by Kim Foster
“Ah. Me too,” I said.
I looked at her a little more carefully then. And as I did, I realized she was familiar. She had brown hair, chopped short at the back and longer on top and in the front, in the sort of stylish cut I imagined I’d get when I was her age—which I guessed was about sixty. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured. She had a strong jawline. And the sort of smooth, plump skin that is the fruit of good genes and much attentive care from a skilled facialist.
But I definitely recognized her from somewhere.
“Do I know you?” I asked. “You seem familiar.”
After a few beats she looked at me again. “I don’t know. But you are not familiar to me.”
I furrowed my eyebrows, trying to place her. “What’s your line of business?”
“Museum curation,” she said. Clearly, she was growing extremely impatient with me.
Fine. I would leave her alone. I turned to stare out the window.
And then it dropped. Oh my God, I could not believe it. This was Madeleine York, the director of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History.
What were the chances? And then I became suspicious. What were the chances?
Was this pure coincidence? Or was there something more going on?
I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable now. Think it through, Cat. How could she possibly know about me? The only people who knew what I was doing were underworld types. Not established pillars of society and directors of national museums.
After the flight was well under way, Madeleine ordered a whiskey sour. I did the same. I needed her to open up a little, and I knew the best way to do that was to play the mirror game. People tend to trust people who look and act the same as they do. It’s a dirty trick, really.
But it works.
I channeled my inner culture snob, called up everything I knew about fine art, and after another round of drinks, Madeleine started to relax.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, after the dessert had been served, Madeleine became downright chatty. “I mean, can you imagine such a thing?” she was saying, pausing in her story to take a spoonful of crème brlée. “All of us at the Smithsonian thought that was simply ridiculous. . . .”
I jumped on that like a five-time bridesmaid on a bouquet. “Oh, you work at the Smithsonian?” I tried to maintain a casual tone, drinking my wine.
She looked at me and nodded. “Yes, I do.”
I wondered if I could press this advantage a little. Could I get some useful information out of her?
“I love museums,” I said with a smile. “I can’t wait to see the Louvre.”
“Well, that’s where I’m going, too.”
“Ah! Comparing notes?”
“In fact, they are holding an exhibit that will feature some of our pieces on loan. You’ve heard of the Hope Diamond?”
“Oh, um, yes. Hasn’t everyone?” I said noncommittally. “Not that I follow that stuff much.” On second thought, this was heading into uncomfortable territory. But Madeleine York was warming to her subject now, and I didn’t want to come off peculiar at this point.
“It’s quite a fascinating undertaking, you know, transporting precious objects overseas,” she said, swirling the ice in her drink. “The last time the Hope went to the Louvre, it did so in the hands of one man. Or, more specifically, in the secret pocket hand sewn by his wife, inside his trousers.” She leaned in conspiratorially.
I knew about this, of course. No armored vehicles. No high-tech security systems. No guards with M16s.
And, when you think about it, it’s the perfect way to transport a priceless gem. Flying absolutely under the radar. A single person would be invisible, slipping in and out of the system exactly like one of the three million people traveling that day.
As long as nobody knew who was carrying it and when. Nobody with a willingness to murder, namely.
Because, of course, that one man with the secret pocket would be at terrible risk. The flesh-and-bone obstacle to somebody’s multi-billion-dollar fortune. I can think of many people who would be sorely tempted to cut that flesh and break that bone to get to that fortune.
That’s the thing about jewels: although they can lift you to the heights of inspiration, they can also blind you with their brilliance. And they can drive you to your knees with greed and want.
Truth is, every time the Hope Diamond has been transported, it’s happened under extremely low-tech, sneaky security. Which, to the public, seems crazy. Where is the platoon of security guards? Where is the iris-scanning technology? To a thief, however, it’s absolutely brilliant. And infuriating.
One man with a diamond sewn into his trousers is a far more effective security barrier—simple, elegant—than an entire army. With an army, there must be communication. There has to be a plan and various moving parts. And when there is a complex plan, there are seams. There are weaknesses. And those are the opportunities a thief can use to his—or her—advantage.
“Well, I must say, it’s very Jackie O. of you to loan the Hope to the Louvre,” I said, taking another slurp of my drink. Madeleine tilted her head quizzically. I continued. “You know, wasn’t she the one who arranged for it to travel there in the sixties for the ‘Ten Centuries of French Jewelry’ exhibit?”
Madeleine looked at me with a peculiar expression, then said, “I thought you didn’t know much about things like this?” A smile curled her lips.
Jesus, Cat. Too much wine. At altitude. Rookie mistake, to say the least.
I laughed and waved my hand. “Oh, I was reading a newspaper in the airport. A feature on Paris, things to do and see.”
It was time for me to smile and shrug and turn my attention to the freaking movie. No more incriminating slipups please. I settled back in my seat and attempted to enjoy the rest of the flight.
And tried not to think about the varied sticky situations I might find myself in when we landed in Paris and I started plotting to rob the Louvre.
