Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (25 page)

“But—” Zervas spoke to dead air.

“Boss?” Nedik said, from behind the mini-bar. Perhaps he feared Zervas would launch more missiles. “Whole deal in the toilet?”

His mind racing, Zervas meandered to the suite’s telescope set up before the picture window. He stared down at the Central Park treetops, their leaves beginning to fade from summer green. Shriveling. Dying.

The leaves, yes, but not his scheme. He hadn’t been a fucking U.S. Special Forces sergeant for nothing.
When the enemy outflanks you, reposition your forces.

THOMAS LIFTED TWO
glasses of champagne from the waiter’s tray and handed one to Cleo.

Stark white columns and ancient statues and busts lined the high-ceilinged central court that connected the Met’s first-floor galleries. Concealed cameras monitored by federal agents panned the crowd touring the Cleopatra’s Tomb Exhibit—center stage in this gala.

The trap was set. Now for the prey to take the bait. His pulse rattled and he steadied his breathing. Focused on staying in the zone. A hell of a lot easier job if he’d persuaded Cleo to stay away, secure in the hotel. No chance.

Keeping her close by his side, he surveyed the crowd sipping bubbly. FBI and Secret Service agents in tuxes and gowns mingled with city officials, celebrities, and museum donors. Barely recognizable in a silver cocktail dress, Special Agent Jessica Hunt accompanied the agents guarding Secretary of State Vinton and President Farhadi. Thank God she’d persuaded the museum director to ban the media. Only the Met’s crew was recording the gala.

He’d let the Feds and the task force nab the would-be assassin. Marco Zervas was his.

“Shiny dome with mustache at your three,” Lucas said in Thomas’s earbud. The DSF operative lounged beside a canopied bed with a golden headrest.

Thomas turned to face Cleo but looked over her head toward where the man in question stood chatting with a blonde. “Too short,” he murmured into the mic concealed beneath his shirt collar.

He’d set out the first bait by using his personal credit card to reserve their hotel room. The CTF had video footage of Nedik and Hawkins boarding a Paris-New York flight. Not their boss. No Marco Zervas in any of his known identities.

But he had come. Thomas knew it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. Yesterday’s press conference had baited the second hook. The museum director thanked Cleo and him for returning the necklace in time for the Met opening.

A slap in the face. Zervas wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Plenty of bald heads here,” Cleo said as they approached the displays of jewel-encrusted boxes and jewelry. Velvet pedestals held gold and silver arm bands, bracelets, pendants, and rings beneath pinpoint spotlights. A plus-sized couple moved away, the woman’s flowery perfume trailing behind her.

He nodded, working his jaw. Zervas could wear a rug. Or he could insert a man. Depended on his level of desperation.

The slide of Cleo’s arm through his eased his tension and drew his gaze from the party to the one who mattered more each day. He slid an appreciative glance from her upswept curls to down the long black column that hugged her curves. The gown could be taken for skin except for its shimmering fabric. “You look amazing.”

Her answering smile sparkled in her green eyes. “You look amazing yourself. You should always wear a tux.”

“I will if you’ll always wear that dress.”

Her laugh drew his gaze to the cleavage displayed in the gown’s low neckline. “Deal.”

He forced himself back from the brink before he lost too much vigilance. He returned to scanning the glitterati near Madame Secretary and her companion.

The dignitaries and their entourage of advisors and protectors, trailed at a discreet distance by security, glided in a small school toward the centerpiece of the Cleopatra Tomb Exhibit.

Cleopatra’s necklace.

The other jewelry lay flat in cases, but the high gold collar with its gem-encrusted cape draped the neck of a black velvet bust, as the Queen of the Nile might have worn it. Damned impressive. No wonder people wanted to steal the thing.

When a white-jacketed waiter walked by with a tray laden with empties, he stopped the man and passed him his glass. He needed both hands free.

Cleo felt the charge in the atmosphere when Thomas stepped to one side, his gaze eagle sharp, his stance battle ready. The honored guests stopped within a foot of the necklace. The Secretary, her blond hair perfectly coiffed, elegant in ice-blue satin. The Iranian president, a slight dark-haired man in a black suit. His gaze swept the gathering.

