Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (23 page)

“Just tired. The big chase today took its toll on these old bones.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ah, yes, thirty-eight, such an advanced age. My bones, my muscles are tired too. All the walking I did in Venice wasn’t the same as running. The difference in our ages was the Grand Canyon when I was a kid and you were a teenager, but now? Please.”

He leaned against the sofa back. Eyed her, his mouth tight. “Cleo, that age gap is never going away.”

“Of course not. And it’s a weak excuse I don’t buy. I wonder if you do, really.” Heat rose to her cheeks as her temper sent rash words to her mouth and coiled into a knot in her stomach. “You said from the beginning it could be only sex. Is it that I’m not too young to fuck but too young for a real relationship?”

He jackknifed up straight, his brows beetled. “Ouch. Never what I meant.”

“Sounded like it to me.” She folded her arms. “Then don’t bring up your age again. That race through the Paris streets had me huffing and puffing. You barely breathed hard.”

“I run five miles or more almost daily. I’m used to it.”

“My point exactly. Age shouldn’t be an issue. Age has nothing to do with us.”

“Cleo, you deserve a guy more your own age.”

She leaned to one side, then walked to the end of the sofa and peered behind it.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said.

“Looking for who put
you
in charge of deciding what I deserve.”

He tilted back his head and laughed, a rumble that rose from deep inside and crinkled his eyes with humor instead of stress or exhaustion. “Touché. You’ve made your point. I did it again, didn’t I?”

“If you mean running things, making my decisions, yes.”

He held up his hands. “I’ll work on that and I won’t bring up age again. Truce?”

The only likely concession. Her ire dissipated but the knot remained, as painful as the issues between them. She took a seat beside him. “Truce. So what are you finding?”

“Hard to say, but here’s what we know or think we know so far. Iranian terrorist Ahmed Yousef arranged for the theft of the exploding chip and contracted with Centaur for the Cleopatra necklace. Marco Zervas’s goons stole the necklace and some other items en route to Paris. Then he hired René Moreau to make a copy of the necklace and embed the stolen exploding chip in either the real necklace or its copy. And I doubt Yousef told him the nature of the chip.”

“You think he had René embed the chip in the copy so he could keep the real necklace. No honor among thieves and terrorists.”

“Right. But then Moreau heard rumors of others Zervas had killed. Your theory—and mine— is that he hid both necklaces in the Madame Tussauds production building on wax figures of Cleopatra.”

She nodded, pleased he believed the theory. “Maybe because he once worked creating jewelry for Madame Tussauds, he figured the necklaces would be safe on the wax figures until he could collect them.”

“Much more likely.” He handed her a yellow legal tablet. “No printer so all I have are just paper-pencil spreadsheets. The Cleopatra’s Tomb exhibit left Paris a couple of weeks ago for New York City. This is a list of all the upcoming exhibits with their dates. Madame Tussauds has fourteen museums around the world. According to the individual museum Web sites, the newest exhibit at ten of them is the Queen of the Nile. Looks like they’ve all shipped and are on exhibit.”

She thought about it. “In the workshop, the figures might not have been labeled with their destination. And what would René have known about the chip?”

“Less than Zervas. Moreau probably assumed it held government or industrial secrets. He’d have been close.” He peered at the screen image of the Cleopatra wax figure. “Odd so many Cleopatras at the same time. Her face looks familiar.”

She bent closer, momentarily distracted by his scent. As soon as she saw the dark-haired figure wearing the now infamous choker, she smiled. “No wonder. The artist modeled her features from the star of the new movie,
Queen Cleopatra
. Way different from the old films. The screenplay’s based on a new biography. That and the tomb tour are probably the reason for the multiple exhibits.”

“Hard to escape the hype about a blockbuster movie. One more complication.” He jammed fingers through his hair. “Cleo, judging from the Madame Tussauds’ Web sites, I’d say by two weeks ago, all the wax Cleopatras had left West Acton.
Before
Moreau’s trip.”

She shook her head. “His mysterious trip last week wasn’t the first. He made one two weeks before that.”

“You didn’t mention that in the meeting.”

“Everything that happened afterward knocked it from my head. I just remembered.”

“What did he say about it?”

“The same thing he said about the second trip. Something to do with an important commission.” She slumped onto the cushions. “Assume both trips were to the Merlin studio. If he took the necklaces and hid them on the first trip, why did he go again?”

“Babe, we may never know. Let’s hope for some answers tomorrow from the director.”

