by Leslie Jones
It had been too broad a question. Shelby narrowed it down.
“What’s so significant about the Edward Shamblet pieces? Why did the Bedlamites choose those to deface?”
Floyd pulled his mouth down, remembered hostility in his eyes. He pointed an accusing finger at Trevor. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s one of them. Millions of dollars destroyed in an instant. My insurance is going to go through the roof.”
Trevor clenched his jaw to prevent any words spilling out. Even now, the man focused on the money. The value of the paintings, the cost of insurance.
“And a lot of art history,” Shelby said. “So let’s make sure we catch them so they can’t do any more harm. I know the basics of Shamblet and his work. But was there something special about those two paintings?”
Floyd thought about it. “They were post-World War Two finds. Shamblet had a studio and gallery in Southampton, but they were destroyed during the Blitz. He had other works, not just in galleries but in private homes as well. He had the artwork he kept in his own home, too. It’s thought that he took all the rest and shipped them out of the country, because his paintings are rare today. That’s why the destruction of the Autumn in Madrid and Memories of the Gods is such a tragedy.”
Trevor stepped forward. “Any idea where he might have shipped his art? Or why? This was after the war ended?”
“No,” Floyd corrected. “The rumors at the time were that he basically smuggled everything he could out of the country during the war, so that if Germany did invade Great Britain, he wouldn’t lose his life’s work. But there is no record where he sent them, as far as I know. The rumors centered around stolen artwork during World War Two were thoroughly catalogued and investigated by Olga Berkowicz in her book Stolen Riches: European Art and the Third Reich. You might want to talk to her. She teaches in Kingston, I think. What’s this all about? How is this going to prove your innocence?”
“I don’t know,” Shelby admitted. “But you’re going to cooperate fully, unless you want your young, pregnant wife to find out what you do on the side.”
His face became pained. “You didn’t have to say it. You see that I’m cooperating, right?” He nudged his chin toward Trevor. “So what are you, some sort of undercover cop?”
Trevor kept his face blank. “Something like that.”
“Well, you didn’t do dick to stop me getting stabbed, did you?”
Trevor felt his eyes go cold. The asshole was lucky Trevor didn’t stab him a second time here and now. “Let’s fast forward to the present.”
“I don’t know much else.”
Shelby scratched her nose. “Well . . . what other museums have Shamblet paintings or sculptures? The two in London were also ruined.”
“I know there’s one sculpture privately owned that’s on loan to a museum in Wales. There are several in America, and one or two in Europe. I’m not sure.”
“Can you think of any reason the Bedlamites might have chosen his works in particular?” Trevor thought it best not to mention Whitcomb. “Someone hate him? Did he double-cross someone? Did he have an affair while married?” He couldn’t control the hard edge that crept into his tone at the last.
“Like me, is what you’re implying?” Floyd flushed red again. “Sorry. I’m not an expert.”
“All right,” Shelby said. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.” She scribbled the number of her prepaid phone onto a paper napkin on his bedside table next to the remains of lunch.
“And, of course,” Lark said, smiling brightly at Floyd, “if we think of any other way you can help us, we’ll be back.”
Chapter Twenty-One
SHELBY SIGHED HEAVILY as they piled back into Lark’s car. “I don’t think that was very useful.”
“It feels like we’re missing a vital piece of the puzzle here,” Trevor agreed.
“I’m starving. Let’s stop for lunch.” Not waiting for a response, Lark pulled off the road and parked in front of an Italian restaurant. They piled out.
Though it was barely half past noon, several patrons sat at the bar, drinking and watching the television mounted between the rows and rows of wine bottles. Despite the white linens on the tables and the lights mounted under the lip of the bar, the place managed to look gloomy. Shelby skipped the tables and led the way to three bar seats close to the TV.
“I’ve never been away from CNN for this long,” she said. “I’m going through withdrawals, not knowing what’s going on in the world.”
BBC One played an old episode of EastEnders. Lark leaned over the bar and called to the barman. “Oy. Do you carry CNN?”
“I can change it to BBC News if you like, luv. But that’s all I’ve got.”
“Yes, please,” Shelby said.
The barman switched channels, ignoring the protest from a portly man at the far end. “Whatcha have, then?”
“Menus, please. I’m starving. And a Coke.”
“I’ll have a cuppa. Thanks, mate.”
Shelby rested her elbows on the bar. “Just a club soda, please.”
“Lovely. I’ll be back straightaway with some menus.”
After they’d perused the menus and ordered, Shelby settled back to catch up on the news. The United States had targeted an al-Qaeda leader with an airstrike in Libya. An Israeli army jeep had struck and killed a Palestinian in the West Bank. The Sudanese president had fled to avoid an arrest warrant for alleged war crimes.
“Oh, my God!” She straightened, gripping the edge of the bar with tight fingers. “There’s been another bombing.”
All three stared up at the television. The reporter had a suitably grim expression as he relayed the story. This time, the Jewish Heritage Museum had come under attack. One person had been killed in the blast, and four others had been injured. The Philosophy of Bedlam claimed responsibility.
“Now they’ve committed murder,” Trevor said. “This ups the stakes dramatically.”
