King of Thieves

by Shea Godfrey

  The hills surrounding the farmhouse were green and lush, and though it was still early summer, the temperature was warm. He had traveled for two long days to reach the wooded area just north of Baia Mare, and while the country he had traveled through was beautiful, Eastern Europe had never been the location of his choice. He didn’t like the food, and the wine was not sweet enough for his liking.

  The wind moved through the black walnut and red cedar trees, and it filled the air with a clean scent that did not seem to touch the farmhouse and the buildings around it. It passed over them and around them, and perhaps even through them, but it did not stay. As Asher walked around the back of the house and onto the path which led to the weathered barn, some thirty meters away, he wished he were the wind, blown clean from this place, and with no memory of it once he was gone.

  Ketrin Arshavin walked toward him in the distance, and even though Asher could not see his eyes yet, he could feel them.

  Arshavin was a large man, several inches over six feet and square in just about every aspect of his physical appearance. Square, wide shoulders, and a square jaw. Huge hands that were hidden within a dirty towel as he walked and wiped his blunt fingers free of whatever annoyed him. His head was blocky as well, his thick graying hair too heavy to stay put, despite the cloying pomade that he used. It flattened out on top and pulled to the sides like an old Christmas box no one had wanted to open.

  “Asher James,” Ketrin said as he neared. He tucked one end of the stained towel beneath the wide leather belt on his worn jeans. It might have been oil, and it might have been blood on the towel. Asher didn’t care to know.

  He braced for the bone crushing grip that was to come and met Ketrin’s outstretched hand. “Ketrin Arshavin.”

  “Did you meet Pavel?”

  “Yes. He’s a nice boy.”

  Ketrin chuckled, the sound deep within his chest. “You didn’t kill him, did you? That would be bad for you.”

  “No. I’m wearing my good shoes.”

  Ketrin glanced down. “Oh yes, very nice. Italian.”

  Asher reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a soft drawstring bag that fit fully within his hand. The velvet fabric felt like an opportunity that would never come again, and one that he would always regret missing.

  “It was good of you to come all the way here. I appreciate it.”

  Asher placed the bag in Ketrin’s hand.

  Ketrin pulled the bag open and dumped the contents into his other hand.

  The Cartier diamond choker tumbled into the light of day and he smiled, his lips still oddly full despite his wide mouth. His violet eyes were bright with excitement. “You pulled it off.”

  Asher held up his hands. “We are good, then, yes?”

  Ketrin’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but he nodded. “Of course. This settles your debt to me. That was our deal, Asher James.”

  “Good.”

  “I will call on you again, I think.”

  Asher’s heart was beating harder with each second he stood there. He was well aware that his odds of leaving Romania alive were not the sort of odds that a seasoned betting man would favor. “I’m going to America,” he lied. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

  Ketrin pondered his words with a dark, penetrating gaze. “I see.” He slipped the choker back within its pouch and held out his right hand. “Then I wish you good luck.”

  Asher put all his strength into it, as they shook hands again. He could feel his knuckles groan in protest. “You, too.”

  “War is coming. War is good for business.”

  Asher waited for Ketrin to release his hand. “I’ve heard talk.”

  “I will keep an eye out for you, just in case.” Ketrin finally released him. “A man in my position always has need of a good thief. There will be opportunities for many things.”

  Asher turned his back and walked away. He kept his stride in check, but the hair upon his arms tingled with a chill despite the warm air. It was bad enough he had to turn his back, but it would be a tragedy if he just flat out broke down and ran. He was in no way a coward, but Asher understood the precarious reality of his current situation. He wasn’t stupid, either.

  “Have Magda give you food for the road,” Ketrin called after him. “It is a long drive back to Baia Mare, and Firiza has no good food there.”

  Asher glanced back with a wave and noted two men had emerged from the barn. One of them carried a shotgun, the barrel set upon his right shoulder in a casual manner.

  Asher lengthened his step, but he did it smoothly, and a small sound of relief slipped from his throat when he saw his rusted silver Renault. It wasn’t pretty, but he knew when he turned the key, it would start without a hitch, and it would take him to Zagreb and then Zadar without incident. From there he would take the ferry to Ancona, and Italy would welcome him with open arms.

  He dug the keys from his pocket and cursed himself beneath his breath. He bobbled and dropped the keys as he rounded the front of the car, but he did not stop as he tried to pick them up. They fell a second time, and he stepped back with a hiss in order to complete the job. He chose the square key, threw the door open, slid onto the seat, and then slammed the door shut beside him.

  The key was in the ignition when the passenger door opened.

  Asher’s eyes were wide and he expected the shotgun he had glimpsed in the distance. He thought it might have two barrels, though only one was needed.

  The little girl could not have been more than six or seven years old, at least that’s what he figured, though he didn’t have any children of his own. He didn’t know any children, either, so he really wasn’t sure how old she might be. He knew nothing about children, and this fact was partly by design and partly by sheer luck.

  She had blond hair that was tied behind her head, and it wanted to curl, but it wasn’t clean enough to indulge its own wish. Her face was heart shaped and her eyes were a rich and lovely brown, and probably far too large for a child her age. Her dress was made of the same material as Magda’s dress, and her blue coat was dirty and far too small for her, though she wore it zipped up tight, nonetheless.

