‘Is that something I should be concerned about?’ growled Oleg menacingly, sitting up in his seat and looking hostile.

‘No, no, no. I’m very sorry, sir. My friend has expressed himself badly. What he meant to say,’ he said, shooting a withering look at his companion, ‘is that it seems like a contradiction. That’s all. You needn’t worry at all. I assure you.’

‘There is absolutely no contradiction. I have already told you that we will never see each other again. And that better be the case, because if not, as I said before, the consequences would be tragic. For you, of course.’

‘We’ve got the message, sir.’ Vasili replied. ‘Don’t worry, really. We have no intention of complicating things. Get in, get out, get paid and adios. You’ve made it crystal clear.’

‘I hope so.’

At that moment, Marina returned.

‘Here are the two ID cards and two bags. Inside are the uniforms you have to wear.’

‘What if they don’t fit?’ Grigori asked

‘They’ll fit; they are your size. We’ve already checked,’ Oleg replied.

‘How?’ Vasili asked, amazed and at the same time a little alarmed.

‘By going into your houses and opening the wardrobe,’ Oleg answered with a smile on his lips.

The answer chilled them to the bone. They turned so pale they looked like two corpses, and it was clear, if they didn’t watch out, that’s what they’d be in the not-too-distant future. It was then that they realised that there was indeed no such thing as ‘easy money’. But there was no turning back now.

‘Before you go, I want to offer you a gesture of goodwill to show our confidence in you.’

He’s still speaking in the plural, Vasili reflected.

‘Here’s half the money up front,’ and he handed them each an envelope with two thousand five hundred euros in it. ‘I hope you get a lot of pleasure out of it. Good night, gentlemen, and I don’t wish to ever see you again,’ Oleg concluded.

‘Goodbye,’ said Vasili. ‘And thank you.’

Before they got up to leave, they drank the last few dregs of vodka. They savoured it as if it were the last they would ever have. When they got up, their legs were shaking, they were ashen-faced and they were beginning to think that their lives were in serious danger. So much so that, as they left, they didn't even dare to look at Marina when she said goodbye to them.

‘Good night, gentlemen.’

On this occasion, she didn't add her favourite phrase ‘we hope to see you here again soon’, which was very significant.

They left the club carrying the bags and went straight to the car. Both remained in complete silence, staring blankly ahead, for several minutes. Finally, Vasili, who always took the lead, said:

‘Grigori.’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t want that vodka to be the last I ever have. Let’s get drunk with some of the money they just gave us.’

‘I’m with you all the way on that, but first, give me a moment.’

Grigori got out of the car and walked towards the sea, where the yachts were moored. Before he had got very far, he threw up.

Returning to the car, he said to his friend:

‘Whenever you like. I’m ready now.’ 

And they headed off to find a classy joint where they could use the two and a half thousand euros they had in their pockets. They were not at all sure that they would get to enjoy the rest.

Then one day they received a call which summoned them to the parking lot of a shopping centre in Marbella. There they were given the car they were to use for the job and they were told the location where they would exchange the picture for the remaining money. A quiet and secluded area where they could perform the operation undisturbed.

Once they had the car, they drove to the site of the handover and left their Audi there. That would be the one they would use to leave the scene.

Suddenly, the voice of Grigori, who was dozing in the seat next to him, shook Vasili out of his thoughts.

‘What are you thinking about, Vasili? You’ve been as quiet as a ghost for a while now. I can see you’ve calmed down at last.’ 

‘Well, I was just going over how we got into this mess. Everything that’s happened to us in the last two weeks.’

‘Well, in the end everything turned out all right. We got the job done, we got paid and we’re still alive.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But there’s still something that’s bugging you, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, there is. I’ve been driving all this time and I still don’t know where we’re going.’

‘Are you okay, d’you want me to drive for a while?’

‘No, no, I’m fine. Besides, driving relaxes me.’

‘When the sun comes up, which won’t be long, we’ll find a place to fuel up and have breakfast, okay?’

‘That’s a good idea. I’m starving.’

The theft is discovered

Aaron Bukowski’s personal jet landed at Malaga’s international airport, in the zone reserved for private aircraft. His chauffeur was waiting for him there, with one of the finest cars in his impressive fleet, a Rolls Royce Phantom.

As he left the plane, he said goodbye as usual to the crew, which consisted of the captain, the first officer, a stewardess and a relief pilot.

‘Did you have a comfortable flight, sir?’ the captain asked.

‘Splendid, Captain. I even managed a little snooze. Thank you very much. You’re all very helpful,’ he said, turning his head to look at each one of the crew members. ‘I don’t have any plans to fly again soon, so, if you wish, you can take a break until further notice.’

‘Thank you very much, sir. You’re very kind. Whenever you need us, just let us know, we’re always pleased to be of service,’ replied the captain.

