The Decision

Carefully opening the small exit door from the basement carpark, she peered out. It was still raining, now, more heavily, with a force that made splattering sounds when hitting against the roller shutters and bluestone that lined the narrow dark alley.

She looked back to West End Avenue, then down to Amsterdam, seeing nothing but darkness and falling rain. Pulling the door shut, crouched in the small space, adjusting her back pack before pulling the beanie over long hair.

She reckoned, one hundred metres to Amsterdam, a three-block jog would have her back in her hotel by 11.50. Just another crazy late-night jogger in the city that never sleeps.

Suddenly, there is noise and flashes of light. She froze her heart racing.

Kathryn Collins wasn’t her birth name, nor, had she always lived in the U.S.

Reality was, she was born Marie Le Pen in Quebec Canada. Spending her formative years in an orphanage run by a strict order of French nuns after being given up by her mother. A person she would never know.

Life in an orphanage was tough, and competitive. It taught her to be constantly on guard to protect herself and possessions from the older, more experienced girls. It was like a mini-prison, gangs, and their social structures where everywhere, in turn, breeding vigilance.     

After being discharged from the system at age 18, Marie had to fend for herself, she found it difficult to survive in a big city. After several attempts at work, all dead-end jobs, low paying and non-rewarding, she was placed with a company that specialised in personal protection for residences of the wealthy and high-profile members of Canadian society, Quebec Security.  

She grasped the chance with both hands. She loved it, there was a challenge and potentially a future, something she could strive for. Her attention to detail, and photographic memory didn’t go unnoticed. After two years she was attached to a tech team, removing and installing security lighting and alarm systems along with safes into high worth properties across the country. Eighteen months on, Marie Le Pen had her own team, before it all turned to crap.

She made an error in judgement. Having an affair with a newly appointed VP was her downfall. Believing he was single, was her first mistake, assuming ending it would make it go away, her second. It didn’t. He lied to the president of the company, to whom he was related, to protect himself. She was issued a written warning, on trumped up allegations of poor work attitude. Then dismissed for supposedly betraying the security of the company. Although false, it didn’t protect her. The costs to raise a legal challenge was an impossible ask. She took a package, in return for her silence.

She’d learnt a valuable lesson. Trust no one. Going forward, she never would.  

After coming down from the high of her Quebec Security experience, she took stock of her life. She weighted her assets and her ability to survive while seeking gainful employment, she knew what the answer was.

Marie applied for and was granted a Canadian Passport, giving her six months automatic entry into the U.S. before needing to apply for an extension.

Selling her meagre possessions, Marie set of in her car, crossing the border at Vermont into the U.S. The winter above and below the border helped make up her mind for a final destination. Sun and warmth, both rarities in Quebec. California was her gaol.

She was in for a culture shock. Aside from the movies she’d seen, Los Angles in real life was something else. Coping with the heat and humidity alone was a struggle. The transformation from cold to extreme heat was something she’d not bargained for. 

She found a furnished apartment in Culver City, a kilometre from the sea. It was small, really small, and, expensive. Once settled, she began looking for work. Her major drawback was she couldn’t hope to work in security. There was no way she could apply for a position in that industry, where references meant everything. The stain of Quebec Security would always haunt her.

After a month, Marie was existing on part time low paid menial work. Something else she was not prepared for; U.S. wages were low. Although her English was excellent, she knew her accent worked against her. She began using some of the settlement money from Quebec Security, not her original plan. But needs must.

She registered with several employment agencies, who required her to provide Visa proof of entry into the U.S. before accepting her. Marie knew, as a foreign national it would work against her. 

Three months on, in an effort to save money she’d moved to Inglewood in southwestern Los Angles. Marie found a furnished bed sit, it was small, still, the low rents asked for in the area helped her save money. The area had a high crime rate. Twenty-four hours a day, lights flashed and sirens screamed, sleeping was not easy.

 On top of everything else, her car needed repairs.  

Marie had four weeks left. If she couldn’t find a permanent position of employment, Immigration would not extend her Visa, forcing her to return to Canada. A prospect she didn’t want to consider.

As was her habit, Maria took her morning coffee at a café near where she lived. Sitting outside she was engrossed in the online help ads when she became aware of a presence, casting a shadow across her table. She looked up, a middle-aged man, dressed in an immaculate navy-blue double-breasted suit, white shirt and crimson tie was smiling at her.

‘Marie? He asked, Marie Le Pen? ‘apologies for startling you, my name is Michael,’ he gestured at a seat, ‘do you mind if I sit? ‘This heat is something else.’

She was wary, and at the same time inquisitive. ‘How do you know my name? ‘And, how did you find me?

