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Post by Ad Absurdum on Mar 30, 2015 8:08:19 GMT -5
08 19 2012 18:37
A phalanx of security encloses Bertholt–already clad in a tuxedo–and an oversized titanium case. Crozier watches from the sides, taking full advantage of the distance the Panoptical room allows. He senses his presence is considered an impeachment on the security guards. This is their sovereignty, not some damn Europol agent. Their frosted glances tell all Crozier needs to know–they haven’t said much, although that was arguably another tell-tale sign.
Bertholt performs an entire fresh volley of security measures on the titanium case. Green lights ping and columns of locks demagnetize at he wipes sweat from his brow. After the final salvo of codes–Crozier was almost anticipating some pagan sacrifice–the titanium case snaps open. Immediately several curators, dressed in garb that could've only been pawned from the nearest hospital, swarm in.
Pimola Eclipse surges upward, carried by the subtlest placement of latex swathed fingers.
Another security guard brings a radio to his lips. “Standing by to disable the laser matrix. Master Key One are you prepped?”
“Affirmative.”
“Master Key Two?”
“Affirmative.”
“Master Key Three?”
“Affirmative.”
“Prepare to disable...now.” Crozier pictures three keys, in different parts of the building, turning at once. A single monotonous buzzer blares once throughout the room, but other than that no signs are given. Nevertheless, the curators move forward with the true painting while several others remove the copy from the wall.
Bertholt shuffles up beside Crozier. “We will be admitting guests shortly. Perhaps you should get up to the control centre?”
“Shortly...”
“Where’s Malloy?”
“Prettying up in the bathroom. Do you still doubt her chameleon abilities?” Malloy would be in the field, disguised as one of the guests. Bertholt had insisted on giving her a crash course on basic artwork intricacies in order to further play the role.
“The thumbprint scanner at the main security booth has incorporated your imprints. The password is ‘Cormellion’. That’s with an ‘e’ by the way. You’ll receive no hardcopy of it, security–”
“–measures. Of course.”
“Remember, keep a low profile. I don’t need Malloy raising a fire–”
“Understood.”
“This is our most important event. We need the spons–”
“I’m sure Europol would be more than content to reimburse your museum’s losses. Given the capture of an international thief.”
“I would prefer if it didn’t come to that.”
“I’d prefer if that painting didn’t get a chance to leave its stand.”
Bertholt’s response to Crozier is more sweat. Crozier doesn’t even bother to stare at the director for the rest of the exchange. His eyes instead bore deep into the glazed, blood-saturated oil’s of Lévesque’s last work, the real Pimola Eclipse.
Three hours and counting.
08 19 2012 19:02
Mascara. Eyeliner. Lipstick. A whole cosmetic buffet sprawls across the rich bathroom marble. Malloy’s mirrored face sneers back at her through freshly painted lips. It’s a reflection that hardly fits the Europol image. “I hate this part...”
“The part where we catch the thief?” Crozier’s voice crackles in her ear. Malloy’s heart gives off an asymmetrical beat in response. She has almost forgotten about the tiny speaker.
The minuscule microphone on her chest catches her reply. “The part where I have to pretend to blend in with these pretentious assholes while you get to sit la-di-da-ing up in the security office.”
“Pretentious assholes...that’s a bit presumptuous is it not?”
“Well if Bertholt is any figurehead for the rest of the community, then pretentious might be slightly on the mild side.”
Crozier’s chuckle sounds tinny through the mic. “Well, how good is your ‘artsy-fartsy asshole’ act?”
Malloy cringes at the shimmering cosmetics bleached on her face. “I can say I definitely look the part. Bloody hell, I feel like a rejected extra from the Mét Opera House down the street.”
“Ah, I hear their latest production is fantastic.”
Malloy scoffs. Theatre had never been her venue. “At least the dress is acceptable.”
“I’d hope so, you chose it.”
“It was the most extravagant thing I could find from my friend’s wardrobe.”
“Really? I could’ve sworn you’d stolen it from the Mét–”
“Oh shut it.”
08 19 2012 19:10
The display alarms flash from red to green in a soft ping and Crozier steps inside the security booth. Although the sensors have let him in, he can see the museum security team still giving him stiff looks. After allowing a few awkward moments to crawl by, the head security officer approaches him.
“Alastor Pelle,” The man says, not bothering to extend a hand. “I take it you’re Detective Crozier?”
“Correct.”
“Here on a field trip then?”
“–to catch a thief, of course.”
“Something you’ve had a bit of trouble doing in the past?”
Crozier’s reply comes out with a mild amount of sting. “Well I think without my information we wouldn’t know about said attempted robbery tonight?”
Pelle scoffs. “Do you think your information changes any security measures? Do you think on any other day we just twiddle our thumbs up here? I assure you, detective, that our measures are no different with or without your information. The only changed variables in our little equation tonight is the fact that we are hosting the most prestigious gala in all of Amsterdam.”
Crozier lets out a tiny chuckle. “On behalf of Europol, I apologize sincerely for whatever we shoved up your–”
“Please, sit down though. You want a demonstration don’t you?” Pelle gestures towards a chair.
Crozier accepts and Pelle takes a seat beside him. In front of them a pair of monitors show off various interiors of the museum with retinal clarity.
