by Kim Foster
My eyes bolted wide. Well, hello there. Not exactly what one expects to see in the desk of an academic, is it? At that moment, I heard Atworthy’s voice in the outer office, greeting Barbara. I froze. My heart slammed into my throat.
“Good lunch, Professor?” Barbara asked. “Here’s your mail. Oh, and Cat Montgomery is in your office.”
The next instant, I was in motion. Papers flew, books straightened, drawers drove home, and I leaped over his desk in a single bound, more or less—
“Barbara,” Atworthy’s vaguely distracted voice grew louder as the door to his office opened, “can you dig out my Flaubert files? I need to look them over for tomorrow’s lecture.”
And in he walked. Which was my cue to look up, innocently, from deep focus on my iPhone, seated in my own chair, everything left exactly as it should be. “Oh hi,” I said with extreme nonchalance, belying my lurching heart rate.
“Sorry, Catherine. Have you been waiting long?”
“Few minutes,” I said, yawning with boredom. “Not too bad.”
He sat down at his desk. Professor Atworthy was younger than most of my other profs. I’d say early forties somewhere, although his age was a little tricky to pinpoint. His face, while mostly young, had an aged quality to it. Like he’d seen a lot, been through a lot. There were deep lines around the outside of his eyes, like those of a sailor, someone who’d spent a lot of time squinting ahead, intently staring toward the horizon. He had a sharp nose and a sweep of muddy brown hair. “Right then. Your paper on Les Misérables.”
I held my breath as he opened the left-hand drawer and pulled out my paper. He showed no sign that anything was amiss.
Over the next several minutes he nose-dived into an in-depth analysis of my paper. As I sat there, nodding dutifully, I suspected that the conversation would have been useful for the furthering of my academic career. But I couldn’t stop my brain from curling back around to the firearm that rested in his drawer.
And then my iPhone bleeped: a text message. I glanced down to scan it quickly. As I read the message I chewed my lip. I peered up at Professor Atworthy. He paused.
“Yes, Catherine?”
“I’m so sorry, Professor, but I really have to go. Something important has come up.”
I glimpsed my phone once more before erasing the message, and tried to ignore the anxious fist that had gripped my stomach.
The message read: Me. Now. Hippos.
When I arrived at Woodland Park Zoo, I walked to the hippopotamus pond and immediately spied Templeton standing by the railing, wearing the tourist’s uniform of khakis, sneakers, golf shirt, and Windbreaker, peering through a digital camcorder at the slumbering hippos.
I stood next to him, staring at the enormous wet lumps floating in the water. As I waited for him to say something, I cracked my knuckles nervously. Why the urgency of the meeting? Did he know about the masquerade ball? Know about Sandor and my new, unauthorized assignment?
“Cat, love, you are going to a conference,” he said to me, keeping his eyes fixed ahead on the baby hippo. I shot him a sideways glance. He didn’t look angry or upset. In fact, he looked like he was trying to contain his excitement. Not what I was expecting.
I blinked, mind spinning. “Um, what?”
“Yes, they’ve put in a special request, the board members that is, to have you attend the Twelfth Annual Conference of the Museum Security Alliance. All paid, of course.”
I did rapid calculations, trying to figure out if this was a good or bad thing.
“Do you know what this means?” Templeton demanded, working hard to not crack a full-face grin.
“Not exactly. Am I supposed to?”
“It means they’re taking you seriously, my dear. They don’t send mediocre thieves to this conference. Your shot at the Elite level is looking increasingly like a real possibility”
Now it was my turn to try to contain a smile. Elite level. Could it really happen? In spite of myself, my stomach did a back handspring. International assignments, it sang, as it stuck the landing . . . expense accounts. . . .
“The conference is in New York,” he said. I glanced at Templeton, who was beaming now. At once it struck me that he really wanted me to succeed. He was completely on my side. A cramp of guilt centered on my chest. I was lying to him. Betraying him, going behind his back with the Fabergé job.
