A Magnificent Crime (32 page)

We were in Ethan's suite, getting ready for the gala. I was putting the finishing touches on my disguise and tucking things into my purse: a lock pick concealed within my lipstick, a mini UV wand embedded in a mascara tube. God, it was good to be a woman in this line of work. How did men even do it?

I glanced at Ethan as he finished shaving in front of the mirror. I had stayed in his suite last night. But I had slept on the sofa bed in the living room area. Nothing had happened between us. Which was good. I did not need any complicating factors just now.

I had panicked when Jack told me about my hotel, that I couldn't go back. I would have to abandon everything that was there. I frantically tried to think of what incriminating pieces of evidence I might have left behind. The good news was that all my equipment and gear were already at Ethan's hotel, because we'd been practicing here. That, and I tend not to want to keep incriminating tools in a room I'm sharing with an FBI agent.

The other good news was that I hadn't checked in under my real name, of course. I never did.

The bad news, however, was that it would just be a matter of time before they pulled photos of my face from the lobby CCTV. My photo would be all over Paris soon.

But it didn't change anything. I still had to go through with this job. It was why my disguise had to be flawless.

I adjusted my wig, a big helmet of mousy brown hair. My disguise was designed to create the net effect of a blowsy middle-aged woman: enormous glasses, a flouncy evening gown of peach chiffon. Theater makeup and a judicious use of costume latex plumped and aged my face nicely. I glanced at my reflection and barely recognized myself. Which helped with the anxiety.

A little.

I reminded myself to take slow, deep breaths and touched reflexively the Kevlar vest underneath my gown. And when Ethan wasn't looking, I tucked the tarot card into the waistband of my panty hose. I breathed a little easier with those two items on my person.

The other disappointment, however, was Gladys. Her plane had been delayed getting here, rerouted to Frankfurt due to fog. But it was okay. Her role wasn't critical. I'd really just wanted her there for backup. This wasn't a high-tech job, for once; this one was all down to me and my skills.

No pressure.

I moved to the desk and grabbed the two necklaces and practiced doing the swap a few more times. In the middle of the third run-through, Ethan emerged from the bathroom.

“Are you sure you want to wear the Kevlar?” he asked, patting his face with a towel. “I can see it makes your movements just a little trickier. You know that, right?”

“You've seen the weapons those Louvre guards carry, haven't you?” I said, finishing the last flourish in the sequence, completing the switch. “Besides, if it makes me feel safer, that'll help to prevent a panic attack, right?”

Ethan looked at me closely and folded his arms over his chest. “You know what I think? I think that kind of thing is actually prolonging this little problem of yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You didn't used to wear Kevlar,” he said. “You never needed it before. Just go back to that.”

“I wish it were that easy, Ethan.”

“Nobody said anything about
easy,
Montgomery,” he said. “I know it'll be hard. But I think what you need to do is embrace the fear. And . . . you have to go completely unprotected. No flak jacket, no talisman-type things, like . . . oh, I don't know, a tarot card?”

I blushed. “How did you know about the tarot card?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Please, Montgomery.”

I pouted and continued practicing.

When I was done, he said, “You're ready, babe. You are.”

“I wish I felt that.”

“I'm serious about the Kevlar, though. Trapeze artists and tightrope walkers do their best work when there's no safety net, right? Listen to the immortal words of Mark Twain. ‘So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor.'”

I chewed a thumbnail. I just didn't think I could.

“Listen, Ethan, let's just get on with it, shall we?”

He shrugged. “Sure thing, buttercup.” Ethan disappeared into the bedroom to finish getting ready. After a few minutes he emerged, looking unreasonably good in a tuxedo, as usual. Then there was a knock on the door.

Standing in the hallway was Jack. Dressed in a tux.

I blinked. “What are you doing, Jack?”

“Going to a gala event at the Louvre,” he said casually.

I hesitated a beat. “Why?”

“A friend needs help.”

I closed my eyes. “No, Jack. You can't do this. I'm in a ton of trouble as it is. I don't want you caught up in that, too.”

“Cat, you don't have much of a choice, as far as I can see it. Brooke abandoned you, and you need an extra set of eyes and hands. I'm not going to do anything illegal, exactly. I'll just be there to back you up.”

