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It was one of those nights in April when the rain didn’t just fall—it hammered. Ghent’s cobbled streets glistened like a slick of oil under the cathedral’s cold glow. A cigarette burned down to the nub in Arsène Goedertier’s hand as he leaned against a lamppost outside St. Bavo Cathedral. The ancient spire loomed over him like a judge waiting to pass sentence. But tonight, he wasn’t the defendant. He was the executioner. Inside, the world’s most famous altarpiece rested in its gilded home. The Van Eyck masterpiece—the Ghent Altarpiece—had drawn pilgrims, art lovers, and thieves alike for centuries. Arsène wasn’t the type to kneel in prayer or to muse on brushstrokes. No, he had other plans for the panel called The Just Judges. He flicked the cigarette into the gutter and checked his watch. Midnight. The bells from the cathedral’s tower groaned into the stormy air, counting down to the heist he’d been plotting for months. Arsène wasn’t alone. Two other shadows flitted in the rain, waiting for the signal. Achiel De Swaef and Oscar Lievens, his accomplices, weren’t poets or philosophers either. They were men of action—Achiel, a locksmith with a quiet touch and loud fists, and Oscar, a wiry type who knew how to vanish into a crowd faster than a ghost. Arsène adjusted his hat and muttered into the rain, “Time to earn our payday.” St. Bavo Cathedral wasn’t just any church. It was a fortress of faith, built to stand against time and heretics alike. The Van Eyck panels, locked behind iron grates and tempered glass, were supposed to be untouchable. But Arsène knew better. Every lock had a key, every guard had a weakness, and every masterpiece had a price. The bells from the cathedral tolled twelve times, each chime echoing through the empty streets like a slow death knell. Arsène Goedertier tipped his hat lower against the rain, his lips curling into a smirk. Midnight wasn’t just a time it was an alibi. Across the street, Achiel De Swaef huddled under the awning of a shuttered café, puffing on a cigar that smelled like burning rope. He caught Arsène’s eye and gave a slight nod. In the shadows behind him, Oscar Lievens loomed like a ghost, pale and jittery. Oscar was new to this kind of game, but he’d been useful—a locksmith with hands as quick as a magician’s. Arsène had no room for sentiment, but tonight, Oscar was indispensable. The three men had been planning this heist for months. Every detail was sketched out like a blueprint etched in Arsène’s mind the guard rotation, the layout of the sacristy, the exact panel to lift. It was more than just a painting—it was a prize, a piece of history, a key to immortality in the underworld. “All set” Arsène muttered as he joined the others under the awning. Rain dripped off the brim of his hat. Achiel grunted, his cigar glowing faintly. “As set as we’ll ever be. Guard’s been gone fifteen minutes. We’ve got another twenty before he circles back.” “Let’s move,” Arsène said, and the trio slipped into the night. The cathedral doors groaned as Oscar worked his magic. The lock gave way with a soft click, and the three men entered the silent cathedral. Inside, it was as if time had frozen. The vast interior smelled of centuriesold stone and wax, and their footsteps echoed like gunshots in the nave. Arsène led the way, his shoes scraping against the marble floor. The altarpiece stood in the dim light of a single electric bulb, towering and untouchable. The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb was a masterpiece of divine and earthly artistry, but Arsène’s eyes were on one piece alone—The Just Judges, the lower left panel. Achiel grunted again. “You sure this is the one The art hounds’ll chase us down for the whole thing.” Arsène shot him a glare. “One piece is easier to hide than twelve. Besides, The Just Judges is the prize. The rest of the world can keep their angels and lambs.” Oscar stepped forward, his trembling hands reaching for the custom tools strapped to his belt. “Give me a minute,” he whispered, though the sound echoed as if he’d shouted. The panel’s frame was locked into place with a mechanism that Oscar had spent weeks replicating in his workshop. Arsène stood watch while Achiel lit another cigar, the acrid smoke curling into the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling. Oscar’s