“Thomas, no matter where the necklaces are now, more important is identifying Yousef’s target. And stopping Zervas.”

“But Zervas doesn’t have an idea where the necklaces might be so he can’t deliver his commission to Yousef. Thwarting the terrorist plot and dismantling the Centaur syndicate are jobs for the CTF or one of their national law enforcement bodies. The Cleopatra necklace is
my
priority, whether or not finding it leads to Marco Zervas.”

“Because stealing such an ancient treasure is stealing history.”

“You remembered. Yes, its cultural value is infinitely greater than its gold and precious stones.”

“If we find the necklaces, we find the stolen chip. Won’t Agent Hunt want our cooperation for that search?”

“Makes sense to me. Del Rio’s working that angle.”

“If Yousef is pressuring Zervas to produce the necklaces, he must have an impending deadline.” On a sigh, she blinked away the exhaustion hitting her hard. “Any ideas on that?”

When he looked up from the tablet, his expression was grim. He tapped the screen and text appeared. “One, yes. Here’s a press release from the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art about the Cleopatra’s Tomb exhibit. They’re announcing a gala reception to open the exhibit, with two honored guests.”

“Two.” she said. “Two high-profile targets for the price of one?”

“Right.” He turned the screen toward her.

Cleo inhaled sharply when she saw the guests’ names. “The U.S. Secretary of State and the President of Iran. The gala happens in five days.”

“Ka-ching.” He picked up his phone.

West Acton, London

THOMAS STOOD BY
while Lucas Del Rio presented the Madame Tussauds production director their identification.

The middle-aged Brit looked up from the photo IDs and gave them each the once-over, his gaze lingering a bit longer on Cleo, at Thomas’s side. And no wonder, in a knee-length black skirt and a tight tee and with her russet hair flowing across her shoulders, she was spectacular.

“All seems to be in order,” Walter Percival said, returning the IDs. “Just as Scotland Yard said. Corporate has instructed me to assist you. What is it exactly you need?” His unctuous smile struck Thomas as false. The man clearly wanted them gone. He could just be a self-important prick or he had something to hide.

Thomas noticed the receptionist straining to listen to their conversation. “I’ll explain further in your office.”

Percival’s eyes narrowed behind his blue-framed glasses. “Very well. Follow me.”

Shoulders stiff with resentment, he led them from the nondescript reception area through a door labeled Workshops.

“He’ll take some persuading,” Lucas murmured.

They passed through a high-ceilinged, airy space that resembled an aircraft hangar but with partitioned workspaces where artists were shaping the heads of new figures amid smells of warm wax and plaster.

Cleo’s eyes lit up. She winked at Thomas, then scurried ahead to catch up with the director. “Mr. Percival, is this the famous Madame Tussauds design studio?” she gushed, slipping her arm through his.

Percival’s pale cheeks flushed the color of cooked shrimp. “Oh, well, yes, this is where our artists and artisans create the figures, Miss, um...”

“Call me Cleo.” Megawatt smile. “You must be a busy man, but if you’re not too rushed, I’d love a tour.”

The director’s shoulders relaxed. He leaned closer to Cleo and pointed out a sculpture in progress and described the process. The artist was working from photographs on the head of Churchill for a World War II exhibit but many living celebrities posed for the artists. At each studio cubicle, she softened up Percival with her enthusiasm and perceptive questions. His chest expanded with pride.

Not hiding something. Pompous and self-important. Thomas chuckled.
Cleo Chandler, Secret Weapon.

By the time the foursome reached the director’s office, Percival couldn’t wait to assist them. He ushered Cleo to the most comfortable seat by his expansive desk. Thomas took a straight chair nearby and Lucas pulled up a folding chair. Cleo crossed her legs and let her shoe dangle from her shapely foot. Her expectant smile held the director in thrall.

Percival propped his elbows beside his desktop computer and steepled his fingers. He smiled, warmly at her—too warmly, but Thomas let it go. “Cleo—and gentlemen—I’m not sure how I can help you about some stolen item. None of the Tussauds employees could be involved in nefarious business.”

“We have no information any Tussauds employees are involved,” Thomas said. “First, are any of the wax figures of Cleopatra still here, in West Acton?”

“None. All are either on exhibit or waiting on the museum site for their unveiling.”

Del Rio’s metal chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Scotland Yard tells me you reported a couple of break-ins. Tell us about that.”