Bukowski was an immensely wealthy man, which never prevented him from treating all the people he encountered with a respect and appreciation that was reciprocated by everyone who knew him. His employees felt a genuine and true devotion for the old man, who, in spite of his advanced age, still maintained his mental faculties at full capacity and showed great dedication to his work. Only a certain difficulty in moving around and a few minor ailments typical of his age gave away his advancing years.

The stewardess had, as usual, already collected the minimal luggage he was in the habit of travelling with. As he settled himself into the vehicle, she placed it in the car’s capacious boot. The chauffeur thanked her and gently closed the tailgate, then returned to the driver’s seat.

Looking through the driver’s rear-view mirror, the chauffeur inquired:

‘Did you have a good flight, sir?’

‘Excellent.’

‘And was the trip a success?’

‘Yes, Dimas, it was. Thanks for asking.’

‘Home, sir, or would you prefer...?’

‘Home, please. I’m a little tired. This change of time zones is going to be the death of me.’

‘Make yourself comfortable, sir, and might I suggest you take a nap?’

‘Thank you. I think I’ll take your advice.’

‘Is the air conditioning okay or should I turn it down?’

‘A little cooler, please.’

‘Very well, sir. If you change your mind and get cold, please let me know.’

‘I will.’

They left the airport and headed for Marbella on the dual carriageway. Unsurprisingly, Bukowski fell asleep on the way. Observing him through the rear-view mirror, Dimas thought he looked exhausted.

They arrived at the house just as Bukowski was waking up. Dimas drove up to the main entrance, where the butler, Tomas, came out to meet them. He opened the door for his employer to step out and greeted him.

‘Welcome, sir, how are you feeling today after your journey?’

‘Fine, thanks, Tomas. Perhaps a little more tired than at other times. I think it’s the weather in London. Too humid, too hot or too cold. I don’t know. That river is bad for my health,’ he joked as he made his way rather stiffly to the entrance.

‘Next time, we’ll have the river drained for you, sir,’ Thomas joked, which brought a smile to Bukowski’s face.

Meanwhile, Dimas had given the luggage to the housekeeper, Guadalupe, who, after greeting her employer, had carried it upstairs to the master bedroom.

Bukowski would use the lift. But first he wanted to go to his office, on the first floor, to check his post and his emails.

Tomas, who was not only a butler but also his personal valet, turned to Guadalupe:

‘Thanks very much, Guadalupe. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the unpacking.’

It was then that they heard a loud cry of distress from their master in the study on the floor below. Both Tomas and Guadalupe ran downstairs as fast as they could, to see what had happened. When they entered the office, they saw him with his head sunk in his hands, sobbing like a child. It was heartbreaking to see him like that. They were at a loss to understand what had happened. He had seemed fine when he arrived.

And then suddenly Tomas looked at the wall and realized. His eyes widened in pure horror, as if he had seen a ghost, but he signalled Guadalupe not to say anything. She still did not understand.

‘Sir, are you all right?’

‘I’ve been robbed, Tomas. They’ve stolen it from me. Again! They’ve stolen it again!’

Guadalupe then noticed that there was a blank space on the wall. She never knew how to value what hung on the walls, but from her employer’s reaction, it must have been valuable. She was aghast and had turned pale.

‘Sir. We must call the police immediately,’ Tomas suggested.

Bukowski, still holding his head in his hands, seemed not to have heard his butler.

‘Sir?’

‘I’m fine, Tomas. Yes, we must call the police, but before that, please locate Daniel Olavarría in my address book. Call him and ask him to come as soon as possible.’

‘Before the police, sir?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Fine, sir, as you wish.’

Aaron Bukowski had slumped against the back of his chair. He was breathing heavily and his head was leaning against the backrest with his eyes closed. Then he opened his eyes, got up from his seat and went to the globe drinks cabinet in his office. He opened it and took out a bottle of whisky and a tumbler. He poured himself a shot and downed it in one gulp. The warmth of the alcohol going down his throat made him feel a little better. It calmed him down. He poured himself another, a little more generous, and decided he would savour it while he waited for Daniel Olavarría to arrive.

Ivan Orlov

Barely thirty minutes after the robbery, the picture arrived at the yacht Irina, moored in Puerto Banús.

The vessel was sailing under the flag of the Cayman Islands, although it officially belonged to a Ukrainian company, so it was also flying the Ukrainian flag, as required. In reality, the only individual using the boat was Ivan Orlov.

Ivan Orlov, known in certain circles as “The Russian”, was - at least in theory – the Ukrainian consul in Monaco. When his multifarious engagements allowed him to, he divided his free time between the principality and Marbella.

He was a man of normal height and build, in his late seventies, though he didn't look it.

He was one of the most powerful men on the planet. His power rested on two pillars: he was a personal friend of the supreme authority in Russia, President Igor Ruskin, and he was also the most important FSB - formerly KGB - agent. He could practically be said to be acting under the direct orders of his friend Igor, which put the head of Russian espionage, his theoretical boss, in a difficult position. His arrogant behaviour was probably due to this close relationship, which gave him a quasi-untouchable status.

