American Heroes Series - 01 - Resurrection (4 page)

“I am.”

“Then you are responsible for security of The Lucius Robe.”

Cydney glanced at Milt before continuing. “Yes, I am. Why?”

Serreaux paused. “Everything I am about to tell you is privileged information, Mrs. Hetherington.  It does not go beyond these walls.”

Her curiosity was turning to dread. “Okay.”

Serreaux’s gaze lingered on her before continuing. “As you know, our country has been at elevated or better terror alert for the past few years. The Bureau makes it our business to know what’s going on in the nation, friendly or otherwise, and as such have reason to believe that The Lucius Robe may become a target of a wave of religious fanaticism.”

Cydney stood with her arms folded protectively across her chest, her expression a mask of doubt. “What kind of a target?”

“Theft.”

Cydney was silent a moment.  The reason wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. She pulled a chair out of the dining room and sat.

“Theft is always a concern for the museum,” she said patiently. “We are aware of it on a daily basis and my security people are trained to observe and deter. Did you go into the exhibit gallery when you were there earlier tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the special viewing case we had the robe in?”

“We did.”

“The attack of a small army notwithstanding, that thing is rigged to endure a lot. You don’t think it will be enough to deter a thief?”

“We’re talking about zealots,” Serreaux said. “This is more than simple stealing. It has a purpose; their object has a purpose. They’ll stop at nothing to get to it.”

There was something about the way he said it that made her blood run cold. “Like what?”

Serreaux shrugged. “Like resorting to arson, or maybe even bombs, to get through that case. They might even kill anyone who tried to stop them.”

Her doubt turned to shock. “You must be kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

Cydney suddenly stood up from her chair. “Agent Serreaux, all I have as a security force are a bunch of retirees, a few college students and one ex-Marine. My security force isn’t structured to prevent a major theft from religious fanatics. They’re more like school-yard proctors, strategically placed to deter unauthorized activity more than to actually protect life and property. If there really are some idiots that want to steal The Lucius Robe, then I can tell you right now that our security is inadequate. That’s why we built that case; it’s shatter-proof and hermetically sealed. I don’t want my people putting their life on the line.”

Serreaux’s gaze was steady, his dark eyes appraising her.  Cydney couldn’t help but stare back, noticing his very square jaw and long nose. His nearly-black hair was stylishly cut, spiky tendrils flopping over his forehead.  He didn’t look like any FBI agent she’d ever seen, other than in the movies.  He was a tall man, several inches over six feet, and filled out his dark suit quite nicely. He had enormously wide shoulders but wasn’t bulky; he was simply beautifully and athletically built. She was so wrapped up in appraising his perfect male looks that when he spoke, she jumped at the sound of his voice.

“I understand your concerns,” he said.  “My purpose here is to make sure you’re aware of a potential situation, not predict impending disaster. It’s a worse-case scenario, but it is possible. You need to know.”

“I didn’t think the FBI got involved in anything that is simply a need-to-know basis.”

“In this case, we did.”

“Why?” A thought occurred to her and she cocked her head. “I may be off base, but I’m thinking that there’s something else behind this that you’re not letting on. There’s got to be; otherwise, this whole thing just doesn’t make any sense. Since when does the FBI show up just to warn about a theft?”

Serreaux’s face was like stone. “We’ve had trouble with this group before.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“That’s irrelevant. Suffice it to say that the chatter we’ve been hearing over the past few weeks has mentioned the robe by name and we felt it necessary to inform the museum that there may be trouble. Would you rather we just not tell you and hope that nothing happens?”

          No, she didn’t wish that. Cydney’s frustration reached a boiling point as she thought about the times she had sat across from Milt and the Board, telling them how inadequate the museum’s security force was.  It seemed like she went over it every six months when the Board convened.  They were sick of hearing it from her, but they never took any action. They didn’t want to spend the money. She glanced at Milt as she spoke.

