Counterfeit Conspiracies (13 page)

"So who coshed us over the head? Any more bad guys pursuing you?" Jack finally broke the silence, his words said in a teasing sort of way, but I noticed the weight in his eyes. He was serious. And he was right.

"Yeah, it was a little too anonymous for Weasel or Werewolf. Maybe you have unknown bad guys after you. Who's to say I didn't get caught in your crossfire?" I couldn't help it. Even though I acknowledged his hypothesis was as valid as my own, bravado was my middle name. "More likely, however, we were both in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the lumps we received were because we came between Jones and his killer. We just arrived before the victim, and the killer hadn't enough time to get rid of us more permanently."

"Small favors."

I didn't have the energy to offer any sarcasm.

Our cab surged with traffic through the darkened streets, and the buildings on either side made me feel closed in and sleepy. I didn't know how much of the feeling was due to my possible concussion and how much was just growing exhaustion from not enough sleep and too many repeated attacks. When he shined his light in my eyes, the tech said my pupils looked good, but warned I should have someone around all night to wake me periodically. I longed to be in a nice warm bed. It seemed like years since I'd slept, and my head hurt. Now I needed a keeper, too, but I didn't plan to give Jack the honors. Nico was first choice, but I required a modicum of privacy to contact him, even by text, and side-by-side in a cab with Hawkes did not meet those requirements.

Nico hadn't contacted me since he left for Mayfair. We needed intel, but I needed my friend more, and my concern for his welfare grew by the minute. Getting another co-worker caught in Moran's web was something I couldn't risk. Okay, yes, I was assuming Simon had been spirited away by Moran. Thanks to Jack I'd learned Weasel and Werewolf were under the evil-monger's command, too, and were out to snatch me. So what else could I think?

Jack acted like he wanted to be a part of my alliance, but he had a lot of proving to do first.

I had more information than before—and more people after me. That morning I'd thought Jack my only worry.

Worse, I was positive he heard the word Jones said, but he wouldn't share if he knew what I thought it all meant. Did he not know what I knew? Or was he fishing to see how much I'd already learned?

We were only a few blocks from the hotel when he said, "I think I caught a glimpse of someone in the shadows watching what was going on when we found Jones. But I didn't see well enough to recognize the person as anything more than a shadow."

"So we have nothing."

"Perhaps." Jack shrugged. "However, I did get the medical tech to admit your contusion was more pronounced than mine. Meaning you were probably hit harder than I was. Any other person pose a threat to you?"

"Right now, Hawkes, you're my only threat." I didn't add that his head was probably thicker than mine, but the grin he shot my way said he knew I was thinking it, too.

"Your words cut me, Laurel."

"I don't see you bleeding." I shook my head. "No, I'm sorry. I just don't want to start seeing threats where none exist." My instincts told me to measure what he said against what could be his actual goal. I didn't have the luxury of keeping him at arm's length right then, but I didn't have to wholeheartedly believe him either. "Another dead guy—what is different about this job?"

"
Another
dead guy? How many have you discovered so far?"

Ugh! I hadn't found out if he knew about the guy on the toilet from last night. Italy seemed weeks away, even if it was barely twenty-six hours past. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. Now I had to figure out a way to do clean up. "Figure of speech. You know, another day, another dead body."

Hawkes reached over and caught my chin, turning my face so he could look into my eyes. "I don't believe you, Laurel."

"What can I say? You need to be more trusting, Jack."

The cab drew to the curb, and Hawkes grabbed my elbow. He handed a fistful of pound notes to the cabbie, then hustled me out of the vehicle and into the hotel. Soft music played in the lobby, and the carpet felt thick under my boots. What I wouldn't have given right then for a firm bed and a long night's sleep. Instead, we headed for the bar. Jack hung his leather jacket on the back of his chair. I pulled the Prada into my lap.

Under the dim lights, we probably looked like just another hook-up, especially when Jack ordered us both a scotch, then grinned at me and leaned close. Except he showed too many teeth.

"What other body did you stumble over? I truly need to know."

"Really, I—"

"Laurel."