Born in St. Petersburg, he showed early signs of above-average intelligence. After high school, he went to St. Petersburg University where he studied at the Graduate School of Management. After excelling in his university studies, he was contacted by the KGB and began to work for them. He was sent to the then East Germany, specifically to Dresden. There, he soon became friendly with a young man who, like him, was taking his first steps in the KGB. His name was Igor Ruskin. Their rising careers within the KGB and the state organisation ran parallel to each other.

The post of Ukrainian consul in Monaco, in addition to providing him with diplomatic status, served as a cover for his many activities, most of which were of dubious - and sometimes not so dubious - legality. In fact, everyone assumed that he was prepared to deal in anything that made money, be it drugs, arms or stolen works of art.

When he needed to get around quickly, he used a private jet. The yacht was another business tool he used for his escapades, to amuse himself or to entertain guests, and on occasions like this one, he simply used it as a taxi.

It was very important for this operation that he was not seen with the stolen picture anywhere in public, not even on the yacht. It was the best way to prevent him from being linked to the theft of the artwork. Therefore, the yacht and the crew - who, of course, knew nothing about it - would simply take the package from Marbella to Monte Carlo, while he was thousands of miles away. He would arrive in the capital of Monaco by air, in his jet, on the agreed date. That was the plan, as he reminded his chief of security when he called from Marbella to announce that he had the package in his possession.

Yuri Maslanka, Ivan Orlov’s security chief, was fifty-two years old. He was Orlov’s right-hand man and his life was in his hands. He alone, and no one else, could have been entrusted with the transfer of the stolen artwork. Yuri was a Russian secret service agent like his boss. He came from a family with a long military tradition and held the rank of lieutenant colonel. He ruled his men with an iron discipline and his behaviour was completely predictable. When necessary, he could be as cold as ice, both in analysing a situation and in executing his decisions. He never lost his cool and was always one step ahead of the pack. His loyalty to Ivan was unquestionable, and he harboured the hope that he himself would someday benefit from his boss’s closeness to the president.

From the first moment, Ivan realised the importance of this mission, despite the fact that even he was being kept in the dark about some of the details. He knew that, but he did not want to embarrass his friend the president. In addition to friendship, there was loyalty.

The meeting at which he received his orders was held in the president's office in the Kremlin. The only people present were Igor, the head of the FSB and Ivan himself. No unnecessary loose ends, they insisted. Afterwards, when he arrived in Monaco, he was to contact an Arab millionaire who, he was told, belonged to the family of the Emir of Qatar. The meeting was to take place at the Emir’s palace in the Principality.

***

Once the crew of the Irina was ready and in place, the yacht’s captain began to give the instructions to depart from dock, repeated by the first mate:

‘Standby to cast off. Cast off port bow line. Rudder to starboard. Cast off stern bow line. Idle away.’

The yacht set sail from Puerto Banús for Monaco.

Bukowski and the picture

Bukowski prepared to wait patiently in his office for the arrival of Daniel Olavarría. He was trying to calm his breathing and, above all, his heart rate, which had shot up, and that was not good for his already ailing heart. The whisky he was enjoying had not been prescribed by the doctor either, but at that moment, it was the best medicine he had available to him.

As he sat there, alone, exhausted, dejected, Tomas waited by the door in case anything should happen to his master or he might need some refreshment. The rest of the staff were upset about what had happened, but Tomas had given instructions not to disturb him. They should all keep well away.

At that moment, Aaron was recalling memories that he had tucked away in a corner, in the depths of his soul, that he would never be able to forget. It was as though the ghost that had been haunting him since he was a child had risen once again from its grave. He retraced the history of that picture and the various misfortunes that had befallen it and the different people that had owned it. That masterpiece contained within its frame not only something of incalculable value but also a part of the very history of his family and of the Shoah.

The picture was a self-portrait drawn in charcoal, attributed to Albrecht Dürer, from his early years. It appeared to be an early exercise in craftsmanship by what was later to be an accomplished master. According to the information he had, his great-grandfather, an antiquarian, bought it from a Polish gypsy, a traveller who sold scrap metal and anything else he considered useless. After buying it for a few eslotis, - small change that would allow the itinerant to eat well and, more importantly, to drink well – Aaron’s great-grandfather had the drawing analysed by a more experienced colleague. When the provenance of the work was confirmed, it was looked after with the care and respect it deserved.

Then, with the invasion of Poland by the Nazis, came the looting of all works of art, especially those belonging to Jews. The Nazis showed a voracious, virtually insatiable, appetite when it came to appropriating anything of value. Their strategy was basically to offer a derisory purchase price for a work of art or other item that was not even for sale. In exchange for the paltry sum offered, the owner was led to believe that he would not be sent to a concentration camp if he agreed to sign the documents for the forced sale. The idea was to give the appearance of a legal sale when in reality it was extortion. Of course, they had no choice but to accept the offer, but on occasions, and there were many, in addition to being compelled to undersell their property, they were still sent to concentration camps, from which they never emerged.

