Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  He rose, regarding her with that steady look that seemed to see inside her. “If we drop in tomorrow, she might be persuaded to return them to you.”

  “If she hasn’t sold them.”

  His offer soothed her prickly nerves and banished the remnants of her revulsion at the killers’ search. More, his concern for her surpassed protection. In his demeanor and in his words, she found true affection. They’d become friends once again, after all. She’d ignored that in her zeal to guard her independence.

  “Ready to go?” She tried to sound what her mom would call chipper.

  “Almost.” He straightened, again the alert soldier, and crossed to the bedroom window. “What’s the view out here?”

  “The street. We’re above the entrance. Why?”

  “Just because no one was hanging around out there when we arrived doesn’t mean they haven’t set up shop by now.”

  “Oh.” Cleo said a little prayer of thanks for his security expertise, his almost eerie awareness of his surroundings, how he always knew to be vigilant.

  He hustled her into the living room, turning off the bedroom light as they went. “Wait by the door while I check outside.” He waited until she was in place before he doused the rest of the lights.

  Clutching her bag to her, she huddled in the darkness.

  He parted the curtain a slit and peered out. After a few moments, he said, “Shit. There’s a man across the street in the doorway. Is there a fire escape?”

  Chapter 17

  SHE STARED, THEN shook her head. “Only the rear door past the trash room.” So much for chipper. She squeaked like a scared chipmunk. She drew a breath, willing calm and the strength of the ancient Cleopatra. These Centaur bastards would not beat her down.

  Thomas crossed from the window and wrapped his arms around her. “I can’t see the guy clearly but judging from his size it could be the big guy Nedik from the green boat.” His lips moved against her hair, his warm breath infusing her with his confidence. “There could be another one staking out the rear.”

  “Many buildings don’t have a rear exit or even a fire escape other than a rope ladder because of the canals. The rear door here opens onto a narrow fondamenta along the rio. A few of the tenants tie boats there. Maneuvering on foot would be tough, especially at night.”

  “Right. Then we watch for trouble inside the building.” He tipped up her chin. In the dark she could see only the shape of his head. “Promise me you’ll do what I say.”

  She started to object to his presumption she’d rebel, but thought better of it. “In this case, I’ll follow orders. But don’t assume anything from that, mister.”

  “With you, babe, I never assume anything.”

  “Good idea. Then let’s roll.”

  “You’ve watched too many disaster movies.” He brushed her lips with a kiss that blipped her pulse a couple of beats. “Move as quietly as possible. Staying on the balls of your feet helps. Tap my shoulder if you hear a sound that doesn’t belong.”

  As he opened the door, she winced in the dim lighting. They waited a moment while their eyes adjusted. Then he signaled her to follow. At nearly eleven o’clock, the building’s tenants were settling for the night. Cooking aromas had dissipated, replaced by the spicy tobacco whiff of an after-dinner cigar.

  Glad she’d worn soft-soled shoes, she descended each step as he had suggested. Her pulse clamored like a church bell and her palms went damp. If a thug waited downstairs, Thomas would—what? Jump him, fight him, yes, but his fists couldn’t stop bullets. She inhaled and tried to block the image from her mind and concentrate on listening.

  No babies cried and no TV programs blared to mask alien sounds. She strained to listen, but heard only the familiar creaks and groans of the old structure and the ordinary shuffling and muted voices of her neighbors behind their doors.

  As they neared the ground floor, the scrape of a leather sole on the entry tile scrambled her pulse. She tapped Thomas’s shoulder and he nodded, clearly also alerted. They halted. She lowered her heels silently and pressed her bag to her side.

  When he turned, she saw his mask of vigilance, the aura of power he always carried, but honed to diamond sharpness. He held up a hand, a tacit order to wait where she was, on the fourth step from the bottom, concealed by the stairwell wall. Only after she nodded did he continue downward.

  A tenant would have walked on, to the trash room or out the door. If he’d gone back to a flat, he’d have passed them on the stairs. The footfall they’d heard had to be a bad guy. Thomas could be shot before he even saw the guy. She blinked against the image of him bleeding on the ochre tiles. Cold prickles scraped her spine. The muscles of her throat constricted, threatened to choke her. She’d agreed to do what he said. But dammit she couldn’t simply wait here forever and do nothing.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Thomas held his breath, listening as he slid his windbreaker off and to the floor for more freedom of movement. Assured Cleo was staying put, he dismissed worry for her from his mind. Necessary to optimal function. Anxiety and questions faded as he clicked into the focused intensity of combat mode—the zone.

