by Kim Foster
“Actually, Jack, I’m in Amsterdam now,” Wesley said. “The Fabergé didn’t stay long in the Middle East. We’re back to Europe.”
Jack said nothing.
“And remember that underground group I talked to you about? The one protecting the Gifts all along?”
“Sure.”
“They’re real. They’ve been around for centuries. In fact, it appears they were the ones who brought the Gifts to Peter Carl Fabergé a hundred years ago and concealed them within the Aurora egg.”
Jack nodded. That piece of the puzzle had always been a mystery to him.
Wesley continued. “The modern name they use for themselves is the DOA.”
“Dead on Arrival?”
“Nope. The Department of Antiquities.”
Jack thought for a moment. “It sounds like we have similar ideals. Maybe they’d be open to working together. Have you approached them?”
“Nope. They don’t see us as much different from Caliga. We’re thieves, criminals. They will try to protect the egg from us as much as from Caliga.”
It was frustrating, but Jack understood the urge to draw that line in the sand. He worked with many people in the FBI who needed to think in terms of us and them. Good and bad.
Jack was beginning to realize it was much more complicated than that. Not everyone who bent or broke the rules of the law was inherently evil.
Caliga was a different case, though. They were cut from a different cloth than other thief guilds. They wanted the Fabergé, and the Gifts of the Magi hidden inside, for the power. And what made Caliga dangerous—whether you believed in the mystical power allegedly contained within the Gifts or not—was their willingness to hurt a lot of people to unlock that power.
“We’re getting close, Jack. You ready to reconsider? It could be just a matter of days before we have it pinpointed.”
Jack tightened a hand around the steering wheel. The timing was fortuitous. The Gargoyle case was drying up. Jack was being cut out by Interpol, and the FBI had forbidden him to follow his leads. He was out. He had nothing to do but paperwork. Flying overseas to join Wesley would get him back in the game. It would be something he could contribute to, be a part of.
But if he crossed over this line right now, if he flew to Amsterdam, could he even still consider himself a cop? Could he even say any small part of him was legitimate?
“Wes, you’re making a good case,” he said at last. “But the thing is, I’m right in the middle of something big here. They really need me.” Jack caught a glimpse of his lying eyes in the rearview mirror.
Wesley was a good sport about the rejection. But he didn’t make the same offer as before, to call if Jack changed his mind.
Message received. He wouldn’t be calling Jack again.
After hanging up, Jack sat in his car and stared through the windshield into the dark sky. He threw a question out to the darkness. What now?
No answers came.
Chapter 22
When I got off the phone with Jack, I cringed. That had not gone well.
But it was ridiculous. Because I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Right? I was just doing my job. And Ethan was simply a colleague.
Okay, so yes, technically, we had slept together that one time. But Jack and I weren’t together at that time. We were on a break. You’re allowed to sleep with other people when you’re on a break, right? Plus, it was under circumstances of extreme stress . . . and a lot of alcohol. Not entirely my fault.
So why had I never told Jack about that? If there was nothing to hide, why was I hiding it?
Automatically, reflexively, the memory of that night with Ethan flooded back. A warm flush rose up my neck.
Ethan looked at me as I sat on the bed with my hand still on the hotel phone. He was applying one of my Band-Aids to his left hand. “Everything all right, Montgomery?”
“Yes, of course,” I said brightly. “That was Jack. He, um, says hello.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure he does.”
I stood and busied myself straightening things on the desk. The awkward silence was interrupted when my stomach let out a great groan of hunger. I cringed.
“Good idea, Montgomery,” Ethan said, responding to my stomach’s comments. “Let’s grab a bite to eat. Come on. My treat.”
Embarrassment notwithstanding, it was a great idea. When was the last time I’d eaten, anyway? Of course, I immediately felt a pang of guilt. Was it a date if I went to a café with Ethan? Don’t be silly, Cat. You have to eat.
Ethan got dressed, and I gathered my things. A few minutes later we strolled along the sunny, gracious streets of Paris.
