by Kim Foster
Ethan and I became part of the crowd. At the bottom stair, we stepped off the staircase arm in arm, snuggling and gazing into each other’s eyes.
The guards’ glances at the bottom of the staircase slid off us. We walked away from the tower, forcing ourselves to walk slowly and not run. I hazarded one glance over Ethan’s shoulder just before we slipped behind the bushes. I could see Hendrickx having a heated argument with the guards, the whole group of them fanning out and looking with bewilderment and frustration at the hordes surrounding the tower.
We were away. I’d made it. We walked the few blocks to the Metro entrance and descended the concrete staircase.
“So, I hope you got some useful information after all that,” said Ethan as we stepped onto the train.
“Sure did,” I said, patting my bag. “Schematics. And Lafayette told me all about the vault underground, where they keep the Hope at night.”
“Oh?” His eyes flashed with excitement as we gripped onto chrome grab bars and the train accelerated away from the platform.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “It’s a perfect replica of the Geneva Freeport.”
He stopped. “Are you serious? But that’s completely impenetrable.”
“I know.”
That evening I went back to my hotel alone, planning to sit down and pore over the schematics. But there was a package waiting for me at the front desk. A small box roughly the size of a shoe box.
I signed for it and took it up to my room, wondering what it could be. Was it intel from Gladys? A piece of equipment from Lucas, my tech guy? Of course I’d love it if there was an actual pair of shoes inside that shoe box–size box....
I poured myself a glass of wine, then sliced through the packing tape and folded open the box flaps. I recoiled in horror.
Inside was a severed hand cradled on a blue velvet cloth.
I squeezed my eyes shut and looked away as a chill of terror scudded through my body. I stayed there, frozen like that, for a long time. After a minute, I cracked my eyes and peered back inside the box. This time, I saw a small envelope inside the box, beside the hand.
It took me a long time before I gathered the nerve to grab the envelope. But eventually, my need to know overcame my repulsion. I reached in and grabbed it and scuttled away from the dreadfulness of the box.
Just thought you might appreciate a little extra motivation, in case you found yours flagging.
With love,
Albert Faulkner III
P.S. You may have your extra week. No longer.
Chapter 29
Seattle
The sky had gone black many hours ago, and Jack was still at his desk at FBI headquarters. The offices were otherwise deserted as he pored over a stack of files, routine paperwork that was taking an agonizing length of time. Mostly because he just didn’t give a shit. He took a sip of stale coffee, then pushed it away with disgust. Then he glanced up and looked around, realizing for the first time just how alone he was.
He rubbed the back of his head and weighed the pros and cons of the idea that had just occurred to him. Victoria Sullivan would give birth to an ostrich if she knew, but Jack couldn’t resist the urge to do a little unauthorized digging in some of the inner files.
If he could just figure out the identity of the Gargoyle—something neither Interpol nor the FBI had done yet—he’d be golden. He’d be back on the case then, surely. He’d certainly have sway with Hendrickx, and he’d probably be able to convince his ball-breaker supervisor that he was capable of handling this investigation, to boot.
Jack considered jumping on the computer of his desk mate, poor trusting bugger who’d given Jack his password a few days ago. Jack was halfway over to the guy’s workstation when he changed his mind. No, he couldn’t be responsible for someone else getting in trouble. If there was heat to come, Jack would have to take it.
He started opening folders in the system, going into restricted areas. He had the security clearance, sure. He just knew Special Agent Sullivan had forbidden him from investigating this case.
Jack sifted through files of known heads of organized crime. Which one of these was the Gargoyle? Or was it someone else entirely?
He thought about Hendrickx over in Paris and wondered how far he was getting in the investigation. The Paris connection still bothered Jack when he thought about Cat. Was there any chance she was wrapped up in this?
No. That was crazy. Besides, Hendrickx was investigating the Louvre itself as the potential target of a theft, and that was ridiculous. There was no way Cat would be involved in a theft that major. She was still on probation with AB&T, surely.
It had to be a coincidence. Only trouble was, Jack didn’t believe in coincidences. He ignored the gnawing discomfort and pushed forward.
Hendrickx had told Jack they’d be following up on a lead about a corrupt security guard—someone who had helped, and then backstabbed, major thieves in the past. Maybe he’d lead them to the Gargoyle? It was the only thing Jack knew about the Paris investigation.
And it sounded pretty weak to him.
Snyder had a much stronger connection to the Gargoyle. He was the only solid lead. There must be something they’d missed. Had they explored everything about the man? Jack pulled up some new files, the surveillance on Snyder, tracking his prior movements over the past few weeks.
There was a notation about Snyder being in Washington, D.C. Nothing weird about that. Close to Philadelphia, where he lived. Jack opened a file with a list of the places he’d been tracked to: the bowling alley, a strip club, Walmart.
And then the Smithsonian.
Now, that was weird. What would a lowlife be doing at a museum? It was the one location that didn’t fit. Jack moved the cursor over to the surveillance files. He hesitated, finger hovering over the mouse button. This was definitely not allowed. Victoria Sullivan would kill him, put him on probation, string him up, whatever.
