Eye of the God

by Ariel Allison

  Abby tapped her lips in contemplation. “I don't doubt that.”

  “Beautiful ring,” Ana said, glancing at Abby's finger.

  “Thank you. It was a gift.”

  She grinned mischievously. “He must love you very much.”

  “You would think so.”

  Ana smiled sadly and changed the subject. “So what is your concern?”

  “I'm worried about this painting.”

  “Two Balconies? What do you mean? I thought you felt it would be a spectacular addition to your exhibit next year.”

  “I do,” Abby assured her. “My concern is not with the painting itself, but with its safety. I have reason to believe it may be in danger of theft.”

  Ana relaxed a little and laughed. “I can assure you, meu caro, we have strict security measures in place. All of our paintings are bolted to the wall and connected to hair-trigger alarms. If a painting is moved even a fraction of an inch, the alarm sets off our security system. In addition we have state-of-the-art video surveillance and round-the-clock armed guards.”

  “I wasn't suggesting your security system is sub par, merely that we have gotten word there may be parties interested in this particular Salvador Dali painting.”

  Ana flashed a charming smile. “Do you mind me asking your source?”

  “I've received notice from the art theft division at Interpol. There are rumblings of an illicit interest in Dali and this painting in particular. I thought it prudent to warn you, considering your partnership with the Smithsonian.”

  “Why is the International Criminal Police Organization interested in Two Balconies?”

  “There has been a rash of thefts recently, and Interpol contacted me with a warning.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Dr. Mitchell, but I feel confident we have taken the appropriate measures to protect our facility.”

  Abby sighed. “All right. But know you have our full resources at your disposal should you need them.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Mitchell. I will certainly take that into consideration.” Ana glanced back at the painting and asked, “I assume the Smithsonian is still planning to include Two Balconies in next year's exhibit?”

  “Absolutely. Preliminary preparations are underway for its transport and security.”

  Ana beamed. “We would be delighted to accommodate you in any way. I will, of course, have to accompany the painting to Washington.”

  “Of course.”

  Both women turned back to the window as a loud burst of cheering and music erupted from the throng outside. Viktor Leite, the mayor, was barely audible over the din. Flanked on both sides by voluptuous women dressed in revealing Carnival garb, he screamed into the microphone so he could be heard over the pounding drums.

  “Let the festivities begin!”

  At his command the massive parade, seventy-thousand people strong, erupted in applause and began to snake through the streets.

  “You will be staying for Carnival?” Ana asked.

  “I'm afraid not. Duty calls me back to Washington.”

  “I thought this was a working vacation?”

  “More work than vacation, I'm afraid.”

  “Surely the Smithsonian wouldn't object to you staying an extra day or two?”

  Abby sighed. “My flight leaves at noon tomorrow.”

  Ana opened her mouth to argue her case but was jolted into stunned silence by the thunderous sound of a gunshot. Abby and Ana spun around to find two armed men standing at the museum entrance.

  2

  ALEX WELD STARED DOWN THE BARREL OF HIS NINE-MILLIMETER GLOCK. The small crowd of tourists and museum staff gaped at him with open mouths. Dressed as an average tourist in khaki pants, white linen shirt, and Carnival mask, he looked as though he belonged outside with the multitude of partygoers.

  An armed security guard ran into the main gallery. “Now!” Alex shouted to his brother.

  “Coloque suas armas ou eu porei uma bala em sua cabeça!” Isaac Weld ordered in Portuguese.

  The guard slid his handgun across the floor and backed away.

  Isaac retrieved the discarded weapon from the marble floor and then pistol-whipped the unarmed guard in his temple. The unconscious man collapsed to the floor.

  “Quem está na carga?” Isaac's voice rang dead and hollow behind the frozen lips of the resin mask. Almond-shaped openings revealed his cold, blue eyes, the only proof of life in the painted face.

  No one answered.