Everything about Jack—his tone, his posture—suggested he was totally decided. But I knew Jack. I knew his layers, and I knew the way he portrayed himself. I could see a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Jack, you really don't have to—”

“Cat, I'm doing it,” he said firmly. He wasn't budging. “It's not how I would prefer this to go down. But the most important thing to me is your safety. And the more of us there to help secure that, the better.” His eyes flicked to Ethan, who was standing behind me.

At last I nodded. “Okay, Jack. Thank you.” I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with my hands. Should I hug him? Shake his hand? I settled with opening the door more fully and stepping aside as he entered the room.

As he walked in, the tension between Jack and Ethan was Spanx caliber. I knew how this looked. I knew it appeared as though Ethan and I were a couple and Jack was the tossed-aside ex-boyfriend. But that was not how it was. I hadn't chosen Ethan over Jack.

In fact, if I did have the choice, who would I choose? I frowned, lost in that for a minute. I quickly shook it off. I needed to get my head in the game.

We reviewed the plan, the three of us. And then we prepared to leave.

As we rode the elevator downstairs, Jack said, “By the way, I've sent Hendrickx off on a wild-goose chase for the evening. I told him you'd been spotted at the airport again. So he'll be chasing that shadow for a couple of hours, anyway.”

I didn't know what to say. Jack was really going out on a limb for me.

Outside, Jack crossed the street and climbed into a car he had parked there. We would each be traveling to the Louvre alone. Ethan and I climbed into separate cabs.

And I tried my best not to throw up. It was beginning.

Jack walked from his parked car into the Louvre through the Passage Richelieu entrance, showing his invitation as he did so. Small signs led him to the covered sculpture courtyard, the main venue for the gala.

The enormous space had been transformed for the evening with candles and twinkle lights. Trays of champagne adorned every surface, and white flowers spilled from a hundred crystal vases. A chamber orchestra played atop a small platform, filling the courtyard with baroque melodies.

As Jack walked through, he had yet another moment of doubt. What the hell was he doing here? Was it too late to back out now?

Cat needed help, clearly; she was in big-league trouble. She'd been abandoned by Brooke, and Jack didn't trust Ethan as far as he could throw him. He worried that Ethan would do the same—bail on Cat if the pressure got too high.

Well, Jack wasn't going to abandon Cat. Even though they had just ended their relationship—what, twelve hours ago?—he still cared about her. Even if they couldn't be together, he suspected that would always be the case.

A waiter approached, offering Jack a flute of champagne. Jack accepted graciously and strolled away, holding the glass. But there was no way in hell he was going to drink it. He needed to be sharp as a switchblade.

Jack started scouting for Interpol and the French police. Almost undoubtedly, they would be there. And just as undoubtedly, they would be looking for Cat.

Fortunately, Cat's disguise rendered her virtually unrecognizable. If she hadn't answered the door to Ethan's hotel suite, he wasn't sure he'd have known who she was.

Jack breathed a sigh of relief at that. It would give her a small cushion of safety. But not much more than that.

He scanned the courtyard, looking for undercover Interpol and French police officers. For the average person, they often blended in. For the trained eye of an FBI agent, this was like a gardener spotting weeds.

“Undercover agent by the chamber orchestra,” he said quietly, knowing his words would be picked up by his invisible earpiece and heard by both Cat and Ethan, who each had their own earpieces. He continued surveying the courtyard, his gaze sliding over the marble fountain, where silvery water splashed and sparkled in the candlelight. “Another one between the bar and the fountain.”

There was also, of course, a handful of uniformed security guards in the courtyard, but Jack was less concerned about them. Yes, they were the ones with the weapons—in plain view, at least—but they were lower on the totem pole and inherently less skillful.

Most problematic, to Jack's eye, was the undercover agent hovering close to the black velvet–edged stage. This was where Cat would be doing her thing, switching the necklaces when she was up onstage, so it would be particularly important for this guy not to be standing right there.

Jack would have to prioritize—it would be impossible to eliminate the presence of all the hostiles in the courtyard. The one by the stage was the one he'd have to deal with.

It would have to be well timed. But Jack was ready. He had what he needed.

Jack smiled a little, in spite of himself. And then recoiled at that reaction. Was he actually
enjoying
himself? To his chagrin, he had to admit doing this illicit stuff was actually a bit of a . . . rush.