But he couldn’t just leave it now.
He clicked and opened the files. He scrolled through CCTV shots of Snyder in the Smithsonian.
Unfortunately, the files contained only still shots, spread apart by five minutes. That was all the FBI had saved, not the full videos. Trying to save storage space, no doubt—more efficiency measures from their Special Agent in charge. Jack frowned.
Still, maybe there was information to be had. Jack scrutinized the shots of Snyder lingering around the main foyer of the National Museum of Natural History, as if waiting. But for what?
Next, segments showed Snyder looking at a piece of paper and selecting the second bench beside the gift shop. Then checking his watch. Like he was there for a rendezvous.
Jack cracked his knuckles.
The next shot, after an interval of five minutes, showed Snyder leaving the museum through the front door.
Jack stared at the screen. But what about a meeting? Had the still shots missed it? If it had been a brief conversation, it could have happened between the five-minute slices.
But that person must have been in the shot somewhere, either before or after.
Jack scrolled back through the frames to see if he recognized anyone in the vicinity. Tourists with their heads buried in guidebooks. A small group of students, appearing bored. A couple of important higher-ups, like the Smithsonian’s security director, Jim Haversham, strolling across the foyer. And the director of the museum, Madeleine York.
Not helpful. He sat back in his chair with frustration.
Then Jack had a brain wave. He lunged forward to his keyboard and set the computer to scan all the faces in the shots before and after Snyder leaving. He specified a cross-check to highlight any persons with a criminal record.
And one name came up: Albert Faulkner III. The computer highlighted his face in the still shot. He’d been hovering by the gift shop when Snyder first sat down on the bench.
Jack minimized that screen and looked up Faulkner in the database.
A huge file scrolled up on-screen, including
details of all manner of suspected and accused activity. Embezzlement. Tax evasion. Conspiracies and the like. Organized crime. Extortion. The guy was basically a walking catalog of white-collar criminal activity.
But none of the charges had ever stuck. He’d never been convicted. He had a long list of suspected associates. The guy had a huge network, clearly a deep layer of protection.
Jack sat back and folded his arms. Could Albert Faulkner be the Gargoyle?
He picked up his phone and called Criminal Justice Information Services, the FBI division that tracked people of interest and their movements.
“Special Agent Jack Barlow here. Looking for the last known location of Albert Faulkner the Third,” Jack said to the woman who answered the phone.
“Just a moment, please.” He could hear the woman punching a keyboard, searching the database.
“He has a private jet,” she said. “It took off a few days ago.”
“Destination?”
There was more clicking as the woman muttered softly about flight manifests . . . and then she got it. “Looks like they landed in Paris.”
Paris? Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his face. It seemed he’d found his Gargoyle.
Question was, what to do about it?
Chapter 30
Paris
Brooke and I strolled into the lobby of the Mercure Hotel, chatting like old friends. Old friends who just so happened to be scrutinizing everyone in the lobby out of the corners of their eyes, old friends who had their pockets stuffed with lock picks and micro-cameras, old friends who were about to break into the hotel room of an Interpol officer.
I tried to ignore the churning discomfort deep in my belly. Brooke had talked me into this, and I still wasn’t sure it was the right way to go.
She’d called me about twenty minutes ago, saying it was urgent. She’d had drinks with the Interpol officer Hendrickx, and she’d successfully charmed him. Specifically, this meant she had learned which hotel he was staying in, then had stolen his hotel key card.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t gleaned any information about the case.
“It was too awkward a subject to raise,” she said as we casually walked into the elevator of the Mercure. “I tried a couple of times, but he was very closed about it. Highly suspicious.”
“So how do we know he’s not coming back to his hotel room right now?”
“He invited me to the theater, and we planned to meet there. I told him I needed to go home and freshen up first. But the performance started ten minutes ago. Obviously, I’m not going to show, but he’ll wait awhile, then either leave or just stay for the whole performance. Best-case scenario, we get two hours. Worst, twenty minutes. But he’ll definitely wait until the first intermission for me.”
“How can you be sure?”
She gave me an impatient look. “Please, Cat. I can read that much about a man.”
It was an opportunity we couldn’t pass up. And as long as we were in and out in twenty, we should be fine.
But should be was never a very reassuring pair of words in my world. I tightened my fists as the elevator carried us up to the seventh floor.
Just outside the elevator, we heard a couple of people coming down the corridor, around the corner. We did not want to be seen, so we ducked into the staircase and waited until they were gone.
This was not the most modern of hotels, either. Disadvantage: the faint unpleasant smells of stale smoke and mildew. Advantage: no CCTV.
Still, we didn’t want any witnesses.
We strolled along the corridor, like we were coming back from a shopping trip. Then we stopped outside Hendrickx’s room. Brooke slid the key card in while I kept lookout.
The handle light went green with a faint click. She opened the door, and we both slipped in like a pair of Siamese cats.
Time was ticking. My stomach churned, and I prayed I didn’t have a panic attack. I had work to do.
