The car: a Jaguar XK-140, British racing green/tan leather. The garage: subterranean and dead quiet The job: steal the Jag for the FBI and entrap the fool who paid you to do it

The man pried the driver’s-side door open and hot-wired the ignition. The upholstery smelled rich: full leather boosted the “resale” price into the stratosphere.

He eased the car up to the street and waited for traffic to pass. Cold air fogged the windshield.

His buyer was standing at the corner. He was a Walter Mitty crime-voyeur type who had to get close.

The man pulled out. A squad car cut him off. His buyer saw what was happening-and ran.

Philly cops packing shotguns swooped down. They shouted standard auto-theft commands: “Get out of the car with your hands up!”/”Out-now!”/”Down on the ground!”

He obeyed them. The cops threw on full armor: cuffs, manacles and drag chains.

They frisked him and jerked him to his feet. His head hit a prowl car cherry light-

o o o

The cell looked familiar. He swung his legs off the bunk and got his identity straight.

I’m Special Agent Kemper C. Boyd, FBI, interstate car theft infiltrator.

I’m not Bob Aiken, freelance car thief.

I’m forty-two years old. I’m a Yale Law School grad. I’m a seventeen-year Bureau veteran, divorced, with a daughter in college-and a long-time FBI-sanctioned car booster.

He placed his cell: tier B at the Philly Fed Building.

His head throbbed. His wrists and ankles ached. He tamped down his identity a last notch.

I’ve rigged auto-job evidence and skimmed money off of it for years. IS THIS AN INTERNAL BUREAU ROUST?

He saw empty cells down both sides of the catwalk. He spotted some papers on his sink: newspaper mock-ups topped by banner headlines:

“Car Thief Suffers Heart Attack in Federal Custody”/”Car Thief Expires in Federal Building Cell.”