Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (3 page)

BOOK: Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)
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“Sure, why not? You already know more about Saxon burial sites than I do.”

“Thanks, Jeff!”

She skipped delightedly out of the room, her long ponytail swishing behind her, but a few seconds later she was back. “Oh. I forgot to mention. Your wife is here to see you.”

“Tracy’s here?” Now it was Jeff’s turn to light up.

“Yes. I heard her asking for you at the desk in the Great Court. I said you’d be right down.”

TRACY GAZED UP AT
the vast, modern, glass-domed ceiling of Lord Foster’s Great Court with a combination of awe and surprise. Shamefully after all her years in London, she’d never been to the British Museum and had always pictured it as a grand, Victorian building, similar to the three South Kensington landmarks: the Natural History Museum, the Science Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum.

In fact, as the leaflet she was now reading explained, the British Museum was actually pre-Victorian, although much of its present-day architecture was aggressively modern. At two acres, the Great Court in which Tracy now stood was the largest covered public space in Europe. But it led into numerous older wings within a vast Bloomsbury complex. Founded in 1753, the British Museum was the first national public museum in the world. Sir Hans Sloane, the famous naturalist and collector, bequeathed more than seventy-one thousand objects, including books, manuscripts and antiquities such as coins, medals and prints, to King George II for the nation, providing the basis of the museum’s collection. Today it housed eclectic collections of treasures from around the globe, from Chinese ceramics to ancient Egyptian tomb relics to medieval manuscripts and Anglo-Saxon jewelry. Tracy thought,
No wonder Jeff fell in love with this place. Talk about a kid in a candy store.

“Baby! What a wonderful surprise.”

Jeff snuck up on her from behind. Tracy closed her eyes as his arms encircled her waist, pulling her into his body. He smelled of Penhaligon’s cologne, his signature scent and one that Tracy had always adored.
I’m so lucky, so very lucky to have him.

“What brings you here?”

“Nothing, really,” Tracy lied. “I guess I was just curious to see the place.”

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Jeff sounded as proud as if he’d built the museum himself.

“It is. It’s beautiful,” said Tracy. “So’s that girl you work with,” she added archly.

“Rebecca? Is she? I hadn’t really noticed.”

Tracy laughed loudly. “This is me you’re talking to, honey. We’ve met before, remember?”

“I’m serious,” said Jeff. “You know I only have eyes for you. Although I must say I’m touched that you’re jealous.”

“I am
not
jealous!”

“Come with me.” Jeff took her hand. “I wanna show you what we’re working on.” His fingers felt warm and strong around Tracy’s.
Maybe I am a bit jealous.

He led her into a small anteroom. The girl Tracy had met earlier, Rebecca, was inside, along with a group of about twelve women and a smattering of men, all in their sixties and seventies. Three rows of chairs had been arranged in front of an old-fashioned slide projector, which was beaming images of what looked like gold weaponry and utensils onto the screen at the far end of the room.

“We’re about to open a brand-new exhibition of Saxon burial treasure,” Jeff whispered in Tracy’s ear. “This stuff was all found under a parking lot somewhere in Norfolk. It’s the most complete royal gravesite from the period that’s ever been found. Absolutely unique.”

“Is that vase solid gold?” Tracy stared at the latest image on the screen, a gleaming, two-handled vase almost a foot tall.

Jeff nodded.

“Jesus Christ. How much must that be worth?”

“It’s priceless,” said Jeff.

Tracy frowned. “Nothing’s priceless. I mean it, I’m curious. How much would a private collector pay for something like that?”

“I don’t know. A helluva lot. There’s more than a million pounds’ worth of gold there, even if you melted the thing down. But as an irreplaceable piece of history?” He shrugged. “Two or three million? I’m guessing.”

Tracy whistled. “Wow.” She glanced around as the old biddies finished their plastic cups of tea and began to sit down. “Who are the granny brigade?” she whispered in Jeff’s ear.

“They’re the volunteers. They’re going to run the exhibition. They help catalog the treasures, man the admissions desk and give guided tours. I’m about to give them an introductory lecture.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tracy looked shocked. “You leave amateurs in charge of millions of dollars’ worth of gold?”

“They’re well-informed amateurs,” said Jeff. “Hell,
I’m
an amateur.”

“Yeah, but if someone grabs that vase and makes a run for it, at least you can run after them. What are this bunch gonna do? Throw their walkers?”

Jeff laughed. “No one’s gonna steal anything.”

