by Jeff Lindsay
Angela opened the door, and he came in right behind her. He turned and closed the door, and then faced Angela. She stared at him, unable to speak, and the unknown feeling came back and washed over her and made her feel very wobbly and uncertain.
But the chief just nodded, walked over to Angela, and put both hands on her shoulders. Then he leaned slowly forward, and Angela did not move or try to pull away. Their lips met, and with a shock, Angela responded, putting her arms around him. His hands began to move over her, and she pressed against him harder.
And when it occurred to her what was about to happen, she broke away from him at last. He regarded her mildly, one scarred eyebrow raised.
“The door,” Angela said in a husky voice she did not recognize as her own. “Lock the door.”
CHAPTER
26
It was three nights before the gala opening, and Katrina surveyed the setting for the exhibition where it sat in the most secure interior room in the museum. The team from Tiburon was putting the final touches on the electronic security equipment, and every few minutes an alarm would squeal as they carefully tested each sensor.
Katrina barely noticed. In the first place, she was completely focused on making this event unfold flawlessly. But just as important, she was exhausted. Or, to be a little more accurate, she had been exhausted three days ago. Now she was so far beyond that she had trouble remembering where she was, let alone what she was supposed to be doing.
But she’d been doing it anyway. Because for the first two days that Randall had been curator at the Eberhardt, he hadn’t come home at all. There was simply too much that had to be done before the opening and not nearly enough time to do it. And so naturally, Katrina had come to the museum to give what help she could. Since then, the days and nights had blurred together into an endless flurry of frantic activity, with no time for sleep except for short naps when it was absolutely essential. She and Randall—and Angela, the assistant curator—had been laboring around the clock.
Katrina took a deep breath and let it out audibly. She didn’t dare close her eyes, even for a moment, or she would fall asleep where she stood. She took another look around the room. The collection itself would look absolutely fabulous in the setting they’d made for it. The individual pieces would sit in transparent cases that were locked in place, each one guarded by a half dozen devices that would detect any change in weight, any movement, any disturbance at all to the blast-proof glass of the case. Cameras were sited on each case—not merely for visual surveillance but for infrared, too. In addition to those measures, each case would have several human guards on a random patrol schedule that ensured there were always eyes on each item.
But the room itself was still littered with tools, scraps of wire and tape and packing materials. Stacked against one wall were a dozen poster-sized placards with information relating to each item, the general history of the collection, and something of Iran and the Persian Empire. They were not in place yet because, although each placard had its own easel to display it, the paint on the easels was still drying.
Katrina shook her head at the mess. They couldn’t really clean up until the Tiburons finished their work. But at least they were finished in the museum’s lobby. She could begin in there.
Katrina left the exhibition room and walked through the large marble archway into the lobby. She paused in the archway for a moment and surveyed the wreckage. The lobby was truly a disaster. It had been the staging area for all the individual work projects, and it looked like a combination of warehouse and dump. In just a few days, it would host the glitterati of the art world, all come in their finery to see an exhibition of wonders that had never before been displayed in the United States. And when they arrived, if the lobby was not absolutely gleaming with quiet good taste, the multitudes would sneer as they sipped their champagne and end the evening by calling for Randall’s head on a silver tray. They would be joined by the Iranian delegation, demanding an explanation for the dreadful insult and probably setting off an international incident, maybe even culminating in war.
Katrina knew there was only one way to avoid a long and bloody war that might eventually drag in most of the world and end in nuclear catastrophe. That was to set things right, make everything beautiful, turn the museum from a litter-strewn slum into a gleaming mecca of good taste. Only she and Randall could save the world, and time was running out.
And as Katrina had that thought, she saw her husband stagger around the corner from an alcove of the lobby. He was trying to balance a huge burden of trash, made up of four large boxes and two oversized trash bags. She watched him for a few seconds, smiling, and then, as the load began to slip from his grasp and onto the floor, she hurried forward.
