The Tomorrow Heist (9 page)

“You didn't rob museums, Lew,” Fahd said, as he got up, picked up a remote control, and pointed it at the screen on the wall. “But you did work
for
museums. You and Jonathan, both. As The Monarch.” Fahd pressed a button, and the screen snapped to life, a single image displayed—­two symmetrical curlicues on either side of a flattened vertical oval, looking for all intents and purposes like an insect.

Like a butterfly.

Even though he'd sensed it was coming, the image shot electricity through Jonathan's nervous system, his legs twitching slightly. They still didn't know how much The Custodians knew, but his hopes of keeping some secrets were quickly fading.

“But I'm getting ahead of myself,” Fahd said. “The Custodians were—­and are—­about more than protecting Art. Much more. They protect entire cultures, science, languages—­the list is almost endless.”

“Well, aren't y'all special—­” Lew started to say.

“Shut up, Lew,” Jonathan said without looking at him, then to Fahd, “Why us?”

“As I said, you inspired me, even if I didn't get it at first. But I wasn't the only one. The Custodians were well aware of you even before I joined them. Apparently, it's gone back and forth over the years whether to approach you for membership, or to eliminate you.”

Jonathan and Lew exchanged a look.

“Do The Custodians make a habit of eliminating ­people?” Jonathan asked.

“Of course not,” Fahd said. “I probably shouldn't have mentioned it.” Jonathan doubted anything that Fahd was saying was by accident.

“But you did mention it,” Lew said.

“Please, don't read too much into it,” Fahd said. “The Custodians have a council who decide everything. That motion was tabled a few times but never got anywhere near the majority vote it would have needed to be passed and put into action. Let's stay on point.”

Jonathan exchanged another look with Lew, and he decided to let it go, for now. Lew appeared to agree. He could feel Emily staring at him, but he didn't have the bandwidth to deal with her, right now.

“Proceed,” Jonathan said.

Fahd pressed another button, and newspaper clippings appeared on the screen, then faded one after another:

“Monet's Charing Cross Mysteriously Resurrected”

“British Museum Finds Raphael Amongst Forgotten Inventory”

“Degas Daughters Returned Under Shroud of Secrecy”

And on and on, all reports covering various jobs The Monarch had been associated with over the years.

“And just when we agreed unanimously to approach you, you disappeared,” Fahd continued. He used the remote again, and the screen displayed a blackened, still-­smoking island. Jonathan, Emily, and Lew all leaned forward. The last time they'd seen Tartaruga Island, they'd been flying away from it as fast they could on a stolen helicopter.

“Shit,” Lew said quietly.

“You hit the radar again two years ago, and once more the decision of what to do about you has set off a difficult debate.”

“I'm assuming you ended up on the side to keep us alive, seeing as we're still breathing,” Jonathan said.

“It gets better,” Emily said, her speech a little mumbly because of her missing teeth. “Can I tell them?” she asked Fahd. He seemed genuinely disappointed, but nodded.

“They want you to be The Monarch again!”

A
FTER
F
AHD
SAID
he'd leave them alone to talk it over, and Jonathan had closed the door behind him, he spun around so fast he almost fell over.

“Are you crazy?” Jonathan said to Emily, denying the rush he'd momentarily felt at the idea.

“Tell me you were joking,” Lew said. But Jonathan knew from yesterday that Lew was feeling the same rush of adrenaline at the idea of being The Monarch again.

Emily looked like someone had just told her Santa Claus wasn't real. “But I don't get it. You're already pulling jobs again. What's the—­”

“We haven't used the symbol in two years,” Jonathan said. “And if they want us to be . . .
him
again, you know that's what they're going to want.”

“I still don't get it. What's the difference if you use the symbol or not?”

“Look in a mirror, baby,” Lew said.

“And think about what I've gone through with Natalie. The symbol makes ­people nuts, and it puts everyone we love in danger. What do you think George will do if he hears about the symbol's being used somewhere?”

