by Kim Foster
AB&T Novels by Kim Foster
A Beautiful Heist
A Magnificent Crime
A Brilliant Deception
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A BRILLIANT DECEPTION
An AB&T Novel
Kim Foster
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright Page
For my sisters, Deb and Vivi
Prologue
1192 AD, just outside Venice
Two galleys lay shipwrecked on the shore of the Adriatic Sea, a day’s ride from the Venetian lagoon. The ships’ sails hung in ragged strips, ravaged by the storm that had forced them ashore, still so far from home.
The twilit skies were calm now; the storm had receded as swiftly as it had begun. Only a mild, salty breeze remained, stirring the canvas flaps of the tents that had been hastily erected on the wet beach.
Cooking fires flickered among the clustered campaign tents, sending out warm sparks, filling the chilled autumn air with the smells of roasting meat. The men, the sailors, had abandoned the foundering ships and escaped by rowboat, bringing as many supplies as they could carry. Tonight, they would feast. Because although they had survived the tempest, the most dangerous part of their journey still lay ahead of them.
Sounds of singing and celebration rose into the darkening sky. God was on their side tonight. Most would say it was fitting for a band of Crusaders, returning home to England after a successful campaign in the Holy Land.
While most feasted and told tales around the fire, two men were huddled, discussing more serious matters in hushed tones within a candlelit tent—the grandest tent of the camp, set apart from the others.
“I have sent a small party into the city of Venice, in the cloak of night,” said Thomas, the elder of the two. He had a trim gray beard and sharp green eyes, and looked older than his sixty-two years in his weathered chancellor’s robes. “They will gather supplies, and most importantly, the items we will need if we are to go in disguise.”
Traveling as a band of merchants would provide reasonable cover. The plan had merit. But the chancellor narrowed his eyes, watching the younger, taller man hovering over the map, studying the route and sipping his cup of wine. What was the likelihood they would be able to successfully disguise the king of England as a simple merchant?
Everything hinged on that. Of course, any king would have trouble pulling off such a disguise, but the one who stood before the chancellor’s gaze would have particular diff iculty. Besides the height—a head above most men—and the penetrating gray eyes, there was that hair: flame-red, like his father’s, and a temper to match. And then there was the intangible, the aura in his very manner: the man was every inch a king.
It was one of the reasons they called him Lionheart.
The chancellor watched his king closely. Thomas knew Richard the Lionheart trusted him, considered him to be his closest adviser. Would he heed his advice now?
“Your Grace, I must advise you that the chances of capture are very high. We will be traveling through Leopold’s territory, and coming dangerously close to Henry’s.” He indicated the parchment map. “The risks are grave indeed.”
The king placed his cup on the table, sloshing the garnet-colored wine within, and turned his gaze on the chancellor. “What would you have me do, Thomas? After everything we have been through, I will not be thwarted on this last stretch.” Candlelight flickered in the king’s eyes.
Although the Third Crusade had been a success, the journey home had been less so. Foul weather had plagued the Crusaders all the way. They had been forced ashore on the island of Corfu, where they had changed to two new ships—the ships that now lay wrecked beside their camp.
There was no choice in the matter now—they had to make their way overland. Thomas knew the king would not leave his men, would not make a secret journey, saving himself and abandoning everyone else. He did not even suggest it. But there was another issue that needed to be raised.
Thomas smoothed his velvet robes. “I fear, Your Grace, if we do not return home quickly, there will be little left of your throne to reclaim.”
King Richard’s expression turned stony. They had discussed this many times, and the king was well aware of the whisperings about his brother John. Rumors said the prince was taking too many liberties, wielding too much power. There was a good chance Richard would have a battle for his own throne once he returned. And the longer he stayed away, the worse it would be. It may already be too late.
Thomas, however, had been formulating a plan ever since they’d put ashore. It was desperate and risky, but they had few choices.
“Your Grace, you should consider sending someone ahead. A small, clever group could reach England well ahead of our larger group. They can slip through enemy lines and travel efficiently.”
The king tightened his mouth, listening. He looked down at the ring on his finger. A massive ring made of lustrous gold, holding a giant ruby like the heart of a lion. That had been the point, of course, and the reason for the peace offering from Saladin, the sultan they had battled throughout the Third Crusade.
