by Jeff Lindsay
Delgado turned away and scanned the hall. With his years of experience in the FBI, he could spot most of the electronic security devices. Szabo had already sketched out for him where the two teams of guards had been deployed. Nobody in their right minds would even try to get past all that—it was suicidal.
BUT . . . if somehow somebody did get past it, the real problem was getting the jewels and getting away. He looked at the rows of cases, each one with an apparently untouched item still on display. Szabo insisted that nothing had been taken. But to Delgado, all the signs pointed to Riley Wolfe. And he agreed with Sneed—Riley Wolfe would not leave empty-handed.
Delgado stepped closer to the case holding the Daryayeh-E-Noor and looked at it. Beautiful, amazing, and stunning. It was worth billions of dollars—but it could be easily concealed and carried away. It was a clear first choice for any thief. And yet there it sat. Unless—
Abruptly, he turned back to Szabo. “How long was he alone in here?” he said sharply.
Szabo looked away, embarrassed. “Ah—maybe five minutes?”
“Five minutes? With the alarm off?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
“Where were you?”
Szabo sighed heavily. “I ran up to the roof, like a fucking idiot,” he said. “When I heard the shots.” He shook his head and met Delgado’s eyes. “I mean, my team was right here, but . . .”
“But nobody had eyes on . . . ‘Special Agent Shurgin.’”
Szabo looked away again. “No,” he said. “Nobody.” He bit his lip, then looked back at Delgado. “But I told you—nothing is missing! I mean—it’s all right there, see for yourself!”
Delgado nodded impassively. He looked once more at the case holding the massive jewel, and he was sure. “Call an appraiser,” he said. “The best one you can find. Have him look at this one. The Ocean of Light.”
Delgado looked at Szabo. “And keep it quiet. Nobody knows about this but you and the appraiser.” He held out his business card, and Szabo took it. “Call me when that’s done,” he said.
“Uh, yeah, sure. Yes, sir,” Szabo said.
Delgado turned and walked out of the exhibition hall, out of the museum. There was nothing more to say. He knew what the appraiser would find. And he knew how Riley Wolfe had done it. An FBI agent has inherent authority. Who would question him? Except the FBI had no Special Agent Shurgin. Delgado had been sure, but even so he had double-checked. The only thing he still wondered about was the glasses—glasses with lenses an inch thick. He knew Szabo was right about that—nobody could see through that unless it was his proper prescription. How the hell could Riley Wolfe?
Because somehow, he had. He’d used that impossible disguise to get five minutes alone with Iranian crown jewels.
And he had taken the Ocean of Light.
CHAPTER
34
The headache nearly killed me. For twelve hours I couldn’t do a goddamn thing except lie there with my eyes closed and a cool towel on my forehead. I mean, I must’ve eaten half a bottle of Tylenol, and it did nothing to chill that fucking headache. The ophthalmologist had told me it would happen like that. It’s a big reason why nobody but me would think of this trick. To everybody else, it’s either impossible, or it’s way too painful. You can’t fuck with your eyes like that without paying the price.
I paid it. I didn’t mind. Hell, I could afford it now.
The trick was pretty simple, when you think about it. Big, thick prescription lenses—nobody could see through them unless they need that prescription, that’s obvious. So you know it’s not a disguise—it’s got to really be some half-blind guy. It can’t possibly be Riley Wolfe, right?
Unless Riley Wolfe puts on contact lenses first—contact lenses with the exact opposite prescription of the lenses. Contacts with a prescription of minus 8.00, glasses with plus 8.00, get it? So the contacts and the glasses cancel out, and you see with your normal vision. But you look like a goggle-eyed freak—so you can’t possibly be Riley Wolfe, and you can pull off some amazing shit.
And I had.
And then the absolutely killer headache. The opthamologist I’d paid to work this out for me had warned me. He was right. I was just about paralyzed with the pounding pain in my skull. But hey—who would ever say it wasn’t worth it?
It totally was worth it. Even if the fucking headache lasted a month.
I was pretty sure somebody would figure it out soon enough. Probably the FBI guy. My only regret was that I wasn’t there to see his face when he did—or when he “found” my mother. I should have left a camera, recorded that. I bet it was worth watching a few times. Shit, I would’ve put it on a continuous loop. Used it as wallpaper on my laptop.
Whatever. Anyway, it gave me plenty of time to split from New York, lose the headache, and get to my island.
Yeah, that’s right. I have an island. It’s not even on the maps, and it’s all mine, nobody else lives there, mostly nobody even knows it’s there. I want to keep it that way, too. So I’ll just say it’s probably either somewhere in the Caribbean or maybe the South Pacific. Someplace warm and very private. And I don’t let anybody else visit, hear about it, know about it—not nobody, nohow, never . . . with one small exception. Just this once.
Every big win deserves a big prize, and this had been one hell of a win. It would need a world-class reward. And guess what? I had one all picked out.
* * *
—
Monique was having a very hard time believing it. She’d thought it was a very bad idea to begin with, and she was more than half convinced that it still was.
