The Tomorrow Heist (8 page)

“I . . . I don't know where he is,” Mark said when he stopped coughing.

“As you wish,” Per said, and started squeezing again.

“Wait, wait! I don't know where he is, but I know someone who does!”

 

Chapter Ten

T
ATSU
COULDN
'
T
BEL
IEVE
she'd missed her chance. Per had run right by her on that railing. All she'd had to do was push him off, and her job would have been complete. She would have been headed to the
Jirojin Maru
with plenty of time before the conference started, and Umi launched her attack. But the sight had shocked her along with everyone else, and she'd just stared. She knew her hesitation had to do with stabbing Hank, who was no doubt dead by now, but knowing that didn't help her. And worse, as they walked back to the room, she'd heard them mention Dr. Reese.

This was bad.

Tatsu had met Dr. Reese months ago on board Umi's ship. She'd been there when he'd, for all intents and purposes, killed Mikawa, Umi's husband. She knew better than anyone why he was now imprisoned on the ocean floor. But if Per knew about Dr. Reese, he might know about Nagura. She had to find out what else they knew. There was a good chance she was going to have to forfeit her safety, but if it kept Umi safe and gave her time to finish, Tatsu was more than willing to do that.

Crystasis security was all over the place, now. If she made a move, she would likely end up killing more innocents—­or she'd end up dead herself. But how could she get the Crystasis staff out of there? As she thought, she looked up, but before her gaze reached the massive skylight overhead, it stopped on the top catwalk. She looked at the office she'd been in a few minutes ago—­the office where she'd just killed someone.

“Y
OU
'
RE
SURE
YO
U
don't want me to call the cops?” the security officer named Hastings asked Per.

“I'm quite sure, Mr. Hastings,” Per said. The last thing he wanted right now was the involvement of the police. “I just need to have a conversation with our friend here. And some privacy.”

“Whoa, don't leave me alone with this freak,” Mark said. He was seated on a stool in the same room where Per had first met him, but this time his hands were bound behind him with a plastic tie.

“Put a cork in it, buddy,” Hastings said. When Per had identified himself, Hastings had made it plain that he'd received Harcourt's memorandum. He wasn't going to do anything unless Per said it was all right. But there were limits.

“Hastings,” a voice sounded from the radio affixed to Hastings's collar.

“Go,” Hastings said after pressing the mic's button.

“You better get up here, Dr. Canard's office.”

“Why's that?”

“There's a dead body up here. Stabbed. Blood everywhere, man.” And then after a pause, “It's somebody named Hank Green.”

Per, as was his nature, kept his reaction to the news internal. But he was torn. The chances that an irate employee had stabbed Hank was slim. More likely, someone knew they were poking around the Dead Lights attacks. Per would have loved to run up and see if they weren't too late to find the assailant, but he had to deal with Mark first. And that would only be easier without the audience.

“There's a wha . . . I'll be right there,” Hastings said. “What the hell is going on here, tonight? You okay if I leave, Mr. Broden?”

“I'll be fine, Mr. Hastings,” Per said. Hastings left, and Per slowly turned and looked at Mark, whose eyes were wide and confused.

“What are you going to do?” Mark asked, as Per moved between him and the door to prevent the need for any further chases.

“I'm not going to do anything,” Per said. “On the contrary, it is you who are going to do something. You're going to tell me who knows where Dr. Reese is.” Per sat on the corner of a metal desk with his hands in his lap.

“Look,” Mark said, seeming to relax a little with Per not hovering over him. That was the intent. “I was scared. You were choking me. I would have said anything to make you stop. I don't know where he is.”

Per didn't have time for this. It wouldn't take them long to determine that Hank had arrived with him and to turn their investigation to him. Those were questions—­and time sinks—­that Per wanted to avoid.

He stood up and took off his glove. Per displayed and flexed his robotic hand. While shaped like a human hand, it was obviously artificial. The palm and jointed fingers were dark black metal, and his fingertips were white, molded-­rubber nubs. As he flexed, the carbon nanotube filaments were visible between the joints.

Mark, whose Adam's apple bobbed up and down—­no doubt thinking about the appendage being around his throat a few minutes ago—­was having trouble breathing.

“What the fuck are you, man?”

Per made a fist and, using a small portion of the strength available to his arm, punched through the top of the heavy metal desk.

