by Kim Foster
“He works for Interpol and he was following Snyder, my mark. I think there’s something more going on.”
“I doubt that. Snyder is just a small-time criminal. Part of a larger network, sure, but not worth the attention of Interpol. You must be mistaken. What’s your source for that intel, anyway?”
He couldn’t tell her. That was because he’d used a less than strictly licit source. And Victoria Sullivan was a stickler for doing things by the book. But Jack knew the best information often came from the underworld itself. And the number he’d sent the photograph of Hendrickx to was a source of Cat’s.
He shrugged and tried to change the subject. He writhed inside under the familiar conflict of interest that’s part of the territory when you’re dating a career criminal.
Even to him, it sounded ridiculous. On the surface, of course, it seemed like cops should stay on their side, criminals on theirs. But Jack knew that reality was complicated. The law and lawbreakers were intimately involved. There were many cops and FBI agents who had working relationships of various types with criminals.
It was like that old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the one with the sheepdog and the wolf punching their time clocks and greeting each other. Morning, Ralph. Morning, Sam.
But even given those pseudo working relationships, not many FBI officers were actually dating criminals. Much less living with them.
God knows he’d tried to end it. Last year he couldn’t handle it. Decided they were just too different. But then he’d been shown just how wrong he was. He couldn’t live without Cat. She meant too much to him.
His boss was still standing there, waiting for an answer as to where he’d come by the information that Hendrickx was Interpol—even though Interpol didn’t have an official record of him.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” she blurted before Jack could start explaining. “Write it up in your report. Then here are the cases I want you to work on. An audit of the department’s performance that needs analysis—”
Jack closed his eyes and groaned silently. Paperwork. She was pulling him out of the field already.
Jack stepped closer to Victoria’s desk. “Listen, I know I screwed up last night. But I need another chance. And I really believe there’s something more to this than we know.”
“Yes, you said that. And like I said, put it in your report. Then get to work. You’re off this case.”
At that moment, the page on Victoria’s desk phone beeped. “Special Agent Sullivan?” said a tinny, plaintive voice. “They called up to tell you the computer forensics meeting has started.”
“Get to work, Barlow,” she said, throwing on her jacket and striding out of the office.
Jack turned to leave and then spotted the file folder sitting on the edge of her desk. The file that contained details of this case. The one he was not privy to see.
He hesitated a moment. Victoria was way down the corridor now, nowhere in sight. He looked up to see if anyone else was watching.
And then Jack slid his hand under the smooth folder to flip it open and take a brief look inside.
The top page was an e-mail that had been printed out. He scanned the page like lightning. Some words stuck out, like Snyder and Washington and Interpol and the Gargoyle.
Gargoyle. Now, where had he heard that name before?
And Interpol. Fuck. He knew they were involved. Why would his supervisor deny it? He read the document through more carefully. And a gnawing feeling developed in his gut.
He should leave it. He should walk away and forget what he had seen.
Jack closed the file and strode from the office at medium speed, nothing furtive or guilty or rushed. But his brain was churning.
Sitting down in his cubicle, he turned on his computer and watched the lights flicker and heard the CPU fan start to hum.
What he should really do here was forget all about this.
His supervisor was not going to be impressed with him doing his own little side detective work. He was not some amateur sleuth in a cozy mystery. He was a professional. He was FBI. There were rules and regulations. Protocol. He needed to operate within those bounds, and that was the way to get ahead.
But he was not convinced they were doing this right. He leaned back in his desk chair, the springs bouncing gently under him. He scrubbed his hand through his hair. The file suggested they were barking up the wrong tree.
Interpol involvement—initially suspected, now ruled out.
Involvement with the Gargoyle—unlikely.
If the Gargoyle was the bigger fish and Interpol was truly involved like Jack suspected they were, why wouldn’t this involve the Gargoyle?
There was something important about this investigation. Jack could feel it in his gut. He knew criminals. He knew them from the inside out.
It was Jack’s bane . . . but it was perhaps also his advantage. Something he possessed that his supervisor did not.
Maybe he could keep investigating this case on the side. No fanfare, just surreptitiously. No matter what Victoria Sullivan had told him or not told him to do.
As long as he could keep it a secret. Of course, he had no idea what he’d do if he actually learned anything of value. He’d have to call an audible on that play, if it happened. But maybe it wouldn’t come to that.
And then Jack’s phone buzzed. Wesley Smith’s number flashed onto the screen.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“It’s been awhile, Jack,” came Wesley’s voice, relaxed and friendly, when Jack answered the phone.
“What’s up, Wes?” Jack said cautiously.
“I need to talk to you. Can you meet me?”
Jack hesitated. He did not need more criminal involvement. But . . . Wesley was different. He was a crook, true, but somehow he was also one of the good guys. He didn’t play mind games with Jack. He was a straight shooter.
Truth was, if Jack had a choice between working with someone like Wesley and working with someone like Victoria Sullivan, he’d take Wesley anytime.
But this was not a request to work together. This was just a meeting. There was nothing illegal about that. Out of respect, he could go and hear what Wesley had to say. But his involvement would stop there.
