Behind the Veil

by Nolan, Kathryn

  “I’ve been going over this case in my head all night.” Abe scowled. Cracked his knuckles. Glared out the window. “I believe I have backed us into a corner that none of you are going to like. Getting into her house is good. Having her show you her collection is even better. You’ll have your hidden cameras and can take pictures of anything you see out in the open. But I think we all need to admit that the likelihood Victoria Whitney shows you this book is very, very slim.”

  I’d been so focused on getting to her house I hadn’t even considered this next part. Mostly because I figured Abe would have a plan.

  “Then there’s the new information Freya found last night.”

  “Dresden has made headlines recently for hiring trigger-happy maniacs.” She tilted her head at the face behind her. “Like Sven. Last year they were being paid by that singer, Winona Shine, as bodyguards while she was on tour. They shot into a crowd they thought was getting restless, injuring four people.”

  “Jesus,” Delilah muttered. “And they’re still getting work?”

  Freya shrugged. “They’re for the non-discerning customer that operates in the shadier edges of our society. I have no idea how Victoria came into contact with them, except that several of her wealthy peers have used them in the past.”

  “Keeping up with the Joneses,” Abe said dryly. “If you’re going to hire private security, you want to make sure they’re the best. These guys, in a certain circle, are considered the best.”

  “Sven appears to be a bit of a psychopath,” Freya said, “but as long as you avoid him tonight, I think you should be…okay.”

  The worry lines around Abe’s mouth were concerning. “What are you trying to say?” I urged.

  “Tonight, our best guess is that Victoria Whitney has orchestrated some kind of buy or transport for this book,” Abe said. “And she has 300 people at her house. Her security team will be strapped with weapons and eager to please their very rich client.”

  Delilah appeared unperturbed. “I’ll carry my weapon if it makes you feel better.”

  “Not in a dress and not with her guards watching everyone as they come through the door. Delilah Thornhill would not need to carry and conceal a handgun.”

  Delilah sat back, fists clenching. “So say Henry and I are able to find the manuscript.”

  “Highly unlikely,” Abe cautioned. The worry lines deepened.

  “Just if,” she clarified. “If by some stroke of luck, Victoria says ‘hey you wanna see something neat?’ and it’s this goddamn book…you want us to leave it?”

  Abe leaned across the desk with a grave expression. “If she shows you this book, take as many pictures as you can. Do not give yourself away as Codex agents. Leave the party immediately and call the police to report sighting stolen property.”

  “But that means we’ll forfeit our contract,” Delilah argued. “And even if the cops get a warrant quickly, she could send the book out a back door with Sven. We could lose it.”

  “We could lose it either way,” Abe said. “One way doesn’t involve my employees getting shot by a psychopath.”

  Delilah blew out an angry breath.

  “Delilah,” Abe said firmly. “What’s the most important thing? Always.”

  I remembered having this debate with her -- how firmly she wanted Victoria to be punished.

  “The manuscript.”

  “Actually, it’s your safety,” he said, brow arched. “But yes, a very close second is the manuscript. I know you hate it. Fuck, I hate it. I’ve been up all night going over our options and I’m at a complete loss. We haven’t even touched transporting a 500-year-old manuscript out of a party. It’s not something you can wrap in a cocktail napkin and place in your purse.”

  Freya was scrolling through pictures on her laptop, replacing the ones of Sven with interior shots of Victoria’s mansion. “At least if you get confirmation, I think it’s likely cops could come before she moved it.”

  But Abe sounded less confident. “Henry, what are you thinking about?”

  Delilah caught my eye. “I’ll admit, her violent guards are less than ideal. But it feels like a lot of work to let the book go.”

  The words tumbled out in a blaze of honesty—I couldn’t stop thinking about Bernard, fleeing into the night. Victoria, getting away with a crime because of her wealth and prestige.

  When did my priorities start shifting?

  “We’re not letting it go,” Abe said. “We’re ensuring it gets recovered regardless. That’s our job.” He pinned Delilah with a steady look. “We are not the police.”

