Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (5 page)

He nodded, the odd tableau forgotten as he walked to the foot of the bed. He couldn’t take his eyes from Cleo. Covers to her chin, smooth except for the rise and fall of her breasts. A still and pale Sleeping Beauty. Perfect except for the respirator tubes in her nostrils and the bandages on the left side of her head, where the bullet had struck. He shuddered in a breath.

He flexed his fingers, cramped from being clenched. “Hey, excellent reaction time. I tried to be quiet.” Lucas would accept the compliment better with only an oblique reference to his hearing issue.

“Thanks.” Lucas edged away from the bed, as if deferring to his boss.

“The admiral was pleased someone was here so fast. But I couldn’t reach you on the phone. How is she?” From the moment Hoot Chandler had told him about Cleo’s injury, fear had tied knots in his shoulders. Rotating them to loosen the tightness, he kept his gaze on her while he listened.

“Can’t use mobile phones in here. Something about all the electronics. I left the voicemail as soon as I could.” Lucas cleared his throat and brought Thomas up to speed.

Swelling on the brain. Medical coma. The words sank into him like wet cement. But he told himself she was getting the best care. And protection. “And the intruder? Did you get a look at him?”

“Affirmative. A good look. Dark hair, thirties, deep-set eyes under a heavy brow. Brown leather shoes. About my height but scrawny. Might’ve looked thinner than he was because the scrubs he stole hung on him. Cops found them in a trash bin two streets over.”

“ID?”

“Negative. So far.
Commissario
Castelli had his men ask around and check the closed-circuit tapes. Yesterday several of the nurses here saw a man who fit the description at the local bar. They admitted he probably overheard their gossip about Cleo.”

“Explains how he found the right room. Could be one of Centaur’s men. You said he had a gun under his jacket. Maybe the same one used to shoot her?” And her lover, but Thomas couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Don’t have confirmation from Castelli, but the bullets recovered from both crime scenes were nine mil. The man, one René Moreau, an alias. Castelli said they found three other false passports hidden in the bedroom. Real name is Farris Pandareos.”

“Greek?”

“Affirmative. Small-time thief and talented jewelry designer. Arrested in France for making paste copies of Marie Antoinette’s necklace. Didn’t stick. Clean ever since.”

“Or more careful. Looks like Centaur contracted with him to make a copy of the Cleopatra necklace. Then everything went to hell.” Studying Cleo’s face, he angled his head to the right. Peered at her. Something was off.

“You sure, Thomas? That’s a leap.”

He moved around to her right side. “Not so much. Her Facebook page has a picture of her wearing the necklace. Or the copy.”

Lucas punched a fist into his other palm. “Shit. The reason they were after her.”

Thomas made no reply. He was barely aware of his operative backing farther away. He trailed a finger along the soft cheek, the fall of auburn hair on the pillow. Moved aside the sheet and blanket. Lifted the cotton sleeve so he could see her upper arm. At the sight of the smooth, unblemished skin, a wave of relief washed over him. His shoulders began to relax until the implications flooded him.

He turned. “This is not Cleo Chandler.” Not the girl—correction, woman now—who’d heated his dreams for nearly a decade.

Lucas’s watchful gaze morphed to shock. If he wasn’t already leaning against the wall, he might’ve crashed to the floor. “How... how can you be sure?”

“I’ve known Cleo Chandler since she was a kid. Both our dads were stationed at the Charleston Naval Base then. When she was thirteen, she climbed a tree to rescue a kitten. In the process, she threatened a hornet’s nest. They attacked with fury.” He’d caught her—and the kitten—when she fell.

“Yeah, so?” Lucas said.

“One of the stings, here—” he pointed to a clear spot on the injured woman’s upper right arm “—got infected, left a big scar. She covered it years later with an armband tattoo. Her hair is a sunnier auburn, and curly. The shape of her face is different. It’s not Cleo.”

Lucas’s wide hands gripped the bed frame. “Then who
is
she?”

