train station and then to the border, where Danish officers picked up the trail. We met in the lobby of the Scandic Hotel Copenhagen, a modern business hotel about a half a kilometer from the city’s famed Tivoli Gardens.
The son brought with him a surprise, his three-year-old daughter, Anna. He rolled her into the foyer in an umbrella stroller, and Kostov knelt down to meet his granddaughter. Lindgren figured that bringing his happy little blond-haired daughter provided perfect cover.
I was pleased to see Anna, too—it meant her father and granddad were less likely to try to rob me when they saw the money.
After giving them a few moments, I interrupted the family reunion, taking command. “Sasha, you and your daughter will come upstairs with me. I will let you in my room; I will leave and get the money. You can count and make sure everything is all right.” Boris translated and the four of us squeezed into the elevator.
I did not have my usual suite. This room was tiny and a third of it was consumed by a twin bed. I left the three of them alone inside for a few minutes and strolled up one flight to the command center, where I could see them on a grainy black closed-circuit picture. I took the satchel of cash and scooped up a few pieces of candy for Anna.
I returned to the room, handing the bag to Lindgren and the candy to Anna. He counted the cash in less than a minute, then handed it back to me. “What do we do now?” he said.
Simple, I said. You go back to Stockholm and bring the Rembrandt. And, I added, I’ll only deal with one person. “Room’s too small.”
Moments after Lindgren wheeled his daughter from the room, a SWAT team hustled me out and took me to a safe house. It was smart, a routine precaution against a setup. There was always the worry that after seeing the money, Lindgren might simply return with a gun and take the money.
Late that night, the Swedish police called to report that Lindgren had returned to the Kadhums’ apartment across the border in Stockholm. The lights stayed on late, they reported.
The next morning, the Swedes called to say that Lindgren and the Kadhum brothers, Baha and Dieya, were on the move. Dieya, the youngest, carried a shopping bag with a large square object inside.
Over and over, I reminded everyone to stay cool, so as not to spook the targets. I knew this was especially tough for the Swedish police. Their agents were following men they believed to be carrying a stolen Swedish national treasure, and they were supposed to watch these guys just slip out of the country with it.
When the train crossed the border into Denmark, which meant they would arrive at the hotel within the hour, I began last-minute preparations. I made my quick call to Donna in Pennsylvania, my silent reminder not to get too caught up in the mission. The Rembrandt might be priceless, but it wasn’t worth my life.
I cleared my head and went through a mental checklist of how things were supposed to go down: Kostov meets a Kadhum brother in the lobby, brings him and the painting to my room. We meet, I leave to get the cash, return, and let him count it. Kadhum shows me the painting, brings it back without Kostov. I authenticate it, Danish SWAT officers burst in.
I thought about that last detail, the SWAT team. I went to check in with the commander next door and repeated the go-code—“We have a done deal.” Almost as an afterthought, I decided to test the duplicate electronic key card the commander planned to use to enter my room. I stuck the key in my door and it didn’t work. I tried again and again. Unbelievable. Exasperated, I ran down to the lobby to get a new set of keys, sweating by the time I returned. This was always the way. Despite all the support staff and backup, the undercover operative knows he is truly on his own. I left the new key with the SWAT commander. He was munching on a sandwich.
AT 6:17 P.M., an FBI colleague called me from the Danish command center to report the Kadhum brothers’ arrival in the lobby. Baha Kadhum, empty-handed, was headed up with Kostov, he said. Dieya Kadhum was staying in the lobby, holding the package.
Damn, I thought. We were just getting started and already the plan was changing.
I heard a soft rap at my door.
I told the FBI agent, “Look, buddy, talk to you later.” I hung up the phone and moved to the door.
I let Kostov and Baha Kadhum inside.
Kadhum was all business. “You have money?”
“There’s no money here,” I said. “Not yet. It’s in another room. I have to go get it.”
Kadhum cocked his head, confused. I played the patient but experienced mobster. “If I lose the money,” I said, pointing a finger at my head, pulling an imaginary trigger, “boom—they shoot me dead.” Kadhum smiled. I smiled back.
I raised my hands, palms up. The Iraqi understood. I was a fellow criminal and needed to pat him down, to make sure he wasn’t armed or an undercover cop wearing a hidden microphone.
I went through the motions, patting Kadhum’s ribs, even lifting his shirt slightly, pretending to check for a wire, but I stopped short of a full search, hoping to gain a bit more of his trust. “I don’t worry about you,” I lied.
He smiled, and I said, “Just sit back and I’ll get the money.” The moment I entered the hallway, I exhaled. At the end of the stairway, I moved up a flight of stairs to a safe room where FBI agents Calarco and Ives waited. Ives handed me the black bag with a quarter of a million dollars, cash.
On the grainy surveillance video, we could see Kadhum sitting on the bed, fidgeting with his cell phone, checking text messages. Kostov tried to chat him up in Arabic, but Kadhum seemed annoyed, distracted. He focused on his phone and gave the older man curt answers.
I returned and plopped the black leather valise on the bed. Kadhum quickly dug his hands in. I looked over at the TV, and pointed at the variety show on the screen. “I like this,” I said, and laughed. Kadhum, eyes on the money, ignored me.
That’s when I knew we had him. Kadhum had
Kadhum put one stack on the bed and pulled out another one. He flipped through the bills to make sure each one was real. He placed that stack on the bed and grabbed the next one.
I said, “Is it all there?”
He grunted and kept counting. Kostov stood silently by the door.
When Kadhum finished, I said, “You bring a bag?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I laughed, and offered him mine. I unzipped a side pocket and took out my tiny art tools and put them on the table. It was all part of the show.
Kadhum took his eyes off the money. “Can I see?”
I took out the tools, one by one. “This is a black light…. This I use to measure…. This is a microscope. See the light on it? This is the flashlight I use in case I have to look at something dark.”
Kadhum quickly lost interest and turned silent. His mobile phone chirped; he checked a text message and frowned. He studied my face. Something seemed wrong.
He was deep in thought and at this point I didn’t want him to think. I just wanted him to finish the deal. What was he up to? Why the delay? Did he really have the painting? Or was this a shakedown, a robbery? I tried to move things along. “You want to go down and get the painting?”
“OK.”
Another text message arrived and he looked annoyed, confused.
I tried to retake control. I said, “I’ll put the money back, and then what happens is we’ll go down, we’ll go get the painting and bring it back up and if it’s good, I’ll get the money and you can have the bag.”
Kadhum had his own plan. He wanted to show me the painting downstairs, and then return to the room for the money. I didn’t like that. I wanted everything to happen in the hotel room, where it would be videotaped, where no one else could get hurt, where I could control the environment, where armed Danish police could storm the room at a moment’s notice.
I said, “I’ll wait here for you, OK?”
“It’s up to you,” Kadhum said.
At 6:29 p.m., he left with Kostov.
I counted silently to thirty, then grabbed the bag with the money and bolted into the hallway. I burst into the
