by Kim Foster
Jack instinctively reached to his left hip. No handcuffs. He scanned around and ripped a dangling chain off the grubby one’s belt. With it he tangled the inanimate men together, arms behind their backs.
Jack strode to the woman. “You okay?” His gaze raked her for major bleeding or other injuries. She trembled all over but nodded and mumbled something vaguely reassuring, barely comprehensible. Her face was swollen and bruised but Jack found no sign of major trauma.
Jack placed an anonymous 911 call using the woman’s cell. He then hid in the shadows just long enough to see the woman safely put inside an ambulance, and the thugs in a cop car. He didn’t need the hassle of being involved, officially Especially considering where he was headed.
Weaving through alleys, he felt a warmth inside, satisfying and genuine. Doing that sort of thing, being that guy, it felt right. It was right. Then Jack frowned, mulling over his true purpose tonight, his meeting with the underworld.
Screw the meeting, he thought. He stopped and swiveled. And then hesitated again. Jack scrubbed his hair and took a deep breath.
No. He had to go.
If this were a perfect world, Jack would keep his life simple. He would stay on his side of the law and the crooks would stay on theirs. But life was never that straightforward.
Jack liked things to be black and white. And these days, his life consisted of way too much gray. He squeezed his jaw tight. Damn his father for doing this to him. Damn his father for—even beyond the grave—being able to reach up and screw with his life.
Jack pivoted and continued on his way, toward the meeting that would make him no better than all the other criminals in this world.
The two supersized humans at the back door of the club checked Jack for weapons, as he knew they would. Jack’s every fiber sizzled with caution as he stepped from the cold, dark night into a warm, glowing, fragrant restaurant. His eyes never stopped flicking around the room, noting white tablecloths, a string quartet, chilling champagne. Jack blinked, briefly distracted. This was not what he was expecting to find in such a seedy part of town. But then, even underworld types liked to have a nice foie gras now and then. And lord knows they can afford it. The round tables were filled with men. Old men, battle scarred and dead eyed, and young men, jumpy and twitchy and lavishly dressed.
The hostess approached Jack. She was a woman well past her prime, wearing a high ponytail and too much makeup. That cake layer might be thick, Jack thought, but it’s not going to protect you from gunshots, sweetheart. She ushered him through to a private room at the back of the lounge. It was dark, velvet-wallpapered, with brass lamps and mahogany bookshelves. Two men were seated in leather armchairs surrounded by tendrils of cigar smoke. One was older, at least in his sixties. He carried the appearance of a gentleman: sterling hair, well-groomed hands. Jack knew him as Mr. Oliver Cole. Jack could recognize many of the local criminals. Most had done time, or at least been brought up on charges, even if they’d managed to slither through the cracks.
The younger man, however, Jack did not recognize. He was lean and puckish, with the teeth of at least two grown adults jammed into his mouth.
“Welcome, Jack,” Cole said with a smile. He introduced the younger man by the name Wesley Smith.
Jack simply nodded. He was not about to pretend to be nice. He was here and, as far as he was concerned, that was enough.
Jack’s eyes roved over the bottle of single-malt whiskey on the table, the Rolex on Smith’s wrist. All bought with dirty money. Jack’s mouth twisted as if he were tasting something sour.
He could have easily ignored the summons, the message he’d received on his phone that had led to his coming here. Your help is requested, it had said. The directions to this meeting had followed.
His heart had stopped, briefly, when he’d read that message. After all this time he was finally being called upon to take up his father’s quest. Jack had made a promise to his father, long ago. He would keep his word. He would help the criminals in their quest. And—God help him—he would probably help them steal.
He wondered, what had changed now? What was happening, now, that had caused these people to contact him?
Jack took a seat. They offered him a drink and after a moment’s hesitation Jack accepted a glass of single malt. He took a sip: burning molasses smoke, an exquisite pleasure.