  Isaac raised his Glock and fired a single round into the ceiling. Screams echoed thoughout the room, and a shower of dust and small plaster chunks fell to the floor. “I said who is in charge?” he repeated in English, stressing each syllable.

  “I am.” The well-dressed woman in her early fifties took a hesitant step forward, her gaze locked on the gun in his hand.

  “And you are?”

  “Ana Santos, the museum director.”

  Isaac grabbed the back of her suit and forced her toward the security desk at the front of the lobby. “Disconnect the alarm and the security system or everyone here dies.”

  Ana pulled a thin silver chain from inside her blouse. On it was a single key, that she slid into the console, and then punched a code into the keypad.

  Isaac pressed the gun into the small of her back. “How long until the alarm is disabled?”

  “Thirty seconds,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Alex motioned his gun at the captives. “Everyone in the middle of the room, on your knees, hands behind your heads!”

  Terrified, the small crowd obeyed the order without complaint. A young boy whimpered and buried his face into his father's chest.

  Isaac moved toward the display wall, “If anyone moves, shoot them.”

  “Picasso, Matisse, Monet, and Dali,” Alex said, nodding at the four paintings.

  “No,” Ana moaned. She shook her head, lips parted and eyes large.

  While Isaac cut the canvases from their frames with a scalpel, Alex circled the small crowd, holding them at gunpoint. A woman knelt before him, hands laced on top of her head. Her brown hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, exposing her face. He had never seen her before, but the ring on her left hand was unmistakable; intertwined gold vines and a single diamond glinted beneath the lights. Alex ripped it from her finger.

  “Aahhh!” She screamed, turning to face him.

  Their eyes locked for a brief moment, as they studied one another.

  Alex stared at her with guarded suspicion and then stuffed the ring in his pocket and moved on.

  “Done here!” Isaac shouted as he rolled the last canvas and slid it into a cardboard tube, placing it in a black duffel bag with the other three. Without a word the brothers ran for the door, flung it open, and disappeared into the Carnival procession without a backward glance.

  Ana stumbled to her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks, and stared at the empty spots on the wall. “All of them. They have all of them!” The look she gave Abby was one of shock and accusation. “How did you know?”

  “We didn't. I mean … not yet,” Abby said, trying to gain her composure. “I thought we had more time.” She rose slowly, rubbing her bruised ring finger, eyes locked on the door the thieves had just exited. She pulled the cell phone from her pocket and turned to Ana. “I have to make a call. May I use your office?”

  It took Ana a moment to register what Abby had asked. “Yes … of course …down the hall, fourth door on the right. Now if you will excuse me, I need to phone the police.”

  Once amid the stifling crowds of Carnival, the thieves pulled off their masks, slipped their weapons into the duffel bag, and snaked their way through the Rua São Clemente, the old city's main thoroughfare. The five-minute walk to their hotel took half an hour as they pressed into the flow of traffic and were jostled by the crowd.

  The Hotel Gloria was located just minutes from the Palacio de Cidade, on the Praia do Flamengo, one of the most exclusive beaches in Rio de Janeiro. They had ch
osen the white, twelve-story hotel not because it often played home to foreign dignitaries or for the tropical gardens and panoramic verandas, but because it was the only hotel in Rio that offered helicopter transfers. In just over an hour they would board an Augusta A109 Power helicopter and fly 285 kilometers an hour toward their next destination.

  Isaac shut the door to their suite and hissed, “What did you think you were doing back there?” He scowled at Alex, blue eyes smoldering. It was the only physical characteristic they shared. His hair was cropped short to the skull in military fashion, and his thin, wiry frame contained a constant nervous energy. Although older by three years, Isaac was shorter, thinner, and generally less handsome.

  “You mean this?” Alex pulled the ring from his pocket.

  “Yes, that. Since when are we into petty theft?”

  He tossed the ring to Isaac. “I would hardly call that petty. We made fifty grand lifting it three years ago.”