“Blonski, shift to the main entrance,” Pelle says. A brief flicker later, and the monitors both show the museum’s main steps, which are now accented with two thin lines of people. “Ah, the patrons arrive. See how they must walk through the main checkpoint? Metal detectors, of course, and a small army. Also digital cameras, located there and there, that scan in their current facial status and match it with our facial recognition database comprised of their passport photos. We can triangulate both when we run facial recognition software in the Panoptical Room where Pimola Eclipse is.” Pelle’s fingers dart across the monitor, pointing out the various intricacies.
Crozier nods, Pelle’s apparent professionalism has seemingly evaporated his condescending tone. “Can we shift to the Panoptical Room?”
Pelle gives a snap of his fingers and the images switch again, this time showing feeds from the four closed-circuit cameras that encircle the Panoptical Room in a cross pattern. The harsh fluorescent room is already dotted with people “Of course we cannot directly see the paintings in the central pillar due to light decay unfortunately, but that side is where Pimola Eclipse is stored, which is covered by these two cameras.” Pelle punches his own command on a keyboard and the feeds he was pointing at expand to fill up the entire screen.
“Can we run one of those facial scans?”
Another flurry of fingers on the keyboard and a digital highlighter zones out one of the guests’ faces on the screen–a raven-faced lady garbed in a brilliant saffron dress– tinting it an unnatural red. “It can take ten seconds as the software needs to scan in the face at enough angles. One camera always scans from a different perspective than another of course, but we still have to wait for the guest to glance in the general direction.” A clear, sprightly ping suddenly rings out. “There!” Moments later an expanded image of the face blows up in the monitor, next to a passport photo and another image scanned in from the security checkpoint. All three pulse with teal backgrounds. “A match. Crystal Descartz, a famous art critic from the United States. She’s official, although I’m a bit skeptical. An American? Last time I checked, Bertholt had a running feud.”
08 19 2012 19:20
“I love Americans,” Bertholt immerses himself in the crowds, marinating the conversations with his thick accent, adding to the growing cocktail of critics trying to ‘out-art’ each other. “They gave us Warhol, who, in turn, gave us pop art.”
A chorus of disapproval arises from the throngs of elitism.
“Pop art is just consumerism trying to become immortal.”
“Sell out...”
“Typical Western trash...”
Bertholt shrugs. “Ladies and Gentlemen, if modernism just burns away your nostalgia, perhaps you should not attend a gala at a museum with ‘Modern Art’ in its name, no?”
“No interest at all Mark...but when one sells his soul and then some to get Pimola Eclipse on display, it’s impossible to resist, although it sort of spoils the ‘Modern Art’ image with which you want to infect Amsterdam.”
“I apologize for closed-mindedness not being one of my most valued traits. Now if you’ll excuse me...” Bertholt snatches a champagne glass from the tray of a mustached waiter standing nearby, downing the sparkling contents in one tip of the flute before slamming it back on the tray. “I’m going to need a lot more of those before I can bear any more of this pretentious snobbery.”
08 19 2012 19:50
Thirty minutes later and Malloy feels like the best defense is to keep in motion. By making it seem that she was always heading somewhere, no one was going to bother and try to make conversation. Small talk was a tedious and unfavourable distraction. Discussion about art, on the other hand, was simply unbearable.
Covering her mouth with one hand as if to cough, she whispers another message to Crozier. “Any trace?”
“Nothing.”
Certainly not the answer she wants. The false placidity of the party was beginning to get to her, a potential crime scene filled with oblivious people. Her mind continues to race with alternative ideas.
The whole thing was a distraction.
The real heist is occurring somewhere else.
We’re wasting our time.
Malloy lets the thoughts broil in her head. No need to bring it up to Crozier. If he was thinking the same thing, a silent agreement would occur. A unity of thought in a long lasting partnership. Consensus was key.
And suddenly...Bertholt, emerging out of nowhere from a throng of people.
“Ah, Miss Luisa.” His fingers and face extend for a kiss that Malloy’s own gloved hand artfully dodges.
“Mark...” She replies, letting the word drawl on for an excessive length before punctuating it with a short laugh.
“Enjoying the gala are we?”
“Enduring it.”
“Well let’s change that, shall we?” His hand wraps around her shoulder. “I can show you some wonderful pieces here.”
Malloy once again slips out. “Mr Bertholt, I really don’t think I have to remind you again about why my partner and I are truly here. Unfortunately, enjoying art is not high up on our resumes.”
Bertholt lets out another one of his signature dry chuckles. “Honestly Luisa. I’ve shown you the entire security system. Do you honestly believe that there is any way Tirez can steal from here?”
“What I believe is unfortunately becoming increasingly irrelevant.” Malloy pauses as another waiter comes through, brandishing a cup full of yam frites. “Well, how American is this.”
Bertholt grabs two cups full of them. “The chipotle mayo makes them absolutely exuberant.” He snaps his finger at the waiter. “Grab us another cup.”
“I’m alright.” Malloy says distractedly. Constantly swiveling her head, she looks for an excuse to move away.
“Ah, I insist. Our chef makes even the simplest foods extravagant.” Bertholt proclaims. “I’ll introduce you two afterwards.”
The waiter comes back with another cup in a couple of minutes, and with Bertholt’s persistence Malloy tries a couple. It’s at this point she decides to make her exit. It involves a little abuse of technology, but nothing harmful.
