by Jeff Lindsay
What would work with these guys? They were so much better than the usual rent-a-cops, it was like a brand-new concept of security. What could get them to leave me an opening? I just needed five seconds. These bastards hadn’t even given me two.
Near the end of the stack, I had a thought. The problem was not how good the guards were or how many of them there were. The real bitch was that it was too complicated for one guy, even me. What I really needed was two people. One to make the distraction and one to make the play.
That made sense. Except, of course, the part about the second person. Who? There was nobody else in the world I trusted that much. I mean, nobody at all. And why would I get somebody I didn’t trust to help me?
Stupid idea. I shook it off and flipped through to the end of the file. Possibilities, but nothing really—
A moment, please.
Just one tiny fucking moment.
Every now and then, something comes at you from left field. If you’re any good at all, you pick it up, look it over—and nine times out of ten, you throw it back into left field.
But that tenth time . . .
Riley’s Tenth Law: There’s always at least two ways of looking at everything.
I had figured that my problem was I needed a second person, and I didn’t know anybody I could trust. I didn’t have friends, and honest to God, how could I trust my enemies? And there were a lot of them.
Except—and here comes the thought—if I looked at it the other way around, I actually could trust my enemies. I could trust them to do the same thing every fucking time. They would always act in their own interest, and mostly against mine. That’s what made them enemies. So if I knew they were trying to help themselves and screw me, all I had to do was set up a little booby trap that counted on them doing exactly that. So that whatever they thought they were doing, they were really doing something else. Something that helped me.
I was pretty sure I was onto the answer. I put down the folder and switched my music back on to think it over.
This idea came from left field, so I put on some real left field space music. Eno, “Music for Airports.” I closed my eyes and let it space me out, take me to a place that was huge and open and vague. And I thought.
I thought about enemies. The list of my enemies was long, but it got shorter as I thought which ones would fit something like this and how; which ones might jump at the bait; what bait that would be; and, mostly, which ones I really wanted to stick it to. And then I thought of one who had actually screwed me, and that still hurt. I looked him over, strengths and weaknesses, habits and hates. I really wanted it to be this guy, so I parsed him twice. Finally I had to admit it. Even though I wanted him to match, he actually did. Perfectly.
Great. Step two. How to set the trap, and who in my folder of New People could set it best.
I’m not sure how long I sat there on that steamer trunk thinking. I do know the Eno was over, and my ass was sore, so I guess it was a while. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had a plan. I knew who I would be. Even better, I had just the right enemy.
I took a big breath and smiled. “There’s always a way,” I said, and I opened my ID folder. I pulled one from the middle of the pack. “And this is it,” I said.
I looked at the picture. This would be fun.
* * *
—
He had plenty of people didn’t like him,” Mallory said. He looked around at the other ex-Team members gathered by the security control panel in the exhibit hall. “But he didn’t have any enemies. I mean . . .”
“Nobody who’d want to actually kill him,” Snyder said, nodding his head.
“Fuck,” Szabo said. “I wanted to kill him plenty of times. But not seriously.”
They were all quiet, thoughtful, for a long moment.
Tremaine broke the silence, sounding a little reluctant. “Um,” he said. “Don’t suppose one of the towelheads . . . ?”
“No fucking way,” Mallory said. “They’re all being good little fanatics.”
Szabo nodded agreement. “They want this whole thing to go smooth and easy,” he said. “They’re on best behavior.”
“Um,” Taylor said, frowning. “This girl he was banging . . . ?”
“She was all broke up about it, crying her ass off,” Snyder said. “Why would she kill him?”
“No, I mean, not her. But, you know,” Taylor said, shaking his head. “Maybe somebody, you know. Who was with her before? And they were, like . . . jealous?”
They thought about that for a minute. It was Szabo who spoke first. “Naw,” he said. “I don’t buy it.”
“Well, fuck-a-shit-piss,” Tremaine said, his Cajun accent making the words sound kindly somehow. “They’s a reason it happened here and now. So if it ain’t the chick, what the hell? Hey, Lieutenant?”
Szabo shrugged and stroked the stubble on his chin. “I dunno. Maybe it—” He broke off abruptly, tilted his head to one side.
“What?” Snyder asked.
“He said something, just before he bought it,” Szabo said slowly. “How a beard changes your face—and whose face it changed.”
“What the fuck,” Taylor said.
“Shit,” Tremaine said. “That girl’s ugly, but she got no beard.”
“But if Tremaine is right—” Szabo continued.
“’Course I am right,” Tremaine said. “Right about what, Lieutenant? The girl’s beard?”
“Here and now there’s only one guy with a beard,” Szabo said. “Not counting the ragheads.”
“That metrosexual guy? He’s just darling,” Snyder said.
“Yeah, him. Miller,” Szabo said.
“Lieutenant, a guy that pretty couldn’t never get the drop on the chief,” Taylor said.
“Somebody did,” Szabo said. “Somebody with a beard.” He looked around at the other men. “Can you think of anybody else who fits?”
They were silent for another minute.
