by Kim Foster
Jack tried to keep his face blank. He covered his expression by sipping his whiskey. The Hope Diamond? That was what Cat was going after? Was she fucking insane?
Brooke finished the last of her drink. “Listen, Jack, this is lovely and all. But . . . maybe you’d be interested in continuing this conversation somewhere a little more private? My hotel is just around the corner.”
She reached over and squeezed his knee.
He laughed lightly. “Yeah, I don’t think so, Brooke.”
He stood then. But she stood, too. And moved closer. “You’re very tall, aren’t you?” she said. “How tall are you?”
“Six-three. Thanks for noticing.”
Jack looked at Brooke. She was a beautiful woman. Very sexy and very confident. She smelled good—her perfume was spicy, exotic.
“You know, Jack, you look a little tense. Maybe you need some way of relaxing, hmm? I can help you with that.”
Jack smiled. “I don’t think so, Brooke. But . . . I appreciate the offer.”
She shrugged and gave a mock pout. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
Jack laughed. Brooke would be a temptation for any man. Any man who didn’t have Cat as a girlfriend, that is.
Jack pulled out his wallet and put down enough money to cover the bill. “It’s been fun, Brooke, as always.”
“You’re a good man, Jack,” she said. “Which is probably your problem, and why it will never work out with you and Cat. But there it is.” She shrugged again and glanced in a polished chrome banister to check her lipstick and sweep the hair out of her eyes.
Jack walked out to the Paris streets, to the sounds of traffic and the lush smells of the flower stand outside the hotel. Well, that had been fruitful, sort of. Trouble was, he was coming out of there with more questions than answers.
He dismissed Brooke’s comments about things not working out with Cat. That was old territory. He’d been over it a thousand times in his head. He knew exactly how he felt about it.
But, he wondered, did Cat feel the same? Or right now was she doubting that a criminal and a cop could find long-lasting happiness?
At least he knew now what Faulkner was up to, and what he’d hired Cat to do. It was a huge job. There was great potential for failure, which would—possibly—mean they could nab the Gargoyle.
But wouldn’t that mean arresting Cat?
Fuck.
There had to be a way to nail Faulkner without screwing Cat. But damned if Jack knew what it was.
As he walked toward the Metro entrance, Jack’s phone rang.
Wesley’s voice came through the line. “We’ve got it, Jack. We know exactly where it is.” He sounded keyed up.
Jack stopped walking. “Okay. Where?”
“A private villa in Monaco.”
Jack said nothing. Monaco was close. Less than a two-hour flight from Paris.
Wesley went on, speaking quickly. “It’s all planned. I know how we’re going to get it. I just need another guy—a partner, someone I can trust. That person is still you, Jack. You’re still my first choice. You don’t need to bring anything. I’ll brief you on the job when you get here.”
Jack remained silent, standing at the top of the steps that would lead down to the Metro.
“And Jack?” Wesley continued. “This’ll be my last request. If you say no, I won’t bother you anymore.”
Jack was doing nothing in Paris. All his leads were drying up. He had no idea what his next step was, and he had no clue how to catch the Gargoyle without hurting Cat in the process.
But this request from Wesley—this was something real. It was a real difference he could make.
Of course, it meant getting tangled up with the criminal side again. Whatever the details of Wesley’s plan, it undoubtedly involved full-on illegal activity.
After weeks of indecision, weeks of wrestling with this same old struggle, Jack suddenly knew what he was going to do.
He hung up the phone and hailed a cab.
“Charles de Gaulle Airport,” he told the driver.
In the glare of the next morning, the awkwardness was palpable. As was the headache from those Singhas. But there was no time to feel sorry for myself, because we had a job to do.
We left our things at the hostel and made our way back to the tailor’s shop. A cheerful OPEN FOR BUSINESS sign greeted us at the front door, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Inside the haberdashery were bits and scraps of fabric, partially finished garments, and industrial-size spools of thread in every color. It carried a deep-fryer smell from the take-out stand right outside. It was quiet, with only the whir of a sewing machine and the hiss of a steam iron coming from somewhere in the back.