“So, in more good news,” Templeton continued, “I’ve got an assignment for you. It’ll be an easy job. A good one—you’re going to like it. And it should help a little with that IRS bill.”
I maintained a neutral expression. The last thing I had time for was another assignment—I had heaps of work to do on the Aurora job and time was perishing. But I couldn’t exactly explain that. And there was no way I was going to turn down an AB&T assignment.
“The Washington Dinner Train,” he began, “is an old, restored luxury train that takes people on a circle route from Seattle around Lake Washington. They serve a six-course dinner as the coast and the mountains slide by. Mostly it’s for well-heeled tourists.”
There was a stir in the smattering of people watching the hippo pond. We both looked up. Hippo A was passing Hippo B while floating from the west side of the pond to the east.
Templeton flicked on his camcorder—precisely the same action that several other onlookers took. He started recording what I was sure would be a riveting piece of filmmaking.
“So the target is on the train?” I asked. I shuffled my feet and pulled my jacket around me.
“Davis Harrison the third. Absurdly rich—and absurdly obnoxious. Inherited his grandfather’s pulp and paper company. We know he’s going to be giving a trinket to his latest trophy wife, and he’ll be doing it on the train.”
“And by trinket you mean?”
“Emerald and diamond necklace, recently acquired from a Sotheby’s auction in Amsterdam for 97,000 pounds sterling.”
In spite of myself, I felt a tingling in my fingertips. Templeton was right—this would be a good one.
He continued with further instructions. “While they’re having dinner, the necklace will be kept in the train’s safe. He’ll be giving it to her during dessert. You’re to procure it before dinner is through, get off the train, and get back here.”
I smiled once more—genuinely this time. “Okay. Consider it done.”
“Good girl,” he said. “I knew I could count on you.”
My smile grew somewhat wooden. But I said nothing. I stared at the hippos another moment, and then said, “What about Nicole Johnson, Templeton? Have you learned anything more?”
At my question, his expression clouded. “What?” I demanded. “What does that face mean? You look worried.”
“Nothing, Catherine. There is nothing to worry about. Your actions should not change at all. Continue to be cautious. Continue to do your job well. And leave everything else to us.”
I clenched the handrail and did my best to quell the heat that was rising up my neck. “Templeton, that’s crap. You can’t keep me out of the loop like that.”
“You’re not out of the loop. There’s nothing to report.” He paused and pressed his lips together. And then added, reluctantly, “It does appear that Nicole Johnson is investigating something significant, but we do not yet know what it is. We’re looking into it. That’s all. You don’t need to think about it further, and like I said, your actions should not change.”
With that admonition, he zipped up his Windbreaker and swiftly clipped away. I squeezed my eyes tight. If his words were meant to be reassuring, they were not.
Chapter 12
The dealer placed the king of spades in front of me. I winced. Bust. I watched as his stubby fingers swept away the last of my chips, which clicked as they disappeared down the hole. I sighed and pushed myself up from the padded edge of the card table. Never had been all that lucky at blackjack.
But it was fine because gambling was not my primary purpose there. I was at Starlight Casino doing a walk-through.
My objective today was to get a sense of the security, a feel for the place. It wouldn’t replace a thorough review of the schematics, once I managed to get that—somehow—but it was still a critical recon step.
And I had a second purpose. I knew that some of the security systems here depended on biometric technology—courtesy of the security file, albeit thin, that Sandor’s people gave me. The devices used the casino owner’s DNA. Which meant I needed a DNA sample from Gorlovich himself. Easiest way to get it? Obtain one of Gorlovich’s hairs. Piece of cake.
I began touring the casino floor. I was immediately assaulted by a sensory overload of flashing lights, bleeping machines, smoke-laden air fortified with pumped-in oxygen and air-conditioning. I lingered by the roulette table and played “spot the security cameras.” Hundreds of them dotted the ceiling—typical for a casino—and of course they were encased in dark domes so it was impossible to tell which direction they were facing.
