He was saying something, but she didn’t even register the words. As a hideous thought blossomed like a mushroom cloud in her brain, she slid her hands along the straps, feeling for bumps or anything that didn’t belong.
She found it inside the opening where one of the doubled straps was stitched around a metal hoop, which joined it to the body of the purse.
“What are you doing?” He broke off whatever he’d been talking about to say, as she picked up the little plastic stir stick from the table beside her and stuck it into the small tunnel created by the stitched together, doubled strap.
Bingo: a tiny metal tablet popped out of said tunnel into the palm of her hand.
She looked at it. She knew what it was. She looked up at him.
Consternation, alarm, guilt—for that single unguarded moment all those emotions played across his face.
They added up to a single damning word: caught.
Her fist clenched around the capsule.
“Intelligence, my ass.” Shaking her clenched fist at him, she came out of the chair to get right up in his face. “You planted a tracking device on my purse.”
29
“Now, hold on. You should be thanking me.” Colin’s hands clamped onto her shoulders, holding her away from him as, she was sure, the outrage exploding inside her blazed from her eyes. “Without it I wouldn’t have been walking behind you in Moscow tonight, and I wouldn’t have been able to save your ass back there.”
Then he made the fatal mistake: he grinned.
Bianca never lost her temper. Never, under any circumstances.
Keep emotion out of it. It was one of the rules.
So consider this the proverbial exception:. her temper had just officially gone boom.
She should have known. She should have guessed. Checking for tracking devices was elemental tradecraft, and she’d never even thought of it when it came to her and him. He’d put one over on her, big-time, and he was grinning.
“You no good dirty rotten son of a bitch.” She slugged him in the stomach, and when he gasped and fell back and bent over, she grabbed her purse and charged past him. “You tricked me. You lied to me. What else are you lying about, hmm? Is the CIA going to—” come charging through the door at any minute, was what she was going to say—but he grabbed the tail end of her sweater as she rushed toward the closet and her coat and the door and yanked her back so that she slammed into him.
“Hang on a minute, I—” was as far as he got before she turned on him, slamming both hands into his chest, knocking him backward. “Hey!”
His legs hit the edge of the bed. He fell backward onto it.
And grabbed her arm and took her with him.
The minute she hit, he rolled on top of her, using his superior weight, doing his best to pin her down.
“Get off me!” Bristling with fury, she aimed a chop at his throat, a head butt at his nose.
He dodged both, grabbed her wrists, bent his head—and kissed her.
His lips were warm, and firm, and—there it was, the flare of heat, the surge of electricity, the attraction that she’d found it impossible to shake.
She was still mad as hell.
But color her distracted.
His kiss was hot, and slow, and deep. She kissed him back, opening her mouth to his, pulling her wrists free of his grip so that she could wrap her arms around his neck.
She kissed him and kissed him. Hungrily.
“Beth,” he whispered—which should have been a wake-up call, for sure. But his hand was on her breast and his hard weight was pressing her into the mattress and he was kissing her with endless, drugging kisses that made her dizzy, that made her shivery, that made her—
“I feel weird,” he said, and lifted his head and looked down at her.
Her arms were looped around his neck. Her lips were parted, she was breathing hard, and her body was making sexy little moves under his.
Their eyes met. Hers widened: she’d almost forgotten—
His eyes were black with passion, but as she watched something else came into them: a dawning realization.
“You drugged me,” he said.
She didn’t even have time to reply before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed.
Five minutes later, after a thorough search of his room that turned up nothing of interest except ID verifying his name and giving the name of the company he worked for as Cambridge Solutions, Ltd.—something to have Doc check out when they got the chance—and a quick wipe down to take care of fingerprints and other possible evidence, she was on her way out the door. With his gun. Because you never knew when you might encounter some CIA-type really bad guys.
One last look back showed him passed out on the bed in the middle of the scene she had set: half a dozen empty minibar booze bottles on the night table and aromatic vodka splashed liberally all over him and the bed to give him that bender vibe, in case he had any confederates who might drop by to check on him before he woke up.
By the time he was coherent enough to tell anybody about their little adventure, or to come looking for her, she meant to be long gone.
Screw truth and trust. The game they were really playing was, may the best man win.
And she’d just kicked his ass.
* * *
By 8:05 the following night—Friday—Bianca was so antsy she could barely stand still. She was still at the Circus Nikulin, already five minutes behind schedule, and given that the Raspberry Pi was programmed to precise times, that was not good. The thought that Colin might wake up sooner than expected had preyed on her nerves all day. The fear that what was left of the CIA kill team—or a whole new kill team—might find her before she could vamoose was making her sweat. She needed to leave for the Pushkin—it was, after all Robbery Night at the Museum—but she couldn’t go until she had all her co-conspirators safely dispatched.
Doc and Oskar were on their way with the Raspberry Pi and Griff.
Elena and Maria were on their way with the exploding cars.
Dorottya and her dogs were about ten minutes behind them, on track to pick them up.
Sandor had done his thing with Zsa and Atila, and the snakes were loaded in their truck.