And this was the case for his family. His entire family, like so many others, were confined in the Warsaw ghetto. Later, his grandparents and parents were sent to the Treblinka concentration camp, where they died. Aaron only managed to survive thanks to his saving angel in the form of a woman named Irena Sendler. She risked her life to save the lives of thousands of children who, like him, would have died had it not been for her courage and imagination. She smuggled them out of the ghetto hidden in crates, ambulances, coffins or even, once, in a consignment of bricks, and if they were babies, she drugged them just enough to stop them making any noise.

After the war, Bukowski found himself completely alone in a shattered world. He tried to overcome the pain, fear and bitterness. He decided to settle down, make something of himself and continue his ancestors' business: diamonds, jewellery and antiques. Perpetuating the family legacy was the least he could do for them, to honour their memory.

Many years after the war, when he had reached an impressive level of prosperity through hard work, talent and sacrifice, he began to search for this looted work of art. It was the last object of value that the Nazis took from his family, since when they returned for more there was nothing left to take. That is why they were confined to the ghetto and then to Treblinka. In a way, that drawing represented the last breath of his loved ones, the last link to a life of semi-freedom before the final condemnation, and he had to get it back no matter what the cost.

The undertaking was not an easy one. You don’t find a work plundered by the Nazis hanging in an exhibition in a gallery. A lot of research had to be done in historical documents, libraries and government departments. It involved knocking on many doors and often obliged him to have dealings with people with little or no humanity or compassion. After years of fruitless searching, travelling halfway across Europe, advertising in the press, consulting with expert colleagues and, on occasion, with thieves and dealers of stolen art, he managed to find the new owner. It was not easy to get the individual to agree to meet him. It was like admitting that he had an object that, by all rights, should not belong to him. But Aaron Bukowski was a born businessman, a man who understood human weakness and was well aware of the depths to which human beings could sink. Nothing could shock him anymore.

In this way, he discovered that an individual called Hans Joseph Kauffmann was the son of a Nazi diplomat who fled after the war and took refuge in Spain, in Alicante. To be precise, in a town called Denia.

The meeting was not an easy one, emotionally speaking, although it took place in an atmosphere of impeccable politeness. Aaron, very subtly, slipped in the idea of how they had been forced to sell the picture, in the hope of rekindling, if only minimally, any smouldering embers of a sense of guilt on the part of its current owner. The discussion began to turn in Aaron’s favour when he suggested a certain amount of money as ‘compensation’ for the inconvenience, on the grounds that it was a family memento. Eventually, a financial settlement was reached and Aaron Bukowski bought back the masterpiece that had belonged to his family.

And now, once again, they had stolen the drawing from him. The Dürer self-portrait was gone again, but now he no longer had the same energy as before. He had more money than then, but he was already an old man with the normal afflictions of his age and did not have the strength to carry out the enormous task of finding out who had stolen it and how much they were going to demand for its return. He was determined to call in a specialist in recovering stolen works of art. So he instructed his butler to contact the only man he could trust with the task: Daniel Olavarría.

Daniel Olavarría and Bukowski

Daniel Olavarría, a native of Donostia-San Sebastian, was considered a veritable superstar in the art world, both when it came to recommending the purchase of artwork to his clients, and when it came to examining and researching a possible forgery or a scam. But where he excelled beyond all others was when it came to recovering stolen works of art. In this he was the very best investigator of art crime in Europe.

He studied Art History at university in Granada. It was there that he fell in love with Andalusia and discovered an immense artistic heritage that was largely unprotected. As a result, to begin with his dealings were of a somewhat unscrupulous nature and for a short period of time, he devoted himself more to plundering undiscovered sites (Iberian and Phoenician, above all), rather than providing the care and protection that these jewels of antiquity demanded. To the extent that he almost got into serious trouble with the authorities.

But at the same time, he was able to win the trust and friendship of certain professional thieves, which served him well in his later profession. Even in hell you had to have friends, and he followed that principle literally. For this reason, he still maintained excellent relations with people in the criminal world, where, despite the fact that everyone knew what he did and who he worked with, he was respected. He always kept his agreements with them. He was always reliable.

He now lived in Marbella, not far from where Aaron Bukowski had his residence. And how did a Basque from San Sebastian end up living in Marbella? There were several reasons for such a decision. There was a time when leaving his homeland was a matter of life and death, as it was for so many others. Some had the opportunity to do so and others did not. So, forced to go through the ordeal of having to leave his family home, he tried to find a new one, as far away as possible from that murderous conflict. In time, he also discovered that the food was not so bad in those latitudes. He remembered his good times at the university in Granada and decided to migrate to that area, although he chose Marbella.

He soon fell in love with the way of life in Marbella; the climate, the people, the parties and the beach clubs, and not only because of the women who frequented these places of entertainment. Socialising in these establishments allowed him to mix in the most select circles on the Costa del Sol, get to know some of the most important people, find out what they did for a living and what they spent their money on. It was always good to be where the money moved, and in Marbella it moved a lot. Moreover, many of the owners of these businesses ended up becoming his personal friends and clients and trusted him to advise them on how to invest in art legitimately. His highly confidential list of contacts included prestigious businessmen, aristocrats, bankers, politicians and world-class gourmet chefs.

