A Magnificent Crime (6 page)

For starters, he had to do something about the painting. It was rolled up in the mailing tube and strapped to his back. But that wouldn't do at all. He removed it from the tube and curled it around his body, underneath his jacket.

Now he needed a way to get to the church belfry two rooftops over. Saint Agnes Church had an open belfry at the top that was accessible from the red-tiled roofs.

A distraction in the piazza would be exceedingly useful right about now.
Think, Ethan.

He crouched there a minute. Then pulled out his phone.

Twenty minutes later, he was ready. Hunkering down, waiting for his moment. He looked out the window at the piazza. Everything was the same: couples strolling hand in hand by the splashing fountains, a child playing with a yellow balloon, a bent old woman feeding pigeons from ajar of seed.

He glanced at the first officer, sitting at a café, on a metal chair, pretending to read a book. He was on an outside chair. Perfect. And the other perched on the stone fountain's edge. They were forming a zone defense. But Ethan had a trick play that didn't exist in the playbook.

Suddenly, a small blue Fiat burst into the crowded piazza, right beside the café where the first
poliziotto
was sitting. An angry cry rose up. And then a second car burst into the piazza—a black Renault—heading straight toward the fountain where the second
poliziotto
was seated.

Ethan smiled.
Right on time.

The cars had rental plates and carried bewildered tourists. For a hacker, it was a piece of cake to commandeer the GPS of a rental car and send it in the wrong direction. In this case, into the pedestrian zone of Piazza Navona.

It was a task particularly easy for Ethan's hacker Gladys. Gladys was Cat's favorite hacker, and she'd happily shared her contact info with Ethan.

“No problem,” Gladys had said when Ethan made the request. “Give me about twenty minutes.”

“Actually, can you take about thirty-five?” He looked at his watch. That would time the event to minutes before the church service ended. It was a wedding, and Ethan knew exactly when the ceremony would wrap up. All part of being a thorough professional thief.

The instant the cars were in the piazza, pigeons took to the air in a loud flurry and people scattered. The unfortunate tourists in their rental cars were enduring extremely passionate insults from the Romans whose afternoon
caffè
had been so rudely interrupted. Desperate to get out of the piazza, the drivers of the rental cars swerved through the crowds.

Ethan watched it all with a weather eye. And the instant he saw the
poliziotti
leaping to their feet—both to get out of the path of the errant vehicles and also to intervene with the crowds—Ethan was out the far corner window. Next second, he was up on the roof.

He bolted across the rippled clay-tiled roof, keeping the church belfry in view.

There was a small gap, which he leaped like a jackrabbit. In a flash, he clambered through the open gaps in the stone of the belfry. Once tucked inside, he glanced down at the piazza. The cars had been redirected, and the two officers had resumed their positions. The distraction had lasted a matter of moments. As far as the
poliziotti
appeared to be concerned, they hadn't missed a thing.

Ethan smiled. But his escape wasn't complete yet. He had to get out of the church. Down below he heard the final strains of the organ and the general rustle of the congregation shuffling about, rising to leave the service. Ethan had no idea if the officers had his description, if they knew what he looked like. He had to assume they did.

He clambered down the iron ladder from the belfry and gripped the cold, smooth stone handrails of the twisting marble stairs to the church itself. The smells of incense and flowers and the perfume of the ladies attending the wedding wafted up. Arriving on the main floor, he scanned the church and the people milling about. He spotted a gray fedora on a pew, not yet picked up by its owner.

He slipped over and casually plucked it from its spot.

Then he scrutinized the faces in the crowd, strolling to the entrance doors, looking for a particular type.
Ah, there.

He homed in on his target, sidled up beside the young woman. She was attractive, in her mid-twenties, with dark, wavy hair and Italian coloring. She wore a yellow sundress, but more significant to Ethan was what she was missing. There was no wedding band on her hand, no attentive male in evidence. She watched the bride wistfully. Ethan picked out her family members, who were paying her very little mind.

The crowd jostled, and Ethan lifted a pair of white gloves sticking out of the purse swinging at her hip.

“
Buongiorno, senorita,
” Ethan said smoothly. “Are these yours?”

She froze and looked down, startled at the sight of her gloves, confused a moment. Then she looked up at Ethan's face. Dots of pink bloomed in her cheeks. Ethan flashed his most disarming smile.

The hook sank.

A minute later, Ethan strolled out of the church, an attractive young woman on his arm. He popped the fedora on his head, putting most of his face in shadow.

In the piazza he could see the undercover officers gazing at the exiting congregation. They made a halfhearted effort to study the people in the crowd but shortly thereafter returned their steely gaze to the Caravaggio house.

As Ethan strolled out of the piazza, he wondered—with a grin—how long the
poliziotti
would stay in their positions. He put a hand to his side, felt the crinkle of canvas against his flank. He took a deep breath and savored a moment of triumph.