Zoltan was in his truck.
All the vehicles except the ones containing the animals had been driven to the rendezvous point by the river, where they were currently parked.
Dedi and Bela were waiting to drop her off at the museum before proceeding to the rendezvous point, where they would stay with the caravan to watch out for the animals.
Lazlo had taken his final bow and left the ring. He and Sandor were waiting with Bianca in the wings. They would be driving the animal trucks to the rendezvous point and then, when Dedi and Bela arrived, heading for the fire truck, which was stored in a rented garage, just as soon as they could get going.
So what was the hold up?
Kristof, Franz, Adam and Bence, who were supposed to ride with Lazlo and Sandor to the fire truck. The six of them, plus Dorottya, Elena and Maria, were the fake firefighters who would participate in the actual robbery. But the four young men were still in the center of the ring along with Tibor Alexandrovich. They were taking bows right and left under multiple spotlights and to thunderous applause as Tibor Alexandrovich held up each of their hands in turn like he was introducing the winner in a prizefight. Moments before they had completed their Wheel of Death tightrope act and been publicly announced as the newest act to win a place at the Circus Nikulin.
Yeah. It was shaping up to be that kind of night.
The rest of the family, who’d been informed of the audition results right before the start of the show, were almost as thrilled as the four young men. For a moment when the news broke, Bianca had feared that the lure of the circus might prove stronger than the enticement of one last, lucrative job.
“Can you believe it? Our boys,” Dorottya said rapturously, and Lazlo wiped away a tear.
“They did it.” Sandor hugged his brother and Dorottya.
“It is tradition,” Oskar said, beaming.
Dedi said, “Ah, bah, we will talk about tradition after we get four million dollars. Tradition is fine, but it is nothing you can eat.”
Fortunately for the sake of the plan, that seemed to be the family consensus.
The job was on.
* * *
By 8:47 p.m.—now seventeen minutes behind schedule—Bianca was dropped off at the museum. The Raspberry Pi was programmed to shut down the alarms connected to the display cases at precisely 9:00 and start collecting and rerouting calls at precisely 9:25. That was designed to give her half an hour to unlock the nineteen cases and set the incendiaries, with a five-minute overlap on call collection to ensure that there were no gaps in coverage. It was impossible to precisely time the emergency calls that would go out. The official ones would be instigated automatically by the security system once the fires were detected. Those automatic calls would also, almost certainly, be supplemented by calls placed by the guards and possibly even some guests on their cell phones. Bianca’s best guess was that they would begin to occur at around 9:30. The fire truck would show up within three minutes of the official call being placed—it would already be nearby—and the firefighters, carrying the trunks that were now labeled “equipment” and contained the replicas, would storm the museum about two minutes after that. By then the guests would have been evacuated and the actual theft could commence. With Adam and Bence busy putting out the fire, that left eight of them to replace the treasure with the replicas. The trunks contained precise diagrams of where each piece should go. Ten minutes after arriving, they should be out of there with the treasure.
For the gala, Bianca was Shura Federov, an art critic for the online magazine Krasivaya. Her goal was to be extremely unmemorable. To that end she wore her Ann wig, which was a plain brown bob, her Maggy tortoiseshell glasses, and a gray suit with a white blouse and low-heeled black shoes. Underneath the nondescript clothing was a flesh-colored, custom-made bodysuit that made her look pleasantly plump and had the advantage of allowing her easy access to what it contained. That would be the explosives and smoke grenades she would need to achieve a quick and thorough evacuation of the building.
“Dobryy vecher.” She said good evening upon arriving at the door.
A woman—not a security guard—at the door nodded while barely glancing at her or her invitation before waving her in. A security guard stood nearby as she dropped her coat—a gray cloth one, not the puffer—off in the cloakroom.
The gala was in full swing, with the exhibit spread throughout the two large, hall-like rooms that opened off either side of the entryway at the front of the building. Those were rooms One and Eight. They featured The Art of Ancient Egypt and The Art of Germany and the Netherlands, respectively, so between them there was plenty of art to go around. With the entry hall, they took up the entire front of the building and formed what Bianca thought of as the Hall of Statues. The Savitsky paintings were arranged on gilded easels amid the permanent displays. The rooms were bathed in a dim golden glow from the overhead fixtures. Small spotlights highlighted the featured paintings. The buzz of conversation underlay haunting music from a violinist playing her instrument in the entry hall.
Looking both ways, Bianca estimated that about 140 guests were present of the two hundred that she knew, from Doc’s hack of the event planner’s files, had been invited. From what she could see, most of the guests were Russian. She recognized none of them, which was a relief because she’d harbored a terrible fear that someone—Colin, any associates that might be with him, the CIA and/or their associates—could have gotten wind of her plans and would be there, at this fixed time and place where she would show up, to take her out. But these all seemed to be ordinary people doing ordinary things. They mostly wore business attire, although here and there a cocktail dress stood out, and sipped cocktails and talked among themselves. The guests seemed to be spaced out fairly evenly among the paintings on display, with knots of people progressing from one to another in a route designed to take them from the door, down to the buffet at the far end of Room One where a line of guests filled their plates, back through the entry hall to Room Eight and out to the entry hall again.