Thomas’s shoulders cramped for the umpteenth time. “And where the hell is Cleo?”

Crystal City, Virginia

MARA MARTON GRABBED
a bottle of green tea from the machine in the DSF employee lounge. Cort had gotten her hooked on the stuff. Better for you than all that high-test coffee, he insisted. She smiled, emotions welling up, suffusing her with the power of their connection.

Tea in hand, she took the elevator up to Thomas Devlin’s office, where Max Rivera was helming the ship. Sort of.

When Max had called her early this morning with the assignment from Mr. Devlin, she chuckled at his gruff apology for waking her on a Saturday. Poor Max was having trouble issuing orders while he sat in the boss’s executive chair.

Several of the field operatives in DSF were ex-Delta Force and it showed. Super competent in intel and security, intelligent and quick thinking under stress. Most didn’t flinch at issuing orders or sounding like they were, but not Max. None of them liked being yanked out of their comfy aquarium. Max would flop around for a day or two until he learned to breathe the new, rarefied air. But then he’d be good to go. Better than good. He would excel. Her Cort was like that, but he’d honed his cool-under-pressure right-stuff in prison rather than in combat.

A soft bell dinged and the elevator door opened to the top floor and the carpeted outer office. This case was so different from the usual. Yes, a valuable artifact had been stolen. Nothing new there. But
cherchez la femme
—a mysterious woman whose disappearance had the boss himself jetting off to Europe.

After Mr. Devlin had discovered the unconscious woman in the Venice hospital wasn’t Cleo Chandler, he’d learned from Cleo’s father about an estranged brother who might have a daughter. Fascinated by the convoluted puzzle, she’d dived into locating the other Chandler somewhere in Canada. Finding him was a little harder than usual, given the fifty years since his disappearance, but a cool challenge.

She wanted to know more about this woman and why she was so important to Devlin. No one in the office had heard of him ever having a serious relationship. He hooked up with no one for more than a couple months. The women he usually escorted around D.C. were sleek society ladies-who-lunched or polished executives, not artsy rebels like the Cleo Chandler she found on Facebook.

Once she’d amassed all available intel about the uncle and family, she sent off the info to Devlin’s cell phone. That was a couple hours ago. Time enough for him to phone Canada and devise a plan. Her boss was a decisive kind of guy, never one to dither. So she’d stuck around, expecting him to need more. Sure enough, he’d just called Max. She grinned as she entered the inner sanctum.

“Thanks for staying,” Max said from their boss’s massive desk. The big Texan lounged in the leather chair, one foot in a western boot and the cast-encased leg on an upholstered side chair. “Devlin said to send apologies to Cort.”

“Not a problem. Cort went to Roanoke to deliver a desk.” She sank onto a chair and sipped her tea.

“His custom furniture has really taken off since he moved out of the Maine woods.”

“He’s advertising now. Mr. Devlin ordering a new conference table and promoting the business hasn’t hurt either.” She smiled with pleasure at Cort’s success. “You said Mr. Devlin needs more information. Research?”

“More than research,” Max said. “A probe. Urgent and maybe dicey.” He raised an eyebrow as if waiting for her reaction.

Here was her chance to find out more. “I’ve never known him to handle a case personally. This Cleo Chandler must be pretty important to him.”

“I got nada on that.” Max’s expression was as carefully bland as Devlin’s would’ve been if she’d had the temerity to ask him. Heaven forbid a guy would ever ask, not that the boss would give even Max a straight answer.

She sighed, resigned to ignorance. “Okay, what’s this spy mission?”

“Apparently this Mimi Ingram took a day off from her Med cruise to pay a visit to Cleo. The Canadian cousin and Cleo look a lot alike.”

Mara’s eyes snapped wide. “The crooks shot the wrong woman.”

“Give the woman a kewpie doll. We doubt the shooters know that yet. She has all Chandler’s documents. Hers are missing. Devlin thinks Cleo’s masquerading as her cousin on the cruise ship. First, verify whether Mimi Ingram returned to the
Norwegian Emerald
.”