We found a sidewalk café just a block from the hotel. Traffic hummed nearby. Waiters bustled deftly among three-deep rows of tables.
I sipped a frosty Kronenbourg and ate an omelet that melted in my mouth.
“What are the chances they have our faces?” I asked. I’d been thinking about this ever since our escape.
“Zero.”
“How do you know?”
“There’s not a lot of CCTV in Paris. It’s nothing compared to a lot of big cities, like London. They keep talking about installing more cameras, but it keeps getting caught up in the bureaucracy. Most of the cameras they do have are clustered around the high-crime areas and the tourist traps. Not where we were today.”
That made sense. And made me feel much better.
I cast a sidelong glance at Ethan as he swallowed a sip of beer. He looked effortlessly cool in his khakis and Tom Ford sunglasses and linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, revealing tanned, strong forearms. He was the picture of laid back. And he was, noticeably, not sitting there, being all jealous or making me feel guilty about a thing.
Not fair, Cat. I knew where my head was going with that line of thinking, and it was undeserved.
I turned my attention to my food and the rather large leaf of lettuce confronting me on my plate. If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d leave it alone. But I had scarfed down my omelet in record time, and I was still starving. I was self-conscious at the idea of ordering a second lunch in front of Ethan, so lettuce it was.
I wasn’t entirely sure if the lettuce leaf was part of the meal or merely garnish, but I didn’t care. I needed to eat it. Trouble was, how to tackle such a large leaf? Cut it with a knife and fork, and look like a ridiculous princess, or just stuff it right in? Also, why was I even giving this so much thought? It was not like this was a date.
I opted to simply fold it a bit and shove it in my mouth. Unfortunately, it was even bigger than I’d thought, and it partially sprang back into its unfolded state as it reached my mouth, so little bits stuck out as I tried to chew a very full mouthful in the most ladylike manner possible.
It was at that moment that the waiter returned, asking if we’d like another Kronenbourg. Really? He’d largely ignored us up to this point, but this was the moment he decided to come back?
I smiled and tried to indicate that I was still chewing. He stared at me with a sour, snobby twist to his mouth. I didn’t know if he didn’t understand or just didn’t care, but either way, he wasn’t leaving, so I tried to chew faster, my cheeks warming with embarrassment.
But then a bit of vinegar from the salad dressing—Aha! It was supposed to be salad—shot down my throat, which promptly closed with a burning spasm.
Both Ethan and the snooty waiter were staring at me, waiting for a response. But my throat had seized. Not only could I not talk, but I knew exactly what was going to happen next. I scrabbled for a napkin, but I was too late. I coughed suddenly, loudly, and an enormous masticated lettuce leaf flew out of my mouth and plopped in Ethan’s water glass.
Memo to self:
Next time, order the second lunch.
After the waiter hurriedly, and with a show of great disdain, tidied our table and removed the offending water glass, I sat there in awkward silence with Ethan.
Ethan was trying very, very hard not to laugh.
I lifted my
glass to take a casual sip of Kronenbourg, except it was empty, given that I’d never actually gotten around to answering the waiter’s question. I sighed. I give up.
After a moment, Ethan sat back and said, “Okay, so what’s next with the Louvre plan?”
I nodded. Right. Back to business.
We had selected a table that was off to the side, with a cushion of confidential air between the nearest patrons and us. Besides, we were speaking English, and although Paris was a cosmopolitan city, it was surprising how little English the locals spoke. Especially if we spoke quickly and at a low volume, it made eavesdropping virtually impossible.
“I need security schematics,” I said. “Blueprints, details. All of it. I’m waiting on a bunch of that stuff from Gladys. But I’m not sure it’ll be enough.”
He nodded and raised his glass to take a sip. Then paused midair. “You know what’s interesting, Montgomery?”
“What?”
I watched him sit there with his wheels spinning. He sipped his beer, and a mischievous look took over his gorgeous chiseled face.
