by Davis Bunn
Only now, walking the sweltering side street back to Worth Avenue, could she see beyond the moment. And be confronted yet again with all she had gained. And the far greater burden of all that was lost forever.
Then she saw the bike.
This one was a brilliant red two-wheeled rocket. Even the emblem looked fast; the gold letters ending in flames. The bike was massive, low to the ground, with a tiny windshield and stubby controls—everything drawn in tightly to help the driver withstand a g-force stronger than the space shuttle’s liftoff. The bike was parked directly opposite the passage leading back to Storm’s shop. A flame-red warning meant just for her.
Emma dropped the bag and ran, fumbling about in her purse for her gun. At the moment of sunlit blindness, a man stepped into her path. He was scarcely larger than an olive-skinned elf, and had eyes that burned with coal-dark rage. His hand was extended, almost in greeting. The single whiff from the perfume canister struck her face before she had even truly seen him. It was done so swiftly and smoothly she blocked his hand only after the mist clung to her skin and eyes.
Emma tried to raise her gun, only to discover she had no hands.
FIFTY-FIVE
STORM KNEW SHE WAS SOON going to die. This knowledge granted her the ability to split each moment into crystalline fractions. There were eons between each frantic heartbeat. Time to etch the man on the computer screen deep into her psyche. Time to hear Claudia’s ragged breathing and know she was helpless to do anything about it. Time to watch her father take his leave from Boucaud and depart without glancing her way. Storm heard each precise tick of the clock above the stove. She felt the urgent need to get this one last thing totally right.
She said to Claudia, “I betrayed your trust by thinking what I did. I was totally wrong. I’m so sorry. I want you to know how much I love you.”
“How utterly American,” Yves Bouchaud sneered from the screen. “This ridiculous need of yours to unload your emotions.”
Claudia’s tears dragged her mascara into dark trenches across her cheeks. “Why is he doing this?”
“I wrecked his plans.”
“Only temporarily,” Boucaud corrected. The computer gave his words a metallic drone, a deep and dead voice overlaid with a precise accent. “The authorities will scurry about for a time, then another crisis will arise and their attention will turn elsewhere. Then we will resume our work. There is nothing on paper to link me to anything. The plan is still an excellent one. I’ll simply identify another conduit.”
Claudia addressed the man on the computer for the first time. “What do you want from us?”
“Regrettably, your niece has stirred quite a fuss. Certain clients of mine insist upon knowing what else you have discovered.”
“But I don’t know anything, and neither does Storm.”
“No. Probably not. I suppose they suspect this as well. But they still wish to observe as you both are interrogated. Thoroughly.”
Boucaud was groomed in the manner of a polished ornament, gleaming and lifeless. His skin looked professionally tanned. Perfect silver-grey hair. But there was a certain brutal crudeness to his features. His nose was a battering ram, his lips overfull and the color of raw meat. Dark eyes were half hidden by puffy folds.
Claudia stammered, “I don’t understand.”
Storm said, “It was never just Syrrell’s. We’ve uncovered six other dealers also under attack. Not to mention the treasure. We found it. What Sean was after. All of it.”
“I confess that has also rather irked my colleagues. They very much wanted it for themselves. A symbol. A negotiating tool. Or both.” He waved it aside. “It is all petty nonsense as far as I am concerned. Be that as it may, you have managed to irritate some very dangerous people. They insist upon vengeance.”
There was a rumble from downstairs. A door slammed.
“Excellent,” Boucaud said. “We can finally begin.”
The stairway door opened. Emma was slumped over the shoulder of a man she completely dwarfed. Her hands dragged on the floor as he kicked the door shut and stepped into the kitchen.
The little tan man moved with remarkable ease. The only sign of the weight he carried was a heavy rasping breath. His gaze drifted over Storm, his eyes murderous.