  A cavernous room appeared on the screen—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, scarlet carpet running the length of it. It smacked of high society and ostentatious wealth, with gold filigree and nineteenth-century portraits of royalty.

  Passageways. There was that tug again—the memory of Bernard, taunting me in my dream. What was it?

  Delilah shifted in her chair. “What do you think, Frey?”

  Freya glanced up from her laptop, sliding her glasses up her nose. “We’re bumping up against a deadline we have no control over,” she said. “If we had another week, two weeks, I think you and Henry would have been able to build up the kind of trust you’d need to get her to show you that manuscript. I mean, in some way, the way she acts around you, I believe she wants to. Henry is a renowned expert she wants to impress, and she’s clearly obsessed with him. I believe we would have had a real shot of her showing it to you if we had more time. But we don’t. We have this party and a team of armed maniacs potentially guarding it. It’s too risky.”

  An understanding look passed between Delilah and Freya—and Delilah sank backward in her chair, shoulders slumped. I’d never seen her look defeated and I found I didn’t like it. It made me want to drop to my knees, tell her everything was going to be okay. The desire to comfort her was sudden and overwhelming.

  “Okay,” she said to Freya. “I hear you.” She turned to Abe. “And I understand.”

  “Do you though?” he pushed.

  “Yes, I do. And I would never put my partner at risk.”

  Even in this office, surrounded by our coworkers, the look in her eyes revealed her faith in me, in us. The knowledge of that had my heart bruising against my ribcage.

  But now that we’d finally gotten there—to this point of real trust—we were charging ahead into a situation with our hands tied.

  “Is that Victoria’s house?” I asked, directing our conversation to the pictures on the screen. Every time I looked at that room, I felt that mental pinch.

  “It is,” Freya said. “Victoria had this house designed in the Tudor style—this is the great room. And it’s not even the biggest or nicest room in that house. But I’m guessing it’s the one she uses for parties so I wanted you to see what you’d be stepping into.”

  There was a wall of curved doors off to the right-hand side. They were painted in gold. “Do you know where those lead?”

  Freya clicked through more pictures. “These are from a profile the paper did on her home a few years ago. So I’m not sure exactly where they go.” There was a picture of a massive library with four fireplaces and bookcases so high they required a ladder. Victoria was leaning against the case with her arms crossed and a secretive smile. Freya clicked: a professional-looking kitchen. A courtyard garden. An indoor swimming pool. A long, carpeted hallway.

  The memory suddenly sparked to life: Four, maybe five years ago. Bernard and I preparing to give a tour of the McMasters Library special collections. I was handling a first edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles, which happened to be one of Bernard’s favorite books. The students were in training to be librarians—Bernard was a true celebrity for them. And he was watching me examine the manuscript with a careful eye.

  As I placed the book gently on a soft piece of velvet, his expression took on a wistful gleam.

  “I once knew a woman, Henry. A lifetime ago now. And she loved books so much she built secret hallways to hide her fav
orites.”

  Secret hallways.

  “Are you okay, Henry?” Freya asked. “You look like you’re chewing on something juicy.”

  I was okay—and I didn’t know if this random memory that had been bugging me was juicy or not. But it wouldn’t leave me alone.

  Delilah’s spine was still curved forward, mouth set in a flat line. My partner would know what to do with this information—would know how to follow the scent to the end.

  “I’m fine,” I said, tucking the memory away to share with Delilah when we were finally alone. “Just a little nervous about tonight.”

  “I think we all are,” Freya said. “I’ll be on the walkie with the two of you on the ride out there, giving you any updates we might have. Abe and I will be ready to talk to the police if you get eyes on the book or any other suspicious activity. And Dorran will be poised for a quick getaway, should it be needed.”

  Abe and Freya kept talking about tonight as if a literal gunfight was an inevitably. My eyes strayed to Delilah, her calm presence. The strength I knew she possessed, the power. I’d never do anything to put my partner at risk. I tried to imagine the man I’d been three months earlier—my days of silence and ancient pages; my nights of elegant dinner conversation and European streets.