“That’s great,” she couldn’t help the sarcasm. “So now I know. But it does me absolutely no good because I still have the same security force I had when you walked in the door. Nothing has changed except for the fact that now we may have a real threat on our hands and I’m extremely concerned for the safety of my employees.”

“That’s understandable,” Serreaux replied. “Perhaps Mr. Hemeshuk should consider hiring a professional security company for this exhibit. It might help.”

Cydney looked directly at Milt, hearing her own words reflected in Serreaux’s suggestion. But Milt didn’t do anything except stare back at her. Say something, you idiot! she thought. Cydney gaze returned to the agents, resigned to the fact that Hemeshuk wasn’t going to do a damn thing, as always.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you for letting us know,” she said. “Can I at least brief my people and let them know what we might expect?”

Serreaux spoke. “I’ll do it. We’ll be at the museum tomorrow morning and I can tell them for you.”

“My security people don’t come on until Thursday morning, when the exhibit opens.”

Serreaux glanced at Lowell; it was obvious he was mentally chewing on something. “Well,” he finally sighed, “My partner and I may be able to help, at least for a few days. Since this is considered a credible threat involving goods or products from an allied nation, we can request to remain on the case for a few days to see if anything goes down.”

Cydney felt better. FBI help was better than no help at all. “I’d appreciate that.”

“We can probably hang around through the weekend.”

“We’re only open Thursday through Monday.”

“Then we’ll stay through Monday and go from there.” Serreaux abruptly stood up, signaling that their meeting had come to a close. “Thanks again for letting us intrude tonight. Agent Lowell and I will see you first thing in the morning and we can go over your security arrangements. Maybe we can help.”

Cydney walked the group to the door, lingering on the conversation, more apprehensive than she had ever been in her eleven years at the museum. All of it left a bad taste in her mouth and she knew that she wasn’t getting the entire story. The FBI didn’t come around warning private entities about trouble if they didn’t have a damn good reason.  Serreaux, she sensed, was withholding something.

The agents were through the door, out onto the porch.  Milt brushed by her without looking at her.

“Good night, Cydney.”

“Good night.”
You jerk.

Cydney shut the door and locked it.  She stood there for a second, allowing herself a moment to collect her thoughts.  It was all fairly overwhelming. When she finally turned around, she saw that her daughter was standing there, her green eyes wide with everything she had absorbed.

“Terrorists!” Olivia hissed.

Cydney shook her head. “No, sweetpea. Just freaks out to see what they can get away with. Don’t worry about it.”

There was no way Olivia couldn’t worry about it, nor could Cydney, although she tried.  She forced her daughter to bed and followed shortly thereafter.

But sleep was hard to come by. Cydney kept thinking of her security personnel, of Stu, putting their lives on the line when the mere thought was ridiculous. They shouldn’t even be in this situation.  They were a small antiquities museum, not the Louvre.  They just weren’t geared for this kind of thing.

The Resurrection exhibit was taking an ominous turn.

CHAPTER THREE

Los Angeles wasn’t an old city, relatively speaking.  Although settlement of the area began back in the late eighteenth century in the area known as the Pueblo, in the grand scheme of cities, L.A. was an infant; a very large infant with more than its share of adult problems.  Functionally speaking, Los Angeles was an enormous cripple of crime, glamour, money and power.

The city was so vast that even the alleys had alleys. The homeless had their own zip code. There were an infinite number of nooks and crannies into which one could fade into oblivion, never to been heard from again.  Lots of people came to the city for just that reason. Skyscrapers soared into the smoggy atmosphere, riding the earthquake faults like a surfer on a monster wave.  It was in this mixture of risk, thrill and oblivion that millions of people existed.

Olvera Street was in the heart of the Pueblo area, across the freeway from the Federal courthouse and not too far from the heart center of the city.  It was a hive of closely knit booths, each containing the treasures of Mexico to be sold to the throngs of tourists that visited the city.  It was like going to Tijuana without having to make the trip or without having to deal with the orphans selling gum on the street.  It was safer, without the depression inherent to a third world nation. Every day was a busy day, safe in the bosom of America’s most diverse city.