Malloy slips into a half serious guise, her hands moving up to tap her earpiece. “What’s that? Crozier? I’ll be on my way.”
Bertholt feigns concern for the first time of the evening. “What is it?”
Malloy waves him down. “Nothing, just a communications mix up. I just need to escape this room for a clear signal.”
“Let me come with–”
“Bertholt!” A savior out of nowhere, Malloy reckons, emerges and gives the museum director a mighty slap on the back. “How are you?”
Malloy gives a last look at Bertholt, whose face is now the one ripe with annoyance, before slipping off towards the exit of the Panoptical room.
It’s when she’s in the hallway that her mind starts to blur. It’s almost nothing, but still too much to ignore, a feeling of lightheadedness, a cloud fogging her mind.
Something unnatural. Malloy ignores it. Shakes it off. Nothing that a glass of water can’t fix.
Another pass, this time her senses are directly affected. Her vision darkens. Her stomach suddenly gives a lurch. Suddenly a glass of water isn’t enough, better to head towards the bathroom.
Another tremor from the stomach. Malloy reaches for her earpiece, this time ignoring any subtlety. “Crozier. Crozier! I think, I think I’ve been drugged...”
A ripple of static greets her in substitute of Crozier’s reply. A communications blackout. It’s then, in a starburst of clarity, that she realizes how much trouble they’re in.
Slamming into the bathroom, her stomach roaring. The place is empty but she heads for the last stall anyways. Her body crashes through the door. She crouches over; everything smudged and smeared in her vision, ready for her stomach to give way.
It never happens, though. Instead it’s her vision that goes first, everything becomes black and then her mind collapses into unconsciousness.
08 19 2012 20:02
“Shit, shit, shit!” Crozier fists slams in to the table with such velocity that the whole room reverberates.
“Easy there,” says Pelle. “Just a loss of communications, I’m sure she’s fine.”
“And who do you think is responsible for that?” Crozier says.
“Which means it’s important as ever to maintain watch on the Panoptical room.” Pelle gestures towards the cameras.
It kills Crozier to nod in agreement. Malloy could handle herself. If she knew about a communications scramble she would immediately make the right assessment of the situation.
Pelle turns to one of his security personal. “Make note about communications loss at approximately twenty hours.”
Crozier points to the massive security monitor. “Cut out the two obsolete cameras in the Panoptical room, I just want the two focused on Pimola Eclipse.”
A flurry of keystrokes and then two of the cameras feeds disappear while the other two expand, giving them each far more room to scrutinize.
With this new development, Crozier’s eyes remain fixed to the screen, blinking sparingly, nothing was getting by. Nothing.
And then, there, amidst the brunettes, blonds and charcoal black hairs, a smear of red. Stepping into the frame walks a copper haired woman in a navy dress, heading straight for the central pillar of the Panoptical room.
Right for Pimola Eclipse.
“There, look!”
“Is that her?” Pelle asks, a sharp edge of urgency accenting the three words.
The woman stops a mere meter before the laser matrix, glancing around at the people around her.
“Run a scan! Now!”
Another volley of keystrokes. “Cameras are scanning now. Ten seconds,” a security guard says.
On the monitor numerous people suddenly are moving by her in waves, away from the central pillar. Not a casual movement either, but a hasty, half jog. Crozier ignores this.
“Five seconds.”
It’s the kind of five seconds that pass by at mockingly slow pace, each one seizing as much of its allotted time as possible. Crozier is aware for every moment of it.
“Scan, complete.” Immediately the screen becomes filled with vibrant reds. “It’s a negative! No match found!”
“We have radio contact with the guards in the Panoptical room again!” Another man shouts to Pelle.
Pelle grabs for the mic, screaming to the guards surrounding the central pillar. “Negative confirmed! No match! Make the arrest!”
“Fuck,” Crozier immediately heads for the door. “I’m taking her down now! Don’t take your eyes off that monitor!”
He is nearly at the end of the hallway when a symphony of alarms erupt.
08 19 2012 20:06
By the time Crozier makes it to the Panoptical room, the placidity of the gala has been shattered. The alarms have shut off mere moments ago, but the entire atmosphere has vaporized like a soap bubble leaving in its wake confusion and apprehension.
Screw the gala though, Crozier sneers in his head, we got her.
And there she was, multiple security guards have Tirez surrounded, she’s in handcuffs herself, trying to swat away the persistent guests who seem to surprisingly relish in the sudden shift in tone of the gala.
Crozier twists his lips into a smile, his mind trying to find the sharpest quip to impale Tirez’s ego with.
Except–
Except it’s not Tirez.
The hair is the same shade of copper, the eyes are the same colour, but the face in its entirety–as a whole–is not the same face that sadistically mocked him at the restaurant two days ago.
Her voice confirms it, the same accent, but an alto compared to the real Tirez’s soprano. Her vocabulary trespasses on any formal gala’s rules of etiquette.
“Damn it! What the hell is this! I can understand not wanting accept to my artwork! But mocking me in the process? Leaving me to sweat in some dingy cafe for half an hour? I didn’t realize you enjoyed scratching the bottom of the barrel so much Bertholt!”
Crozier frowns. Bertholt is also there, his brow beaded with sweat as he tries to balance opposing views of the situation. “My apologies Miss Vale, I just need to see–ah Francis!” Bertholt’s face washes with relief. “It seems we have, uh, bit of a situation here.”