“I must tell you,” said Oliver Cole, swirling his drink, “it’s been a long time since we’ve had an FBI agent in here. And any visits we’ve had in the past . . . well, let’s just say that we tended not to offer them drinks.” He looked at Wesley and the two laughed.
Jack cringed. He felt an immediate impulse to get up and leave. He should not be here. This was a mistake. And yet . . . and yet. He had good reason to stay. He forced himself to remain where he was. It was time to find out.
“Let’s get to business, shall we?” Jack said in a low, humorless voice.
“Of course, Jack, of course.” Cole smiled, but his tone wasn’t condescending or dismissive anymore. He needed Jack’s help—that much was obvious. He didn’t want him to leave.
“In your message you asked for help,” Jack said. “Why now? What’s happening?”
Wesley opened a file and produced a glossy color photograph. He passed it to Jack. It was a picture of a magnificent jeweled egg.
“What’s this?” Jack asked. “A Fabergé Egg?”
“Not just a Fabergé Egg,” Wesley said. “The interesting part is what’s contained inside.”
Jack gripped the photograph tightly. “Are you saying—”
Wesley nodded. “This is where the Gifts are now.”
Jack looked at the Egg. Black enamel, gold filigree, jewel-encrusted surface: it was stunning. A thin seam ran around the center of the Egg, clamped tightly shut, containing an amazing secret. If they were right about it.
“So where is this Egg?”
“Well, that’s why we’ve contacted you, Jack,” Cole said. “The location has been traced here, somewhere in Seattle.”
Jack processed this, his breathing shallow. It was hard to believe. After all those generations, all the men and women who’d spent their lifetimes searching. Could it finally be surfacing? A small warmth flickered to life deep inside his chest—could he possibly be part of the team that finally revealed it?
Mostly Jack didn’t believe it. They’d been fooled before. When it came to hunting down biblical artifacts, there were always false leads and wild goose chases.
“So why was I called in?”
Wesley looked at the elder man, who gave a single nod. “We’re going to need you to do some work for us, Jack,” Wesley said.
Jack knew that by work, here, they meant things that Jack would not be able to share with his department. Or anyone, for that matter.
The older man scrutinized him with a penetrating stare. “Are you sure you’re up for this? Can we count on you?”
It took Jack a long time to answer. There was no easy choice here. If he entered into this, at the end of it his career could be in ruins. And would he be able to live with himself? After spending his whole life working against crime, now he was contemplating crossing to the other side? The danger level would be far higher than in a regular, aboveboard investigation. But there was his damn promise to his father, before he’d died.
Growing up, Jack had despised everything his father had been about. Except one thing. His father had been part of a larger quest: the hunt for the long-lost Gifts of the Magi. Yes, the biblical artifacts of lore, the legendary gold, frankincense, and myrrh. It was a quest that had been passed down through countless generations, always in secret, always within underworld circles. Jack knew that, for his father, it had been more than a pet project. It had been his reason for living. And the last time Jack had seen his father alive, John Robie had made his son promise that one day he would, when called upon, continue the quest.
Jack couldn’t simply scrub that from his memory, much as he might like to.
Of cou
rse there was something else, too. A feeling of doing the right thing, of helping with something that was bigger than him. Jack knew if there was any chance of finding, and reclaiming, what was held inside that Egg—if that’s where the Gifts were now concealed—it would have to be done outside the bounds of the law. He could have sat there forever, trying to figure out another way. But there wasn’t one.
When Jack finally spoke, his voice was firm. “Yes. I’m in.”
Before they could get any further, however, the hostess knocked at the door. She informed Cole of a telephone call. “I have to take this. Wesley, fill Jack in on the rest,” he said, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Jack took another sip of his whiskey and watched Wesley Smith over the rim of his glass. He didn’t trust new people. This man was no exception.
