Phantom Pearl

by Monica McCabe

  He nodded to an older couple as they moved from an exquisite art deco bronze by Erté to a marble impressionist sculpture of twisting human forms. Sango Gallery of Fine Art was legit, classically modern with an air of sophistication and a highly influential business in the heart of Singapore. It made no sense that half the works on display tonight were currently in the FBI’s stolen art file.

  When a tuxedo-clad waiter strolled by carrying a tray of champagne flutes, Dallas snared a glass. He casually sipped the sparkling liquid and debated the odds of Jane Lassiter, head of Homeland Security’s Art and Cultural Division, accepting his next expense report without choking. No one ever claimed undercover work was cheap.

  He was admiring a Victorian painting by Henry Fuseli, a leader in the Romantic Art Movement of the eighteenth century, when someone stepped up to join him.

  “Nice shoes,” purred the female beside him.

  Dallas glanced over and stiffened. “Layla Sanchez,” he said with barely disguised animosity. Homeland Security’s resident femme fatale was the last person he expected, or wanted, to meet at this hot art liquidation sale. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  It was more of a statement than question. He couldn’t think of a single good reason why she’d turn up now, looking like she’d poured herself into a designer gown that Lassiter probably signed off on without so much as a blink.

  “We need to talk, Landry.” Layla smiled, her glossy red lips a beacon to every man within a hundred-foot radius.

  Every man but him. “Go away.” This operation required delicate balance. She represented interference. “Why are you here?”

  “Funny story,” she said. “You’re going to love it.”

  Somehow, Dallas didn’t think he would.

  “There you are, Ms. Sanchez,” a twenty-something man said as he handed her a glass of champagne.

  “Please,” she said much too sweetly, “call me Layla.”

  The poor sap didn’t stand a chance against the red-lipped demon in front of him. Dallas had seen too many fall victim to her soul-stealing smile.

  “Dallas,” she continued without breaking stride. “Meet Tyson Mahoney, the gallery administrator here at Sango.”

  What was she up to? Had Lassiter sent her? If so, the timing couldn’t be worse. He’d suspected that Sango’s owner had made a regrettable partnership with Mathis Howe, the Malaysian king of black-market antiquities. Howe’s inner circle had been near untouchable. Two months—eight tedious weeks—Dallas had spent cultivating the man’s trust. Adding a new player now, even one as beautiful as Layla Sanchez, could ruin everything.

  “Tyson has graciously offered to give me a tour.” Layla’s palm rested against the administrator’s arm, her brightly painted fingernails stark against the man’s white shirt. “My anticipation is running wild. I’ve seen many exhibitions, but never been behind the scenes.”

  “Sango applies the finest in museum standards,” Tyson said with pride. “Private conference rooms with concierge service, digitally monitored climate control and fire detection systems. The art handling room is the best—”

  “Mr. Mahoney,” a tux-clad waiter interrupted. “I was told you’re needed at the Italian collection. A buyer has a question on the certificate of authenticity for a Francois Gerard.”

  A telltale anxiety filled Tyson’s eyes, but he shrugged and straightened his spine. “Please excuse me. I should only be a few moments.”

  Layla waved him on with an understanding smile. “I’ll be around. Just don’t forget me.”

  “Never,” Tyson said as he lifted her hand for a kiss. With a quick nod at Dallas, the administrator disappeared, leaving them a window of opportunity.

  “Out with it,” he said to the she-devil. “Why are you here?”

  She sipped on her champagne and tossed a casual glance around the gallery. “It seems you’ve been reassigned. I’m here to finish the job.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” he scoffed. “Lassiter hasn’t said a word.”

  A finely arched brow lifted at his harsh tone. “The order came from higher up. The boss lady is probably discovering it this very moment. Besides, I’m exceptionally good at anything I focus on. If you’d give me half a chance, I’d show you what you’ve been missing.”