The dates coincided with René Moreau’s clandestine visits. Thomas watched for the director’s reaction.

Percival colored, flustered. He looked to Cleo, who nodded in encouragement. “Our security system serves us well but on two occasions someone overrode the alarms during the night. I alerted the police but nothing was missing so they didn’t pursue the matter.”

“But did you or anyone here notice anything odd, out of place or changed?”

Percival’s eyes widened. He opened a desk drawer. “Curious you should mention it. A few days after the first break-in, a cleaner found these stowed behind a heating unit.”

He laid on the desk two necklaces, high gold-toned chokers bearing a cape studded with jewels. The overhead lights glinted off the dazzling stones.

Cleo sucked in a breath. Then her gaze sharpened as she peered more closely. She lifted each choker in turn. Shook her head.

Thomas grimaced.
Glitter but not gold
. “Mr. Percival?”

“These were created here to replicate the original found in Queen Cleopatra’s tomb. Our jewelry designers had to work from photographs, you understand, because by then the real artifact had been stolen,” the director said, as if excusing the lack of authenticity. “When none of the museums reported missing necklaces, I sent a memo to the jewelry designers about the matter, urging them to take more care discarding prototypes.”

Probably fearing he’d be accused of theft if he was caught with them, Moreau had hidden the paste after replacing them with his copy and the real choker. “We’d like you to phone the museums with Cleopatra figures. Speak only to trusted employees.” Thomas tapped the paste necklaces. “Ask them to check if the necklaces in their museums are heavier than these.
Much heavier
.”

Percival cocked his head, his mind obviously making the connection. “Heavier, like real gold. You mean, like the stolen, the real—”

“Right. This is all confidential, Mr. Percival. I hope you understand the sensitivity involved.”

“Certainly, certainly. But that’s ten museums. All those phone calls. I’m a busy man. I could e-mail them.”

Thomas shook his head. “We don’t have that kind of time.”

Cleo cleared her throat. “Thomas, don’t I remember a reward for aiding in the recovery of Cleopatra’s necklace?”

“Reward, ah, yes.” So far neither he nor the insurance company had offered a reward but why the hell not. He pulled an amount out of the air.

The amount of cash scrolled across Percival’s keen gaze. He swallowed, hard, twice, his Adam’s apple nearly bounding out of his throat. He furiously tapped computer keys. “Ah, it appears possible to rearrange my schedule so I can make those calls.”

***

Crystal City, Virginia

Max Rivera watched with satisfaction as Arlington police officers led away the man in the DSF green security uniform. Plastic cuffs bound his hands.

Several employees including other security officers stood by, relief obvious on their faces. The tension that had pervaded the company ever since the lockdown seemed to leave the building along with the guilty party. Had he fought this for only a few days? Seemed like a year.

“Show’s over, y’all.” Max pivoted on his crutches to head back to the office.

As the gawkers scattered, Mara Marton headed toward him.

“Epic, Max! You got the hacker.” She bumped fists with him. “Wait. Was that Dinkins?” The recognition crimped her forehead into a frown.

“Ed Dinkins. Same guy who dissed your fiancé last May.” He thought back to Devlin’s cold wrath at the security guard’s mistreatment of an invited guest.

“Mr. Devlin slashed his pay grade,” she said. “The reason I put him on the list I gave you of possible turncoats. But I didn’t think he had the skills.”

“He doesn’t. He’s not the actual hacker. Just his mole. One of Gaspar’s IT geeks figured out he inserted the malware with a USB drive. Too basic a tech level for most of the DSF staff. Dumb sumbitch bragged to a couple guys about a big windfall, he’s driving a new Lexus, and he stowed the drive in his employee locker.”

“Revenge and money. Big motivators.”

“And tend to inflate arrogance over brains.” He grinned as Mara accompanied him into the elevator. “The state of Virginia, the Feds, and whatever European country is involved will wrestle each other for a piece of these crooks. Dinkins is looking at misdemeanor and felony charges that’ll probably net him ten years in this country alone.”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. And the malware?” She punched the button for their floor.

“Mostly cleaned up. Having the USB drive with the code sped up the process. I just notified the boss Gaspar has blocked and locked out Zervas’s computer genius.”

On the executive offices level, they passed through the reception area on the way to Devlin’s office. Max nodded to the admin, who was on the phone.

“All this is good news.” Mara took one of the upholstered chairs in front of the big desk. “I can return to business as usual. But I doubt it’s why I’m here. Why did you summon me, my liege?” She performed a hand flourish.

