by Kim Foster
But no. It was ridiculous. I couldn’t possibly pull it off.
Besides, this was how I’d landed in trouble with my Agency last time, with the Fabergé egg job. Taking assignments outside of AB&T was the quickest route to getting fired. It was also risky—I would be safer with the resources and backup of my Agency.
The limo took a slow turn around a corner, and I realized I had lost track of where we were headed. Raindrops began to splatter against the windows. Fat splotches of water blurred the streetlights outside, serving to further disorient me.
I needed more time. I needed to think. I glanced down at the newspaper article again. It was dated three weeks ago, which meant the Hope Diamond was already in Paris.
Farther down the page there was a small photo of a woman in her sixties—impeccably groomed, with flinty eyes and a square jaw. “Madeleine York,” read the caption. “Director of the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History.”
“She looks tough,” I said.
Faulkner gave a grunt. “She is. We belong to the same private club in Palm Springs. I’ve met her many times.” I glanced at him in surprise. “And she’s tough as nails. Relentless and sharp. Which is why it will be easier for you to procure the diamond when it is not under her eagle eye.”
I nodded, thinking.
“It’s interesting, Mr. Faulkner, but I still don’t believe it can be done. The security around the Hope will be ridiculous. There won’t be any getting near it.”
He examined the cuffs of his shirt. “I’m sure it won’t be easy, Miss Montgomery. But, to be honest, I don’t really give a shit about the degree of difficulty here.” He fixed me with a hard stare. “You’re going to do this for me. And, by the way, I don’t want to wait forever. You have one week. Do not forget that you owe me. And I intend to collect on that debt.” Faulkner’s mouth grew even harder and thinner than before.
“Okay, but—”
He stopped my protest before it even started. “Let me be clear,” he said. “If you do not do this for me, if you do not acquire the Hope for me, I will have my satisfaction in another way. I cannot have a thief who has stolen from me—who may yet steal from me again, in the future—walking around. I do not have any degree of squeamishness, Miss Montgomery. I have seen a lot of violence in my life. Torture means very little to me.” His voice was flat. He was stating plain fact. I could tell that much. “It has been pointed out that I do not seem to be afflicted by any degree of empathy when it comes to human pain or suffering.”
My mouth went dry.
“The punishment for a thief,” he continued, “in ancient times was cutting off his—or her—hands.” At this, Faulkner caressed my bare wrists, sending unpleasant prickles up and down my spine. “I do believe this to be a fitting sentence and will happily mete it out.” He glanced at the man on my left. “This is something that is still done in certain countries, yes?” The thug grunted his assent.
It was true. Under strict Islamic law, this was still the punishment for theft, as dictated by the Koran.
The man on my right produced an envelope, withdrew a photograph, and showed it to me. “This was the last thief who crossed me,” Faulkner said. It was a black-and-white photograph of a blindfolded man tied to a chair, with both arms severed at the wrist.
My head spun, and my vision went fuzzy at the edges. I remembered hearing about that incident in the news a couple of years ago. It had stuck in my memory because the thief had been one of ours, in AB&T. Nobody had known at the time who had performed the horrific deed.
There had to be a way out of this nightmare. I needed a bargaining chip.
And then I thought of something. I scrabbled in my tote bag and pulled out the emerald earrings. “Here. Why don’t you take these? I just, um, acquired them. You don’t have to wait for me to get the Hope. You don’t have to risk that I’ll fail. Just take them, and we’ll call it even.”
Of course, I would have to explain this to Templeton, and I’d have AB&T to answer to. But at least I knew my Agency wouldn’t cut my hands off.
Faulkner sat back and narrowed his eyes. His lips curled back. “This is no gentleman’s game, Miss Montgomery,” he hissed. “I am not pissing around.” He leaned far forward, right in my face. I could feel his hot, sour breath on my cheek. “You get me that diamond. Or you will never steal again. Actually, you will never eat a bowl of corn flakes again, for that matter.”
