Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  Lark gave him wide doe eyes. “Heavens, no. That would be illegal. They were out there in public, just waiting for someone to happen along.”

  “Right. And pigs will fly and demons rise from hell to save mankind.”

  “Hey, it could happen. Anyway, do you want to know or not?”

  “Definitely,” Shelby said.

  “All right, then.” Lark seemed mollified. “So that didn’t get me anywhere, so I built an algorithm instead. Max scanned the ship manifest from when his grandfather sent his family and valuables to Cape Town, so I swiped that off his computer. But we don’t have the corresponding list of what made it back to the UK, so we don’t know for certain which pieces are missing. So I sent this search algorithm out . . .”

  “This what?” She was talking so fast Shelby had a hard time following her.

  “ . . . after anything that refers to Max’s art over the past thirty years. A search algorithm. It’s a linear series of data queries that utilizes a cross-­referencing model to turn a multistep operation into a single, recursive function . . . Do you want a lesson in mathematical algorithm engineering, or do you want to know what I found?”

  “What you found,” she said faintly. Trevor nodded encouragement.

  Lark put her hands on her hips. “I wrote a program kind of like it in high school. Anyway, it searched news articles, interviews, photographs. Art associations or groups who’ve done news pieces about Max’s collection. New purchases. Other sorts of interviews inside his home, or any pic from inside his house. I cross-­referenced that with a ­couple of art databases to identify pieces he currently owns. His grandfather sent two hundred and twelve objets d’art to South Africa. I’ve identified, to a reasonable, imperfect certainty, almost a hundred and ninety. Max is extremely proud of his art collections and his freaking huge mansion. Mansions. There have been a lot of photos taken in various parts of his houses over the years. Anywho, so I’m missing about twenty-­two pieces. Then I wrote another algorithm to search half a dozen or so art databases, to see if any of those pieces currently resided in museums. That narrowed it down to a handful.”

  “A handful of . . . what?”

  Lark stopped talking, looking Shelby over in surprise.

  Shelby tried again. “So you’re pretty sure twenty-­two pieces were stolen from Max on his way from South Africa to England?”

  “Well, leaving some wiggle room for artwork or whatever that Max felt was too valuable to have on display. He probably has a vault somewhere.”

  Trevor stood. “And you have a probable list of the stolen art? Well done.”

  Lark huffed. “Haven’t you been listening? Oh. Did I forget to mention that when I cross-­referenced the twenty-­two missing pieces against robberies slash mutilations, seventeen of them lit up like Christmas trees?”

  “Erm, yes, you might have forgotten that small detail.” Trevor motioned her over to the sofa. She plopped down next to Shelby.

  “Oops. My bad. Okay, so Max has been busy. Of the seventeen, I found five in Portugal and Spain. And I remembered that the Cape Queen, the cargo ship Nandi and Max sailed on when they came back to England, had a Portuguese crew. So that makes sense. It also makes sense that Max wouldn’t want to pee in his own pool.”

  “By . . . ?” Shelby decided it was just easier to let Lark run with it.

  “By searching the pieces farthest away from him first. Less suspicion that way.”

  Trevor started to pace. “So five objets d’art have been either stolen or ripped to shreds?”

  “No. Good grief.” Lark sighed heavily and spoke in a melodramatically slow tone. “Sev-­en-­teen.”

  “Sorry,” Shelby said. “Keep going.”

  “ ’Kay. Five in Spain and Portugal. One each in Paris, Munich, Salzburg, and Saint Petersburg. Three in the United States, and five in Great Britain.”

  “You did all that in three hours?” Shelby felt suitably impressed.

  Lark sniffed. “My Internet is slow, or it’ve been faster.”

  Trevor stopped pacing. “So of the twenty-­two, we can account for seventeen. Were you able to locate the other five?”

  “Does the pope wear a funny hat? Four are in really weird places where Max or his lily-­white Bedlamites would be remembered. One’s in Palau—­I had to look it up—­which is near the Philippines and has a population barely over twenty thousand. Strangers would stick out like a sore thumb. Anyway, ask me about number five.”