It was the tone of voice. I knew right then that something about the MI-6 story was true because he knew the same tone my contacts at the CIA and FBI were trained to use whenever someone was holding back information. A little trust was in order. I couldn't see I had much choice if I wanted to be able to slip away later to reach Nico.

"The
castillo.
Last night. I was there to make a pick-up, but someone apparently wanted the object more."

Jack blew out a breath. "The Greek?"

I pulled up my Prada and waded through the contents until I found the picture Nico provided. "This guy."

He stared at the photo and nodded. "He was found in a back alley this morning. Victim of a robbery. Throat slit."

"The robbery and the slit throat were right, but I found him bleeding in one of the bathrooms."

"Of the
castillo
?"

I nodded. "About nine o'clock. Just before you found me in the ballroom and hustled me onto the balcony."

"Ah, no wonder you were wary of my attentions."

"Well, you had been kind of a tick to my backside all night."

"I was told to follow you. My intention was to get a look at the snuffbox, and examine it before the handoff. The authenticity of the object was in question, and at the same time, the true purpose of the snuffbox and the handoff shot up red flags. I was sent in to try to get confirmation either way. I've been following you since to get another chance at the object."

"Someone thinks the snuffbox was a fake?"

"A possibility."

"I never got it. We left without the snuffbox." I looked at the clock over the bar. Nearly one o'clock. "I jumped over the balcony wall after you were pulled away for the card game. Both Nico and I left empty-handed."

"We know that now. Doesn't mean I'm not still interested in keeping you alive. You're associated with the snuffbox, and we had word of a micro drive hidden inside that contains plans for a major art heist in the coming months, at some facility within her majesty's borders. We still need to learn if there even is a micro drive, and if so, where it is now. Frankly, given everything that has happened, it wouldn't surprise me to learn the entire operation was an impromptu way to get you safely tucked away in an Italian jail and out of the picture until you could prove your innocence."

"Have someone murdered just so I can't go after Simon and the sword? Me framed for the murder?"

"It's only theory at this juncture, but given the disturbing communiqués we've all received in the past months—the red herrings if you will—it is a credible presumption."

Okay, that was a frightening scenario. "How does Moran tie into this?"

"Art is not the only thing used to build the man's economic empire. Selling information to perpetrate new art theft would bring a substantial sum."

"And how big is this micro drive?"

He took my right hand in his and captured the pinky. "About the size of this lovely fingernail."

"So you believe Moran is behind all of this?" I asked, pulling my hand free as I tried to get my head around the implications Jack presented. My question didn't even slow him down.

"The art theft itself is serious, Laurel. You've told me about the bogus messages you've received at the most inopportune times, and they mirror the type sent to me and others in the business. If this heist is a valid concern, it most likely must be perpetrated by more than Moran's team of thieves. Now Simon's disappearance linked to the sword is upping the ante. Especially after the murder in Italy, even if the micro drive was never secreted in the snuffbox."

I counted off on my fingers. "Moran could have Simon, and the sword, and the snuffbox. He may have ordered the murder of the Greek, whether to frame me or not."

"Yes, sadly the Greek was expendable. That's the story I'm hearing from the field. Until we know the truth about the drive and the purported plans it held, we're only hypothesizing over the reason for the murder. Regardless, the action puts an even more frightening spin on things. A spin I have to stop."

I caught my breath, and made my face a mask. What had I gotten myself into? How badly did Jack really want that snuffbox?

He realized his mistake and placed a hand on mine, for once not hanging on so tightly I couldn't run. But I didn't flee. Not yet, anyway. I wanted to hear what he had to say.

"No, I didn't kill him." His expression softened. Gotta hand it to the guy, it would have been very easy to believe him. "I was just there to see if the micro drive did indeed exist. And appropriate it for Her Majesty."

"But why a physical drive, no matter how teeny-tiny, when it's so easy to send encrypted files into the cloud?" I asked. "If someone wanted to share the plans, why saddle oneself with the limits of moving the info by physical drive?"

"Good question. Control, maybe?"

