Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (18 page)

SA Jessica Hunt sat at the head of the conference table, her laptop open and ready for the meeting. Her reading glasses perched on top her head, anchored in her short salt-and-pepper hair. She waved him to the seat to her left.

Another FBI agent filed in behind him to sit farther down the long table. A few other seats were occupied by members of the CTF—another Feeb as well as intelligence agents of the French, British, and Italian governments.

He took his seat and noticed the screen opposite, where images of their remote conferees would be projected. He’d read the briefing. Security at a Palo Alto research facility with government contracts had contacted authorities with suspicions of one of their scientists and contacted authorities. The FBI obtained surveillance tapes of the man, a chemist and computer engineer, meeting with a courier of the Iranian terrorist Ahmed Yousef. Agents arrested the chemist, but Yousef’s man escaped. The man in custody would be at the San Francisco FBI office for the interview.

Because no actual sale had been witnessed, Lucas had his doubts about what a video conference could accomplish. How a geek selling secrets—if that’s what he was doing—to Yousef had anything to do with his arranging the theft of Cleopatra’s necklace, he couldn’t speculate. He’d rather get back to locating Zervas’s Venice hole in the wall.

The wall screen flickered and a man about fifty wearing black-framed glasses appeared. The suit and gray buzz cut pegged him as FBI. “Good evening, Special Agent Hunt,” he said in an official tone.

“Special Agent Parker,” Hunt replied, nodding. “Nice to see you again.”

“Likewise, Jessica. It’s been awhile since that RICO takedown in Jersey.”

“A few years.” A smile might have crossed her lips but Lucas could’ve imagined it. “Several members of my task force have joined us. What do you have for me?”

Parker rubbed knuckles along his jaw. “I had hoped to know by now what exactly our alleged thief sold to Yousef’s man. Unfortunately the lab where he worked had a small fire that destroyed some of their records. Suspicious origin, of course. We’re looking into it. But the result means what might be missing is unclear.”

“If your tapes don’t show the chemist actually passing something to Yousef’s man,” Hunt said, “what do you have on him?”

“This morning we discovered that two months ago Victor Chung opened an account in the Caymans with an initial deposit of three million U.S. dollars.”

A murmur rippled around the table. What technology could Chung have passed to Ahmed Yousef worth that much? Spyware? A virus? A guidance component for missiles?

The door behind Parker opened. Two agents, one man and one woman, entered and took up posts on either side of the doorway. Another, a man as hefty as Lucas, escorted the prisoner, a slight man of medium height. In khakis and a blue dress shirt and wearing wire-rimmed glasses, Victor Chung looked like the geek he was, except for the handcuffs shackling his wrists and the bruise-purple bags beneath his eyes.

Bringing up the rear, another man strode in. Silver mane of hair set off by a golf-course tan. Tailored pinstripes. Red patterned tie that probably cost more than the threads of all the FBI agents in the room. The attorney. The look on his patrician face said stone wall. Now Lucas
knew
this was a waste of time. A charade.

Parker directed Chung to sit on his left. The attorney took the seat on Chung’s other side. Parker made introductions, informing the chemist that SA Hunt would conduct the questioning.

Hunt began with general questions about the work of the research lab where Chung worked. The attorney permitted those, but when she asked specifically about the chemist’s research, the attorney shut things down.

They were being too careful, too nice. Lucas keyed a question into his tablet, then angled it toward Hunt.
May I speak to the prisoner?

Hunt pursed her lips as she read. Her gaze searched his face before she nodded.

“Mr. Chung,” he said, “The FBI seems to have enough evidence—or will soon—of your dealing with an international terrorist and enemy of the United States. You will go to prison for treason. Ahmed Yousef has financed and planned attacks and bombings on embassies and in public markets in countries in the Middle East and in Europe. If you sold him technology that results in more deaths—especially American deaths—forget prison. For that level of treason, the penalty is execution.”

Chung’s face paled and he mouthed the word
execution
. His shoulders hunched as if he were protecting his neck from the hangman’s noose. He chewed over his words before he spoke again. “I swear I did not sell secret technology to Ahmed Yousef.”