But here she was, wherever “here” was. Riley had been mysterious to the point of being psychotic about the exact location. All Monique knew was that the next-to-last leg of the trip had been twelve hours on a private jet, which had landed on a small and unidentifiable island. From there, Riley had hustled her off to a tiny marina on one end of the island, where they’d boarded a thirty-foot boat—a yacht, really. It had a cabin with a queen-sized bed and full kitchen. And it apparently had very large engines, because when Riley steered it out of the harbor and onto the open water and opened up the throttle, the acceleration had nearly pushed Monique through the back of her chair.
Eleven hours later, Riley slowed and steered them through a tight and unmarked channel, and finally to a well-hidden dock, where he tied up the boat, off-loaded their minor luggage, and led her onto his island.
There were a lot of security features, which she’d expected—everything from locked steel gates to electronic panels where Riley turned off unguessable devices, punching in long strings of numbers before proceeding. And finally, following a path up a gently sloping hill, they came to Riley’s house, which was the biggest surprise of all. Not the fact that there was a house, of course. The surprise was the house itself.
Monique would have expected something small, sleek, and secure. Maybe more like a bunker with picture windows? What she found, perched on top of the hill in the center of the island, was a large, pseudo-Victorian house, with a cupola and a wraparound porch—really kind of a tacky, suburban house, Monique thought. It didn’t fit here, in this tropical setting.
But Riley was clearly proud of the place. And from the inside of the house, it was clear that he had done a lot of work to make it more suitable to his personal tastes. There were floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, and they were loaded with well-worn books. And there was a large stereo system and several more shelves packed with CDs. The books were a bit of a shock to Monique. And the size and variety of the CD collection was just as impressive. It all hinted at someone she didn’t know. Monique realized that by being here, she was getting a look at this unknown man—the real Riley Wolfe. She liked what she was seeing of this new person, so Monique kept her comments about the architecture to herself.
There was a faint whisper of air-conditioning, and it was cool a
nd dry inside, in spite of the hot sun beating down outside. The windows had heavy steel roll-down shutters; the doors were thick and also reinforced with steel. “We are safe here,” Riley said as she looked around the living room. “Completely, totally safe.”
Safety would not have been the first of Monique’s concerns in an isolated spot like this one, and she wondered why it seemed so important to Riley.
She wondered much more why she’d agreed to come with him to this completely secluded spot. She knew very well why he had asked her to come and what he would expect if she agreed, so why had she said yes? Why had she come along so readily, blurting out, “Okay, sure,” the moment he asked, without really thinking about what she was agreeing to?
Part of it had been Riley’s euphoric excitement. He was like a little boy who couldn’t enjoy his new toy unless he shared it with his friend, and the bubbly glee was contagious.
But a deeper part was that Monique’s feelings for Riley had changed. As she had worked feverishly to finish her replica of the great diamond, she had driven herself without mercy because Riley’s life depended on her making something perfect. And as she repeated that, like a mantra, it gradually occurred to her that Riley’s life was important to her. She cared. Monique’s life without Riley Wolfe in it would be dimmer, less interesting. She wanted him alive, safe, and she wanted to be around him.
So she went along. Knowing what she was agreeing to when she did, Monique went with Riley to his supersecret, totally hidden, completely safe fortress of solitude. And for a while, she was glad she did. The odd shift in her feelings for Riley, the warming up to him that had come over her while she worked on this insane, lethal job, made it all a lot easier—even kind of natural. It even had her thinking, who knew what might happen between them? It no longer seemed annoying or unthinkable—even without losing the Bet.
That all changed the first night.
Riley made them both drinks, cooked a wonderful meal, decanted a wine that Monique knew was rare, even though she didn’t know a lot about wines. And then, after dinner, he’d led her down to the beach. He built a beautiful bonfire, poured them each a large dose of brandy, and sat beside her.
And Monique, half enchanted by the evening, the starlight glittering off the water, and probably the large helping of alcohol, found herself leaning against Riley’s shoulder, feeling secure and comfortable and happy, even when he put an arm around her. They sat silently in complete peace and harmony for half a glass of brandy.
And then she had to ask him.
* * *
—
The fire had burned down to a nice warm glow, and I was just about ready to get down to it when Monique said, “You promised you’d tell me everything.” I tilted my head so I could see her. She was worth a look. I had my arm around her, and it felt better than almost anything else I could think of—although, to be honest, I was thinking very hard about a few things that would feel better. So hard I didn’t really register what she was saying until she dug her elbow into my side. “Oh, right—what?” I said.
“Riley, you promised me,” she said. “You said when it was over you’d tell me everything. About the job?”
I was pretty sure I hadn’t actually promised anything, but I learned a long time ago that this is how women work it. You probably only said something like “We’ll see,” and they turn that into “You promised!” and they beat you up with it until you cave in and do whatever they want. And what the hell, Monique had earned it. And to be honest, she looked so good I would have told her just about anything right then.
“Okay, sure,” I said. I frowned, thinking about how to start, which wasn’t easy, between all the alcohol and Monique’s warm body leaning on mine. “The big problem at the beginning was the security,” I started. “I mean, I knew it would be too good and too new for me to just beat it. So I had to figure how to, to, what. To make it not matter. Irrelevant.”