“I can’t tell you how much my colleague is looking forward to this.” Boucaud switched to rapid-fire French: “Put Webb on the floor where she can watch. Bind her well and feed her the antidote. Do her last.”
He must have seen the horror on both their faces, for he said, “You both speak French. How convenient. I fear my colleague’s English is rather limited.”
Claudia whispered shakily, “Who is that woman?”
“Emma Webb. Homeland Security.”
“Why is she here?”
Boucaud replied, “To protect your troublesome niece. Isn’t that delicious?”
The man they knew as Leon held a vaporizer spray under Emma’s nose, puffed once, then slapped her face. Again. The tan man had a serious bruise on one cheek and surgical threads dangling from wounds on his forehead and one arm, no doubt the result of Emma’s attack in Cyprus. Storm hoped Emma could focus enough to see she had at least scored the first hit.
Boucaud said, “She will watch her last and final failure, then depart. I understand there are quite a number of her colleagues who will not mourn her passage.” He said in French, “Very well. You may begin.”
As Leon picked up the duct tape and ripped off three segments for their mouths, Claudia screamed, “Help! Oh please, somebody help us!”
Storm felt no need to remind her aunt how well the place was soundproofed. She stared at Emma. Wishing for a way to make things right. For once.
The gunfire was so rapid the shots sounded like a military drum-roll. Which, in a way, it was.
The reinforced French windows splintered, the webbing extended from a series of neat holes. Then a shadow obliterated the sunlight, and Harry Bennett came crashing through.
He tucked and rolled and came up in one fluid motion. He straightened his arm, taking aim with a pistol that looked as big as a club. “Freeze, hotshot.”
Leon instantly gripped Emma and pulled her in front of him. He twisted his body so he was fully shielded behind hers, this skinny little gnome holding Emma with one hand at her collar. Emma choked slightly as her wind was cut off. The guy reached into his pocket.
Boucaud screamed in French, “Do him! Do him!”
Harry shifted his aim a fraction to the left and blasted away.
The sound in the room’s confines was murderous. Claudia screamed, or perhaps it was Storm.
Harry’s gunshots shattered the cabinet beside Leon, sending shards of wood and tile ricocheting around the room. Leon flinched as measles-sized flecks of blood appeared on his face and neck. Emma recoiled under the barrage and twisted her head so the worst of the splinters buried into her hair. Harry moved as he fired, racing toward the assassin.
Leon roared and threw Emma at Harry.
Harry did the man thing. And caught her.
Leon was on him before Harry could release her. A blade sliced. Harry shouted far too high for a guy his size. Emma thumped onto the floor at his feet. The lady was all pro, drugged and dazed but still able to roll and grip by drawing her thighs up to her belly, anchoring Leon’s legs.
Leon snarled his shrill rage as he swung the knife in a wide arc. Emma curled and ducked. Leon kicked her forehead. Emma slumped.
Harry’s gun was on the floor and his shooting arm was drenched red. He hammered Leon with a straight left, hard enough to back him up a pace.
From the kitchen cabinet Boucaud kept screaming his commands, shrill as a woman.
Storm twisted and pulled with all her might. The tape binding her chair to the floor ripped free. She toppled her chair over. Leon flashed a silver arc, his knife came within a hairsbreadth of taking out Harry’s throat. Harry backed away.
Storm was there, her one remaining weapon at the ready. When Leon took his
next step, she lunged and caught his ankle with her mouth. She clenched down with all her might.
Leon roared and the knife swished. She actually heard it slice through the flesh of her shoulder. She bit deeper still, grinding down to the bone.
Harry stepped forward and pounded Leon straight between the eyes. The little man staggered but stayed aloft. Harry hit him again.
Leon went down hard.
Harry leaned over her, took a ragged breath, said, “You can let go and be sick now.”