“I do like the sound of that, but you’re the only one who gives me my due respect.” He sank onto the desk chair and propped his crutches against the wall. The aroma of fresh French Roast came from the tray at his elbow. He poured the fragrant brew from a carafe into two mugs. “Or are you off coffee altogether?”

“Not when it’s the good stuff.” She stirred in cream and sweetener. “I didn’t know Francine stocked anything but Mr. Devlin’s tea. Looks like she’s joined your fan club.”

“I must be doing something right.” He inhaled the steam from his mug. “Here’s the thing. Thomas needs the expert used for the Cleopatra necklace sent to the Big Apple. Sunday. For an authentication. Strict secrecy.”

Mara leaned forward, her eyes bright with excitement, to take the note he slid toward her. “The Met. Way too amazing. Oh, yeah, I can set that up. No problem. I’ll get on it right away.”

Max stood when she did but whacked his cast against the desk. “Damn. No business as usual for me until this damn leg is healed. But Thomas should return by Monday so I can turn over the reins. All this decision making gives me headaches.”

Ringing announced he had a call. “If it’s the boss, he might need you to do more.” When he saw the phone screen, his shoulders fell. “Text message with more instructions, but for me. Shit, he meant he’s coming back to the country, but not to this desk. He needs time to wrap up his case.”

The corners of her exotic eyes crinkled. “Looks like you get to keep the corner office and Francine’s French Roast for a while longer,
amigo
.”

***

Andie Devlin checked her hair in the bathroom mirror, then hurried to the condo kitchen. Almost six p.m. For once in her life, she was ready on time.

She dropped her keys in the new red handbag she’d bought to celebrate. In the old days she’d have scored oxycodone or some worse shit. Hell, in the old days she’d have had nothing to celebrate.

The ringing of the house phone made her jump. Damn, was Frank canceling on her? Figured. But the number on the small screen was her brother’s. Again.

Ring.

She gnawed on her lower lip. Doc Olsen kept ragging on her about talking to him. “
Have you talked to your brother yet?”
she’d say almost as often as Thomas called. And he’d called every day since he left, sometimes more than once.

Ring.

Now that she had news—good news—maybe she could answer. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

Ring.

She reached for the receiver. Yanked back her hand.

“Hey, Andie, sorry I missed you,”
Her brother’s smooth, deep voice began as voicemail kicked in.
“I want to give you a heads-up. You might see Cleo and me on the news Monday—”

Andie needed to hear no more. She snatched up the receiver and punched the button to cancel the message. “Thomas, I’m here.”

“Andie, oh, kid,” he said, his voice burlap rough, maybe with shock—and no wonder. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

She swallowed, breathed. Clutched the receiver with both hands. “What’s this about the news with Cleo? Cleo Chandler,
that
Cleo?”

“That Cleo. A complicated story. I’ll tell you the long version later. The condensed version is this. Her father sent me to protect her. A gang of criminals think she has the necklace from Cleopatra’s tomb.”

Gang. Necklace.
“What are you talking— Facebook. The picture she posted?”

“Right. We’re on the trail of the necklace. There’ll be a press conference in New York. I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”

Too late. “Good. That’s good. Thanks. And Cleo’s okay?”

“She’s fine. I’ll make sure she’s safe. We’re together.”

Together? But—
Before she could voice the questions flying through her brain, he spoke again.

“Andie, I’ve been concerned about you, but I didn’t want to crowd you. Is everything all right there?”

He didn’t sound like the domineering brother she’d accused him of being. He sounded caring and warm. The tension inside her eased.
Now, tell him now.
“Better than all right. You mean you don’t know?”

A pause. “Know what? What are you talking about? Was Dr. Olsen supposed to tell me something?”

He doesn’t know. No tails, no phone taps?
She’d been paranoid, and all this time he’d kept his promise. He’d offered his trust but she hadn’t trusted him. She swallowed hard.

“Tommy, I— You wondered what I did all day before my shift at the bar, right?” She didn’t wait for his response, needing to let it all out in a rush before a panic attack shut her down. “I’ve been going to school for two years. Yeah, I know, I
hate
school. But I made it through. In May I finished the degree in social work I started a long time ago. As of yesterday I have a job at the Arlington Family Services Clinic. With only a B.S., I have to work under supervision but I’ll be doing something important—working with families of kids who screwed up their lives with drugs. Kids like me. I start in two weeks.”