A plump Thai woman stood at the counter, filling out a ledger. I walked up to the counter, while Ethan hung back, and, with a perfectly straight face, said, “Hello. Do you happen to make tuxedo shirts? I need three. One bib front, one pleated front, and one with French cuffs.”
The woman smiled, just as all Thai people did in virtually every situation, and bustled to the back, stepping behind a cheap curtain.
A few minutes later she returned and beckoned us to the back through a door and then down a flight of stairs to a basement.
The basement was dark and had a damp, mushroomy smell. As we crept down the stairs, I wondered if this replica was going to live up to its billing. And I worried about how much the tailor was going to demand in payment.
I had spent just about everything I had on this job. Between flights, hotels, all my travel expenses, equipment, and now this fake diamond . . . it was cleaning me out. But what choice did I have?
At the bottom of the stairs we found ourselves standing in a small cellar. A short man sat at a high table at the back of the room, a very tall cabinet looming behind him. Spread out on the table were gems and jewels in varying degrees of polish and completion. They sparkled like pieces of candy under the man’s bright work light.
The tailor was a tiny creature with protruding ears. Perched on a stool, he wore a work apron and a jeweler’s loupe, and he looked like a figure out of an old-fashioned fable.
The tailor looked up and smiled at us.
“We’re here for the replica,” I said. “Of the Hope Diamond.”
The tailor nodded. He took a key and unlocked a drawer. He gazed inside at rows of small packages wrapped in tissue paper. He selected a package and pulled it out.
He turned and laid the package on the counter, opening the layers of wrapping. He turned on another desk lamp so we could inspect it.
The reproduction was incredible. It was almost unrecognizable as a fake. I looked closely. It was the same size as the Hope, the same deep blue. The surrounding ring of white diamonds glittered like a constellation. The sparkles, the internal fire—they were all there, beautifully re-created.
Ethan looked over my shoulder. “That should do, I’d say.” I could tell from his tone he was as impressed as I was.
I nodded.
The tailor said, “You pay me three thousand dollar.” He continued smiling as he wrapped up the package.
Ethan stiffened. “That is not the price we agreed upon,” he said sharply.
The tailor kept on smiling and nodding. “Yes, yes. This is price.”
“No. It is not,” Ethan insisted.
I dug my nails into my palms. This could deteriorate to a conversation better suited for four-year-olds, but that wasn’t going to get us anywhere.
I didn’t have any more money. I had brought only twelve hundred with me, and there was no way I could scrape together more. Our first mistake, obviously, was showing openly how pleased we were with the replica.
“We can offer you one thousand. That’s it. No more,” Ethan said.
The tailor didn’t budge.
It was time to start bluffing. “Okay, Ethan, I guess we’re done here.”
Ethan looked at me appraisingly, then nodded. And said, “Yep, we’re done.” We both moved to the stairc
ase.
The thing about bluffing is you really have to believe it. It’s like method acting. Or crashing a party.
We got a lot farther up the stairs than I thought we’d get. And then laughter chimed behind us. “Yes, okay, yes, yes . . . ,” the tailor said. I turned and saw that his smile had changed in quality. There was an edge of worry to it now.
“What do you mean by yes?” Ethan asked.
“Your price. It is good.”
We left the tailor’s shop with Ethan carrying an extremely innocent-looking brown paper–wrapped package. Unless you held it, in which case you might find it to be a little heavy and lumpy for a simple cotton dress shirt.
Outside we were immediately beset by locals offering guided tours of the Grand Palace, cheap hotel rooms, and trips to various islands.
But it didn’t bother me. We were mission accomplished. Now back to the airport. And back to Paris.
Now that we had the fake Hope Diamond in our hands, we could not be caught in any way. It would be incredibly suspicious to have a flawless replica of such a priceless thing. Particularly if your face was that of a wanted thief’s.