Paradoxically, instead of feeling daunted by this, the hairs on my arms thrilled upward at the challenge. It was not going to be an easy job. And it was going to be great.
I loitered by the high-stakes poker room and picked out the security staff, both uniformed and plainclothes. I noted the elevator locations. I mentally mapped out the entrances, emergency exits, and staircases.
As I strolled through the casino floor and into the main lobby, I ran my hand along the backs of smoothly grained leather armchairs and gazed at the sweep of a gold-veined marble staircase. Everywhere I looked, an embarrassment of riches bubbled out and overflowed like a cloying chocolate fountain.
And these were the people who had needed to steal a Fabergé Egg from the Romanovs? Typical. And oh-so-consistent with the dirty little truth I’d observed ever since enlisting in this profession. Something I liked to call the Secret Sport of Kings.
The truth is, über-rich people are constantly stealing each other’s goodies. Why? They’re bored, for one. Also, they have the means to make things happen. Legal or otherwise. Plus they’re always trying to one-up the other guy.
Whether it’s a Picasso, the Orlov Diamond, or a 1787 bottle of Chateau Lafite Bordeaux, these rich old guys practically trade this stuff back and forth like baseball cards.
It’s certainly not a modern phenomenon. Throughout history, the elite in society have always delighted in nicking each other’s toys. It’s like a game to them. Consider the Hope Diamond. How many times was it stolen, conveniently ending up in various aristocratic hands? Many, I assure you.
Only a fraction of these cases make headlines. Most of the time, the general public never hears about this stuff. But keep in mind that in this Secret Sport of Kings it’s usually not the kings who do the stealing. As a rule, they hire someone to do the dirty work. Someone like me.
Basically, it’s a high-stakes chess game. And I was just one of the players.
I passed through a gilded archway and returned to the casino floor. At that moment I spotted three men walking toward the gambling tables. A tall man in the center, who I recognized as Gorlovich himself, was flanked by two men with grotesquely distorted neck-to-head-width ratios. These I took to be his “assistants.”
I frowned slightly, scrutinizing the man. It was funny—Gorlovich looked much more like a thug in Sandor’s photographs. In person, his posture and carriage had an aristocratic air. The air around him crackled with intensity.
The refrigerator-sized men flanking him also had a certain presence—but theirs seethed with seedy underworld. As Gorlovich entered a private, high-stakes poker room the bodyguards broke formation. They approached a middle-aged man seated at a blackjack table. The man was thin, with a shiny bald patch on the crown of his head and glasses that were too large for his narrow face. I was standing too far away and couldn’t quite hear over the cacophony. When the first thug clapped a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder he startled and spun. His face crumpled into fear and recognition.
They grabbed the guy and wrenched his arms so violently behind his back that I winced. They hustled him off the casino floor, breaking their stride not at all as the man’s flank glanced off slot machines that stood in their path.
I chewed my fingernail and reminded myself, forcefully, that this did not involve me. I dragged my attention back to Gorlovich, who was settling in to his poker table. I needed an opportunity to get close to him and somehow obtain a hair. But this setup wasn’t a good one. Too many people around and paying attention. Still, I scanned my brain for a suitable pretext that would allow me to approach his table.
After five minutes the two thugs returned but there was no sign of the man they had carted away. With the expressions of men who had scratched a very irritating itch, they took up position around Gorlovich. The blond-haired one glanced down at his fist and noticed a large amount of blood smeared on his knuckles. He grabbed a towel from the bar and started rubbing at it, unconcerned.
I shuddered. Crossing these guys was clearly not a good idea. I swallowed. Good to know.
I retreated to a nearby bar counter, continuing to keep watch. And then, my opportunity arrived. Gorlovich left the table and headed for the elevators with a redhead draped on his arm. They must have been going to one of the rooms in the hotel. A plan formulated in my mind.
His two executive assistants were also escorting him to the elevator and I followed the entire group. I glanced at my watch and gave a faint sigh, for it was late and I, too, was going to my hotel room. Clearly.