“Quite, I hear the alarms went off. Was it...”
“The laser matrix, yes, the system detected a breach.”
“Detected?”
“And it seems Miss Michelle Vale was the closest to the edge of the matrix.” This remark rewards Bertholt with another withering glance from the copper-haired woman.
“Seems?”
At this point one of the security guards surrounding Vale spoke up, “Given her proximity to the laser matrix at the time of intrusion and the recognizable physical matches with the suspect that you provided us with, it seemed unlikely that it was a coincidence. When we got confirmation over the radio, we acted accordingly.”
“Suspect? Suspect!” Vale shouts in an exasperated voice.
“Tirez,” Bertholt replies.
“Tirez? Well then, I don’t know whether I should feel offended or flattered!”
“Is this her? Tirez?” The security guards asks Crozier.
“No, it’s not her. But the facial recognition software gave us a negative on her face, there wasn’t a match.”
“Well my passport and I checked in at the entrance all fine and dandy!” Vale butts in again before sending another verbal hook at Bertholt “Helluva security system you have here, miss-matching faces for large time criminals, how about that?”
“So where is Tirez?” Bertholt asks.
“I don’t know,” says Crozier. “But someone disabled communications between Malloy and myself...has anyone seen Malloy?”
Silence was his response.
“Goddamnit.” Crozier suddenly feels far too stressed, the weight of the night was taking toll. Either she has Tirez in handcuffs or something’s happened, there’s no way Malloy would miss an obvious alarm.
One of the guests chimes in. “Right before the alarms, Miss Camilla Watts had run in, stressing that she had found another woman passed out in the bathroom. Numerous guests had run to assist her, then this happened.”
Crozier closes his eyes, trying to stop his stressed mind giving way to fear. Malloy, unconscious?
Impossible.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, med staff is on her. She’s just come to her senses,” another security guard confirms this over the radio.
“I think, detective,” Bertholt says. “It would be best to see if she is okay.”
Crozier nods. It may be an excuse to jettison from this increasingly stiffing atmosphere, but it's his partner on the wire. They begin to head towards the Panoptical room when, once again, another guest interrupts them.
This time it is an ancient looking gentleman, clad in wrinkled skin that seems to reflect the same age of the canvasses that hang from the room. “Hey, Bertholt! What kind of fraud do you think you’re running here?”
Bertholt, at this point, is visibly annoyed. “What are you talking about now, Mr Holloway?”
“Get over here and I’ll show you!” Crozier and Bertholt hesitatingly oblige, walking over to the other side of the central pillar, where Pimola Eclipse lies.
“Now, you might be able to fool most wannabes here at the show today,” Mr Holloway sneers. “But nothing is better than the real thing to me, so I’d rather you not try to take us all for fools.”
“Mr Holloway, I don’t understand,” Bertholt says.
“When you advertise the real Pimola Eclipse, I expect you to get the real bloody Pimola Eclipse, or are you damn rotted blind!?”
Bertholt says nothing, his face moves from Holloway to Crozier, sheer shock expanding his eyes.
Crozier tries to breath, tries to keep his mind functioning rationally. “Can you confirm it’s the real one?”
“Don’t even bother Bertholt!” Holloway chides. “You know I’m the best alive at detecting authenticity!”
“Shut up, dammit!” Bertholt screams. He approaches Pimola Eclipse, staring deeply into the coagulated strokes of paint, right into the ruby eyes of the devil. After a full minute, he turns to face Crozier, his eyes widen in disbelief.
“It’s...it’s....fake.”
08 14 2012 12:34
Of the vast list of names on Bertholt’s guest list, only one stands out for Tirez.
Michelle Vale.
Of course it isn’t merely the nature of the name itself, in fact it was rather bland for Tirez’s tastes, but rather the physical properties associated with it. Simply put, Miss Vale is a stunner. Photogenic is an understatement. What draws Tirez in most is the flowing cataract of copper hair that halos Vale’s face in a way only photoshop can pull off.
The only copper haired on the entire guest list, easily a stand out feature.
Tirez digs deeper, lured in by Vale’s outward appearance. She has her own website, an aspiring artist hoping to sell her paintings online. Tirez finds her extremely talented, although her artwork is too impressionist for her tastes. Transcending higher into cyberspace, and after a few actions of questionable legality, Tirez opens up Vale’s email list.
There lies the rub....
A long exchange of replies has been occurring between Mark Bertholt and Michelle Vale, with Vale interested in displaying her artwork in the Museum of Modern Art and Bertholt more interested in Miss Vale herself. The whole chain of emails cumulates with Michelle being invited to Modern Art Gala in a mere four days.
“Oh yes,” Tirez says out loud, twirling her fingers around her own chocolate brunette hair. “We can certainly use this.”
08 19 2012 20:12
The building is locked down, nobody in or out. Not a single air molecule can escape now. But, as Crozier feels, the impossible has already occurred.
“ She must have known all the quirks,” he thinks aloud. “She had to have known everything. The security measures, the cameras...”
Bertholt, who is burying his sanity underneath swigs of champagne, only manages to chortle out a single word. “How?”
