To Catch a Thief (13 page)

Four fast bullets coughed from a suppressed pistol at close range, and the woman spun sideways, thrown against the back of the van. She tried to talk, but only gurgling sounds came from the entry wounds at her throat and chest. Her body jerked twice and then crumpled to the ground.

As Dakota moved in, the man with the cell phone leaned down and sent two bullets into the fallen woman's forehead.

In the sudden silence, Dakota smelled cordite and perfume and the dank odor of stagnant water. His hand closed into a fist. He fought the urge to cut down every man in the clearing.

But it wouldn't bring the woman back. It wouldn't help him find the missing art. It would ruin the only new leads they had.

Dakota forced his fingers to relax, forced the Sig down until it wasn't aimed at the killer's head as the man prodded the body with one foot and then gestured to the others.

“Get her into the back, but stay away from the computer. We're done here.”

Dakota touched his lip microphone. “You seeing this, Teague?” he whispered.

“I'm on it with video. She's definitely dead?”

“No question, after those last two shots.”

“I'm calling it in to Ryker. The FBI will be all over this. He'll have to report it.”

“You want me to nab our friend with the buzz cut for a nice, long chat before the FBI makes an appearance?”

“Nice idea, but we need him on the move. Get back here pronto.” Izzy's voice hardened. “He's going to lead us straight up the food chain.”

F
IVE MINUTES
later the head of Foxfire received a call from Izzy. “I've got the FBI on the phone. They want to talk with my superior.”

“Put them through,” Ryker snapped. When he answered the call that Izzy patched through, he gave no identification nor department affiliation.

“Yes.”

“Agent Amy Fuller calling for Lloyd Ryker.”

“You found him. How can I help you, Agent Fuller?”

“You're a hard man to reach, Mr. Ryker.”

Ryker ignored the comment.

“I thought you'd want to know that one of the National Gallery guards was killed last night in what appears to be a hit-and-run accident near the Lincoln Memorial. We received the information a few minutes ago.”

Ryker frowned at the paperwork stacked in a neat pile at the edge of his desk. There was nothing else in the room. No family photos, no travel mementos, no coffee mugs with inspiring mottos. “Any witnesses?”

“None have come forward. We've got people checking the area on foot. We've also requested surveillance feed from the National Park Service. We may get lucky and pull an image from the video.”

Ryker said nothing. They both knew the likelihood of that happening was razor-thin to laughable. “Have you checked the guard's banking records for large deposits?”

“We should have the information in the next two hours. Rogers—the guard—didn't live beyond his means and he drove a ten-year-old pickup, but he might have had money tucked away somewhere. Of course if the money was banked offshore it could be difficult to locate.”

“I appreciate your call, Agent Fuller. I'd like hard copies of anything you turn up.”

“Where should I send them?”

Ryker gave her a fax number.

“And exactly where is that, Mr. Ryker? As far as I can see, you work for a department with no name, in a location that has no address on jobs with no description.”

Ryker smiled thinly. He didn't dispute the comment. It was in fact, highly accurate. The Foxfire unit appeared on no government rosters, he'd made damned sure of that. “Need-to-know, Agent Fuller. And I'll be watching for that fax.”

He hung up as she was gathering breath for an angry response.

Women in nuclear submarines.

Women in the FBI.

Next thing you knew, there'd be a woman presiding over the sacred duties of the Oval Office.

The thought was incomprehensible to Lloyd Ryker. With luck it wouldn't happen during his lifetime. Scowling, he glanced at his watch, then punched a button on the sleek silver office phone, reconnecting with Izzy.

“Agent Fuller just notified me that one of the National Gallery security staff was killed in a hit-and-run last night. I'll send through the report as soon as it arrives.”

“That makes two dead, sir. A senior curator was just shot during our surveillance. The vans came from the Holt Brothers facility on the outskirts of D.C. We tracked them to an isolated marsh near the Potomac, where the shooting took place.” Quickly, Teague relayed the rest of the details.

“Description of the computer files?” Ryker said curtly.

