Drawn in Blood (17 page)

“Hopeful y, answers.”

“What kind of answers?”

“The kind I don’t think we’re going to like.”

ARMONK, NEW YORK

The total worth of multimil ionaire Theodore Campbel ’s private art col ection was not something he publicized. Personal friends and trusted business associates were the only ones privy to the elaborate art gal ery he’d built as an adjunct wing to his twenty-acre estate, just thirty-five miles north of Manhattan.

His col ection ranged from paintings dating back to the French Renaissance to those created by the world’s greatest Impressionists, to masterpieces of the Modern age. His tastes were eclectic, and his paintings were arranged according to style, each grouping tucked in alcoves al their own. His security system was state-of-the-art, and it would take a veritable genius to crack it.

The armed team approaching the estate wasn’t foolish enough to try.

They’d chosen the time for their hit after the family’s routine had been scrutinized for weeks. From there, it was an easy decision to make.

It was a drizzly October dawn. Saturday morning at 6:45, before the sun and the joggers were up. Not that it mattered. The Campbel estate was set so far back from the road that the manor itself was virtual y invisible.

Adhering to their Saturday morning custom, Mr. and Mrs. Campbel were stil asleep, as were most of the servants, who were taking advantage of the extra few hours of rest that came with not disturbing the master and mistress. The only ones up and about were the butler, the cook, and the nanny, who was supervising the Campbel s’ six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son as they watched early morning cartoons in the den.

The four Black Eagles approached quietly. Three hid in the bushes on either side of the entranceway, ski masks pul ed over their heads and faces, weapons loaded and ready.

The leader of the team marched up to the front door. His police uniform was authentic.

He didn’t ring the bel . That would awaken the household. He simply waited until the butler was passing through the foyer. Then, he knocked—two brief, authoritative raps.

Startled, the butler came to a halt, then turned and walked over to the door. “Yes?” he asked through the intercom.

“Police,” the leader replied, keeping his tone low and his words few to hide his accented English. “Silent alarm—rear wing.” With that, he stood tal , directly in front of the video monitor so the butler could see his uniform.

The desired effect was achieved the moment he uttered the phrase “rear wing.” The butler knew what that meant—the master’s revered art col ection was in danger.

Without another word, he yanked open the door. “What alarm? The security company—”

The rest of his sentence was silenced by the spray of bul ets that blew through his chest.

On cue, the other three Black Eagles appeared, rushing inside as their leader yanked on his ski mask and stormed in behind them. By the time the cook hurried out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was, the assailants were in the den. The cook’s hands flew to her face, and she emitted a muffled shriek as she saw the butler’s crumpled body lying in the foyer, blood oozing from his chest. Inside the den, the nanny cried out in pain, as one of the gunmen dragged her away from her charges and threw her roughly onto the floor.

Two of the gunmen grabbed the two whimpering children, holding each of them in a viselike grip and pointing the MP5Ks at their heads.

“Nobody do anything stupid,” the leader instructed the terrified nanny and cook as he raised his submachine gun, shifting its aim from one woman to the other. “Or my friends blow off kids’ heads. And I use this”—he gave a slight jerk of his gun—“so you both end up like butler.” An utterly panicked silence fil ed the air, punctuated by the women’s rapid breathing and the frightened weeping of the children.

A commotion erupted upstairs, and a minute later Theodore and Leona Campbel flew into the room, their bathrobes bil owing out around them.

“What the…Oh dear God.” Theodore turned sheet white when he saw his children being held at gunpoint. Leona let out an agonized scream and flew forward, instinctively trying to reach her beloved children and get them out of danger.

“Stop,” the armed leader commanded, turning his subgun on Leona. “One more step and I kil kids.”

Theodore caught his wife and pul ed her back. “Don’t hurt them,” he implored. “Take whatever you want. Just don’t hurt our children.”

“Is up to you. Do as we say, no one gets hurt. Give us trouble, and your wife has good time watching us shoot kids. No send alarm. No cal cops. Otherwise, kids wil be dead before first cop car gets to house. You understand?”

“Yes,” Theodore agreed.