  Layla wore seduction like a second skin. The act was a major part of her success, a tactic that opened plenty of doors for her. But her well-practiced skills did absolutely nothing for him.

  “Don’t think you can waltz in here and take over,” he said. “Mathis Howe won’t play.”

  “I’m not like you, Dallas dear. It doesn’t take weeks for me to hit my mark. I’ve only been in Singapore a few hours and already found my ticket in.”

  He shook his head at her blatant overconfidence. “Tyson Mahoney is small fish. An underling forced to authenticate stolen art. He’s not the target.”

  “Poor Dallas,” Layla said with fake sympathy. “Perhaps I’m here because the department believes I’ll do a better job reeling in the big guns. I’m sure it’s frustrating for you. Being replaced is never pleasant.” She pursed her lips in a mock air kiss.

  He’d had enough. “I’m not bowing out. I don’t care who orders it.”

  “You’re always so uncooperative.” She brushed a fingertip across the low-cut edge of her dress, drawing attention to the ample curve of her breast. “You really should work on that.”

  The woman had an annoying ability to make everything sound like an invitation. “I don’t like surprises,” he stated flat out. “Or demands. Or interruptions.”

  “And yet, for some unexplainable reason, I still like you.” She nodded toward the front door. “Meet me outside behind the water fountain. I have something for you.”

  She didn’t wait to hear his response before setting her glass on a reception table and leaving. Anger boiled to the surface, and he fought to contain it by draining his glass of champagne. It was a wasted effort. He wanted to ignore her, make her sit out there and wait, but that never worked with Layla. The situation had to be handled.

  Facing the inevitable, he slipped outside and into the gardens. After following a path of solar lights to a graceful fountain of splashing water sprites, he found Layla alone, quietly talking on a cell phone. She handed the device over with a Cheshire cat grin that only added fuel to the fire.

  “Landry,” he barked into the phone.

  “I know this is last minute,” Jane Lassiter said with a tone that clearly indicated she wasn’t happy with this new turn of events. “But the suits are in an uproar.”

  “Why is that my problem?”

  “Because you are the best qualified agent to handle a new development.”

  Dallas didn’t care. They were jeopardizing the house of cards he’d built here. Layla could hold her own better than most people, but Howe didn’t like newcomers. Putting her in place would be worse than starting over. It could kill the entire operation.

  “Don’t flatter me. The department has plenty of agents. Why me?” Lassiter had worked with him long enough to know he’d damn well see one job through before starting another.

  “One, you are the closest one available, and the job requires immediate action. Two, it’s top priority for several high-ranking officials well above my pay grade. And three—this is the best part—it involves the Yakuza.”

  Not interesting enough to throw away a chance to stop an underground syndicate. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. “For the record—you are not cutting me out, Lassiter. I refuse to step aside.” He let the words sink in, then added, “What about the Yakuza?”

  “Based on appearances, they’re vacationing in Australia.”

  His supervisor’s laugh grated on his nerves. He had things to do tonight, and that didn’t include playing word games. “Get to the point, will you?”

  “You’re no fun when you’re m
ad, you know that?”

  “Lassiter,” Dallas warned.

  “For the record,” his boss repeated, “you’re a damn fine agent, both in the field and running point at home. That’s the only reason I put up with your attitude.”

  “Noted,” Dallas replied. “Now, get on with it, or I’m going back inside to do my job.”

  “And that exactly proves my point. If nothing else, your single-minded purpose is admirable, but it wouldn’t hurt you to lighten up now and then.” Rustling papers interrupted for a second. “Our man inside the Yakuza says they are organizing an expedition to Cooktown, a semi-remote village in the northeastern peninsula of Australia. Rumor has it they are after the Phantom Pearl.”

  “Not likely. That antiquity was lost at sea during the Second World War.”

  “So history says.”

  Layla ran a polished fingernail down the sleeve of his shirt, digging in enough to hurt. He frowned at her.

  “Convinced yet?” she whispered.