“She mentioned photos and tests. She also said she'd helped them ‘wrap the package' and that it was gone. I'd say that has to refer to the da Vinci.”

“You're trailing these vans now?”

“Looks like they're headed back to the warehouse facility.”

“Don't give them any hint they're being followed. I'll put someone on the dead woman's phone and credit card records. I want to know everyone she spoke to and visited over the last six months. We'll check for any receipts from a vacation home or storage facility where she might have stashed the art.”

“Unlikely, sir. She said the package was gone and indicated her work was done.”

Ryker steepled his fingers. “I want that da Vinci and the people who stole it, Teague. Pick up the pace. And get me this information before any
other
agencies have their nose to the wind.”

London

C
AR HORNS BLARED
.

Tires screeched.

Nicholas Draycott seemed oblivious to London's pollution and snarling traffic as he slid Nell's bag into the back of a red Mini Cooper. “How nice to get back to the quiet bustle of England,” he murmured.

His well-placed government contacts had expedited their passage through customs and immigration. What would have taken two hours had been finished in a few minutes.

After she slid into the car, Nell made certain that her cell phone had a clear signal, in case her father called. Waiting calmly for that call was the hardest thing she had ever done.

Nicholas pulled into the traffic, ignoring the angry blare of horns behind him. “When we get to the abbey, I'll run those museum acquisition files you gave me. I'm sure that Izzy and Dakota Smith are also working on the numbers from their end. Why don't you try to sleep until we reach the abbey?”

Nell shook her head. Her eyes ached from too many hours of traveling, but anxiety about her father left her too jumpy to relax. The cuts and bruises from the night of her attack didn't help, a constant reminder of the danger that might have followed her even here.

She managed a smile for Nicholas. “I'll be fine. But there's something I need to know. How long have you and my father been working on this undercover plan?”

“For nearly eight months. Once he was contacted in prison, your father managed to get word to me through a journalist who was finishing an article on prison reform.” Nicholas slanted her a thoughtful look. “He didn't tell you because he didn't want you to worry, Nell. I hope you can understand that.”

“I might understand, but I still don't like it. In case I didn't say it before, thank you,” she added quietly. “If not for you, he would have tried to handle this alone.”

Nicholas kept glancing in the rearview mirror, and Nell realized he was checking to see if they were being followed. “Is someone back there?”

“Not that I can see. If there is, I'll ditch them. And don't thank me yet, my dear. We're far from out of the woods.”

“Have you heard anything from Dakota and Izzy Teague?”

“No messages yet.” The viscount sailed through a roundabout with steely confidence, feathering past a silver Audi and a grocery truck. His face looked tense.

“Is something wrong, Nicholas?”

“Of course not.”

Nell could have sworn his fingers tightened on the wheel, just for a moment. There was something that he hadn't told her. “Nicholas, I—”

“Get some rest,” he said gruffly. “I'll wake you when we're at the abbey.”

S
OUTH OF
M
AIDSTONE
the hedgerows slid into a green blur. Old stone cottages flashed by, and every bend in the road held years of rich history. The Normans had walked here. Before that Saxon, Celt and Roman had marched along long-forgotten roads.

But the history that gripped Nell now had begun months before, the day her father hatched a desperate plan that might get him killed. As the miles slipped past, her eyes closed, and with sleep came restless dreams like dark companions, moving in ragged bursts of noise and shadow. Somewhere in those dreams her father walked down a hall full of da Vinci masterpieces lit by a dying fire.

Nell reached out to him. “I can't lose you now,” she whispered. “Stay safe.”

He didn't hear, didn't turn and the shadows swallowed him, building to a greater darkness. But this new darkness was alive. Fluid with ghostlike shapes, it moved at the corner of Nell's vision.

“N
ELL
? W
E'RE HERE
.”

The hiss of brakes cut through the shadows. Nell sat up abruptly, rubbing her eyes in the streaming sunlight.

And then she was swept into beauty, into a green curve of trees towering over silver water. Swans cut through the mirrored reflection of high walls as the Mini Cooper grumbled up a curving driveway.