“Good. Let’s go.” He nudged Theodore with his MP5K, forcing him into the hal . One of the other Black Eagles pushed the nanny and cook into chairs and tied them up back-to-back. Leona he sat directly in front of her children, stil being held at gunpoint, and bound her arms behind her and her ankles together.

“Now what?” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“You wait.”

The rest went like clockwork. Twenty minutes later, a dozen invaluable paintings were careful y wrapped in the back of their van, and they were on their way to the docks.

The exchange would be made there. And the ship and its new cargo would be in international waters before noon.

The haul was a fine initiation of their American enterprise.

Wal ace opened his midtown gal ery earlier than usual that day. He’d stayed at his Hamptons estate last night. But he’d never gone to sleep. Instead, he’d sat up al night, staring at the paintings he so loved, and drinking his cognac.

He’d gotten a phone cal on his private, unlisted line just before midnight. He knew who it was. And he knew he had to answer—for good or for bad.

This time it was for good.

There was another Renoir about to become available. And not just any Renoir. One that he’d coveted forever. It literal y took his breath away, and infused a semblance of life back into his soul.

He
had
to have that painting.

But, stolen or not, the asking price was $900,000—10 percent of the $9 mil ion it would be worth hanging in a museum or at a col ector’s estate.

He had only a week to come up with the money. That would mean liquidating a substantial chunk of his assets. And with his art partnership under such close scrutiny by the FBI, it was bound to raise red flags.

There had to be another way. He’d racked his brain al night, trying to come up with an answer. But it always came back to the same thing—the only way to bring in a large sum of money without arousing suspicion was to sel at least four or five of his more valuable paintings. That was cal ed business, and no one could question its legitimacy.

As he drove into Manhattan, the sun barely peeking up over the horizon, a solution occurred to him. True, he’d dropped off the radar of the financial industry the day he’d left investment banking. Many of his former col eagues had forgotten he ever existed. But others had stayed in touch—especial y those who were fel ow patrons of the arts. He saw them at the Met, at MoMA, and at art auctions at both Sotheby’s and Christie’s. They al knew of Sophie’s tragic death and how hard Wal ace had taken his enormous personal loss. And they sympathized with—if not understood—his need to leave the demanding world of high finance and to reinvest his sizable assets in the less stressful arena of acquiring and overseeing his own art gal eries.

In their minds, he was a semiretired rich guy with no dependents and very few financial obligations. That would work in his favor. There was no way he could compromise his reputation by going to them and asking for monetary assistance. But he could certainly invite them to an exhibit at his Manhattan gal ery, and then let nature take its course.

A philanthropic gesture; a festive wine-and-cheese hour; and a beautiful, talented, and charismatic woman—one who reminded him so much of…

No. He couldn’t go there now. He had to think of the gala scenario he’d just conjured up.

Al the components added up to money. Lots of it.

The more Wal ace mul ed over the idea, the more he liked it.

He would introduce Cindy Liu to the highbrow world she was so eager to meet. And he’d do it by hosting a party at his gal ery.

Cindy wasn’t surprised when she received the phone cal . She was gratified that Wal ace Johnson had taken the bait so quickly. It was the first step toward success. Her
A Sook
was going to be so pleased.

She was looking forward to the lunch later today that Wal ace had invited her to, so they could compare schedules and select a date for her debut party.

This enemy of her uncle’s was turning out to be an easy mark.

Rich was almost finished packing his bag and making final arrangements for his flight to Munich, when the phone rang.

It was Jane Brennan, coordinator of the art-theft program at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.

The news she had for Rich was startling. He listened careful y, taking notes as he did.

This heist was a shocker. Not the method, but the venue. Right here in the States. Rich had seen these Eurasian art-theft rings blast their way through art-rich countries in Europe, Asia, and Scandinavia.

But striking on American soil was an anomaly.

To begin with, traveling here would be a major risk. They’d have to be wel funded and extremely wel paid, not to mention armed with detailed plans, to make this daring act worth their while. There was no way they could pul this off on their own. Someone would have to be masterminding it.

An improbable scenario—one that made Rich suspect that the Armonk heist was a copycat crime. Wel executed and grisly, but a copycat nonetheless.

