The sort of
mistake you would expect an amateur to make, which was surprising, as Connor
Fitzgerald was considered by his peers to be the professional’s professional.
Fitzgerald had
anticipated that it would be several minutes before the local policia responded to a burglary in the
San Victorina district.
There were
still a couple of hours to go before the kick-off of the annual match against Brazil,
but half the television sets in Colombia would already be switched on. If Fitzgerald
had broken into the pawn shop after the game had started, the policia probably wouldn’t have followed
it up until the referee had blown the final whistle. It was well known that the
local criminals looked upon the match as a ninety-minute parole period. But his
plans for that ninety minutes would have the policia chasing their shadows for days. And it would be weeks,
probably months, before anyone worked out the real significance of the break-in
that Saturday afternoon.
The alarm was
still sounding as Fitzgerald closed the back door and made his way quickly
through the small store room towards the front of the shop. He ignored the rows
of watches on their little stands, emeralds in their cellophane bags and gold objects
of every size and shape displayed behind a fine-mesh grille. All were carefully
marked with a name and date, so their impoverished owners could return within
six months and reclaim their family heirlooms.