Rebecca Mortimer wandered over. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. Tracy noticed that her accent was cut-glass Oxbridge, and that she didn’t look particularly sorry. “But we really ought to get started in a minute. Jeff?”

She touched his arm, only for a second. It was a tiny gesture, almost unnoticeable, but it implied a certain intimacy between her and Jeff that Tracy didn’t like. At all.

“He’ll be with you in a moment,” she said coldly.

Rebecca took the hint and walked away.

“My, my,” murmured Jeff, sotto voce, an amused look on his face. “You really
are
jealous.”

“It must be my hormones.” Tracy beamed back at him. “We pregnant women can get terribly overemotional, you know.”

It took a few seconds for the impact of her words to sink in. When they did, Jeff swept her up into his arms with a whoop of delight and kissed her on the lips for a very long time. The assembled volunteers all turned to gawk at them.

“Really?” said Jeff, finally coming up for air. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Tracy. “Four tests can’t all be wrong.”

“That’s wonderful. The most wonderful news ever. I’ll take you out to dinner tonight to celebrate.”

Tracy felt a warm wave of elation flow over her.

Jeff walked over to begin his lecture and she turned to go.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw the young intern, Rebecca, shoot her a resentful look.

DINNER WAS WONDERFUL. JEFF
took her to Como Lario in Belgravia, one of their favorites. Tracy ate the
carciofi e radicchio
followed by a perfectly tender
scaloppine al limone.
Jeff wolfed down his filet steak, despite barely being able to chew thanks to the smile plastered across his face. Tracy wasn’t drinking, but Jeff insisted on two flutes of champagne for a toast.

“To our future. Our family. To Jeff Stevens Junior!”

Tracy laughed. “Sexist pig. Who says it’s a boy?”

“It’s a boy.”

“Well, if it is, over my dead body are we calling him Jeff Junior. No offense, darling, but I’m not sure the world could cope with two Jeff Stevenses.”

Later, in bed, Tracy slipped into her sexiest Rigby & Peller negligee, a tiny silk slip in buttermilk with white lace trim. “Enjoy it while you can.” She snuggled up to Jeff, running her fingers languidly through the tangle of hair on his chest. “Soon I’ll be the size of a house. You’ll need to use a forklift to move me.”

“Nonsense. You’ll be the most beautiful pregnant woman on earth,” said Jeff, kissing her gently on the mouth.

“Do you ever miss the old days?” Tracy asked him suddenly. “The adrenaline? The challenge? You, me and Gunther against the world?”

“Never.”

He said it with such sincerity and finality that Tracy felt silly for asking.

“Besides, as I remember it, half of ‘the old days’ was you against me, or me against you. As for dearest Gunther, he was always out for himself, playing each of us off against the other.”

“That’s true,” Tracy admitted, smiling to herself at the memory. “But it
was
only playing, wasn’t it? It was a game, between the three of us. A wonderful game.”

“It was.” Jeff stroked her face tenderly. “And you, my love, were the world champion. But we went out on a high, didn’t we? And the life we have now . . . well, it’s perfect.” He ran a hand over Tracy’s still-flat belly in wonder. Was there really a new life in there? A person who they had created?

“I love you.”

“How much?” Tracy murmured in his ear. She reached down to touch his erection but Jeff stopped her hand.

“Very much. But I don’t think we should be fooling around. It might hurt the baby.”

And with that, to Tracy’s astonishment, he turned out the light, rolled over and fell into a deep and instant sleep.

For a split second she felt irritated, but she soon snuffed out the feeling. Today was too special, too perfect to be spoiled with petty resentments.
He’s only being careful because he loves me. When we go to see Dr. McBride together, he can explain to Jeff that it’s perfectly safe to make love.

Too excited to sleep, Tracy’s mind began to wander. Oddly, it wasn’t the baby she was thinking about, but the things she’d seen at the museum today. She thought about the young girl Jeff worked with. Was she being paranoid? Or
had
the girl given her a dirty look right after Jeff kissed her?

It doesn’t matter anyway,
Tracy told herself.
I trust Jeff.

Her mind quickly shifted to the exhibition of Saxon gold Jeff had told her about, and the images she’d seen on the screen. Tracy still couldn’t quite believe that an important institution like the British Museum would allow elderly volunteers to handle an event of such importance. These untrained, older people had effectively unfettered access to millions of pounds’ worth of artifacts. And yet even Jeff seemed to think nothing of it. Tracy thought back to the complex security systems at the Prado, and at other famous galleries and jewelers that she and Jeff had stolen from back in their heyday.
Imagine if the only person guarding Goya’s
Puerto
in Madrid had been a shortsighted old biddy. How easy our lives would have been!