“Crawley tried to kill Floyd,” Shelby pointed out. “They’ve proven they’re capable of murder.”
“Yes. And I have to see if I can salvage this thing.”
Both women stared at him.
“You can’t go back,” Shelby pointed out finally. “You attacked Nathan and Fay and then ran. They won’t accept you as one of them.”
“They might if I tell them we used to be lovers, and I wanted to get you to safety. It’s the truth anyway.”
“And if you’re wrong? They’ll kill you.”
Trevor shrugged. “I’ve been in tighter spots.”
Shelby resisted the urge to hit him. How could he talk about risking his life so easily?
As the cameras trained on the police and investigators at the museum, Trevor leaned forward, scrutinizing the pictures on the screen.
“There,” he said, pointing. “Do you see that man? In the blue windbreaker?”
Shelby picked him out just as the picture changed, showing the scene from above as a helicopter hovered.
“I saw him, yes. Who is he?”
“He’s an operator.”
“A what?” Lark asked.
“SpecOps. Special Operations. Like the SAS or Special Boat Service. The American version are the SEALs.”
“Yeah, I got it at SpecOps,” Lark said drily. “I play Call of Duty.”
That got a brief smile, but Trevor was so focused, Shelby wasn’t sure he’d actually heard Lark.
“He’s most likely Mossad. Israeli special operations.”
“Do you know him?” Shelby didn’t understand.
“No. But we need to talk to him.”
“You think he’s Mossad because it’s a Jewish museum?” Lark asked.
“Yes.”
“All right. But how can he help us?” Shelby knew she looked as clueless as she felt.
“The Phi
losophy of Bedlam might have left a clue. He might have seen something that makes sense to him, but that law enforcement missed. Maybe there’s nothing. But finding out nothing doing something is better than sitting on my arse doing nothing.”
He dropped forty pounds onto the bar and got up, radiating impatience as Lark tried to gulp down the rest of her Coke. The barman approached, balancing three plates of food.
“Sorry, mate,” Trevor said. “We have to run. Free lunch for you and your mates, yeah?”
The barman shrugged and pocketed the money. “Cheers.”
Lark grumbled as they piled back into her car. “This is fun and all, but all I got to eat was some little pieces of bread. Got to keep my strength up.”
“Tonight I’ll treat you to a steak dinner,” Trevor promised.
“Excellent.” Lark pulled out her smartphone and handed it back to Shelby. “Danby, take us to the Jewish Heritage Museum.”
Shelby couldn’t help but laugh as she looked up the address and entered it into the maps feature. On a whim, she scrolled into the phone’s settings and changed the default female voice to a male, British one.
“Ask him again.” She pressed the button to activate the microphone.
“The Jewish Heritage Museum, please, Danby,” Lark repeated obediently.
“Getting directions to Jewish Heritage Museum,” the male voice replied.
Lark clapped her hands. “Total awesomeness!”
“Put your hands on the wheel!” Shelby all but shouted.
Trevor started to laugh. After a moment, she joined in, content despite their circumstances.
After a few moments, she sobered. “So far we’ve found nothing that’s going to exonerate me.”
“You?” asked Trevor. “Just you?”
Shelby shrugged. “All you have to do is go back to your unit. MI-5 will make you disappear.”
Lark turned sideways in her seat to look at Trevor. “You’re MI-5?”
“Watch the road!” Shelby squeaked. Lark swerved back into her lane just in time to miss an oncoming car.
Lunch hour traffic snarled the streets and Lark was forced to slow to a crawl, cursing the whole time. Shelby shared an amused glance with Trevor. Truthfully, she felt relieved. She found driving with Lark a terrifying experience.
Trevor kept flicking glances into the passenger-side mirror.
“What is it?” she finally asked.
“We’re being followed,” he said. “No, don’t look. Lark, take the next right.”
She did so. “Where? I don’t see anything.”
“It’s a gray Fiat. Don’t look for him. Trust me, he’s back there.”
The Fiat accelerated so abruptly that Shelby saw it. “Oh, my God! They’re going to ram us!”
“Lark, step on the gas. Now!” Trevor drew the Beretta. Shelby put a hand to her throat. Lark squeaked, hands tight on the wheel.
The Fiat roared up beside them. Fay was driving, with Nathan in the passenger seat levering a shotgun out the window.
“Duck,” Trevor bellowed.
They bent as far down as they could. The shotgun blast hit the side of the car. Without hesitation, Trevor climbed into the back seat, behind Lark. He pressed the button to lower the window. Nothing happened. “Open the goddamned window.”
“It doesn’t work,” Lark wailed. “I’ve been meaning to get it fixed.”
Trevor solved the problem by using the butt of the semiautomatic to smash the window, shielding his face against the glass.
An opening appeared in the crush of cars, and Lark stomped on the gas pedal, jumping into the spot and putting several cars between themselves and the Bedlamites.
“What do I do?” Lark shrieked. Cars around them were pulling off the road, wanting to be as far away from the running gun battle as they could.
“Turn left. Now!”