  Shelby felt a grin tugging at her mouth. “Where is number five?”

  “Right here in England,” Lark said triumphantly. “In Basingstoke, to be exact. See, the Bedlamites have struck now four times in the London metropolitan area, destroying five pieces of art because they mutilated two paintings at the August Museum. Where you two star-­crossed lovers were reunited.” Lark put her hands under her chin and batted her eyes.

  She and Trevor shared a warm glance. Shelby cleared her throat. “So, uh . . . so Max has been targeting those seventeen works of art for probably years. Otherwise, a whole string of thefts or destruction of property would have been splashed across the news.”

  “Exactly.” Lark beamed at Shelby. “But he uses the Bedlamites here in London to make it seem like a political statement, so no one gets suspicious.”

  “And you have a photo of the piece in Basingstoke?” Trevor asked.

  Lark tapped a few keys. “I’ve sent it to the printer. Shel, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  Shelby hurried down the hall to Lark’s bedroom and snagged the paper off the printer. She found herself looking at a white longcase clock. Curlicues at the apex flared into a wide cap set atop a narrower clockface, which had ornate corners and hands. Faux pillars stood to either side of the clock door. Gold bordered the edges and floral designs decorated the flat panels of the rest of the casing. It was lovely.

  She handed it to Trevor, who turned it from side to side as he peered at it. “It’s a grandfather clock. I don’t see any identifying marks, though.”

  “It’s actually a grandmother clock,” Lark corrected. “Smaller than a grandfather clock. This one is six feet. Here, let me read you the description. ‘This clock is finished in ivory with gold and hand-­painted decorations. It features a swan-­neck pediment with finial’—­that’s the little topper thingy in between the two swan-­neck curlicue thingies. ‘The crystal glass door showcases a deluxe dial with shifting moon phase above the clockface. Gold-­plated weights and pendulum bob driven by . . . blah-­blah-­blah. The rest is the technical stuff. Oh, it was built in 1926. And it’s pretty.”

  Chapter Twenty-­Five

  “NOW WE KNOW where the Bedlamites are going to be. That’s great! Isn’t that great? Why aren’t you smiling?”

  Trevor rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, then dropped it back to his side. “The Bedlamites are nothing more than pawns. This has nothing to do with ideology, and everything to do with getting an influx of capital to save Max’s business.”

  “What if they beat us to Basingstoke?” Lark asked. “Is that why you’re not smiling?”

  “Natch. If they get there before we do, we’re back at square one. No proof of anything.”

  “We have to try, though,” Shelby said.

  “There’s no longer any ‘we’,” he said. “From now on, it’s just me. You two are going back to the doctor’s place to hide until this is resolved.”

  Shelby slapped her forehead with one hand. “We’re having this argument again? Say we do get there first. We can help you find it three times as fast—­”

  “I’m not risking your lives,” he said flatly.

  Shelby sat back with an exasperated snort, turning to look out the window.

  Stomach roiling, Trevor tightened his hands into fists. Why wouldn’t Shelby let him look after her, and Lark? “So say we never prove any of this. Maybe it’s time you turned you
rselves in. Let the police protec—­”

  “We’ve already had this conversation,” Shelby interrupted. “Max is a defense contractor. He works with military and police all the time. Are you really going to tell me he couldn’t get to us?”

  Fair enough. But would they stay with the doctor—­?

  “So, I’m looking up stuff,” Lark interrupted. Apparently, she couldn’t sit still even for a moment. “The Burwell Estates in Basingstoke, where the clock is? You’re not going to believe this, but the old manor house is now the Intercontinental Museum of Clocks and Watches. How cool is that?”

  “Right,” Trevor said, forcing his hands to relax. “It stands to reason it’s their next target. They averaged about one hit a week, but I think Max must be getting desperate by this point. It’s only been four days since they hit the August Museum. I need to get ahead of this thing. End it.”

