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‘He could already be there.’

‘What?!’

‘He gave me the slip.’

Billy can’t believe it. ‘He gave you the slip? How did that—when did you last see him?’

‘Maybe a hundred minutes ago. That’s why I said he could already be there.’

Billy’s eyes instantly swing to the Tiffany’s store. The nervously nonchalant fiancé is still the only shopper. Billy turns and scans the mall, searches for Kurt, or anything out of the ordinary. He sees nothing, but he’s still annoyed. Actually, he’s more than annoyed, he’s royally pissed at Claude. He knows this isn’t the time for recriminations but
still.
‘You lost a
whole
person? How is that even possible?’

‘He entered the safety car garage after lunch. He was in there for a long while. Longer than usual. So I did a walk by, couldn’t see him, then went in to check and he was gone.’

‘Jeezus H!’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there soon.’

‘In ninety minutes!’

The line is silent, then: ‘I’m . . .’ He trails off.

Is this the moment when the Frenchman will finally apologise for something?

‘. . . driving as fast as I can. He might not be the guy we’re looking for.’

‘Well I guess you’ll know for sure
in an hour and a half!’
Billy hangs up, furious.

Fuck-a-doodle-doo!

He needs to get Kashif’s men into position asap. He swipes open his phone and texts the Chief. The message has two words: Go
now.

Five seconds later Billy receives a response:
Moving.

Okay. Good. Kashif’s officers will be at their predetermined posts within four minutes.

Billy scans the first floor again. He sees nothing except upwardly mobile families out for a pleasant afternoon’s shopping. He peeks over the railing at the floor below. Again, all he sees is how very elegant and luxurious the place is.

He realises he needs to keep up his façade. He glances at the newspaper, pretends to read, then pretends to find the article so interesting that he must sit back in his chair and stare into the distance to contemplate how awesomely insightful it is, all the while scanning the mall. He must be vigilant, can’t let them sneak up on him. ‘I just have to wait.’

‘Wait for what?’

Christ! Someone just snuck up on me. So much for being vigilant.

Is it Kurt?

He turns.

Franka. She wears jeans, a white T-shirt and yellow-lensed Ray Ban aviators. She is a vision of casual elegance. ‘Hey there.’

‘Hey yourself.’ She sits opposite him. ‘Nobody’s sitting here, are they?’

‘Oh no.’

‘You said: “I just have to wait.” You waiting for someone?’

Yes, I’m waiting for a trio of notorious jewel thieves to rob that Tiffany’s right behind you.

He doesn’t say that. But he does need her to leave
right now.

‘Yes, yes I am actually. Sorry.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll move on as soon as they get here.’ She ices the cake with a dazzling smile. It really is like looking at the sun.

‘Oh, right, yep, that’s —’

‘Girl or boy?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Are you waiting for a girl or a boy?’

‘Oh no, I’m waiting on a friend. A boy friend. No! I mean, he’s not a
boy
friend, he’s a friend who’s a boy—not a
boy
boy, a
manly
boy. That’s not right. He’s not a boy! He’s a man friend of the male persuasion—who isn’t a girl...’ He exhales and hangs his head. He’s not sure he could have screwed that up any worse
and
he trailed off too.

Right on cue she makes the snaky hand movement, then continues, he’s sure, a little disappointedly: ‘So you’re gay?’

‘God no! I mean, “no” without the “God” bit. That’s not my thing—though it’s fine for everyone else, not that everyone else is gay, obviously, it’s just that of the everyone who is, I’m not one of them, who likes it like that...’

Jeeezus.

‘Okay.’

‘“Likes it like that”?’ He rubs his forehead. ‘Good Lord, did I just say that out loud?’

‘Sure did.’

‘Well, anyway ...’ He trails off.

I really need to stop doing that.

Billy has never been nervous or uncomfortable or clumsy or tongue-tied around a woman before. Not once. But with Franka he has made up for a lifetime of being verbally cool and dexterous with a stream of babbled nonsense that would make George W. Bush cringe.

She studies him.

‘What?’

‘You are quite a strange man.’

‘I guess it’s better than being ordinary.’

‘It is.’ She smiles and it lights up the world.

Time slows.

It’s odd. Billy’s never subscribed to the idea of love at first sight.
Like
? Absolutely.
Lust
? Sure. But
love
? Not so much. He never believed in the thunderbolt moment, where you meet someone and instantly realise that you want to spend the rest of your life with them. He’d always imagined he’d have a series of different relationships of varying lengths but never settle down with one person. He’d be happy to be Mr Rebound or Mr Transitional or Mr Right Now, but never Mr Right, and he knew the reason for it: he didn’t want to feel responsible for someone else’s happiness.

But it strikes him now, and it comes as a quite a shock considering he doesn’t really know her, that he actually wants that responsibility with Franka. For the very first time he feels a connection to another person that is almost
cellular.
He doesn’t fully understand it except to know that he wants to be there for her, to make her happy, to protect her from the world. He was first aware of it when he saw her at the racetrack in Malaysia, then it stirred in the hotel elevator and now he’s experiencing its full power. Could it be love at first sight stretched across three sightings? He doesn’t know what else to call what he’s feeling except an epiphany. He realises it’s crazy but he wants to tell her what is in his heart, which he has never done with any woman before, on the off chance she might feel the same.

He looks her in the eyes—and something reflects in the yellow tinted lens of her Ray Bans. Three figures stretch and bend across the curved glass.

The Three Champions.

Time speeds up.

Billy turns his head slightly and sees the three figures out of the corner of his eye. They’re just fifteen metres away.

Christ, I really wasn’t vigilant. They completely snuck up on me!