The attorney clamped a hand on his client’s arm. “That’s enough, Victor.”

Hunt opened her mouth to interrupt but Lucas leaned closer to the camera. He’d known his brutish appearance to put the fear in hardened thugs. Up for grabs whether a close-up would work in a virtual interview.

When Chung recoiled, Lucas stifled a smile.

“Then consider telling us what you did sell him. Cooperation could save your life.”

Venice

TWO HOURS CREPT
by before Cleo could force Thomas to rest. After helping him clean up, she sent his blood-spattered clothing to the hotel laundry. Finally she wrapped him in a terry hotel robe and propped him up on the king bed with pillows all around.

She’d used his phone to call Castelli while she’d run up to her flat for clothesline to tie up the thug and toweling to staunch both men’s bleeding. By the time the cops and medical techs arrived, the trussed-up man’s backup was nowhere to be found. A tech bandaged the captive before police hauled him off.

With the attacker gone, the impact of their ordeal hit her hard. Thank God Thomas was so capable but even warriors got seriously injured. And killed. Her knees and hands trembled. She took a steadying breath as she fought off the shakes.

The tightness of his jaw and the creases between his eyes said his arm stung like a son of a bitch, but she knew he’d refuse hospitalization. No way would he leave her alone.

“No hospital,” he said. “Sew me up.”

The tech grumbled but closed his gash with butterfly clamps and gauze. She injected him with antibiotics and ordered him to see a doctor tomorrow.

After that, the two of them described the events of the evening to Castelli. The detective congratulated Thomas for capturing a Centaur hire. Before heading out, in a police launch, Thomas warned him of Zervas’s pattern of eliminating compromised accomplices. The
commissario
saluted and nodded with a crisp air that relayed he would take care of the witness.

As soon as they returned, Thomas insisted on a shot from the bar.

Cleo opened her mouth to mention the emergency tech’s orders to abstain, but relented. “After that experience, you need a drink and so do I.
One
drink.”

When room service delivered the order within ten minutes, he gaped. “Record time. Faster than I got them to move when I stayed here before.”

“Could be your appearance. Nothing like bloody clothing and a bandaged arm to get people’s attention. The waiter probably hoped for the inside scoop.”

“Babe, more likely it was the way you charmed the concierge. You had him and the bartender hopping like
you
were the bleeding victim.”

Scoffing at that ridiculous statement, she had handed him his scotch.

Seated now in one of the suite’s flowered armchairs, she sipped a flute of Prosecco as she leafed through her retrieved sketchbook. Neither the drink nor loosening her hair from the braid relaxed her. She didn’t see much of the drawings because she kept eyeing him, watching for signs of a fever or blood soaking the bandage.

Toward the end of the sketchbook, a page held her gaze. She froze, staring at the drawing. Not hers. Of some sort of building.

“Cleo? What is it?”

“I... I don’t know.” She went to sit on the bed beside him. “At the back of the sketchbook, among a few blank pages, I found this. Not my work.”

Pleased for an excuse to have her beside him, Thomas accepted the pad, folded back to reveal the odd page. Not one of her pencil treatments, for damn sure. Thin, precise lines and metric measurements defined the floor plan in a large structure like a warehouse. The same precise hand had written on some of the rooms the words
offices, studios, workshops,
and
assembly
.

“René’s doing?” He tilted the sheet toward her.

“Looks like his writing.” Biting her lower lip, she pointed. “Is that an address?”

He read the smaller print, more of a scrawl as if hastily added. “Yes, and beneath it he wrote ‘West Acton tube station.’ ”

“A section of London, sort of a suburb.” Her forehead furrowed as she thought about it. Her hair tumbled free on her shoulders, tresses curling against her neck.

He resisted threading his fingers through the fiery mass. He wanted to reassure her he’d be all right. She’d been watching him as if she feared at any moment he’d geyser blood from all orifices.