He lived alone in a luxury private estate, with round-the-clock surveillance, surrounded by mostly foreign neighbours. His work and his constant travelling over the years had not allowed him to form a traditional family, something which now, in his late fifties, he was beginning to miss. It was not easy to find a woman willing to spend long periods of time alone while her husband travelled the world chasing shadows to recover works of art, some of which no one had ever heard of. That was another reason why he was beginning to think about getting away from all that hustle and bustle, working a little less, taking on fewer commissions, enjoying the money he had earned through honest toil and, if possible, finding a partner. He didn’t want children, so he was looking for a woman over forty and with her biological clock stopped for good. And it wasn't easy either. She had to be cultured, educated, classy, speak several languages and, of course, attractive. And any woman like that, meeting all these conditions, was probably already taken.

He kept fit by jogging early in the mornings or playing paddle tennis with neighbours and friends on the courts of the residential complex. At six foot five, his healthy lifestyle gave him a physique that would appeal to any woman. His culture, his knowledge of art, the fact that he spoke several languages, his wealth and his equanimity, undoubtedly helped him on many occasions to cope more easily with loneliness.

Every day he used to go down to the café on the private estate to have breakfast and read the newspapers, using his laptop to connect to the internet. It was a way of getting out of his retreat without straying too far, while enjoying the peaceful surroundings, the gardens, the weather that was almost always sunny and warm and the music that was playing to entertain the café’s mainly foreign customers.

The waiter, Fernando seemed to be permanently present and never seemed to go off duty. He knew his habitual order: coffee with warm milk and saccharine, and toast with butter and strawberry jam.

He was immersed in this well-established routine, reading the news on his computer, when his mobile rang. It was an unknown number. Something unexpected is about to be sprung on me, he thought, before answering the phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Olavarría?’

‘Yes, how can I help you?’

‘Sir, I’m calling on behalf of Mr Bukowski, Aaron Bukowski. The gentleman asks you to stop by his house at your earliest convenience. He has an important assignment for you.’

This was a member of staff calling on someone’s behalf and using the word “sir”. He already had some idea of the type of client. Besides, the surname rang a bell.

‘Can you tell me what this is about?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not authorised to reveal that information and certainly not over the phone, but I can tell you that he has had many excellent testimonials of your previous work and would like your help.’

It was a very subtle way of making it clear what he was needed for.

‘If you give me the address I can be there in less than an hour.’

Daniel made sure he had enough time to research the name he had just been given. He didn’t intend to go to an unfamiliar address, to a man he knew nothing about, to discuss a matter he had not been briefed on, even though he had a pretty good idea of what it was about.

Although he found some information by browsing the internet, in reality there was very little detail on the man. But it was enough to make him no longer a perfect stranger.

Aaron Bukowski was a wealthy businessman, with interests in diverse sectors in various capitals around the world. He also held a significant number of shares in companies that owned luxury hotels, exclusive restaurants, high-end boutiques and so on. In addition, he was the owner of one of the world’s most expensive chain of jeweller’s shops, scattered all over the world from London, Paris and New York to Dubai and Hong Kong. He was immensely rich and enjoyed buying works of art. That was why the name Bukowski rang a bell.

He didn't need to enter the directions he had been given into the car’s GPS. He knew how to get there. One of his friends also had a villa on the same estate.

When he reached the security post at the entrance, the guard took note of the number plate, his name and who he was going to visit, after which he told him which way to go.

From the outside, the house was not particularly sumptuous or eye-catching. It was a two-storey building with large, manicured gardens, leafy trees and a pebbled path leading to the main entrance.

He got out of the car and climbed the four steps to the door. Before he could ring the bell, the door opened. It was obvious that they were waiting for him and had been following his approach since he had entered the grounds.

‘Good morning. I believe Mr Bukowski is expecting me.’

‘Good morning, Mr Olavarría. Be so good as to come with me please, this way.’

The voice of the man who greeted him was the same as the one on the phone. That accent, that intonation and those formal manners were unmistakable.

Tomas the butler, led him through to the study where Aaron normally attended to his business and received visitors. It was situated to the right of the entrance and its windows faced the main façade, so that from his desk he could always tell who was approaching the front door.

On the wood-panelled walls hung a number of paintings, which Daniel immediately identified. He also made a rough estimate of their value. On the far wall, just behind the chair of the man who had summoned him, there was an empty space. He saw it when the man moved his chair to stand up and greet him.

‘Mr Bukowski?’

‘Mr Olavarría, I can't thank you enough for responding to my request in such a prompt manner. I’m very sorry to put you to this trouble and I apologise for it, but I’m very anxious and extremely agitated, which is not at all good for my heart.’