Which was quickly soured by a new line of thinking. Question was, how had they known about Ethan in the first place? Who had tipped them off?

Seattle

 

I walked into the cool, damp air of Pike Place Fish Market. I wondered if people who worked there ever got the smell of fish out of their clothes, their hair, their skin. Pike Place is mostly open to the outdoors, with a freshening breeze coming off Puget Sound. I strolled past piles of farm vegetables, gleaming and ripe. I caught glimpses of the sky over the waterfront, the gray, waterlogged clouds. My shoes slipped a little on the concrete floor, slick with damp and grime and fish oil.

I stopped near the central fish market, where the fishmongers hurl enormous king salmon that are the length of a man's arm and must weigh at least thirty pounds. Slippery fish flashed silvery scales as they flew through the air in a display that was part entertainment, part workout, part efficient teamwork. The air sang with the fishermen's jokes and calls to one another.

I scanned the crowd—roughly thirty people or so, loitering and watching the show. I reflexively sized up those nearest me. It was an occupational hazard, I knew, continuously assessing strangers' physical attributes. Their weaknesses, any limps or favored joints—anything that would give me an advantage, should things come down to a physical fight. It sounds exhausting, but at this point in my career it came as naturally as breathing.

I saw him standing there, observing the performance. Templeton.

Templeton could do print ads for orthopedic surgeons, his spine was so straight and so long. Fine-boned hands ended in long, tapered fingers. He watched the flying fish with penetrating blue eyes that had faded to a steely gray over the years, under eyebrows that looked like they would become terribly bushy were he anyone else. As it were, they were impeccably tidy. You had the impression he owned an eyebrow-grooming kit, with one of those itty-bitty combs.

I approached him. My professed purpose here, meeting with Templeton, was the earring handover. But I was also desperate for his help with Faulkner and the Hope Diamond issue. I needed Templeton to find me a way out of this. I needed him to make it all better for me.

I maneuvered myself to stand beside him. “The fish looks excellent today, doesn't it?” I said. I carried a shopping bag from Williams-Sonoma. Buried inside mounds of tissue paper were the earrings.

“I'm not sure the fish would agree. But it's a fine kettle they've got themselves into, haven't they?” He chuckled lightly. “I wonder, do you think we might witness someone getting flattened by an errant flying fish? I've always had a devilish wish to see that.”

“Templeton, please! That's not a very gentlemanly thing to say.”

“Darling, I may look like a gentleman on the outside, but I am a knave through and through.” His British accent grew even plummier.

I smiled. “I know it.”

Templeton had been my handler ever since I joined AB&T over six years ago. I trusted him implicitly. We almost always met in public places like this; it was our most reliable way of protecting ourselves and Agency secrets.

I placed the Williams-Sonoma bag on the ground and waited a few beats for him to pick it up.

That business taken care of, I said, “Listen, I have to tell you about my problem.”

“Something besides an unusual penchant for pilfering things that don't belong to you, my dear?”

“Yes, besides that one.”

“I know. I've been waiting for you to tell me about it. So, who smoked you out?”

I felt a moment's hesitation. My gut clenched. I wished I didn't have to tell him what I did. Was I sure it was a good idea? I glanced around. Was I being watched by Faulkner's men right now? Would they consider this a breach? My skin prickled.

“It's Albert Faulkner the Third. Two of his men grabbed me right off the street.” I described being forced into the meeting with Faulkner in his Lexus.

Templeton's face grew stonier than usual and his mouth grew very thin, his concern for me evident.

I kept talking. “He found out somehow that I was the thief who stole the Caesar Diamond from him.”

Templeton made a choking sound. “He found out?”

I nodded. “And he's pissed.”

“How did that happen, exactly?” Templeton demanded. All humor had left his voice; his tone was hard-edged and drum tight. “That job was two years ago, if I'm remembering correctly. If you'd made a mistake at the time or left some kind of clue, he'd have tracked you down far sooner than this. Something must have happened—somebody must have talked.”

It was the conclusion I'd come to, also. Most of the career criminals in AB&T were pretty tight-lipped, but there were always weak, vulnerable people. People likely to be successfully blackmailed or otherwise coerced. A few names sprang to mind, Brooke Sinclair in particular.

“So . . . doesn't AB&T have some sort of ability to do something about this?” I asked. “Don't they have some kind of obligation to protect us?”

Here Templeton's expression changed from one of anger to one of discomfort. He winced slightly and looked away, toward the fish market. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, we do have a department of asset protection.” He looked back at me then, meeting my gaze. “But I have to be honest with you, Catherine. It's a bureaucratic nightmare. The man in charge is worse than useless. And he loves paperwork. They don't lift a finger without a thoroughly completed form. In triplicate. I've been fighting for an overhaul of the department for years. But the chairman doesn't agree it's a priority.”