  Shelby finally looked at him, though her body was still turned away. “Has it really only been four days? It feels like weeks. Anyway, say you get to the clock museum before the Bedlamites. What then? You confront Eric, maybe kill him and the others? What will that solve? Max will just find some other idiots to do his dirty work.”

  “Not if we get Max to come to the museum himself,” said Lark.

  Truthfully, Trevor hadn’t thought that far ahead. The idea had merit. “Maybe I find a way to bait the trap. Make him think I found something. Would he still stay away, if the Bedlamites are out of the picture and I have what he wants?”

  “Probably not,” Shelby said. “But how do we get the Bedlamites out of the picture? If we can get them to come after us somehow, let them find us on purpose, we could lead them straight to the police, who would be waiting to arrest them all.”

  “And me too, if I’m there. Probably all of us. I’m willing to take that chance, but I’m not willing to chance either of you.”

  “Short of tying us up,” Lark said, “how are you going to keep us away?”

  A muscle moved in Trevor’s jaw. “I’ll tie you up, if that’s what it takes. Between the three of us, we have a ­couple of pistols, not nearly enough ammo, and exactly one person with any knowledge of what the hell they’re doing.”

  “Me, right? ’Cause I subdued that Mossad agent?”

  “Lark,” he said, shaking his head. “No.”

  “Trevor. Yes,” she shot back. “Trevor Willoughby Carswell, born April 23, 1980 in Banbury, England. Thirty-­five years old. Accepted to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst at twenty-­four. Awarded the Sword of Honor at graduation, which seems to be a pretty big deal. Means the commandant thought you were the best Army Officer Cadet in your class. Shall I go on?”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Shelby said.

  He gave Lark an exasperated look. “I won’t underestimate you again. But I’m still not taking you into battle.”

  Shelby turned to him. “What about the Mossad agent? Simon? Will he help you?”

  “Very probably, and he’s my first call after I get you two back to the doctor.”

  Shelby hung her head. “You think this is going to come down to a shootout, don’t you? And even with all those guns, you expect to lose? Is that what this is about?”

  “It might come to that,” he agreed. “I’d prefer not, obviously.”

  “How do we lure Max in?” Lark said, as though he hadn’t spoken. “We could go on air. I could interview you, or Shelby. Cerberus would jump on a story of World War Two gold hidden in a Swiss bank. I could write the shit out of that story. I could get in front of the camera and really sell it.”

  Trevor thunked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “For the last time—­”

  “We know, we know,” Lark said. “You’re going to stash us somewhere where we can’t screw things up. But then we can’t see the end of this, either. Enough talking. First thing in the morning, take me to the Cerberus office. That should be safe, right? I need my other laptop.”

  Trevor thought about it. While Lark went for her laptop, if he could also get Shelby inside the building, he could simply drive away. She and Lark would be safe amongst the reporters.

  “A brief stop. Then I drop you two at the doctor’s?”

  “Yes!” Lark pumped her fist in the air.

  He sighed heavily. The ladies would be furious with him. But better angry than dead.

  “It’s going on midnight,” Shelby said. “I, for one, could use a good night’s sleep.”

  Trevor found himself anxious to curl up with Shelby in their little nest. This tenuous thread they were developing needed to be strengthened. As though reading his thoughts, Lark said, “You two take the bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

  “I won’t put you out of your own bed,” Trevor said firmly.

  “And I won’t put up with guests sleeping on the floor,” she retorted. “Are we going to have a problem here?”

  She stared him down, which was an impressive feat.

  He gave in with a chuckle. “All right. Thank you.”

  “Now that we have a plan, I can barely keep my eyes open.” Shelby shuffled down the hall to the bathroom.

  Trevor’s heart leapt. He felt as anxious as a schoolboy, just at the thought of holding her. Hearing her contented sigh as she relaxed against him. Falling asleep in each other’s arms. But when he’d performed his ablutions and went across the hall to Lark’s room, he found Shelby dead asleep, stretched out facedown on top of the comforter, still in her clothes.