  He brushed her hand away and turned his attention back to his boss. “That’s a strong claim. Is your source reliable? What makes you believe it?”

  “Yes, he is, and I’m keeping an open mind,” Lassiter said. “It’s plausible.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” Dallas scoffed. “I’m not walking away from an operation I’ve spent weeks preparing for on the off chance a piece of Yamashita’s treasure has surfaced.”

  “Not just any piece. It’s Phantom Pearl, a one-of-a-kind antiquity that survived Cambodia’s relentless jungle. It has an amazing story. A provenance of epic proportions.”

  “I know what it is,” Dallas said. “And it’s on the ocean floor, probably covered in barnacles by now.”

  “Seriously, it’s all black and white for you, isn’t it? Would it change your mind if I said someone else believes in the possibility enough to be flying south over the Pacific right now? She’s barely one step ahead of our criminal friends.”

  Damn it all to hell. Could this night get any worse? “Let me guess. Riki Maddox?”

  “The one and only,” Lassiter said. “She’s beaten you at your own game, what, like three times now?”

  Four. And he didn’t appreciate the reminder. The woman was like a damn ninja. Her success rate was ruining his award-winning reputation at the bureau. It had to stop.

  “Change your mind yet?” Lassiter asked.

  It would be professional suicide to refuse a chance at redemption, then again, so was giving the woman another crack at besting him in the artifact recovery game. It was an impossible situation, and odds were not in his favor. But he had to take it. And win.

  “I want it noted that I’m doing this under pressure,” Dallas stated with a glare at Layla. “It stinks to high heaven.” He’d busted his ass to set up this job. Now he had to hand over the reins to another agent who may, or may not, bag the prize. As revolting as that was, he had no choice. Riki Maddox took priority.

  Layla laughed softly behind him. “How about you fill me in on Mathis Howe and his operation over drinks?”

  Chapter 3

  By the time Riki landed in Cairns, she was tired and hungry. Qantas fed their passengers well on the fourteen-hour flight from LA to Brisbane, and again during the next two and half hours to Cairns, but she couldn’t muster up enough enthusiasm to actually eat it.

  It wasn’t her first trans-continental flight by any stretch, and she didn’t mind flying, but cabin pressure bothered her. The longer the flight, the worse it became. Though she’d learned long ago to control her body’s response to jet lag, neither meditation nor a mile-high glimpse of the Great Barrier Reef could combat the weariness that currently resided in her bones.

  Now that her feet had hit solid ground, she wanted hot food and a double-shot cappuccino to sharpen her foggy brain. She had no checked bags, only a carry-on full of Baja vacation clothes that would be useless on a Down Under jungle trek. But she was to meet her contact at baggage claim, so she slung her backpack over her shoulder and left the gate.

  It was pushing noon, a popular arrival time for international flights, and the terminal was choked with travelers. Uncomfortable with the breath-stealing closeness, Riki maneuvered to the outer edge of the crowd. She hated the way her body betrayed her in confined spaces and pushed back against the unease, focusing instead on a need for piping hot coffee.

  The distraction worked, until halfway down the corridor, anxiety surged again. Stronger this time, and accompanied with a familiar tingling usually reserved for impending doom. Without breaking stride, she scanned the immediate surroundings. No menacing threat of attack. No panicked crowd. Just a tropical motif of cassowaries and frogs and a corridor that finally spilled into a huge central cavern of a room.

  She gravitated toward the center where a coffee kiosk promised new life, and ordered the strongest jolt on the menu. The sound of grinding beans filled the air as she stood beside the counter, clicked on her phone, and calmly surveyed the crowd. Still nothing unusual. Outer walls were lined with gates, gift shops, and eateries. The center was filled with tables, kiosks, and row upon row of passenger seating. Not a single thing out of the ordinary.

  No updates from Kai either. She fired off a quick text, accepted her coffee with a polite thank you, and aimed straight for baggage claim.