Maybe. Or maybe the whole thing was another round of storytelling BS I had to wade through just to keep on-track to find Simon and the sword. Like those damned story math problems, where you had all the extra information you didn't really need, but you had to read all of it then sort out only the information that led to the answer. Those stupid math problems made my head hurt, and whatever this job was turning into seemed to be equally frustrating.

I killed my scotch. "I need to freshen up a bit. Getting knocked out in an alley is hell on a hairstyle. Order me a Cuba libre without the rum, and I'll be right back."

"One Coke it is." He raised an eyebrow. "Can I trust you not to run off?"

"Jack, if there's one thing I've learned in the last twenty-four hours, it's that I need all the help I can get with this thing. Your latest revelation puts a finer point on everything I thought I knew and now believe. Besides, you've proven yourself by telling me about the plans, the drive and the snuffbox. And the scenario that kept me out of an Italian jail. God! What a day this has been."

I pointed to a corner near the front entrance. "The restroom is over there, to the right of the big flower bouquet. I've been to this hotel before. I'll barely be out of your sight."

His shoulders told the tale, as I watched his muscles visibly relax beneath his cotton shirt. He was as exhausted from all of this as I was. I counted on that.

"Be careful."

"I always am."

He headed to the bar to place the order, and I strode back through the lobby, veering to my right and the alcove holding the restrooms. As I stepped onto the hallway's patterned carpet, I glanced over my shoulder. I saw him turn to the bartender and take his eyes off me. Time to make my move. Changing course, I quick-stepped out the glass entrance. There was a shout—well, more like a bellow—when he noticed my detour. Too late. The doorman finished helping a couple out of a cab and I jumped in. I watched the uniformed arm slam the door just as Hawkes barreled onto the sidewalk.

"Hurry please. Entrance to St. Pancras International Station," I told the cabbie. I hit the door locks as Jack reached for the handle on my side. "I need to get away from this man."

"Oy, miss, will do." The cabbie pulled into traffic. "Persistent bloke, that one."

"Yes, it's his trademark."

As we drove, I pulled out Cassie's phone. Nothing from Nico. To keep from stewing about his silence, I called Cassie.

"Laurel! Are you alright?"

I frowned. "Yes. I thought I'd have to leave a messa—"

"I've left the phone on ever since I saw the last news report," she said.

"What news?"

"A murder at the docklands. The reporter said a British man and blonde American woman were interviewed, but had no details. I didn't know if you were in danger."

"No more than usual." I sighed. "Look, I know it's late—well, early morning, actually—but can you meet me at St. Pancras Station? I'm on my way there now." Suddenly I remembered the plethora of CCTV cameras working around every Tube station. "Oh, and do you have a hat or cap I can borrow? Maybe a pair of glasses, too?"

"What?"

"I'll explain later, I promise." The driver didn't need any additional entertainment at my expense, so explaining to Cassie how Jack tracked me earlier, and how I was subsequently trying to avoid anyone recognizing my digital image seemed a little chancy in the cab.

"I have a scarf. And my brother left his Chicago Cubs ball cap here when he visited last month."

"Good, bring both." I was ready to change clothes anyway, and a ball cap could be just the right topper for a casual traveler. It was all in the attitude. "And we probably need to trade back phones before I leave. It's not safe for you to keep carrying mine."

"But how safe is it for you?"

"I'll get a burner phone if necessary."

The idea seemed to satisfy her. "Okay. I'll bring all your stuff, and the borrowed stuff too. I went over the files that would open on the thumb drive. There were a couple of pieces I remembered hearing were recently stolen. And one picture, of a Raphael icon, is rumored to be counterfeit."

"That's good information to know."

"I marked which pictures by saving them all in a separate file. The rest of the file dates on the drive cover the past six months. Nothing more recent than a fortnight ago, however, except for the new file I created today."

"Perfect. Thanks, Cassie."

Traffic snarled again, and I quietly cursed.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Just traffic. We're completely stopped at the moment, so I don't know how soon I'll get to St. Pancras, but please hurry and meet me there."