Chapter 13
Rome, Italy
Inside the Vatican Museums, Ethan entered the first of four Raphael Rooms. He strolled easily among the crowd of tourists who snapped photographs with their pocket cameras. Their sneakers squeaked on the intricately lain marble tiles while they gawked at art Ethan knew they could not even begin to fully appreciate. The galleries smelled of window cleaner and wood polish and the coconut sunscreen some visitor must be wearing.
Sun filtered in from high windows, making streaks through the colonies of dust motes.
Ethan walked through exquisitely decorated rooms, ceilings and walls lush with frescoes by Raphael and his pupils, depicting allegorical tales and biblical stories from the Old Testament.
At last he reached the room that contained The School of Athens fresco.
He stood before it for a few moments, until a finely dressed British man in a gray Ralph Lauren suit began to speak to him in a low tone. “Enjoying your visit?”
“Well, it’s certainly educational,” Ethan replied.
“Mm, wonderful art.”
“I meant the security systems. It’s eye-opening, the old-fashioned systems they use here. I’m taking plenty of notes. Should I ever receive an assignment here, I think I would quite enjoy myself.”
Templeton snorted. In the most dignified way possible, naturally.
“So what’s up, Templeton?” Ethan asked. “You flew all the way over here. What’s the emergency?”
“Well, for one thing, I was coming to Italy, anyway. I always make a spring shopping trip to Milan. But you’re right. There is something I want to talk to you about.” They strolled toward the next Raphael Room. “It’s about someone who occupies a special place in both our hearts.”
Ethan paused and gave Templeton a sideways glance. “Are you talking about Montgomery?”
Templeton smiled and opened his hands. “Of course.”
“What about her?” Ethan frowned. Something was wrong.
“It seems she might be in a bit of trouble. I’m a
fraid she’s found herself on the receiving end of a little blackmail.”
“At whose hand?”
“Albert Faulkner the Third.”
Ethan sucked air through his teeth. “That’s not good.” The guy was a son of a bitch.
Templeton explained the situation as they walked through the museum. It happened very rarely, thankfully, a mark hunting down a thief from a previous job. It was one of the advantages of having a layer of removal, the Agency. But the idea of it happening to Montgomery made Ethan snarl.
“So what is he threatening her with, exactly?” Ethan asked.
“The oldest punishment for a thief you can think of.”
Ethan knew exactly what Templeton was referring to. The idea of severing a person’s hands turned his stomach inside out with revulsion. “What is AB&T doing to help her?”
“Very little. Which is why I’m here.”
Ethan clenched his jaw and walked on. They reached the Braccio Nuovo, a neoclassical gallery bathed in light from the row of skylights in the soaring coffered ceiling. Alcoves lined the long gallery, filled with larger-than-life statues of Greek heroes and Roman emperors.
Ethan stopped in front of a marble Augustus, and Templeton walked up and stood beside him. “I know it’s not your nature to stick your neck out, Jones, but I would think you might make an exception here.”
Ethan gazed down at the mosaic tile floor. “What does she need?” he said.
“Well, she’s going after the Hope Diamond.”
Ethan’s head snapped up. “Are you fucking kidding me? The Smithsonian?”
“Worse than that, actually. The Louvre.”
Ethan was speechless for a minute. His gears started churning. In fact, the Louvre might be easier in some ways, more difficult in others. It was interesting—
No.
He was not getting involved with Cat Montgomery again. He was not in the market for getting his emotions spanked again.
Normally, women were easy for Ethan to get over. But not this one. And it wasn’t just the thrill of the chase, because he’d already gotten her in bed several months ago. Had turned out to be a very good idea, that.
Sure, Ethan knew Cat had just been rebounding from her breakup with Barlow. But it had been more than that for Ethan. And if it were up to him, that wouldn’t have been the end of it.
“There’s something else,” Templeton said. “It seems she’s become spooked.”
Ethan studied Templeton carefully. “Really?”
“It’s not a surprise, I suppose. After what happened to you two in London. After what she saw. She certainly isn’t the only thief this has happened to. Trouble is, she seems to be more or less paralyzed by fear now. I’m worried, frankly, that she’s going to get herself into a sticky situation and not be able to get herself out.”
Ethan rubbed his face. Shit. He could feel himself getting sucked in.
“Also, if you do this, Ethan, you’ll get major brownie points with AB&T. And you know you need that right now.”
Ethan looked down at his shoes. Ah. He figured this would come up sooner or later.
A couple of months ago, after Ethan’s requested transfer to Italy, his knuckles had been rapped when he refused a job. He’d never refused a job before. But that one was not cool.
It was taking a painting from someone who couldn’t afford it. He’d never had a problem with that before. And it was very rare that AB&T had that kind of assignment. But Cat Montgomery seemed to have influenced him. It was one of her rules.
Once he’d started casing the job in a small village outside Florence, he soon discovered that a little old woman who had nothing owned the painting. This was the one thing she possessed. She was otherwise a pensioner, scratching out an existence, and she had inherited this heirloom from her family. It was a small sketch only. But it was significant because of the artist who had sketched it: Leonardo da Vinci.
If only she had sold it, she would have been able to afford a much more comfortable life for herself. Warm house, better food on her table. But she wouldn’t let it go; it meant too much to her. On one level Ethan couldn’t understand that at all. On the other hand, it made perfect sense.
