The umbrella spread fear and terror. To the left and right, visitors to the museum leapt out of the way to avoid the eight pointed sticks that held the bright yellow fabric of the umbrella in shape.

The reddish light of the alarm reflected off the surface of the umbrella as it swayed wildly back and forth with each strained, painful step of its owner. “Security breach, security breach, evacuate!” blared from the loudspeakers.

If the surveillance cameras had been able to see under the umbrella, they would have spotted a small, bitter pensioner. Once elegant clothes, but dirty grey hair, tied back in a makeshift plait with arthritic fingers.

The old woman mumbled to herself incessantly as she walked straight towards the exit, as uncompromising as a tram.

A museum guard stood in her way. He tentatively sent a friendly smile in her direction and raised his voice to speak. He looked at her wrinkled face, saw the stubborn tug at the corners of her mouth and thought better of it. The old biddy certainly wouldn't hear him over the din. He stepped close to her and leant forward to shout slowly in her ear.

No sound escaped his mouth. Instead, his face turned a reddish colour, he sank to his knees and then toppled forwards as the old woman rattled past him. She had rammed her knee into his crown jewels.

The bright yellow umbrella stepped into the street, turned right and disappeared from the view of the cameras.

An hour later, Martin stepped out of the bathroom of the hotel room. He smiled at Isabela as he buttoned the cufflinks set with diamonds of his freshly pressed shirt.

“Have you only just arrived?”

“I took a diversion so no one would connect us. Great show Martin.”

Martin laughed. “All thanks to your careful preparation. But now we should show our faces in the hotel bar. Alibi and all that… A few drinks. A quick flight to Caracas. Grandmother dies – J.D., property investor from Frankfurt am Main, is born.”

Isabela leant against Martin and breathed into his ear: “What's the rush? I want to celebrate our coup first.” She began to unbutton his cufflinks. She drew in a deep breath and as she pressed her slim body a little tighter against him, she whispered in his ear: “Tell me, Martin, do you still have that grandmother's wig here…?”

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