  She avoided the narrow escalator and hustled down a wide staircase, careful to keep a clear line of sight. Her jitters appeared unfounded, however, and she reached the luggage carousel without incident, though it was every bit as crowded and hectic. She moved toward an exterior wall, to a water fountain where Craig Lawson waited.

  Like Kai predicted, the Aussie wore a beige pullover with an American flag logo over his heart, a subtle code that blended in with the slew of tourists here for the reef.

  She walked over and casually leaned against the wall beside him. “Mr. Lawson, I presume?”

  He gave her a once-over and grunted. “Don’t tell me you’re Riki Maddox.”

  “As I live and breathe,” she answered.

  “Kai said you’re a firecracker, but you’re no bigger than a koala.”

  Any other day she’d find that funny, but her sense of humor had fizzled at thirty-thousand feet. Along with her trusty spidey-sense, apparently. “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight,” she replied. “It’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

  Craig barked with laughter, drawing the attention of those closest to them. “You’re no junk yard dog, not with lips and eyes like that. Maybe one of them fluffy pedigrees.”

  “A common error in judgment that has served me well.” She contemplated the pilot Kai swore was solid gold. Fiftyish, fair-skinned with a shock of red hair graying at the temples, and the muscled look of someone who spent a lot of time at manual labor. “And Kai did not call me a firecracker.”

  “I was paraphrasing,” he said with a toothy smile. “It was more of a caution. He said you were lethal and not to muck up the job, or you’d inflict pain.”

  “I doubt he said that either.” She scanned their surroundings again. Nothing but normal airport crowds for a busy Wednesday afternoon. People hustling at the baggage carrousel, lines at the car rental counters, and… Her heart skipped a beat.

  What in the seventh level of hell was Dallas Landry doing here? It was impossible. No way Homeland Security had clued in that fast.

  It looked as though he was trying to charter a plane at Daintree Air Services counter, being all smiley and friendly, and pointing at something on a computer monitor. There went her three-day head start. This changed everything. It upped the timeline, heightened the risk, and sent her pulse into overdrive.

  Seriously, it was maddening how little control she had anymore. Imaginary threats lurking at the airport and unreasonable reactions to a federal agent.

  Landry was a complication she didn’t need. No matter how many times she rem
inded herself he was the enemy, he still sparked irrational curiosity. She’d made it a point to learn the vitals—lived in Seattle, went to school at Harvard and graduated with honors, ranked in the top one percent of law enforcement tactical training programs, and joined Homeland Security eight years ago. As adversaries went, his record was impressive. It was the other, less tangible, things that caused havoc. What was he like as a person? Why did he choose art and cultural studies?

  And worst of all, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

  “Something wrong?” Craig asked.

  She shook off the troublesome thoughts and turned her attention back to her new partner. “Not really. I’ve been on edge since landing in Cairns. Probably just a lack of caffeine.” She took a sip of her forgotten coffee, hoping it might spark a miracle cure.

  “You eat much on the plane?”

  She shook her head. Hunger gnawed at her insides, but her timeline had just escalated. Did Landry know about the plane crash?

  “How about we grab a bite before liftoff?” Craig asked.

  Her stomach growled. Five minutes ago, that was exactly what she wanted. Now that competition had arrived, she needed a new plan. “I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

  “No offense, but you look a bit peaked. Even koalas need to eat once in a while.”

  She started to argue, but he held up a hand. “I know the perfect place. Good food fast. Besides, they’re fueling my plane. It’ll take a bit to be ready.” He pointed to her backpack. “That all you got?”

  “I travel light,” she replied.

  “Right you are, then. Let’s go.”

  Craig moved off, but before following, she glanced in Landry’s direction. Their gazes locked. He still stood at the service counter but threw her a curve ball with an unexpected smile. Her insides did a somersault. When he offered a mock salute, she knew without a doubt he’d come for her. The crazy sense of anticipation that caused worried her more than anything else.