When was the last time any woman had pampered him or worried about him? Not since his mom died. Odd, but every once in a while he saw something of her in Cleo. That made no sense. He hadn’t lost enough blood or drunk enough scotch to be delirious.

Banishing the notion, he tapped a finger on the address. “Could René have gone to London last week?”

“Like I told the detective, he left Tuesday morning and returned Thursday night. He said something about a jewelry commission and he was catching a plane. I don’t know what airline.”

“He traveled with a false passport, which Castelli said was not found. Nor were any receipts or matchbooks or anything helpful. But the time frame fits a London destination. He’d have had time to find this building, whatever it is, when he arrived.”

“And return to Venice the next day.” She shook her head. “
Studios
, he wrote, and
assembly
. Could it be a jewelry manufacturer? Or maybe he sold the necklaces—the original and his copy—to someone in London.”

“He already feared Centaur would kill him. Hiding the necklaces would give him leverage with Zervas. Selling them would sign his death warrant. If he sold the pieces, why didn’t he use the money to disappear? Why return to Venice?”

She gathered up her hair and smoothed it back as if the action aided her thoughts. “None of this makes sense.”

“Maybe it will once we identify this building.”

“The killers must not have found this drawing and neither did the police.”

“Panaro and Ricci were searching for the necklaces, not for clues to their location. And the police searched for clues to them. Nobody considered your sketchbook important.”

“But we don’t know if it
is
important.”

“Not yet.” He lifted his phone from the bed. “Still early enough in the States to catch someone in my research department. They can search for the address and for the phrases in René’s last words.” Time he tried Max again. Find out why he couldn’t reach him earlier.

Max picked up after one ring. “Hey, boss, glad you called.” His voice sounded strained, falsely jovial. “You’ll never guess who was here—T. J. He dropped in to see you. Wants you to call right away.”

Thomas’s mouth went dry and a muscle cramped in his jaw. “T.J. I’ll do that right now. Can I call you back?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He ended the call, his mind racing with questions.

“What is it, Thomas?”

Her soft concern broke through his fury. He sought calm by taking her slim hands in his and forcing all the tension from his body. “Devlin Security’s been hacked,” he said in measured tones.

“What does it mean?”

“I’ll call Rivera back on a secure number and find out the extent of the damage. For you and me, it means I have no backup or resources from DSF. We’re on our own.”

***

Marco Zervas paced the living room of the Venice flat, his mobile phone held a good six inches from his ear.

“I transferred to you an exorbitant down payment,” Ahmed Yousef bellowed. “And you have lost everything. It has been days. What are you doing about this disaster?”

The Iranian’s guttural tones abraded Zervas’s nerve endings. “Nothing is lost,” he said in calm tones. “I’ll have them in a few days.”

Yousef muttered something in Arabic. “So you said before. I have a deadline. If you do not deliver within six days, I shall ruin you. Then I shall repossess my payment in blood. Do I make myself clear?”

“You will have the necklace on time.” Before Zervas could say anything more, the connection went dead. As dead as he’d be if Yousef could follow through. Wouldn’t fucking happen. Zervas protected his secrecy, his locations too well.

Six days. All he had was six days.

The silence of the moldy old building with its decayed elegance seemed to mock him. He tossed the phone onto a nearby chair as he continued pacing. He would figure it out, retrieve the necklaces and get the copy to Yousef by the damn deadline.  He would earn the rest of the millions the Iranian was paying for this deal. Moreau’s copy better be as good as he’d claimed, indistinguishable from the original.

Whatever cloak-and-dagger business Yousef planned, Zervas couldn’t allow such a priceless artifact to disappear into a terrorist network that might pick out the stones and sell them. What the hell was the Iranian up to? Fuck, he was better off not knowing. Unless he could use it for his own ends.

First he had to recover the things. Forcing information from the bitch was the only way. If snatching her meant a confrontation with his old captain, Zervas would win.

Then Thomas Devlin would pay for his sins.

***

“Hacked? You mean a virus or spyware, Thomas?” Cleo asked.

