The Gryphon Heist

by James R. Hannibal

All three Frenchmen joined in the scuffle, slipping, sliding, and falling over one another. The people in the stands loved it. They answered every punch and tackle with laughter and moans. Finn was the first to break free. He mounted the leader’s bike, gunned the engine, and plowed through the temporary fence, French flag whipping behind. Talia caught up a moment later. She mounted a second bike and gave chase. The lead Frenchman tried to block her path, but she held the throttle down, and he dove out of the way.

  Finn drove straight down the center of the runway, and Talia followed, wind stinging her cheeks and threatening to tear Franklin’s sunglasses from her face. Tears blurred her vision, but she saw Finn glance back and wave. He pointed ahead.

  Talia shifted her gaze and saw biplanes. Two of them. Side by side. The aerial team that was performing when she first arrived now barreled down the runway, heading straight for her.

  “Turn, Talia,” Eddie said through the headset, as if a crash might get him killed as well. “Turn now.”

  “Only if Finn turns first.”

  He didn’t. Finn hunched his body down and sped between the biplanes, inches from the wings on either side of him. Talia gritted her teeth, planning to do the same, but the pilots had a different plan. They pulled up. The engines growled as they passed overhead, and the prop wash hit her like a cold ocean wave. The bike fishtailed, but Talia kept it upright.

  She was gaining.

  Everything Talia had learned about Finn in the last few minutes told her he had another trick up his sleeve. He did. The thief slowed, drifting toward the edge of the runway, dropped a foot, and skidded through a U-turn. Another aircraft taxied by and Finn throttled after it. He pulled alongside, ditched the bike, and leaped onto the wing, locking an arm through a rail fixed to the fuselage. The aircraft lifted off. Finn popped a red smoke flare and held it up into the wind.

  “There he goes, ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer shouted, “Michaellll . . . Fiiinnnn! And let’s have a round of applause for his stunt-woman partner. Isn’t she a looker?”

  “That’s you,” Eddie whispered through Talia’s earpiece. “Take a bow.”

  The crowd applauded, as prompted.

  Talia turned and stomped through the crunching snow toward the stands. “Not a chance.”

  After only a few steps a dune buggy rolled up, driven by a woman in a high-visibility vest. Tyler and the leader of the French stuntmen climbed out of the back. Talia shook her head. “It’s like Finn planned the whole thing.”

  “He did,” Tyler said as the Frenchman ran off to fuss over his bike. “Finn bought off the biker team before the show. Tackling their leader was all part of the act. The others came after me because they thought I was a confused member of show security, spoiling everything.” He watched Finn’s ride bank its wings and descend beyond the ridgeline. “You have to give the kid credit—”

  “If you say ‘He knows how to make an exit,’ I will slap you.” Talia climbed into the dune buggy and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but Mr. Finn can’t stay on that wing for long. Where will the aircraft land?”

  When the driver tried to answer, Tyler waved her off. “Doesn’t matter.” He dropped into the front passenger seat. “Finn has a giant head start and we don’t have time to track him down. Right now, we have to go to Venice. We have a date with Valkyrie.”

  THE SUN WAS SETTING over the Laguna Veneta as Tyler brought the Gulfstream into Marco Polo Airport. They left their earpieces in the jet, giving Eddie a little time off, and took a water taxi across the lagoon to the Piazza San Marco. From there, a gondolier brought them into the city. Darkness fell quickly in the narrow waterways between the houses and churches. Young men, standing balanced in their boats, used long poles to light gas lanterns along the canals.

  Tyler conversed with their boatman in Italian, and Talia poked him with a finger. “Would you mind switching to English? Where exactly are we going?”

  “I showed you last night.” Tyler signaled left with the flat of his hand, and the gondolier turned onto a new canal. “The Gallerie dell’Accademia. Tonight, they’re having a gala to celebrate the unveiling of the Khafra collection. Invitation only.”

  “We don’t have invitations.”

  “Eddie took care of that. Check your email.”

  Talia pulled out her phone and opened her secure email. She scowled at the screen. “Signore and Signora Rosiello. A married couple? Are you insane?” She glanced over at Tyler. “You’re, like . . . twenty years older than me.”

