by Leslie Jones
“We appreciate the exception you’re making,” Shelby said. “Obviously, we’ll respect your protocols and cooperate in every way.”
Trevor drew the Beretta, dropped the magazine, and locked back the slide, catching the ejected round in one hand as it popped free. He set the pieces inside a bin and walked through.
Simon took the weapon, put it back together, and tucked it into his pants as they walked into the lobby. “While you’re here, okay?”
Trevor nodded. “It’s what I would do.”
The group stopped at a standing desk. The second security officer stepped behind it.
“She needs a photo ID from each of you,” Simon explained.
“That’s a problem,” Trevor said. “None of us have any. Mine says I’m a former member of the Irish Republican Army. The Bedlamites have Shelby’s purse, and Lark lost hers in the car crash.”
The Mossad agent made a pained sound. “You’re not making this easy. I had to petition the defense attaché himself to permit you inside the embassy.”
“Thank you,” Shelby said, laying a hand on his arm. “For trusting us. Going out of your way to help us.”
He looked across at Trevor. Some sort of unspoken communication passed between them. “My pleasure. The Israel Defense Force has only the highest respect for the SAS.”
While the security guard set up visitor badges for them, Shelby glanced around. Rich mahogany paneling surrounded the lobby. Lighter, patterned wooden floors gleamed with polish, with the emblem of Israel covering the center of the area. A nonworking fireplace nestled beside the switchback staircase. Twin Israeli flags framed the double glass doorways into the consular services area.
Shelby draped the lanyard around her neck, fingering the green visitor badge. Given their circumstances, it said a lot about Simon’s pull that they’d been permitted past the gate, much less with their equipment.
Simon took them to a conference room right off the lobby. Windows lined one wall; Shelby had no doubt the glass was bulletproof. A chair rail bisected the walls, with warm beige paint above and white paneling below. Twelve armless roll-top chairs ringed the long oval table. Pale blue crystal pitchers filled with ice and water sat at either end. Shelby collapsed into one of the chairs, feeling right at home. She spent a lot of time in rooms just like this one.
Lark explored the sideboard, which held a brass lamp beside a marble bowl filled with fruit and a platter with a fancy array of cheese, crackers, strawberries, and grapes. She looked at the paintings on the walls and up at the cascading crystal chandelier. “Impressive.”
“It’s meant to be.” Simon gestured for her to have a seat.
She snagged an apple from the bowl and came to sit next to Shelby. If she was nervous at all in her surroundings, Shelby couldn’t detect it.
“So,” Simon said, all business. He sat at the head of the table. Trevor took the chair to his right. “Fill me in.”
Trevor briefed him on everything they’d discovered about Max’s art collection and the missing objets d’art, the fortunes the twelve English families had sent to Switzerland, and their theories about Max’s failing business and his need for those funds. Simon listened attentively, occasionally asking a question. Finally, he sat back, thoughtful.
“The attack on the Jewish Heritage Museum killed a janitor, who’d stayed late because he’d had an argument with his wife.”
Shelby frowned. “I’m so sorry.”
Simon nodded his thanks.
“I think that was probably an accident,” Trevor said. “In each other instance, the Philosophy of Bedlam came in after the museum closed for the night. They presumably searched for the piece of art Max told them to, then set the bomb to cover up their activities.”
A small smile played around the edges of Simon’s mouth. “And the August Museum last Saturday? Or can I guess?”
Trevor grinned. “I called the cops.” His smile faded. “Which caused the PoB to enter the museum prematurely to avoid them. They took hostages, which ended with the curator injured and in hospital.”
“But it also brought you and Shelby back together, though,” Lark piped up, waving her half-eaten apple in the air. “And what’s-his-name, Floyd the Married Jerk, will be fine. So it’s one in the plus column, right?”
Trust Lark to see the positive in the situation.
Simon assessed Shelby with cool, appraising eyes. “In your opinion, is Max Whitcomb desperate enough to kill for the account information he thinks is hidden? Personally?”
“Yes.” Shelby didn’t hesitate. “He’s hunting us because Trevor saw him with the Bedlamites, and he can’t afford that association becoming public. When he finds us, he’s not planning to invite us to high tea.”
Simon’s quicksilver smile appeared and vanished. “Probably not.”
“If.”
“What?” She looked at Trevor, confused.
“If he finds you. Not when. And I’m not going to let that happen, so you can relax.”
He spoke with an absolute certainty Shelby wished she shared. Because he’d said “you” and “If he finds you.” Trevor planned to lock Lark and her inside the embassy while he went after Max and the Bedlamites on his own. She tried to quell her trembling hands. He had the best training the world could offer. If anyone could succeed with those odds, it would be Trevor.
Simon put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “All right, Carswell. What’s your play?”
Trevor rested his fists on his thighs. “I need to draw Max out of the shadows. Get him to come to the Burwell Estates personally, instead of sending the Bedlamites. I’ll contact the head of my task force, Brigadier Lord Patrick Danby. He can have men standing by. The problem is the endgame.”
“Your mission objective,” the Mossad officer clarified.