Jack rubbed the side of his face and exhaled. “Sure, Wesley. Where?”
Half an hour later, Jack strolled into Pioneer Square. He spotted Wesley on a bench on the far side, beside the ornate Edwardian streetcar shelter. Old brick and stone buildings, refurbished into bookstores and coffee shops, surrounded the square.
Jack turned up the collar of his jacket against the chilly mist.
Wesley was a lean, wiry man, and when he grinned, he showed far too many teeth. But he wasn’t grinning now. He was looking away, holding a paper Starbucks cup, pretending not to recognize Jack.
Jack sat down on the bench and pulled out a newspaper. “So what’s this about?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the paper and flipping through to the sports section.
“We need your help. It’s the Fabergé.”
Jack said nothing for a moment. His hand froze midair, about to turn a page. The Fabergé? But that was impossible.
“What are you talking about? The egg was destroyed,” he said finally. He lowered his voice. “The Gifts are gone.”
Wesley shook his head. “No, they’re not.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Jack, this has happened before. The egg always resurfaces.”
Jack sighed. “If you’re going to go all weird on me, bro, and start talking about mystical powers—”
“No. It’s not that.” Wesley paused as a mother with a baby in a carriage strolled by. “There are rumors about a clandestine group of people who protect objects of extreme importance.”
“Just protect?”
“Apparently, they’re not concerned with ownership. They watch and wait, and if there is a need, they intervene to prevent an object’s destruction.”
“You’re saying they were in London when we were there? They saved the Fabergé
when it fell?”
Wesley shrugged. “It’s possible.”
Jack looked away, across the square. It sounded pretty far-fetched. They didn’t care about ownership? But they were willing to go to extreme lengths to protect valuable objects?
But if there were such a group, this particular Fabergé egg and what it contained would certainly fall under the heading of extreme importance. The Gifts of the Magi, the original gold, frankincense, and myrrh that had been given to Jesus long ago—and then stolen, an act that had spurred the creation of thieves’ guilds—were immeasurably significant.
The quest to recover the Gifts and return them to their rightful owner was the only honorable thing Jack’s father, a career criminal, had been involved in. It had been a mantle Jack himself had taken up.
Until he’d believed the Gifts had been destroyed.
“We’ve been searching for the Fabergé egg nonstop since it disappeared in London last year,” Wesley said. “And now it’s been tracked to Dubai. I need you to come with me and help me find it.”
“Isn’t there an overseas team?” Jack could still taste the bitterness of being left out of things last time, at the last minute, for just this reason.
“Yes. But you’re the one I trust the most.”
Trust. That was ironic. Here was a professional crook talking to a federal agent about trust. Jack looked sideways at Wesley.
Jack had no doubt the man did, indeed, trust him. Jack had the ability to make things difficult for Wesley officially, but here the man was asking for help. Likewise, Wesley could screw Jack if he wanted to. He had more than enough material for blackmail, if he chose to go that route.
But Jack knew he wouldn’t. There was definitely mutual trust here. And that was a very rare thing.
Jack felt the same pull as before when it came to the Fabergé and the Gifts. Last year it had become more than just fulfilling his father’s wishes, and it was a hell of a lot more than just a treasure hunt. It had meaning.
But Jack was on the edge of something else that had meaning now. Finding the Gargoyle.
And while there was a team in place to hunt for the Fabergé with Wesley, there was no such team searching for the Gargoyle. At least none that Jack knew of.
Then there was the small issue of Jack’s career, his tentative position within the FBI. He just couldn’t get involved with the criminal side right now. He had to focus on staying on the right side of the law.
Something else occurred to Jack. “Have you talked to Cat about this?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?” As far as Jack could see, Cat was the perfect choice. She’d been heavily involved last year—in fact, she’d been the only one to successfully capture the egg. It was a short-lived possession, sure, but it was closer than the rest of them had come.
“The Agency says Cat is tied up with another big case right now. She’s not at liberty to join us. We’re going to try to keep her out of it for now.”
Jack frowned. A big case? He wanted to know, yet he didn’t want to know. A familiar struggle.
For a second, Jack thought how much easier it would be if he just left the FBI. If he joined the dark side. No more secrets.
But he just couldn’t do it.
Still, how many different ways was he going to blur the lines before he lost sight of who he truly was?
“Jack, come on,” Wesley said. “I’m flying to Dubai tomorrow. Why don’t you join me? We’ve been a great team in the past. Let’s do it again.”
Jack folded the newspaper and held it tightly in his hand, not saying anything for a moment. It would be easy. He was valued by Wesley and his team. It was something he could do and do well.
“I can’t,” Jack said at last and shoved the paper under his arm.
Wesley nodded, accepting defeat. “Okay. But if you change your mind, you know how to get in touch with me.”
Jack stood. “I do. Good luck.”
Chapter 10
It was a foggy spring day, and mist clung to the old stone buildings on campus. The damp seeped into my bones. I still hadn’t decided what to do about the Hope. The tarot card the fortune-teller had given me, the Star, was tucked into my pocket. It was silly, I know, but somehow it made me feel just a little safer.
