A Brilliant Deception (8 page)

 

J
ack stared at his hand of cards in the high-stakes poker room at Stardust Casino, under moody spot lighting and glittering chandeliers. He wore his tux with ease. He sat back in the plush full-grain leather chair. Women in shimmering cocktail dresses lingered nearby, watching his every move, but he barely noticed them.

In fact, he wasn’t really noticing much. He looked up, searching for a waiter who might bring him another single malt.

Then he changed his mind and decided to get it himself from the bar. He certainly didn’t need to; the staff was more than happy to serve him endlessly all night. But he needed a brief stretch and a break.

While he waited for the bartender to pour his drink, someone came to stand beside Jack.

“Hello, Templeton. What’s up?” Jack said, without turning around.

A smooth British voice answered. “I could ask you the same thing, Jack.”

“I’m enjoying myself, what does it look like?” The bartender placed his drink on a napkin and Jack picked up the cool glass.

“Is that what you call it?” Templeton replied with a faint snort. “Well, if ‘enjoying oneself’ entails total self-destruction, then I suppose that’s what it looks like.” He stood with a closed umbrella at his side, watching Jack carefully.

Jack took a sip of his whiskey. “Templeton, you don’t know me. You have no fucking idea,” he said in a low voice.

“Well, why don’t you tell me? I believe you left the FBI—”

Jack interrupted him with a short laugh. “If by ‘left,’ you mean I was forced out for bad behavior, then yes.”

“And you’re doing what, now?”

Jack shrugged and glanced around the room, at the glamour, the superficial excess, the beautiful women. “Pretty much this. Not too shabby, right?”

Templeton looked at Jack and his mouth twisted with a mixture of pity and disgust. “Jack, you can do better. You
are
better than this.”

Jack kept his face blank. “What do you know about it? You’re just Cat’s handler.”

“ ’Tis true. And one of the reasons I’m here is to arrange a further meeting with you. I want to get to know you better. There are some people at AB&T who have expressed interest in recruiting you. They seem to be under the impression that you are a talented field agent. And with your pedigree . . .”

“Do
not
bring up my father,” Jack warned in a low voice. That was a subject he most definitely did not want to discuss. He did not want to hear the name John Robie. Would he ever escape his father’s ghost?

Not likely
, he thought. When Hitchcock makes a movie about your father’s life, people don’t tend to forget that sort of thing. If Templeton even breathed the words “To catch a thief . . .” Jack really couldn’t be held responsible for what would come next.

“What about the Fabergé quest?” Templeton asked. “Have you stopped caring about that? Jack, you had an honorable cause once. I know it’s in you. Caliga is still out there, you know.”

The Fabergé quest.
Caliga
. Jack took another sip of his whiskey to wash away the sudden bitterness that flooded his mouth. Last time he had seen anyone connected with Caliga Rapio was when one of their agents had been speeding away from a villa in Monaco, the stolen Fabergé in his possession.

At the time, Jack had been sure it meant the Gifts of the Magi were now in the hands of Caliga. And that was bad news for everyone. The Gifts contained power, and the last thing the world needed was a ruthless organization like Caliga Rapio wielding even more power than they already possessed. Of course, Jack and Wesley had later learned that the Fabergé only contained two of the three Gifts, that the Gold was missing. Which meant they still had a chance.

“I’m sure Wesley has things under control. He doesn’t need me.”

“Listen, Jack,” said Templeton, “we can see you’re floundering. You have been for quite a while. It’s time you joined us. It’s your destiny—surely you can see that?”

“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but I’m perfectly fine. I don’t need to join you, or any other criminal underworld organization. Hell, I don’t even need the FBI.”

“You need
purpose
,” Templeton said, standing at the bar. “We can help with that.”

Jack barked, “Ha. Purpose. Says the man who works for a thief agency.”

“There’s honor in it. You know there is.”

Jack said nothing but glanced sidelong at Templeton. The older man stared into his eyes, assessing, and then nodded once.

“I see they have misjudged the situation,” Templeton said. “You are not the man you used to be, Jack. Or—more accurately, you are not the man I know you can be. I don’t think you have anything to offer AB&T now.”

Jack said nothing but held the man’s gaze. Templeton’s face softened into something that resembled pity. “You appear to have lost the plot, Jack.”

Jack nodded. “Fine. Then that sounds like an end to this conversation. Is that all?”

Templeton picked up his umbrella. “If you get yourself straightened out, when you return to who you are, consider looking us up.”