In our crummy little hostel, we packed our bags and prepared to head back to the airport. I wouldn’t miss this room, with its rattling air conditioner and sagging mattresses. I tried to keep the moment on the balcony firmly out of my mind.
It was late afternoon by now, and it was becoming unbearably hot and sticky. I went down to the lobby to get a Coke from the vending machine while Ethan was assembling our backpacks. I was in the back stairwell when I heard the voices in the lobby.
The walls were thin; I could hear everything.
In an instant, I recognized the voice of a man who was speaking in English. It was Hendrickx, the Interpol agent. In spite of the smoldering heat, my every molecule froze.
Chapter 44
I opened the door a crack. I had to see what was going on.
Hendrickx was standing at the front desk. I quickly scanned the rest of the lobby. Fans blew at top speed, flipping a sheaf of papers on the old, worn desk. Two Thai police officers leaned against the threadbare armchairs in the waiting area. Beyond them, in the street outside, I could make out at least one police car. Hendrickx was giving a curt description of two people. “Woman about five-two, light brown hair, slim, attractive. Man about five-eleven, strong build, blond. Looks like a film star.”
The desk clerk, unconcerned, told him that yes, we were staying there, but he couldn’t give him our room number.
This didn’t give me much relief. They would find out soon enough, I was sure. We had to get out of there. The justice system in Thailand was not renowned for its fairness. There were all kinds of rumors of people languishing in prison for years with nary a charge or official arrest.
I silently slipped back from the door and raced the four flights up the staircase, heart thundering. I thoroughly scanned the corridor before entering it from the stairwell. It was clear. I sprinted to our room and darted inside, closing the door as quietly as possible.
Ethan was just zipping up his backpack. Mine sat on the bed, already closed.
“Hendrickx is here,” I said in a harsh whisper.
“What?” His head snapped in my direction, eyes wide.
I nodded. “Downstairs. With the Thai police.”
“We have to get out of here.”
There was only one staircase and one lobby. We couldn’t go that way. The only way out was the window.
We strapped on our backpacks—luckily, they were small—and clambered out our fourth-floor window.
We flew down the fire escape as quietly as we could, but the metal clanged with every step. Dropping down onto the grimy street below, we found ourselves in a back alley. The garbage bins emanated smells that made my eyes water. A handful of stray cats scattered at our arrival, and a rat slithered out of view behind a bin.
Just as we started to slip out of the alley, a shout rang out behind us. I knew only the most basic Thai words, but I understood “Hey! Stop!”
My gut seized. We kept moving, without stopping or looking behind us.
I spotted a tuk-tuk, one of the three-wheeled vehicles that zipped all over the streets of Bangkok. It was little more than a golf cart, brightly painted and covered with canvas. We leaped in.
“Go!” Ethan shouted to the driver.
The driver didn’t miss a beat. I turned to see if anyone was giving chase. Sure enough, a car veered away from the hostel, wheeling fast into traffic.
“So? Where you like to go?” he asked us, chatting companionably, as we flew at a mad rate down the streets. The tuk-tuk careened through traffic and crowds and passed through a small market filled with bright scarves and loudly clucking chickens. Hot air whipped in my face.
“We need to go fast,” I said to the driver.
“Yes, yes,” he said.
“No. I mean really fast,” I said.
“We are trying to get away from some bad men, okay?” Ethan said.
The driver nodded and smiled, then swung out from our lane and zipped between cars at a hair-raising speed. Of course, there were no seat belts, which made everything that much more terrifying. But less terrifying than getting caught by Interpol.
The driver slipped out of traffic and turned sharply down a shanty lane. The lane was lined with small huts, aluminum lean-tos with smoky fires burning. Families of grubby children and exhausted-looking mothers watched as we sped by. Strings of laundry flapped overhead.
In the tuk-tuk, Ethan turned to me. “How did they find us? How did they know? Has Hendrickx been following us this whole time?”