  Isaac examined the ring closely and nodded. “Dublin. That batty old lady who sang Irish drinking songs in her sleep.”

  “Yup.” Alex pulled the cardboard tubes from the duffel bag and leaned them against the wall. “That woman either knows the man we stole it for, or she knows one of the Collectors.”

  Isaac was suddenly interested in the ring. His eyes narrowed. “Or she is one of the Collectors.”

  “Precisely.”

  “How do we find out for sure?”

  Alex leveled his gaze at the ring in Isaac's palm. “Leave it to me.”

  Abby sat behind Ana's desk, looking out on the parade below. She heard the pounding of drums and roar of the crowd, but it seemed to meld into the migraine that pressed at her temples. She shook her head and stared at the phone. Five minutes had passed since her first attempt to reach Director Heaton, lead investigator at Interpol's Art Theft Division.

  Abby took a deep breath and lifted her cell phone again. She pressed the code for Lyon, France, and then the number she knew by heart. It rang six times while Abby tried to formulate what she could possibly say in a voice mail. Then he picked up.

  “Director Heaton. And this better be good. I'm in the middle of a filet mignon and my wife is getting tired of me answering the phone during our anniversary dinner.”

  “It's Abby.” Her voice sounded small and weak, defeated.

  “Abby, I'm sorry. I thought it was that pest from accounting. He's been after me for my expense reports.”

  “I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

  “No problem. Did you get everything taken care of?”

  “Not exactly. The painting was stolen. Along with three others: Picasso, Matisse, and Monet.”

  There was a prolonged silence on the other end and then, “You mean to tell me they got there before you did?”

  “No, sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “You could say we arrived at the same time. They stole the paintings this afternoon, right in front of my face, not five minutes after I'd warned Director Santos.”

  “How,” he stammered. “How could that have possibly happened?”

  Abby gnawed at her bottom lip. It was so obvious now. “Carnival, sir.”

  “Of course. A ready-made diversion … brilliant actually.”

  “Terrifying is more like it.”

  “You saw the entire thing?”

  “Live and in person.”

  “You okay?”

  “A little shaken up, but I'm fine.”

  “Abby,” he said, with that same prodding tone in his voice. “You realize this ups the ante and pushes us toward a more difficult solution?”

  “I know.”

  “We'll need to debrief when you get back.”

  “I understand.”

  “Go back to your hotel and get some sleep.”

  Abby smiled sadly. “Not likely.”

  “Call me when you get back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Heaton hung up, and she put the phone back in her pocket.

  A sharp knock on the door startled her. Ana stuck her head in the room, looking frazzled and none too happy. “The police have arrived. They wish to take statements.”

  Abby followed the director into the main gallery of the museum where they stood as the police questioned all the witnesses.

  The detective in charge of the investigation was flanked on either side by officers in sterile gray uniforms who held semiautomatic machine guns. Detective Rodriguez was a burly man with a pencil-thin mustache, thick waistline, and perpetual smirk. His guards did not speak and did not seem interested in the proceedings. For that matter, Detective Rodriguez gave the distinct impression that he would much rather be celebrating Carnival than investigating a theft.

  One by one the staff and tourists were allowed to go after giving names, statements, and addresses where they could be reached for further investigation. Abby and Ana waited to speak with the detective privately.

  “Director Santos, I need a list of everything that was stolen today,” Rodriguez said, handing her a notepad and pencil.

  “Of course,” said Ana, gracious as always. She rattled the names off while scribbling them on the paper. “Pablo Picasso's The Dance. Claude Monet's Marine. Henri Matisse's Garden of Luxembourg. And Salvador Dali's Two Balconies.”

  Rodriguez took the notepad and stuck it in his pocket without even a glance at what she had written.

  “Detective, these men were professionals. They knew what they were doing,” Abby interrupted.

  Rodriguez glared at her sideways. “And you are?”