Lark obeyed, jumping through a red light and nearly getting broadsided. The Fiat followed them, Fay laying on the horn to make the cars slow enough for her to bull her way through. She came up on their bumper fast, ramming them hard. Shelby screamed as the impact threw her forward. The car slewed. Lark wrested it back under control.
Nathan drove into oncoming traffic and pulled the steering wheel hard to the left, slamming the Fiat into their car. Lark lost control, spinning into the sidewalk and slamming sideways into a parking meter. The car came to a shuddering stop. Shelby panted wildly, hand pressed to her chest.
“Out,” Trevor commanded. “On the passenger side. Move!”
Shelby dove for the door and shoved it open, turning to help Lark over the console. “Where do we go?”
“We’re close to Leicester Square. Head that way.” Trevor pointed.
Shelby turned back to the Fiat. Fay was struggling to open her door, which had caved in during the crash.
Nathan had the shotgun up to his shoulder, pointed straight at her.
WITHOUT THINKING, TREVOR threw himself sideways, shoving both women to the ground, covering them with his body as the shotgun blast split the air. Pedestrians began to run, screaming, in all directions.
He leapt to his feet, ignoring the fire that burned in his thigh. His legs worked; that was all that mattered. He pulled Shelby up, still between the gunman and himself. “Go!”
She and Lark took off running, dodging around cars and pedestrians, heading toward Leicester Square. Fay finally got her door open, and she and Nathan pursued them. If Trevor could get them into the pedestrian-only area, into a store or office building, he could gain the upper hand. As it was, they had to move, and fast. He sprinted after the women, catching up in three strides.
They passed a Burger King, racing past a telephone box and a street artist showing off caricatures. To their front left was a grassy area. It would leave them out in the open, but lessen the risk of pedestrians being caught in the crossfire.
“Into the park. Zigzag as you run,” he said. Both women were panting. “Straight past the statue. Head toward the theater.”
He checked over his shoulder. Nathan and Fay had hidden their weapons, but were pursuing at a brisk pace.
Buildings rose on both sides of them. The one to the right was under renovations. If he could hide the women, he could use the building as high ground. Realizing that neither of the women would be able to scale the barrier, he jettisoned the idea.
They burst into the street and turned right, passing a line of parked motorcycles. Nathan and Fay had abandoned any attempt at caution and were in full pursuit.
“Turn left into the alley,” he said.
They did as he instructed, but then stopped. Shelby held her side, and Lark gulped in great mouthfuls of air.
“Keep moving.” He pushed them farther into the alley, turning to guard their backs while they trotted to the other end, then followed. He passed a rolling delivery door, closed and locked. Strings of lights decorated the upper walls. A trash bin, too small to hide behind. This wasn’t going to work. Neither woman had any escape-and-evade skills. He needed to reevaluate.
Fay appeared at the front of the alley, saw them, and opened fire. Trevor grabbed Shelby’s hand and pulled her behind him, facing the hail of bullets as they exited the alleyway. It was damnably difficult to hit a moving target while moving, but he wasn’t taking any chances with Shelby’s life.
Lark, already out on the street, looked around. “Where to now?” she panted.
“New strategy,” he said. “Let’s find a crowded spot. I don’t think they’d fire into a crowd. Too many cameras. They’ve exposed themselves too much already.”
There was a convention center a few blocks away, if he recalled correctly. He led them at a steady lope. It wouldn’t be long before Nathan or Fay reached the end of the alley and saw them.
“Can you run any faster?” he asked, trotting backward as he swept the area w
ith a steely gaze.
They tried, he had to give them credit. He took them across two streets and into another alley, but then, hallelujah, the convention center appeared before them. He led them straight into the crowds outside.
“Crowds equal invisibility,” he said. “Just walk normally. Don’t look back. Don’t look around. Just blend.”
He led them on a meandering path toward a concave building, under the front dome, and joined the queue waiting to enter. A large group in front of them stopped to argue with the person checking tickets; Trevor eased the women around them and into the building.
The lobby was as crowded as he’d hoped. Huge support columns would give them additional cover. The rows of vendor tables with vibrant displays would help conceal them. He led the women past a resting area with benches, where groups chatted as they relaxed. A food court had been set up off to the left. They joined the milling throngs waiting in various lines. The tables were packed. People had resorted to eating standing up.
“Queue up,” he said. “Face away from the front doors.”
He scanned the area. He didn’t even dare hope they’d made it inside unobserved. Nothing so far. When he was satisfied, he herded Shelby and Lark to the equally clogged escalators. They reached the top. He had them stand back against the wall whilst he stood at the railing and watched.
From his vantage point, he could see just how congested the place was. He was taking a calculated risk that Fay and Nathan wouldn’t open up and fire into the crowds. That would bring the police, and questions they wouldn’t want to answer.
It seemed to be some sort of gamer’s convention. Lots of flashing lights and colorful posters, and even people in costumes he couldn’t begin to identify. All the better.
“Do you see them?” Shelby had crept to his side. At least she had the good sense to stand behind him, away from the rail.
“Not yet.”
“Do you think they know where we went?”
He turned slightly to look at her. Her eyes were too wide and her breathing was uneven, but her gaze was steady. “No way to know, really. But there’s virtually no way they could spot us. There must be thirty thousand people here.”