“Tall order,” she murmured.
“Right, yeah, it was,” I said. I realized I was rubbing her back, just gentle small circles, but she didn’t stop me. “And you know. Only the family could do that. Only the rich-bitch Eberhardt family could ever get around all the cameras and sensors and shit.”
“Mmm,” she said. Which meant either she agreed, or she was getting into the back rub.
“So then the problem changes. It’s not, how do I beat security, because I can’t. The real problem is, how do I get into the family?”
I ran down the whole thing for her, how I found out about Katrina’s asshole pedophile husband, which made her the weak link. How I had moved in on her, making her think it was all her idea, making her actually love me, then even marry me, and from there getting into the museum’s in-crowd. And goddamn it, it was a great story! Maybe the greatest thing I ever did! And I told it well, too. Who wouldn’t be inspired, sitting on a fantastic private beach with a beautiful woman?
But at some point, I felt Monique start to stiffen up under my hand. And then she reached back and pushed my hand away. “What’s the matter?” I said.
She shook her head, but I could see she was truly upset about something. Her jaw muscles were clenched, and her face was knotted up in a frown. “Come on, Monique, what? What’s wrong?”
“I think . . . ,” she said slowly, “the fact that you don’t know makes it even worse.”
I thought really hard, trying to come up with something. I mean, I know when a mood has just dropped dead, and this had been a really good one, a mood I wanted to take further. But it was definitely deader than the dinosaurs. So what was up with Monique? What had I done that would turn her ice-cold in two heartbeats?
It wasn’t stealing—I mean, duh. It’s how we both lived. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t mind me icing one asshole pedophile. So what had I done? What was “wrong” with the most brilliant rip-off in history?
I came up with nothing. And Monique was just getting colder. She hadn’t even looked at me yet. So I decided to throw myself on the mercy of the court. Sometimes that works.
“I’m sorry, Monique,” I said. “I wouldn’t do anything to upset you, but . . . I mean, what did I do? So I can be sure not to, you know, do it again?”
Now she looked at me, and it was a lot worse than when she was looking away. The fire was back in her eyes—but it was totally the wrong fire. She looked like she wanted to shoot me. For a long and truly uncomfortable minute she glared at me. Then she hissed out her breath between her teeth and shook her head. “Riley,” she said, and I could tell this was going to be a true zinger. But instead, Monique took a deep breath and looked away, down at her fingernails.
“Riley,” she said again, a little softer this time, “you are probably one of the best—ever—at what you do.”
“‘Probably’?” I said. Bad move, I know, but I couldn’t help it.
“I admire the hell out of the way you come up with these . . . schemes of yours. Schemes nobody else in the world would ever think of. And you make them work.”
“Thank you,” I said, maybe a little hopefully.
“BUT,” Monique said. She turned back to me and all hope died. “There is one great big motherfucking important part missing inside you!” She poked my chest with each word, and it hurt. I mean, not the poking. What she said, and the way she said it.
“Monique,” I said. But she wasn’t done.
“You get all out there into these things, like, like—like some grand master in a big chess game. And you find a way to win when nobody else could.”
“Why is that wrong?” I said.
Her eyes blazed up again, and she poked me a lot harder. This time, the poking hurt, too. “People! Are NOT! Chess pieces!” she said. And she glared at me harder than ever, and goddamn it, she looked great, even ticking me off like that, and some part of me wanted to just pull her close and get down to it, even when the rest of me was letting me know it wasn’t go
ing to happen. “Monique,” I said. “I know that. And I know I—sometimes I do some stuff that, that—I mean . . . If I hurt somebody, they pretty much deserve it?”
“What did Katrina do?” she said. “How did she deserve that?”
I felt my mouth swing open, but nothing came out. I mean—Katrina? If it had been, oh, “Benjy didn’t deserve to get thrown off the roof,” or “Hey, that chief was a veteran,” something like that—but Katrina?! “I didn’t hurt her,” I said. “I mean, not, uh . . .” I stopped talking because of what was happening on Monique’s face.
“You married her,” Monique said. “You made her care for you—”
“It wasn’t me,” I protested.
“You lived with her, you slept with her,” she said.
“I had to!” I said. Was this just Monique being jealous? “Monique, that was the whole thing, the key to making it work! I swear, she didn’t mean anything to me!”
“And that makes it even worse!” she yelled. “Goddamn it, Riley, what you did to Katrina was worse than killing her! You shattered her! That poor woman . . .”
“Poor?” I said. “For fuck’s sake, Monique, she’s a billionaire!”
“That doesn’t give you the right to do what you did,” she said.
I didn’t say anything, mostly because I thought it did. People that rich, they’re like leeches. Smug, fat-ass, do-nothing, self-loving leeches. I mean, Katrina’s ass wasn’t fat—but what did she ever do to earn all that money?
Monique finally looked away and got quiet. I let it stay quiet. It was a whole lot better than the talk had been. “I really like you, Riley,” she said after a while. “And I respect you. A lot, maybe more than . . .” She shook her head. “But to use somebody like that. And then just walk away without—” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t . . . I could never . . .” She didn’t finish, didn’t say what she couldn’t, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what it was.