It had been the gift to accompany the treaty signed by both leaders, the act that had ended the Crusade and signaled their return journey home. When Saladin had presented King Richard with the ring, he had explained its origin in a private audience with only the king and the chancellor in attendance. Thomas’s eyes had opened wide while Saladin described the ancient roots of the precious object. It was a deep honor indeed. Thomas had known it, and so had the king.
In the weeks following that act, many songs had been sung of the battles, the success of the campaign, and the ring as the symbol of all that. There was but one ring like it, and it would now announce King Richard’s identity as clearly as a trumpeting herald might.
King Richard considered Thomas’s advice. At last, he nodded. “Send for the man they call Lox,” he commanded.
Thomas opened the flap of canvas at the front of the tent. The smells of roasting meat and woodsmoke curled into the tent, and the candles flickered. He gave orders to the guard standing outside. A few minutes later, Lox entered the tent. He bowed deeply before the king.
Thomas looked closely at the man. He was not tall, but had broad shoulders and thick, curled hair. He was unshaven, like all the men in the troop. His keen eyes quickly marked everything inside the king’s tent.
Yes, Lox was an excellent choice.
Thomas knew him to be a faithful, honest, and courageous man. He had fought well throughout the Crusade, leading the yeomen archers well. But more than that, Thomas knew Lox had special talents. He was shadowy and could remain hidden, slip in where he wasn’t permitted.
A sudden laugh rang outside by the campfire, the sounds muffled by the tent’s canvas and the rich furnishings within. King Richard addressed Lox. “You will take three of your most trusted men, and you will take an alternate route home to England.”
“Sire?”
“You will leave tonight. You must go quickly. We will be behind you, but we will be . . . slower.”
Lox frowned slightly but continued to listen.
“Furthermore, you will take this with you.” At this, King Richard removed the ruby ring from his middle finger and handed it to him. Thomas watched Lox’s response closely as he accepted the ring. It was a wise decision. After all, there were many aspects of the king’s person that would give him away, many things that would be difficult to disguise. But the ring would be a dead giveaway.
“Take the ring to my brother John and tell him what has happened,” continued the king. “Take it to him and tell him the tale of our journey. If I have not returned within six weeks, something has happened to me. Death, possibly, capture almost certainly. The prince will know what to do.”
Lox looked at him uncertainly. Doubtless he had heard the rumors of Prince John’s treasonous acts.
“Your Grace,” Thomas said quickly. “I must question the wisdom of putting so much faith—”
“If he is no longer on our side,” King Richard said, turning from his adviser and placing a hand on Lox’s shoulder, “well, you are a man of resources and intelligence, which is why I have chosen you for this task. I charge you with the power and the wisdom to know what to do.”
“But, sire, I am just a—”
The king held up an imperial hand to stop him.
Thomas cleared his throat. “This ring, Lox, is a leader’s ring. Men will follow you. It will assure your success.”
Lox frowned. “You speak as though it’s a talisman.”
“Because that’s exactly what it is.”
Lox opened his palm and looked carefully at the ring that rested there. Then he closed his hand around it and lifted his head to face the king. “I will do this, sire. I will bring your ring, and your word, back to England. You can rest assured.”
King Richard held the man’s gaze. “I know you will.”
Thomas stepped from the tent with Lox and watched as the man returned to the group, his new mission worn heavily about his shoulders. The chancellor turned to look out across the water. In the distance, the lights of Venice—the fabled city—shimmered over the sea’s horizon.
He stepped back inside the tent, closing the canvas against the sounds of singing and feasting, returning to his king. “It is well, Your Grace. You have done everything you can.”
Richard the Lionheart took a final sip of wine and nodded grimly. “I only pray it will be enough.”
Chapter One
A famous bank robber was once asked why he robbed banks. “Because that’s where the money is,” he said.
It was for much the same reason that I stepped from a convertible Mercedes on a glittering sunny day, tossed the keys to a valet, and strolled up the plush red carpet into the Beverly Hills Hotel. The iconic green-and-white-striped awning arched overhead as I carried my Rodeo Drive shopping bags into the legendary Hollywood landmark, wearing a printed wrap dress, enormous Chanel sunglasses, and a golden blond wig.