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Post by Ad Absurdum on Mar 30, 2015 8:21:27 GMT -5
08 17 2012 18:33
Tirez slithers into the seat opposite of Crozier at the Bistro, wondering if his thoughts always make him completely oblivious to his surroundings. As he chews away through the cherry tomatoes, she balances Crozier’s phone on the tip of her fingers, congratulating herself for one of the greatest pulls of her career; misdirection with one hand fumbling on her jacket, pointless because he hardly saw it, while her other tweezer plucks the phone from Crozier’s suit jacket amidst the loose change and mint wrappers.
Now with Crozier still battling away at his appetizer, she opens the phone’s case and inserts in the tiniest of spaces a splinter-sized microphone. With the phone bugged and ready to pick up any nearby audio, and a battery life of seventy-two hours, she slips the casing back on, but keeps it in her hands, just as Crozier looks up in a jolt of surprise.
“Excuse me...”
All good heists need an inside man. Someone to report the quirks of your true adversary, the security system. Someone of authority works the best. Someone unwilling is even better, connections to a surrogate were essentially knocking an anchor overboard with your foot tied to the chain.
But, why settle for one when you can get both?
“Francis Crozier....” Tirez starts, before diving into a rich tapestry of bold and sagacious lies. She gets particularly mischievous when describing her created appearance. “The hair colour is off, the nose isn’t very flattering.”
Off indeed.
All you have to do, after all, is scratch a little paint on an ego.
08 19 2012 20:15
It takes mere minutes for Malloy to become reacquainted when she awakens. She parries numerous attempts by security to take her to a hospital–“Jesus, it was just a sedative!”–and immediately demands to talk to Crozier.
“Francis, having been your partner for so long., having endured this entire embarrassing charade with you until the very end, I know I don’t have to ask you what the hell went wrong. But, seriously, how the hell does this happen?”
Crozier’s face remains a delicate mask, as fragile as glass, for the storm brewing inside. “Tirez never went near the painting, nobody in the footage even came close to the security line except Michelle Vale, and she is the only redhead we scrutinized out of the whole damn list!”
No doubt a disguise, Malloy deduces. “So, who was she then? Who was Tirez?”
“I don’t know!”
08 18 2012 21:05
The bellboy only has to knock once much to his relief. Attempting to balance both a dessert tray and a medium sized box in one hand does not quite live up to the strict professional stature that the hotel enforces.
The door opens almost immediately, revealing a twenty some year old male, with a face more boyish than manly. He leans against the door, eyes scrutinizing the bellboy in a way that immediately gives an air of anxiety to the brief conversation that is to follow.
“ Your caramel Panna cotta, with a dash of rum, as requested, as well as a package that was specifically addressed for your room.”
“Yes, that would be mine.“ The man reaches into the pocket of his pants, producing a tumbleweed of Euro bills that he slaps into the bellboy’s palm. He moves to shut the door before pausing, a sly look skimming the surface of his eyes. “Say, you seem handsome. Perhaps we could get a drink later?”
The bellboy is immediately taken off guard as his instincts gloat at the victory. Nevertheless, the prestige of the hotel keeps him grounded instead of flying off in a crass manner “No, sorry. That’s really not my thing.” The man shrugs and shuts the door as the bellboy throws in one last line for the sake of being polite. “Do have a goodnight though, sir!”
08 18 2012 21:08
Tirez screws open the lids on both of the glass vials, before plucking out the tiny contact lenses inside. Her other hand runs through freshly cut hair. The translucent patterns on both of the lenses give off the false impression of discomfort, yet when she puts them in her eye they feel invisible.
Custom ordered from a relatively unknown place in Southern Italy, with specific requests that were reinforced with a hefty fee to ensure they were followed exactly.
She has used this place before, of course, and they always were accurate, no sense to worry now.
With the contacts in place, she turns to examine her own alien body in the mirror; all traces of femininity evaporated through, rather ironically, the art of makeup–as well as some tape to keep the troublesome body parts in place–all of it done remarkably cheaply and only under an hour. There’s a certain element missing though, something that separates her from truly embracing this freshly created alter ego. While the bellboy did exhibit the reaction she was hoping for, he still managed to have an air of suspicion to him.
No, your voice is deep enough....
No, the cucumber is a bit excessive...
Facial hair...
Nothing too fancy of course, but her own natural peach fuzz simply wasn’t going to cut it.
She contemplates the possibilities as she writes down another rather large exuberant lie on paper.
I find it best we speak alone on the subject of having a display of your artwork in my museum. Given the sheer talent of your brush, I believe it is necessary for us to expand from a couple of paintings into a full fledged exhibit. I hope we can meet at The Lunar Cafe to flesh out the details. It is just across the street from Museum. Meet me at seven thirty sharp, and we shall head to the Gala together at eight, where I hope to introduce you to some aspiring admirers.
Regards,
Mark Bertholt
She addresses it to Michelle Vale, before sealing it an envelope. The envelope was a passable counterfeit to the real Museum postage, but Tirez knew excitement always muted any twitches of doubt.
Always.
During all of this, a minuscule speaker lodged in her right ear relays the conversations Crozier had with Bertholt regarding security. She replays the bit about the Panoptical Room.
Again and again and again.
08 19 2012 20:17
“Bertholt, we’ve found evidence of a break in.”
“Well for Christ’s sake Pelle, can’t you see that the whole bloody museum has been broken into!?”
“Well, I thought this particular room might’ve perked your concern.”