“The name,” Per said, as if he were asking Mark to pass the potatoes.

“Nagura. His name is Nagura. He's got a restaurant in Tokyo. Nagura's Emporium. That's all I know, I swear.”

Per would have liked to work Mark some more, to be sure he wasn't holding back any information, but he was pressing his luck with Hank's body upstairs. But what about Mark? Per didn't like the idea of leaving him behind to reveal what he'd told Per. The last thing he needed was someone's tailing him all the way to Japan.

Then, like someone had heard his thoughts, Mark's life ended with a thwack and a gurgle. A knife handle sticking out of his throat, Mark worked his mouth as if he were trying to speak, blood bubbles the only thing to come out.

Per spun around and saw a lab-­coated figure with flaming red hair on the far walkway, easily thirty meters away. The fact she'd hit Mark from that distance with such accuracy was only part of what concerned Per. She was cocking her arm back to throw again, and Per had no doubt who her target was. Her arm flew forward at incredible speed, the knife rocketing across the expanse between them. Per barely had time to raise his robot arm to protect himself. The knife, which would have hit him right in the heart, tinged off Per's metal hand and changed trajectory.

He'd only barely managed to deflect the weapon, but the knife sliced his forehead just above his eye. Reflexively, Per turned away. By the time he turned back, the assailant was gone.

Per touched his forehead with his human fingers and looked at them. Blood. It wasn't deep enough to need stitches, but he'd carry the mark for a long time. Slipping his glove back over his metal hand, Per thought about the last picture Harcourt had given him. A young woman on a motorcycle with flaming red hair.

P
ER
MOVED
M
ARK
'
S
body out of sight and closed the office door as he left. Then he headed up to the highest walkway, where employees stood, desperately trying to see into the murder scene. Hastings was clearing everyone off the walkway and sending them away. Per looked through the glass wall but could only see Hank's feet sticking out past the desk and a pool of blood seeping out from under it. Another security officer was standing behind the desk, making notes.

“I secured him in the office,” Per said when Hastings asked where Mark was. “Have you called the local authorities?”

“Yeah, but we're out of the way, here. It'll be awhile before they show up,” Hastings said.

“I've had some experience with this kind of thing,” Per said. “Want me to take a look?”

“Uh, sure. Mr. Harcourt will probably want as many reports on this as possible. It's obvious he trusts you,” Hastings said, stepping aside. Per went in.

“Campbell,” the other security officer said, extending his hand. Per shook it.

“Broden.”

“Yeah, Hastings told me about you.”

“You can barely see him from the walkway; how'd you know he was here?”

“Someone called and told us he was here,” Campbell said.

“Someone?”

“A woman. She didn't identify herself.”

Per nodded, realizing the call had likely been meant to get Hastings out of the office downstairs.

Per moved around, examining the body. A single stab wound to the abdomen and the color of the blood said Hank's liver had been hit. Death would have been rapid. At least he wouldn't have had time to say anything to any witnesses, Per thought. He noticed that someone had ripped Hank's sleeve off and put it on the wound. Curious.

“You mind?” Per said, kneeling beside the body and holding out his gloved hand to indicate he wouldn't contaminate the crime scene. Campbell shook his head and returned to writing in his notebook.

Per checked Hank's pockets and, when he was sure no one was looking, took the car keys from Hank's pocket, also noticing that his cell phone was missing. Then he looked at the makeshift pillow under Hank's head.

“Was that there when you found him?” Per asked, pointing at it.

“Yeah.”

Using his gloved hand, Per gently pulled the pillow out and set Hank's head down on the floor, his authoritative manner keeping the rent-­a-­cops from complaining about a contaminated crime scene if they even knew to make such complaints. He unrolled the material and saw that it was a black hoodie. With his back to the two security officers, he stood up and put it on a chair against the wall. He checked the pockets, and when he felt some paper in one, he surreptitiously slipped it out and into his pocket.

A few minutes later, Per apologized that he couldn't be of more help and excused himself to go call Mr. Harcourt. Hastings and Campbell both asked him to make sure he mentioned their diligence to their boss. Per promised he would. Then he very calmly walked downstairs to the lobby and exited the building.

Inside the car, dawn still a few hours away, Per flicked on the interior light and unfolded the paper he'd taken from the hoodie—­a motel receipt.