  He was an idiot. Of course she was exhausted. They’d been running flat out since Saturday, and the clock told him it was nearly Thursday. Adrenaline kept the body going in times of stress, but when it finally drained, it left one utterly fatigued. He was accustomed to it, but she wasn’t. Carefully, he slid her shoes off, then her shirt and pants. She mumbled sleepily in protest, but never truly woke. Peeling back the blankets, he set her down on the sheets, then joined her, pulling her into his arms. She immediately threw her leg across his and cuddled into him.

  It felt wonderful. He struggled to stay awake simply to enjoy the sensation of her skin against his, but he knew he, too, needed the rest. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

  PULLING IN TO the curb at the Cerberus office building, Trevor turned to the ladies.

  “Now would be the time to visit the loo,” he said. “Buy some crisps at the shop. Get a bottle of water. In fact, while Lark goes to her office to get her other laptop, would you mind grabbing a ­couple of bottles for us, Shelby?”

  Shelby raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms over her chest. “I know you think you’re being subtle, but you forget what I do for a living. Your lame attempt to abandon us will not get me out of this car.”

  He sighed heavily. “So much for that brilliant plan. You can read me like an open book.” Pointing a finger at Lark, he said, “Two minutes. After that, I come in and drag you out by your hair.”

  “Oooh! Tough he-­man stuff. If you weren’t already taken, I’d totally be into that.”

  Lark bounced out of the car and was gone.

  Shelby bit her lip. Was he taken, though? He seemed happy just to spend time with her, but what would happen the next time he shipped out? Would he want to see her again afterward? And what if she did, by some small chance, turn out to be pregnant? Trevor was an honorable man. He’d insist on marriage.

  Trevor was an honorable man, she realized abruptly. She’d known it subconsciously for quite a while. Despite the inherent violence of the SpecOps lifestyle, he retained an unwavering code of honor. She contemplated what their life might be like together.

  She found herself grinning down at her lap.

  As soon as Lark climbed into the back clutching a computer bag, Trevor pulled out into traffic, one hand on the wheel and the other dialing his cell phone. “It’s Carswell. Is your offer of an assist still good? I could use your help.” He list
ened. “Agreed. I know where the Bedlamites are going to strike next.” Pause. “All of the above, actually. I have a ­couple of ideas.”

  He ended the call without a goodbye. “Change of plans, ladies. Instead of taking you back to Dr. Lowenstein, we’re meeting Simon Rosenfeld at the Israeli Embassy. He’s agreed to let you stay until this is resolved. You’ll definitely be safe there.”

  This time when they pulled up, they found a parking space directly in front of the embassy. The three piled out. Shelby hefted her gym bag, which now held five pistols wrapped in her clothing, a can of Pledge, another of hairspray, and a lighter. The Israeli Embassy would not permit any of the items inside. Should she leave the weapons in the car, unguarded?

  Catching her look, Trevor gestured for her to walk ahead of him. “They’re not going to wrestle you to the ground and throw cuffs on you.”

  She had her doubts, but followed him to the fence, Lark hard on her heels. Simon Rosenfeld walked out of the embassy doors and met them at the gate. He wore a short-­sleeved olive green uniform, with some sort of rank on his shoulders. Above his left breast pocket was presumably a name tag, in Hebrew. His shirt had been neatly tucked into the pants and secured with a web belt.

  “Shalom. Come inside.”

  The usual metal detector sat just inside the door, manned by a security officer in uniform. Another stood beyond them, rifle slung over her shoulder.

  “Um,” she started.

  Simon’s gaze slid from her face to the bag. Understanding glimmered in his eyes. “Put it on the scanner, please.”

  She did so. Simon walked to the other side, looking over the security officer’s shoulder. Other than lifted brows, he made no comment as he took the bag. She walked through the metal detector. Lark placed her computer bag on the scanner. After Simon examined it, he slung it over his own shoulder.

  “I’ll take that,” she said. “No, really. I’m sure it’s heavy, and you have the bag of guns and all. Give me back my laptop.”

  The Israeli stopped and looked down at her. “Under normal circumstances, no baggage of any sort is permitted inside. No handbags, no cases, no biters.”