My heart was skipping along, double-dutch. The thugs briefly looked at me as I waited in front of the thick brass elevator doors. Really, they looked through me more than anything, plainly deeming me a total nonthreat.
When the door opened Gorlovich waved his security staff away and entered the elevator with his lady-friend. They stood inside, canoodling. I slipped into the elevator and pushed a floor button at random. I moved to stand behind them. They couldn’t care in the least. A beige instrumental version of the Beatles “Hey Jude ” floated out from the speaker in the ceiling. The floor buttons politely flashed on and off in sequence.
Gorlovich leaned over to his redhead, nuzzled her earlobe and whispered something. This was my moment. My heart experienced a brief seizure as I reached up and plucked a hair from the shoulder of his jacket. I moved fast and grabbed it in a sliver of a second. Neither of them had any idea.
I exited the elevator the moment the doors slid open, relief and triumph setting off fireworks in my chest. Time to get out of there.
I hopped the next elevator down, heading for the lobby. I took the opportunity to check my iPhone for messages. I was still staring at the screen when the elevator car reached the ground floor and the doors glided open. I stepped out and bumped right into someone.
“I’m sorry—” I lifted my head and looked directly into the face of Nicole Johnson.
“Cat?” Her face was stern, different than the way she looked the other evening. I recognized the look. It was the patented FBI agent-on-the-job face.
My mouth went dry. Was she here because of me? My mind wheeled in terror. “Hi, Nicole. So, having much luck?” I asked, quashing the squeak in my voice and striving for a friendly tone. Nicole’s eyes roved over my shoulder, watching the room.
“What?” she asked distractedly. She focused on me again. “Sorry?”
“Luck—you know. In the casino?”
“Oh. Yes. I mean no—I don’t gamble.”
My pulse slowed fractionally. She was clearly working, clearly investigating something, but I wasn’t sure it was me. She didn’t seem particularly concerned about me. Could she be faking it? World’s best poker face if she was.
Still, I didn’t like it. I started mentally rifling through my various getaway lines, when she said, “Listen, Cat, I was wondering. . . .” She was looking at me more attentively now, like she had driven work things out of mind for the moment. This gave me vague hope, but I was still holding my breath at what she was going to say next. “You wouldn’t be interested in going to a
golf tournament next weekend, would you? It’s this thing I’m organizing as a benefit and I have a lot of spare tickets. It’s just for fun, and for a good cause.”
I stared at her dumbly for a moment, much the same way as I stared at my bathroom scale immediately after the holidays. Vaguely horrified, vaguely disbelieving.
An invitation to a golf tournament? Not what I was expecting.
It was a beautiful evening for a sail: clear skies and a fine wind. Which was perfect, because I really needed this. My every nerve needed soothing. Between balancing my regular life (graduate student) with my moonlighting job (jewel thief) with my even more illicit moonlighting job (jewel thief going rogue from her agency), I was feeling pulled in all directions, like a cat’s cradle string. But for tonight, I had a brief respite from all that. I was meeting my dad at the yacht club for our ritual Thursday evening sail.
I hadn’t exactly accepted Nicole’s invitation last night at the casino. I’d made a vague comment about having to check my schedule and then got myself out of there quickly. Why would she have invited me to a golf tournament? I simply didn’t get it. Was she investigating me or trying to befriend me? Or did she know about my history with Jack and was she trying to rub my face in it?
I got to the yacht club and found my dad preparing the boat to set sail. I walked down the dock, reveling in the sound of waves lapping on the dock, boats gently knocking on the wood, and the smells of the seaside: fish and seaweed and salt. The masts of the sailboats pierced into the rosy evening sky like a hundred church spires. As I approached I saw that he was checking the lines. I could already feel my stress melting away like butter on toast.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, approaching him, resting a foot on the side of the boat.
“Hi, Cat,” he said, without looking up. Immediately, I knew something was not right. My stomach twisted.