“Meaning Cleo.” Mara nodded as she tapped notes into her tablet.

“If that checks out, arrange for Devlin to board as a passenger when they dock in Palermo, Sicily, on Sunday. If they’re full up, find a way to boot someone off the ship. I don’t care how you manage this, just do it. Discreetly.”

“
You
don’t care how I do it?”

Max’s brows beetled. “Those were Devlin’s words.”

“Orders from above. Thank goodness. Glad we don’t have to worry about a coup.” She jerked her head toward the leg cast. “How much longer you have to drag that around?”

“Another damn month. Kate may kick me to the curb before that.”

“Growling at her, are you? How’d you say you broke the leg?”

“I didn’t.” He shooed her toward the door. “Devlin needs that A-sap.”

She snapped a salute and clicked her heels together, not terribly effective with sneakers.

Max stretched out with his hands stacked behind his head and a master-of-the-universe smile on his face. “Hey, y’all, maybe this head-honcho job isn’t so bad after all.”

***

Munich, Germany

“Your computer program is not installed. Is this man playing you?” Marco Zervas bit out the words. He looked around the airport sports bar. Nobody was paying him or his men any attention. Saturday evening and travelers were weary.

“Don’t think so, sir. Bloke’s not much with computers. I ’ave to lead ’im by the nose. He’ll do it though. The money’s set ’im up.” Hawkins hunched over his laptop, his wire-rim glasses propped on top his head. He murmured to himself as his fingers flew over the keys.

On Zervas’s other side, Nedik rolled his eyes at the tech’s absorption in his work. He picked up his beer stein and returned to watching the airport crowd.

Zervas caught the
Fraulein
’s eye and ordered another beer. A stopover at this airport without a few German brews was unthinkable. And allowed him a detour to throw the Interpol-led task force off his scent.

When the waitress brought his beer, he wiped the rim with a napkin, then slugged down a healthy swallow. They’d never find him now he’d changed his appearance and his passport. The impregnable security at the villa would protect him from intruders, real or digital. He could run his operations from there without concern for the fucking task
farce
.

They and Devlin Security Force had recovered more of his Cleopatra Tomb Exhibit haul. Their damned snoops intercepted his envoys en route to his buyers. He couldn’t allow them to recover the necklace. Shit, he wished he’d never heard of the thing. Or of Ahmed Yousef. But no matter. He would prevail.

Hawkins looked up, settling his glasses on his long, thin nose. “Guv, are you certain about this hacking job?”

“What, having doubts about your abilities, your so-called Hawk Tool?”

The Brit straightened his Ichabod-Crane body. “None at all. It’s the best utility for this job. Does it all. Enumeration, scanning, root privileges—”

“Fucking spare me the geek jargon,” Zervas said. He glared at Hawkins. “If not the technical issue, what?”

“Spying in this system is bloody risky. Their tech department people are no slouches. But if you insist on it, let me do this remotely without the bloody mole.  The wanker might do something stupid afterward and get caught.”

“Doesn’t matter as long as it’s afterward.” That was his plan. They’d learn then who took down the company, destroyed its reputation.
“You had your say. Now do what I pay you for. And while you’re online with our mole, ask him where his boss is.”

He returned to his beer and Hawkins to his computer.

DSF operatives had hounded Centaur all summer, getting closer and closer. They had to be stopped. He had to take down the company, screw Thomas Devlin himself, before DSF ruined his business. The hacking had to work.

The waitress delivered his pork schnitzel and roast potatoes. The sauce’s rich aroma made his mouth water. He eyed Nedik’s sausages with disdain. None of those Kraut stuffed cases for him. Who knew what was actually in those things? Germans were generally fastidious but he couldn’t ignore that e-coli breakout a few years ago. He took no chances. He wiped his utensils with a sanitary wipe before testing his schnitzel. Cooked through. Good. Satisfied, he sliced off a piece.

Watching Hawkins click away on his keyboard, Zervas drank beer, savored a bite of the tender pork. Glass clinked as the waitress delivered beers to a neighboring table.