“Wait, you love me?” Emily said to Jonathan. Lew laughed.

“What? No, I mean . . . well, yes, but not like—­” Emily walked over and put her uninjured arm around Jonathan. Lew just sat, smiling like his cheeks were trying to get into his eye sockets. “Would you please say something?” Jonathan said to him.

“Oh, I love you too, big guy. How's about a kiss?”

“If you take one more step, I'll suffocate you with your stupid coat.”

Emily stepped back from her assault and looked Jonathan in the eye, putting her hand on his cheek.

“Jonathan, I love you too. And we all love Natalie. Don't you know I'd never do anything to put any of you in danger? But if you're going to continue, you need help. And protection. Fahd and The Custodians can do that. They can find the jobs, and more importantly, they can
fund
the jobs.”

“I hate to say it, but she's making sense, Jonny,” Lew said. Jonathan knew this is what Lew had been wanting for a long time.

Could The Custodians really keep Natalie safe? Was this the answer they'd been looking for all along? While he disliked The Monarch label, mostly because everyone seemed to only see the butterfly symbol, not what it was meant to represent, he missed the impact their work used to have—­for culture, for history, and for him. And maybe it was time to stop overthinking everything and go with his gut. Look at what trying to use his head had done to his relationship with Natalie. He let himself think about becoming The Monarch again—­really think about—­and the flutter in his stomach told him what he should do.

“I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm in,” Jonathan said. Emily jumped and squealed. Lew shook his head, but smiled. “On two conditions: We take care of George first and get Natalie safe before we do anything else.”

“I may be able to help with that,” Fahd said from the doorway. Jonathan hadn't even heard him return. Fahd reached out into the hallway and pulled someone into the room. The person's hands and feet were in chains, and there was a bag over their head.

“No way,” Lew said, getting to his feet.

“My gift to you,” Fahd said as he pulled the bag off and revealed a blinking Canton George.

When he saw Jonathan and Lew, George's one good eye looked like it was trying to run away from his face. Both Jonathan and Lew started toward the author of every misfortune that had befallen them in the past two years, but Fahd held up his hand like he was stopping traffic. Jonathan would have kept moving, but the guard behind Fahd pulled the slide on his P90, locking and loading it. The sound froze both him and Lew to their spots.

“I don't get it,” Lew said. “You bring him here and we can't—­for fuck sakes, look at her!”

But Jonathan understood why. He stepped in front of Lew and fought to get his attention. “Lew. Lew!”

“What?” Lew finally said when he stopped trying to go around Jonathan.

“They're taking him to the authorities. They're going to lock him up. Legally.”

“That's right,” Fahd said.

“Are you kidding? He's a billionaire who hires other ­people to do his dirty work. He'll bring in a hundred lawyers and walk away. Just like always,” Lew said.

“The buffoon is correct. Release me now, or I'll sue you so hard your grandchildren will still be paying for your insolence,” George said.

“Not this time,” Fahd said. “We've had all of you under surveillance for weeks. How do you think we knew Emily needed rescuing? We've got her assault on video. Including George's ordering her death. It's airtight.”

“Fools, I'll destroy you all,” George managed, but his body language betrayed his true feelings. He was terrified.

Jonathan had been wondering about the timing of Emily's rescue. He wasn't crazy about having been watched, but it seemed to calm Lew down. Emily joined Jonathan between Lew and George, putting her hand on his shoulder.

“Get him out of here,” Jonathan said. Two of the guards came in, and each took one of George's arms.

“Unhand me,
cuiters
!” Jonathan didn't know what the South African word was, but he knew it wasn't gentlemen. “This isn't over! I'll have my revenge! I'll kill your families and make you watch,
Bliksems
!”

They took George away as he continued to spew empty threats at them.

“Tell it to Bubba in the showers, Georgie,” Lew said.

“And my daughter?” Jonathan said, George's shouts still echoing in the hall.