He held up a manicured hand, with a continued smile, ‘please, let me explain. I know who you are and where you’ve come from, how I know is of no importance. Why I’m hers is, at least potentially. I have an offer that might well be the answer to your current situation. Please may I continue, I only ask for five minutes, no more.’

What situation, she thought, if he’s referring to my financial and visa status, how does he know.

What followed would change her life, in ways she could have only dreamt dream of.

Marie sat transfixed, as the mysterious man calling himself Michael continued … 

He was a procurer, acting for clients who wished to remain anonymous at public and private auctions across the globe. He bid, on items that covered all aspects of objet d'art, for which he was handsomely rewarded, which Maria confirmed by the expensive bespoke apparel he wore and the gold around each wrists, he went on … telling her, there were times when he was tasked with procuring items that were known to be held in private collection, when the owners were approached, they refused to sell.

This situation led him to consider how he might acquire such items and claim the huge monies he’d been offered. And here he was with a proposal.  The simple fact was, he wanted her to steal something, and, in return, she would be paid.

‘I understand how this looks, and you’re right, it is stealing, although I prefer to look at it as a victimless crime.’ He smiled, and took an envelope from his jacket pocket, after carefully opening it, showed her the contents, $100 dollar bills, he tapped the envelope, ‘$4000, that’s 20% of what I’m prepared to offer you, should you accept my proposal. Also, if you accept, I should be able to assist with an extension of your visa, for a further 12months. Irrespective of the outcome, you get to keep the $4000.’ Before she could answer, he held up a manicured hand, ‘Off course, I don’t expect an answer right away, sleep on it, we can meet here tomorrow. If your answer is no, all good, we never met. If yes, I will furnish you with more details as to the whys and wherefores’ He stood, wished her a good day and left.

Marie sat, not moving. She was gob smacked. What the hell had just happened? 

She spent a restless night. The sirens, flashing lights and the circus playing out on the streets around her, barely registering on her swirling mind. The $4000 could get her car fixed, maybe even replace it with something more reliable. If she was successful, the $16,000 balance would ensure she could find somewhere more suitable, and safe to live. Then there was the prospect of a visa extension. Juggling in her mind the pros and cons, she played the devil’s advocate.

At 5am she’d drifted off, lying on her single bed still fully dressed. She had made a decision.

That was close to nine years ago. In that time her world had changed. She’d undertaken 18, as she preferred to call them, extractions for the mystery man she knew only as Michael. She no longer accepted cash, having established several offshore bank accounts, all their transactions occurred electronically. The initial offering of $20,000 had grown substantially, now, she negotiated her fee. Given the value of some of the items he wanted sourced, her fee could be as high as $200K, or more.

In time she moved from the smog and crime of LA, changing her name to Kathryn Collins. Purchased and renovated a three-story condominium on Marina Boulevard opposite the Yacht Club on San Francisco Bay. She drove a yellow Porsche 911 convertible, ate in the best restaurants and had considerable funds under management. To her friends and acquaintances, Kathryn Collins, or Kate, as she preferred, was a retired interior decorator having moved to the West Coast from Boston.

Maria Le Pen never existed.

Despite all her accomplishments she never became complacent, always on guard. As she’d promised herself long ago, trust no one. 

It also gave her perspective. She was 36 years old, in a place she felt comfortable, and above all, safe.  She knew each extraction put her in greater danger of being caught.

If that were to occur, she’d lose everything. All she’d worked for. Gone in an instant.

Kathryn Collins began contemplating retirement. She’d made no mention to Michael that the next extraction would be her last. And this was it.

A penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. A straight forward alarm system and a floor a safe she was familiar with. The apartment would be vacant for four days. In and out, she reckoned not more than 25 minutes tops. 

 The object, a miniature oil painting by Rembrandt, having last sold at Sotheby’s 10 years ago to an anonymous buyer for USD 20 million. She had no idea what Michael's fee would be, and stopped caring long ago. The 20% percent of her fee, $40,000 had already been deposited into an account in the Cayman Islands in the name of Camile Garnier. As far as Michael knew the account was simply a sequence of numbers, nothing more. She would move it to a second account, under another name, just to be sure it was safe.

She dared not move. The cold seeped into her skin. Her eyes darted, A single light moving from alley walls, windows and entrances, meant only one thing. The cops. She  

heard the unmistakable noise of a police cruiser, idling slowly down the space, rattling as it moved from one cobblestone to another. As it drew near, she could her the clipped chatter of a police radio, as it crawled passed her, she daren’t move. From the rear a plume of white drifted into the cold air, the stench of the exhaust caused her eyes to water. As it moved away from her, further towards Amsterdam Avenue, her heart rate dropped. She told herself; she’d just dodged a bullet.

It was a sign.  

Tomorrow she would meet with Michael, pass over the item and have the balance of her fee transferred to the offshore account.

Kathryn Collins had finally retired.