Modus Operandus

The clock struck twelve.

A large, muscular woman stood in the shadows of one of the most eminent landmarks of Venice: St. Mark’s Basilica. The church loomed over her like a many-armed beast, far different from the magnificent cathedral that attracted tourists who thronged like flies in honey there during daytime. It was midnight, in one of the world’s most famous cities, and its inhabitants slept peacefully, blissfully ignorant of the darkness that covered the entire nation like a blanket.

A curtain of blond hair brushed just past the woman’s jaw, and her bright blue eyes shone like stars from her shadowy face. She stood almost unnaturally still, gazing across to the far end of the canal to a rather uninteresting, humble home that stood decrepitly, the plaster peeling off the shabbily painted walls and the windows boarded up, looking as if it might come crashing down any minute. This particular building would have been treated with complete indifference by almost any ordinary tourist armed with a camera. But this lady was not a tourist, and, more importantly, she was as far from ordinary as it was possible to be.

The lady worked for Modus Operandus, a Russian-based organization that derived its name from the Latin phrase that meant ‘method of operation.’ Modus Operandus knew various methods of operation, and nearly all of them involved murder. The ones which didn’t consisted of ransom, torture, and corruption. The organization was heard of by few and known properly by even less. It did not work for anyone; its work was done by it, and for it. Its policy was simple: power cannot grow in excess. It must not be confined within a single individual, community, state, or country. In other words, Modus Operandus followed in the footsteps of Nemesis, the Greek goddess of balance"or revenge.

The association’s latest target was fairly larger than its usual objectives: all of Europe. It may sound insane, but genius thrives in insanity. The entire continent of Europe was growing to be too powerful. Nearly all of its countries were developed and their citizens languished in wealth and prosperity while the other developing countries struggled to be free from the chains of poverty. Europe flourished under its remarkable history of art and culture, fueled by multi-billionaires who invested thousands in boosting the continent’s heritage even further. Modus Operandus had realized that the true power did not lie with the presidents or prime ministers: like in all countries, it lay outside the long arm of the law. It lay with the businessmen"the ones with sky-high balances in their Swiss bank accounts, mansions and penthouses in every country of the world, and enough servants to populate a small town.

And so, an agent was sent to each of the European countries to subdue these ambitious millionaires or billionaires. And so it happened that this young lady found herself in the fascinating city of Venice, the historical and cultural hub of Italy.

Her target was a certain Antonio Bartolini, a businessman who was among the world’s top ten richest men. Mr. Bartolini had a fascination for art, and he had spent much of his life and his money in recovering the works of the world-famous Renaissance artist who was, coincidentally, born in Italy.

But all this was irrelevant. The lady’s orders were simple: Kill Mr. Bartolini. And that was the easy part. She was supposed to kill him in a way that would make it look like an accident, in a way that could never be traced back to her. The lady smiled. It was going to be challenging; Bartolini was rich and influential, with an army of bodyguards to look after him. She enjoyed challenges.

Every businessman is a criminal. And every criminal has a weakness. A flaw in his security. This man was not as noble and law-abiding as the world thought him to be. The lady had hacked into Bartolini’s financial databases and discovered that he had recently transferred ten million euro from his account to an anonymous Swiss bank account. After a little more digging, she had found the recipient to be a Dutch businessman who would have been completely uninteresting had she not discreetly traced him to be number seven on Europe’s Most Wanted list of criminals. This list might be considered confidential, but she had the entire register. She was number five, albeit under a different name.

A couple of bugs in Bartolini’s phone had told her all she needed to know. Bartolini was illegally buying a stolen masterpiece from the Dutchman; a masterpiece that is said to have disappeared years ago soon after the death of its creator, Leonardo da Vinci himself.

Bartolini and the Dutchman had arranged to meet in the building that the lady was watching. Bartolini had arrived a few minutes earlier; he had come alone. And here was his great weakness; he had not a single agent to guard him. He was completely exposed, thinking no one would expect him to be in such a run-down structure.

The lady suddenly tensed. A gondola was sailing smoothly down the still canal water, manned by a lone figure. The little boat came to a gentle halt next to the dilapidated building. The man in it hopped out and tied the gondola down. He then proceeded swiftly inside.

This was the time to act. Without making a noise, the lady slipped off her coat, stowing her waterproof gun in the pocket of her pants. The Dutchman may be a criminal, and a smart one too"the position of number seven on the most wanted list was not one that was obtained easily. But the woman was smarter. After all, she was two places up. The man had already made his first mistake by bringing the gondola. The lady was not so careless.

With the flexibility of a snake, the lady slid smoothly into the icy cold water. Barely flinching, she struck out powerfully but smoothly, disturbing the water as little as possible, glancing about her cautiously. Within a minute she reached the building. There was a light burning on the second floor. She could hear voices.

