Thief (14 page)

El Cazador stared at him, and then snorted in dark amusement before saying, “You're saying you're springing me because you want me to fuck with Monarch?”

“In a manner of speaking,” the attorney said.

The hunter broke into a grin at his great good fortune, and nodded at Saunders. “Then I'm with you, whoever the fuck you are.”

“Good,” Saunders said, and got up while Reynard assured Vargas that he'd be freed within the hour.

Saunders and the lawyer exited the interrogation room. Arsenault's security man nodded to the police commandant as he passed his office, pleased to have bought his cooperation for a mere twenty-five thousand dollars, thinking it money very well spent, something his boss would no doubt approve.

Indeed, when Saunders was free of the police station, and inside the hired air-conditioned car, waiting for Reynard to complete Vargas's release, he punched in Beau Arsenault's private number.

The mogul answered on the second ring. “Talk to me, Billy.”

“It's done,” Saunders said. “Monarch's boxed and has no idea.”

“Excellent,” Arsenault replied. “Now throw the thief a line and set the hook hard.”

 

18

LONDON

SIXTEEN HOURS LATER …

MONARCH LEFT THE TAXI
at Canary Wharf wearing a khaki trench coat, a blue suit, white shirt, and a rep tie. It always was a smart idea to adapt your camouflage to the surroundings.

The air was dank and cold, the kind that bores into the joints. The abdominal muscles around Monarch's wound began to ache for the first time in weeks as he sought out one of several high-rise office monstrosities that faced the Thames River, and used a burn phone to text “I'm here” to a number Sami Rafiq had sent through Barnett that morning.

Despite the cold he waited outside until he felt the phone buzz.

“Suite 1414.”

He texted the name, “Alex Fischer.”

Monarch entered the building, showed security the fake passport, and asked for Suite 1414.

The security guard looked it up, said, “They just put you in, Mr. Fischer. You'll find the elevator to the bank over there.”

A bank? Monarch thought as he crossed the dark marble floor of the lobby and entered an open elevator made of brass and mirrors. What kind of bank hires a thief?

A private one, he discovered when he got off the elevator and found Suite 1414 with a smoked glass door that said:

PYNCHON & HORMEL

PRIVATE BANKERS

LONDON, ZURICH, HONG KONG

Before Monarch could text or knock, the door swung open, revealing a statuesque blond woman in her early forties. She was dressed in a conservative gray suit, pearls, and black pumps.

“So good of you to come, Mr. Fischer,” she said in a refined British accent while holding out a long and very soft hand. “I am Emma Chase, in-house counsel here at Pynchon. Please, do come in.”

Chase stood aside, and Monarch entered one of those rooms that scream of old money. Burled walnut paneling, the finest Oriental rugs, leather club furniture, and several paintings depicting horses riding to hounds.

“Would you care for some tea?” Chase asked, leading him through the room toward a door in the corner. “Coffee?”

“Coffee would be fine,” Monarch said.

“Brilliant,” she said. “Again, so good of you to come on short notice. Have you eaten?”

“I have, yes,” Monarch said.

“We've arranged a room for you at One Aldwych,” she said. “I hope it meets your expectations.”

“I haven't taken the job yet.”

She looked back, smiled winningly, said, “Oh, I'm sure you will.”

Monarch followed the lawyer into a large office with a bank of rain-spattered windows that faced the Thames. To his right there was a wooden desk with neat stacks of files, framed photographs he couldn't see, and little else. To his left there was a tufted leather couch, coffee table, and matching club chairs.

“If you'll sign these nondisclosure agreements, please,” Chase said, gesturing to three thin documents on the table.

Monarch made a show of scanning the agreements, and then signed, “Alexander Fischer.”

“Brilliant,” the lawyer said. “Thank you, and if you'll excuse me I'll arrange for that coffee. And Mr. Pynchon will be along shortly to brief you.”