Jack ran his tongue over his teeth and scooped up his whiskey, turning away from Templeton and heading back to the poker table.

 

T
he flight was uneventful, and I yawned as we landed at Heathrow, stretching the airplane kinks out of my neck. Muffled announcements sounded overhead as I stood in the concourse waiting for my luggage to come down the carousel. As I tried to shake off the sleepy feeling, someone walked up behind me.

“Well, well. Miss Montgomery. Fancy seeing you here.” The accent placed him instantly. Not to mention the tone: pure hatred.

I turned, trying to conceal my alarm, and stared into the face of Ludolf Hendrickx. Interpol agent.

“Hello, Hendrickx,” I said mildly. “How nice to see you again.”

“Is it? Hmm.”

I tried for a smile. “Forgive me, but I need to keep watch for my suitcase,” I said, turning back to face the carousel.

My brain was churning. Was he here for me? Did he somehow know what I was up to? This couldn’t possibly be coincidence.

“So what brings you to the UK, Miss Montgomery? Holiday? Business?”

“Oh, visiting some old relatives.”

“Really? I didn’t know you had family here.” His tone stretched taut.

The last time I saw Hendrickx we were standing beside the Seine in Paris. And not one but two official agents—one French Secret Service, the other FBI—had provided me with a rock-solid alibi to explain my behavior.

And the behavior in question was the successful pilfering of the Hope Diamond from the Louvre.

Hendrickx knew I was guilty, and the look on his face at the time had been unforgettable: a toxic cocktail of rage and frustration at having his prize kept from him. Like a dog on a chain that was a few inches too short.

“Oh, I think I see my bag over there,” I lied, desperate to get away. “It was nice seeing you again, Hendrickx.” I moved to the other side of the carousel, deliberately positioning myself behind a large post, out of his line of sight.

My stomach flip-flopped. I stared at the slowly rotating baggage carousel, thinking things through.

A man cleared his throat. “Oh, there you are,” he said. Hendrickx again. “Not your suitcase after all, I suppose?” I turned my head to smile at him.

“My mistake.”

He smiled back—a foreign expression on his usually stone-cold face. “You know, Miss Montgomery, I was wondering—have you seen Esmerelda lately?” he asked, feigning innocence. “I would be curious to hear if you two are working on any interesting cases together. Perhaps Interpol can be of assistance?”

Esmerelda was the French secret service agent who had bailed me out in Paris. Last I’d seen her, we’d been talking about the Fabergé egg and the long-lost Gifts of the Magi. More specifically, the missing Gold. She’d said she would be in touch if my assistance was needed, if the Gifts or the Gold or the Fabergé had been located. But Esmerelda hadn’t only been French Secret Service. She also worked for an even more covert organization: the DOA. The Department of Antiquities.

That had been three months ago; I’d heard nothing from her since. “No, I haven’t been in contact with Esmerelda lately. I’m sure she’s quite busy.”

He nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

I turned back to the carousel and did my best to keep my face smooth as I scanned the bags. I tightened my leg muscles so hard I developed leg cramps. Where was that damn suitcase? I needed to get out of there.

At that moment, Hendrickx leaned in closer. “Cut the shit, Montgomery,” he hissed in my ear. “I know you are a crook.” His tone was as warm and pleasant as a junkyard dog. “Why everyone keeps covering for you, I have no idea. I
know you
, though. And I am going to be watching you very carefully. You will eventually make a mistake. And I’ll be right there when you do.”

I took a second to gather myself. “Hendrickx, you are confusing me,” I said in a calm, smooth voice. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about. I think you’ve been misinformed in some way. But I can assure you, I’m no crook.”

He stared at me, eyes smoldering. He was taking this personally. But I was sure he didn’t have anything concrete on me. He wouldn’t be issuing vague threats if he had any cause to arrest me right now. He was just trying to intimidate me.

It was working.

This was going to be a big problem, and I needed to deal with it. But first, I had to ditch him. I spotted my navy blue suitcase coming down the carousel but I remained motionless, waiting for it to come to me and formulating a plan.

I looked at my phone, but really I was looking all around me using my peripherals. I didn’t see anyone else who seemed interested in what I was doing. Hendrickx must be working alone.

I swiftly grabbed my suitcase off the carousel and started walking away.

“Good luck with everything, Hendrickx. I wish you well,” I said over my shoulder, striding in the opposite direction. Would he let me walk away? Not likely.

It was time to enact a fourth-degree shake-off.

