The house itself was a typical four-story early Belle Époque edifice with elements of Byzantine, Moorish, and gothic architecture. The windows were arched and each had its own wrought iron balcony. A portico of Corinthian columns surrounded the front door and a jutting cupola broke the slate tiled roof line.
Ortoli’s security seemed very good. They were professional and well trained. During the day, there was always a man outside the house and one somewhere inside. At night, just one guard plus probably remotely monitored systems. They didn’t lose focus, slip away for a smoke, get caught up in conversations with people from the neighborhood. As I had suspected, they were not native French speakers. By using a shotgun mic I was able to determine that they spoke Corsican when conversing with Ortoli. If my plan ended up requiring me to interact with them, I would hopefully be able to speak limited French without giving away my non-native speaker status. I needed to figure out some sort of convincing ruse to get inside and case the house. I had to see the interior before I would be able to plan my next step but it wasn’t going to be easy. It was time to call on my partner Ashna.
It felt weird to call Ashna my partner but after I recovered my friend Valerie’s stolen painting—with a fair amount of help from Ashna—she had convinced me she wanted to be a full accomplice the next time I took on a job. I normally liked to plan, work out details, and execute on my own. I had always been a loner when it came to my work—be it art, or my past career as a cat burglar. There weren’t many people I could see myself partnering with but something about Ashna made me think it might work out. Longtime friend, highly skilled programmer and hacker, intense and no-nonsense personality—she was a huge asset and definitely worth a fifty-fifty split.
The morning of my third day I made coffee and sat down in the chair I had dragged over to the open window overlooking the street. It was sunny and warm and the window was angled enough toward the east to admit a shaft of sunlight. The owner of the apartment had a window box full of nasturtiums in full bloom. I inhaled the sweet aroma of the flowers and sipped my coffee while composing a quick text to Ashna.
—Need some help. Sending details via email.—
It was late evening in San Francisco but she responded within a few minutes.
—Cool. Awaiting your communiqué.—
I opened my laptop and quickly typed up the details including a brief outline of the job, Ortoli’s Paris address, and my observations. I encrypted the document with a ridiculously strong password Ashna had forced me to commit to memory, and then sent it off to her from my Protonmail account. After I sent it I deleted the unencrypted version and spent a few minutes writing an email to an old friend who lived in Paris, letting him know I was around for a few days. Soon, my phone buzzed with an incoming text message:
—Doing some digging. Will reply soon.—
I went for a walk around the neighborhood and stopped at the local brasserie for breakfast. The setup had me a little perplexed. Normally I liked to enter buildings only when they were empty. Lately, I had found myself needing to break that rule more often than I liked. A new set of skills and a reconsideration of strategy was needed. On my way back in, I ran into the concierge in the lobby mopping the floor. I nodded hello to her and was about to continue upstairs but, on a sudden instinct, decided to ask her about Ortoli. Apartment building concierges in Paris were famous for knowing everyone’s business. They were discreet but watchful and knowledgeable, not just of their own buildings but of the neighborhood.
“Pardon, Madame. The house across the street,” I said in my halting French, gesturing toward it. “Does a celebrity live there? Someone famous? There are always security men outside.”
She stopped mopping and leaned on the handle, happy to talk. “A rich man,” she responded, wiping her forehead with a handkerchief from the pocket of her gray smock. “Some kind of gangster. Corsican.” The word sounded like a truly vile insult the way she said it. She looked back and forth as if checking to see that no one else was nearby to hear, then held her hand up to her nose, twisting it back and forth in a very French gesture I recognized to mean intoxicated. “Always drunk,” she said. “Every night passing out. I see the guards and his woman carry him out of the car sometimes. Other times, I see him stumble home from the bar.”
I shook my head, trying to feign a scandalized look. “Oh well,” I responded. “Many people drink too much. It’s a sad affliction.”
“Also, the smuggling. Things go out but I don’t see them go in. Trucks in the night. Very bad. From where do they come?"
“I can’t say Madame. It sounds very disturbing," I replied, shrugging. She shrugged too, shaking her head sadly, and went back to sweeping. This was interesting intelligence. If things came out of the house that were not seen going in, it could mean there was a secret entrance.
Upstairs, I checked my email and saw a response from Ashna waiting. I clicked to open it, entered the password to decrypt the file, and began reading.
This Ortoli character uses France Telecom for internet access. I got an associate who speaks native French to call up and report internet access down at the address. He managed to get the tech on the line to give him the static IP address for the router. Social engineering FTW! Anyway, with the IP address, I was able to compromise the router and get onto the
