She passed her assistant's desk on the way in and said, "Send Zarif in right away."
A few minutes later a swarthy man dressed in a black shirt and slacks stood before Amy's desk. Her father had personally picked Zarif Safwan as chief of security in the London office.
"Sweep the receiving room."
He nodded and walked out. Twice a day the entire fourth floor was routinely swept for audio and video devices. There was another sweep each time an outsider visited. Hassan Group was involved in many, many things more secretive than the management of properties and investments. Secrecy and security were ingrained in Amina Hassan. She'd been taught them since she was a child. She knew her father's business intimately – at least she thought she did – and Amin Hassan demanded secrecy about everything he did.
Zarif Safwan and his team were masters at their craft. Each of them had been a soldier, dedicated to Allah and the cause, but now fiercely loyal to Amina's father. Hassan paid them many times what ordinary security guards would earn because these were not ordinary men. These men would die for their boss. Others had given their lives when Hassan required it, and these men would willingly do it too.
Zarif swept the room where Amina and Brian had met. Before he reported back to her, he went to his office and dialed her father's cellphone. The old man was his boss, not this impertinent girl he'd known since she was a child. If there were orders to be given, he'd take them from the father, not the daughter.
He told Amin who the visitor was and that Amina had asked for a sweep after he left. "I found six devices," he reported tersely. They were all audio units, each around the size of an American quarter, and they were positioned randomly around her office. One was under the lip of the desk, another under the conference table where they had sat, and four more were in or around the display cases.
"I reviewed the video feed of his visit," he continued. "The man was good. He was very nonchalant, and without the sweeping equipment, I wouldn't have known that he planted them. Do you want me to remove them? And what shall we do with Mr. Sadler?"
"Do nothing. Leave his devices in place for now and we'll see what happens next. Tell my daughter you found nothing. Tell her everything is fine. And Zarif, watch her. Tell me if there's anything I should know."
"Of course, sir."
Amin Hassan opened a program on his computer and looked at live feeds from video cameras hidden in every room of the building. He switched over to the camera in her office, saw Amina's empty chair, glanced at his watch and knew she'd gone to lunch.
He'd always kept a close eye on Amina. She was a beautiful, passionate girl. The Arab blood in her veins fueled the fiery, unbridled daughter he loved, but he would never give her control over his business. She had no idea what he was involved in, the extent of his influence or the ends to which he would go to right a wrong against his family or his interests. His own Arab genes imbued power, ruthlessness and cruel retaliation toward those he believed were against him. He was one of the world's wealthiest and most powerful men. He'd gotten where he was by using his cunning and intellect, and that was the way it would continue to be.
When she returned from lunch, Zarif reported back to Amina. "Everything's fine. We found nothing. Is there anything else?"
"Yes. Keep this between us. There's no need to run to my father every time someone comes to visit. Do you understand?" She knew how the security chief operated, and she was determined to assert her position as his superior.
He nodded. "I understand perfectly, Miss Hassan."
Zarif reported that conversation to his boss as well.
_____
On Friday Brian got the call he'd been anticipating.
"I've made a decision," she said. "Meet me for cocktails at six thirty at the Connaught Bar."
He felt another pang of remorse as he immediately accepted her invitation. Nicole was his fiancée, but she was at home in Dallas. And it's not Amy I'm excited about anyway, he assured himself. It's simply business, he said to himself one time too many. He was looking forward to spending time with Amy again. And hearing her decision, of course.
The walk from his gallery to the Connaught Hotel should have taken ten minutes, but on this Friday evening the streets were crowded with pedestrians browsing the stylish shop windows in Mayfair. He rushed in a few minutes late and saw her sipping a martini at the bar. She was dressed in a pinstriped pantsuit and jacket with a white shirt. Her jet-black hair flowed to her shoulders. She looked stunning.
Not as stunning as Nicole. But not bad.
He maneuvered through the crowded bar, leaned in and offered his cheek, but she put up her hand, turned his face into hers and gave him a kiss on the lips. He drew back in momentary surprise, smiled sheepishly and took the barstool next to her. A waiter appeared in seconds and whisked Brian's coat and case away to the cloakroom.
"Thanks for joining me. This is my Friday afternoon ritual. If it's been a good week, I have one martini. I allow myself two if my week's been really, really good, or really stressful, or if I'm thinking about being a little naughty!"
As they clicked glasses, she said, "I've decided to let you display my pieces at the gallery and during your broadcast. I'll provide commentary too if you wish." He smiled broadly and opened his mouth to reply, but she raised her hand to stop him. "I'm not quite finished. My decision comes with a stipulation."
"I'm sure our attorneys can work things out," he began.
"Of course they can. This isn't about contracts. Here's what I require. You owe me dinner. Tonight. Whatever plans you have, cancel them! We have a reservation at eight at Balthazar. Do you accept my condition?"
"Certainly!" What else can I do? This is just business. "I need to make a call and rearrange something, but I can't refuse the woman who holds the key to making my Vesuvius project an instant success!"
"Wonderful. Then finish your martini so we can have a second." She smiled slyly.