“Which is?”
“Your office.”
08 19 2012 19:11
Tirez is surprised by the ventilation systems in the museum. Usually it’s this part of the job she hates the most, as it involves navigating the most neglectful creases of a building, but this particular stretch in which she finds herself in is remarkably well maintained.
Consulting the museum blueprints, she only has ten more metres and a left turn until her destination. Dragging only a duffel bag with her, she clears the space in less than a minute, moving swiftly yet silently in case anyone below might have too keen an ear.
Arriving at a grate in the floor of the shaft, she unscrews the opening and drops down into the room below.
The blueprints haven’t lied; she is in the storage room of the museum kitchen.
Maintaining a brisk pace, she unzips the duffel bag and pulls out a tuxedo that certainly would’ve garnered better treatment if space hadn’t been an issue. Pulling it over her black jump suit, she checks a pocket mirror to see if her male alter ego–which she has started to refer to as Horatio–has survived the ventilation trek.
A bit of scruff here, a flick of hair there. A swift adjustment of the tuxedo to make sure her chest remains flat. Finally the addition of a mustache to quell any potential skeptics. Horatio is complete.
She pulls out the remaining equipment from the duffel bag; two complex-looking metallic devices that have an assortment of screws and hinges on them, two oversized waiter trays, and a medley of other gadgets occupy the space. Scrutinizing the specific elements of her plan, she takes what she needs and sets up a quasi-base camp in the corner of the storage room, reckoning she can make return trips.
Stepping outside, she immediately blends into the massive group of waiters and chefs that are preparing the first wave of hor d'oeuvres in the kitchen proper.
Finger combing her hair one final time, she gets to work immediately.
08 19 2012 19:22
“I apologize for closed-mindedness not being one of my most valued traits. Now if you’ll excuse me...” Tirez smiles beneath her rather uncomfortable mustache as Bertholt takes a champagne flute from her tray before slamming it back on. “I’m going to need a lot more of those before I can bear any more of this pretentious snobbery.” He makes a nod towards what he believes is a waiter and Tirez nods dutifully before heading for the exit of the Panoptical Room.
At the end of the hallway, instead of heading left towards the kitchen to gather more hors d'oeuvre and champagne, she heads right, towards the bathrooms.
Immersed in her role, she hardly hesitates as she steps into the men’s and heads for the farthest handicapped stall, taking the champagne flute with her. Inside the stall she pulls a latex glove out of her suit jacket and holds up the glass against the harsh fluorescent lighting. Smudged along the glass, in the clearest definition that Tirez could have hoped for, is Bertholt’s fingerprints.
08 19 20:18
“Well, Pelle, I thought it might have perked your concern, that we have a recent new opening on our security force, hm?”
“Which is?”
“YOUR FUCKING JOB!”
For Crozier and Malloy, it is an uncomfortable foreshadowing of a fate that may soon be theirs.
08 19 2012 19:29
Tirez checks her watch, thirty minutes until the bait arrives and still a number of inconveniences to manage. But what fun would it be if she didn’t cut it close? She gracefully ducks under a roped barrier, indicating a part of the museum that guests of the gala shouldn’t be heading towards.
Well, Tirez reasons, there wasn’t officially a sign.
The massive high vaulted walls of the museum soon give way into far more tightly cramped corridors indicating the change from the public to the executive parts of the building. Encountering no security guards, Tirez doesn’t have to conjure up any of her excuses and arrives at her destination with ease. Getting in, on the other hand, will depend on whether she put her trust in the right technology.
Bertholt, Tirez has noted over the past few days, is a man who holds privacy in high regard. As such, the entrance to his office has no security cameras, therefore making it a likely bet that there are none inside as well. The blueprints reinforce this idea. Of course, whatever expense has been spared on surveillance has been compensated into Bertholt’s three main security features; a thumbprint scanner, a passcode and a retinal scan. Each one individually opens up its own titanium lock.
Tirez demolishes them in under ten seconds.
The thumbprint scanner is defeated by the imprint of a champagne glass and a latex glove on her hand.
The passcode was conceded to her via Crozier’s bugged cellphone when Bertholt verbally passed it on to the Europol officer.
The retinal scan deceived with the contact lens in Tirez’s left eye, with Bertholt’s own retina expertly duplicated on the delicate structure.
With each feature conquered, a staccato ping rings out and a red light blooms green, each one making Tirez increasingly giddy. Sometimes it’s just the simple things in life, after all. In mere moments Tirez is stepping into Bertholt’s office. There, hanging from the wall, is the fake Pimola Eclipse. Bertholt has put too much faith in his door locks and it lies unprotected by any security measures. Tirez plucks it from the wall with little effort.
She turns to the Museum Director’s computer next, finding it embarrassingly bland that the password for access is the same as the one for the main security terminals.
“Cormellion”
This really can’t be it
But it is, and she gains access to everything on Bertholt’s computer.
Terribly organized here...oh…cheerleaders? How vanilla...
It takes only seconds to find Bertholt’s auxiliary security program–once again lacking its own independent passcode–and the screen swiftly ignites with crisp, clear images of various rooms of the museum, graciously provided by the closed-circuit camera system of course.
Including the Panoptical Room.
Jamming a flash drive into the port as her feet. Tirez slides her fingers over the keyboard, finding the groves and niches, not just the physical ones, but the hotkeys–the quirks–for the program itself. It comes to her naturally, a sixth sense that has taken years to master.