“Randall, for God’s sake,” she said as she reached him, “didn’t you ever hear the saying ‘The lazy man breaks his back trying to do it all in one load’?”
Randall sighed. “That sounds very German. Is that another of your grandfather’s pearls of wisdom?”
“Probably,” she admitted. “But it’s true anyway.” She frowned. “Where’s Angela? She could take some of this.”
“She vanished a little while ago,” Randall said. “She must have fallen asleep somewhere.”
“Well, you can’t carry it all by yourself,” Katrina said. “Here—you take the boxes and I’ll take the bags.”
“Deal,” he said, and in another moment they were walking together toward the back door, where the already-full dumpster awaited.
As they passed the exhibition hall, an alarm sounded, and Randall nearly dropped his armful of trash. “Jesus,” he said.
“They’re just testing all the alarms in there,” Katrina said. “I think that means they’re almost finished.”
“I sure to God hope so,” he grumbled. “There’s this thing called time? And it’s definitely running out.”
“We’ll get it done in time,” Katrina said, trying to sound confident.
“Uh-huh,” Randall said, making no attempt to match her tone.
“Well, but we sort of have to, don’t we?” she said. They had arrived at the door marked “DO NOT ENTER: STAFF ONLY.” It led to the loading dock and the dumpster.
“That’s no guarantee that we will,” he said. “I’ve known—hey!” He broke off as the door swung open, nearly hitting Randall, and Angela came hurrying through.
“Oh!” Angela said, clearly as startled as they were. And for some reason, she turned bright red. “I was just—I, uh—actually,” she stammered. She looked around wildly, smoothing her skirt jerkily. “I’m just locating the catalogs,” she said, pointing behind her. “Some twit has misplaced them, apparently.” She squirmed, then said, “I’ll have a look in the office, all right?” And before either of them could speak, she hurried off.
“What was all that about?” Katrina said.
Randall shrugged—and almost dropped his cargo again. “Oops, gotcha,” he said, grabbing the trash and balancing it in his arms. “I have no idea,” he said. “Maybe just British eccentricity?”
“She seemed embarrassed about something,” Katrina said, pulling the door back open so they could get through.
“Like I said, probably fell asleep,” Randall said. They walked down the hall toward the loading dock door. “I mean, if she did, and she thinks we caught her at it—”
“Maybe so,” Katrina said. “I could use a nap myself right now.”
They were only a step beyond the door of the supply room when it, too, swung suddenly open.
“Whoa,” Randall said, dodging away from the door, and they both turned back to see who had opened the door.
A very large man stood in the doorway, adjusting his pants and fastening his belt, staring at them.
“Hello,” Katrina said. She cocked her head to one side and said, “You’re with the security people, aren’t you? I’ve seen you with them. Aren’t you the
one they call Chief?”
The large man ignored Katrina and squinted at Randall. He gave his pants one last tug and tilted his head to one side. He raised one scarred eyebrow and pointed at Randall. “I’ve seen you before,” he said. “I remember your face.” And there was something in his tone that made the memory seem menacing.
“Uh, yes,” Randall said. “I’m the curator of the museum.”
The man shook his head. “That’s not it,” he said. “Somewhere before this. In the last six months.”
“Uh, well, I’ve been in England until recently, and—”
But the chief was already shaking his head. “No,” he said. “Somewhere else. Where you shouldn’t have been.” His forehead wrinkled in thought; the man moved around Randall, looking him over like he was sizing up an animal for the slaughter.
“Well, maybe you saw him on the news,” Katrina said, trying to break the palpable tension.
The chief stopped between them and the loading dock and shook his head. “Someplace you shouldn’t have been,” he repeated slowly.
“You must be mistaken,” Randall said. “Now, before my arms break from this trash—” And he tried to push past, but the chief put a huge hand on his chest and stopped him.
“I don’t make mistakes. Not about this,” the chief said. “I remember faces. It’s kept me alive.”
