“Not yet. But I did get two working mobile phones that aren’t connected to any Fargo accounts. We can use them as hot spots for the laptops for the internet.”
“No regular internet?”
“That account was closed, and the poor girl trying to help me was far too confused.” He handed her the bag. “A new account and mobile phones were faster than trying to deal with corporate. I don’t suppose you had better luck with the banks?”
“The good news is, what wasn’t frozen as a result of the tampering I was able to freeze while the banks try to straighten everything out.” She pulled out one of the phones, then walked over to her desk to look up Georgia’s number. “The bad news is, it also keeps the Fargos from accessing any money.”
“Surely someone’s doing something to move things along?”
“The personal banker for their account talked to the FBI’s cybersecurity division. They’re opening a case. Which still isn’t putting money in the Fargos’ pockets.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. They’re resourceful.”
Selma sat at her desk, putting the phone on speaker as she made the call. “Let’s hope Georgia has some idea of where they are.”
“Selma,” Georgia said when she answered. “Perfect timing. I just got off the phone with Remi. Everyone’s fine.”
“Thank goodness,” Selma said, as Lazlo pulled over a chair and sat next to her. Still, she wasn’t about to relax until she spoke with the Fargos personally. “We were hacked. Big-time.”
“They figured as much. They bought a couple of cell phones this morning. If you have a pen, I’ll give you the numbers, and the address where they’ll be staying temporarily.”
“Do you know how long they’ll be in Rome?” Selma asked, after writing down the information.
“Honestly, I don’t. They’re waiting for Chad and Oliver to meet up with them. But do call right away. I know they’re anxious to speak with you.”
Selma called the first number. Sam answered.
“Mr. Fargo . . .” she said, her sense of relief on hearing his voice almost overwhelming.
“We’re fine, Selma. How are you and Lazlo?”
“Keeping busy. Trying to sort everything out. How’d the auction go?”
“Definitely the right place,” Sam said. “Hold on. Let me get Remi. She has some names for you.”
“The broker was Lorenzo Rossi,” Remi said. “I didn’t quite catch the buyer’s name. It sounded like Warren. Or maybe Borden.”
Selma looked over at Lazlo, who immediately reached for the yellow legal pad with her notes scrawled all over it. “Last name?” she asked.
“I couldn’t tell,” Remi said. “The broker had a thick accent, and I was listening outside, so I didn’t have the best advantage.”
“There was a Reginald Oren in the journal,” Selma said. “Cousin to Jonathon Payton, the Viscount’s son.”
“Oren,” Sam said. “Didn’t Oliver say something about some relative making an offer on Payton Manor?”
“Definitely. And Allegra sort of brushed it off.”
Selma circled the name on her notes. “This gives us a whole new angle to research,” she said. “Reginald Oren stole the Gray Ghost. He’s mentioned prominently throughout the entire journal.”
“Interesting,” Remi said. “I haven’t finished reading it.”
“Did you find out anything more?” Sam asked Selma.
“Lazlo and I are going through it a second time to see if we’ve missed anything.”
“Sam and I can give it a closer read later,” Remi said. “As soon as we meet up with Chad and Oliver, we’ll be heading to Paris. We think the Ghost might be there.”
“Paris?” Selma said. “Let me get this straight. The car was stolen from London, shipped to Paris, sold in Italy, and now this long-lost relative, Oren, is buying it?”
“From a high-end broker,” Remi replied.
“Was this a custom order?” Selma asked. “Maybe Oren wanted the car and paid someone to steal it?”
“The possibility exists,” Sam said. “But whoever stole the Ghost from the London Motor Show would have to have had some inside knowledge about the Ghost and the Payton family. The setup was far too elaborate for a spur-of-the-moment theft.”
“An inside job?”
“At the very least. Figure out who has that sort of connection to the family—”
“Allegra’s ex-husband,” Remi said. “The solicitor’s investigator thought she was hiding something, and Oliver suspected he might be there.”
Sam added, “Not sure of his name, but he’s certainly a good possibility.”
“I’ll touch base with the investigator,” Selma said. “Back to Paris. How are you two doing on cash?”
“We’re fine. Remi managed to pick up a few thousand euros from the broker.”
Lazlo smiled. “I daresay, he wasn’t too pleased about that.”
“Unfortunately, his guards may have taken it out on our car.”
“Are you returning it to the rental agency in Italy?” Selma asked Sam.
“Considering our lack of finances, I think it’ll be cheaper, and safer, to drive to Paris. I just need to figure out how to patch those bullet holes so they’re not so obvious. I’d hate to get pulled over and have to explain how they got there.”
“Duct tape,” Lazlo said. “Just make sure it’s the same color as the car.”
“Let me know where you end up dropping it off,” Selma told Sam. “Once we get the credit cards back on track, I’ll notify the rental agency. And the insurance company. What about the jet?”
“In hock at Ciampino. The crew took the petty cash and are probably waiting to hear from you.”