My palms were sweating, and I felt a wave of queasiness. A panic attack started to brew deep inside.
“You should know,” Faulkner said, “I am well aware of your FBI . . . connections, shall we say?” His voice carried an unpleasant sneer. “If there is any indication you are attempting to have me investigated or charged, the retribution for you will be the same.”
He inclined his head at the photograph held by the gentleman on my right.
“Trust me,” Faulkner continued. “The FBI has been attempting to arrest me for quite some time. There is nothing you could provide or do that would make a difference in their wasted efforts.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The rain was falling steadily now. Our tires hissed on the wet road.
“Furthermore, there will be no running away. I imagine all you thieves have various escape hatches and emergency plans,” Faulkner said. “You will be watched. If you attempt to run away, know that you will eventually be caught and brought to me. And then you know what will happen next.”
He inclined his head, studying me like a bird of prey would study a mouse in its talons. “But really, why would you want to run away? Why wouldn’t you want to steal the Hope? Surely this job is a jewel thief’s dream.”
He was right, of course. And any other time, I would have loved the mere idea of this. But I had only just promised myself that I would take a hiatus until I was back to normal. How could I possibly steal the Hope while I was crippled with panic attacks?
It was something I’d have to work out on my own. Right now the only thing that mattered was getting out of this car, in whatever way I had available to me. I’d have to figure out the rest later.
“Okay, Mr. Faulkner, you have a deal. I will get the Hope Diamond for you, and then we’ll be square. You’ll leave me alone. Yes?”
His face rearranged itself into something that resembled a smile. “Very good, Miss Montgomery. Very good.”
He was satisfied. For now.
As the car pulled away from the curb where they left me, rain poured down on my head, but I barely felt it.
I had made a pact with the devil.
Chapter 4
Jack Barlow strolled casually along the downtown Seattle street, keeping his gaze pinned on the man in the Mariners cap in the small cluster of people ahead of him. The hat was funny, a good joke. Jack figured the guy hoped it would make him blend in. It did anything but.
It was about eleven-thirty at night, and in spite of the light rain that had just started, many businesses were still open. Jack walked past a restaurant with an open door, laughter and the sounds of glassware clinking spilling out. It was springtime, which meant more or less continuous rain and drizzle. But the residents of Seattle never let a little precipitation stop them.
Tailing this man effectively in public like this meant Jack was not sticking to shadows. He couldn’t look like he was doing anything furtive. He was simply out for a walk.
He strolled along the broad sidewalks, past the brightly lit shop windows. As he walked past a café, the door opened and a rich coffee aroma swirled out. Dampness was starting to seep in at the bottom of his pant legs, but Jack barely noticed. His purpose tonight was singular, and he was not going to lose this guy.
Jack was an FBI agent stationed at the Seattle branch in the organized crime division. He’d transferred departments a couple of times within the past year—mostly because of a personal conflict of interest—and was now working closely with the organized crime section in DC headquarters.
But Jack was the low man on the t
otem pole and had only recently been given field duty. Up to now he’d been pushing a shitload of paper.
Now he had an assignment: to follow this guy. Jack had precious little information on the man. Just a slim file with a name (Ned Snyder), a photograph (a grainy shot of a pale man with a nonexistent chin), and a brief description of activities (Internet gaming, casino slot machines, and comic book collecting).
And a warning that the guy tended to be slippery, and very good at eluding a tail.
Jack’s assignment was to follow Snyder and arrest him if he did anything illegal. Ned Snyder had landed in Seattle only two days ago from his last known address in Philadelphia. Apparently, Snyder had some important information on a crime ring. He’d made first contact via e-mail when he was in Philly. Seemed he’d gotten spooked after that, and the FBI had heard nothing more.
Snyder had clearly thought he was being anonymous. But e-mail is never anonymous.
The FBI needed a reason to bring him in. Arrest would be the best way of doing that. So they’d been tracking him ever since. Snyder surfacing in Seattle had brought the case into Jack’s lap.