“Well, I’d love to play guessing games with you, but I have a lot to do, so excuse me?” And Randall finally managed to get past the chief. “Katrina—come on.”
Katrina stood there a moment longer, looking with surprise at the chief. He was still staring after Randall. “I’m gonna remember,” he said softly, his voice filled with menace.
“Katrina!” Randall called again.
Her husband’s words jerked her into motion. “Coming,” she said.
She caught up with him at the door to the loading dock. “What was that about?” she asked Randall.
“No idea,” he said.
“He said, ‘I’m gonna remember,’” Katrina said. “Like it was some kind of threat, or—”
“Shit,” Randall said. “Give me a hand with this door?”
Between them they fumbled the outside door open. A rush of cool air came in, hitting Katrina in the face. But before she went out, she looked back one last time.
The chief hadn’t moved. He was still standing in the hall, watching them. Katrina felt a chill go up her spine, and she hurried through the door and out onto the loading dock.
* * *
—
Chief Bledsoe watched the two wallflowers lug their trash out until the door closed on them. Then, still frowning, he turned away and headed back to rejoin the team. It bothered the shit out of him—he knew that fucknuts. Had seen that face. But where? When?
Never mind. It would come to him. It always did. And then he would decide what to do about it. Until then, why fuck with the good mood? Because he was feeling very pleased with himself. Not because he had just knocked off a piece of ass, either. It was a professional thing, too. His team had done a primo job installing the security equipment, even though some of it had never been deployed in the field before. That meant problems they couldn’t anticipate, requiring solutions nobody had thought of yet. And they’d fucking well found them. So the men were happy that they were scoring with tech that nobody had seen before. And the chief had done his job, organizing the whole thing, dogging it all into place and keeping everybody clean and sober while they worked.
And yeah, best of all—once his duty was fulfilled, he had found a way to get laid on site, something he regarded as almost as important.
The piece of ass—Anabel? Abigail? something with an A—whatever her name was, she’d been surprisingly enthusiastic. He’d found that the plain ones usually were. He’d have to remember to ask somebody about her name. Wouldn’t do to fuck that up. She might cut him off. Although, judging by her enthusiasm, he was pretty sure he could call her Fred and she’d keep fucking him.
The chief was thinking about that, and smirking, as he strolled down the hall—when a cold soft voice behind him said, “Freeze.”
Chief Bledsoe froze.
“Wipe that fucking simper off your face,” the voice said. “And button your fucking fly, you cock-breath motherfucker.”
A huge smile spread over Chief Bledsoe’s face. “Sir,” he said. “Permission to tell cocksucker officer to go fuck himself, sir?”
“Granted,” the voice said, and Bledsoe spun around.
Standing there with a grin matching his own was Lieutenant Szabo, an officer he’d served under on the Teams.
“You dog-fucking bag of shit. Sir,” Bledsoe said, grabbing the man in a bear hug.
“Jesus fuck, Chief, you’re even uglier than I remembered. Like a warthog fucked a donkey.”
“And you, sir. Without the beard you had in the sandbox, I thought I was looking at a monkey’s ass.”
“Guess you’d know, considering how many monkeys you fucked,” Szabo said.
For a moment, the two just grinned at each other. “Shit, it’s good to see you, sir,” Bledsoe said.
“Likewise,” Szabo said, and the two walked together toward the exhibit hall.
“So what the fuck are you doing here?” the chief asked. He nodded at Szabo’s uniform. “And in that pretty shirt and all.”
“I’m leading the team from Black Hat,” Szabo said.
“Hoo-yah,” Bledsoe said.
“And get this: We’re supposed to ‘coordinate and implement’ with the Raghead Guards.” He snorted.
“Lucky you,” Bledsoe said.
“They get here same time as these jewels,” Szabo said.
“When’s that?”
“I can’t tell you. You don’t need to know,” Szabo said. “It’s the morning of the big opening shindig.”