  “Fifteen, and you know it. And it could be fifty for all these people care. Welcome to Italy.” Tyler looked her up and down, assessing her clothes. “I hope you still have your government credit card. We need to do some more shopping.”

  Despite the crack about her credit card, Tyler insisted on paying. And Talia was glad. Any dress in any shop on Rio de San Moisè would have put her over her limit. She chose a silk number, emerald green with a low V back. And then she wore her purchase out of the store, something she’d sworn she’d never do again after she left the foster care system.

  The boatman gave a low whistle as he helped her down the steps into the gondola. He smirked and said something in Italian. Talia heard bambolina. It sounded a lot like Don Marco’s topolina, only this guy’s tone was much worse. She looked him straight in the eye. “Say that again and I’ll knock you overboard.”

  The four wings of the Gallerie dell’Accademia formed a perfect square. The gala was set in the open plaza at the middle, with candlelit tables and live music. Talia bristled at the centerpiece, an ice sculpture of the Sphinx lit from beneath with blue LEDs. She had seen enough ice for one lifetime earlier in the day.

  Tyler looked the part of rich-older-husband-with-trophy-wife in a double-breasted tux paired with a vintage cravat tie in jewel-tone green to match her dress. He bent close to Talia’s ear as the viola player plucked the first bars of a minuet. “Watch out. Heads are turning. You look like a princess at the ball.”

  “Perhaps a princess forced to marry the villain of the story, the wart-faced king of a dark and distant land.”

  The rest of the quartet joined the viola. Miniature forks clinked down on half-empty dessert plates as several couples left their tables to dance. Talia set off toward an open table, but Tyler caught her fingers and pulled her back to face him. He placed a hand on her waist and guided her into the flow of dancers. “I’ve never had a wart a day in my life.”

  “But you are playing the evil king.”

  “Not in my version of the story.”

  Talia imagined him delivering that last counter with a grin, but she couldn’t be sure. She was too busy watching her own feet, struggling to find the rhythm. Her heel caught in the grout between the pavers. She stumbled.

  Tyler’s hand tightened around her waist to keep her upright. “You know, this will go a lot smoother if you let me lead.”

  “Or maybe it would go smoother if you learned to treat me like a partner, instead of dragging me blind through every step.”

  “I’m dragging you because you don’t know the steps, and I don’t have time to explain them.”

  The violins pushed the pace. The viola answered an octave above, and the cello countered with a deep vibrato. Tyler spun Talia to dodge a couple that could not keep up. “I’m putting my life on the line to help you and the Agency. What more do you want?”

  They drew closer to the stage in the turn around the ice sculpture, and she raised her voice over the music so he could hear the anger. “How about a little honesty?”

  “Fine. No problem. What do you want to know?”

  Another couple dropped out, laughing and breathing heavy. Only four pairs remained. Onlookers toasted Tyler and Talia as they passed, oblivious to her frustration.

  “I want to know who you really are.”

  She felt Tyler’s hold loosen. He had expected a question about the mission, not his past. Now he was the one off balance, and Talia pressed her advantage. “I can read between th
e lines. You were CIA once. What division? Ops? Paramilitary? Why doesn’t Mary Jordan trust you?”

  “Mary Jordan doesn’t trust anyone. And I was never attached to a division. I was an asset.” He pushed against her palm, pressing her onward as the violins took up a staccato beat.

  “Meaning what?”

  “You know what.”

  “I want to hear you say it.” She wrapped her fingers around his, pulling and turning to keep pace with the quartet. “Tell me what you were before you became Adam Tyler.”

  The turn around the ice sculpture brought his whole face into shadow. Tyler growled out his answer. “An assassin, Talia. Is that what you wanted to hear? I killed people for a living.”

  She let go.

  With two short beats and a long victorious chord, the quartet finished. The people at the tables, the dancing couples, everyone but Talia and Tyler applauded.

  Chapter

  thirty-

  five

  GALLERIE DELL’ACCADEMIA

  VENICE, ITALY

  TALIA RETREATED TO A QUIET CORNER, away from the tables. She had suspected Tyler’s secret, yet she had not been prepared to hear it. How could Brennan have assigned her to work with a killer? And what did it say about the Agency—her Agency—that they employed his services at all, then or now?