Wesley reclined in his chair and spoke. “Before we get into it, Barlow, I want to know why you’re doing this.” He rubbed his chin and cast Jack a direct look. “I’ll be honest. Mr. Cole says you can be trusted, but I need a little more convincing. So tell me, what’s in it for you?”
Jack studied the other man’s thin face. He saw in Wesley’s countenance the same dislike and distrust that he, himself, felt. If they were to work together, they were both going to have to deal with that.
“Did Mr. Cole tell you who my father was?” Jack asked.
“Nope.”
Jack shrugged and looked up toward the coffered ceiling. “His name was John Barlow. But his alias, and the name he was known by in your circles, was John Robie.”
Wesley’s eyes went wide. “Well, fuck me,” he said. “That’s you? But—everyone says that Robie’s son didn’t want to have anything to do with him.”
“That’s true. I didn’t.”
“So why do you care now?”
Jack sipped his whiskey again and attempted to formulate the words. It was a good question, one he’d asked himself many times. “Because he was my father, I suppose.” Jack left it at that, but it wasn’t that simple. Jack’s father had been a career criminal. And in spite of being the sort of man Jack came to despise, Jack knew there was one part of him that was honorable at its core. And it was something he’d died trying to do. That was the part Jack felt compelled to honor.
Jack had more than atoned for his father’s sins by becoming an FBI agent. But he had a different guilt to deal with now. He’d rejected his father. And in doing so, he’d broken his heart. Jack had been his only son, and they hadn’t spoken since the day Jack left home.
Jack’s stepmother had pleaded with him a few times to reconsider. He refused. And once she passed away, there was no further contact between father and son. They were estranged. There was a part of Jack that always assumed they would reconcile someday. It certainly didn’t occur to him that his father would die. Then one day Jack received a letter. After that, everything was his.
“Can we get on with things, here?” Jack said irritably.
“Sure thing, Jack.” Wesley smiled that toothy smile, like fingernails on a chalkboard for Jack. “So. There are two involved parties, other than us.”
Two parties? Jack thought. He felt fresh doubt. Nothing about this was going to be simple. “Involved in what way?”
“The family that calls themselves Gorlovich is one party. They have the Fabergé Egg. But we don’t know where they’re keeping it.”
“And the other party?”
Wesley regarded him carefully. “Have you heard of the group known as the Caliga Rapio?”
Jack’s jaw tightened and he felt a prickle go up his spine. “I know about them.”
“Well, they’re the other party.”
Jack nodded grimly. This job had just become a lot more difficult. And dangerous. But how could he walk away now, after everything he’d heard? An image flashed in Jack’s mind of what would happen should the Caliga get their hands on the Gifts. His stomach turned sour.
“Are they here also?” Jack asked. “In Seattle?”
Wesley nodded. “They’re close. They know it’s here. They know the Gorlovich family has it. And, we’re afraid, they just might know its exact location. Which is what we’ve got to figure out.”
At this point Wesley handed Jack a file with further information. Jack began thumbing through pages of intel, photographs of the Gorlovich family members, details of their endless series of homes and office buildings and warehouses. This search was not going to be easy.
“So I’m wondering,” Wesley began as Jack scanned pages. “Sounds like you couldn’t stand being in the same room as your father. You gonna have a problem working with a thief now?”
Jack turned a page. “Not all criminals are unpleasant to spend time with,” he said. His mind flashed to a memory of sitting with Cat at a sunny sidewalk café. He was smiling, watching her pour endless packets of sugar into her cappuccino. Then the image changed and they were curled on a sofa watching a movie in his fire-warmed living room. He rubbed her feet while she cradled a giant bowl of butter-fragrant popcorn.
Wesley cracked his knuckles, frowning at Jack. And then a look of understanding dawned. “Oh, that’s right.” He smiled. “You were dating a crook. According to rumor anyway. Cat Montgomery?”
Jack’s head snapped up before he could curb his reflex.