  A crapshoot whether or not the intruder had a gun. Nothing he could do about that. He felt the weight of the sheath on his belt. At a street market that afternoon, while Cleo tried on jackets, he’d found an Italian army combat knife, about five inches long. Shorter but similar to his Ka-Bar. A longer blade tended to get caught in clothing while a short blade penetrated. Good to go.

  He pictured the hallway, more dimly lit than the small lobby. Two doors on the right. Another at the end, the rear exit. His man had to be waiting back there, in the shadows beneath the stairs.

  From the hallway came a new sound. A light clicking like a pencil on the tiles.

  A trap? He slid the knife into his palm. Held his breath. Listened.

  A small form streaked from the shadows. A gray tiger cat raced past him. Emitting a warning hiss, it flowed up the stairs and out of sight.

  He exhaled a silent breath. He peered around to see Cleo, eyes wide and hands clapped over her mouth. She hadn’t uttered a sound, thank God. He shook his head and pointed toward the building’s rear. No cat had made the scraping noise they’d both heard.

  She bobbed her head, seeming to understand.

  From above came a woman’s voice. He didn’t understand the Italian words but he recognized the affectionate tone that scolded the wayward pet. The door clicked shut. Other than his own rough breathing, he heard only muted gonging in the distance and the murmurs of competing TV shows upstairs.

  The cat might have set the ambusher off balance. Thomas counted on that and on the element of surprise. A rush—some called it a prison-yard rush—didn’t give the opponent time to get set. A better chance than waiting for an attack. He swung around the concealing wall and raced toward the back, his knife in a hammer grip.

  A figure sprang from the dark corner. The overhead light glinted on a knife. Serrated edge. About two inches longer than Thomas’s blade.

  He jabbed at the man’s side. The attacker thrust his knife at Thomas’s upper arm.

  Thomas sidestepped and pivoted.

  His opponent was smaller and younger, but wiry strong. Slicked-back hair and bulging eyes in a narrow face. His sly smile showed gaps in his teeth. Not the driver of the green boat. No one in the photo line-up. A local cutthroat.

  The aim for the brachial artery meant the man had skill. One mistake and Thomas could be unconscious from blood loss in seconds. Dead in minutes. And he’d have failed Cleo. Focus, Devlin.

  The attacker stank of sweat and stress. He pivoted and came again.

  Thomas turned to block the blow with his left arm. The attacker anticipated the move and struck the underside of his arm. A gash several inches long opened up. Blood welled. It would sting like hell later. Shallow but dangerous. Being jacked on adrenaline pumped the blood faster. He had to weaken the fucker, take him down.

  He moved in fast, sliced across t
he man’s forearm, just above his knife hand. Crimson welled in the long gash. Deeper than Thomas’s wound. Blood dripped onto the tiles. Blood would slick the knife handle.

  The attacker’s smile turned forced, tight, not as confident. They circled each other, blades glinting. The attacker slashed out but his reach fell short as Thomas darted out of range.

  He feinted left, then slashed again. A second cut opened on the attacker’s forearm, just above the first. The man struck but without the force of his earlier attempts.

  Thomas blocked the blow. Moved in close, grasped the knife hand with his left and pinned it against his own body. A knee blow knocked the knife loose. It clattered to the tile. Before the guy could react, Thomas yanked him up and over his back. Slammed him to the floor. The guy’s breath expelled on a loud groan.

  Thomas lifted a foot to stomp his opponent but the guy moved fast. He grabbed Thomas’s foot and the hard floor came up to meet him at warp speed. At impact, he rolled, protecting his head, and kicked at the same time. His foot connected with the attacker’s head.

  The man grunted at the glancing blow but slithered out of reach of another kick. His lost weapon lay on the tile, its hilt only inches away. He stretched for the knife.

  A sneaker-clad foot kicked it away. The blade skittered into a far corner.

  Thomas dove for the man. Smashed a fist in his throat and sat on his chest, pinned his upper arms with his knees.

  The downed attacker gasped a choking breath. He froze, his bulging eyes froglike, at the blade pricking the tender skin below his jawbone.