hands moved deftly, loosening screws, disengaging the locks, and finally, with a soft pop, the panel came free. He turned, holding it like a newborn. “Got it,” he said, his voice shaking. “Good.” Arsène’s voice was low and cold. “Wrap it up. We’re not out of here yet.” The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time they slipped back out into the streets, the panel hidden beneath a black oilcloth. They moved quickly, sticking to alleys and side streets, until they reached an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. Inside, a single kerosene lamp burned on a rickety table. The place smelled of damp wood and mold. Oscar unwrapped the panel with trembling fingers, revealing the stolen masterpiece. Even under the dim light, The Just Judges was breathtaking. The intricate detail, the play of light and shadow, the expressions of the judges—it was enough to make even Arsène pause. Achiel whistled low. “Hell of a thing to risk our necks for.” “It’s not just art,” Arsène said, lighting another cigarette. “It’s leverage. This panel’s worth more than gold to the right buyer. And to the Church It’s priceless.” Oscar wiped his brow. “What now” “Now we lay low,” Arsène said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Achiel, you find us a buyer. Oscar, you disappear for a while. I’ll handle the heat.” But the heat came faster than expected. By dawn, the theft was the talk of Ghent. The cathedral’s priest discovered the missing panel during morning prayers, and by midday, the police were crawling over St. Bavo like ants on a carcass. The story made the front page of every newspaper from Brussels to Berlin. Arsène sat in his study, the blinds drawn tight, the newspaper spread before him. The headline screamed MASTERPIECE STOLEN FROM ST. BAVO Beneath it, a grainy photo of the altarpiece stared back at him, the empty frame where The Just Judges once hung glaring like a missing tooth. He poured himself a whiskey and sat back in his chair. This wasn’t his first job, but it was the first time he’d stolen something this highprofile. He knew the risks. The Church, the police, the art world—they’d all come for him now. But he had an edge. He always did. The question was, how long could he keep it The warehouse felt colder in the daylight. Achiel sat on a crate, his cigar a stub between yellowed fingers. Oscar paced like a caged animal, his boots scuffing the dusty floor. The stolen panel lay on the table, draped with the oilcloth as if it were a corpse no one wanted to look at. Arsène arrived, his coat dripping from the rain that had returned with a vengeance. He tossed his hat onto a crate and poured himself a stiff drink from a bottle Achiel had pilfered weeks ago. The whiskey burned like acid, but it steadied his nerves. “Trouble’s coming,” Arsène said, cutting through the silence. “The police are all over St. Bavo. They’ll expand their search to the city by nightfall. We don’t have time to sit on this.” Achiel took a slow drag on his cigar, the ember glowing red in the dim light. “You got a plan, boss” Arsène set his glass down and leaned over the table. “Yeah. We split up. Achiel, you hold onto the panel. Keep it hidden. Oscar, you disappear, like I said. Change your look, change your name. I’ll deal with the noise.” Oscar stopped pacing. “You’re just gonna... deal with it They’re already tearing the city apart.” “I’m not a fool,” Arsène said, his tone sharp. “I’ll muddy the waters. Lay a few false trails. We bought ourselves time with the panel being just one piece. They’ll think it’s a ransom job.” Oscar frowned. “Isn’t it” “Not yet,” Arsène said. “First, we make them sweat.” Two days later, the first ransom letter arrived at the cathedral. Written in precise block letters, it demanded one million Belgian francs for the safe return of The Just Judges. It ended with a chilling note ‘Fail to comply, and the panel vanishes forever.’ The priest handed the letter to the police, who in turn shared it with the newspapers. By the next morning, the whole country was buzzing about the heist. But while the world debated the audacity of the crime, Arsène was already several moves ahead. He’d left the letter in a rented room across town, planting evidence to point to a fictitious thief—someone foreign, someone eccentric. He knew how to stir suspicion without leaving a trail back to himself. But even the best plans had cracks. Achiel wasn’t happy about babysitting the painting. He’d stashed it in a hollowedout cupboard in his dingy apartment, but every knock at the door made his heart race. He’d been in the game long enough to know that loose ends got tied up one way or another. By the fourth day, paranoia had set in. Achiel sat at his kitchen table, a revolver within reach. The rain pounded on the window as he stared at the cupboard where the panel lay hidden. He hated having it there, hated the weight of it. When Arsène showed up unannounced that evening, Achiel nearly shot him. “Damn it, Arsène” he barked, lowering the revolver. “You can’t just sneak up on a man like that.” Arsène smirked. “If I can sneak up on you, so can the police. Keep your head, Achiel.” Achiel poured himself a drink, his hand shaking slightly. “This panel’s more trouble than it’s worth.” “It’s worth exactly what we make of it,” Arsène said, pulling out a cigarette. “But you’re right about one thing. It’s trouble. That’s why we need to move it.” Achiel raised an eyebrow. “Move it Where” “To a safer place,” Arsène said. “I’ve made arrangements. You trust me, don’t you” Achiel grunted but didn’t argue. Trust was a slippery thing in their line of work, but Arsène had always been two steps ahead. If anyone could pull this off, it was him. Meanwhile, Oscar was losing his grip. He’d fled to a seedy boarding house on the edge of town, where the wallpaper peeled like old paint, and the landlady asked no questions. But the quiet didn’t help. The guilt, the fear—they followed him like shadows. Every newspaper headline felt like an accusation. Every knock at the door made his stomach churn. By the end of the week, he was drinking more than he was eating, his nerves fraying like a worn rope. It wasn’t long before Oscar made a mistake. A drunk confession to a barmaid, a slip of the tongue that didn’t go unnoticed. By the time the landlady found him passed out in his room, word had already spread. The next morning, Arsène read the news with grim satisfaction. The authorities had picked up a “person of interest” in connection with the theft—some hapless fool who matched the fictitious thief he’d invented for the ransom letter. It was a distraction, a smokescreen, but it wouldn’t last forever. Still, there was a flaw in every plan, and Arsène knew where his was weakest Achiel and Oscar. One was too stubborn the other, too fragile. If either of them cracked, it wouldn’t just be the end of the job. It would be the end of him. And Arsène Goedertier wasn’t ready to vanish—not yet. The days dragged into weeks, and the tension felt like a noose tightening around their necks. The city buzzed with whispers of the daring heist, every rumor painting the thieves as shadowy masterminds. Arsène played into that, feeding the narrative with carefully planted breadcrumbs—a whisper here, a misdirection there. But every game has its limits, and he knew they were running out of time. Achiel De Swaef wasn’t built for waiting. The longer he held onto The Just Judges, the more it felt like a curse. His apartment, already a damp hole, began to feel like a tomb. He hadn’t slept properly in days, jumping at every sound in the hallway. Arsène hadn’t been back since their last meeting, and Achiel didn’t like the silence. If something had gone wrong, he wasn’t about to sit around and take the fall. He had the panel, after all. That was leverage. One night, as the city clock chimed three, Achiel made up his mind. He wrapped the painting in an old blanket and shoved it into a battered leather satchel. He needed to stash it somewhere safer, somewhere no one—not the cops, not Arsène—could find it. Oscar Lievens, meanwhile, was unraveling. The barmaid he’d drunkenly confessed to had turned out to be more than she seemed. The cops were sniffing around, asking questions, and while they hadn’t linked him directly to the crime, the heat was enough to spook him. Oscar hadn’t heard from Arsène since the heist. The silence was deafening, and it ate at his nerves. He spent his days chainsmoking in his dingy boarding room, replaying the heist in his mind, secondguessing every move he’d made. It wasn’t long before paranoia pushed him to the edge. He decided to leave Ghent, to vanish entirely. But running takes money, and