That, he would have to think about later. In therapy perhaps. For now he still had a lot of work to do. Next up: locate and neutralize Sean Reilly.

This had been Brooke's primary role in this operation, to take Reilly out of the equation. So now that job was up to Jack. Before leaving the hotel, they'd briefed him on Brooke's strategy: to attract Reilly's attention and seduce him if necessary in order to distract him, at worst, or to entice him right out of the courtyard, at best.

Possibly Jack would need to employ a different strategy than Brooke had planned.

He strolled through the courtyard and soon spotted Reilly over by a large potted fern. He was watching the proceedings silently, taking it all in. The guy might be an excellent thief, but he wasn't all that terrific at remaining incognito.

It was a skill Cat had in spades. He felt an unaccountable flush of pride at that. Which was ridiculous.

Besides, she wasn't his anymore.

Jack closed his eyes for a second, resetting his focus. He needed to think. How was he going to deal with Reilly?

He hated using his badge for crooked purposes. But this time, he wouldn't be doing anything wrong, per se, just calling attention to a potential thief.

He didn't have a lot of time. He'd need to report Reilly, get him taken care of, then set his sights on the undercover agent if he was going to deal with him before Cat's moment.

“I've got Reilly,” Jack said in a low voice. “I'm making a move to clear him out.”

Jack sized up the security guards and approached the one who looked the sharpest, standing by the entrance doorway. He needed someone with enough authority, enough decisiveness, to deal efficiently with a problem. Jack showed the man his FBI badge, hoping the guard would recognize it, more or less.

“Do you speak English?” Jack asked.

“A little,” the guard said in heavily accented English. “But Michel is much better. . . .” He indicated another guard.

Jack frowned slightly but turned to the other guard, Michel. “I'm FBI,” Jack said, showing his badge again. “I'm not here on business, and I have no jurisdiction here . . . but I'm concerned, because I can see you have a thief here tonight. It's someone I recognize. You probably want to take him upstairs for questioning.”

The guard's eyes lit up. Jack hoped the guard was interested in gaining brownie points with his superiors.

“Show me,” the guard said.

Jack pointed to Reilly's location. “We have a file on him,” Jack said. “I can't do anything. I'm just here on vacation. But you should handle it before he steals something.”

The guard nodded. “Thank you. I'll contact my supervisor. Wait here, please.”

What? No, he was just supposed to take Jack's information, pull Reilly off the floor for questioning, and let Jack carry on his way. There were still undercover agents to be dealt with.

The security guard spoke into his walkie-talkie, presumably to the supervisor, and then he turned to Jack. “Please come with me.”

Jack blinked.
Damn.
But what could he do? “Sure thing,” Jack said and followed the guard to the security office.

Ethan strolled into the Louvre gala alone, taking a deep breath as he surveyed the courtyard. Everyone here was dressed like fashion was a competitive sport: Armani here, Versace there. He adjusted the cuffs on his shirt, enjoying the sensation of the tux on his body—as comfortable as pajamas. He smiled.

This is gonna be good.

Now, to locate Madeleine York. The timing was perfect. He'd arrived about thirty minutes before they would be presenting the necklace to the winners, which should give him just enough time for some prescription-grade charm.

Ethan couldn't be more in his element if he tried. The only black streak on his mood was his concern for Cat. Would she be able to pull it off? She was more than capable, if only she could get out of her own head long enough.

“I'm in, you guys. Looking good, Barlow.” He'd spotted Jack over by the chamber orchestra. The man looked casual, relaxed, and very professional. He could tell Jack was scanning the room, but only because Ethan was aware of his mission. For a second, he experienced a twinge of something—a little like admiration, a little like a feeling of inadequacy. At that moment he understood why Cat found Jack so compelling. Why she felt safe around him. He definitely had the hero thing down. It was something Ethan had spent the past several years trying to resist.

“I'm almost in,” Cat said. “Just at the coat check now.”

“Welcome aboard, Montgomery,” Ethan responded.

“Undercover agent by the chamber orchestra,” Jack said. He was starting to pick them out. “Another one between the bar and the fountain.” Jack continued describing the operatives he'd spotted, including the uniformed guards.

Shit.
There were more of them than they'd counted on.

“That many?” Cat said, with a note of trepidation.