The abbey rose before her, all twisting spires and arrogant grace. She took a sharp breath as she saw the roses.

White, pink and cream, they climbed in a riot of color over the abbey's ancient gray walls.

“So many colors in one spot. And the fragrance—” She leaned closer to the open window, half-drunk with the scent that drifted on the wind.

“We've always been known for roses,” Nicholas said with quiet pride. “They are blooming late this year. They do that sometimes. An expert told me it has something to do with the walls facing south.” For the first time since Nell had seen him in California, some of the tension left his face. “It's odd living in a relic packed with so much history, but I miss every inch when I'm gone. Welcome to Draycott Abbey, my dear. I'm glad to see that the swans are out for you.”

Twin shapes shimmered on the quiet moat. Nell felt overwhelmed by the majesty and contentment of the place.

She rubbed a hand over her face. “As amazing as Draycott Abbey is, I think I'd better stay somewhere in town, Nicholas. I don't want to put you or your family at risk.”

“Of course you'll stay here,” the viscount said gruffly. “You'll appreciate the art more than any guest in a decade. Besides, you couldn't leave if you wanted to. I'm afraid I had to declare that you would remain here at the abbey in my keeping, as that was the only way to bend a few rules at the airport. We have one week before your arrival will be officially noted, just to throw off anyone inclined to ask.”

Nicholas was right, of course. People would be watching for her. This way was safest. Nell frowned at the moat, complete with swans and a weir below ancient, gnarled oak trees. Suddenly she felt the weight of the place and the care and attention of centuries of ancestors who had kept the house safe.

Someone always paid a price to keep things safe.

She turned to look at Nicholas. “Tell me this. What if you had to choose between this beautiful place and its legacy…or the life of someone you love? I know it's a strange question, but something about this glorious house makes me wonder.”

“There would be no question. The people I love are my world and all my joy. Without them, this house and everything else would be ashes.”

The absolute certainty in his voice made Nell wonder if he'd ever had to make that kind of choice. She knew that his wife was a well-known American scholar specializing in the art of Whistler. Nell had heard Kacey Draycott speak once in Boston, and the talk had been all the more fascinating because Kacey had discovered an unknown Whistler painting right here at the abbey.

“I don't like this, Nicholas. I can't let your wife and daughter be put in danger.”

“They are staying in London all week for a textile workshop, arranged with my daughter's school. To tell you the truth, I think the two have forgotten I'm alive.”

His smile faded as he glanced at his watch. “But now I've got a dozen calls to make. Marston will give you the quick tour, and I'll do a more thorough job tonight.”

“Marston?”

“Our butler. The man has been here forever. He probably knows more about the abbey than I do. Ask him for whatever you need, Nell. He always complains that we don't have enough guests, so he may smother you with attention. Be warned.”

“I'm not a guest, Nicholas.” Nell had to fight a treacherous dream of belonging here, in a place of such beauty. But she was here to save her father. She couldn't forget that.

No trust.

No leaning.

She stared out at the sweeping green lawns, steeling herself against their beauty, blocking out all but the task ahead of her. “Did you send for those files I wanted?”

“They should be waiting in my e-mail. But you've seen the test results already. Why do you need the conservator's handwritten notes?”

“I don't know yet. I may not know until it's right in front of me.” She smiled crookedly. “It's just an instinct, Nicholas. Remember, X never, ever marks the spot. Indiana Jones was dead right about that.”

T
RUE TO HIS WORD
,
Nicholas disappeared almost immediately upon their arrival, but his butler was entirely versant in the abbey's history. “I will direct you to your room in the gatehouse, Ms. MacInnes. And we have met before, though it has been years. It was in London. I recall that your father was selling a piece of art to the viscount—a very fine drawing from a notebook of Leonardo da Vinci, as I recall.”

“My memories are a little blurry. Sorry, Marston.”

“No reason to apologize. You were only nine at the time, but a very mature nine. You asked me what a butler did and if there were opportunities for advancement.”