“She's been protected for longer than we've had all of you under surveillance. We found her first. Her geography teacher took sick a few weeks ago and was replaced with someone a little more—­useful.”

“One of yours, I take it,” Jonathan said. “But just one guy?” Though, he realized, with George on ice, there was no immediate danger. He hoped.

“This isn't our only facility. There are dozens of similar installations around the world. One is less than ten minutes from your daughter's school. She's safer now than she's ever been in her life, trust me.”

Trust. That was something Jonathan didn't throw around very much, especially in the past few years. But there was something about Fahd. Not authority, exactly, but something disarming. There was a lot that Jonathan still wanted to know, but to his surprise, he actually did feel like he could trust Fahd. Maybe.

“Okay, what exactly are you offering us?” Jonathan asked.

“And what do you want for it?” Lew asked. Fahd nodded and gestured toward the chairs around the table. Everyone sat down again.

“First off, we're not just a ring of thieves. Our membership is made up of many different types of experts—­scientists, analysts, law enforcement—­but we all have the same goal. Preservation.”

“How many members are there?” Jonathan asked.

“I'm afraid that's classified. And it's constantly changing. But I can tell you that there are very few permanent members. Most are freelancers. That's what we want from you. From time to time, a situation will come up where we think your unique skills are needed. Between those times, you can function however you like. But if you agree to become The Monarch again for us, we'll expect you to be The Monarch only when you're working for us.

“And if we contact you about a . . . situation you're currently involved in that we think would be better handled by someone else or simply aborted, we'll expect you to comply with our wishes.”

“You don't ask for much, do you?” Jonathan said.

“You still haven't told us what's in it for us,” Lew said.

“Any profits are split seventy-­thirty. Seventy for us.”

“Seventy?” Lew said.

“As you can imagine, there's a bit of overhead on our side. You'll also have access to all of our resources—­intel, safe houses. Even equipment. And, of course, on or off assignment, we'll provide protection for you and your immediate family. I'm afraid that's about as close as we get to stock options,” Fahd joked. Nobody laughed.

It was an incredible offer. Jonathan evaluated what Fahd had said. Whether they accepted it or not, he had a feeling their lives would never be the same after leaving this room.

But if they agreed, they'd basically be handing over all the work they'd done over the years and entrusting their creation to The Custodians. It was a lot to ask, but then again, they were offering a lot.

Jonathan was prepared to accept, but he wanted to make sure Lew was still on board. Neither one of them was asking what would happen if they said no. Something Jonathan pretty much knew was bouncing around Lew's head as much as it was his, but when someone has just said they were debating on whether or not to kill you, there were certain questions you didn't want explicitly answered.

“What about Emily?” Lew asked. “She's not immediate family, and she's not part of The Monarch. How does she fit into all this?” Jonathan saw Emily take Lew's hand under the table.

“We've talked to her a little bit about this. She spent a few years at Interpol in an administrative capacity, managing their Web site, mostly. Once she's regained her health, we'd like to train her in computer security and send her back to Interpol.”

“Computer security. You mean you want to train her to be a hacker for The Custodians and have her spy on Interpol,” Jonathan said.

“It's a good opportunity for me,” Emily said.

“What about your writing?” Lew asked.

“The only thing I've ever written about is The Monarch. Somehow, that doesn't seem like it has much of a future,” Emily said.

Jonathan looked at Emily. After she smiled reassuringly, he looked at Lew. He didn't seem so assured, but after a moment, he sighed and nodded.

“Okay, we're on board. Now, what's this about there not being much time?” Jonathan said.

“We've got your first job lined up, but there's a time factor. We have to leave. I'll have a car take you home, so you can pack a bag. I'll brief you on the plane.”

“Plane? What, you mean now?”

“Wheels up in two hours.”