“I don’t know. He must have followed us to Bangkok, though. How else could he have gotten here so fast? So that means someone in Paris tipped him off. Or someone might have spotted our arrival last night.”
The tuk-tuk gave a sputtering sound. The driver looked down at his gauges. “Uh-oh, we are low on petrol. I must stop here at the service station.”
“Here?” I said, shrieking.
The driver simply smiled that infuriatingly ubiquitous smile. I turned around. The cops were just turning down the lane, heading toward us.
Ethan and I leaped out, he tossed a handful of baht onto the seat beside the driver, and then we ran toward the river.
Clusters of long-tail boats sat at a dock on the Chao Phraya River. We had no time to ask permission.
I turned to Ethan. “We have to split up.”
“No. I’m not leaving you,” he said firmly.
“You know it’s the best way. You know it’s much easier to make a getaway solo. And we can divide them this way. And if one of us is going to get caught, there’s no sense in both of us getting caught.”
“How about neither of us getting caught?”
“Yeah, well, that’s my goal, too.”
In spite of his protests, I could tell he knew I was right.
“Okay, you take a boat,” Ethan said. “I’ll find another way. We’ll meet at the airport, but not Suvarnabhumi. The private charter terminal at Don Mueang. Okay?”
I nodded and leaped aboard the closest boat. I hot-wired it in a second, and it rumbled to life. I’d never operated a long-tail before, but how hard could it be? Boats were my comfort level. Sailboats mostly, but I could manage this.
I punched the engine and roared out into the river. The churning water kicked up possibly the worst smell ever, a combination of garbage and raw sewage and bacteria. On the riverbank someone dumped something into the water. Within seconds, dozens of fish roiled the water’s surface, splashing and gulping at whatever scum remained.
I started to get the hang of maneuvering the boat and tried not to think about all the muck spraying in my face. I glanced behind me, just in time to see Hendrickx and one of the police officers leaping onto another long-tail boat.
Which had to mean that Ethan had one person on him. There had been three of them in the hostel lobby.
Fine. I could handle it.
&n
bsp; I turned the boat as sharply as I could down a side canal, trying to lose myself in the smaller waterways. I wondered how fast this boat could go. The more twists and turns I could make, the better I could shake them.
Nobody else on this river was moving as fast as I was. People were trolling the waters at a leisurely pace; many boats were being paddled or rowed. Shanty huts and shacks clustered along the banks among lush palm trees and grasses, and little docks on rickety stilts protruded doubtfully over the water.
I took another turn at a fork in the canal. I glanced back and couldn’t see any pursuers. Could I have lost them? The canal took a bend, and once I rounded it, I saw a glut of boats ahead of me. The floating market.
There was no way through. Stationary floating boats filled the entire waterway. I looked behind me. Okay, I’d just turn the boat around and—
I saw Hendrickx’s boat rounding the bend, heading fast toward me. I was trapped.
My heart flip-flopped in my chest like a fish. I continued speeding toward the market, thinking hard, trying to keep the panic down.
I killed the engine and pulled up beside a clutter of boats. When my boat bumped gently into a boat full of cabbages, I stepped across. I made my way through the market, moving from one boat to the next. One was full of chickens, and the next contained coconuts and bags of rice. The merchants were cooking food in these boats—I had no idea how that was even possible.
From one boat I casually grabbed a discarded straw sun hat, the cone-shaped kind all the sellers wore, and pulled it on my head. I kept going, stepping and leaping from one wobbly boat to the next. I needed to put some distance between myself and Hendrickx. I ignored clucking chickens and squawking sellers and kept moving forward.
Then I jumped out and joined the crowds on land, slipping into the throng.
It’s always an internal tug-of-war when trying to escape. How long do you continue fleeing at top speed, and when do you slow right down and blend? Running gives you distance but attracts attention. The timing is an art form that requires a lot of finesse.