Once he started to realize her true situation, he just couldn’t do the job. He’d refused AB&T, something he’d never done before.
And, boy, had they been pissed.
“You are a thief, Jones,” his handler had said. “Not a charity worker.”
Ethan’s handler was not as enlightened as Cat’s. Templeton would never have given her an assignment like this.
Ethan had shrugged. His handler puffed with exasperation. “They’re not going to be happy with you, Jones,” he said.
So be it, Ethan had thought at the time.
Suffice it to say, Ethan was not the favored thief at AB&T at the moment. Which meant he was left scrounging for the shit jobs. Not that the Rome job had been shit, exactly. It had been fun, for sure. But, for whatever reason, it had not paid well. It just wasn’t that important a job. Other thieves had turned it down because of that.
Trouble was, Ethan didn’t have much choice these days.
Templeton stood beside him in front of the Augustus sculpture, the Italian sun beaming down on his steel-gray hair. “AB&T is not keen to spend additional money and resources on their asset protection department,” Templeton said. “If they can outsource it, great. You’ll be back in the good books, my boy, if you do this for them. All you have to do is help her with this job. Help her, and do what you can to keep her safe.”
Ethan was torn. He was no hero. He was no knight in shining armor. At least, he never had been before. He needed to look out for himself, first and foremost. That had been his philosophy for the past several years. And it had worked out pretty well for him so far.
But Montgomery was in a mess of trouble. Could he leave her out to dry like that?
Chapter 14
Seattle
Jack sat down in seat eight, row nineteen, section 328 at Safeco Field. He wondered if this meeting would actually go ahead, if the guy would even show. A loud crack echoed through the stadium as the batter made contact with the ball. A roar rose up from the crowd. The field spread out below, a broad swath of emerald green dotted with players in their bleached white uniforms. The roof was open, as it was a rare clear day in Seattle, and the air was filled with the smell of hot dogs and beer and popcorn.
Jack glanced around at the people sitting in his section. He’d selected seats way up near the back, well away from anyone else. Nobody was in earshot.
Then someone entered the row, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. The man sat down two seats over from Jack, leaving an empty seat between them. It was Hendrickx, the red-haired Interpol agent Jack had seen tailing Snyder the other night.
It hadn’t been easy setting up this meeting. Jack had been forced to use some illicit channels. Mostly this was because the licit ones weren’t open to him anymore.
They watched the game in silence for a couple of minutes. It was the second inning. The Mariners had another out. The Rangers jogged into the dugout. Jack shifted in his plastic seat.
And then Jack spoke. “Pitcher is looking good, hey?” he said casually to Hendrickx.
Hendrickx kept his gaze on the field. “Sure is.” Everything about the guy was ice—the opposite of what Jack expected due to his flaming hair.
After a couple more batters went up to the plate, they started talking business.
“What do you know about the Gargoyle?” Jack asked.
Hendrickx turned stiffly to Jack and stared him down. Jack didn’t blink. At last, Hendrickx said, “I thought the FBI wasn’t getting involved in this one. They’ve stonewalled us after multiple attempts. Why are you coming to me now?”
Should Jack tell him the truth? That he was operating on his own?
As Jack debated the merits of full disclosure, organ music and bright flashing lights emanated from the Jumbotron. Jack could pretend he was still operating within
the bounds of his organization. But that would be a tricky charade to pull off. And would likely end in a heap of trouble.
“The FBI isn’t coming to you,” Jack said. “I’m coming to you. Nonofficially.”
Hendrickx sipped his coffee and then smiled. It was the first exhibit of emotion. And it was a truly creepy sight. “Ah. I see. You think it’s worth investigating. They want you to leave it alone.”
Jack gave a brisk nod.
“So why should I tell you anything?” Hendrickx asked. “What are you bringing to the table?”
It was a good question. “I can help.”
“We don’t need your help. Our investigation is going just fine.”
“That’s not how it looked the other night.”
Jack knew, of course, this was not how to make friends. The other man’s face immediately darkened. He looked ready to stand and walk out of the stadium.
Jack decided to change his approach. “I can bring the FBI around. You need our manpower. If I get involved and start gathering evidence, I’ll be able to convince my supervisors that we need to work together on this.”
Hendrickx seemed to be considering this. Jack assumed the man had checked him out, verified his identity and his claims, before agreeing to meet him.
“Also,” Jack continued, pressing his advantage, “I know how to get the Gargoyle. I saw in the file that he frequently uses theft—art, valuables—to fund his operations. That’s how we can get him. And that just so happens to be my area of expertise.”
Hendrickx sipped his coffee stiffly and watched the field. Another batter struck out.
Finally Hendrickx spoke. “Here’s what we know. Gargoyle is the big fish. The man you—and I—were tailing the other night, he is just a peon for a much bigger operation.”
“And the term Gargoyle, is that Interpol’s code name for him?” Jack asked.
“No, that’s the name he likes to call himself.”
“Oh. Well, that’s affected.”
Hendrickx ignored Jack and continued talking. A sense of humor wasn’t his strongest feature, Jack realized. He also realized they were not going to be friends; the guy was stone.