  Magda held the girl’s right hand, and before Asher knew what was actually going on, the girl was sitting in the passenger seat. Magda leaned into the car and grabbed the safety belt.

  “Close your mouth, Asher James,” Magda said in a very calm, but hurried voice. “Her father was Greek, and his name was Zahl Petinos. Her mother was French—her name was Marrin. Her father hid something important, but Ketrin did not break them. They are gone now.”

  Asher sat back in his seat. “Wait, non, you—”

  “Shut up,” Magda ordered without raising her voice, and Asher obeyed. “That was a few years ago. She is six years old now, I think, and her name is Cassandra.” Magda clicked the belt, and her eyes were fierce. “She has another year of being a house slave, and living on scraps, maybe two. If she cannot give Ketrin what he wants, when that time comes, it will all change for her. She will be sold—do you understand?”

  Asher stared at her.

  “Or Pavel will take her. And a year after that, when he is bored with her, he will pass her around to his friends. If war comes, as Ketrin is preaching, then I should put a bullet in her head right now.”

  Asher continued to stare.

  Magda knelt down beside the car. “Cassandra?”

  The girl lifted her eyes from the ragged stuffed cat that she held.

  Magda smiled. “This man”—Magda glanced across the seat and then back to the girl—“this man comes from a place where girls go to school, and they may have a real kitten to play with, if they want. He will take you there, and he will find you a new home.”

  The girl returned to her stuffed cat and began to pet its head.

  Magda met Asher’s eyes. “I don’t know what language she speaks, but she understands very well what goes on around her. Her parents both spoke English. She has never answered me, not ever. For almost three years she has not said a
single word, not even to her cat, who she loves.”

  Asher felt his shoulders go, and he sank back against the seat. Pavel’s gun dug into his ribs. “Magda, please, I know nothing about children.”

  “This place, this world, has no need of another victim. This place needs a strong woman, who takes what she wants and does not ask for a man to say she can. You are a smart man. I know this.” Magda tapped a finger against her temple. “Because you are walking away alive, from the hooks that hang in Ketrin’s barn. Do you have a sister?”

  Asher made a face of complete surprise and he knew it. “Yes, but no, no, I haven’t seen her in almost ten years.”

  “So you know women.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Take her to your sister.”

  “Magda, please…”

  “This girl watched her parents walk into that barn and never come out. I do not know what she saw before that, or heard over the three days he kept them, but I am thinking something. She has taken the back of Pavel’s hand and the devil within Ketrin’s eyes while he waits for her to grow, and she has said nothing.”

  Magda turned to the girl and lifted her face with a gentle hand. “Be strong.” Her voice was filled with emotion. “Live your life, yes? And when you are afraid? Be afraid with a fire from your soul, and burn down the world around you.” Magda stood, but leaned over as she reached into the car. “Give me Pavel’s gun.”

  Asher made a face, but he leaned forward and pulled the weapon free. It was a relief, though he didn’t want to admit it.

  “Pavel will not notice the girl missing for days. For this gun? He would hunt you down and make you into little pieces for a pie, and that is no joke.”

  Asher set the heavy weapon into her hand.

  “Drive now, and do not stop. Do not go into Baia Mare. Go to Prague. Just north of Baia Mare, take the E58 to Satu Mare. You will know from there where you should go.” With her free hand Magda handed him a small package wrapped in brown paper that she pulled from the front pocket of her dress. “Those are papers I had made for her. From Prague, you might go anywhere. There is some little money there, to help. New clothes, perhaps, and some food for a while.”

  Asher took the packet.

  “The one who steals her heart from the silence, Asher James, will be the King of Thieves.” Magda’s eyes were desperate and filled with an abundance of hope at the same time. “Do not ever come back here.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Magda leaned down and kissed the girl upon the cheek. “Forget this place,” she whispered in a thick manner. “And forget me, too.”

  The door slammed shut.

  “Start the car, you fool.”

  Asher obeyed.

  Magda leaned down and smiled through the open window. “Your sister was older, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You listen to a woman very well. Now start driving, for God’s sake, and do not look back. A week or two of trouble, and you will save the life of a child. It is not such a bad thing to have in your pocket, when you go to meet your God.”

  Asher felt the question within the pit of his stomach. “What about you?”

  “Do not look back.”

  She walked away from the car with a straight back and her shoulders squared, and Asher obeyed her one more time. He put the car into drive and they moved forward. Asher followed the gravel drive as it curved back around, and when the house went by on his left, he caught a glimpse of Magda as she opened the screen door and disappeared into Ketrin Arshavin’s house.

  His eyes were on the road as they passed beyond the small clearing, and the gravel turned into a well-worn dirt road that passed between the red cedars. Asher went as fast as he dared, and thankfully, the Renault seemed to move as if it had wings. He did not look back.

  Chapter Three

  San Francisco

  Present day

  Finnegan Starkweather watched Cassandra Marinos step from the limousine, the shadow Casey cast along the pavement lengthened further by the slant of the lights along Stockton Street.