“Indeed. Even if Max shows at the estate museum, even if we catch him red-handed dismantling or otherwise damaging the grandmother clock, he can claim it was an accident, or curiosity, or an attempt to prove he’s the legal owner, which he is. Ultimately, you can’t prosecute someone for destroying his own property.”
“But if he brings Eric and the others, for security or as lookouts? Then everyone will see Max in the same room as the Bedlamites,” Shelby pointed out. “Surely that would tarnish his spotless reputation as a humanitarian.”
“Also easily explained away as coincidence. Wrong place, wrong time. There might be questions or suspicions, but no proof. He wants me dead because I know he controls the PoB. But he only knows me as Eric Koller’s friend Willoughby, the Irish nationalist. A terrorist who killed English soldiers in Northern Ireland. He can never know I’m an SAS officer. He doesn’t realize it, but his reputation is as safe with me as with the mother no one knows exists.”
“But then what do we do?” Lark asked. She balled her fists, glaring daggers around the room. “No way that scumbag wins. No way.”
“There’s got to be a way,” Shelby said. “There’s always a way.”
Trevor rapped a knuckle against the tabletop. All three turned their attention back to him.
“The only way we’ll be able to prosecute is if we can prove he’s funneled money to the anarchists,” he said. “Directly link him to the bombings. That will require access to his financials and forensic accounting measures.”
Disappointed, Shelby looked around the room. “So even if we win, we lose?”
“Not what I’m saying.” Trevor sat back. “I’m suggesting a two-pronged approach. At the same time we draw Max out to the Burwell Estates, we simultaneously execute search warrants at his home and office for his financial records.”
“So he doesn’t have time to erase everything,” Lark said, clapping her hands. “Oh, you devious man!”
Simon tapped his steepled fingers against his mouth. “Will your Brigadier—Danby, was it?—Will he a
rrange the warrants? As I told you two days ago, my government will also want to prosecute for the murder of an Israeli citizen and damage to a Jewish historical building. I’ll speak with the Deputy Head of Mission.”
Trevor nodded his thanks. “What I need from you, if you are able, is information and equipment.”
“Specifically?”
“Let’s start with the easy stuff. I need a map of the estate and blueprints of the manor house.”
“I can do that,” Lark piped up. “I can get you blueprints. And photos. Simon, I’ll need access to a computer.”
Simon assessed Lark. “Something tells me it would be safer not to let you into our network.”
“But—”
“No.”
Lark slouched back in the chair, crossing her arms. “Fine. Whatevs.”
His mouth curled up at the corners, humor in his eyes. “Both of those things will be a matter of public record. I’ll have someone search the National Archives. Next?”
“Weapons. An assault rifle. Ammunition. Some sort of camouflage, depending on the terrain. I’d have to see what the estate looks like to know anything more.”
“Anything else?”
“A sniper?”
Simon chuckled. “I’m the only soldier here. You can put me wherever you want me, but I’m it as far as backup.”
“Fair enough.”
Simon rose, ending the meeting. “I’ll get things rolling at my end.”
“Ditto for me.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
TREVOR DIALED HIS mobile one-handed. Shelby set her clasped hands on the table. He noticed the fine trembling. Moving over next to her, he covered her hands with his free one. She attempted a smile.
“Danby.”
“It’s Carswell.”
“Give me an update.”
He filled the brigadier in on everything that had happened since they’d last spoken. “I’ll be going out to the Burwell Estate. I could use additional men. My men. My team.”
“I’ll send backup. Havanaugh and the rest of your boys are in Libya doing some mop-up work, so it’ll be another SAS team, a couple of MI-5 blokes, and me.”
“Very good, sir. I also need you to contact the Magistrates’ Court. Push for the search warrants, as we discussed, but see if you can swing an arrest warrant for Whitcomb. I realize evidence is lacking at this point—”
“I’ll do what I can,” Danby interrupted. “I know what I’m asking of you, Trevor. This operation has always been considered high risk. If you succeed, there will be a medal and a promotion for you.”
Trevor chuffed out a laugh. “If I fail, I’ll be dead, and you can pin your bloody medal on yourself.”
Danby’s voice grew stiff and disapproving. “You’re a military officer, Major. Please remember to whom you are speaking.”
Trevor rubbed his forehead with his thumb, breathing deeply. “My apologies, Brigadier. I’ll brief you on my plan once it’s solidified. Oh, and there will be a man on location called Simon Rosenfeld. He’s with me.”
“Very good.”
He disconnected. Shelby had risen and paced around the room, arms crossed over her stomach. He pocketed the mobile.
“Come here,” he murmured, walking toward her. “How are you holding up?”
She met him halfway, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m fine,” she said, then shook her head. “You’re headed right into danger. Of course I’m worried.”
“What are you on about?” he teased gently. He nudged her chin up with a forefinger. “This is big, strong he-man stuff. I’ve got it handled.”
She gave the ghost of a smile. Truthfully, more things could go wrong than right, and they both knew it.
“Are you two through with the mushy stuff?” Lark said, blowing a raspberry. “Jeez. You totally forgot I was in the room, didn’t you?”