Cleo sucked in a breath.

Her hands were too clammy to hold a glass. She added her flute to the tray. “Thank you,” she said to the waiter, who reeked of sweat.

Without a nod, he adjusted the tray and moved on.

Poor man. He must be new, to be so frazzled. Unlike the Secretary. “Vinton looks so cool and calm.”

“Diplomacy requires ice in the veins,” Thomas growled. “Like anticipating an attack.”

Secretary Vinton bent her head to listen to what President Farhadi said.  The entourage gave the two of them elbow room as they circled the stand, closing in only inches from the gleaming necklace.

Thomas turned away to watch whoever was watching the dignitaries, and so did Cleo. Security had scanned every attendee and the contents of their pockets and bags. Catching the assassin as he keyed the code left too much to chance, he’d complained, leaving them with no prey in the trap and their heads up their asses.

The clink of glassware drew her attention to the right. The sweating waiter had set his tray on a bench by a marble bust. He fumbled with something in his pocket.

“Thomas, over there, that waiter.” She tossed a nod toward where the waiter hovered. “When he took my glass, I noticed he was sweaty and nervous. All the other waiters carried empties away. Why would he set his down?”

Already striding toward the waiter, he spoke an alert into his collar mic.

The man withdrew a phone from his pants pocket. He frowned as he tapped the screen.

Three men including Thomas circled him. Two agents seized his arms at the same time Thomas relieved him of his phone.

Thomas studied the screen, then jerked a sharp nod.

An agent handcuffed the waiter, who stood head lowered, mouth tight.

Conversation near the confrontation hushed, and formal-clad people backed away.

Hunt pushed through the spectators and relieved Thomas of the phone with a gloved hand. She passed it to an agent who placed it in an evidence bag.

Agents gripped the waiter’s arms. Others formed a front and rear guard. Hunt signaled toward a side door. As a body, they marched the man out.

Lightheaded, Cleo put her hand to her throat, forgetting her neck was bare tonight. She forced herself to breathe slowly. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

God, she’d known since yesterday when the DSF authenticator examined the necklace Lucas brought from Berlin that it was René’s copy but contained no embedded chip, explosive or otherwise. And still she’d nearly passed out from hyperventilation.

Around her, whispered questions crescendoed to excited speculation.

Thomas returned to her. He enfolded her and kissed her. “You’re the best, babe. Could’ve used you in my team to spot the enemy.”

“
You
took him down.” She smoothed the front of his dress shirt, loving the thump of his heart against her palm. “He must’ve set down the tray so he could check the phone screen. Then he kept pressing the code, probably wondering why he couldn’t set off the explosion. Thank God the trap worked and you’re not hurt. Bummer you didn’t get Zervas. He—I’m babbling. I’ll stop now.”

He smiled, kissed her again, soothing her vibrating nerve endings. “We have another shot at Marco Zervas.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” The museum director stood on the mezzanine steps with a hand microphone. The tall gray-haired man removed his glasses and slipped them into his tuxedo pocket. When the voices died to murmurs, he continued. “I apologize for the unfortunate interruption. For now I can say only that a disaster was averted and the man responsible is in custody. Please continue to enjoy this magnificent exhibit and the refreshments.”

“Now what?” Cleo said.

“I’ll answer that.” Lucas Del Rio joined them.

She’d noticed the reactions to him earlier. Gala guests gave him a wide berth. He might as well have been carrying an AK-47 and wearing field gear instead of formal black.

His somber expression was belied by the twinkle in his eyes. Great the take-down had lightened his mood, as gloomy and ominous as a thundercloud when she’d told him about Mimi’s downturn. When Mimi’s condition improved—she
had
to get better—Cleo would ensure the two of them met.

“Special Agent Hunt sent me to deliver you to the director’s office,” Lucas said.

“Why? What else has happened?” Thomas asked.

“Didn’t say. Just following orders.”