  There was no point in even making a comparison.

  Abe pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted. “How do we all feel about this?”

  “Guilty,” Delilah said. “I feel like I rushed us into this mess, and now we’re at the end of our rope before the extraction has even been attempted.”

  “Don’t,” Abe said. “We’ve certainly gotten ourselves into stranger situations. Tonight will be…interesting. You’ll read the room. Play off of Victoria’s vulnerabilities. See where it gets you.” He studied the both of us. “And you’ll get home safely.”

  We both nodded.

  Freya attempted a cheery smile. “Now let’s eat our feelings and get you two dressed up for a fancy party.”

  33

  Delilah

  An hour before Dorran was set to arrive, Freya walked into the tiny office that we shared and closed the door behind her.

  “I brought you a present,” she said. “Also, what are you doing?”

  She placed a small package, wrapped in tissue paper, near the black heels I was planning on wearing. She grabbed my shoulders and spun me toward her.

  “My eyeliner,” I said. “And I love presents.”

  Freya shook her head, plopped me into the closest chair. “Let me do it for you. It’s smudged all over the place.”

  “That’s because my hands are a little shaky,” I said.

  She made a humming sound beneath her breath and gripped the pencil. “Well, it’s a big night. Lots of nerves. Look up for me.” I did, enjoying the gentle comfort that came from having your friend do your makeup for you. “You’ll be fine, though, for the record. You and Henry will attack whatever problems might arise tonight.”

  “That’s true,” I said, wondering which problems she was referring to. There was a current tie for how will we recover this book and am I developing feelings for Henry?

  Both were the reason for my smudged eyeliner.

  “I’ve never seen Abe admit failure like that,” she said, voice quiet.

  “Me neither,” I said. “Will you be mad at me if I don’t get the book back?”

  “Absolutely not,” she promised. “I’ll be mad at you if you go in there, metaphorical guns blazing, and get hurt.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You’re not a police officer anymore.”

  “Abe already gave me this lecture.” I crossed my arms, sullen as a teenager.

  “And I’ve been your partner, and your friend, for two years now. I know your style.” Her smile was mischievous. “Delilah Barrett doesn’t like to fail. But you might have to on this one. Also it’s not really failing. We’ve taken cases before where we never recovered the book. Sometimes they stay stolen for good.”

  “When did you get so wise?” I said, eyes narrowed in mock seriousness.

  Freya gave a big shrug. “Who the hell knows? But you should open your present though.”

  I removed the tissue paper cautiously, not wanting to destroy its pristine prettiness. Inside was a wide, black lace garter belt.

  “Lingerie?”

  “Even better,” she said, green eyes bright with laughter. “Just because Abe says no guns, doesn’t mean I can’t sneak you in a few weapons.” She slid a few things from her back pocket—zip ties, duct tape. “I made this last night. Each part of the lace overlay has a tiny hook sewn into it so you can do this.”

  The zip ties hooked in, dangling carefully. She took the duct tape, folded it in two. Curled it up and nestled it through the remaining hooks. Then she held it up for me to admire. It looked like a very small, very delicate lace toolbelt.

  “I feel like Xena, Warrior Princess,” I exclaimed, taking it from her.

  “That was my plan.”

  “I might not be able to carry a gun, but I can still incapacitate Sven.” I bit my lip. “Probably.”

  “Maybe you should avoid Sven,” she said lightly. “But incapacitate the others for sure. At Quantico, they convinced us that zip ties and duct tape were all you ever truly needed.”

  “Bind the wrists and shut ’em up,” I said, giving her a toothy grin. “I fucking love it.”

  “Not that you’ll need it,” she said somberly. But she gave me a wink. She grabbed my dress—a white, goddess-like gown with floaty, gauzy layers that came right to the ground. It was strapless, baring my back and shoulders, and whisper-soft as I stepped into it. And I couldn’t help but allow myself one luxurious minute of fantasizing about wearing this on a real date with Henry.