On the other hand, the method, the timing, the Slavic accents, the violence, and most of al , the end goal—it was either one hel of a copycat or it was the real deal. And if it was the latter, he was operating with a whole new set of rules.

Rich hung up with Jane and abandoned his packing. The Armonk police were at the victims’ estate, interviewing them in quiet seclusion, far from the media’s eye. Theodore and Leona Campbel were in shock, as was the entire staff. But the Campbel s were acutely traumatized, having just experienced the horror of watching masked kil ers hold guns to their children’s heads after murdering their butler and terrorizing their staff.

It was time for Rich to get the information he needed to see what the Art Crime Team was up against.

Sloane spent a fair amount of time poking around, asking questions that she hoped would shed light on her suspicions that something was out of whack with regard to the burglary at her parents’ apartment.

Armed with few facts and lots of supposition, she went down to the FBI’s New York Field Office.

After going through security and being escorted up to the twenty-second floor, she made her way over to Derek’s desk.

“Wel , hi.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “When they cal ed from downstairs to say you were here to see me, I was surprised. You took off like a bul et this morning. I figured you didn’t want to shatter last night’s afterglow by announcing you were driving to Chinatown to take on Xiao Long single-handedly.”

“Very funny.” Sloane sank down in the chair beside his desk. “Derek, there’s a weird discrepancy in the break-in at my parents’ place—besides the obvious. I sat up al night, poring over the abridged case file you gave me, concentrating on the details of Xiao Long’s other burglaries. Something just didn’t sit right. Then it dawned on me. We know that Eric Hu’s employees were never in my parents’ apartment, so Hu had no way of giving Xiao Long a heads-up on the layout of the place or what items were kept where. That includes the location of my father’s office, and more particularly, his files.”

“Right.” Derek was no longer lounging in his chair. He was sitting up, listening intently to what Sloane had to say.

“According to the police report, the Red Dragons were inside the building for under twenty minutes—just three of which were before my mother showed up. That’s twenty minutes, soup to nuts, with no input from Eric Hu’s crew. No video surveil ance. No electronic photos. Nothing. Let’s put aside the dubious fact that, in three minutes, they ducked the doorman, got upstairs, and somehow unlocked the door. There were no scratch marks, no signs of forced entry. The NYPD’s theory is that they found a way, other than through Eric Hu, to make duplicate keys. How? Which of those kids is sophisticated enough to copy keys? And, if they didn’t do it, who made the copies?” Sloane stopped just long enough to catch her breath. “Like I said, let’s put that part on hold. The reason I raced out this morning was to meet my mother at the apartment.”

“How is she?”

“Stubborn and difficult about accepting help, as usual. But physical y on the mend. Anyway, I had her relive exactly what happened to her on the night of the robbery, from the moment she walked through the front door. Based on what she said, it’s clear that al three Red Dragons were already in my father’s office and in ful swing when she got home.”

“Al that in three minutes—yeah, I’d say that timing’s pretty tight,” Derek agreed. “But we can’t state for sure that it’s impossible.”

“That’s because you haven’t heard everything. Derek, I’ve seen my father’s filing system. First of al , he has over a dozen file cabinets. They’re al putty-colored, al unlabeled on the outside, and al organized in a unique way that works for him—grouped by art genre and project status, not alphabetical or chronological order. Finding the cabinet with the Rothberg files in it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Yet Xiao’s thugs zeroed right in on it—again, with no photos or video surveil ance from Eric Hu. For al we know, they’d already emptied the contents of the Rothberg file, left that threatening fortune cookie, and were trashing the place for good measure when my mother interrupted them.”

“What makes you so sure they zeroed in on the right file cabinet?”

“The timing. When my mother got home, they had to be finishing up in the office. There’s no other way they could have pul ed off everything else they did and been out of the apartment seventeen minutes later. It’s virtual y impossible. According to my mother, no other visible part of the apartment had been disturbed when she arrived. The living room, with the entertainment system and my dad’s paintings and artifacts, was intact. The kitchen and breakfast nook looked perfectly normal, too—not even the silverware drawer had been overturned. Also, my mother’s diamond stud wasn’t on the foyer floor where my father found it, which suggests that the bedroom hadn’t been rifled yet either.”