"Another martini? Has your week been really good or really stressful?"
She touched his sleeve lightly and whispered, "Maybe it simply means I'm being a bit naughty."
Danger, the little voice in his head said as he finished his drink and stood.
"I'll be back in a moment. Order me another!"
CHAPTER THIRTY
Brian sat in an overstuffed chair in the Connaught's quiet, refined lobby and called Nicole. Despite what he'd said, he didn't really have another engagement. He had a standing phone date with his fiancée every evening around seven his time. One of them frequently couldn't make the calls because of a conflict, but tonight his conscience wouldn't let him simply text that he had a last-minute meeting with a client. He had to talk to her now to make himself feel better about the dinner he'd just agreed to.
It was one p.m. in Dallas, and Nicole told him she was having lunch at an outdoor café on McKinney Avenue. He knew the place – it was only a couple of blocks from the building where she'd opened a solo law practice. She had recovered from the car crash that almost took her life two years ago but decided to leave behind the high-stakes, high-powered life of a white-collar criminal lawyer at one of the city's largest and most prestigious firms. It just wasn't worth it anymore. She had made millions of dollars and created a sterling reputation defending corporate executives charged with fraud, insider trading and the like. She could afford to step back, take more time for herself and explore with her fiancé, Brian Sadler, how marriage might actually work for them.
Although Nicole wore an engagement ring, they hadn't discussed a date. In the past twenty-four months their roles had switched one hundred and eighty degrees. Before the wreck, Nicole was the busy one. She worked long days and long nights handling high-profile clients, winning nearly a hundred percent of the cases but having almost no personal life. Now Brian's hectic schedule, constant international travel and increasing notoriety made him the one who was always busy, always gone and always tied up with one client or another.
When Brian had proposed, his intentions
had been noble. He would move to Dallas, marry Nicole and build his new Texas gallery to augment his well-established operation in London. But something unexpected happened. He couldn't have imagined the popularity of the television broadcasts. Now Bijan Rarities had far more business than one man should have handled, but so far he wasn't willing to share the decisions involving multimillion-dollar purchases and sales with anyone else. As he worked harder and harder, Nicole realized her newfound freedom from the corporate yoke came with a price. Now it was she who was alone much of the time. It was difficult for her as her body and mind continued to mend from the near-fatal car crash. Occasionally she yearned for those days when she was a power lawyer on top of her game. Usually those thoughts came during the lonely nights when she was home and Brian was in Calcutta or Marrakesh or Zurich.
"I need to make this quick," he began. "A dinner came up at the last minute with a client who's agreed to display some unique artifacts for the Vesuvius show."
She certainly understood. How many times had she herself cut a conversation short because she was the one going to drinks or dinner with a client? She hadn't considered then how it must have felt to him, but she understood it now. She loved him and trusted him, but it was a big world out there. She'd seen it first-hand, but now the shoe was on the other foot.
"I won't keep you. Go on and do what you need to do. Just tell me this client isn't a beautiful woman whose motives for my fiancé are totally immoral!"
Brian hesitated, wishing he hadn't mentioned the Vesuvius exhibit. As soon as they started marketing Amy's pieces as part of the show, Nicole would know exactly who had joined him for dinner tonight. He'd better get this over with.
Apparently he hesitated a moment too long.
Her voice was tinged with a little sadness. "It's okay, sweetie. I have no right –"
"You have every right," he responded urgently. "Nicole, I love you. I miss you and I wish I were there with you. The dinner's with Amina Hassan. Look her up. She has an unrivaled collection of things from Pompeii, and I've successfully arranged to display them at the gallery."
"Great, baby. Call me tonight when you're done if you want," she said. "You don't have to. If it's late and you're tired . . ."
"You're on, sweetie. I'll call you when things wrap up and I'm back at the flat."
"Good luck tonight. I love you."
"I love you too. I promise I'll call you."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The conversation at dinner was stimulating and easy. It was as though they'd known each other for years. They talked about archaeology, acquiring ancient things, and the challenge in privately accumulating artifacts that arguably should be on public display. Both had faced criticism from museums for their roles in keeping priceless relics in private hands. But the museums could be criticized too. Thousands more pieces were stored in basements than were on display in the viewing rooms of the world's great museums. Thousands of beautiful, interesting, thought-provoking things would lie in dusty boxes for decades, maybe forever, unseen and forgotten.
Brian glanced at the check and tossed out his credit card. The champagne she'd ordered was the finest the restaurant offered, and the food here had been both wonderful and pricey. The bill for the two of them was over four hundred pounds sterling – almost six hundred dollars – but as much as it had cost, it was far short of the most expensive tab he'd ever picked up. Expense-account entertainment was a fact of life in his business. With the profits Bijan Rarities racked up each year, a six-hundred-dollar meal was nothing.
As they walked to the curb, a driver tipped his hat and opened the door of a Bentley sedan.
"Can I offer you a nightcap at my place? I have a few more things I could show you that I think you'd enjoy!"
After the martinis and champagne, Brian's brain struggled to decide if she was talking about her artifacts or something else. He glanced at his watch – it was after midnight – and remembered his promise to Nicole.