  Tyler appeared at her side a few moments later and handed her a drink. “Ginger ale, or as close as I could get. I got the sense your stomach had turned.”

  “You sensed right.” Talia sipped the soda, some not-quite-sweet-enough citrus drink, and let the coolness of it calm her anger.

  “Talia, I—”

  “Forget it. Tell me about Valkyrie.” She scanned the partygoers, not quite sure what she was looking for. “How can you be certain he’ll show?”

  “You mean ‘she.’” Tyler nodded at a banner stretched across the stage, hanging above the quartet. Beside golden calligraphy that read I TESORI DI KHAFRA was a grainy headshot of a mousy woman in Coke-bottle glasses, black hair not quite contained by her librarian bun. “And ‘she’ is the guest of honor.”

  They found her haunting the buffet table. The photo did not do justice to her Mediterranean complexion, but the bad hair and thick glasses were a match. She wore an ankle-length frock barely suitable for a 1950s house party, let alone a ritzy museum gala.

  “Look,” Tyler said, watching her from a few steps away, “Valkyrie has a gift for reading people. She’ll intuit half your life story the moment you open your mouth, so don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Speak. Let’s not have a repeat of your mistake with Finn, hmm?”

  Talia looked daggers at the back of Tyler’s head and then followed as he sidled up beside their target. Up on the stage, an exuberant balding gentleman took the microphone and introduced himself as the museum’s director.

  Valkyrie spoke first, keeping her voice low as the director rambled in a mix of Italian and English. The donors answered with snippets of laughter and applause. “Hello, Tyler. Marco said you might drop in. Nice dancing.” She glanced past him to Talia. “Though I can’t say the same for your little friend. She seems a little . . . inexperienced.”

  Talia read the subtext in Valkyrie’s flat expression. “You mean too young for him. And you’re right.”

  “It’s not like that,” Tyler said, backing her up. “This is Talia. We’re working together. And we need your—”

  “No.”

  “Valkyrie, at least let me—”

  “No.”

  Tyler shifted his weight, tapping a finger against his leg. Talia wanted to dislike the woman, especially after the inexperienced remark, but she had to admire the way Valkyrie had shut Tyler down.

  Valkyrie took her glasses off and polished the lenses with the hem of her dress. “Stay out of my way. Tonight is the culmination of three months’ work.”

  As if on cue, the director gestured in Valkyrie’s direction. “And finally I must thank our American colleague, Dr. Amelia Cartwright, one of the world’s foremost experts in Near Eastern antiquities. She spent years in the field on the hunt for the lost treasures of the pharaoh Khafra.” He gave Valkyrie a nod, and she answered with a humble wave of her glasses. “Without Dr. Cartwright’s selfless request that we cover the cost of her expedition only, with no honorarium, and without your generous donations, our humble museum could never have acquired such a remarkable collection.”

  The director droned on, and Talia leaned close to Tyler. “I’m sorry, but this is your specialist? Why do we need an expert in Near Eastern antiquities for a high-altitude robbery?”

  “You’re missing the point. Valkyrie is not an expert in Near Eastern antiquities.”

  At this, Valkyrie cleared her throat, looking seriously offended.

  Tyler rolled his eyes. “Okay, she is an expert in Near Eastern antiquities. But she is also an expert in Qin artifacts, a real estate lawyer versed in the obscurities of Myanmar property law, and—if I’m not mistaken—a superintendent in the national police force of Lichtenstein.”

  “Chief superintendent,” Valkyrie countered through a frozen smile, slipping her glasses back on.

  Up on the stage, the museum director reached the climax of his speech. “My dear, distinguished donors, I give you . . . the lost treasures of Khafra!” He pulled a cord, and a curtain fell. Precious artifacts glittered on a tiered display of black velvet boxes. On a pedestal at the center stood a golden pharaoh set with bands of lapis. The director held his microphone out to Valkyrie. “Dr. Cartwright, please say a few words.”

  “You mean she’s a con woman,” Talia hissed, mindful of all the eyes looking at the three of them. “And she’s conning these poor donors right now.”