‘Don’t worry on my account, Mr Bukowski. Tell me what it is that you’re so anxious and upset about that couldn’t be spoken about on the phone. How can I help you? What’s happened?’

‘Before we get down to business, would you like a drink, a coffee or perhaps something stronger?’

‘Coffee would be fine.’

‘Nothing for me, Tomas.’

Tomas disappeared through the door to organise this and a maid arrived from the kitchen carrying a hand wrought silver tray with coffee and Danish pastries.

Whereupon Aaron Bukowski explained in detail who the author of the self-portrait was, how he had discovered the theft, the history of the picture, what it meant to him, and how worried he was that, feeling so old and somewhat ill, he would not have time to return the work of art to its rightful owner. Besides, he had no heirs and didn’t want to leave this world without recovering the picture.

Daniel listened carefully to the explanation and began to realise that his plan to withdraw from this kind of work was going to be more complicated than he had thought. He couldn’t refuse the old man’s request and it was not because he needed the money. The story he had related touched him to the heart. An immensely wealthy man, he had no relatives to bequeath his fortune to and his only aim, in what remained of his life, was to recover something that had been stolen from him for the second time and to leave this world at peace with himself and his murdered loved ones.

After listening to his prospective client, Daniel began to ask him a series of questions related to the burglary: Had he called the police? How come there was no one in the house? How did the burglars get in? Why weren't the alarms turned on? Did he trust the staff? Had any strangers visited the house recently?

‘Regarding the question of whether I have had visitors that I didn’t know, Mr Olavarría, I must tell you that I often host dinners at my house for eminent people from very different spheres. Arab millionaires, politicians, renowned businessmen, artists, writers, philosophers, ambassadors, gallery owners... I have no family and I like to surround myself with cultured people, with intelligent and pleasant conversation. I encourage encounters between unknown artists and collectors who are interested in investing and sometimes go on to serve as patrons. So, yes, I’m afraid that many different people have come into this house. If you’re thinking of asking me for a list, I might as well give you the phone directory.’

‘I see,’ said Daniel laconically. ‘I don’t suppose you suspect anyone in particular.’

‘I have no idea. I’m sure you understand, don’t you?’

Daniel nodded his head, showing his feelings with a shrug of frustration.

At the end of the questioning, Aaron made the situation very clear:

‘Mr Olavarría, I have heard excellent reports about you, your integrity and your competence. I have confidence in you and your expertise, and of course, there’s no limit on the budget to recover the picture. Whether you succeed or not, you will be rewarded for your work.’

‘Thank you for your words and your confidence, Mr Bukowski, and believe me, if I accept this commission, it’s not for the money.’

‘I know that. I’ve been informed on that point too.’

‘But before I commit myself to accept the assignment, I have to study the chances of success. It’s very generous of you to promise a payment even in the event of failure, but that is not how I work. I would first like to have certain guarantees that this will not be the case, that I can indeed help to recover the artwork. And for that I need to analyse the situation and devise a plan of action, give myself some sort of road map. I need a few days to think about it.’

‘Take as long as necessary, but remember that for me, time is running out.’

‘Anyway, the first thing we must do is call the police.’

Daniel Olavarría and his musings

I’m afraid my hopes to find peace and quiet in retirement will have to wait for a while. This was not in my plans and, what’s worse, I could be faced with a proposition like this at any time. I have to establish a red line beyond which I say no. But in this case, it’s a matter of conscience. I can’t let him down. The poor man has suffered so much in his life! It was dreadful enough that he lost his whole family at the hands of the Nazis, but in addition, all the works of art that they possessed were stolen. And now it has happened for a second time. It seems like a curse of fate! The man is aware that he doesn’t have long to live, maybe only a few years, and he wants to leave this earth with a clear conscience, having fulfilled his obligation to recover what’s rightfully his. I can’t turn my back on him.

Now, let’s see where to start unravelling the threads of this case. This is not the work of a couple of petty criminals. There’s a lot of prior preparation and background knowledge here. Based on what I’ve been told, it all appears to be extremely professional. The burglars took advantage of the one day when there was no one looking after the house. The alarms didn’t go off and the security cameras weren’t switched on. To enter a house with this level of protection, in an exclusive estate like this, without attracting attention or breaking a pane of glass and being able to disable all the security systems, that’s not something that just anyone can do. What’s more, no other paintings have been taken. This drawing attributed to Dürer is the only one, but I have seen others of equal or even greater value hanging on the walls of his office and on the staircase leading to the first floor.

All this tells me that the thieves had a high level of detailed information and were well prepared. I’m beginning to suspect that they had help from a member of the household staff. What I don’t understand is why they only took that one drawing. Was it some kind of payback? Was it a competitor or collector? Did the individual he had bought it back from want to pull the same trick twice and so had arranged for it to be stolen again? I doubt it. Too much risk and too much investment in resources. How many people were involved in this?

I’ve got too many questions and no answers. But it seems to me that I already have an answer: I accept the case. I don’t know where on earth to start, but I can’t abandon him. One thing’s for sure, though: If I wanted to, I could charge a small fortune for the job. But I won’t be doing it for the money.