Monarch gathered this was Mr. Pynchon's office, and decided Mr. Pynchon made a pretty decent living. He would have Gloria check as soon as he'd heard what they had in mind.

No more than a minute passed before a man in his mid-forties, long and lean in a five-thousand-dollar suit, entered with Chase in tow carrying a silver coffee service.

“Christopher Pynchon,” the man said in a crisp English accent, offering Monarch his hand and studying him with great curiosity. “I've never met a thief before.”

“Really?” Monarch said. “I thought they were a dime a dozen in the private banking business.”

Pynchon's expression hardened and his hand slipped from Monarch. “Yes, well, please sit.”

Chase poured Monarch a cup of steaming coffee and he declined cream and sugar, preferring to drink it black. To his surprise, it was very good coffee.

“Colombian?” he asked, after she'd shut the door.

“Jamaican,” Pynchon said. “Blue Mountain. It's the best coffee in the world as far as I am concerned.”

It was good, excellent really, so Monarch wasn't going to argue the point.

“So,” he said after several sips. “What are you interested in stealing?”

Pynchon glanced at his attorney, who said, “He's signed the documents.”

The banker nodded, got up, and retrieved a thin file from his desk. He handed it to Monarch, said, “Please read this and then we'll talk.”

The thief opened the file and found a scientific paper that was stamped, “Out for Peer Review.” He scanned the title, the three Ph.D. authors, and the synopsis of the findings. He read it, glanced at Chase and Pynchon, and then read it again.

“Is this right?” he asked.

“You've read that fast?” Pynchon asked.

“Just the synopsis, but—”

“Read the entire thing,” Chase said.

Monarch took up the coffee cup again and spent the next fifteen minutes studying the paper closely, and alternating between skepticism and fascination at the evidence the researchers used to support their findings.

When the thief finished the paper, he looked up and said, “Well, if they're correct, it's simply…”

“Remarkable?” Chase said.

“Incredible?” Pynchon said.

“Both,” Monarch said, closing the file and setting it on the table. “But will it pass peer review?”

“Our clients say it might,” Pynchon said.

“Wait,
your
clients?”

The banker nodded, said, “Our clients who wish to remain anonymous.”

“And wish me to do what?”

The attorney smiled, said, “Find that place, those people, figure out their secret, and then steal us that secret. If you are successful, we will pay you eighteen million pounds sterling.”

Though he tried not to show it, Monarch was shocked, and he sat back in his chair knowing it would be the largest single haul of his life. Thirty million dollars to him alone? He couldn't even imagine what Sister Rachel could do with that kind of money. Rather than get excited about the possibility, he thought instead about why they'd be willing to pay so much.

“So who am I working for?” he asked. “Some—?”

“For this kind of money, who you work for is irrelevant,” Pynchon said.

Monarch thought about that, and couldn't decide if he agreed.

“You think these scientists know what's causing it?” Monarch asked.

“They must have suspicions,” Chase said. “You can see from the paper that they intend to return to do further investigations.”

“When?”

“Early next week,” Pynchon said, “according to our sources.”

“So, are you interested?” the attorney asked.

“I'm more than interested,” Monarch said. “But I've got to think it over, and I'm still a bit jet-lagged. Will you give me the night to consider it?”

The lawyer and the banker exchanged looks, and then Pynchon said, “You have until nine o'clock tomorrow morning. After that we'll go to our second candidate.”

“I didn't know there was one,” Monarch said.

Pynchon smiled sourly, said, “In our world, Mr. Fischer, there is always a backup plan.”

*   *   *

Monarch called Barnett the second he'd left the building, had her start digging on Pynchon & Hormel as well as the three scientists who authored the papers. Was it possible? He must have asked that question fifty times during the course of the afternoon and on into the evening.

The thief loved London, the pace, the people, and the history. On any other trip he would have walked for hours through the city just soaking it in. But this time he'd checked into his room at One Aldwych and ordered room service.

Something felt off about the deal. Could it be worth that much?