FIFTY-SIX
THEY WOUND UP IN FOUR adjoining rooms at the hospital in downtown Palm Beach. Claudia was under observation after having been fed a cocktail of drugs for three days. Emma recovered well from her mild concussion. Storm’s shoulder took three hours of surgery and left her with her arm bound tightly to her chest. Harry was the only one who really worried them. But on the second day the doctors allowed the two ladies some unsupervised time.
Emma began with “I’ve got to leave for Washington in about half an hour. Until then, you’re mine. The police are going to make certain nobody comes in. No matter how loud you scream.”
Harry watched them through guarded eyes. “You’re ganging up on me.”
Storm used her good arm to raise his bed. “Answers. Good ones. Now.”
Emma said, “Start with marching off the boat.”
Harry pushed himself up a bit more erect. “About that.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll tell you. If you’re sure you want to know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a cop. You’ll always be one. The question you need to ask yourself is, can you live with my kind of secrets.”
She gave that a long moment. Then decided, “I have to, don’t I?”
“I sure hope so.”
Emma nodded slowly. Back and forth. “Tell us, Harry.”
“I went back.”
That brought them both up sharp. “Back where?”
“To the island.”
Storm shrilled, “You went back? Are you insane?”
“I said what I did and acted like that for two reasons. First, I wanted Hakim and his boys to think I was totally fed up, so angry I couldn’t talk, much less plan.”
“That was an act?” Emma leaned in tight enough to cook him with her heat. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”
“It was necessary. I also needed Boucaud to think there were only the two of you. If he thought there was the slightest chance I was going to show up, he’d have been more prepared. So I came into the US by boat from the Bahamas. I know it’s total paranoia to think Boucaud could have been watching the borders. But I had to get this one right. I knew he wasn’t going to hit you in Washington. The feds were swarming and the whole world had their eyes on you. So I camped out here, took a room in that overpriced guesthouse down the street, and I waited.”
“How long were you going to wait, Harry?”
“I figured he was coming sooner rather than later. But I was in for the duration.”
Storm planted her face on the sheet by his hand. Shook her head back and forth. Clearing her eyes. “You gave Sean your word.”
He let his hand settle into her hair. “Actually, you were the one I promised, lady. I told you I’d be there for you. Remember?”
Storm kept dragging her eyes back and forth over the sheet.
Emma said, “You mind if we back up to that first little item? About going back to North Cyprus? Alone?”
“With a pal.”
“But without us.”
“It had to be that way. We hired a speedboat in Rhodes. My buddy got me in diving range. I swam in. Swam out. We left. I flew to Freeport, boated here. End of story.”
“No, it’s not,” Storm said. “Not by a long shot.”
Emma agreed. “You risked your life, your future, our future. And for what?”
Harry said, “I love hearing you say that.”
Her tone sharpened. “Answer the question, Harry.”
He pointed at the closet. “Reach into the back pocket of my trousers. There’s something in my handkerchief I want you to see.”
Storm came back, opened the cloth, and let two coins spill onto the bed. They glinted rough and red in the light.
“Herodian gold. Stamped with Herod Antipas on one side and Pontius Pilate on the other.” He drank in the sight of their two stunned faces. “It was pretty simple. Soon as I saw your faces that morning, I knew something was up. I mean, how did you know which police station to hit? The closest jail to where I got ambushed was Kyrenia. Somebody told you where to go. You couldn’t just call the police and ask. Hakim had to have stepped in. So I took the coins from the chest and I buried them. Just in case.”
Harry winced as he linked his hands behind his head. “Where should I send your shares?”
FIFTY-SEVEN
HARRY FLEW TO WASHINGTON IN a private jet. Emma met him planeside with a limo bearing diplomatic plates. Emma was a study in midnight blue—pumps, stockings, hairband, new suit by Givenchy. Harry knew because he saw the label. Emma gave him space to absorb it all—the early morning drive, the smooth slide through the nation’s monuments. She only spoke once, when he asked how she arranged for all these perks.
Emma replied, “Haven’t you heard? It’s Harry Bennett Day.”