Jeff had told her tonight about a specific coin, rarer even than the museum’s prized Mercian specimens, that would be one of the highlights of the new exhibition.

“Tomorrow I’m gonna get to hold it in my hand. It’s Merovingian gold, minted for a Frankish king back in the sixth century. I swear to God, Tracy, it’s not much bigger than a quarter, but the workmanship! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Instinctively, without even thinking about it, Tracy’s quick mind began to work out the best way to steal it. The awful thing was, there were so many options!
Maybe I should offer my services to the museum’s trustees as a security consultant?
she thought idly.
God knows they could use the help.

Then she realized she was about to become far too busy to hold down a job.

She was about to become a mother, at last. It was the one role she had dreamed of and longed for her entire life. Everything else had been a dress rehearsal.

For Tracy Whitney, tomorrow had finally come.

She slept.

 

CHAPTER 3

A
GNES FOTHERINGTON OBSERVED THE
gathering crowd outside the exhibition room and felt a warm glow of pride.
Merovingian Treasures
was the biggest event for Anglo-Saxon history enthusiasts in a generation. Not since the famous ship burial at Sutton Hoo was unearthed in the late 1930s had such an impressive array of treasures from the period been found in one place, and so perfectly preserved. And once again, Agnes Fotherington was part of it.

A keen amateur archaeologist, Agnes had assisted on some of the later digs at Sutton Hoo back in the 1980s. She’d been in her midforties then, teaching history at a local grammar school in Kent. Her husband, Billy, had gone with her, and together they’d had a whale of a time.

“Imagine!” Billy used to say, over a steak-and-kidney pie at the Coach & Horses in Woodbridge after a long day on-site. “A couple of nobodies like us, Ag, becoming footnotes to history!”

That was his expression.
Footnotes to history.

Agnes missed Billy.

He’d been dead ten years now, but he’d have loved to see all the fanfare today. Jeff Stevens, the lovely American antiquities director, rushing about like a blue-arsed fly, anxious for everything to go well, but somehow always with a smile for everyone, despite his nerves. Billy would have liked Jeff.

He’d have liked Rebecca too, Jeff’s young assistant. So many young people were getting interested in the period now; that was the really marvelous thing. Anglo-Saxon history used to be considered distinctly unsexy. It had never had the pizzazz of Egyptology, say, or the popular appeal of Ancient Rome. But perhaps
Merovingian Treasures
would change all that. How wonderful if the golden wonders unearthed beneath a Norwich parking lot should one day become as famous as Tutankhamen’s tomb.

“It’s a great turnout, isn’t it?”

Tracy Stevens, Jeff’s young wife, put an affectionate arm around Agnes Fotherington’s shoulder. Agnes liked Tracy. They’d met a few times in the run-up to the exhibition when Tracy had popped in to say hello to Jeff or to help out with the cataloging. Of course all the volunteers knew that Mrs. Stevens was pregnant, and that she and Jeff were over the moon. The pair of them were obviously madly in love. Agnes Fotherington was sure they’d make wonderful parents.

“Phenomenal turnout,” Agnes agreed. “And do look how
young
some of them are. I mean, take that chap over there with the tattoos. You’d never peg him as a seventh-century history buff, now, would you?”

“No,” said Tracy, who’d been thinking exactly the same thing, although for very different reasons. “You wouldn’t.”

She’d already spotted at least four potential thieves in the crowd. The tattooed young man looked more like your smash-and-grab type. But there were others. A pregnant woman who seemed overly interested in the CCTV cameras in the lobby. A pair of Eastern European men in jeans and T-shirts who appeared nervous and kept making eye contact with each other without speaking. One dark-suited man in particular, quiet, unobtrusive and here alone, had caught Tracy’s attention. It was nothing she could explain rationally. More of a sixth sense. But something told her he wasn’t just an interested tourist.

Part of Tracy wouldn’t have blamed them for trying to make off with the gold. With security this lax, the British Museum was almost asking to be robbed. She said as much to Jeff, but he didn’t seem worried.

“I guess we’ll just have to take our chances. A robbery attempt might even give the exhibition some spice! After all, there’s nothing more authentically Anglo-Saxon than a bit of looting.”

Tracy had loved him for that comment. It was the old Jeff to a tee.

At eleven o’clock exactly the red rope was unhooked from its silver clip and the visitors began streaming into the first of four display spaces. Their handbags and backpacks had already been spot-searched at the main entrance, but they were not examined again now, Tracy noticed. Instead the visitors were offered a chance to leave their coats in a cloakroom and encouraged to buy programs and take advantage of the audio tours being handed out by two of Mrs. Fotherington’s friends.