This was a punch in the stomach. “What? Not a priority? How could they possibly justify that?” I spluttered.

“He feels it's part of the risk of the job. Thieves know about the inherent risks going in. He sees part of our job at AB&T as doing what we can to keep your identities safe. But if there's a breach in the system, there's not a lot we can do.”

“Templeton, that's crap, and you know it.”

“Of course I do, Petal.” He looked at me sympathetically. “But I also know about Albert Faulkner. And as despicable as he is, he happens to be a man of his word. If he says the Hope will call things square, my suggestion to you is this. You should do it.”

“Steal the Hope?” I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

“Just listen. It could be a fantastic opportunity. An excellent chance to prove to AB&T how much you can handle.” I knew what he was getting at. My status in the organization had been a little shaky ever since last year, when I went a little . . . shall we say, rogue from the Agency.

“They wouldn't consider it moonlighting?” That was what had got me in trouble last time.

“Not if it's doing something they should be doing themselves—protecting your fanny. And if we get preapproval . . .”

I nodded. It all sounded reasonable. Except for one small problem.

I couldn't possibly do it.

But how was I going to tell Templeton that? I chewed the inside of my cheek. I had no choice. I had to tell him. I wasn't going to keep secrets from him. I'd done that before. Never again.

I glanced around, ritually checking the crowd, ensuring we weren't being watched. A pair of tourists was haggling over the price of lettuce at a vegetable stall. Kids were climbing onto the bronze piggy bank statue at the entrance to the market, smiling for photographs.

“Templeton, I have to confess something. When I was at the top of the hotel, at the penthouse, for the emerald job . . . I had a little problem.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What? Were you seen?”

“Not that,” I said, shaking my head. “It's . . . I was terrified. Of the height. I couldn't stop imagining falling.”

Templeton frowned. But he said nothing, allowing me to continue.

“I basically had a panic attack. I couldn't go back down the outside of the building. I had to improvise and find a way out from the inside. It wasn't pretty.”

He watched me carefully. “Well, that's new. Isn't it?”

I nodded. “I mean, I was never fearless. I always knew somewhere in the back of my brain that bad things could happen. But it never took over. It never owned me or stopped me from doing what needed doing.”

“Is it just a fear of heights, though? Not every assignment requires heights—”

I shook my head. “It's more like a fear of . . .
death.
I can't stop thinking of all the ways my job puts me in danger. And that's what triggers the panic attack.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Catherine, my love, danger is not exactly a new thing for you. Why now?”

I hesitated a moment. “I think it's because of Sandor.”

Templeton's face went the color of gunpowder. This was a verboten subject. “So what you're saying is that you can't do the Hope job because you're afraid?” When he put it like that, it sounded terrible. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned anything.

This was not going the way I wanted it to. I needed Templeton to make this go away. My shoulders slumped as dark clouds gathered inside.

Templeton watched me carefully. “Speaking of Sandor . . . you're not getting involved in all that again, are you?” he asked.

“Getting involved in what, exactly? The egg is gone.” I looked at Templeton, who fidgeted with his watch. I narrowed my eyes. “Is Caliga up to something?”

Templeton shook his head. “We haven't picked up any activity from them lately.”

That was good. I did not enjoy my last brush with Caliga Rapio, a nasty organization of violent thieves and underworld types, and I did not relish the idea of a repeat encounter.

“But the fact is, this egg has resurfaced in the past,” Templeton said. “Twice before it has appeared to have been destroyed. And both times it turned up again, the contents of the egg unharmed.”

Ah, yes. The
contents.

“But, Templeton, I dropped it. I saw it fall from the top of Big Ben. I wouldn't hold my breath that it's going to come back after that.”

“Ah, but, Catherine, did you see it
land?
”

We both knew I hadn't seen that. The egg had been swallowed up in thick fog and darkness before I could witness it smashing on the ground far below. As Agency superiors had told me at the time, nothing had been recovered. There was no evidence the egg had even landed on the ground.

Which didn't make any more sense now than it did then.

But I really couldn't think about the Fabergé and Caliga and all that right now. Not like this, not when I had Faulkner hanging over me.

Faulkner.
The Hope Diamond. How was I going to get over this goddamned fear?

Templeton seemed to read my thoughts. “Never mind about the Fabergé,” he said soothingly. “You've got much more pressing issues on your plate. As for what happened to you last night on that building, don't even think about it. You will be fine, my dear. Shake it off.”

I looked at him with doubt.

He studied me carefully. “Don't be afraid of fear. It shows only that you value your life above all else. Which is as it should be.”

I was disappointed Templeton didn't have a clearer way of helping me. But even still, I began to feel a glimmer of hope. If I could wrestle the fear thing—if I could figure out how to prevent a panic attack—well, the Hope Diamond certainly represented a tantalizing target. It would be the job of a lifetime.