 

Chapter Twelve

Jurojin Maru

8:00
P.M.
Local Time

T
HE
J
UROJIN
M
ARU
'S
bridge decor was a melding of science fiction tropes and the Old West, making half of it look like it belonged on the Starship
Enterprise
, and the other half look like it belonged on an episode of
Bonanza
. Umi, who had a special place in her heart for both genres, had designed it like that deliberately though she'd never admit it to anyone.

The captain was seated in one of the two expensive, barbershop-­like chairs bolted to the hardwood floor. Dressed in a crisply pressed white short-­sleeve shirt, white shorts, and black belt, Captain Tanaka seemed bored. Which was understandable; the ship hadn't gone anywhere in months, and if Umi had her way, it would never move from its current spot again.

“Captain,” Umi said, leaning against the empty chair. The trip to the lower decks and back up last night, not to mention the stress of the last few months, had taken their toll, meds or not. Her illness aside, she was fitter and more resilient than most eighty-­year-­olds, but the fact was she was a hundred and two, and some days that was exactly how old she felt.

“Ma'am,” Tanaka said, jumping up from his chair when he saw Umi. He came over to take her arm. She let him.

“You wanted to see me?” Umi said, as Tanaka led them to a butterscotch-­colored leather bench on the whiskey bar side of the bridge.

“I could have come below, you didn't have to come up here,” Tanaka said as they sat down.

“I'm here now. So why don't you tell me why I'm here.” She said it pleasantly, or at least pleasantly for her.

“We've got some weather coming in. Just a tropical depression right now, and it's not headed right for us, but they can be unpredictable.”

She'd spent the past few years living on the
Jurojin Maru
and didn't need a weather report explained to her.

“Normally, I'd advise a relocation. Especially with our guests about to arrive. If the storm turns for us, even if it doesn't intensify, the choppers could have trouble ferrying our guests from the mainland.”

“I appreciate your concern, Captain, but we're not going anywhere. Keep me advised on the storm, though,” she said, standing up.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Just then, Maggie Reynolds came rushing onto the bridge, both Umi and Tanaka turning toward her. She looked out of breath.

“There you are, Mrs. Tenabe,” Maggie said. She looked at the captain for a second, seemingly unsure if she should speak openly in front of him. “We've . . . we've got a situation.”

M
AGG
IE
HELD
THE
door open for Umi as they headed below. The situation was a frantic call from Tatsu. She had been trying to call Umi, but when she couldn't reach her, Tatsu had called Maggie for help. Whatever Umi had her doing in Toronto had gone tits up, and when Maggie had spoken to her, Tatsu seemed to be having something close to a panic attack. Since relaying the information to Umi, Maggie had never seen her act so concerned.

What do you know,
Maggie thought.
She really cares for the kid
.

“Is she all right?” Umi asked.

“She's definitely shook up, but she seems all right. She wouldn't tell me much. Just wanted me to come and get you.” Maggie thought about probing Umi on what exactly Tatsu was doing in Toronto but decided against it. Her mission—­both for MI6 and her cover as head of security—­was activity on the ship, inquiring about anything off ship would only bring attention where Maggie didn't want it. And she was starting to feel like she'd exceeded her quota of innocent questions.

They reached the junction between Umi's office and Maggie's quarters. Umi stopped. Maggie already knew what she needed to say. “I'll get back to the vetting. Something tells me Tatsu wouldn't be as comfortable talking to you if I were there.”

Umi was nodding, but before she could concur, Maggie left for her quarters.

Maggie wanted Umi to get comfortable with the idea that she'd learned her place in this little drama. Fighting her at every turn wasn't going to accomplish that. She was thinking about the scene down in the bowels of the ship again when she entered her quarters. A familiar scent of 1970s cologne and cigarette smoke assailed her as she closed the door.

Oh, God, no.

