The Rook - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Theoreon Marceaux
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 2

The sun was shining brightly in London's Hyde Park borough this morning. William Nigel Berthridge stepped out onto his garden patio wearing a fuzzy white knee length bathrobe and sat at the small patio table, smiling. A London native, he was a black man that stood a slim 6'2", 189 lbs and wore a meticulously trimmed goatee on handsome baby face. His morning newspaper and croissant awaited him on the table accompanied by a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea.

William ran a hand over his shaved bald head and exhaled loudly while he opened up the newspaper to a headline that made him smile even wider."Rook thief in Ireland," the headline read. He slowly took a sip of his tea and read on. "The notorious fine art thief European authorities have christened "The Rook" struck again two nights ago at the Monder Dearbourne estate in the coastal region of Cork, in southern Ireland. While the Dearbourne estate is renown for being home to many remarkable fine art exhibitions, the main exhibit hall was ignored, and the study burgled in its place. An original Renoir painting entitled "La Grenouillere," was stolen from the study. It was replaced with a picture of a black rook chess piece.

"I came into my study in the morning and there it was there staring at me, mocking me." commented a disheveled Mr. Dearbourne. Scotland yard's Inspector Sean Cassidy had this comment. "At the moment, we have no leads on the whereabouts of the this so-called "Rook" person, and the clues he left behind are blessed few. Nevertheless we have every intention of finding this rogue and bringing him to justice."

"Not bloody likely," William laughed and tossed the paper onto the table. He always felt like this after a job, that potent mixture of residual exhilaration, sense of accomplishment and beaming professional pride. Being an accomplished thief, William knew that thieving was a heady wine; one that once tasted is not so easily refused. Even for a simple milk run like the Dearbourne estate, William was a man who took pride in his work, however simple. He sat back and let the feeling wash over him, nibbling quietly on his croissant. His housekeeper then stepped out onto the garden patio holding a cellular phone.

"Good morning Mr. Berthridge," she began, her Sussex accent thick as gravy.

"Good morning, Phyllis," William replied, smiling warmly. "What can I do for you, then?"

Phyllis held out the phone to him. "It's Mr. Braithwaite on the phone, it is. 'E wants to speak wiv you. Says it's urgent, 'e does."

"Thank you Phyllis, I'll take it now." He said, accepting the phone. When Phyllis walked away, his tone got considerably louder as he cheerfully greeted the person on the phone.

"Good morning, Mr.Braithwaite, old stick! How does the morning find you, then? Did you get the parcel I sent a fortnight ago?"

"Something has…I need to talk with you." The voice was formal British and shaking. "A job has come up William,something big."

William snorted. "That's what you said about this one. Honestly Percival, you must be losing your touch at your old age, you haven't gotten me a descent contract in weeks!"

"This...this is different, my boy. This is BIG. About as big as they come. I can't talk about it over the phone."

William frowned. "Percival? Are you okay? You sound..." he was interrupted before he could continue.

"Meet me at the office where we concluded the Estrella de Espana deal. This afternoon at 5. The job will require you and one other. He's already here, you'll meet him when you arrive. My private jet is already waiting for you at the airfield. Be seeing you, lad."

"Percival, I don't..." The phone clicked and the dial tone droned.William was perplexed. 'What's going on with him?' he thought. 'He said to meet him at he office where the Estrella de Espana deal was finalised, but as I recall that office was in Venice! Percival's not even in England!'

William ran inside and called to Phyllis to pack him a travel bag for a week, business attire, as he dashed to the hidden locked room where he kept his thieving equipment and took only the basics. If the job was as big as Percival said, most of the gear he'd need would be specialized and provided by the employer.

Twenty minutes later William was dressed. Everything was packed and ready, and he threw his 2 suitcases in the trunk of a black Mercedes 600E class and sped off towards the airfield where Percival's private jet was kept. When he reached the airfield, the attendants were standing ready in front of the plane. They quickly loaded his luggage and escorted him on board. William took his seat and before he knew it, the plane was taxiing down the runway. He barely had time to buckle his seat belt before the plane was slowly rising into the air. A little apprehensive about the suddenness of it all he reached over to the wet bar. He poured himself a shot of Brandy and downed it, grimacing as it burned its way into his stomach. Then he slowly closed his eyes and, to his surprise, drifted off to sleep.