For the moment, I will go to Alhaurín tomorrow to see my mate Stefano di Bari. See if he knows anything. I’ll take him some cigarettes, that always puts him in a good mood.

The police begin their investigation

Once the call had been made from Bukowski’s house, the police arrived almost immediately. It was a full-scale response. At least, thought Bukowski, they had turned up in unmarked cars and without the sirens blaring. Otherwise, the swarm of cars at the entrance to his property would have attracted the press who were always hovering around like carrion birds.

Three cars and a white van with no windows and no lettering on the sides arrived. They could have been painters, decorators or bricklayers. In the van, they had a whole mobile laboratory for analysis and corroboration of evidence. One of the cars was occupied by Lieutenant Eduardo Navarro and in the rest were all the crime scene investigators.

When they arrived at the villa, they left the cars at the top of the driveway, safe from the prying eyes of those who might be watching from other houses or from the street.

At the head of the parade was Superintendent Frutos, chief of the Marbella police station. He only showed up on special occasions, and this was one of them. It was not a spectacle that would go unnoticed, especially given the white jumpsuits that the investigators had to wear to avoid contaminating the crime scene.

They made their way up the stairs leading to the main entrance. There was no need to ring the bell. Tomas, the butler, was waiting and opened the door for them immediately.

‘Chief Superintendent Frutos, from the police. These men are with me,’ he said, showing his badge.

‘Please, follow me.’

‘Navarro, you come with me. Have your team take statements from all the staff and get the forensic team to process the house,’ he said before following in the butler’s footsteps.

Bukowski was sitting in the lounge, in front of a huge fireplace that looked as though on a cold winter’s night, it would do a fine job of heating that immense space.

Jesús Frutos was a police officer with extensive professional experience. He didn’t have long to wait before retirement. He was from the old school, the kind where you started from the bottom and, through hard work and long hours, worked your way up step by step. He was a tough character.

He had been divorced several times. For many people, it wasn't easy to combine family and police work. Despite the financial support he was obliged to pay to his ex-wives, he owned a villa, with a hefty mortgage. The house was never very tidy or clean, a task he had entrusted to Lara, a Russian girl whom he employed as a cleaner. His extensive outlays did not prevent him from enjoying worldly pleasures, such as alcohol and women, something that aroused more than a little envy and some misgivings amongst his colleagues. He used to say - with a certain joviality that was not without regret - that in the end, whores were cheaper.

He had never been known for being the life and soul of a party, but his personal circumstances had managed to sour his already sullen character even more. Sparing with words and even more so with gestures, no one could ever guess what was going through his mind, whether he was investigating a case or playing poker, which, by the way, he didn’t always win. He did not give the impression of someone that was likely to suffer an attack of anxiety.

He was one of the most experienced members of the force and he knew - or rather sensed - that he had been assigned this job as a lead-up to his retirement. He accepted that this would come sooner rather than later and that unless a straight flush or a lucky night at the Casino were to help him, his enviable financial situation would not last long once he retired because his pension would be a mere pittance.

Several young people had been included in the team under his command, in an attempt to modernise his somewhat old-fashioned methods. His superiors also hoped that he would pass on his undoubted experience and teach them what you can’t learn from a book: a policeman's nose for the job.

The new recruits were very well qualified. They had high level academic degrees and were experts in IT and the use of social networks, something that for him had come too late and he had absolutely no interest in learning about.

For this case, the investigation would be led by his inspector, Eduardo Navarro, a young, intelligent man with a bright future in the police. Navarro had a degree in criminology and a master’s degree in cybercrime. He was what Frutos himself described as a “chip off the new block”.

‘Mr Bukowski,’ said Frutos, proffering his hand to the victim of the crime, ‘I sincerely regret that we meet up again in such circumstances.’

‘Yes, so do I. Last time was much more pleasant.’

‘It was indeed. It was a delicious dinner and most stimulating company.’

‘We will repeat it and celebrate the successful outcome of this incident.’

‘I shall be delighted. I assure you.’

‘Please be seated. Would you like something to drink?’

‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

‘A little water, perhaps?’

‘Yes please, that would be nice’

‘Excuse me, Superintendent, do you two already know each other?’ Navarro asked discreetly.

‘Yes, we do. I have had the pleasure of being invited by Mr Bukowski on a couple of occasions to some of his magnificent soirées, notable both for the quality of the food and the quality of the guests... except for me, of course.’

‘You're very modest, Jesús,’ Bukowski intervened as he motioned to Tomas, who withdrew to the kitchen to return a few minutes later with some glasses and bottles of water on a silver tray. It sounded strange to Navarro to hear his boss, a chief superintendent, being called by his first name.

Bukowski was patient with the intense questioning that Frutos and Navarro put him through, very similar to the one Daniel Olavarría had previously carried out. While this was going on, the rest of the team, the crime scene investigators, swept Bukowski’s villa for more than four hours collecting evidence, taking statements and personal data and fingerprints from all of the staff, and photographing every corner of the house.