“We’ll put that on our list,” Selma said. “Any idea where in Paris you’re headed?”
Remi read the address off the pad of paper. “See if there’s anything on Lorenzo Rossi at that location. I gathered he wasn’t going to release the Ghost until Oren’s transfer cleared.”
“Also,” Sam said, “check for connections near the coast. If he’s fencing stolen property from other countries, especially the UK, he’s going to have something near major shipping areas. Quick in, quick out.”
“We’ll get on it,” Selma said.
“Thanks. And if I didn’t mention it, Remi and I are glad to hear from the both of you. We were worried when we couldn’t get in touch.”
“You were worried?” Selma sank back in her chair and looked over at Lazlo. “You should have seen us.”
Lazlo gave a dry laugh, reached over, and grasped Selma’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “The worst thing that happened was,” he said, “we couldn’t call for takeout. We did, however, raid the safe for petty cash.”
“Glad you’re both okay,” Remi said. “We’ll talk to you soon.”
They disconnected, and Selma gave a deep sigh, noting Lazlo’s expression mirrored hers—overwhelming relief that the Fargos were fine. A few seconds passed before either of them realized they were still holding hands.
Letting go, they looked at each other, both feeling a sense of embarrassment as they scooted closer to their own desks.
“Well, then,” Lazlo said, “I’ll give the banker a call and see if he has made any further progress.”
Selma picked up the slim volume. “Guess I better get back to the journal to see if Jonathon Payton ever rescued Miss Atwater.”
58
JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
’Twas the longest fifteen minutes of my life, hoping that Miss Atwater had not been injured, certain she must be frightened beyond all belief. As I rounded the corner and saw the darkened building of my father’s warehouse, I wondered if I’d misunderstood everything. Surely if anyone had been there, there’d be lights coming from within?
I heard the scrape of wood as they slid open the large door, wherein I saw the moonlight gleaming off the grey bodywork of the missing Rolls-Royce.
Gripping the brass handle of my cane, I watched for a few more seconds. Only two thieves. Thank heavens.
I started forward.
* * *
—
“I WOULDN’T DO THAT.”
I turned, surprised to see my cousin. “Reggie. Why—” Only then did I notice the gun pointed at me. Until that moment, even with the incriminating evidence of seeing that car in our warehouse, I realized I’d been holding on to the belief that Reginald was innocent.
I could think of no reason as to why he’d stolen the car. Surely he knew that with the theft of the Ghost, and the imminent harm to the company as a result, we’d lose everything we’d invested. It wasn’t so much the loss of my own fortune. It was the families on our estate who’d lose their homes. And the children at the orphanage . . . So many who’d be displaced . . .
“I— I don’t understand,” I said.
“You never did.” Reggie stepped forward, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he smelled the scent of garbage clinging to my clothes. He nodded toward the warehouse. “Inside. I know how much you hate for anyone to cause a scene.”
The confirmation that my cousin was behind this theft hit me hard. “I trusted you . . .”
Reggie gave an unsympathetic smile. “Your misfortune, it seems. Had you been smart, you’d have stayed in the garbage heap and slept it off. You would’ve awakened merely a poor man, not a dead man. No matter.” He motioned with the pistol, pointing toward the garage. “Move. I’d rather not be the one to shoot you, but I will if need be.”
“Where’s Miss Atwater?”
“Safe enough. For now. I promise you, though, if you fail to cooperate, she’ll be the first to go.”
He raised the gun, and I started walking toward the building.
As I neared the warehouse, Reggie’s two men, both armed with knives, stood just inside the door.
I gripped my father’s cane, fearing not only what they’d do to me but also what might befall Miss Atwater. “Why?” I asked again, as Reggie pointed for me to enter.
“Why do you think? You’ve always had everything. I? Nothing. I thought you should know what it felt like.”
“But we’ve always provided for you.”
“Your father hated me. Hated my father to his dying day.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Eddie!” Reggie called out, pushing me into the doorway.
My head still muddled from the coshing, I stumbled forward. A heavyset man with a jagged scar on his cheek grabbed me and threw me to the ground. My father’s cane flew from my hand. Before I could reach for it, the scar-faced man dropped down, digging his knee into my back. “Mac,” he called out.
The other man—Mac, I presumed—tossed a heavy rope toward us, dust kicking up as it landed near my face. Eddie tied my hands behind my back, then wrapped a length of the same rope around my feet, drawing them back. When he finished, he stood over me, his face filled with disgust, as he kicked me in the gut.
“Enough,” Reggie said. The clip-clop of horse hooves caught his attention, and he peered out the door. “The lorry’s here.”
Mac and Eddie left me and rolled the carriage door wide open. Reggie picked up the lantern from the floor, the light flickering on the cobblestones as he stepped outside. He called back to the two of them. “Get the chest out. And careful with it.”
“Where do you want us to stow it?” Eddie asked.