At any rate, I had something else I needed to do this afternoon: get myself to the library and pick up an essential book so I could finish my French lit paper on le mal du siècle.
I was getting my master’s degree in nineteenth-century French literature at the University of Washington and, admittedly, taking a long time about it. I worried constantly that my supervisor would kick me out, but so far I was hanging on by my fingernails.
I intended to finish my degree. Besides being excellent cover for a professional thief, it was smart to have a career to fall back on. Once my burgling days were over.
Which, given what was happening with me lately, seemed like a closer possibility than ever.
I strode through the leafy campus, along cherry blossom–lined pathways, thankful I had avoided seeing Professor Atworthy when I passed the campus coffee shop—a regular hangout of his. Atworthy was my thesis supervisor, and I had blown off a loosely arranged meeting during his office hours earlier today, and I didn’t have a ready explanation for why my assignment was late.
I didn’t think “Needed time to plan an emerald heist at the Westin penthouse” would be a particularly acceptable excuse.
I made it to the Suzzallo Library, an imposing Gothic stone building, and climbed the steps to the cathedral-like edifice. I loved this building. Oak bookshelves adorned the walls, and carved friezes and vaulted ceilings decorated the reading rooms. I breathed in the smell of books and ink and a faint note of sweaty student. As much as I would have loved to linger here, I made my way quickly to the graduate desk and signed out my book.
On my way out, down the grand staircase, there was a crush of people entering and climbing upward. As I jostled through the crowd, somebody reached out to catch hold of my arm.
“Catherine, there you are! I missed you at my office hours this morning,” said a pointed voice. I looked up into Professor Atworthy’s face.
Crap.
Memo to self:
When attempting to avoid university professors, add campus library to the list of locations to stay away from, for Christ’s sake.
So there I was, standing on the central staircase of the library, trying to produce an excuse, muttering various old standbys about dogs and computer crashes and lost files and the like.
I could tell he was as convinced as I usually am when the computer sales guy does a pitch for the extended warranty.
Considering Atworthy was one of my younger profs, he certainly had a finely tuned bullshit meter. He looked at me over his sharp nose with extreme skepticism. He seemed tired, pushing a lock of muddy brown hair back from his forehead, glancing out the window, and sighing as I rambled on. Doubtless I was headed toward probation of some sort.
Just then a voice boomed right next to us. “Andre, my goodness!” The man spoke with a heavy French accent. He was standing beside Atworthy, staring directly at him. “I haven’t seen you in ages! How have you been? Comment ça va?”
Atworthy looked at the man blankly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you,” he said. “You’ve got me mistaken for someone else.”
The Frenchman laughed. “Andre, that’s ridiculous.”
But Atworthy insisted he didn’t know the man. Eventually, the Frenchman gave up and walked angrily away.
“Well, that was weird,” I said, laughing lightly, which I hoped hid the fact that my every hair was standing on end. Coincidences like that always mean something. My every alarm bell was jangling.
I forced a smile as I excused myself and descended the stairs to leave the library.
All the other strange incidents involving Atworthy began stacking up in my mind.
There was the time I’d found a handgun in his desk drawer. And we’re not talking abo
ut some charming antique professor-ish pistol. This was a Smith & Wesson model 945, a .45 caliber semiautomatic. What I was doing snooping in his desk drawer was another story, of course, but it didn’t change the fact that Atworthy, my leather and tweed professor, had been in possession of a concealed weapon.
There was the moment I’d spotted Atworthy in London. He was on a boat on the Thames, watching me silently as I stood on Blackfriars Bridge after the Fabergé job. It was the middle of the night, sure, and the sky was foggy, but I’d been sure it was him.
Then a horrible thought occurred to me. Could he possibly be an undercover cop?
The truly paranoid part of myself then asked, Could he possibly be investigating me? Had he been under deep cover all this time? A cold fist gripped my stomach.
Somehow, I was going to have to find out.
I arrived at 125 Bay Street and ducked behind the back of Atworthy’s house—a two-story clad in cedar shingles. It was twilight, and darkness was closing in all around me. It was a comforting feeling for a thief.
I needed to be very fast. I knew Atworthy was at an evening lecture. Of course, I was supposed to be at that lecture myself, but this was a much more pressing task.
I could count on at least another thirty minutes, but beyond that, anything could happen. I hadn’t had much chance to plan this break-in, so it wasn’t ideal, but I had to figure this out right away. I picked the doorknob lock with little difficulty. The doorknob turned, I pushed, but the door held fast. Fine. There had to be another lock. I got through that in another few seconds.
But then there was another latch. And a lock at the top of the door. Jesus. This was not a high break-in neighborhood. Atworthy had to be hiding some secrets. Finally, I opened the door.
An alarm wailed like a banshee.
Shit. My heart was in my throat as I located the security panel just inside the door. I identified the manufacturer in an instant and knew it was one I could hack into and disable. After several seconds of manipulating the circuits, there was a sudden, single beep and the siren cut abruptly. I exhaled steadily into the silence. I hoped I could count on neighborly apathy—that tendency to assume everything was fine once an alarm shut off by itself—and that nobody would come to investigate.
