Lucien in the Sky with Diamonds

I really should have realized how vindictive Heather could be. What is that saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. When she found out I was seeing someone else and had traded her in for the other woman – a younger, prettier model, I just know that it was that very moment that she decided to exact her revenge. Unfortunately, Heather knows all of my secrets, including the biggest one of all – the fact that I am a world renowned jewel thief who has recently completed one of the largest heists of the century – the theft of the Weatherby diamonds.

Yes, I stole the necklace quite smoothly and easily from its display case at the Art museum. I won’t go into all of the meticulous details of how I managed to pull off the job. Let’s just say that I know exactly what I’m doing and I plan everything to the nth degree. All of my operations normally run like a well oiled machine. That is, if no one interferes with my flow. But no, Heather just had to throw a monkey wrench into my work.

I have to take ownership of it, however. It was entirely my own fault. I got careless for a brief moment and let my guard down. One night when I was feeling quite loose and relaxed, admittedly I had also drunk too much wine, I had bragged to her of my prowess as a jewel thief. I probably also promised her the moon and stars at the time. Later, of course when I dumped her, she used that information to cook my goose. I just know that she squealed on me and is responsible for my current predicament. 

I am now on an Air France flight ready to depart to my native Paris, sweating like a pig because I’m afraid that I’ve been spotted by the cops. I just know that it's Heather who told. Why else would I be targeted this way? I have always been one to remain incognito, to fly under the radar so to speak. Thus, the only logical conclusion I can arrive at is that she is the one who turned me in. Now the cops are surely out to get me. They are at this very moment rapidly approaching my seat.

The Weatherby diamonds are set with precision into a choker valued at several million dollars, a choker that I am now wearing as I sit here prepared for takeoff. The necklace is currently living up to its name. It is choking me under a somewhat baggy black turtleneck. I despise turtlenecks, hate the way they press up against your neck. I opted for the loosest turtleneck possible, but it still presses up uncomfortably against my neck. The combination of the choker necklace and the turtleneck are almost more than I can bear. I wear the turtleneck under an equally baggy hoodie so no one can spot the necklace.

Normally, I prefer my clothes to conform to my trim body like a glove. My sartorial senses are offended by this sloppy, but choking attire. Who would ever wear a turtleneck with a hoodie? Unfortunately, I really have no choice. My outfit was not chosen for fashion. It does, however, allow me to sail through airport security without being stopped. The plan is once I land in Paris, I will meet with a high end jewelry broker who will give me top dollar for the jewels. I will be set for life.

That is, if I get away with it. I am afraid that the police are right now, at this very moment making their way to the back of the plane where I am sitting. My seat on the jumbo jet, like my clothes, has also been carefully selected. I am in the second to last row and am seated on the aisle. I chose this seat so that I can make a quick exit to the restroom if needed and dump the jewels somewhere in the tiny closet of the restroom.

We haven’t taken off yet, and the flight attendant has just made the standard announcement about how we need to remain seated with our seatbelts on and our trays in the upright position. Right after she says that, I spot the blue uniformed policeman making his way back towards me.

With no time to waste, I disregard the stewardess’ explicit directions and quickly shove my tray to the upright position. I then dash inside the tiny cubicle of a restroom before anyone can stop me. I shut the door firmly and pull the lever to lock the door. I really need to find a hiding spot for the necklace. I can’t afford to be caught with it. I don’t want to flush it down the toilet. I would be, in effect, flushing all of my hopes and dreams away.

Instead, I need to stash the necklace somewhere so I can somehow later retrieve it. I quickly pull my hoodie off, followed by my turtleneck. With fumbling fingers, I fiddle with the silver clasp until the necklace falls off into my hands. Next, I carefully place the necklace in the paper towel dispenser, behind the wad of folded paper towels. As I do this, my heart racing, I hear a sharp knock on the plasticine door that folds in like an accordion.

“Monsieur?” the flight attendant inquires. She swiftly changes to English, but speaks with a strong French accent. “The plane is ready for takeoff. We need you to return to your seat now and put your seatbelt on, please,” she says in a firm but polite voice.

