As she drove to Ortega’s mansion, the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the road. Clara’s mind was a whirl of anticipation and fear. Freedom was so close she could almost taste it. If she was successful, her life of duplicity was about to end, and she could focus instead on a new life with her mate—one in which she’d never have to lie to him again.
The electric gates of Ortega’s mansion loomed before her, imposing and unwelcoming. She pulled up, and the security camera focused on her face as she gave her name.
“Clara Young. I’m here to see Mr. Ortega,” she said with practiced calm.
After a moment’s pause, the gates buzzed and slowly opened. She drove through, her heart pounding not just from the risk ofthe mission, but from the hope that this night would mark the end of her bondage to a life of deceit.
Clara stepped into the grandeur of Ortega’s mansion, her heels echoing on the marble floors. The lavish foyer was a testament to the wealth he had accumulated through illicit means. If they could find the evidence that they needed to arrest him, the house would be seized and his assets would be frozen—he’d never have access to them again, not that it would matter because he’d be spending the rest of his life in prison anyway.
Ortega greeted her with his usual charm, but the shrewdness in his eyes made her instantly uneasy. “Ah, Miss Young, always a pleasure. I have something truly special for you tonight.”
“I’m excited to see it,” Clara replied, maintaining her professional demeanor despite the tension that coiled within her.
He led her into his study, a room that exuded power and wealth. Clara’s gaze briefly flitted to the matador painting on the wall, under which the safe was hidden.
Ortega, noticing her interest, smiled proudly. “Beautiful, isn’t it? But not as striking as my latest acquisition.”
He then unveiled the painting he wanted appraised. Clara leaned in, her expert eyes scanning the artwork.
“It’s in great condition,” she said. “From the early Baroque period. I’d say it’s not a Diego Velázquez original, but likely an artist influenced by him. I would expect it to be worth in the region of a million euros judging by the size and the medium—depending, of course, on the artist.”
The envelope Clara had received from Martinez had included detailed information about the painting, but she didn’t need to rely upon it because this period of art history was a particular field of interest to her.
Ortega seemed pleased with her assessment. “Your expertise never fails to impress me, Miss Young.”
Clara’s mind, however, was elsewhere. She was waiting for the planned diversion to get Ortega out of the mansion, but so far, nothing had happened. Time was ticking, and she needed to act fast.
Trying to buy more time, Clara turned her attention to another painting on the wall. “This piece here,” she gestured, “is also quite remarkable. The way the artist has played with light is ahead of his time.”
Ortega nodded, intrigued. “I always appreciated the vibrancy of that piece. Tell me more.”
Clara delved into a detailed analysis of the painting, discussing its historical context and artistic techniques. She moved on to the next piece on the wall, elaborating on its unique brushwork and the story behind its creation.
Yet, as the minutes passed, the much-anticipated diversion did not occur. Clara’s heart pounded—she was running out of time as well as paintings to discuss.
“And this one,” she said, moving to the third painting on the wall, her voice steady despite the growing desperation. “The texture and layering of colors here suggest a technique that was quite innovative for its era. You can see how the artist has layered the oils to create this vivid sense of depth.”
Ortega listened, his interest seemingly genuine, but Clara could see his attention occasionally drifting to his phone, as if he was expecting a call. She continued her commentary, pointing out the subtle nuances of the painting, the interplay of light and shadow, anything to keep the conversation flowing and Ortega engaged.
She subtly glanced at her watch, her mind racing. The absence of the planned diversion was a worrying development. Clara knew she couldn’t keep Ortega occupied with art talk indefinitely. There were only so many paintings in the room, and she had already covered most of them.
As she spoke about the historical significance of the last painting, Clara’s mind worked furiously, trying to think of a plan B. She needed to access that safe, but without the diversion, her options were severely limited.
Ortega, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to her growing anxiety, thoroughly absorbed in her expertise and seemingly in no hurry for her to leave.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, looking at the painting with renewed interest. “I never realized there was so much history behind the work.”
Clara nodded, forcing a smile. “Art is full of hidden stories, just waiting to be uncovered,” she said, hoping her words would buy her more time.
She glanced around the room, her eyes once again drawn to the matador painting, under which the crucial ledger was hidden. The ticking clock in the background was a constant reminder of the dwindling time and her unfulfilled mission.
Clara continued to talk, shifting the discussion to broader themes in art history, hoping against hope that the diversion would still occur. But as each minute passed, her hope waned, and the realization set in that she was both out of time and out of luck.
Once more, Clara noticed Ortega growing increasingly distracted, frequently glancing at his phone. Suddenly, the man excused himself.
“Give me a minute, I need to make a quick call,” he said, before striding quickly from the room.
Clara’s heart raced as she realized this was the unexpected opportunity she had been praying for. She eyed the matador painting, behind which the safe – and the ledger – awaited. She stared at it, then back at the door. Did she dare risk it?