Oscar didn’t have enough. He needed his cut of the job, and that meant finding Arsène—or Achiel. Arsène Goedertier was in his office, meticulously drafting another letter. This one wasn’t about the ransom—it was a contingency plan. Arsène was no fool he knew his partners were liabilities. Achiel was too impulsive, and Oscar was too weak. If they turned on him—or worse, got caught—he needed a way out. The letter, written in the same blocky handwriting as the first, was designed to shift suspicion entirely. It implicated shadowy foreign art dealers, hinted at a broader conspiracy, and included just enough truth to be believable. He sealed the letter and tucked it into his briefcase. His plan was almost complete. But Arsène’s carefully constructed facade was about to crack. On a rainy Friday evening, Achiel’s paranoia got the better of him. He decided to stash the painting in a secluded spot outside the city. With the satchel clutched tightly, he made his way through the alleys, avoiding streetlights and the rare passerby. But someone was following him. Achiel didn’t notice at first, his mind too occupied with his plan. It wasn’t until he heard the faint echo of footsteps that he realized he wasn’t alone. He turned a corner, ducking into the shadows, and waited. A moment later, a figure appeared—a man in a long coat, his face obscured by the brim of his hat. “Oscar,” Achiel growled, stepping out of the shadows. “What the hell are you doing here” Oscar froze, his eyes darting to the satchel. “I... I need my cut, Achiel. I can’t stay here anymore.” Achiel sneered. “Your cut You’re lucky Arsène didn’t cut you out entirely after the way you’ve been acting.” Oscar’s hands trembled. “I won’t talk. I just... I just need something to get out of here.” “You’re a damn fool,” Achiel said, gripping the satchel tighter. “You think you can run with this heat on us If the cops don’t catch you, Arsène will.” Oscar’s face darkened. “Maybe I’ll go to Arsène, then. Tell him you’re planning to stash the panel somewhere else.” That was the wrong thing to say. Before Oscar could react, Achiel’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the mud. The satchel slipped from Achiel’s grasp in the scuffle, landing with a dull thud. “You don’t know who you’re messing with,” Achiel snarled, standing over Oscar. But before he could land another blow, the sound of approaching footsteps froze them both. The figure who emerged from the darkness wasn’t the police. It was Arsène. His expression was as cold as the night. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and this is what I come back to” Achiel straightened, his knuckles bloodied. “Oscar was about to blow the whole thing.” Oscar scrambled to his feet, his face pale. “I wasn’t—” “Enough,” Arsène snapped. His eyes flicked to the satchel on the ground. “Give it here.” Achiel hesitated but knew better than to argue. He handed the satchel to Arsène, who opened it and inspected the panel. Satisfied, he closed it and slung the bag over his shoulder. “You two are liabilities,” Arsène said, his voice low and menacing. “Achiel, you’ve got a mouth bigger than your brain. Oscar, you’ve got nerves made of glass. If I didn’t need this panel, I’d leave you both to rot.” “Then what now” Achiel asked, his tone defiant. Arsène’s smile was razorsharp. “Now, we finish this. On my terms.” The final act of Arsène Goedertier’s carefully constructed plan began with a grim clarity. He wasn’t a man who enjoyed loose ends, and after that rainsoaked encounter with Achiel and Oscar, he knew he was surrounded by them. Loose ends frayed under pressure. Loose ends got you caught. He couldn’t afford that. A week passed with tension mounting across the city. The police were following every whisper, every clue. The newspapers churned out stories of shadowy art thieves, foreign conspiracies, and even divine retribution for the theft of a sacred artifact. But Arsène was always one step ahead. He began quietly transferring his affairs—selling off minor assets, clearing his debts, and drafting letters that would only make sense after his next move. Every action was deliberate, every decision made with an eye toward the endgame. Achiel and Oscar, meanwhile, were spinning out of control. Achiel sat in his squalid apartment, nursing a bottle of cheap gin. He hadn’t seen Arsène or the