Jack wanted badly to complete this assignment. If he could, it would garner him major kudos with his supervisor. If he failed, it might mean back to filling out goddamned forms. Who knew when he would get his next field assignment?
Jack approached the curb to cross Pine Street; on the other side, Snyder had just entered a convenience store. As Jack stepped onto the street, a stretch Lexus limo slid by, making a right turn, almost rolling over Jack’s toes in the process. He jumped back to avoid getting his toes crushed but didn’t break his gaze with the doorway of the store.
He crossed the street and paused at the hot dog stand just outside the store entrance. He wouldn’t go in—it would be a rookie move to be spotted by his target in such a small shop. The smell of frying onions and sizzling hot dogs made Jack’s mouth water. When was the last time he had eaten, anyway?
The rain was falling heavier now, landing in larger drops on the top of Jack’s head and sliding down the back of his neck. Jack shivered and turned up the collar of his jacket.
What was this guy doing? So far, he’d stopped at a coffee shop, gone to City Target, and bought chips. And beer. And now he was checking out magazines. It seemed like he was killing time.
Jack shifted his feet restlessly. When was this guy going to make a move? When was he going to do something illegal? He was supposed to be a small-time criminal, but he sure wasn’t acting like it.
Jack had seen opportunities for at least three different criminal moves in the time he’d been following the man. Pickpocketing that oblivious guy they’d passed on the street a couple of blocks ago, whose wallet was hanging out of his pocket. Reaching over the counter at the coffee shop when the cash register was open and the barista was distracted with an unruly coffee grinder. Shoplifting that magazine, instead of waiting patiently in line, like he was doing right now.
It would be so easy. A piece of cake to just tuck the magazine under your arm, like it was already yours, stroll right out . . .
Not that Jack was into that kind of thing. It was just an occupational hazard when you were in law enforcement. Well, truth be told, for Jack it was probably more than that.
Fact was, Jack’s father had been a crook. Hell, Jack had been a crook unwittingly, growing up. An accomplice, sure, but he’d made crimes possible.
Jack had spent a lot of years struggling with that guilt. And the resentment toward the man who’d led him down that path. He’d more than atoned for it, though, by becoming an FBI agent. What he hadn’t figured out yet was how to excise the part of his brain that still ran to criminal-type thoughts.
Ned Snyder walked out of the convenience store. Jack gave him several beats and then mobilized. He followed the man along the sidewalk, heading north along Pine. Snyder strode with somewhat more purpose now. Jack wondered, What had changed?
And then Jack noticed that someone else was observing Snyder, too.
There was a man standing at a bus stop, wearing a gray overcoat, whose gaze flicked down just a little too quickly as Snyder walked past. And who, after a few seconds, turned away from the bus stop and started walking in the same direction as Snyder.
Jack clenched his teeth. A complication. Yet there was something about the man that was familiar. Then the man removed his hat to shake off drops of rain. At the sight of the man’s deep red hair, Jack’s memory was jogged. He’d seen him in the coffee shop. He’d been lingering by the milk and sugar stand.
Now Jack just needed to figure out if the other man was friend or foe.
Car tires slid on the wet road, and a van honked in the intersection. As Snyder paused at a streetlight, Jack snapped a photograph with his phone of the red-haired man and sent it to the staff at FBI headquarters.
He typed a message: Identify.
Jack rubbed his face and thought back. Was the new tail aware of Jack’s presence? He mentally mapped out the last few switches and moves and didn’t think he would have made his intentions obvious to a third party.
But these were the sorts of decisions that were life and death for a field officer. Until he knew otherwise, he had to assume that both men were a potential mortal threat.
The light turned, and Snyder was on the move again, crossing the street.
Jack hesitated a second. There was only one way to do this now—he’d have to wait for the other tail to go first. And then he would follow suit. There was a greater risk of losing his target, doing it this way, because he counted on the other shadow being proficient at the task. But there was no other way. Until he knew what side of the law the red-haired man fell on, Jack couldn’t be caught doing surveillance.