“Yep, that’s the one,” Wesley said with a self-satisfied smile. “And—yeah, I remember now—you’re the one who let her off the hook in that Camelot job.” Wesley’s smile spread to a full, toothy grin. He let out a short bark of laughter. “The girl sure knew what she was doing, sleeping with you.”
Jack lunged across the coffee table, grabbed Wesley’s throat and pushed him back into the leather armchair. Wesley’s eyes popped.
“It wasn’t like that,” Jack said in a dangerously low voice. “And if I ever hear you saying anything like that again—”
“Okay, okay!” Wesley choked “Just a joke, dude.”
Jack forced himself to release Wesley. A few moments of silence passed. Jack looked away, frowning fiercely, willing himself to let it go. The nerve that Wesley had touched throbbed like a toothache.
The guy was wrong—completely wrong about Cat, about their relationship. But why did Jack care anyway? It was over. It didn’t matter anymore. Being with Cat had been a mistake. A huge mistake. But it was all in the past now.
After everything that happened with Cat, Jack had applied for a department transfer out of property crimes. He just couldn’t stand the conflict of interest, even though the only person who knew was him. He now worked in the Counterintelligence Task Force, Seattle division.
Being the low guy on the totem pole in that department, Jack was mostly shuffling paper around a desk these days. His supervisor was a hard-ass, and wasn’t letting him out in the field until he’d paid his dues. Which, when Jack thought about it, was probably going to work in his favor now. He could do what was essentially an office job with the FBI during the day, and work with Cole’s crew at night.
Wesley was rubbing his throat and straightening his jacket. Jack shook it off. He looked directly at the other man. “All right,” Jack said. “Unless I’m mistaken, we’ve got work to do. What’s our next move?”
Wesley stopped rubbing his throat and smiled. “Glad you asked.” He reached into a drawer and handed Jack a thick, engraved invitation, embossed with a small Venetian mask.
Jack read it and looked up. “What’s this? A masquerade ball? What’s this got to do with anything?”
“You’ll see.”
Jack stared back down at the invitation and rubbed the heavy card stock with his thumb. So it began. Question was, would he be able to live with himself, when it was all over?
Chapter 4
I unpacked a bagful of pencils, charcoal, and erasers, and looked furtively around. I arranged my instruments on an easel in an art studio that was ablaze with the last rays of evening sun and wondered what I was going to do with it all. The studio smelled of chalk dust and oil paint and herbal tea.
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br /> If Templeton knew I was here he’d kill me. A pang of guilt and anxiety centered between my shoulder blades. He could never find out I came here.
I couldn’t leave it alone, though. It hadn’t taken me long to ferret out some personal information about the new FBI agent. And what I’d learned about Nicole Johnson was that she attended a figure drawing class every Thursday evening. I had attempted to go through proper channels with this information—called the right department at AB&T and everything—but they said they didn’t have the manpower to deal with it right now. Not a priority. So what was I supposed to do, just squander this opportunity?
The art instructor strolled over to me. He was short, almost hobbit-like, with a shaggy sweep of brown hair and round, wire glasses. He smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. “So you’ve studied figure drawing before?” he said, eyeing my pencils and other gear.
“Oh yes. Absolutely,” I said confidently. He nodded and wandered away to speak with the other artistes in the room.
The truth was, not only had I never studied figure drawing, I didn’t have the first idea what figure drawing actually was. But I’d faked more difficult things, I was sure.
In the class, I’d recognized Nicole Johnson right away from the photograph I’d found online. Heart-shaped face, sharp eyes, blond bob. It had taken a bit of musical chairs, but I’d managed to finagle a spot right next to her. I copied the way she attached paper to her easel and scanned my brain for a suitable opening line.
Before I had a chance to speak, an overweight man wearing a ratty brown robe strode to the center of the room and up onto the podium. It clicked then. Of course: figure drawing. We draw people. Okay, no problemo. And then, Mr. Plump dropped his robe. Now he was Mr. Nude.