  Finn was fairly certain that should Ms. Marinos be in need of a weapon, even her shadow might come in handy, like the Prada heels Casey wore. Not that Casey was known for her violence, but she had raced to the top of an extremely exclusive roster, with very little sympathy for the people left in her wake.

  Casey spoke to the driver briefly and offered an easy smile as her dark blond hair brushed across her face. The style was reminiscent of Veronica Lake, and it spilled onto the shoulders of her fawn-colored cashmere coat in a dreamy manner. The driver nodded and closed the door as Casey walked toward the Campton Place Hotel.

  Finn leaned against the railing of the fire escape two flights up and one building over, and her upper body tipped into midair as she tried to see Casey all the way into the hotel, despite the awning that blocked her view.

  “Maybe you’ll fall down her dress.”

  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t have time to see much on the way down,” Finn cracked as she found her feet and spun about.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?”

  “Of course not, but I think maybe it’s time I introduced myself.”

  Malik Kaseem pushed back the brim of his Manchester United hat. “You’re going to get your ass kicked.”

  Finn wanted to laugh, but her nerves refused to oblige. “Speak for yourself.”

  “We could just step up the surveillance, Finn. Let’s call in a few of Aaron’s people. They’re solid, and he already knows we’re in town.”

  “Yeah, but then what?” Finn asked. “We need a better view of things, period. When this all goes down, at the very least we need to be within spitting distance, as they say.”

  “Who says that?”

  “They.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The opposite of us?” Finn asked with a grin. “Don’t get me all worked up, please.”

  “Let me call Aaron.”

  “Fine, go ahead.” Finn gave him a hard look. “Let’s just do this, though, all right? I’m all grown up, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Yes, but are you wearing your clean knickers?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you pick out the waiter?”

  “Yes, his name is Marcel. He seems extremely practiced.”

  “At what, being French? Are there brined cheeses involved?”

  “No, at not asking any questions.”

  “How do I look?”

  Malik took a step back and appeared to give her an honest once-over.

  She wore a dark navy Jil Sander suit with bluish-gray lapels, over a pristine white shirt that Malik and his wife Aiyla had gotten her for Christmas. Her matching trousers were cut low and fitted, and her silver buckled belt offset her low-heeled Steve Madden boots that added a rough edge. Her thick black hair was spiky about her face and she felt that for the moment, at least, it was behaving itself.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself. You know I hate repeating myself.”

  “Sex on a stick,” Malik answered.

  A flash of regret moved through his eyes after he spoke, and so she smiled, stepping into the punch. Her fist landed against his right bicep with a thud.

  He winced as he pulled his shoulder in. “Go with God.”

  “Just don’t mess anything up while I’m gone, okay?” Finn stepped from the fire escape and maneuvered smoothly through the open window. “Two weeks of surveillance, and it all goes up in smoke because you can’t remember to put a thumb drive in your pocket.”

  “That one wasn’t actually my fault, you know.”

  She smiled and kept moving.

  * * *

  Finn stood just beyond the arch that led into the restaurant and watched as Cassandra Marinos claimed her reservation by one of the blue-tinted, etched windows. Casey’s dress was cut low between her breasts and wonderfully sleek, draped along her body as if the black fabric had spontaneously combusted a
long her skin in a burst of silk and sexuality. It was Carolina Herrera, and Finn knew it would be a match for Casey’s dark eyes.

  The headwaiter caught Finn’s attention for a brief instant and she gave him a nod.

  Casey accepted the menu and ordered a drink, no doubt the 1998 Clos des Goisses that Finn knew was her favorite at the moment. The waiter would bring a ’47 Cheval Blanc instead. The damn thing had cost Finn ten grand, and Pietro had called in a very old favor besides, but it would be worth it just to see her take that first sip.

  Only the best of everything for one of the top thieves in the world, and that’s exactly what Cassandra Marinos was.

  She had never been caught, and as of yet, no charges had ever been leveled against her. A few private firms had investigated an alias she used, but not a single piece of hard evidence had been discovered. She had yet to make Interpol’s Red Notice list, and barring a disaster of epic proportions, Finn doubted she ever would. When a rare work of art went missing, though, one of Casey’s fictitious names could always be found on someone’s short list of possible suspects.

  The name Cassandra Marinos, on the other hand, had rarely seen the light of day.

  It was a bauble of diamonds and white gold that had turned out to be the final piece of the puzzle, and it had landed Finn in France, just beyond the backyard of Casey’s home outside of the Dordogne. A trinket worth thirty grand that had been stolen in Amsterdam, though the what of the theft wasn’t nearly as telling as the when of it.

  The bracelet had been stolen in 2002, just hours before the theft of two Van Gogh paintings, and in Finn’s mind, it had never been a coincidence that Casey just happened to be in Amsterdam at the same time the museum job had gone down.

  The theft of Scheveningen and Nuenen wasn’t all that shocking in the end, but what was surprising was that it took so long to recover them. They’d shown up over a decade later just south of Naples, with the Italian Mob on the hook. While Finn would not have chosen those particular paintings as Vincent’s best work, taken together they were worth well over a hundred and twenty million dollars.