She only has to type in one command after all.
Just one, the program on the flash drive will do the rest.
Then, she exits Bertholt’s office, taking the fake Pimola Eclipse with her.
08 19 2012 20:25
Crozier, Malloy and Pelle all cluster around the large monitors in the security booth. Like vultures gathering over a pile of bones searching for a last scrap of meat, the three of them scrutinize the same two and a half minutes of footage again and again.
Michelle Vale approaches Pimola Eclipse, teetering a mere half metre from the security line. She waits there anxiously, glancing around. A minute and a half later, just when it looks like she is about to leave, the alarm goes off and she is swarmed by security guards in a scene that Malloy might find humorous if it weren’t for the gravity of the situation.
Rewind. The scene plays again. The moment has been immortalized digitally and nothing changes.
Again.
“The part I don’t understand,” Crozier says, shattering the heavy silence. “Vale claims she checked in with security and had her face uploaded to the database. Security confirms this event as seven fourty five. Yet, we run a scan and it comes up negative.”
Again.
Malloy squints at the screen. Something is wrong, everything on the image feels off. “Could there be a glitch with the recognition program?”
Pelle shakes his head. “My men are on it. No glitch has been detected so far. Everything is reading fine. We ran some demo scans on archival footage and it works perfectly. The system is nearly flawless.”
“Nearly...” Crozier hangs the word on the tip of his tongue. He spots Bertholt among the crowd on the monitor. “Do a facial recognition on Bertholt.”
Pelle nods, a scramble of keystrokes and a ten second pause later, Bertholt’s face becomes highlighted in red.
NO MATCH DETECTED
“Impossible...”
08 19 19:55
Tirez has been responsible for countless heists across Europe, daring feats that have simply defied reality in such ways that they have transcended into legend.
To put it modestly, Tirez was the best.
She wasn’t the best because of her sleight of hand, or her skill with a computer, or her cunning ability to multitask. Although they were all exceptional qualities in their own right, they were still the standard repertoire for any great thief.
What truly set her apart from the rest was the simple fact that she had heists down to a simplified, measurable science. Like any good math equation, the fewer variables the better. Every heist had the same elements to them: the hacking of the security database, the disabling of certain security measures, the bugs, the decoy...
A certain rhythm, a simple, surefire technique.
But with every system, there was one unknown, one variable that, if properly calculated, could solve the entire system. It was the same for heists. Pimola Eclipse was no different, albeit a slightly harder input.
Taping over the cameras and looping them would be far too obvious, Crozier would notice right away. Disabling them outright was all hallmark for disaster, she would barely take a step before the security guards would flatten her. They would detect an obtrusive.
But mirroring them...
So stunningly simple, so astonishingly elegant that Tirez almost thought the Panoptical Room desired to be stolen from. The front of the room would become the back of the room. Crozier would be looking at the completely opposite side the entire time. With the Panoptical Room being completely symmetrical, no one would notice.
Even better, the facial recognition software would get disoriented. Its desire for perfection ultimately becoming its demise as even the slightest trace of a blemish on the right side of a face would now be picked up on the left...
A tiny crack in the system and its entire crystalline structures shatters. In her mind, Pimola Eclipse is already stolen, the climax is finished.
The rest is simply fine print.
***
Tirez waltzes back towards the Panoptical room, fully immersed in her waiter guise again, carrying two oversized trays.
There, as if on a stage cue–albeit slightly early–strides Michelle Vale, her face a maelstrom of disappointment and annoyance. Tirez, the director of this whole charade, decides to give her her next acting beat.
“Anything from the kitchen mademoiselle?” Tirez baits.
“No thank you,” Vale says stiffly. “What I would like to know is where Mark Bertholt is.”
“Ah...AH,” Tirez exclaims with mock excitement. “You must be Miss Vale correct?”
“Indeed.”
“Mr Bertholt sincerely apologizes for missing your appointment at the cafe and will offer any financial compensation. Unfortunately, complications arose right before the gala began, therefore explaining, although most certainly not forgiving, his absence. He would now like to meet you in front of Gillispie’s Celestial Harmony, located on the front of the central pillar, at five minutes after eight.”
“Is that so?”
“He would like me to repeat his apologies again and again Miss Vale, but of course I am only the messenger, I believe seeing him in person will be the best to squeeze every last drop of regret from him.”
“Of course,” Vale nods eagerly before striding off towards the women’s bathroom.
There was always enough time to freshen up again.
08 19 2012 20:30
Crozier’s eyes widen in shock. On the monitor, the security guard persistently lifts his left hand...
After being asked to raise his right for the third time.
The guard looks up at the monitor, his face expresses annoyance. Crozier’s is scarred with disbelief. It’s a single moment, like this, that has the power to not just twist the present, but to completely switch perceptions of the past.
All along, they only saw what Tirez wanted them to see.
Rewinding the tapes, they reverse the mirroring process. Then, with their heads unwound, Crozier, Malloy and Bertholt watch what really occurred.
08 19 2012 20:03
The drug braided in the frites is custom made by Tirez herself, a special two-punch whammy of a concoction that both isolates and incapacitates.