“About bloody time you showed up,” a man's voice said from a darkened corner. Maggie just stared as the tall black man stepped out of the shadows, smoke swirling around him like he was wearing it. His immaculate suit looked like he'd just stepped out of a shop on Savile Row in London—­during the Thatcher years. His tightly cut curly hair was heavily salt and peppered, and he seemed to have even more crow's-­feet in the papery skin around his eyes than the last time she'd seen him if that was even possible.

“Alex? What are you doing here?” Maggie demanded. Though she knew. Not specifically, but she knew what his presence meant. He was from the old school. The really old school. Only a few of them were left around the MI6 offices, like a bunch of derelict James Bonds who had lost their way and just refused to call it a day. The Home Office sent them out on harmless “overseer” missions with agents who were on their way out themselves. Missions that were deemed to have zero risk. It kept the old farts busy and provided object lessons for agents who didn't realize their own time was up—­“Don't let this happen to you!” So, if Alex Corsair was here—­

“Sweating my bloody bollocks off, mostly, love,” Alex said, stubbing out his cigarette in a saucer left over from Maggie's breakfast. He stepped toward her and planted a too-­long kiss on her cheek. She swept away from the smoky cologne and tried to put some space between them.

It wasn't her first encounter with the famed Alex Corsair. In his day, he'd been the real James Bond. In every way. And he obviously still had some skills to be able to get on board without anyone's noticing. But spy craft aside, he'd been trying to get her between the sheets for the past ten years. He seemed to take her refusals as a challenge.

She'd feel sorry for him if she wasn't so busy at the moment feeling sorry for herself. If the Home Office had sent him here, it only meant one thing—­they believed she'd overstayed her welcome, something she'd sworn to herself that she'd never do. Since being released from captivity twelve years ago, she'd spent most of her time trying to prove herself—­to the agency and to the part of her mind that kept screaming she was past her prime. She hadn't even seen this coming.

I
N
HER
OFFICE
, Umi sat at her desk and hit a button on her keyboard. Tatsu's image appeared on her screen. She looked terrible. She was damp from sweat and seemed to keep checking the window beside her. From the decor in the background, she was in a very basic motel room. But for some reason she was wearing a lab coat.

“What happened?” Umi asked, genuinely concerned.

Tatsu told her about the events at the Crystasis research facility. With each part of the tale, Umi's mood darkened. She was positively sullen when the story was finished. Umi knew she'd been pushing Tatsu hard. Too hard. And this was the result. The resource she'd nurtured all these years was spent. Any feelings she might have had for the girl were secondary. Umi was an expert at putting her feelings aside. The difficulty now was mitigating the damage. If nothing else, she had to make sure Tatsu stayed out of the hands of the local authorities. Nothing could endanger the schedule. Another day, and it wouldn't matter. But they were at a crucial time. And in today's world, it would only be a matter of seconds for an e-­mail or phone call to derail everything.

In another time, Umi thought. Not so long ago, it would be weeks before word could get across the globe. In those days, there would be nothing to worry about. In another time. Then Umi had an idea. A terrible idea. An idea that could solve everything.

Umi's thoughts were interrupted by a sound she had never heard from Tatsu. The girl was crying, her head hanging down so that her flaming red hair hid her face. She could tell that even in this untenable situation, Tatsu was worried about disappointing Umi, even if just by showing her weakness of emotion. It was like she'd regressed back into that little girl Umi had first met so many years ago.

“
O . . . Obasan
,” Tatsu managed. “There was a man. A kind, simple man. I . . . I killed him. And I just left him. Like . . . like he didn't matter.”

“Little one, there there,” Umi said, as if she were stroking the girl's hair. “It's all for the greater good. You know better than anyone what we're trying to accomplish. What we must accomplish. You saw what happened.”

Tatsu's sobbing eased, and she nodded, keeping her head down. And then Umi was putting her idea into play before she had time to think about it too much.

“Sometimes I wish the old ways still had meaning,” Umi said, deliberately sounding more like she was talking to herself than Tatsu. She waited for a reaction and was soon rewarded.