Exploited in the right way, he supposed it could be worth a hundred or a thousand times what they'd offer to pay him to steal it. Which meant what? That the fourth party had the wherewithal to turn the scientists' research into a global product? It made sense to Monarch that some giant corporate entity was behind this entire scheme. If a company could get a head start on all the others that would likely be interested in the unpublished research, they'd make billions.

But was that bad? When Monarch looked at it from the perspective of the greater good, all the people who might benefit from the discovery, including Sister Rachel and the children, he could make the argument that stealing the secret was absolutely for the greater good. Yet, when he factored in the fact that this was the three scientists' discovery, and theirs alone, the path to the greater good was murkier and less defined.

Around eight, while Monarch ate an outstanding club sandwich and contemplated going out for a pint, Barnett called back on Skype. The tropical sun was shining behind her, but she was looking exhausted.

“When did you sleep last?” he asked.

“I'm following your lead,” Barnett said. “Cat naps every few hours.”

“When we're done, you need to get at least six.”

“Promise,” she said, and then told him what she'd found.

Pynchon and Tristan Hormel, an old friend from Eaton, founded the bank nearly a decade before. Both men had spent years working in the Swiss private banking system and decided to set up their own shop. Pynchon worked in London, Hormel in Zurich.

“They're outstanding at the whole private client thing,” Barnett said. “I've found no mention anywhere of clients' names.”

“The bank successful?”

“Can't put a value on the assets yet,” she replied. “But Pynchon owns a massive townhome in Chelsea and a shooting estate in Scotland. Hormel has a lakefront compound outside Zurich, and is evidently bidding to buy an island in the Caribbean.”

“What about the attorney?”

“She took a first in history at Cambridge, and then repeated the performance reading law at Oxford,” she replied. “She also attended Georgetown Law and can practice in both Britain and the United States. She's single, and has homes in London, and the south of France.”

“Could Zullo penetrate the bank's security?”

“He can try,” she said.

“Forget try. I need to know who wants this done.”

“I'll ask,” she said, hesitated. “You think it's real?”

Monarch paused, said, “You think it's a hoax?”

There was silence, and then she said, “No. Once you see the bios on the scientists, you think this could be solid.”

“Tell me.”

“I'll send the complete work-ups before I crash,” she promised, yawning. “But their academic backgrounds are first rate, especially Santos, the leader. Berkeley. Stanford. The whole nine yards.”

The thief was about to ask another question when a soft rap came at his door.

“I've got to go,” he said. “Get some sleep.”

Yawning, Barnett waved at him before cutting the connection.

Another soft knock. Monarch went cautiously toward the door. It was ingrained in the thief. He knew of assassins who liked to knock at a target's door, and then shoot the second the light in the peephole changed.

Easing his wallet out of his pocket, he stood to the side and slid it over the peephole. No shot. That was a plus.

Monarch looked through the peep and saw the attorney Emma Chase with her hair down, holding a bottle of champagne and looking a little tipsy already.

He opened the door, said, “Counselor?”

The attorney smiled, said, “Call me Emma. Might I come in?”

Monarch thought about that. Couldn't hurt, and maybe he could get some information out of her. “Your wish is my command,” he said.

Chase laughed throatily, pressed by him and into the room, saying, “This is quite elegant for an international man of action.”

“The folks who employ Pynchon and Hormel don't fool around,” Monarch said. “Spare no expense.”

The attorney laughed, and said, “You have no idea.”

Monarch took the bottle from her, checked the vintage. “Nice. Expense account?”

She laughed again, “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.”

“Given any thought to our proposal?”

“Much,” he said, and popped the cork.

“And?”

“Still thinking.”

“Maybe I can help you come to a hard decision,” she said, and smiled.

“Not a bad idea,” Monarch said, reaching for two glass tumblers that he filled with champagne. He handed her a glass and she sipped it. Her face was slightly flushed and yet she seemed amused.