When, at last, they all left, Bukowski said to the butler:

‘Tomas, I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted. It’s been a terrible day. I was already quite tired from the trip to London, but all this is too much for me. Please make sure no one disturbs me.’

As they left the house, Frutos made as if to return to the police station and Navarro suggested - not without some astonishment - that “maybe it would be a good idea to pay a visit to the security guards.” Frutos nodded as if to imply a momentary lapse of attention, and the two set off for the security checkpoint at the entrance to the residential estate. They needed to talk to the people responsible, get their fingerprints, check the shifts, find out the names of all of them and where they were that night and what they knew or had seen. They also needed the security footage. The guards who should have been there the night before were off duty and were thought to be at home. They were sent for, while Navarro and his men continued to question their colleagues.

Before returning to the police station, Navarro asked:

‘Do we know any more about the guards from last night?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Keep on it. Do you have their home addresses?’

‘Yes, we do. Here you go.’

‘We're going back to the station. If you haven’t contacted them within an hour, call me, as a matter of priority, at the station. OK?’

‘Yes sir, I will.’

At the end of that first foray, Navarro organised a pooling of information in the briefing room at the police station. Superintendent Frutos also attended the meeting.

Frutos opened up the discussion in the same way he always kicked off an investigation: by examining the working hypotheses.

‘What have we got?’

‘They only took one piece of art, but there were many more pictures on the walls, some of them certainly more valuable,’ Navarro pointed out.

‘A contract job?’

‘I reckon so,’ replied Navarro.

‘We don’t know anything about a possible ransom either, do we?’

‘Not at the moment, no. But they might have been hired by a collector...’

‘Is this the only house that has been burgled?’

‘It looks like it, so far at least, we have no news of anything else.’

‘OK, continue.’

‘Also, they didn’t break any windows, or force any doors to get in.’

‘They entered with a key, Superintendent,’ confirmed the head of the CSI team, who had been examining the various possible points of entry.

‘Any suspicion of complicity among the staff?’ asked Frutos.

‘We need to check their alibis and their details: emails, social networks, bank accounts, mobiles, etc.’

‘Alarms, security cameras?’ Frutos followed the steps in order.

‘The cameras were deactivated and so were all other security measures. This wasn’t done by a couple of amateurs, Superintendent.’

‘It takes a skilled expert to pull that off, sir,’ commented the electronics specialist who had been analysing the failure of the security systems. ‘This isn’t something that just anyone can do.’

‘Right. So we have the theft of a single work of art. They entered using a key and there’s no footage from inside the house and the alarms didn’t go off. Surveillance cameras from the security company, from the surrounding area?’

‘We’ve requested them and still need to look at them. Maybe they’ll give us some leads. Also, the security company is trying to track down the men who did the shift last night,’ said Navarro.

‘So why the delay?’

‘Well, apparently they can’t get hold of them. They could be sleeping or have gone to the beach.’

Frutos made that face he used to make when he played cards. The one that nobody knew how to interpret, but it looked like he was mulling over something that Navarro hadn’t thought of yet.

‘I told them that if they still hadn’t found them in an hour, they should call me here.’

At that very moment, a young police trainee knocked on the door of the room.

‘Come in!’ Frutos called out.

The girl was glancing around, looking for Inspector Navarro.

‘Sir, the security company called asking for you. I told them you were in a meeting. They told me they haven’t been able to get hold of them. They said you would understand.’

‘Thank you very much. I do understand.’

And the girl closed the door and walked away.

‘Was it them and they scarpered with the loot?’ Frutos asked.

‘We need a warrant so we can send a patrol car to the homes of these two,’ said Navarro.

‘I’ll take care of the formalities.’

It occurred to Navarro that they could speed up the process.

‘Sir, while you take care of the paperwork, is it all right if I go ahead and visit the address? I imagine that by the time I get there, we’ll have the warrant, won’t we?’

‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ replied the superintendent, a little irritated. It was the second time that day that the inspector had told him what to do. ‘What else?’

‘For the moment, we have to check the fingerprints, cross-reference them, and if some turn up that shouldn’t be there, we’ll have something. We’ll also take a closer look at the personal lives of the domestic staff. The fact that they entered with a key suggests there was an accomplice on the inside. For the moment, we don’t have much more, sir.’

‘All right, Navarro. If there are any new developments, let me know, OK?’

‘Of course.’

Once the meeting was over, Frutos went to his office. At the same time as he was processing the warrant to enter the homes of the two guards who were not answering their phones, he arranged for patrols to arrive, as per the warrant, at their premises. It was essential to contact them and subject them to interrogation. That’s why Navarro was heading there. The robbery occurred during their shift and they must have had something to do with it.

An hour later he received a call from Inspector Navarro:

‘Superintendent, about those two security guards...’

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘They've been murdered.’

‘Both of them?!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right. Thanks.’