“Severin doesn’t know that you didn’t get all his fingerprints, does he?”
“No.”
“That’s a little fact that could be used to our advantage. I’m going to have to think about that. It could be leaked to him that the thief in his apartment was stealing copies of his fingerprints to use in a theft.”
Hmm. Now that was interesting.
Later that night, my heels clicked on the cobblestones of Montmartre as darkness cloaked my movements and a gloomy mist swirled around me. Montmartre is the home of the Moulin Rouge. It’s a spiderweb network of narrow cobbled streets, layered with the now-invisible stains of blood and absinthe and sweat, topped by the pristine cathedral of Sacré-Coeur on high, like a white wedding cake looming over it all.
I looked at the scrap of paper I held tightly in my hand and peered at faded house numbers on buildings, looking for a specific address. I was searching for a fortune-teller’s shop.
And then I stopped myself. What was I doing? This was absurd. A waste of time.
And yet . . . I felt strangely compelled. I didn’t seem to be getting over my fear on my own. Nobody else had said anything to help me yet. So who knew? Maybe a fortune-teller would pick up on something the rest of us hadn’t. Maybe there was something else I could do to get out of this pickle. I hadn’t been able to come up with it on my own. Templeton couldn’t. Atworthy couldn’t. But perhaps . . . someone who saw things in a different way could.
Worst-case scenario, a trip to a fortune-teller would serve as a brief distraction. I certainly needed one—I was stalled on planning the Louvre job, waiting to hear back from Gladys with more security details.
Before heading out of my hotel, I’d called Sophie for advice.
“Montmartre!” she’d said with excitement. “That’s exactly where you need to go. Oh, Cat, I’m so happy—”
“Just slow down, Soph, and don’t get too excited. I’m not a convert or anything. Just . . . looking for a little guidance.”
She’d given me the address of a French gypsy fortune-teller she knew in Montmartre, which I’d scribbled on this paper. Of course, the street name had now blurred on my paper, soaked through with mist, but I knew it started with P, and I remembered it had been the name of some kind of food.
I stuffed a hand in my pocket to keep it warm, and I felt the tarot card Romany Rosa had given me. I seemed to be carrying it everywhere with me now. It was superstitious, I knew, and I scolded myself for being so silly.
And then I spotted a road sign: RUE POULET. Chicken. Yes, this must be it. Streetlights punctuated the narrow street, each one forming a small glowing nimbus against the cold gloom.
I turned down rue Poulet and found the spot I was looking for. Underneath a falafel restaurant crammed between a bistro and a souvenir shop, steps led down to a lower level. A small hand-painted sign leaning against a grimy lower-floor window was the only confirmation I was in the right place.
LA CARTOMANCIENNE. DISEUR DE BONNE AVENTURE.
I walked down the steps and into the fortune-teller’s den. It was dark and smelled of bergamot and cardamom. Beads clicked softly as I pushed the curtain aside and entered an inner room. A chill rose up my arms.
Did I buy into any of this? I hadn’t thought so. I’d always believed fortune-tellers were basically people like me. Or, more specifically, people like my friends in the con department. People who could read people. People with supremely honed powers of human observation. They saw things, all right, but not from some otherworldly plane. They saw people’s reactions, their body language, their involuntary facial expressions.
The fortune-teller emerged from a back room behind a green velvet curtain with tassels.
The bangles on her wrists clinked and jangled as she moved the curtain aside. She was younger than the fortune-teller at Pike Place. I would have put her age at thirty maybe, although it was difficult to say. Her face was heavily made up, with smoky kohl-rimmed eyes and deep red lipstick. She was petite, maybe five-two, and had masses of curly brown hair. A faint linear one-inch scar marked her upper left cheekbone.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she said to me. She indicated a chair; I took a seat at the scarf-covered table. “You are here because you have a question?” she asked in French.
“Well . . . not exactly,” I replied in French. “I just need to know . . . if I’m doing the right thing. If there is some other way.”