  “How’s your mobility in this?” Freya asked. I held still while she zipped me up.

  “It’s fine.” I flexed my arms, did a few fast jabs.

  “Show off.” She rolled her eyes. “But you look gorgeous. Victoria will be fooled, yet again.”

  I pulled out a pocket mirror—checked my hair, my red lipstick. Admired Freya’s dexterous skill with an eyeliner pencil. “I’m already counting down the minutes until we get to partner again.”

  “Henry that bad of a partner, huh?” she replied in an odd voice.

  I turned around to make a joke in response—but her mouth was set in a grim line, brows knit together. My pulse tripled. Freya may have dropped out of Quantico, but she had a gut instinct that rivaled mine and the keenest ability to sense the innate truth.

  “You know strange things can happen when you go undercover,” she continued. “Our instructors at Quantico used to tell us horror stories in class.”

  “Like what kinds of things?” I kept my tone easy.

  “Moving back and forth between these different realities. These distinct personalities. Some of the agents we knew went deep for months and years, balancing two versions of themselves. It’s kind of easy to lose yourself.”

  Like last night, giving in to the fantasy of being dragged into a closet at a gala for newlywed sex. Or having an emotional conversation with Victoria Whitney—not as a target, but merely an interesting woman who wanted to connect with me over her many heartbreaks.

  “You know, I remember having this conversation with my dads, right after I moved back home.” The memory was crystal-clear: their two border collies were asleep at our feet as we sat on the large veranda that faced the forest. It was so quiet you could hear the waterfalls. “I told them being with Mark felt like being an undercover operative. Wearing a new identity that was definitely not my own.”

  “I think that makes total sense,” she said. Her expression was compassionate, but I knew Freya wouldn’t let me off the hook. And I almost said it—almost voiced this persistent feeling I’d been having that everything I’d done with Henry had been the opposite of fake.

  But I took the coward’s way out—again. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “For the same reason I gave y
ou this,” she said, holding up the tiny lace garter. “I wouldn’t send my partner into a dangerous situation without the tools she needed to stay safe. A partner or a friend.” Freya dropped her voice. “Codex is a team of four. Small office, intimate situations. Not much room to hide your feelings if you had any.”

  And the look she gave me indicated she knew what those feelings might be.

  “I hear you,” I said simply. Even though I had no idea what all of this meant or what the fuck I was going to do. “I’m listening.”

  Freya’s eyes searched mine. “You’re sure?”

  I nodded. Took the garter. “Thank you. For everything.” I gave her a hug that she returned in full. She smelled—as usual—like Earl Grey and sugar cookies. “Do you want to go practice punching in your dress? I’ll hold the bag for you.”

  “Let’s do it,” I said, needing the focus. Needing the release.

  “And I meant what I said about tonight,” she said. “Stay focused. And stay safe.”

  34

  Henry

  Abe was sitting at his office desk, chair turned around to face the city lights. He had a glass of bourbon at his side, tie undone, shirt sleeves rolled up.

  I’d never seen him look so informal.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked, knocking lightly.

  “Yes, please come in,” he said, slowly turning around. The limo was set to arrive any minute. “Dorran will be here soon?”

  I slipped my hands into my pockets. “Yes, sir.”

  I closed the door behind me—and caught a quick, alluring sight of Delilah laughing with Freya, back-lit by the orange rays of the setting sun. She glowed and shimmered—looking at ease, hopeful—and I felt my yearning reach an entirely new level. “Is this about how many times I’ve compromised our success with my inexperience on this case?”

  Abe was briefly startled. Then said, “No. Not at all. You’ve done stellar work, Henry.”

  He indicated that I should sit. “I know in the past I’ve mentioned my contact at the FBI’s Art Theft department. Whenever Codex agents happen upon illegal activity during our legal work, I send the information over to him. I’m not sure how exactly he currently uses it, but the former law enforcement officer in me couldn’t have my agents walk by something illegal and not at least take a fucking picture of it.”