The first half kicks in with nauseous symptoms, causing the victim to seek privacy in a bathroom or bedroom to avoid embarrassment. Once there, instead of spewing out whatever food poisoning they think they’ve received, the victim gets a hard knock of Consciousness-B-Gone, blasting them out cold for at least ten minutes.
Besides heists, Tirez jokingly offers it to those who want to experience the vastly overrated sensation of getting drunk without the alcohol and for only a fraction of the price. Unfortunately the market was quite niche, and really only for sadomasochists.
But for its primary purpose it works damn well on Malloy, causing her to leave moments after tasting them in front of Bertholt.
And now, at last, Tirez decides to bring this comedic symphony to its unflattering climax. Underneath the two oversized trays she carries, hidden by the draping white fabric, lie the two devices she brought in with her. Best described as a combination of four power drills and hinges, screwed into one of them, the one in her left hand, lies the fake Pimola Eclipse. Hidden underneath the fabric of the other hand, besides a completely identical device, lies a couple of other gadgets. The first is a frequency scrambler, which Tirez has fine-tuned to the channel that Crozier and Malloy occupy. With a simple twist of a dial, Crozier and Malloy are suddenly plunged into a communications blackout.
Paranoia is key.
The other device is a laser emitter, one that is invisible and also fine tuned in a particular way. The laser is set at specific temperature, one that matches exactly the laser matrix that guards the central pillar.
Tirez positions herself to the left of Pimola Eclipse, letting the patrons pick off the remnant food from her false trays. When the trays are devoid of the last couple champagne flutes she beings to reposition her hands to the edge of the trays.
Despite nearly a decade of experience, her heart rate begins to liven up, her breath begins to quicken. She doesn’t try to fight off these natural impulses, instead she embraces them, letting them compliment her state of mind instead of impeding it.
Her own earpiece, immune from the jammer, crackles out new information from Crozier’s cellphone. “Cut out the two obsolete cameras in the Panoptical room, I just want the two focused on Pimola Eclipse.”
Oh, this was too nice.
Her last bit of orchestration comes into play and now it’s the point of no return. In walks Michelle Vale, heading directly for Gillispie’s Celestial Harmony, or, in the case for Crozier, towards Pimola Eclipse.
On the opposite side of the pillar from Tirez, Vale stops a mere metre from Celestial Harmony, glancing around for Bertholt who is now in fact absent from the Panoptical Room itself. Nobody notices her right away.
Except for the security guards. Positioned in the corners of the room, one of them picks up on the new intruder. Tirez can’t see it exactly, but she smiles as she pictures them cross referencing this new figure with the image that Crozier has provided them.
The image, so wonderfully duplicated with cosmetics and hair colour, that Tirez has provided for Crozier.
Careful to not be deceived by in coincidence, the security team acts on their suspicion, all edging towards the new culprit, clutching their ear pieces, asking for confirmation from the main security booth...
“Excuse me!” Someone cries from the entrance to the Panoptical room. “Someone is unconscious in the women’s bathroom! We need someone to help right away!” Immediately people start to depart hastily from the room, eager to play the role of hero for an act that is merely a setup for a much larger crime.
Tirez glances upwards, unscrambling the radio to listen in now, watching as a pulse of blue light emits from the cameras, signaling a facial recognition check...
Ten seconds...
Again, they are all actors in a play, the security guards and Tirez. All of them waiting for one final gesture.
Tirez’s fingers gently begin to reset the temperature on the laser emitter, one to match the temperature of the human body. One that is meant to be specifically registered by the temperature sensors in the matrix as a breach of security...
Three seconds...
The security guards clutch their earpieces and Tirez does the same as Pelle’s voice rings out in all of them. “Negative confirmed! No match! Make the arrest!”
Instantly they move in at once, heading towards Vale, ready to take down the false target...
Tirez swivels the laser right into the heart of the laser matrix...
A beat. One last time, she is allowed to inhale...
Then, the final musical note, a chorus of alarms blasts throughout the room. Immediately security guards rush towards Vale. All the remaining eyes in the room at once take the bait. Vale gets tackled, everyone is now rushing towards her, nobody is watching Pimola Eclipse. Tirez also rushes forward partially to not warrant suspicion, but in a slightly different route.
Towards the famed painting.
Masking the mistake with a cry of panic, masking her steps with a fumbling shuffle, she slips over the security line. Nearly invisible on the floor, no one notices anyway. Then, not losing a single stride and in one fluid motion, a movement heightened from decades of experience, she steals.
The first tray and the one containing the empty device, she lifts it up vertically and sticks it to the painting. The four hinges on the machine pry the painting off the wall in less than a second, while four other revolving bits twist off the necessary screws. The painting slips off the wall and into the cradles of the device, hidden nicely under the first tray. She returns it to its flat vertical position.
The second tray, also in less than a second, goes up vertically and does the exact opposite, screwing the fake Pimola Eclipse to the wall in place of the real one. There is only an absence on the wall for a fraction of time. After this, the second tray goes flat again and Pimola Eclipse is gone and Tirez is merely a waiter again.
She swiftly passes the security guards who have triumphantly restrained Vale. With the guards so sure they have caught the real thief, there is no need to put the museum on lockdown just yet. The crowd gathers around the alleged crime, oblivious to the real heist that has happened, ignoring the few people who head for the exit.
Among them is a simple waiter, carrying nothing more than two trays. What could be more innocent?
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