She nodded and silently placed an old wooden box on the table. She released the brass latch and swung the lid open on its hinges. From the box she removed a tarot card deck.
They looked different from the cards at Pike Place—much older, more worn around the edges. And the pictures were somewhat different. The illustrations looked ancient, primitive.
She arranged the cards on the table in the same cross pattern Romany Rosa had used, then stared at them for a long time.
“You are in great danger,” she said at last. “You are playing a game that will end badly. There is an old power held in a charm of some sort, an amulet perhaps. You would do well to stay away.”
I stiffened in spite of myself. How could she know that? Either she was incredibly good at reading people or . . .
“What if I don’t have a choice? What if I need it?”
The fortune-teller frowned and tilted her head at the cards, bird-like. She turned over three more.
“But there is something else,” she said. “You are torn. You have a choice to make.”
Of course. Was there any other reason to come see a fortune-teller besides struggling with a choice? She must say those exact words to every single person. The spell began to break down as I felt renewed skepticism for this whole idea.
“It has to do with love. With a man,” she said. I could see her watching me carefully and gauging my reactions. “Two men,” she added, correcting herself.
She was good, I had to admit. But I wondered what my tell was. What had made her say that?
Then she pointed to a specific card facing up on the table. “One is the Knight.” Her finger rested on the card with the name Le Cavalier d’Épée. The Knight of Swords.
“The other is the Trickster.” She pointed to a card that carried the label Le Bateleur. “In other tarot suits, this is often called the Mountebank. It means ‘a swindler.’ Or ‘a sleight of hand artist.’”
I had to admit that was strange. It almost sounded like she was talking about Jack and Ethan.
“What’s this one?” I asked, pointing to an unlabeled card that contained a golden disk in the center. It was the card she’d been staring at when she’d talked of an old power within an amulet.
“That is the Ace of Coins,” she said. “But it goes by other names. Ace of Pentacles. Ace of Deniers. Or . . . in more modern suits, Ace of Diamonds.”
Diamond? Like the Hope Diamond?
The back of my neck tingled, as though spidery fingers were tracing a path do
wn it. This was too close again. Too accurate. How could she possibly know all this just by reading my face?
And then I remembered. Sophie was the one who had arranged this. Ah, right. She’d set this up. She’d probably put the fortune-teller up to it. Told her what I needed warning about.
I felt mildly annoyed, but mostly I knew Sophie’s heart was in the right place. She was just trying to keep me safe.
I thanked the fortune-teller for her time, paid her, and walked out of the incense-filled haven to the cool air outside. I retraced my steps along the dark, shadowy street, past people up to varying degrees of mischief.
I pulled out my cell phone and called Sophie. “That was fun, Soph. Thanks for playing. Just what I needed, actually, a little diversion for an hour.”
“What are you talking about? My fortune-teller called me. She said you never came.”
I frowned into the phone. “What? I was just there. I literally just left the shop. I’m walking along rue Poulet as we speak.”
There was a pause on the line. “Rue Poulet? Why are you there? No, I said rue Poisson. My fortune-teller is on rue Poisson.” She laughed, understanding dawning. Poulet was French for chicken, and poisson was French for fish.
“Well, I knew it was a word that started with P and it was a food name,” I said, starting to laugh too.
“Oh, there are a million fortune-tellers in Montmartre,” Sophie said. “You just went to the wrong one.”
Then I stopped laughing. “Wait, so I went to see a fortune-teller you hadn’t spoken to first?”
“I guess so,” she said blithely.
I felt anything but blithe. A creeping shiver covered every inch of me.
I went back to my hotel. I needed a hot bath, and I needed it now.
I still hadn’t heard from Gladys, and it was making me crazy. The fortune-teller as a distraction strategy—even as an alternative problem-solving strategy—had utterly backfired.
I opened the closet to retrieve a robe . . . and knew something was off. Where was my navy cashmere cardigan? I was sure I’d hung it up there earlier.