We fanned out. Brooke went straight for the desk drawers, and I targeted the safe inside the closet. Brooke found very little in the drawers. He was very careful, obviously.
But not so careful that he didn’t trust the safe. I cracked it in no time at all. It was a very cheap, outdated safe; it would take me longer to get through the knots in my hair after a long drive in a convertible.
What I found was some money, his passport, and a notebook. I opened the small leather-bound notebook and scanned through the pages. He kept fairly scanty notes, likely committing the rest to memory. Probably smart.
But nonetheless, there was some useful information to be gleaned. I held my breath as I read his notes.
Meeting with Lafayette. Female. Thief? Black, curly hair, glasses.
He didn’t know my identity. He didn’t even have a very good description, as my disguise had clearly sucked him in.
This was good news.
Brooke walked over to where I sat on the bed, and she read over my shoulder. She snapped photos with her micro-camera while I inspected the pages for further clues. Halfway down a page I read,
Monitor Louvre.
I chewed a fingernail. He’d realized the Louvre was a target.
This was bad news.
It was okay, though—this wasn’t exactly revolutionary. The Louvre was always a target. I just hoped he didn’t know which part of the Louvre was my target. The next page read:
Phone call, April 23. Barlow convinced he has discovered the Gargoyle’s identity. Barlow to investigate this lead.
Barlow. Did he mean Jack Barlow? I knew Gladys had provided Jack with Hendrickx’s name, but now they were working together?
This was very bad news.
Chapter 31
Ethan and I were in the Gare de Lyon station, waiting for the train that would take us the three-hour journey to Geneva. Sounds of luggage being wheeled across a polished concrete floor echoed under the vaulted ceiling. Tour operators hawked their services, hoping to be heard over the din of squealing train wheels and crackly PA announcements. Light filtered into the station from windows high above.
After learning from Lafayette that the Louvre vault was modeled after the Geneva Freeport, we had been mightily discouraged at first. And then we started to see the advantage.
“Well, although there’s no way in hell you’re getting anywhere near the Louvre vault—unless you’re an employee or something—you might have a chance to check out the Geneva Freeport,” Ethan had pointed out.
Say you’re a billionaire looking for somewhere to store your vintage collection of antique Louis Vuitton steamer trunks. The Geneva Freeport would be more than happy to court your business by opening the door and inviting you to tour their facilities and decide if you’d be satisfied with their layers of security.
It was brilliant.
“Okay, now for the fun part,” Ethan had said. “Thinking up our covers.”
“Our?”
“Yes, I’m coming with you, obviously. I can be a pretty convincing art collector. And billionaire.”
I had looked at Ethan carefully. I had no doubt he could.
I was torn. On one hand, it made me feel safer that he would be coming with me. And our cover would be much more plausible. Between Ethan’s knowledge of art and mine of sparkly things, posing as a couple with plenty of precious belongings should be no problem.
On the other hand, there was still that niggling guilt at the base of my brain. Was I betraying Jack? How would he feel knowing I was going on a weekend jaunt with Ethan?
But it wasn’t a holiday. It was work. I had to keep that firmly in mind.
So I would have one main goal for the trip: to get a good look at the vault, gather as much intel as possible, and figure out how to break into it.
But a secondary goal was to keep things with Ethan on a strictly professional level. Okay, so, yes, we were headed out of town on a trip together. And yes, we would be posing as a married couple.
That didn’t necessarily mean anything inappropriate. Right?
I
glanced up at the huge boards with flipping numbers of train platforms and destinations. The air was filled with the smells of french fries from the fast-food stands and warm buttery croissants from the cafés. People in business suits strode by our bench, holding paper-wrapped baguette sandwiches.
We had about fifteen minutes to wait. I reached for the newspaper that rested on the bench beside me and glanced at a headline. In French, it said:
LOUVRE SECURITY OFFICER DIES FROM ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK IN BISTRO: IS THE CURSE OF THE HOPE DIAMOND REAL?
My eyes popped. I scanned the article quickly for more details. It seemed one of the staff from the Louvre was having dinner in a Beaubourg neighborhood bistro and developed a severe allergic reaction because the waiter accidentally served him the wrong kind of soup, a lobster bisque instead of cream of mushroom. It took only one spoonful. He had a known seafood allergy, so he carried an EpiPen, but apparently, it malfunctioned. An ambulance was called, but according to local reports, an unusual clog of traffic prevented the ambulance from getting to him soon enough.
“Holy shit,” I said. “Ethan, look at this.”
His eyes went equally wide at the headline. We read the rest of the page together.
The article made special mention of the fact that this guard was involved in the transport of the Hope Diamond to the Louvre and, in fact, was the last person to touch it before it was installed in the museum display case. Chills went up my arms. The man’s dining companion, whose identity was unknown at this point, could not be reached for comment.
According to the article, the instant fear and question on everyone’s mind was whether this tragedy had been caused by the Hope Diamond curse.
I looked at the photograph, a grainy image of a middle-aged man with a mustache. Nobody I recognized. I immediately thought of Sophie. What would she think when she caught wind of this?
More importantly, what did I think?