The geek looked up. “Mole says Devlin won’t be in for a few days. Odd, he says, because the boss never takes vacations. Gossip is it’s a hush-hush job about a woman.”

Zervas’s mouth tightened. He set down his stein. Could the task force have made the connection? Devlin would jump on any mention of Cleopatra’s necklace.

His heart strummed an erratic beat. He’d lived with hate for so long, he’d learned to contain the rage bubbling like lava. Perhaps there would be a showdown over the necklace. Perfect. He couldn’t fucking wait.

He prided himself on keeping his voice even, modulated. “Find out where Thomas Devlin went.”

***

Venice, Italy

When Thomas stepped from the hotel elevator into the lobby, Bruno Castelli was waiting. Lucas’s description was on the mark.
GQ
looks and dressed for the part in a hand-tailored suit. Lucas had vouched for his credentials and ability. But how much would the detective cooperate on Cleo’s safety?

“
Commissario
Castelli.” He shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for meeting me. You must have better things to do on a Saturday evening.”

Castelli dismissed the apology with a shrug and a smile. “A major case like this one commands my attention on weekends as well. I need to make headway before your government puts pressure on my director. As for better things, my fiancée dines with her grandmother this evening.” He spoke English with little accent.

“Will you join me for a drink?” The hotel’s bar probably wasn’t the best place, but he didn’t know this area near the hospital well enough to suggest another.

Castelli’s gaze assessed what passed for a bar in the boutique hotel. Scarcely big enough for the four customers already seated in the gloom, it promised no privacy. “Perhaps later. Let us go for a walk.”

They made their way through narrow streets via a series of doglegs. As they turned onto the
Fondamenta Nuove
, a wide paved embankment, a sailboat and a rowboat passed each other in the deep channel. The calm water gleamed silver in the lowering sun. Across the canal, cypress trees marked the Venice cemetery on the island of San Michele.

“I suspect you have discovered by now that the injured woman isn’t Cleo Chandler,” Thomas said, hoping his up-front approach would earn him points. And trust.

Castelli’s glance was sharp. “How do you know this?”

“I’m an old family friend. There are... small differences. I knew she wasn’t Cleo.” Before his brain, his body had known, not responding to her the way he’d reacted to Cleo from the day she stopped being a pesky kid and became all female. And too fascinating for his good. Or hers.

“You are right,
signore
.” Castelli tucked his hands in his suit-jacket pockets. “Fingerprints on objects in the purse and on the mobile phone do not match those of the victim. Interpol has vouched for your reputation and that of your company. Before I share information from an on-going police investigation, what is it you want from me?”

Two twenty-somethings walking a German shepherd approached from the other direction. The women whispered together, hips swaying in their short skirts more noticeably the closer they came. Thomas’s face warmed before he realized they were smiling at cover-boy Castelli, not at a man more than a decade their senior, the age difference between him and Cleo. He needed to remember that when he found her.

After the women passed, he said, “I know where Cleo has gone. I want assurance I can reach her and protect her before you reveal the identity confusion to the press. And to the bad guys.”

“I can make no promises.
Signorina
Chandler is connected to two cases of murder. She is a suspect.”

“Witness, yes, but no murderer. I believe she’s the one who first called the police about Moreau’s death, and then the emergency number about the second shooting. She’s the reason that woman in the hospital bed is still alive.” He had no proof, only supposition. He shouldn’t have come across with such vehemence, dammit. “And Moreau? Do you think she shot him too?”

The detective’s thin smile revealed nothing. “Too soon to say. We found blood at the foot of the stairs leading to his studio. Signs of a search inside. Clues in the flat where he expired indicate
Signorina
Chandler left in a hurry. Both victims were shot by the same nine millimeter. No witnesses to either shooting, except probably the
signorina
. No indication anyone else was there outside the jewelry shop. Perhaps the women argued. If I could question the
signorina
...” He let his words hang in space, like Cleo’s life.