  “This is Dr. Abigail Mitchell, Director of the Smithsonian Institution's Natural Programs. She is my guest,” Ana said, an edge of irritation in her voice. “She has some information you will be most interested in. Just moments before the robbery she warned me of the possibility that thieves might be interested in the Salvador Dali painting.”

  Rodriquez narrowed his eyes at Abby. “I see. And how did you come by this information?”

  “A routine alert from Interpol. The art world is small, and we try to keep one another abreast of illicit activity.”

  “Detective, they stole something from Dr. Mitchell as well. A ring. Very valuable,” Ana said.

  “And what does this ring look like, Ms. Mitchell?

  “It has a thick gold band, intricately carved with vines, and inlaid with a single diamond.”

  “Are there any other distinguishing marks?” he asked.

  “Only an inscription inside the band that says, 'Alligator Food.'”

  Ana's brow furrowed. “Alligator Food? What on earth does that mean?”

  Abby shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

  Isaac's cell phone blared to life, and he looked at the display with a grin. He held it in his hand and let it ring twice more before answering. “Yes?”

  “Were you successful?” asked the eager voice on the other end.

  “Yes.”

  “And you have the two Van Goghs from Amsterdam as well?”

  “We do,” Isaac said, glancing at the six cardboard tubes stacked against the wall.

  “Then we will rendezvous at our usual location for the exchange. In the meantime, write down this name.”

  Isaac scrambled for a pen and paper and scribbled the name he was given: Dr. Abigail Mitchell. Washington, D.C.

  “She works for the Smithsonian and has access to something I want. I want you to make her acquaintance.”

  “What's the target?” A malicious smile crept over his face as he listened to their next marching orders. “We'll need some extra time to line up things.”

  “Good. Contact me when you're ready, and we'll discuss the details.”

  Isaac closed his phone and met his brother's frigid gaze.

  “What did he want?” Alex asked.

  “Just checking to see if we had the merchandise.”

  “And what else? I know that smile.”

  Isaac chose his words carefully. “He's got another job for us.”

  Alex shook his head. “This w
as supposed to be our last gig. I'm out. You know that.”

  Isaac held up a hand. “You may want to reconsider—”

  “We've been doing this for ten years,” he interrupted. “It's getting old. We agreed this would be the last heist.”

  “You don't even know what he wants.”

  “It doesn't matter. We don't need the money, and I'm bored with the work.”

  The corners of Isaac's mouth quivered as he suppressed a grin. “If that's the way you want it, fine. But I'm not afraid to do this one without you.”

  Alex stopped short. “What do you mean? Work alone? What does he want?”

  Isaac flashed his brother a conniving smile. “The Hope Diamond.”

  3

  NINE MONTHS LATER

  SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE IMAX THEATER ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE SMITHSONIAN'S Museum of Natural History was filled to capacity. Abby stood behind the podium, hands on its sides waiting for the massive screen to grow still. Sporadic flashes of light illuminated faces in the crowd, but not so much that she could make out details. Almost four hundred people fanned out before her in the auditorium to watch the documentary unfold before them.

  She wore a simple cream suit, low heels, and reading glasses, and she had pulled her hair back at the nape of her neck.

  Slowly, the sound faded, and the short documentary wound to a close. The last image was replaced with a picture of the Hope Diamond as it looked in the special display case on the second floor of the museum.

  Abby stood just left of the screen silhouetted by a single spotlight. She took a deep breath and leaned into the microphone.

  “On November 10, 1954, the Hope Diamond arrived at the Smithsonian in a brown paper package sent via the U.S. Postal Service. Its courier was none other than my grandfather, James Todd, a thirty-four-year-old postman with a colorful past.

  “It was addressed in the flowing script of famous jeweler Harry Winston to Smithsonian Institution, Washington D.C., attention Dr. Leonard Carmichael. Winston insured the package for one million dollars, bringing the postage to a grand total of $145.29, a whopping sum for a parcel that weighed a mere 61 ounces.”