They walk briskly, wear boots and jeans and leather jackets and helmets—Schumacher, Senna and Hunt—and each carry a long duffel bag.

He needs to move
now.
He glances back at the woman who he thinks might be his soul mate. She cannot know he works for Interpol, even allowing for his recent epiphany.

His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, reads a text message from Kashif:
In position.

Billy looks back at Franka. ‘Excuse me, I need to hit the men’s.’

She nods but he can see in her eyes that she thinks his abrupt exit is motivated by the text message he just received. ‘Everything okay?’

He nods and swivels out of his chair, keeps his head down in case one of the Three Champions happens to glance his way, makes a beeline for the rear of the coffee shop. As he moves he can see the three figures reflected in the mirror behind the espresso machine as they stride towards Tiffany
&
Co. They’ll arrive there in a matter of seconds. Good thing he has a plan. He just hopes it works.

~ * ~

The Mall of the Emirates is exactly as Schumacher remembered.

His crew completed an exhaustive reconnaissance survey of the building two months ago when they had spent the better part of three days getting to know everything about the place. Of all the jobs they had planned this was not only the most important but the simplest. The most important because it was the last, the simplest because this place was lightly secured for its size, odd in such a security-conscious city.

Schumacher leads his crew into the jewellery store and they each pull a sawn-off shotgun from their duffel bags. As it happens the security guard, shopgirl and the young guy she was serving sprint to the rear of the store and disappear through the doorway.

Hunt watches them go, confused. ‘What just happened?’

‘Forget them.’ Schumacher steps forward, flips the shotgun in his hand and slams the butt of the weapon into the top of the central glass case.

Smash.
The glass explodes in a cascade of twinkling shards. He flaps open the duffel bag and his gloved hand sweeps the jewellery and glass into the bag with the assistance of Hunt. Once the case is empty he swings the butt of the shotgun again —

Smash.
The second case shatters. Again they sweep rings and earrings and necklaces into the bag.

‘Ten seconds!’ Senna yells from the front door and scans the mall.

Smash.
The third case explodes under the butt of the shotgun. Again Schumacher and Hunt sweep the valuables into the duffel. It’s heavy but it’s not full.

‘Fifteen seconds!’

Schumacher has time for one more. He swings the shotgun again.

~ * ~

Smash.
Billy hears the fourth glass case shatter. He sprints along the access hallway situated behind the line of stores until he sees a heavy metal door propped open with a wooden wedge, just as planned. He passes the shopgirl, security guard and nervous fiancé as they exit. They are actually three of Kashif’s officers who were working as decoys. Billy slips into the storeroom and pulls the door locked behind him.

‘Twenty seconds!’ Billy hears one of the Three Champions call out. The Australian drags a black ski mask from his back jeans pocket and pulls it over his head as he approaches the doorway which separates the storeroom from the shopfront. He slides a two-inch compact mirror out of his trouser pocket and uses it to look around the corner and into the store. He sees Senna by the front door, then Hunt and Schumacher sweeping Tiffany & Co.’s finest into a duffel bag.

He pushes the compact mirror back into his trousers and draws two items from his jacket pockets. He pulls a pin out of the first and tosses it into the store, then quietly pulls the door shut and locks the deadbolt. He then looks at the second item, which resembles a car remote, and pushes the only button on it.

~ * ~

A shuddering noise cuts across the soundscape. Schumacher turns to the entrance.

Thwump.
A metal door drops to the ground like a giant guillotine, lands three inches in front of Senna’s boot and cuts off their escape route.

Clink clank clunk.
Schumacher pivots, sees a small metal canister bounce across the marble floor towards him. White smoke hisses out of one end.

‘Tear gas!’ Schumacher knows their helmets will afford them some protection from its effects but they don’t have long.

Senna peers through the window as a swarm of police officers rush towards the store, each with a weapon in hand. ‘Police know we’re here. They’ll be outside in ten seconds.’ He turns to Schumacher. ‘What do we do about them?’

‘Nothing. We have what we came for.’ Schumacher nods at Hunt. ‘Give me the bullet.’

Hunt strides towards Schumacher as he pulls a metal and plastic contraption from his bag. It’s just under a metre long and less than half a metre wide. He holds it by one end as Schumacher grabs the other and pulls on it.

Click click click.
Each rung of the telescoping aluminium ladder, or ‘Bullet’ as it was named by the seller on eBay, automatically locks in place with a solid
click
until it’s extended to its full five-metre length. Senna swings it towards the roof, punches out a foam roof panel, leans the ladder against a ceiling cross member and tests that it’s stable. ‘We’re good.’

‘Then let’s boogie.’ Schumacher climbs the ladder and can’t help but think that the Bullet was the best hundred bucks he ever spent. Hunt follows him with the bag of jewels over his shoulder and Senna brings up the rear.

~ * ~

What the hell is going on in there?

The idea was that the Three Champions would enter the store and rob it without having any idea they were about to be locked inside. That’s why the decoys, and the real jewels, were in the store; to make sure they were caught red-handed. Tiffany’s had taken some persuading but finally agreed, having been hit by the Three Champions twice already. And the plan had worked beautifully up to this point, but now Billy can hear rattling and clunking and —

Crash.
The noise is loud, and then there’s no sound at all. He waits a moment, pulls a disposable gas mask from inside his jacket pocket, fits it over his face, unlocks the door, eases it open and peeks inside with his pistol raised.

Unsurprisingly, the room is full of tear gas. He moves into the room, peers through the fog —

Clank.
His shoe hits something. He looks down but can’t see anything through the gas. He kneels, reaches out, touches it.

A ladder.

Clever.