A World Without Secrets (35 page)

When accessing the Bureau's computer system, I wasn't limited to the FBI data files. Their systems were tied into Interpol and other criminal databases around the world. I set up access using the highly secure logon procedure and requested criminal history information from all sources on the names I'd learned earlier. Within seconds, data began flowing into my laptop computer as the Bureau's computer system filled my download request. When the computer signaled that the download was complete, I logged off and accessed the copies of the files now in my computer.

Of the six names I had entered, I had the criminal histories for five. The sixth wasn't recognized by the system, so either he had never committed a crime anywhere, or his childhood name had never been entered into any file. But at least I had histories for five.

As I read through their criminal pasts, I knew I had identified the five correctly, but I also knew that only the gizmo would help me learn why there was nothing on the sixth. He was the one who'd driven the getaway van and the one who had remained on watch. Perhaps more importantly, he was the one with the Uzi while the others appeared to be unarmed. It could be that he was new to crime and had simply never been arrested. Somehow I had to make sure I had identified his name correctly.

As I watched the sixth gang member from the time he completed his schooling, I saw a classic case of someone falling in with the wrong sort of friends. He graduated from minor incidents of vandalism to drinking, drugs, and street brawls, then finally theft. At first he would break into cars to steal contents, then began stealing the cars themselves. With each successful theft he grew more emboldened, vicious, and reckless. Following the theft of a truck filled with electronics as part of a small gang, he had purchased a handgun. He practiced with it in remote areas until he was fairly proficient. Following a later robbery where his share of the loot had been substantial, he purchased an Uzi. I didn't know if it was the same one he'd used during the Amsterdam robbery, but it didn't matter. The expression on his face when he practiced with the submachine gun indicated, at least to me, that he couldn't wait for a good opportunity to use it on someone. Of all the members of the robbery gang, he seemed the most dangerous by far. But despite his apparent desire to inflict harm on others, he had restrained himself so far and was smart enough to avoid arrest.

Although the other gang members hadn't appeared to be armed during the robbery, I realized as I watched them that several had handguns and assorted weapons at their homes. The police could be up against it if they had to take them down while they were home.

It took me another full day, but I finally confirmed the sixth member was using his birth name. He tried to cash a check, and used his driver's license as proof of identity. I was able to see his name clearly as the clerk copied the license information into her computer terminal.

I stayed in London for another week, piecing together the story of the gang's preparation for the crime and then preparing my report. My report was encrypted in my computer so no one could access it without the decryption key. I had called the hotel in Amsterdam to make sure they were holding my room and then called the principals in the case to assure them I was still engaged in my investigation.

Once I felt I had learned everything I possibly could from the gizmo, I took the nine-seventeen Eurostar train at London St. Pancras Int'l to Paris Nord, then the TGV Duplex from Paris Gare de Lyon to Barcelona Sants. From Barcelona, the AVE high-speed train got me to Madrid Atocha just after midnight. I had made a reservation at a clean, nondescript hotel not far from the warehouse where the artwork was stored and was able to check in despite the late hour because I had paid in advance.

I did a little sightseeing the first day I was there and then settled down to work. A small restaurante a block off the Calle de Santa Engracia provided a great view of all doors into the warehouse where the stolen artwork was stored. I parked myself at a small table from which I could observe and ordered a coffee to enjoy while I read an English language newspaper. I knew the gang members never visited the warehouse, but I was hoping they had made arrangements with someone to notify them if they saw someone watching the building. So I made my observation obvious. Whenever someone walked past the warehouse or parked their vehicle near it, I put the paper down slightly and watched intently, trying to be obvious but not so much that it was apparent it was an act. I drank coffee all day, and when I paid the bill I gave the waiter triple the usual tip because I hadn't ordered a meal. It would also serve to make me stand out in his mind should anyone ask about me. I stayed there during all of their open hours for four days, then hung around by the curbside until the staff left for the night. Then I moved to another restaurante up the street for several more days.

After a full week of watching the warehouse, I'd begun to believe it had been a wasted effort. My hope that someone in the area might have been paid to report anything suspicious, and that it might bring one of the gang members to check or perhaps get them to move the artwork, seemed to be a flop, but I certainly wasn't prepared for what happened when I did get a reaction to my presence.

It was just after three in the afternoon and I was feeling a little drowsy from having been sitting at the same small table for over six hours when I heard a noise from an entrance door that opened onto a side street. When I glanced over I saw a face I had first seen in a washroom mirror in Amsterdam. As on that occasion, the face was staring at me, but this time there was venom in his eyes. He was still at least six meters from me when he pulled open his coat and began to draw a pistol. There was no chance I could get to him before it cleared his belt, so I threw myself from my chair to get below the surface level of mine and the surrounding tables. I hoped I would be partially, if not completely, hidden from his view.

It was immediately obvious as he raised the pistol and fired that there was no silencer on his weapon this time. The noise in the restaurante was deafening, but it failed to completely cover the screams of the patrons. His first shot struck the surface of a table, but I felt a burning sensation in my left arm as I heard a second shot. His next two shots hit a table and a chair respectively.

I had pulled my Glock 23 as I dove for the floor, but I got tangled up with the overturned chair I'd been sitting in. This prevented me from firing immediately, and I felt pain in my right leg as my attacker fired for a fifth time. The tables were pretty close together where I’d been sitting, and he had been moving steadily closer to get a clear shot as he fired. I kicked the chair away from me so I could maneuver a little, and it apparently startled him because he jumped slightly backward and fired twice more. The two shots went wild, with one hitting a table, and the other striking a wall. Moving to my right to get an unobstructed view, I fired a three-shot burst from no more than four meters away.