“Okay,” Taylor said at last. “So what do we do about this guy?”
Szabo nodded. “Here’s what I’m thinking,” he said, and the others leaned in closer to hear.
* * *
—
Ihave to admit,” Randall said, “I have never been to a more exciting opening.” He sat in an all-glass alcove in their kitchen, used as their breakfast nook, with Katrina seated across from him and empty breakfast dishes pushed to one side.
Katrina frowned. The morning sun was in her eyes, underlining the fact that she’d had too much champagne and not enough sleep. She reached for the rheostat that controlled the SmartGlass windows. The sun was climbing above the trees now, and it was much too bright. Katrina twisted the dial and darkened the tint of the windows a point, then another. “I could have used less excitement,” she said, still frowning. She sipped her coffee and held up the morning paper. “The Times was not impressed.”
Randall shrugged. “Not to worry,” he said. “I’m sure the Post will love it.”
“And that’s a good thing?” Katrina said. She sighed, then smiled slightly. “Although it was almost worth it to see the look on Erik’s face.”
Randall snorted. “I didn’t know he had any other emotions aside from disapproval,” he said.
“Of course he does,” Katrina said. “There’s shock and anger.”
“And now the face he pulled last night. What would you call it?”
“Hm,” Katrina said. “Maybe nauseated disapprobation?”
Randall nodded and sipped. “Mm,” he said. “I like it.”
They were silent for a moment. “But my God, poor Angela,” Katrina said. “She must be a wreck!”
“Her boyfriend even more so,” Randall said. “He’s dead.”
“It’s just hard to picture Angela with that, that . . .” She shook her head.
“You
can’t say it?” Randall said. “Speak no ill of the dead?”
“Something like that.”
“Well,” Randall said. “Everybody loves somebody sometime.”
“I’m not sure it’s love if it happens in a utility closet,” Katrina said.
“That’s right, we haven’t tried it, so—”
“Randall, stop,” Katrina said. “I mean, the man is dead.”
“No argument there,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “Oops. I’m late.”
“Late for what?” Katrina said as he stood up.
“Oh—in all the excitement, I forgot to tell you,” he said. “I’m going up to an auction house upstate—Busby’s?”
“Never heard of them,” Katrina said.
“Well, it’s upstate,” Randall said. “And when I say auction, I mean, you know. Boxes of farm tools and old encyclopedias. And the occasional moose head.”
“Is that really a reason not to come in to the museum today?” she said, frowning again. “We don’t actually need a moose head. And my God, Randall, there’s just so much—” She broke off and shook her head.
“So much damage control,” Randall said. “Smoothing ruffled feathers and so on. Your brother Tim is much better than I am at that sort of thing.”
“I suppose I should go in, too,” she said. “But even so . . .”
“It will be a huge feather in the museum’s cap if this trip pays off,” Randall said. “Old Mr. Busby thinks they’ve uncovered a Masaccio.”
“Is that a painting or an automobile?”
“Normally a painting,” he said. “There are very few surviving automobiles from the fifteenth century.”
“And this Mr. Bisbo can tell the difference?”
“Busby,” Randall corrected her. “And as unlikely as it may be that it’s the real deal, I would be remiss in my duty if I didn’t check it out. And,” he said, standing and clearing away the plates, “Mr. Busby assures me that if I get there today, I am a step ahead of the competition. The Met is apparently still filling out the proper forms to get a tank of gas for the trip.” He put the dirty dishes in the sink. “So if you think you can spare me for the day, I’m off to upstate.” He bent and kissed her. “And even if the painting is a fake, I promise to bring you something wonderful—”
“Please,” she interrupted, “not a moose head.”
“Of course not, not for you,” he said. “You deserve something far more elegant—maybe a 1964 set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, missing volume fourteen.”
“That sounds fabulous,” she said. “I never liked volume fourteen.”
“So I may be back late,” he said.
She reached up and pulled his face down for a longer kiss. “Mmm,” she said. “Not too late . . . ?”
* * *
—
Hey, Lieutenant?” Tremaine stuck his head into the exhibit hall and Szabo looked up. “Some FBI guy here. Wants to talk to you.”
Szabo blinked. Chief Bledsoe’s death—his murder; Szabo was sure it was no accident, no matter what the dumb-ass local cops said—was something he took personally. He had been here at the museum, without sleep, for over twenty-four hours, and he was tired. His SEAL training included going without sleep, and he could easily stay on watch and alert for another twenty-four—or forty-eight, if he had to. Even so, he was tired, and his eyes were dry and filled with sandy gunk. “What does he want to talk about?” Szabo asked, rubbing at his left eye.
Tremaine shrugged. “He didn’t say. Just, he wants to talk to whoever’s in charge of security. That’s all. I mean, he’s a Fed,” he added, like that explained everything.
And maybe it did. Whatever the guy wanted, you didn’t say no to talking to an agent of the FBI. So Szabo took a deep breath, nodded at Taylor to stay with the security control panel, and followed Tremaine into the lobby.