After that they were ushered in a slow-moving figure eight past the various displays—weaponry, coinage, ceremonial objects and daily life—before being funneled into a temporary
Merovingian Treasures
gift shop, selling replicas of all the above, along with the usual key rings and “I Love the British Museum” T-shirts.

Jeff and Rebecca mingled with the visitors, moving from room to room. Tracy left them to it, limiting her support for Jeff to an encouraging wave as she returned from the ladies’ room to the front desk.

“Tracy, thank goodness. We’re almost out of brochures!” Agnes Fotherington grabbed her arm in a panic. “I had a hundred copies here but they’ve gone in about six minutes.”

“I can go and grab some more from the gift shop if you like,” Tracy offered.

“Would you?” The old woman was visibly relieved. “You’re an angel.”

Weaving her way through the exhibition, already packed with people, Tracy hurried toward the shop. As she moved through the coin room she noticed the man who’d caught her attention earlier in the lobby. He was leaning over the display case housing the rare Frankish coins, looking at them with a controlled intensity that made her distinctly uneasy.

I must mention him to Jeff.

At the gift shop, Tracy had just collected a stack of brochures and asked Maurice Bentley, the volunteer in charge, to call down to the stockroom for more when it happened. An earsplitting alarm rang out, a combination of sirens and bells and a grating, electronic vibration that made the cheap Merovingian coins rattle and jump in their plastic display cases.

“What on earth . . . ?” Maurice Bentley covered his ears.

“What is that?” Tracy shouted through the din at a passing staff member. “Has something been stolen?”

“No. It’s the fire alarm. Probably just kids messing about.”

Or not.

Tracy’s heart rate began to quicken.

“DON’T LOOK SO PANICKED,”
Rebecca shouted in Jeff’s ear. “It’s probably just kids messing about.”

Jeff wasn’t listening. He was in Amsterdam, at the diamond-cutting factory. The lights went out and an alarm sounded, just like this one. An alarm that he and Tracy had triggered. In Amsterdam, steel shutters had slammed down over doors and windows, sealing the exits. But Jeff and Tracy had still made off with the Lucullan Diamond.

Tracy had posed as a pregnant tourist for that job, Jeff as a technician.
Wasn’t there a pregnant woman in the crowd outside today?

Jeff’s mind raced. What would be the easiest thing to steal?

He sprinted into the coin room.

Everything seemed in order. The priceless sixth-century gold coin, the centerpiece of the exhibition, was still in its locked glass case. Nothing appeared to have been moved, or broken or disturbed. Visitors covered their ears and filed toward the exit, but there was no panic, no screaming or drama. It was all terribly British and reserved. A man in a suit was the last to leave, and he stopped and held the door politely for Jeff.

“False alarm, I expect.” He gave Jeff a patient smile.

“I expect so.”

ABOUT HALF AN HOUR
later Jeff found Tracy, outside. The whole museum had been evacuated onto Great Russell Street, but no one seemed especially put out. People were chatting and laughing about the unexpected drama as they waited to be readmitted.

“Everything all right?” Tracy asked Jeff.

“I think so. Some idiot left a lit cigarette in the bathroom.”

“Nothing was taken, then?”

Jeff shook his head. “I thought the same thing, but Rebecca and I went through everything three times. It’s all there. None of the other departments have reported any problems.”

“Good.” Tracy hugged him. She felt hugely relieved.

“We’re getting too cynical in our old age, you and I,” said Jeff, only half joking. “We’re gonna have to work on that before Jeff Junior arrives.”

FOR THE NEXT FEW
weeks, Tracy saw very little of Jeff. There were no further dramas at the museum, and
Merovingian Treasures
proved to be a huge hit as an exhibition, taking up all of Jeff’s time.

Professor Trenchard called him.

“Everybody’s raving about you in Bloomsbury. I can’t tell you how much kudos I’m getting for having brought you in.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” said Jeff. “I really don’t know how to thank you, Nick.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m quite happy enough to bask in your reflected glory.”

THE NIGHT THE EXHIBITION
closed, Jeff came home disconsolate.

“I can’t believe it’s all over.”

“Poor baby.”

Tracy wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her tiny baby bump against the small of his back. She’d been feeling exhausted recently, a side effect of the pregnancy according to Alan—Dr. McBride—but so far had avoided morning sickness and the smell of food didn’t bother her. Tonight she’d prepared Jeff a special dinner of spaghetti carbonara. A delicious scent of bacon, cheese and cream wafted through from the kitchen.