  “Oh, darling.” Valkyrie set off to take the microphone. “They’re anything but poor.”

  Tyler gave her a golf clap as she walked away. “For future reference, Talia, the proper term is grifter.”

  “We have to stop her.”

  “I know.” He took a deep breath and smoothed his lapels. “Watch this.”

  Tyler passed Valkyrie on the way up the stage steps and swiped the microphone out of the museum director’s hand. “Good evening, folks. I am Dr. Cartwright’s assistant, Joe Bagdun. I always handle her introductions.”

  “He’s really not.” Valkyrie grabbed for the mic. “And he really doesn’t. Can I get some security up here, please?”

  Tyler sidestepped her grabs and bumped into the golden pharaoh’s pedestal. All the donors held their breath as the statue teetered and fell, but with lightning quickness, he dropped to a knee and caught it. “Whew,” he said, standing and setting it on the pedestal once more. “Close one.”

  Valkyrie stood off to one side, giving up on her efforts to recover the microphone. “Security? Anyone? Do the guards here speak English?”

  Undaunted, Tyler placed a hand on the pharaoh’s scepter and shot her a glance. “Say, Dr. Cartwright, does this look crooked to you?”

  “Don’t!” She lurched for him, horrified, but Tyler cranked down on the scepter anyway. The hand that held it snapped off at the wrist.

  An older woman in the front row swooned.

  Valkyrie closed her eyes and lowered her head.

  “Oh,” Tyler said in mock surprise. He turned to the museum director, showing him the broken piece. “I didn’t realize gold was so brittle.”

  “It . . . isn’t.” The director approached for a closer look.

  “Weird. And why is the entire cross-section black, I wonder?” Tyler sniffed the broken section. “Smells like . . . graphite.” He offered the hand and scepter to Valkyrie. “Your thoughts, Dr. Cartwright?”

  “I hate you.” Valkyrie ignored the scepter and stormed off the stage.

  Tyler pressed the broken piece into the director’s hands and followed.

  Talia met them both at the bottom of the steps, but the grifter pushed past her, and the two watched her march up the aisle between the tables of murmuring donors. A pair o
f guards, finally mobilized by the breaking of the statue, rushed up to her, but stopped in their tracks when she held up a warning hand. They let her pass.

  “The moment she reaches the plaza gate, she’ll run for it,” Talia said. “You know that, right?”

  “Let her run. I know her playbook.”

  They left through the back gate of the plaza, and Tyler shifted into tour guide mode, as if they were out for a leisurely nighttime stroll. “At the end of this lane,” he said, pointing down a broad pedestrian thoroughfare, “you can see the dome of the Church of Santa Maria del Rosario. And that”—he shifted his aim—“is the Gesuati Monastery.”

  “Tyler, we don’t have time for a tour. We—”

  As Talia spoke, he shifted his aim again. “And that building over there is the local constabulary. They should be getting a call about . . . now.”

  A commotion of shouts erupted within the police station. Silhouettes moved across the windows. The door opened. Before Talia could see who came out, Tyler pulled her down an alleyway. He made two turns and then stopped at an intersection, looking down at her shoes. “I think you should ditch those heels.”

  He offered an arm for balance, but Talia chose instead to use the alley wall. “Are you saying it’s time to run?”

  “I’m saying it’s time to jump.” The grumbling hum of an outboard motor drifted in from a canal at the end of the cross street. “And soon. Hurry!”

  The moment Talia had her second shoe off, he pulled her into a run. They sprinted down the cobblestone lane and leaped out over the water. She landed in a heap on a plush white seat at the back of a motorboat. Tyler landed on the fiberglass bow. He grabbed the windscreen and pulled himself up to the driver—Valkyrie. “Would you mind slowing down?”

  “Yes, I mind.” She palmed his face, squishing his nose. “Why don’t you shove off?”

  Try as Valkyrie might to dislodge him from her windscreen, Tyler held on, so she veered the boat left and right. His legs careened side to side. “Don Marco . . . never told me . . . you had a mean streak.”

  “Marco should never have sent you.” Valkyrie turned the wheel even more, and the chrome gunwales bounced off the canal walls, sending up sparks.