The Smithsonian Museum’s Art and Industries Building dressed up the Jefferson Drive stretch of the National Mall. The edifice was gaudy enough to outshine the carousel located just beyond its southern perimeter. The style was high Victorian. The brick exterior was adorned with peaks and turrets. The crowd stretched in accordion style through guarded ranks between the building and the road. Harry guessed there must have been a thousand or more people, at eight-thirty in the morning. It was a typical Washington throng. Tourists mingled with pinstriped bureaucrats whose plastic IDs were strung around their necks, reading the Post, sipping lattes, talking into their Bluetooths, too caught up in being important to even notice the fine June morning. They all stopped and watched, though, as Emma stepped from the limo, waved away the driver, and helped Harry maneuver himself upright.
“Can you manage?”
“Sure thing.” He debated momentarily, then decided to leave the cane in the car. He probably needed it. But he was determined to make this trek on his own steam.
“Storm wanted to make sure I told you again how sorry she was not to be here. But Sean’s memorial service is turning into a monster.”
“I understand.” Harry’s bruises were at the stage where they looked worse than they felt. But the stab wounds pulled tight with each step. The one in his hip caused him to limp slightly, but he figured he could manage the distance. What bothered him the worst was where Leon had knifed him on the same rib bruised by the Turkish Cypriot cops. The doctors had wanted him to stay down another day or so. But the previous night Storm had told them what was planned for the next day, and Emma had sprung this little surprise. So here he was. Too excited to let his body hold him back another minute.
Emma had phoned him every day he’d been in the hospital. Sometimes twice. Once three times. She alternated between showing him the caring feminine side and being a tough-minded cop. Harry found he didn’t mind the switch at all. He felt like she was intent on more than just clueing him in. She wanted to make him a part of her world. All of it. As much as he could handle.
Her reports on the ongoing investigations remained very upbeat. Leon’s true identity remained a mystery. But it was only a matter of time. His fingerprints and DNA linked him to two other killings, one in Brussels and the other in Singapore. He was being held in a maximum-security federal prison in upstate Maryland.
The computer link Yves Boucaud had used proved marginally rewarding. The authorities had established a direct connection to the attorney’s office in Marseilles: the same advocate who had refused to help Emma at the prison. The link was undoubtedly a cutout. But it was reason enough for the French authorities to place the l
awyer in custody and sweat him thoroughly.
Arrest warrants had been issued for Boucaud, and all known assets had been seized. The current operators of his seven art dealerships were being questioned. Including Storm’s father, who sang louder with every hour that further separated him from his last high. The art dealers who had either resigned or been shouldered out were taking up the reins once more. All, that is, but Claudia, who was uncertain whether she would ever reenter Syrrell’s.
Harry and Emma walked past the crowds and the barriers. Emma buzzed the main entrance. The left-hand door opened to where it banged on the security pylon. “Yes?”
“I’m Agent Webb. You were called about me.”
“ID?” He inspected it carefully. “Your guest is?”
“Harry Bennett.”
The guard was ex-military and paid to play like human stone. Even so, his eyes glinted approval. “The man himself.”
“Can we come in?”
“Sign in with the agent behind the desk. You armed?”
“No.”
“You both have to turn in all phones and electronic gear. No pictures, no recordings of any kind.”
“We were informed of procedures.”
“Sure you were. But I’ve got to say it just the same.”
“Come on, Harry.”
“You’ve got twenty minutes before we open the doors.”
Once they had signed in and passed through the security checkpoint, another agent led them down the central hall. Harry said, “In case I forget to say something later, I just want you to know how much this means.”
She squeezed his hand. “I think I know.”
The treasure was in the main ballroom. The building had been completed in 1881 and originally housed the National Museum. But its first function, before the museum opened, had been to host the inaugural ball of newly elected President James A. Garfield. The entire building had recently undergone major renovations. The ballroom positively sparkled.