Per had seen more than his share of murder scenes, and this one was odd. The killer—­obviously the woman who had killed Mark and put a slice into Per's forehead—­had tried to help Hank stop the bleeding but hadn't wanted him calling for help. Then she'd put what seemed to be her hoodie under his head for comfort.

She was the most curious killer he'd come across in a long time.

Per looked at the receipt in his hand. He called ahead and booked his flight to Tokyo, but he needed to make a stop first—­the Lakefront Motel. There was only one flight out in the next ­couple of hours, but he couldn't pass up a chance to question the Dead Lights bomber herself. Though he doubted she was the mastermind behind whatever this all added up to. He checked his watch as he started the car.

He'd have to make this quick.

 

Chapter Eleven

London

11:00
A.
M.
Local Time

W
HEN
J
ONATHAN
AND
Lew pulled up in front of the address the voice on the phone had given them, Jonathan thought they must have the wrong place. He checked the note he'd made during the call and confirmed they were where they were supposed to be. His stomach fell like he'd just been dropped.

“What the fuck is this?” Lew said from the passenger seat.

It was a gallery, all right, but it was about the size of a New York bodega. It didn't look like it could have hung more than a handful of paintings, and it certainly wasn't the HQ of the mastermind who had tapped into their call last night and saved Emily from George. The windows had some kind of foil on them and nothing could be seen beyond the facade. That was disconcerting, but worse was the block they were on. Run-­down didn't even begin to describe it. Whatever businesses had once been there left long ago; nothing but boarded-­up doors and windows remained. And the “gallery,” of course.

“We've been scammed,” Lew said, voicing what Jonathan was thinking. He highly doubted they were going to find any answers here.

Jonathan tried calling Natalie again. No dice. The lines were acting like the phone didn't exist. Like it or not, the only possible place for an answer was in there.

“Come on,” Jonathan said, opening his door.

“Whoa, hang on,” Lew said. “You're just going to walk in there? What happened to being Juan Solo?”

“Han,” Jonathan corrected, never taking his eyes off the dirty window with the simple word “Gallery” etched into it.

“Whatever. There's nothing in there, Jonny. If we haven't been scammed, we've been set up. Emily and Natalie sure as shit aren't here.” Lew put his hand on Jonathan's shoulder. He turned and looked at his partner, who was making an incredible amount of sense. “Jonny, it's New York all over again. The little hairs on my neck are screaming for us to get out of here. Now.”

“What about Emily?” Jonathan said, knowing he was trying to play Lew. “This is the only lead we've got. If we walk away from this, we've got nothing.”

The men looked at each other for a long time. They both knew what the other had to lose. Finally, Lew puffed air between his lips and took his gun out, sliding a bullet into the chamber. “Fuck it. Let's go.”

“Keep that down,” Jonathan said. “Remember the conditions.”

“Roger that,” Lew said, slipping the gun into the pocket of his long duster coat. He got out, walked around the car, and waited on the sidewalk. Jonathan joined him. They took a moment to look up and down the block again. Nothing. No ­people, no movement. The only cars were wrecks abandoned long ago. It was like the rest of London had forgotten this street was even here.

Ding-­ding.

The bell over the door clanged as they entered. The inside of the gallery added little to their calm. A single row of chairs sat against one dirty wall. A few makeshift paintings were hung here and there, but Jonathan was sure Natalie could have painted better ones in her sleep. And most of them hung askew.

And that was the entire gallery. There were no other doors, no way in or out besides the door they'd just come through. It didn't make any sense.

“Right corner,” Lew said quietly, keeping his hand in his pocket, but Jonathan had already spotted the security camera when they first came in. No light glowed on it and, from the angle, it didn't appear to even be functioning, but you never knew. Jonathan was just noticing the speaker on the opposite wall when it crackled to life.

“Gentlemen. Please take a seat.”

“Like fuck,” Lew said. Jonathan could tell the whole situation was creeping Lew out, and he knew they'd be lucky to get a few minutes before he pulled his gun.

“Where's my daughter? Where's Emily?” Jonathan demanded, not sure if he should look at the speaker or the camera. If there even was a microphone.