"I'd better call it a night." With a grin he added, "This was an unexpected dinner, you know, and I'd better get to bed if I'm going to be productive in the morning!"
I have a bed, she almost said before deciding against it. They hugged and she gave him a kiss. This time she couldn't miss how he concertedly kept his cheek turned to her lips, avoiding the real kiss she'd managed earlier.
This is how it always goes, she thought as the driver took her home. Whether it's artifacts or men, I always want the ones that are the hardest to get. I always get the most satisfaction from the most difficult acquisitions. She smiled. This had just begun. There was plenty of time.
There's no need to carry my briefcase home, Brian thought as her sedan pulled away. He decided to walk back to his office, drop it off and then take a cab home. He texted Nicole to let her know dinner was over and he'd call shortly. He began walking through the winding streets of Mayfair toward Old Bond Street.
He walked through Berkeley Square, where the streetlamps cast eerie shadows on the empty sidewalks. He cut across to the east side and was heading down Berkeley Street when he heard footsteps behind him.
Brian turned and saw a man in the darkness coming up quickly. He raised his briefcase to fend him off, but the stranger hit his arm with something hard, maybe a pipe. The case fell to the sidewalk and Brian's arm hung uselessly at his side.
He yelled in pain and cried, "If it's money you want . . ."
The man merely smiled and shook his head.
Then everything went dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"He's bleeding!"
There were sirens somewhere in the distance.
"Can you hear me?"
Someone was shaking him, making his arm hurt.
Brian opened his eyes and saw a well-dressed man and woman kneeling on the sidewalk beside him. The singsong wail of the siren suddenly grew much louder, and it made his head pound like hammers clanging on metal. An ambulance pulled to the curb, its flashing red and blue lights making him dizzy. Two paramedics hopped out and asked how he felt.
"I think my arm's broken," he said, holding it up. "He must have hit me in the head too. It hurts like hell!"
The woman said, "Yes, he's bleeding right there. Look." She pointed to the back of his head where Brian's hair was matted with blood.
A police car screeched to a stop as more pedestrians gathered to see what was going on in this usually quiet neighborhood. "Give them room to work," the officer barked to passersby who had crowded in close to watch.
Within a few minutes Brian had garnered enough strength to sit up against a light pole. He gave a statement, saying he'd been assaulted by a man who had a stick or piece of pipe. The officer pulled out a notepad and pen. He took Brian's personal information down; then he asked what the man had taken. Brian looked through his pockets, saw his case lying nearby on the sidewalk and said nothing was missing. He still had his watch, wallet and even his gold cufflinks.
"That's odd," the policeman said as the paramedics worked on Brian. One bandaged his head while the other gingerly massaged his arm. Brian winced in pain as the EMT put pressure on the area.
"Your arm's broken," he told Brian, who wasn't surprised.
The cop was still taking notes. "Have you ever seen the man before? It's obvious this wasn't a robbery. Did he say anything?"
"Everything's hazy. He . . . I think he smiled. But I don't think he said anything."
"What do you think this was about? Any recent problems with anyone?"
Brian honestly replied that he had no idea. He'd been at dinner with a client and was walking back to his office to drop off his briefcase before going home.
"What do you do for a living, Mr. Sadler?"
"I own a gallery a few blocks from here. Bijan Rarities."
"I knew it!" the female half of the couple who had found him said. "I recognized you, but it's so dark I didn't put it together. You're Brian Sadler!" She turned to the officer. "He's famous! He's on television all the time!"
T
hat was the last straw. About to collapse, Brian smiled weakly and said to the cop, "I'm happy to cooperate, but can we continue all this in the morning? I need to get some rest."
The paramedic said, "You need to go to the hospital. You have to get your arm dealt with, and you need to be checked for a possible concussion."
It was nearly two when Brian finally got to bed. His arm was in a cast and he'd been given an injection to ease the pain. He also had prescription painkillers in case he needed them. He had to get some sleep – the policeman was coming to the gallery at eleven to continue the interview.
Brian stripped off his clothes. He'd have loved a shower, but dealing with the cast on his arm would be difficult under good circumstances and impossible now when he felt like a walking zombie. He crawled into bed, mentally and physically exhausted.
At four in the morning he heard a ding on his phone.
Shit! He'd forgotten all about Nicole. And she had been very, very patient, making no attempt to contact him even though he'd told her the dinner was over. But now it was late – very late – and he hadn't called. He looked at her message.
"Are you alive?"
Shit!
Groggy from the medication and his snap out of a deep sleep, he called her.
"Hey, I'm so sorry. After the dinner was finished, I decided to walk back to the gallery and drop off my briefcase. Somebody assaulted me along the way."
"My God! Are you all right?"
He explained what little he knew about what happened and that his arm was in a cast. "The guy hit me with a pipe, I think. My head hurts like hell and they gave me a shot. I came home and fell into bed. I'm so sorry for forgetting to call."
Her voice was full of concern. "Are you kidding? Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're okay. Was your client with you when it happened?"
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