“Huh,” the chief said. “We’re scheduled to run final tests about then. And then we’re outta here.”
“Too bad, I could use you guys,” Szabo said. He shook his head. “This place looks like a fortress, but it’s got so many entry points we’re going to need all the eyes we can get.”
“Speaking only for myself,” the chief said, “I may stay over a few extra days.”
Szabo stared at the chief, whose face had taken on a look of massive innocence. “Well, fuck me dead,” Szabo said. “Are you serious? How the fuck did you find pussy in a fucking museum?”
Bledsoe’s smirk returned to his face. “Pussy everywhere. You just have to know how to find it.”
“And in your case, you have to be willing to fuck some stuff that does not actually look human.”
“As long as the important parts work,” Bledsoe said.
“That’s pure Navy all the way,” Szabo said.
“Hoo-YAH, sir!”
Both men chuckled. “So you willing to share this girl?”
“Aw, she’s way too ugly for an officer,” Bledsoe said.
“Selfish bastard,” Szabo said.
The two paused at the door to the exhibition hall. “Hey, you’re gonna be here when we’re gone—let me show you how all this stuff works,” Bledsoe said.
“Absolutely,” Szabo said.
Bledsoe took his old commander’s arm and pulled him through the door, bellowing as he did, “Officer on deck!”
CHAPTER
27
It was just before dawn. The day of the gala opening had come. And with it, the Crown Jewels of Iran came, too.
The jewels had been waiting for this moment, in a remarkably secure vault at the Iranian Permanent Mission to the UN. It would take brass balls and a low IQ to try for them there. And now the jewels were on the streets of New York, headed for the Eberhardt Museum.
The Iranians were pretty sure nobody would try for the jewels while they were en route, either. I agreed with t
hem. I wouldn’t try it. Not without knowing the route, the timetable, the security—too many variables. And with a platoon of Revolutionary Guards riding with the jewels, you’d need a full company of veteran assault troops and a couple of tanks. Maybe air support, too.
No, nobody was going to hit the Iranian convoy. Not while it traveled through the streets of New York. But some overoptimistic idiot might be watching to make a stab at it when they were most vulnerable—when they arrived at the museum. It wouldn’t be a whole lot easier, but you never know. The guards would be ready for it in any case.
So would I. I watched from the roof across the street. I hadn’t seen anybody else watching, not on the roof or the street or from any neighboring building. I might have missed somebody, but I didn’t think so. I didn’t care. Nobody was going to get the jewels tonight. And after tonight, nobody else was going to get them. Just me.
So I was watching mostly from curiosity. I don’t know why I chose to watch from a roof. There were plenty of places to stand and look once I found out when the jewels would arrive. But I picked the roof. Maybe because it made me feel powerful, invisible—shit, who knows? I’m not a shrink.
And who cares? I chose the roof. I liked it. I felt like Spider-Man up there, watching and waiting for Doc Ock to do something heinous. I’d been standing up there for twenty minutes, and so far nothing heinous had happened. But it was going to happen, and soon. That’s me: Captain Heinous, Sticky-Fingered Superhero.
In the meantime, I watched the traffic. It was light at this hour, just before dawn. That’s one reason it was happening now. And there was a definite chill in the air, so any people out on the streets walked a little faster to keep warm. I couldn’t wait any faster, so I was getting cold. But I knew it would happen soon, and I thought warm thoughts and waited.
A black SUV turned the corner and drove toward the museum. It was followed by another black SUV, an armored car, and then two more black SUVs. The first two SUVs split up. One turned down the alley that led to the museum’s loading dock; the other one parked at the mouth of the alley. Six bearded guys in dark suits jumped out. They were carrying automatic weapons, and they looked like they were going into combat—you know, eyes wide, hyperalert, looking for something to shoot. They fanned out fluidly, like they’d done this kind of thing before, and watched while the armored car turned down the alley.