Thomas had explained that T. J. meant Trojan Horse, the company code for a security breach. “I don’t know yet. Probably worse. Although I said I’d call back, the reverse is our protocol. Rivera will need an hour to have IT ascertain if my call was detected by the hacker. Then he’ll call me— on a secure phone.” The fire in his belly said this breach had Marco Zervas written all over it.

“You’re thinking Zervas has something to do with it, the hacking.”

“Seems too much of a coincidence not to be connected.” He looked at the time on his phone. “I can use the hour to ask Lucas to look up our mystery building.”

Nodding, Cleo yawned. “I’d like to take a shower. Unless there’s something more I can do for you.”

With her hair tousled and her cheeks lightly flushed by the Prosecco, she looked soft and warm, and her innocent offer thickened his blood and sent it south. He raised a knee to hide his growing arousal.

His wound limited his range of movement. But it had other possibilities. “Babe, what you can do for me can wait until we’re under these covers together.”

She pursed her lips, making them plumper and more inviting. “Bite me. The EMT said no strenuous activity. Getting the blood... um, pumping—” her cheeks turned a beautiful rosy pink “—could open your wound.”

“I’m not so old I’ll let a little scratch bother me.”

She rolled her eyes. “The age thing again. The slick way you tripped up the knife guy didn’t look like the actions of an old guy.”

“A slip of the tongue. But the ten years between us is never going away.” He waved away the topic. “What I meant to say was that except for my left forearm, all of my parts function just fine. I’ll rest up while you take your shower. Then we’ll see.”

A grin twitched at her lips. “Really? After that knife fight, an
old
guy like you must be stiff and aching. I can at least offer a back massage.”

“Back massage sounds good. I am a bit
stiff
.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Growing stiffer by the minute. Aching too.”

Laughter burst from her, the low, husky lilt diving straight to his groin. She grabbed the other terry robe from its hook and strolled into the bathroom humming “When I’m Sixty-Four.”

Thomas relaxed against the mound of pillows. If he was any judge, the banter meant she was giving him another chance. Maybe she cared about him enough to allow him some leeway, some time to learn not to be a hard-ass like both their fathers. And maybe he could seduce her into some sweet, slow lovemaking.

He punched Lucas’s number into his phone. Afterward, he’d try his sister again. Not once had she answered his daily attempts, but maybe she listened to his messages. God, he hoped her shrink had read her right.

“Yo, Thomas,” Lucas said. In the background, voices overlapped with ringing phones and whirring printers. “Should’ve gotten back to you sooner. Lots going on here. But I got a surveillance capture of Zervas from Marco Polo Airport Security. He looks different—shiny dome and glasses—but it’s him no question.”

Thomas checked the jpg loading on his phone screen. Stills lifted from surveillance videos were often grainy and fuzzy. Not this one. Stark and detailed of the man’s upper body and face. A beak of a nose, slightly crooked. Lean, ascetic build in an Italian cut suit and black T-shirt. Even behind the dark-framed glasses, an avid look in his eyes Julius Caesar would’ve mistrusted.

More fire flashed through him before he banked it. He needed a cool head for the chase. “Marco Zervas. Yes. But that’s not why I called.”

“I’m pretty busy here, boss.”

“This is important.”

“I see. Just a sec.” The force of Thomas’s will must’ve transmitted through the connection because the extraneous noises were cut off. “What’ve you got?”

“Devlin Security has been hacked.”

“No shit. When? Who?”

“That’s all I know. I’m waiting for Rivera to call me back with the details. Don’t call DSF or send any data until you receive the all clear.”

“No problem. Wouldn’t surprise me if Zervas’s pet geek did the hacking.”

“Right. My thoughts exactly.” Thomas adjusted his sore arm on its pillow. He relayed the events of the evening, leaving out his sliced arm. “Not having DSF resources leaves me hanging. I need your help. A search of Cleo’s old flat unearthed a floor plan that might be connected to the forger, maybe where he hid one or both necklaces. I need you to find what the place is.” He gave the London address.