A message from FBI headquarters pinged on Jack’s phone: Not identifiable. Subject unknown.
Jack frowned. That was odd. He looked up. Both men were still in view, for now. But tailing by proxy was shit. There was too great a chance of losing Snyder. He tightened a fist. He had to find out who the other shadow was.
There was one other way.
He sent the photograph to a different number, an encrypted one. A number his superiors knew nothing about.
After Jack pressed SEND, Snyder made a quick turn toward an alley. But the red-haired man’s attention had been diverted for a second. He’d missed Snyder’s direction change.
Jack crossed the street to close the distance, his gaze pinned on the mark. He had to get to that alley as soon as possible.
At that moment, an elderly gentleman crossing the street ahead of Jack stumbled on the curb and fell on the slick sidewalk. He went down right in front of Jack. The gentleman tried to break his fall, but his hand glanced off the wet curb and he landed face-first in a large puddle.
Jack was at the man’s side in a second. “Are you all right, sir?” Jack said, bending to help him up. He broke his gaze on Snyder just for a moment.
Jack helped the man off the ground and then looked up quickly, holding the man under the arm. No sign of Snyder. The red-haired man was just ahead, by the alley, turning his head frantically. Jack quickly helped the dripping and embarrassed—but otherwise not injured—gentleman to a bench, scanning the area nonstop.
Damn. The red-haired man had lost Snyder. Which meant Jack had lost Snyder, too.
He strode to the alley, but it was deserted, apart from half a dozen closed doors. There was no way of knowing which one Snyder had gone through. It was over. His target was gone.
Well, maybe it wouldn’t be a total loss. Jack could always follow the red-haired man now—see what he could learn about him. Maybe he was a partner in crime. Maybe he would lead somewhere interesting.
He turned back to face the spot where the red-haired man had been. But there was nobody there. He, too, had disappeared into thin air.
Shit.
Jack scanned the area, trying to be casual in case he was being watched now. He rapidly skimmed the spots where one might tuck oneself and hide—alleys and d
oorway alcoves. Nothing.
Worse than losing both men, however, was the fact that Jack didn’t know if he’d tapped himself with that last frantic grasp at locating Snyder.
This was a double fail. Jack felt like the dog who dropped a bone in the water to retrieve the one in the reflection, losing them both.
But at least he had the photograph of the red-haired man. A new suspect perhaps. A new lead to give his supervisor. He wouldn’t be returning entirely empty-handed.
And then his phone bleeped. A message from his covert contact came through.
Subject identified: Ludolf Hendrickx. Interpol agent. Interpol?
Jack’s heart sank. The red-haired man was on the same side as Jack. So much for the new lead he could give his supervisor.
Jack turned and headed for home, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Rain streamed down now, soaking him thoroughly. Maybe that goddamned Mariners cap hadn’t been such a ridiculous idea, after all.
But as Jack walked, he frowned. Why the hell was Interpol involved in this case, anyway? Since when had this become an international investigation? And why hadn’t Jack been briefed about Interpol’s involvement? Usually in the case of international crime operations, the FBI and Interpol worked together. So why the secrecy this time?
This was a bad beat, and Jack wondered if he’d been destined for failure before he’d even begun. But there was something else going on here. And Jack was going to find out what.
Chapter 5
When I got home, soaking wet, I burst through the door to my apartment and collapsed on the floor. I had walked numbly through the rain, away from the terrifying meeting in Faulkner’s car. I was happy to be safe. All I wanted was to be safe.
I sat there, shivering, wondering what I was going to do.
My mind was wheeling. I had agreed to the job. I was in bed with Mephistopheles now, and there was no way I’d be able to live up to my side of the bargain. There had to be a way out of this. I couldn’t do the Hope job. I wasn’t up to it. But if I didn’t do it . . .