“Khotite li vy broshurou?” One of the docents approached her to ask if she would like a brochure. The docent had about two dozen in a basket draped over her arm. Bianca accepted one.
“Spasibo.” She expressed her thanks.
Moving quickly through Room One without, she hoped, seeming to do so, Bianca made a show of consulting the brochure, which listed the Savitsky paintings in the order in which they were displayed and gave their provenance. She paused several times to look at one because, after all, they were supposed to be the reason for her presence. Most of them were not precisely her cup of tea. An evil looking cubist cow made her devoutly thankful that she’d had chicken rather than beef for lunch. As she reached the three long catering tables that had been placed together at the far end of the room, she noted the floor-length white tablecloths covering each and cast a cursory glance over the platters of smoked salmon and blini and bowls of red caviar to focus on the chafing dishes full of beef Stroganoff and shashlik. Those were located on the middle table, and were kept warm by means of gas heating elements with tiny, flickering blue flames beneath the dishes. Dropping her brochure, she contrived to look beneath the tablecloth as she retrieved it. Extra Sterno fuel canisters for the chafing dishes were stored beneath the table.
When the table went up, the chafing dishes and their fuel would undoubtedly be blamed. And they would add to the fire.
For safety’s sake, she’d made the explosives herself. What she wanted was a quickly flaring fire, a lot of smoke and mass evacuation. What she didn’t want was anyone hurt or priceless artifacts destroyed. Place what were essentially Baggies full of gunpowder in thermoses half full of kerosene, add some wicks, light them up and, once they went off, add some smoke grenades to the subsequent confusion, and the thing was done. Later, it would be thought that a mishap with the catering tables had caused the fire.
“Ya mogu vam pomoch?” One of the two servers behind the buffet tables asked if she could help her, picked up a plate and indicated the food.
“Blini, pozhaluysta,” she said, politely requesting the blini.
The woman put two of the thin, sour-cream-and-strawberry-jam-garnished pancakes on the plate and handed it to her.
“Spasibo,” Bianca said, and passed on.
To the right of the long hall that was Room One, Room Two had been set up with small tables and chairs for guests who wished to sit and eat. About half the tables were occupied when Bianca entered. Room Three opened off the back of it. As she had expected, Room Three was dark except for the very minimal security lighting. With a polite smile for the single seated guest who happened to glance her way, she headed for the table closest to Room Three. She meant to sit, eat, then wander off, supposedly (if anyone should ask) in search of the ladies’ room, which was an excellent catchall excuse for being caught almost anywhere you weren’t supposed to be.
A glance at her watch told her that it was already 8:56. The Raspberry Pi should be in place. In case of glitches, she meant to leave it until 9:05 before moving into Room Three and starting in on the display cases.
Bianca smiled at the elderly couple occupying the table next to the one she was heading for as she moved toward them, and then glanced casually over their heads in the direction of the atrium, which had been decked out with twinkly white Christmas lights for the occasion. Her purpose was to check out the security office. If it seemed to be business as usual, she would consider that the Raspberry Pi was in place and they were all systems go.
Between the Christmas lights and the blue glow that emana
ted from the computer monitors, the security office was well lit enough to allow Bianca to see that there were two guards present, both seated at their desks and both apparently absorbed in whatever was happening on the monitors in front of them.
While Griff descended like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible above their heads.
Suspended from his harness and the rope, the little monkey was coming down fast, flat on his stomach with his legs stretched out in front and behind and his tail curled over his back.
Dun dun dada dun dun dada—she could almost hear the Mission Impossible theme song playing in her head.
Bianca was in laser-focused, cool, calm professional mode, but her heart jumped when she spotted him. It was all she could do to keep from stopping dead in her tracks. If her eyes didn’t widen, it wasn’t because they didn’t want to.
The guards never looked up. They never looked around as Griff disappeared behind them.
Staring at the security office in fear of seeing the guards leap to their feet, or cringing in anticipation of shouts erupting from them, was probably a mistake. Bianca found her table, put her plate down and cast a quick glance around to see if anyone else was looking toward the atrium. No one was.
Over the years, she’d participated in so many robberies she’d lost count. She had developed nerves of steel.
Didn’t matter. The thought of Griff scuttling through that small office with two fully awake and aware security guards in it was enough to give her butterflies.
She’d timed it: it was supposed to take Griff exactly fifty-four seconds from the time he hit the security office floor to reach the computer, pull the Raspberry Pi out of the pocket Dedi had created in his vest, plug the thing into the port and hook himself up to the rope again.
It had been one minute since he’d disappeared from her view.
She couldn’t stand it. She glanced toward the atrium again.
Hooked to the rope, Griff was ascending skyward like a missile in flight.
The guards still sat in front of their monitors. If they’d moved, she couldn’t tell it.
The Moscow Deception--An International Spy Thriller Page 30