“Your daughter?” the voice said sounding genuinely confused. “I would assume she's right—­” The voice was replaced by muffled voices, like he was talking to someone. “Oh, I'm sorry. Just a miscommunication, I'm afraid. The block should be off her phone now. But we really don't have time.”

Jonathan ignored him and quickly dialed. The call got through, rang once and a frantic Natalie picked up. “Daddy?”

“Baby, are you all right?”

“I'm fine, what happened to you? The phone just went dead last night. I've been trying to call you guys all night. Is Uncle Lew okay?” Jonathan knew this wasn't the place or time, but he needed to say something. With the vibe he was getting from their current situation, he didn't want to risk something's happening before he had a chance to let Natalie know something he should have said a long time ago.

“He's fine, baby. Listen, I—­I screwed up. I was just trying to keep you safe, but I never should have cut you out like that.” There was a silence, and Jonathan wondered if he'd been blocked again, but then a squeak and a sniffle told him what was happening. She was crying.

“I . . . I understand. But I was starting to think you just didn't want me around. Like I was—­”

“No, baby, never. Don't ever say that,” Jonathan said. He looked up at Lew, who was smiling. “We need to talk. A lot. But I'm still taking care of things here. With Emily. I need to go, but I'll call you as soon as I can.”

“All right,” Natalie said. She sounded disappointed, but he knew she understood.

When he was off the phone, he felt like a thousand pounds had been lifted from his shoulders. But he knew Lew only felt mildly better knowing that Natalie was all right.

“Now, as I was saying, please take a seat, gentlemen. We have a lot to do and not much time.”

“Time for what? Where the fuck is Emily!” Lew shouted. His fuse was going to go, and if that happened, Jonathan knew from past experience that even he wouldn't be able to stop him.

Again there was muffled sounds on the speaker.

“Lew. Lew, I'm all right,” Emily's voice said. “I'm here with them. I'm fine. Well, relatively fine. They patched me up. They saved my life, really. They're proper heroes.”

“Them?” Jonathan and Lew said at the same time.

“Just take a seat, and we'll get started,” the voice said again. Jonathan could tell by his strain that the voice's owner was starting to get perturbed at all these interruptions.

Lew took a few steps toward the speaker. “Look, pal, I ain't sitting nowhere. Let's just—­”

“Christ! Fine, have it your way,” the voice said angrily. The speaker clicked like it had been turned off.

“Have it our way? What is he, Burger Ki—­”

Metal shades slammed down over the windows and the door. A red light snapped on, making everything look like the inside of a submarine. Then a hum started, and the floor began to shake. Jonathan and Lew put their arms out for balance.

“Ah, crap,” Lew said just before their stomachs dropped, and the gallery walls began to get very, very tall. Jonathan grabbed onto Lew's shoulder for extra balance, knowing it would take a lot to knock his bulk down.

“An elevator,” Jonathan said.

“Ya think!” Lew managed. The noise was getting louder and louder, and the floor was falling faster and faster.

Jonathan looked over at the chairs, which were sitting stationary and calm in all the turmoil around them. They were obviously bolted to the floor, and right now, Jonathan was wishing he was sitting in one of them.

“Brace yourself!” Jonathan shouted.

“For what?”

“At this speed, when the brakes catch, we're going to—­”

As if they'd heard him, the brakes caught, and both men were hurled to the floor. Thankfully, the noise was gone. Unthankfully, Lew had fallen on top of him. Jonathan was pretty sure one of his balls was up around his throat.

“Jesus, how much do you weigh?” Jonathan said, panting and wincing as he waited for the pain in his stomach to subside.

“As much as a man is supposed to, lightweight,” Lew said, fumbling his way back to his feet. He helped Jonathan up.

The wall under the speaker clicked and rose, spilling harsh light into the gallery. Both Jonathan and Lew squinted against the sudden brightness. As it subsided, a man flanked by four armed guards entered. The red light clicked over to white again and showed his smiling face. He had a small build and caramel skin—­and Jonathan had just sat across from him a day ago in the café along the Thames.

“Fahd?”

As the lights came up, they showed that while Lew had been scrambling around on the floor, the gun had fallen out of his pocket and was lying on the ground before them.

“GUN!” Someone appeared from behind Fahd, grabbed him, and hurried him away.

The four guards came to life, pointing their P90s at Jonathan and Lew, red dots from their laser sights dancing on their chests. Jonathan and Lew raised their hands.

