People milled about, getting as close as they could to the paintings without getting in trouble from a guard. That’s when I saw them. The pickpockets. My anger skyrocketed as I observed how brashly they took advantage of people. I glanced around for a guard and noticed four in the room. This was embarrassing. How was it none of them could see what the pickpockets were doing? The museum should invest in a class for its employees to teach them what to look for.
A boy walked through the room and I stood up, my body coiled tight like a spring. He headed for the stairs to exit the exhibit. I instinctively moved toward him.
It was him! The boy who’d grabbed my bag.
My mind raced. I really just wanted to grab him and bring him in for questioning. But I knew that could jeopardize everything. We didn’t want the pickpocket, just the drive he had stolen. Besides, it could spook the people who had the drive if one of the pickpockets went missing, especially if this pickpocket had given them the drive. I needed to follow him, but carefully. I couldn’t let him recognize me, but I wouldn’t be able to retrieve my go bag as I left the museum. I’d lose him for sure. Hopefully he’d go straight to his drop, and I’d be able to get a level deeper into the pickpocketing ring. It could be the first step to finding the stolen drive.
He hurried down the narrow street to the left. Keeping my head down, I shadowed him at a distance from which I wouldn’t be detected.
I followed him into the gardens in a roundabout way through one of the many entrances on the back streets until he sat in one of the green chairs that sprinkled the rocky pathways. He stared into the large fountain, setting his bag on the ground next to him. This was it—the drop. I could read the signs from handling hundreds of drops myself. Someone would come and pick up that bag. I was about to find out who was above him in the hierarchy. That person could lead me to the clearinghouse for all the stolen goods.
I pulled back and sat under some trees, my heart racing. The best thing would be to tail both of them—see the whole network of this pickpocketing ring. But of course, there was no way I could follow two people at once.
I thought about calling in Halluis, but it would take him too long to get here, and calling in would risk giving me away to Siron before I’d had a chance to gather any evidence. I’d just have to see how the scene would unfold, and choose which one to follow.
From my vantage point, I watched as a young man sat next to the boy, placing a bag that looked exactly the same as his on the ground next to him, except that it wasn’t bulging. The newcomer couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. A five o’clock shadow darkened his face.
Both boys sat for a few minutes, staring into the water, before the first thief stood and took the empty bag instead of the full one. I watched him walk down the long, gravel path, heading for the street.
When I looked back, the other guy and the bulging bag were gone. I huffed and turned, catching a glimpse of him cutting behind some trees.
I tailed Five o’clock Shadow to the metro, watching as he pickpocketed a few unsuspecting tourists on the two trains we rode. I stood near the pole at one end of the car while he stood at the other. I almost missed the stop he got off at because he waited until the last second before disembarking. Luckily, I had followed my instincts and moved right next to the exit on my end. He must have grabbed something from someone on the train he wasn’t sure he could lift without being detected, just like that boy had done to me.
Sure enough, when I spotted Five o’clock Shadow again I saw he was towing a bulky piece of luggage. He took it into the nasty metro men’s room and came out only a minute later without it. His shoulder bag was extremely full now. I kept following him at a distance. I figured he’d be meeting up with another contact soon, so I put my hand on my phone, ready to take pictures.
Only he didn’t meet up with a contact. Instead, he met up with friends in Halle, a suburb of Paris about a twenty-minute train ride from my apartment. I often took this stop to get a crepe at Mad Dogs—it was probably the best creperie in the city, despite its American name. The large seating area was surrounded by quaint shops and restaurants. Right in the center, a fountain tossed water within its basin and over the majestic bronze horses in the center. I watched as Five o’clock Shadow greeted the group, and one of his friends handed him a skateboard.
“Thanks, Daniel,” he said with a grin, a slight Arabic accent shining through the French words he spoke.