“Put it in the Grey Ghost. Should be safe enough in there.”
The two men dragged a small chest from beneath a tarp. Whatever was in it was heavy, and the two had difficulty lifting it.
Recognition hit me when Reggie’s lamplight flickered on the gold-leafed royal crest on the outside of the chest. “The train robbery, Reggie? You?”
My cousin looked surprised. “You think I’m not capable of something that daring? That always was your problem.” He walked over to the Grey Ghost, standing aside as Eddie and Mac brought the chest over. “By tomorrow night, once I deliver the forty-fifty to my buyer, your father’s investment in Rolls-Royce Limited will be for naught. And with my profits from the robbery, I’ll have enough cash to buy back Payton Manor and all the lands your father stole from mine. What I won’t be doing is wasting my money on those charities you support.”
“The children—”
“That orphanage your father started will be the first to go.”
“Finlay!” Reggie called out to the man in the driver’s seat of the lorry. “A hand!”
The man secured the horses’ reins, jumped down to pull out the ramps from beneath the lorry’s bed, before climbing up to work the winch. He drew the length out, tossing the end to Eddie as my cousin walked around the vehicle, the lamp’s light reflecting on the polished grey paint.
Eddie secured the winch to the Ghost and Finlay started pulling it up.
“Does this car really work?” Finlay asked, as Eddie and Mac started pushing the car toward the lorry. “Why don’t we just drive it out of here.”
“And get caught?” Reggie said. “Don’t be an idiot. If a night watchman hears that engine starting, he might come ’round to investigate. Load it up, put the chest inside, and get the tarpaulin over it, before someone sees it.”
Once the car was safely on the lorry, Reggie stood aside as Eddie and Mac hefted the chest, carrying it up the ramp. Whatever was in it was heavy, and Eddie nearly lost his grip, the chest slamming into the bed of the lorry.
I heard the ring of metal hitting metal, imagining what sort of treasures would be in a royal chest. Gold and jewels, perhaps.
“What about your cousin?” Eddie asked, when they were finished loading the chest. “What’re we going to do with him?”
“Kill him, of course.” My cousin’s emotionless voice sent a chill down my spine. “Quietly, though.”
Eddie looked over at me as though contemplating how best to carry out my demise. When he turned away to help the others cover the car with the tarpaulin, I shifted, trying to get to my cane, which had landed somewhere behind me. I felt it with my fingertips, managing to hit the release for the dagger hidden in the shaft. But then I heard the soft scrape of footsteps.
As I twisted around, I saw a flash of white from the corner of my eye. Whoever it was grabbed the cane from my fingers, drew the hidden dagger from the handle, and clamped a hand over my mouth.
59
Arthur Oren passed through airport security and walked to the executive lounge to wait for his plane back to the UK. If he’d had his way, he’d be in Paris to personally take possession of the car today, not Monday.
The video he’d seen before bidding on the car had erased all doubts that he was looking at the Gray Ghost. Still, it galled him that he’d had to pay such an exorbitant price to recover the very car that he’d stolen himself. And it angered him even further that he had to wait for his bank transfer to clear before he could view the car in person.
Still, it was now a matter of a day or two before he’d have the Ghost safely back in the UK. Only then would he learn the secrets she held.
Assuming the Fargos didn’t interfere . . .
The phone buzzed in his pocket: Colton.
At last.
“You got my message?”
“I did,” Colton said.
“It was the Fargos who broke into Rossi’s office, wasn’t it?”
“From the description they gave me, there’s no doubt. I’m sending you a photo from their security cameras.”
“To start, we’ve tapped into the phones of Oliver and the mechanic.”
“Weren’t they in Milan?”
“They’re heading south again, probably to meet up with the Fargos. When they do, we’ll deal with them.”
“Had you dealt with the Fargos back when I asked you to, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”
Colton cleared his throat. “As I said, Payton and the mechanic are heading south. The path of their travel indicates they’re on a train to Rome. Bruno and one of Rossi’s men will follow them to wherever the Fargos are holed up.”
“In Rome?” Two women walked into the lounge, both rolling small luggage bags alongside them. “You really think you’re going to be able to do anything with that many people around?”
“I assure you that the location makes no difference whatsoever.”
“I want them—” Oren, seeing both women watching him, stopped just short of saying the word dead. He forced a slight smile, lowering his voice as the women took a seat a few feet away. “Just see that the job’s done. I’m tired of waiting.”
He disconnected, then took a better look at the digital photo that Colton had sent of the security camera from Rossi’s villa. Though grainy and dark, the sight of the woman’s face shot a feeling of dread through him.
It couldn’t be . . .
The woman from the elevator? But she spoke no English. Her accent was impeccable. She— She what? Pretended to be Italian?
The knowledge of how close she’d been to him sent his thoughts racing. He wasn’t used to this sense of panic or the feeling that he was losing control. He wanted to throw his phone across the room, to smash something, anything.
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