“Pardon, mademoiselle. I really need to use the facilities. I will be out directly.”

I run the water in the sink to make my act convincing and hurriedly wipe my hands with just one paper towel, taking care not to use too many so that the necklace remains hidden in the dispenser. I drop the used paper towel in the wastebasket and then don my turtleneck and hoodie once again. With two layers on in the tiny, airless washroom, I am now sweating more than ever. No matter, I tell myself, taking a deep breath in an effort to remain cool. At least I am no longer choking. My throat feels slightly better, although the turtleneck still irritates me.

I quickly push open the door and return to my aisle seat where I dutifully pull my seatbelt across my lap and try to appear cool and collected. 

The policeman approaches me, his shiny badge glinting in the morning sun streaming through the small windows. 

“Mr. Martin?” 

He pronounces Martin in the American way, rather than the way I prefer it, Mar-teen. My passport says I am Lucien Martin, although it is not my real name. My passport, which is fake, says I am a French citizen. When in America, however, I have a California driver’s license that proclaims me to be Luke Martin. I have deliberately chosen a name that is very common, both in French and English. In every aspect of my life, I need to blend in and remain unmemorable. 

“Yes?” I answer politely.

“Please stand up. We need to do a pat search on you.”

“Pat search?”, I repeat indignantly. “What are you looking for?”

“I am not at liberty to say, but with the Patriot Act, we have the right to search any and all air passengers at will,” the cop says firmly.

“Patriot Act? Do you think I am a terrorist?” I say this quite loudly. I hear a collective gasp from my fellow passengers who are understandably alarmed, hearing nothing other than the word “terrorist.” 

“I sincerely hope not sir,” the cop said smoothly. “Just doing my job.”

I let out a tremendous sigh. “Go ahead. Do your job. Pat away.”

The cop uses bladed hands to do a thorough pat search, running his hands smoothly up and down my sides. He searches my pant pockets and instructs me to remove my hoodie. I do so, laughing inside. I didn’t want to wear the hoodie anyways. After several long minutes, the cop finally stops his fruitless search, finding nothing.

“Okay, sir,” he says finally. “You have been cleared.” He walks to the front of the plane where he presumably has to talk to the captain. “This plane is cleared for takeoff,” he announces to the male attendant standing at the front of the plane.

As he does that, I glance towards the back of the plane to see the reaction from the other flight attendant, the lady who had tried to shoo me out of the washroom. To my surprise, she quickly enters the washroom and pulls the door firmly shut behind her.

My heart sinks. My plan had been to quickly visit the head once again and retrieve the jewels before anyone else entered. I haven’t seen anyone else, apart from the stewardess, use the restroom. I have been carefully watching, in between dealing with the nosy policeman. Now, I pray it isn’t too late.

Several long moments pass, and the flight attendant finally exits the restroom. I quickly unbuckle my seatbelt and hurry back there. I frantically pull the door shut behind me and shove my hand into the narrow slot of the paper towel dispenser. I feel around with my fingers, my heart sinking. The necklace is gone.

With shaking hands and fury coursing through my veins, I return to my seat. As I do so, I catch sight of the petite blond flight attendant who had entered the washroom before me. She gives me a Mona Lisa smile and tells me once again that I need to buckle my seatbelt and prepare for takeoff.

I smile back and raise my eyebrows at her flirtatiously.

“Certainly, Mademoiselle. I'll buckle up right away. I can hardly wait to get to Paris.” 

"But of course," she responds in her charming French accent. "Paris is the city of light."

I vow to myself that once I reach Paris, I will tail the flight attendant and somehow try to overpower her either by brute force or with my relentless charm. A gentleman jewel thief’s job is never done, I tell myself. I need to retrieve the diamonds at all costs. They are my ticket to the good life.

The plane's engine roars as if feels my strong determination. The giant silver bird speeds down the runaway and triumphantly takes to the sky at last.

The blond flight attendant moves down the plane's narrow aisle. She turns her head back towards me at the last moment and smiles mischievously, Mona Lisa no longer.

“I hope you enjoy your flight monsieur. Bon voyage!”