“Oops,” Lew said.

“A
RE
YOU
SURE
, sir?” a guard asked Fahd a half an hour later, when Fahd instructed him to remove Jonathan's and Lew's cuffs.

They'd been rushed into an interrogation-­style room deep in the mysterious maze a ­couple of stories under the streets of London. Jonathan figured it was some kind of shelter built back during the war, but that was about all he could surmise from their current situation.

“Yes, it was just a misunderstanding.”

“Funny, I was thinking it was called kidnapping,” Lew said, holding his wrists up for the guard to unlock. Jonathan knew being handcuffed always made Lew grumpy. And he wasn't in such a great mood, himself, despite knowing that Natalie was safe. The guard released them and left.

“Well, maybe I can make up for that,” Fahd said, as Emily limped into the room.

“Jesus,” Jonathan said. She was a mess. Her eyes were blackened, her arm was in a sling, and when she smiled, he could see that she was missing some teeth.

“Babe,” Lew said, his voice cracking when he saw her condition.

“I'm okay, Lew. Really. I should probably be dead. If it weren't for Fahd.”

“I'm just sorry we didn't get there sooner. She should be fine in a few weeks, though. I'm taking her to our dentist tomorrow.”

Jonathan could tell Lew hadn't heard half of that. He'd slowly gotten up and was gently holding Emily. It was the softest Jonathan had ever seen him.

“Sorry I'm not much to look at right now,” Emily said to Lew.

“Are you kidding? You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life,” he said as he gently kissed her.

“Yes, well, if you'll take a seat, we can get started.”

“Who are you ­people?” Jonathan asked.

“I'm afraid the Cliff Notes version will have to do for now; we don't have much time.”

“Time for what?” Lew asked, sitting after he helped Emily into a chair.

“Introductions first, Mr. Katchbrow.”

“Lew,” Lew said.

“Thank you. Lew,” Fahd said. “In a way, we're kindred spirits. My name is Fahd Qureshi. As you've no doubt guessed, I'm not a museum security guard. I like to meet new members undercover, as it were, before I indoctrinate them. It gives me a better picture, sometimes, than all the background checks in the world.”

“Members of what?” Jonathan asked.

“The Custodians,” Fahd said, reverently. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction that didn't come.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” Jonathan asked.

“No, not really,” Fahd said. “We've gone to great lengths to ensure that the public doesn't know we exist. Even though the public is the reason we exist.”

“Who came up with that name? You?” Lew said.

Fahd smiled. “No, far from it. I wasn't a founder, by any means. In fact, ten years ago I was just a thief in Riyadh. My companions at the time and I broke into the National Museum. Successes had filled us with hubris. It was a disaster. Most of us were killed. But as I sat in custody, waiting for the police, someone very different showed up and took me away.”

“Someone like you, now,” Jonathan said.

“Yes. They asked if I'd be interested in using my skills in a very different way. Well, I knew my choices were to say yes or end up with my hands in a bag, so I went along with this stranger, determined to escape at my first opportunity. He indoctrinated me, took me into a world—­a global subculture—­that I didn't even know existed. It wasn't long before saving my hands was the least of the reasons I stayed.”

“Fascinating,” Lew said dryly. “But how exactly are we ‘kindred spirits'? We've never robbed a museum in our lives.”

“No, that's true,” Fahd said. “I was referring more to the reason I became a thief in the first place, but again I didn't really understand what you were all about back then. The Custodians helped me understand, though.”

“And what are we all about?” Lew said. Jonathan wished Lew would shut up. For all they knew, he was confirming things Fahd didn't know yet. But just like Fahd's choice years ago, they didn't really have an option now. It was either sit and listen to Fahd's story or face the automatic weapons in the hallway.

“It's all in her books,” Fahd said, nodding toward Emily. Jonathan closed his eyes and sighed, knowing they were blown. Jonathan and Lew had first met Emily because of the book she had written,
The Monarch's Reign
, which documented and theorized about who The Monarch actually was. Once they'd met—­and Emily had helped to rescue Natalie from her kidnappers—­Emily wrote another book aimed at protecting The Monarch, as opposed to outing Jonathan and Lew. At the time, it had seemed to work, but Jonathan knew there was always a chance of someone's seeing through the subterfuge.