Ethan cracked his knuckles. “Montgomery, I'm just gonna ask you once more.
You sure?
”

Silence stretched for a moment. Then, “I'm sure.”

Ethan nodded. Okay, well, the girl had tenacity, that was for sure. Ethan took a glass of champagne from the bar and began strolling the ballroom, searching for Madeleine. He held her image firmly in his mind. But he couldn't see her.

“Still looking for Madeleine. Anyone pick her up?” Ethan said quietly.

“I'm at the seating plan in the foyer,” Cat said. “You're on here, Ethan, under the name Gladys entered, Rafael Augustin. You're at table twenty-one. Madeleine is at table five.”

“Okay, table five. I'm heading right there,” Ethan said. “Montgomery, can you handle the name switch?” he asked Cat.

“Already on it,” she said.

En route to table five, however, he heard Jack cut in urgently. “Problem,” he said. “I've been asked to go to the security office, to talk to the supervisor about Reilly. I don't know how long I'll be stuck there, but I can't get away to take care of the undercover agent. Ethan, can you do it?”

Ethan paused mid-stride and checked the time. “Okay. But I need a waiter's uniform. And the stuff.” The plan they'd concocted was this: Jack would dress as a waiter and slip a fast-acting laxative into the operative's drink. He was already wearing a waiter's vest under his own tux.

“One step ahead of you,” Jack said. “I'm making a quick stop in the men's room on the way to the security office. I'll drop the vest in the far stall. The vial is in the pocket.”

Ethan headed to the men's room, arriving within three minutes. He went immediately to the far stall. Unfortunately, someone else was in there. As he waited, he tried not to pace or otherwise betray his impatience. But time was perishing.

At last the toilet flushed. When the door opened, an old man emerged, holding a black vest and looking at it with confusion.

Ethan smoothly intercepted him. “Oh, that's mine,” he said. “I left it in there. Thanks.”

He took the vest with a smile, and once the man left, Ethan slipped into a stall to change into it. There was also a pair of glasses in the pocket, and a long black waiter's apron.

He made a quick stop at the bar to grab a tray with two drinks: one without alcohol, one with. An agent on the job would probably want a nonalcoholic beverage. But . . . this was France. You never knew.

Ethan tucked himself into a small alcove, out of sight, and hesitated a moment over which drink to spike. He made a quick decision, poured the powder into the liquid, and stirred.

“Okay, I'm good to go,” Ethan said quietly. “Now, who's my target, exactly?”

“Undercover guy by the stage.” Jack described him in crystal detail: flat face, eyes too close together, blackish-brown hair.

As soon as Ethan walked toward the stage, he spotted the man. “Sir, some refreshment?” Ethan said with a knowing smile, holding the tray out to him. The agent took the drink containing alcohol.

Ethan walked away, smiling to himself. Good thing he'd doctored them both.

Circuiting back, Ethan returned to the service hallway and deposited the tray on the bar, dumping the nonalcoholic drink down the drain. He removed the waiter's vest and returned to the men's room to lose the glasses, vest, and apron.

“Montgomery, you got the table fixed up? Am I official?” he asked.

“Yep, you're at table five. Green light.”

Ethan reentered the ballroom and strolled toward Madeleine's table. He approached the table, holding a card that read
TABLE 5
and had his alias printed on it. In his pocket rested thirty-five similar cards, each with a different table number on it.

“Well, this is me,” Ethan said in French, arriving at table five.

He introduced himself to two other table guests before turning to Madeleine. “Bonjour, madame,” he said, sitting down beside her. He flashed her his most glittering smile—the kind he knew made his green eyes sing.

Madeleine raised an eyebrow. Her face couldn't possibly be colder, even if it had been chipped out of ice.

But Ethan didn't let that stop him. He poured himself a glass of Bordeaux from the table. But not before pouring one for Madeleine. “Please forgive me for saying this,” he said to her, “but has anyone ever told you how much you look like Anne Bancroft?”

Madeleine pierced him with a steely gaze that was sharp enough to draw blood. “In fact, I
have
heard that before.” And then a twitch about the mouth, “Usually from young, excessively slick men trying to get something from me—like money.” She turned away frostily, clearly unimpressed.

Hmm.
This was going to be a little trickier than he'd anticipated.