With that cryptic reply, he set off with them in his wake. As if by magic, the crowd parted for them.

She whispered to Thomas, “Next time I go to Macy’s after-Christmas sale, I’m taking Lucas for crowd control.”

“He’d probably rather face all the Taliban in Afghanistan.”

A few moments later, they entered the director’s private quarters, a spacious office of royal blue and cream. European artwork and expensive books lining the walls infused the room with essences of old leather and older oils. A striking Baroque tapestry riveted her gaze. Until the director turned from the knot of people by a massive mahogany desk.

He stepped aside, revealing Secretary of State Vinton and President Farhadi. Cleo hadn’t even noticed they’d left the gala.

Smiling, hands outstretched, Helen Vinton crossed to them. She shook hands, first with Thomas, then with Cleo. “I’m told you two are responsible for finding the stolen necklace and uncovering this entire plot. I can’t tell you how grateful we all are.”

Thomas dipped his head. “My honor, ma’am. Felt good to be back in the field. I’ve sat at a desk for too long.”

She turned her smile to Cleo. “You’ve had quite the adventure, from what Special Agent Hunt says.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cleo began, at a loss. She couldn’t say what she’d gone through was nothing. “If only I hadn’t posted my picture wearing the necklace—”

The Secretary’s rich laugh cut her off. “I never thought I’d be grateful for Facebook.”

Grateful?
“But—” Cleo snapped her mouth shut. Whoa, yeah, posting her picture online had set off the entire search. Not yet a total success but maybe she’d done a good thing after all. Except for Mimi’s injury.

Secretary Vinton introduced them to President Farhadi, who bowed as he took Cleo’s hand in both of his.

“My country is thankful to you both and to the fine agents of the American government and the Interpol task force. I recognized that so-called waiter when he was watching us. He is well known to my government. A minion of Ahmed Yousef. The Islamic Republic has tolerated this enemy of the state for too long. Five minutes after my phone call to the Council, his threat will be eliminated.”

“Yousef will be arrested,” Secretary Vinton added.

Farhadi’s mouth creased in a scythe of a smile. Cleo blinked away the scenario that leaped to her imagination.

The museum director stepped forward. “I agreed to this evening’s charade to catch an assassin and because I was assured Cleopatra’s necklace would be returned. The copy will fool most of the public, but the integrity of the Metropolitan Museum and of the Egyptian people is at stake. When will we have the original piece?”

***

Later that night, Marco Zervas sat in the backseat of his rental Town Car, parked a block away from the Met. One of the bartenders at the gala had been open to extra money. As he listened to the man’s report on his secure mobile, every word walloped his gut.

“My man will deliver your payment as we agreed,” he said, ending the call.

“Where to, boss?” Nedik said from the driver’s seat.

“I don’t fucking care. Just drive.”

As the luxury car rolled silently from the curb, he smoothed on his leather gloves. No telling what had gone on in this damn backseat.

The sequence of events the bartender had described led to only one conclusion. The waiter’s phone was supposed to trigger an explosion in Cleopatra’s necklace. The chip? Probably. Not stolen secrets exactly but military explosive. Damned ingenious.

The Feebs had removed the chip. So that necklace wasn’t the original. He smiled. The down side was that Yousef would need someone to blame for the assassination’s failure.
Him.

Not his fault but the terrorist wouldn’t care. With his accounts cut off and no payment forthcoming, he needed funds. He could contact at least half a dozen investors who would pay big. Eliminating Nedik and Hawkins—dangerous liabilities—would come next. Then he would disappear. He’d done it before and come back.

First the antique necklace.

He would force Devlin to fucking hand it over.  And he had the perfect leverage.

***

Thomas woke from a fitful sleep with Cleo tucked close to him. Her confidence and the knowledge she was safe were the only reasons he got any rest at all. Every time he woke, thrashing over all the dire outcomes, she was restless too. They each had their personal stakes in this mess. For him, Marco Zervas handcuffed and behind bars. And none too soon. For her, the guilt about her cousin’s shooting and sudden turn for the worse was driving her to take risks he’d never imagined she’d consider.