“I’ve got something for you. To cheer you up.”

She led Jeff into the drawing room, a beautifully proportioned Georgian living room with high ceilings, wide oak floorboards and original sash windows overlooking the richly planted “Queen Anne,” British slang for a front garden.

“You already cheered me up,” said Jeff, sinking into the sofa. “How are you feeling today, beautiful?”

“I’m fine.” Tracy handed him a gin and tonic with ice and lemon. “But this is gonna cheer you up more. At least I hope it will.”

She pulled a small, black leather box out of her pocket and handed it to him, a little nervously. She knew there was a chance Jeff might take the gift the wrong way, and she desperately wanted to please him, to bring a touch of their old life back with all its fun and excitement.

“Let’s just say I went to
a
lot
of trouble to get ahold of it.”

Jeff opened the box. Tracy watched, delighted, as his eyes widened.

“Where did you get this?”

She grinned. “Where do you think?”

“My God.” Jeff gasped. “It’s the real thing, isn’t it? I thought for a second it might be a really good copy.”

“A copy? Please.” Tracy sounded offended. “Copies are for the hoi polloi, darling. Only the best for you.”

Jeff stood up. Tracy thought he was coming over to kiss her, but when he looked up she saw that his eyes were alight with anger.

“Are you out of your mind?” He held the coin up to her face accusingly. In his hand was the silver coin of Cynethryth of Mercia, one of the British Museum’s rarest treasures. “You
stole
this.”

“Yes. For you.” Tracy looked confused. “I know how much it meant to you. Besides, you said it yourself. Nothing could be more Anglo-Saxon than a bit of looting.”

She smiled. Jeff didn’t smile back.

“That was a joke!” He looked at her aghast. “How did you . . . when . . . ?”

“The day your exhibition opened. I knew the other Saxon rooms would be totally empty. All anyone was interested in was
Merovingian Treasures
. So I set off the fire alarm, slipped into the south wing, and, well . . . I just took it. Those cases aren’t even alarmed,” she added, a note of disdain in her voice. “It’s like if it isn’t the Elgin Marbles or the Rosetta Stone, no one cares.”

“Everybody cares!” said Jeff furiously. “
I
care. In any case, those cases are locked. Where did you get the key?”

Tracy looked at him as if he were mad.

“I copied yours, of course. Really, darling, it’s not exactly rocket science. I Googled the coin, after you said you liked it so much, and I got a copy made at a little jeweler in the East End. Then I swapped it out for the original. Easy.”

Jeff was speechless.

Upset by his reaction, Tracy added defiantly, “And you know what?
No one noticed the difference!
No one except you even looks at that thing. Why shouldn’t you have it?”

“Because it’s not mine!” Jeff said, exasperated. “It belongs to the nation. I’ve been trusted to protect it, Tracy. And now my wife, my own
wife,
goes and steals it!”

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Tears welled up in Tracy’s eyes.

“Well, I’m not.”

She couldn’t understand Jeff’s reaction. Especially after she’d gone to so much trouble.
He used to be proud of me when I pulled off jobs like that.
No one had been hurt, after all. The old Jeff would have been pleased, amused, delighted. Tracy wanted the old Jeff back.

Jeff was staring down at the coin in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “Rebecca
said
she thought you seemed distracted on opening day,” he murmured. “I remember she asked me if there was anything up with you.”

“Oh, Rebecca said something, did she?” Tracy shot back angrily. “Well, bully for Rebecca! I’ll bet perfect little Rebecca would never sink so low as to steal a
national treasure,
now, would she?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” said Jeff.

“Because she’s not a dishonest con artist like me, right?”

Jeff shrugged as if to say,
If the shoe fits.

Tears of anger and humiliation streamed down Tracy’s cheeks. “Your little girlfriend may be better than me—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jeff snapped. “Rebecca isn’t my girlfriend.”

“But if she’s better than me, she’s better than you too, Jeff. Have you forgotten who you are? You’re a con artist, Jeff Stevens. You may have retired, but you’ve got a twenty-year life of crime behind you, my friend! So don’t you come playing the high-handed saint with . . .”

Tracy stopped abruptly, like a child freezing in a game of musical statues.

“What?” said Jeff.

Tracy stared at him, her eyes wide and desperate, like a rabbit about to be shot. Then she looked down. Droplets of blood, dark and heavy, fell slowly from between her legs onto the floorboards.

BOOK: Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)
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