The woman stepped out of the water and quickly wrung out her clothes. She entered the house through a rotting side door that swung open with a soft creak. In the absolute silence it sounded like gunfire. The lady inwardly cursed herself as she made her way inside.

A staircase led to the upper floor, looking for all the world as if it might crumble any minute. She climbed up carefully, making less noise than a mouse, avoiding the damper patches of wood. There was a door at the landing, through which a small sliver of light shone. The voices were louder now. They were speaking in Italian, but she understood. There were few languages she did not understand.

“You have received your advance. Ten million is more than enough. The remaining will be sent to you the minute I reach home safely.” This voice was cold and emotionless.

A raspy, wheezing voice replied, “How do I know you won’t double-cross me?”

“How do I know you won’t take the money and kill me?”

A hoarse laugh followed this. “Oh, you’re smart alright. You Italians do like your art, don’t you?”

“I don’t have time for small talk,” the cold voice snapped. “The painting. Now.”

There was a slight rustle of cloth, then a sharp intake of breath. The lady waited with bated breath. Patience, she told herself, calming her thumping heart.

“It’s the original, isn’t it?” the cold voice now sounded excited, like a little child. “I can recognize Leonardo’s unique style…the sfumato technique that made him so famous…”

“We have time for small talk now, do we?” wheezed the second man. “I’m sorry about this, Bartolini. I really am. But you’re right. Ten million euro is more than enough. I can live without the rest of your money. This painting, though…”

“What are you talking about?” there was a slight note of panic in the first man’s voice. The lady could envision him clutching the painting protectively, like the way a mother might hold her firstborn child.

“I want the painting,” came the guttural reply. “Simple.”

The woman’s heart quickened pace. This situation had not slipped her mind when she had been plotting, and she knew what was going to happen. Double crossing was common amongst such criminals. And to be honest, who could blame them?

She opened the door very slightly and peered through the crack. Two men stood facing each other; one tall and fit, wearing a designer suit and highly polished shoes. The other was stooping and gaunt, a wild mane of hair covering most of his face, wearing a crumpled shirt. As she watched, the skinny one produced a gun from his pocket. It was a small pistol; personally the lady had never cared for such puny weapons. The man"presumably the Dutch businessman"raised the gun.

“No!” Bartolini backed up against the wall. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with! If you even hurt a single hair on my head, you’ll me hoarded by every single police officer in Europe! You’ll never"”

“Oh, shut up,” the Dutchman barked, and fired two shots. At such close range, it was impossible to miss. One bullet punctured Bartolini’s chest; the other, his head. The multi-billionaire dropped like a sack of flour. The woman could hear some of the floorboards crack.

In that split second, a dozen thoughts ran through the lady’s mind. One, she was starting to like this Dutch guy less and less. A professional assassin would never have handled the situation this way; unnecessarily talk with his victim, and waste two bullets to kill him in close quarters.

And two, she was hastily changing her scheme. She hadn’t expected the criminal to be such an important variable. It would be easy to just leave; after all, her orders had been to kill Bartolini, and he was dead as a doornail. Yet something about that ten-million-euro painting told her that it would be invaluable to Modus Operandus. Within a tenth of a second, she made up her mind.

The woman burst into the room with her gun drawn. The murderer, who had been busy in the act of packing up the priceless masterpiece in a black waterproof bag, looked up and seemed faintly amused.

“What’re you doing here, missus?” he sneered.

“Give me the painting,” she replied calmly, sparing a glance at Bartolini to make sure he was really dead. Blood blossomed on his shirt and he had lost all color in his cheeks. He wasn't moving. “Give me the painting or I shoot. Simple,” she added, aiming her gun steadily at the thief’s head.

“Alright, alright,” the man frowned slightly, analyzing the situation. He had pocketed his gun"another big mistake. Never lower your weapon in an insecure surrounding. And this old building, in the middle of the night, was as insecure as it was possible to be. “We can work this out. Who are you, anyway?”

The lady fired a single shot at the rotting floor, blowing a clean hole in between his two feet. It was unnecessary, and a little reckless, she knew. But time was running out. Someone must have heard the previous two gunshots. She had to get out of this place as soon as possible.

The man’s face had whitened, but he stood his ground. “Okay, okay,” he said cautiously. “No need to get angry. Here…” he picked up the painting and moved towards her.

At the last minute, he threw the canvas behind him and lashed out, knocking the gun from her hand. It spun in the air and landed beside Bartolini. Without pausing to think, the lady spun around with a spinning kick and the man went crashing to the floor, splintering the floorboards. In one swift movement, she snatched up her gun and darted towards the painting. She had just grasped one corner of it when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she hit the ground and rolled to safety, and her opponent’s foot met only air. She came up with her gun pointed once again at the Dutchman’s head.