They broke apart, laughing a little.
“Sitting here with nothing to do is boring.” She wandered to the door and cracked it open. A security guard straightened from his slouch against the opposite wall.
“Sorry, miss. Mr. Rosenfeld requested you stay inside until his return.”
“But I have to go to the bathroom.”
The guard didn’t blink. “He’ll be back shortly, miss.” He reached for the knob and gently closed the door in Lark’s face.
“We’re prisoners.”
Trevor frowned. “I don’t think you realize just how much Simon’s going out of his way to help us.”
“You,” Shelby said. “He’s helping you. And don’t think I’m not grateful, because I am. I can’t believe he’s going with you.”
How could he explain it? “Operators recognize other operators. We’re a specialized bunch. It’s kind of a brotherhood. I’d do the same for him.”
“Just like that?”
He smiled. “You can bet he’s already thoroughly vetted me. He probably knows more about me than Lark does.”
“Okay.”
He took her hand, turning it over to examine her palm. His thumb rubbed gently over it. “After this is over, what do you say we go away? Maybe Hawaii? Sip mai tais on the beach. Snorkel. Or I can teach you to scuba dive.”
“I’d really like that,” she whispered.
He let out a breath, the tightness in his chest easing. “Good. That’s . . . good. Let’s do that.”
Shelby squeezed his hand before pulling hers free. “I know how to get Max to the Burwell Estates.”
It took him a second to switch gears. “How?”
The door opened and Simon walked in, a sheaf of papers and a roll of tape in his hands. “We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way,” he said. We don’t have a printer big enough for blueprints.”
The four converged on the table.
“How?” Trevor asked Shelby again. It was the one part of the plan he hadn’t been able to figure out.
“Olga Berkowicz said she and Max were in contact regularly for quite a while,” Shelby explained. “She helped him with his research. What if she were to call him, tell him she found some critical piece of information? Tell him there’s a hidden compartment in the grandmother clock. Tell him the data is on a microdot or something.”
He felt a slow smile spread across his face. “You’re bloody brilliant, Shel. Do you know that?”
Simon set the printed pages on the conference table. “I won’t put her in any danger. But I’m willing to make the call. The decision will be hers. Okay?”
“Fair enough.”
“Make yourself useful,” Simon said to Lark. “This stack is an aerial map of the estate, and this one is the blueprints of the house. Do you think you can piece it together?”
Her chin lifted. “I can tape the shit out of this.”
“Good.” Simon stretched. “Trevor, come with me. I have a pair of pants that should fit you.”
The Mossad agent took him to a small locker room. Two sets of combat uniforms hung neatly inside. Trevor accepted one of them, changing into olive-drab combat pants and brown boots. He swapped out his footballer’s jersey for a plain brown T-shirt.
Shelby did a double-take when he walked back into the conference room, but didn’t say a word. She and Lark had set the copy paper out in rows, taping each sheet with the next until they had covered a third of the table.
“I’ll make the call to Dr. Berkowicz.” Simon moved to the far corner, mobile up to his ear.
Trevor eyed the two sets of maps. “Nice work.”
“If the most we can contribute is taping pieces of paper together, then that’s what we’ll do,” Shelby said.
“That’s my girl.”
Her face flashed surprise, then doubt. She clearly thought he used the term generically, in place of a “well done.” But that conversation would have to wait.
>
“She’s willing,” Simon said. “Once I give the signal, she’ll make the call.”
“Simon, can we call the clock museum and have it evacuated? I don’t want anyone caught in the crossfire,” Shelby said.
Trevor shook his head. “If we do that, Max will know it’s a trap.”
Shelby frowned, clearly unhappy. “All right.”
“The Bedlamites so far have broken in after closing. The building will be empty.” The whole plan hinged on everything appearing normal.
She took a breath. “Can we at least call the curator? Have him make sure no one stays late that night?”
“Odds are he’d ring the police straightaway.”
She just shook her head.
For the half hour, the four of them studied the blueprints of the manor house. Trevor and Simon marked entry and egress points, discussed possible places for cover or concealment, and noted potential blind areas for security cameras. Both had years of experience; they quickly fell into a rhythm, talking in shorthand as they learned one another’s style and mindset.
“It’s like you’re speaking another language,” Shelby observed.
He grinned at her. “But one we both understand. All right. The plan is we get in, secure the premises, and detain Max when he arrives. Now let’s talk contingencies.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shelby pull Lark to the other end of the table. She probably didn’t want to hear about all the things that could go wrong. He couldn’t blame her for that.
Simon pointed to the centralized great hall, just beyond the entrance vestibule. “This is where he’ll stage.”
“Agreed. From there, he’ll send his men in teams of two, if he’s smart, out into the museum. He’ll start downstairs.”
“It would help if we knew what was in each room.”
Trevor grinned. “Clocks.”
Simon just shook his head. “Any idea how many he’ll bring with him?”
“No. That’s the biggest variable. I only know of five. But Eric hinted there were others, so let’s assume twice that.”
“Or more.”