The morning light was blasting in through the front doors of the museum, and Szabo paused in the doorway, blinking against the unaccustomed glare. “Over there,” Tremaine said, nudging Szabo toward the alcove where the bar had been set up at last night’s gala. Szabo looked and saw a gray-suited figure waiting, back turned toward him. He held a pair of glasses in one hand and, with the other, rubbed his forehead, as if massaging a headache.
The suit turned as Szabo approached, fumbling the glasses back into place on his face. For just a second, Szabo could see last night’s bar through the lenses of the glasses as he put them on. The distortion was incredible—the lenses were so thick Szabo wondered how the guy could possibly see anything at all.
But this FBI agent apparently could see. He straightened up and faced Szabo. “Lieutenant . . . Zharbo?” the man said.
“Szabo,” he corrected, looking the FBI man over. He was a man of average height and build, with receding reddish-brown hair, a large and bushy mustache, and glasses. And he was looking unblinkingly at Szabo, waiting for more. So Szabo shrugged and added, “They only call me Lieutenant because they’re used to it. I’m a civilian now—I’m with Black Hat.”
“So I understand,” the Fed said. “I am Special Agent Shurgin, FBI.” He held up his credentials. He didn’t offer to shake hands, so Szabo simply glanced at the badge and waited.
Shurgin blinked, an enormous gesture seen through the thick lenses of his glasses. “I understand you have updated the museum’s security?”
“Not personally,” Szabo said. At the last second, he stopped himself from saying “sir.” Something about this guy bothered him. “But I’m running it now. It’s unprecedented technology. First-rate.”
Shurgin nodded. “Who has access to the system?”
“I do,” Szabo said. “A couple of the guys from Tiburon—”
“Tiburon?” Shurgin demanded.
“They designed it. Installed it,” Szabo said.
“And you trust them?” Shurgin asked. He sounded like he couldn’t believe it was a good idea to trust anybody, and if you did, you were an idiot.
Szabo shrugged it off. “Completely,” he said. “I know most of them. They’re from the Teams.”
“Which teams would that be, Lieutenant?”
Szabo took a breath. This guy was absolutely getting under his skin. Maybe it was a technique, a way to knock people off balance and get the truth out of them. Even so, it was pissing him off, and he couldn’t let that happen. “The SEAL Teams,” he said. “They all have a top security clearance.”
“Mmm,” Shurgin said. “Anybody else?”
“The director of the museum. Miller.”
Shurgin nodded. He looked around the lobby. Szabo wondered if he could really see anything. “Can I assume that this wonderful, updated, first-rate system includes video surveillance?”
Again, the guy was just being a douchebag. But Szabo reminded himself that he had lived through worse. “Of course,” he said. “Archived for two weeks.”
Still looking away, Shurgin said, “I’ll need access to the archived footage.”
“All right,” Szabo said. “You going to tell me what this is all about?”
“We have reason to believe there will be an attempt on the jewels. By a man we take very seriously.”
“And you think this guy can get past the electronics, AND my team, AND the rag— and the Iranians?”
Shurgin looked back at Szabo and blinked again. “He thinks he can,” Shurgin said. “He might be right. It’s kind of his specialty.”
Szabo shook his head. He was pretty sure nobody could get past all the guards, electronic and human. “He must be Spider-Man or something.”
“He is,” Shurgin said, with no trace of humor. “He is an expert at parkour—you’ve heard of that, I assume?” Szabo nodded, but Shurgin went on without noticing. “That means he can come at his target from any direction. Even the unexpected ones. And he has used these skills to execute highly improbable—an
d successful—thefts around the world. He’s smart, relentless, ruthless—and he doesn’t mind committing murder if it will achieve his ends.”
Szabo perked up at the word “murder.” If this superthief had already made a stab at the treasure—and killed the chief in the attempt . . . “Did you get briefed on what happened here last night, Agent Shurgin? It might be connected—”
“That’s why I’m here,” Shurgin said irritably. He rubbed his forefinger across his mustache. “Last night’s attempt—if it was, in fact, an attempt—will not be the last. He’ll come again. And again. He’ll keep trying until he succeeds. And if he has to, he won’t hesitate to kill again—unless we apprehend him first.”
He raised an eyebrow, which, for some reason, looked bizarre: a thick band of fur jiggling above the thick lenses. “This exhibition has powerful implications for our national security. A theft of any one of the items on display would have catastrophic diplomatic consequences.” He gave Szabo another unnerving blink. “You understand, Lieutenant?”
“Of course,” Szabo said. “Who is this guy?”
“A man named . . . Hervé Coulomb,” Shurgin said, and he added, unnecessarily, “He’s French.”
* * *
—
Szabo installed Special Agent Shurgin in the conference room, with a video monitor and playback, and he began to go through the archived footage from the security cameras. Szabo left him there, hunched absurdly close to the screen, presumably so he could see through his thick glasses.
Szabo went back to his post at the security console, where a handful of his men were waiting. “Miller isn’t coming in today,” Taylor said as Szabo approached. “His wife just got here—alone. Said he’s not coming.”
“Why not?”