There were several Mexican food restaurants in and around Olvera Street. One in particular faced Union Station, the main thoroughfare for rail traffic in and out of the city.  The restaurant was small, with a few tables outside upon which to sit. It was always busy at lunch time and people crowded around the tables and counter, breathing in the smog and ambiance of the historic City of Angels. This particular day, the temperatures reached the high eighties and the smog index level reached the unhealthful stage.  It was just another day in L.A.

A man in a designer shirt and dark slacks sat under a tree, alone, at one of the tables. He wore Oakley sunglasses and smoked a cigarette.  In front of him sat a half-empty bottle of beer and he took a sip as another man joined him at the table.  The second man brought food, carnitas, and delved into the concoction with gusto. He didn’t offer any to his companion.

“You shouldn’t eat the food here,” the man with the beer said.  “All of these restaurants grade low on the health inspection scale.”

The second man chewed loudly. “Tastes all right to me.”

The first man toyed with his beer bottle, watching his companion eat. “So,” he said casually. “I understand we are successfully in.”

“I start the job on Thursday.”

The man with the beer nodded his head with satisfaction. He gazed up at the trees, watching the birds above them. Bird feces fell on the table and he wisely moved his bottle.

“His Eminence will be pleased,” he said. “He is very anxious to move forward.”

“I’m moving as fast as I can,” the man with the mouthful swallowed. “I’ll be there Thursday.”

The first man took another sip of his Mexican beer. “With the relaxed security the museum has, we shouldn’t have any problems,” he said. “Please, whatever you do, don’t act alone. We’ll do any planning that needs to be done.”

“I know.”

“I’m very interested to know what kind of upgraded security they’ll have for this exhibit.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” The Eater finished his
carnitas
in four bites and was now downing his soda. “This just all seems so weird to me.”

“How’s that?”

The Eater wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “Because this is something my grandfather’s grandfather talked about, plotted and planned for.  I heard this stuff all of my life. Now that it’s finally coming to fruition, it just seems unbelievable.”

The man with the beer looked at him. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am.”

He didn’t look happy. The beer drinker leaned forward in his chair, his voice soft against the roar of traffic.

“This is it, my friend,” he muttered. “Your time has finally come. Your family’s time has come and we will be here to realize it. Think of all of the people who have died in the quest for this dream, and of those who have devoted their entire lives so that the dream might be realized.  It is an incredible honor to finally be here, at the end of times, don’t you think?”

The Eater looked at him, doubt on his face; even though he had been groomed for this moment all of his life, Joseph d’Orleans wasn’t as passionate as the rest of them were. That was sad, considering he should have been the most passionate of all. He felt as if he was letting them all down if he didn’t follow through. Because it was expected of him, his family’s legacy for almost a thousand years, he would do what he must. A more reluctant emperor had never existed. 

“I’ll talk to you Thursday night,” he finally said. “Give me the day to check out the layout.”

The man with the nearly empty beer nodded. He knew Joseph’s reservations, but he couldn’t let that stop them.  There was a destiny to be fulfilled and it was his responsibility to make it happen. The entire brotherhood was depending on it and Joseph’s reluctance was inconsequential.

“Of course,” he said. “And, by the way, just so you know; she’ll be there.”

Joseph’s brow furrowed. “Who will be there?”

“You know; her.”

Joseph stared at him a moment before realization dawned. “Oh, right,” he muttered. “What are planning? Do we have a detailed schedule?”

“Not yet; but I know she’s been in contact with His Eminence about our next step. Watch her closely; she may have a message for you.”

“You’re sure she’s going to be there?”

“She has already bought a pre-sale ticket. She’ll be there; don’t worry.”

Joseph stood up, wiping his mouth one last time. In his late twenties, he had an athletic physique in spite of his love of greasy Mexican food.  With is mussed brown hair and smoldering good looks, one might have taken him for a scruffy male model. He lifted an eyebrow at his companion.