The sunglasses weren’t to hide my face from the paparazzi. They were to cover my line of sight. My gaze was not searching for a waiter from whom I might order a champagne cocktail and crab plate, but counting security staff, exits, and scanning for my mark. Yes, I was casing the Pink Palace.
I deposited my shopping bags with a helpful bellboy and swanned into the Polo Lounge.
This was where directors and A-list celebrities made deals over spinach salad, where Marlene Dietrich had been banned for wearing slacks, where Charlie Chaplin had maintained a standing reservation at Booth Number 1.
It was also where I was searching for a very specific target.
This particular disguise, in any other part of the world, would have garnered me an excessive amount of attention. But here, dressed and behaving like a diva starlet merely meant I blended into the scenery, much like the potted ferns in the lobby. I had considered disguising myself as hotel staff, but promptly dismissed the idea. Too much risk of being called upon to carry bags or fetch a drink or sweep a floor at some critical juncture of the job. This way I was free to move as I pleased, and since I was doing this job alone, complete freedom was a must.
Alone. My heart squeezed a little at that thought. Only two months ago I’d been in Paris, working closely with—and torn between—two of the most incredible men I’d ever known, and now . . . well, my solo status wasn’t limited to professional activities, these days. My personal life was as dried up as half the Hollywood careers in this room. I straightened my shoulders. There was no time for self-pity today. Besides, it had been my choice.
I walked up to the bartender in the Polo Lounge. “Have you seen my agent? Miles Shapiro? I’m supposed to be meeting him here,” I said irritably, tapping my glossy nails on the bar top.
Miles Shapiro, I knew full well, was ensconced in a high-end rehab facility in Malibu—a fact not yet publicly known, but one that had been helpfully provided by my trusty hacker, Gladys.
“Sorry, haven’t seen him today, miss,” the bartender said. He watched me with that look, the one that suggested he thought he might recognize me—had he seen me in a small movie role recently? But he couldn’t quite place me, so he treated me like a celebrity anyway, just in case.
Exactly what I’d counted on.
I continued scanning the Polo Lounge—looking not for Miles Shapiro, but for my mark, Gretchen Plattman.
She was a horrendous woman, by all reports. The badly behaved trophy wife of a notorious LA gangster. She’d had a brief—and spectacularly mediocre—career in a few horrible films and then turned her attention to finding the richest son of a bitch she could. The fact that her husband continued to make his fortune on the broken backs of baby-faced inner city kids forced to do his dirty work made no difference to her. Not when it meant she could shop at Christi
an Dior and lunch at Spago.
It had been with no small amount of pleasure that I had accepted this assignment from my Agency. It always heightened my satisfaction quotient when I knew my efforts had an element of poetic justice to them.
I wasn’t just looking to rob Mrs. Plattman of whatever she happened to have in her Birkin bag, however. I had a specific target: The Briolette of Kashmir. Somewhere out there, someone was very keen to possess this stone. But certain things in this world aren’t for sale, no matter how great your means.
That’s where my Agency usually comes in. They commission professional thieves on their roster to obtain the unobtainable.
For a fee, of course.
Not all Agency thieves have a code, but I had mine: I did not steal pieces that were uninsured, and I did not steal from people who couldn’t afford it.
Happily, both those conditions were met in this instance at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
The Briolette was a spectacular diamond—worn as a pendant—that Gretchen Plattman reportedly never removed. According to all accounts, and confirmed by my surveillance, she slept, showered, and even had sex wearing it. The latter typically with younger, tanned, buff men paid for from her husband’s offshore Bermuda account.
There was, however, one occasion during which Gretchen would remove the Briolette: her weekly Dead Sea mud wrap treatment at the spa in the Beverly Hills Hotel. During that treatment, which lasted ninety minutes, the diamond was locked away in a small safe behind the check-in counter at the spa, and was retrieved by Gretchen the moment her treatment was complete, to be returned to its place around her perfumed neck.
That small window, when the Briolette was to be nestled inside the safe—that would be my moment. Ninety minutes should be plenty of time, if everything went smoothly.
But first I needed to find her, because she was never on time for her appointment. She went up to the spa when she pleased—early, if she was bored (a sporadic occurrence); late, if she paused to woo a has-been producer (a frequent occurrence); or not at all, if she was drunk (a very frequent occurrence).