panel since that rainy night, and it gnawed at him. He’d spent years cultivating a reputation as a reliable operator, and now he felt like a pawn in Arsène’s chess game. His paranoia deepened. He began carrying his revolver everywhere, his finger twitching toward the trigger at the slightest sound. It wasn’t just the police he feared—it was Arsène. The man had an aura of control that made Achiel uneasy. If Arsène decided Achiel was expendable, he knew he wouldn’t see it coming. Oscar had disappeared entirely. After their confrontation, he’d fled to a dingy room above a butcher shop on the far edge of Ghent. He barely left except to buy food and cigarettes. The city felt like it was closing in on him, and he was desperate to escape. But escape cost money, and Arsène still had the panel. Oscar spent his days chainsmoking and rehearsing arguments in his head. He needed to confront Arsène, to demand his share. He told himself it wasn’t fear holding him back—it was strategy. But deep down, he knew the truth. Arsène scared him. By the second week after the heist, Arsène was ready to act. He called a meeting, summoning Achiel and Oscar to a secluded location outside the city—a crumbling chapel long abandoned to time and the elements. It was a fitting place for the final chapter of their crime. The night was bitterly cold, and the wind howled through the broken windows as the two men arrived. Achiel was first, his revolver tucked into his coat. Oscar followed, pale and jittery. Arsène was already waiting, the satchel containing The Just Judges at his feet. “I’ve decided on the next step,” Arsène said, his voice calm and measured. “The heat’s too much in Ghent. We need to move the panel out of the country. I’ve found a buyer.” Achiel’s eyes narrowed. “And where does that leave us” “It leaves you rich,” Arsène replied. “Once the deal’s done, we split the take, and we vanish.” Oscar’s voice cracked. “And what guarantee do we have that you won’t vanish with the money” Arsène’s expression didn’t change, but his voice hardened. “Because I’m not an amateur. This job was bigger than any of us, and I don’t intend to blow it because you two can’t keep your heads.” The tension in the room was palpable. Achiel’s hand drifted toward his revolver, and Oscar looked like he might collapse under the weight of his own fear. Arsène stood unmoving, his cold eyes cutting through them both. “Do you trust me” he asked, his voice deadly soft. Neither man answered. Arsène smiled faintly. “Good. Because trust is a luxury we can’t afford.” Two days later, Arsène Goedertier walked into St. Bavo Cathedral. He was dressed impeccably, his usual sharp suit and hat giving him the air of a man with nothing to hide. He carried a briefcase, inside which was his final letter. He’d written it with the precision of a surgeon, confessing to the theft and explaining his motives—control, power, and the thrill of outwitting the world. He knelt in one of the pews, letting the weight of the cathedral settle over him. The vast space seemed to judge him, its ancient stones imbued with the faith of centuries. But Arsène wasn’t here for absolution. He was here to make his exit. Later that day, he was found slumped over in his study, dead of an apparent heart attack. The briefcase was open beside him, the letter waiting to be discovered. The fallout was chaotic. The police, the Church, and the press pored over Arsène’s letter, piecing together the threads of the heist. But the letter didn’t give them everything. The location of The Just Judges was conspicuously absent, and Arsène’s cryptic hints only deepened the mystery. Achiel and Oscar, meanwhile, vanished into the ether. Without the panel or Arsène to anchor them, they became shadows, their fates unknown. Some said Achiel fled to South America, others claimed Oscar drowned himself in the Scheldt River. But the truth was as elusive as the painting itself. And The Just Judges It was never recovered. Whether Arsène hid it too well, or whether it met a darker fate, no one could say. It remained one of the great mysteries of the art world, a ghost haunting the corridors of history. Arsène Goedertier had orchestrated the perfect crime—not because he succeeded in keeping the painting, but because he ensured that his name would be remembered. And in the end, wasn’t that what he wanted all along