“Old ways?” Tatsu said quietly, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Yes, they made so much more . . . sense. I can feel your pain, little one. Pain that nothing in this world can take away. The dead are dead and will stay that way forever. Pain lives on in today's world. But in the past, when a Samurai had dishonored their code . . .” Umi pretended to be overwhelmed and fell silent. Though, in reality, she was letting the idea work on Tatsu.

Umi knew with all the training Tatsu had undergone and mastered, she would know exactly what Umi was referring to. Along with the skills she had learned with her body and weapons, Tatsu had been taught disciplines and codes. And the one that applied here was the ritualistic suicide known as—­

“Seppuku,” Tatsu said quietly. Umi resisted the urge to smile at her accomplishment.

“Yes,” Umi said. “In a different time, of course. No senseless pain. Only honor.”

“Honor,” Tatsu said, sounding defeated.

“Wish me luck, little one,” Umi said after a long silence. “I know you'll be here . . . in spirit.”

“
Sayonara
,” Tatsu said. Umi cut the connection.

She picked up a tissue with a shaking hand and dabbed at her damp eye, surprised at her reaction once she knew she'd achieved her goal. The plan was safe. Tatsu was a hero. And soon, she'd be a martyr.

Toronto

7:45
A.M.
Local Time

T
ATSU
PUT
THE
phone down and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to draw calm from the silence, but all she saw were the faces of those she'd harmed. Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath and emptied her pockets onto the table. She had very little: a small knife, a few dollars in bills and change, her cell phone, and the phone she'd taken from Hank. And her wallet. She went through her wallet and pulled out the only picture she had of her brother. He'd been dead a long time, but to her it was like yesterday.

Tatsu wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she pulled off the lab coat and her shirt, picked up the knife and placed it against her naked flesh, between her breasts. She closed her eyes again, this time to try to calm herself.

Honor. It's what Umi wants, and you owe her so much.

But before she could drive the blade home, she heard a beeping noise, and opening her eyes, she noticed the red light blinking on Hank's phone. She assumed it was some sort of preset alarm and was going to ignore it, but the rate it blinked seemed to be increasing. She picked it up and activated the screen, displaying a map with a single moving point. Using her thumb and forefinger, the map image zoomed out. As it did, some place-­names appeared on the map, including the Lakeview Motel.

She watched the red dot move faster and faster—­directly toward her room.

The red dot moved faster.

The beeping echoed faster.

They synchronized. Faster and faster.

And then . . . they stopped. The dot merged with her motel on the map, and the beeping fell silent. Tatsu looked up at the door. Deafening silence was all she heard. Everything was still except for the dust dancing in slow motion as the early morning light spilled into her room through the edges of the drawn curtain. She held her breath, the only sound the pounding of blood in her ears.

Then, tentatively, she got out of the chair and reached her hand out toward the curtain.

CRASH!

The sound of splintering wood shattered the room's quiet. Tatsu tried to understand what she was seeing. A black-­gloved fist was sticking through the door, into her room.

That's impossible,
Tatsu thought, as the fist turned at an unnatural angle, grabbed the chain lock, and ripped it off the door. Then she remembered the file she'd read on Per and seeing the glint of something metallic across the walkway back at Crystasis's research facility.

Before the door could swing open, Tatsu collected her belongings, shoved them back into her pockets, and grabbed the knife she had been about to end her life with. She didn't hide but stood directly where he would see her. As the door swung open, and Per took a first step into the room, he hesitated just for a moment.

At least part of him is human, Tatsu thought as she took advantage of the hesitation and drove her knife into Per's leg. A second later—­with no screaming, she noted—­Per knocked Tatsu through the air. She hit the bed and rolled off it, out of sight. Lying on the floor, Tatsu grabbed her shoulder and winced, sucking wind through her teeth. She'd only taken part of the hit with her shoulder and had thrown herself so she'd be hidden, but her shoulder still tingled like she'd been hit by a truck.