They stood, panting, facing each other. The man had a cut lip and a bruise on his forehead. The painting lay in between them. “Don’t move,” the lady snarled, holding her pistol firmly. The man took a step forward and the woman fired, intending to wound his arm"but, impossibly, she missed and the bullet lodged itself in the opposite pillar, blasting through the weakened plaster.  

For a second, all was still. And then they both heard an ominous creaking. They froze, staring at each other. The sound intensified.

“What was that?” the man hissed.

That’s when a section of the floor"the area where the man had fallen when the lady had kicked him"collapsed with a thunderous noise into the floor below. Cracks spread along the floor and more portions began to fall.

“The building’s coming down!” the man yelled.

The woman didn't waste her time screaming. She knew what was happening; the building, already having absorbed years’ worth of moisture, had not been able to stand the two bullets fired at it, both of which had probably damaged principal support structures, and the force of two fully grown men falling against the floor. It was collapsing.

Without a second thought, she swooped down, grabbed the painting, and sprinted towards a boarded-up window, shoving aside the surprised Dutchman. The floor was disintegrating under her feet. Just before she lost support, she launched herself at the window. The boards stood no chance against her full force. She burst through the opening, hugging the painting tightly, and soared through the air for one impossibly long second before gravity took hold of her again and she went plummeting towards the dark, murky canal water.

She barely had time to streamline her body and take in a lungful of breath before she plunged into the water, blessing the waterproof bag that protected the painting.  Little rivulets of blood streamed into the water from where splinters had punctured her skin. She swirled for a few seconds in the pitch-dark, unable to see. And then, with a powerful breaststroke, she struck out and broke the surface of the water, coughing and spluttering. Twisting around, she saw the rest of the building come crashing down as the structure collapsed inwardly on itself. Fragments of driftwood floated in the water like little boats.

She had expected the destruction to be a little more exciting, but it was just plain pathetic. None of the pieces of the house even reached her. She spotted a shadow moving towards her and recognized it as the gondola that the Dutchman had brought. It was floating lazily towards her, bobbing slightly. Treading water, she made her way to the long boat and clambered on board. Ignoring her aching muscles, she grabbed the oars and began rowing as hard as she could.

The surrounding inhabitants had heard the noise; a few lights were starting to come on, a few windows and doors opening. By the time they found out what had happened, she would be on her way to another country. A handful of sharp-eyed witnesses might spot a lady in a gondola sailing away from the scene.

The lady smiled slightly. She waited until she had steered the gondola down a few narrow canals and had reached a sufficient distance away from St. Mark’s Basilica. Then she removed her blond wig, coat, and facial mask to reveal that she was not, in fact, a lady at all, but a man. With one toss, he threw them into the canal to join the millions of other debris and garbage that covered the canal bed.

The man gripped the painting tightly between his legs as he rowed. One less billionaire and one less criminal in the world. And in addition, a priceless masterpiece. Not bad, for a night’s work. 

 

Tuesday, April 25, 2014

Breaking news

ITALIAN MULTI-BILLIONAIRE SHOT, DUTCH BUSINESSMAN KILLED IN BUILDING COLLAPSE

Italian multi-billionaire Antonio Bartolini has been shot by Dutch businessman, identified as Pieter Rynsburger, who was subsequently killed in a building collapse opposite the famous St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice, Italy, at approximately 12:30 am on Tuesday, April 25, 2013.

Authorities say the building had long since been abandoned and had slowly been weakening due to absorption of excess moisture from the adjoining canal. “We were thinking of demolishing it,” says Mark Williams, one of the city’s leading building contractors.

The two bodies were discovered amongst the floating debris. Mr. Bartolini was found with two fatal bullet wounds in his chest and head. The gun in question was found in the pocket of Mr. Rynsburger, who had sustained numerous injuries to the head from the collapse.

Authorities have refused to provide further information until police investigations are complete. However, and inside source claimed that Mr. Bartolini and Mr. Rynsburger had been partners in an illegal business. Mr. Rynsburger had possibly planned to double cross Mr. Bartolini, and shot him. The building may have collapsed due to the struggle between the two men.

Some eyewitnesses supposedly saw a woman in a gondola rowing away from the scene, at the time of the collapse, although this is yet to be confirmed.

“There was no woman in a gondola,” snapped an agent, who wished to remain unnamed. “It was the middle of the night, and the people were half-asleep. They must have imagined it. There have been no traces of the gondola in question. If you ask me, it’s just people making things up to make the situation more exciting. It’s just a homicide, coupled with an unfortunate building collapse. That’s all there is.”

(Special Correspondent)