Nell coughed in embarrassment. Had she really said that?

“I told you that in the right circumstances there was no better job. I stand by my comment today.”

Nell glanced down and hid a smile. Marston's lime-green running shoes made a strange contrast to his beautifully tailored but severe black suit. Clearly this was not your average English servant.

“I will serve tea on the south lawn in twenty minutes, if that is convenient.”

“Please don't go to any trouble. I'm only here to work, Marston.”

He shot her an imperious glance. “You are a guest, one who
chooses
to work,” he corrected. “In twenty minutes. On the south lawn.”

There would be no arguing with the man, Nell realized, wondering if he ordered the viscount about in this way. After a little thought, she decided it was highly likely.

As they walked through the shadowed rooms, Marston straightened an occasional picture or antique Chinese porcelain, and the beauty of the old house struck her anew.

“I've prepared the front suite for you in the gatehouse, Ms. MacInnes. Family legends hold that Elizabeth I slept there on one of her many royal circuits.” He coughed slightly. “The story has never been proved, I am sorry to say.”

She was going to sleep in the same room that Elizabeth had slept in? Maybe even in the same bed? “I really don't think it's necessary—”

“It is the viscount's pleasure.” The butler's arctic tone cut off further discussion.

They walked down a corridor filled with portraits of imposing aristocrats and an exceptionally fine set of Anasazi burial bowls displayed in climate-controlled cases. Inside the gatehouse, the smell of roses filled the air with spice and cloves from blooms scattered in crystal vases and silver holders.

Marston cast a critical eye over the bedroom. “I'm told these roses were a passion of the first viscount, who carried dozens of plants back from the Holy Land and the Crusades. A grander day, but his story was far from happy.” Sunlight gleamed on yellow silk curtains and blue toile wallpaper. “Your room, Ms. MacInnes. I hope you will be comfortable here.”

Comfortable? Words failed Nell.

When she turned around, Marston was gone. The heavy curtains drifted in an unseen wind.

Tea in twenty minutes on the south lawn.

Nell ran a hand through her hair. What had happened to her simple, orderly life?

Something nudged her feet, and she saw a gray cat sitting on the carpet. While Nell washed and changed, the cat claimed a spot in the middle of the big bed.

Keen amber eyes stared at her, unblinking. With a low, imperious meow the cat jumped to the floor. At the door he turned, waiting for her to follow, the message of impatience unmistakable.

“So you rule the roost and I'm supposed to follow?” Another meow. “In that case, lead on.”

When she opened the door, the cat raced across the courtyard. Nell had to hurry to catch up.

N
ICHOLAS
D
RAYCOTT STUDIED
the big wooden globe next to his desk, frowning. “No, Mr. Ryker, I must
insist
that you maintain the terms Jordan MacInnes set. None of your government agencies are to be informed of this plan. At least one person on the inside—and possibly more—was involved. Jordan tried to learn who, but gave up when his prison contact became suspicious. Nell has already made a list of possibilities for the numbers he gave her. In addition, I have just received the latest conservator's notes from the National Gallery. I'm sorry, what did you say?”

Nicholas Draycott's face hardened as he listened to Lloyd Ryker's description of the senior curator's death. “She was transferring files? So she was definitely involved in the theft.”

The Englishman turned away, watching sunlight play over the moat. For once the house's beauty did not raise his spirits. “Yes, I've heard of East West Properties. I've met Luis Gonsalves once or twice at auctions.” Nicholas didn't mention that he had once bid against the wealthy businessman for a Tang Dynasty ceramic funerary horse, but the bidding had quickly spiraled far beyond Nicholas's limit. His impression that night was that Luis Gonsalves enjoyed spending money while people watched; even more, he enjoyed winning while people watched. “The father is a very determined man. The son? I've never met him, but I can make discreet inquiries.” Draycott frowned as his cell phone began to vibrate, dancing over the mahogany desktop. “Excuse me. My cell phone is ringing, and I give this number out to very few people.”