It was far from an ideal firing position, so I hadn't managed to put any rounds into his torso, but one round caught him in the right shoulder and spun him partly around. More importantly, he dropped the pistol. But as I'd learned in the washroom, this guy didn't know when to call it a day.

As I tried to rise up, he bent over and picked up the gun with his left hand. I didn't know how proficient he might be with his left, and had no intention of finding out if I could avoid it. I achieved a kneeling position during the interruption in shooting and got off two rounds in quick succession before he managed to bring his pistol to bear. The first slug hit right of center in his chest, and he staggered backwards a step. The second entered his throat where the base of his neck met the rest of his spine. I guess one or more of his carotid arteries had been opened because blood began gushing like an oil well that had just 'come in.' He didn't collapse as one might expect; rather, his body went rigid and he toppled over backwards stiffly, like one of the flat steel targets at the Quantico outdoor shooting range.

I knew from the way blood was pouring from the body and the way he had fallen that the shooting was over, as long as he didn't have any associates with him. I scanned the faces of the other people in the restaurante, looking for any that weren't reflecting fear and horror. I didn't see any. The other patrons knew the washroom attacker had shot first, but they didn't know if I was going to start shooting them now, so I took out my ID wallet with my badge and held it open for all to see as I said, very loudly, "Policia."

It seemed to calm them enough that the women began weeping now that the shooting was over. No one other than the washroom attacker and me appeared to have been hit. There didn't appear to be any accomplices, so I looked to my wounds.

I righted the chair I had been sitting in before the shooting started and sat down as people stared at me and the body on the floor in horror. My right leg was bleeding, so I pulled up my right pant leg, which exposed my ankle holster to view, but by then everyone knew I was armed. I heard sirens approaching in the distance, so I guess the business owner, or perhaps a neighbor, had called them. But it could have even been one of the other patrons. It seemed that everyone had a cell phone these days.

The attacker's bullet had ripped open a furrow along the outside calf. It hurt like hell, but I didn't believe it was life-threatening unless I didn't stop the flow of blood. I used the cloth napkin from the table to act as a temporary tourniquet.

The news was better when I removed my jacket and examined the injury there. The attacker's slug had scraped along my bicep, but it wasn't bleeding heavily. Overall, I wasn't in bad shape. I knew I'd been lucky once again. But how many times could I be lucky before my luck ran out?

The art thieves obviously wanted me dead, so I wasn't going to play along anymore. I had all the facts. I knew who was involved and where the artwork was located. I might not have any solid evidence to prove how I knew what I knew, so I was going to use the old I-can't-reveal-my-sources excuse. It would be up to the police to make the case against the thieves. I just wanted to go home.

The first responder to the phoned-in reports of a gunfight in the restaurante was a police vehicle. The cops stopped on either side of the front entrance and peered inside. The other patrons had meanwhile moved towards the back of the restaurante. I was sitting alone in the front where I'd been since I'd established my stakeout. The washroom attacker was on the floor halfway between the front door and the side door. I held up my ID wallet containing my badge and ID, the Netherlands firearms permit, and the EFP with my left hand, raised my empty right hand, and said "Policia."

The two policemen entered cautiously with guns drawn. I appeared to be the only threat, so they were both aiming at me. I didn't move. I didn't want any accidents.

One of the cops took my ID wallet and examined it, then looked at me and said, "American?"

I nodded. "Yes, I'm investigating the robbery in the Amstelveen Museum. My investigation led me here. That man on the floor burst in and tried to kill me."

The cop lowered his weapon but didn't holster it as he handed me back my ID wallet. He nodded to his partner who went to check on my attacker.

Looking down at my leg and then at my shoulder, the first cop said, "An ambulance is coming."

Two more police cars screeched to a halt and their occupants hurried into the restaurante with weapons drawn. After learning the situation, they began interviewing the other patrons and taking basic statements. I breathed a sigh of relief that the worst was over.

An hour later, the body had been removed and the witnesses had been allowed to leave after being interviewed. My leg and shoulder had been tended to, at least so far as emergency care was concerned, and the ambulance driver had given me something for the pain. Because I was a foreigner who had just been involved in a deadly shootout, and my injuries weren't life threatening, the cops refused to let the ambulance take me to the hospital. I was told I had to wait until a senior detective arrived on the scene. At least the ambulance attendants had been allowed to stop the flow of blood and bandage the leg. They suggested I visit a hospital as soon as possible to get my leg stitched up. I thanked them and told them I would.

When a detective sergeant and his partner finally arrived, I went through my story about staking out the warehouse for a week until I was attacked by the same man who had attacked me in Amsterdam. I told the detectives that I believed the stolen artwork was in the warehouse across the street.

After I had related my story, the detective sergeant, Jorge Luis Grenzner by name, made several calls. Although he had spoken excellent English with me, he spoke in Spanish on the phone, so I didn't understand most of what he said except when he mentioned my name. He came back and sat down next to me after he was done.

"Your story checks out, Special Agent James. The man who tried to kill you here today is in fact the same one who tried in Amsterdam. He escaped from police custody while in the hospital there. How he found you, we don't know, unless it is as you say that the warehouse is being used by the art thieves and they had someone watching to see if anyone showed any undue interest in it. My captain is trying to arrange for permission to search the warehouse for the stolen artwork. We should know shortly if it will be granted. Your reputation as a recovery expert with a flawless record will no doubt weigh heavily in our favor."

It was two more hours before the police captain arrived with a group of officials, probably police, and a herd of newspaper reporters. He never bothered to interview me; he simply went to the warehouse with several of his people and watched as two police officers broke in.

Twenty minutes later, the police officials exited the building. As they were giving their statements to the press, the detective I had spoken with came to me and said, "Sorry, no artwork was found. You were mistaken."

"No," I said, "you simply didn't look in the right place. It's in there. May I go in now?"