We were on the ground floor, arrivals level. I walked toward the elevators. I knew Hendrickx was hovering several feet behind, following me. I paused near an elevator, not pushing the button, but pretending to search in my purse for something. I was close enough to the elevator to make it a possibility that I would get on, but not so close that he’d be sure. I was holding him off, making him wait and watch for my next move.

When the elevator doors opened, I didn’t get in right away. I let everyone else go first, pretending to be absorbed hunting deep within my purse. I counted silently in my head, waiting for the last possible second.

The instant before the doors closed, I darted in. As they slid shut, I caught a glimpse of Hendrickx, on the move, surprised and annoyed at my sudden maneuver.

As soon as I was inside the elevator, I started changing my appearance. I slipped on the wig that I always carried in my purse. I took off my jacket and stuffed it inside my bag. I ignored the peculiar looks darting my way from my fellow passengers. Possibly they might give a report to Security later, but that wouldn’t matter, once I was far from here.

I grabbed a pair of running shoes from my suitcase and swapped them for my Jimmy Choos, jamming my feet into them without tying the laces, and stuffing the pumps into my carry-on. Finally, I transformed my convertible suitcase. I quickly retracted the wheels and unzipped the compartment that held the backpack straps. I heaved it onto my back. I glanced at my appearance in the elevator mirror. Totally transformed.

I rode the elevator all the way up to the top, the third floor. No doubt Hendrickx had grabbed the next elevator going up, so I didn’t have much time.

The doors binged and opened to the top floor. But I didn’t get off. Instead I kept riding it all the way back down to the ground floor. This would only buy me a short amount of time. But with a little luck, that’s all I would need.

On the ground floor there was no sign of Hendrickx. He must have gone up the other elevator, as I’d hoped.

I walked quickly out of the airport without making it look like I was hurrying. The key was to not move your legs faster, but to lengthen your stride. Even a small increase in stride length will move you across a room much faster, without looking like you’re in a rush.

Glass doors parted with a
swish
, leading to the exit. Outside, in the gray London drizzle, horns honked and shiny black cabs jostled for position. My heart sank at the length of the taxi queue. It would only be a matter of time before Hendrickx figured out I wasn’t on the upper floor.

I scanned the possible targets, and my gaze landed on the perfect candidate. Second in line was a young woman of eighteen or nineteen looking every inch the gap year neophyte. She sported a brand-new backpack with a Canadian flag stitched onto it, a London guidebook, and a terrified expression.
Perfect.

I quickly adjusted my appearance, pulling the hair of my wig into a more youthful ponytail, and adjusted the pitch of my voice slightly higher, slightly younger-sounding, and then approached her. “Hi—you’re from Canada? Me, too!”

She was stunned a moment, staring at me, and then grinned widely, like we were long-lost cousins.

“Do you know where you’re going?” I continued, in a bewildered and confidential tone. “I just landed in London, and I’ve never been here before.”

Relief washed over her face. “Same here!” she breathed. “I have no idea.”

“I’m kinda terrified, to be honest,” I said.

As I spoke I watched her closely and mimicked her body language—a technique well-known within confidence circles to be one of the best ways to get someone to trust you. Show them what they see in the mirror.

I gradually moved closer, inching my way into the taxi lineup. “Listen, I have the name of a hostel my sister’s boyfriend gave me,” I said. “He told me it’s a great base for backpackers so I thought I’d head there, but I’m not sure how to get there . . .”

“Do you want to share a cab?” she said quickly.

I smiled and joined the queue beside her.

Within three minutes, we were climbing into a large, glossy cab. As I slid into the seat, I glanced over my shoulder inside the airport. On the other side of the sliding glass doors I caught a glimpse of Hendrickx. Hissing into a cell phone, looking furious, savagely scanning the foyer. Before he could look out to the cab queue, we were gone.

Now I needed to get myself to Yorkshire, somehow.

A flight would be way too high-profile, too trackable. Ground transport was less regulated, less closely monitored. The train was the obvious choice.

I pulled out my phone and glanced at my new Canadian friend, feeling a twinge of guilt. With one quick message I booked her a room at the Savoy in London and paid for it on my scrambled, un-trackable account. I’d make an excuse and hop out at King’s Cross train station, and give the cabbie instructions. Treating her to a couple of nights in a swank hotel was the least I could do.

I leaned back into the slippery seat of the cab and exhaled. My relief only lasted a few moments before an uncomfortable twist settled in my stomach. I’d evaded Hendrickx this time. Would I be able to repeat the feat next time?