  Thomas’s chest heaved. Not perfect but he’d survived. And he had his man.

  Cleo skirted him and his captive. Protecting her hand with tissues, she gathered up the knife from where she’d kicked it. He heard a gasp as her shocked gaze fell on his bleeding arm. “Oh, Thomas, he cut you.”

  He gritted his teeth, slanting a quick glance her way. “You agreed to stay on the stairs.”

  “Did I?” She held up the weapon and examined the blade. “Would you rather he’d reached this filleting knife so he could gut you?”

  “Point taken. I’ll thank you later.” Maintaining his knife on his captive, he eased off the man’s chest. “Tell this lowlife to lock his hands behind his head and roll onto his belly. Add if he makes a move or calls out to his leg-breaker pal on the street, I’ll fillet him.”

  ***

  Paris

  As Lucas entered the building where the temporary Interpol offices were located, his phone chirped. SA Hunt looking for him already? Did the woman never sleep or eat? The pork tenderloin in mushroom cream sauce and the wine had deserved lingering over but he’d scarfed them down so he wouldn’t be late. Checking the time on the wall clock, he considered letting the call go to voicemail.

  But the chirping insisted. Maybe Thomas calling. He unhooked the mobile from his belt and checked the screen. Trudy Ingram. Mimi’s mom. Was Mimi awake? Or was something wrong? He punched the elevator button and answered the call, hoping the connection would hold in the elevator.

  “I’m so glad I caught you, Lucas,” Trudy said, almost as chirpy as his phone.

  Nothing bad then. “Do you have news?”

  “Absolutely. My baby is beginning to wake up.” Her voice broke on the last word. He heard her breath catch as she gathered herself. “She’s going to be fine. Lucas, she squeezed my hand and smiled.”

  He closed his eyes briefly and let the tension drain from his shoulders. He was due in five minutes for a video-conference call. But he wouldn’t have skipped this call if his meeting had been with the U.S president. When he opened his eyes, the elevator had arrived. Three people exited carrying briefcases and handbags, their workday done.

  The lift reeked of someone’s cloying aftershave. He wrinkled his nose as he pushed the button for the top floor. “Ma’am, that’s wonderful news. I know seeing your face has to make her feel better.” Better her face than mine.

  When the doors whispered open at his floor, he saw no one in the foyer so he wandered to the window. A block away from the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the modern office building sat at an angle offering a view of the fabled thoroughfare but too far east for a glimpse of the Arc de Triomphe.

  “She’s not completely awake. The doctors say she’s still in pain. I can’t imagine the headache from a bullet wound. They’re still keeping her sedated, but she opens her eyes every now and then.” Her voice was liquid. “She’s asking for you, Lucas.”

  His throat felt tight. He no longer saw the spectacle below, only Mimi’s beautiful pale face, her still form in the hospital bed. He loosened his tie and collar. “Asking for me?”

  “She keeps murmuring your name. When she can have visitors, you must come.”

  How was it possible? She’d been unconscious. How could she have heard him, his meaningless ramblings? Seeing him would only disappoint her.

  “Ma’am, I’m on assignment. I don’t—I mean, as much as I’d like to, I can’t get away.”

  “I’m not taking no for an answer, young man.” Trudy Ingram’s voice rang with the same steel as SA Hunt’s. “Once my daughter is fully awake, the specialists will keep her busy with tests and therapy. We’ll have weeks here before she’s able to fly home. I expect you’ll find the time to make the trip to Venice.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do my best.”

  Apparently satisfied, Mimi’s mother wished him a nice evening and ended the call.

  He massaged the back of his neck as he sagged against the window sash. He was a damned coward. And a fool.

  Marie—he still preferred that to Mimi—called his name. How could he deny her?

  He wouldn’t stay long, just long enough to assure himself she’d be okay. Long enough to see her smile, see her eyes bright with life, hear her voice. Keeping it brief would ease the awkwardness of the meeting. They were strangers.

  As soon as he got the word from Trudy she was awake, he would go. His part in the Centaur Task Force was nearly done. They knew where Marco Zervas was, in Venice, searching for Thomas and Cleo. A cat and mouse game.

  Once they had his location, the Interpol cat would pounce. Lucas would join the team sent to do the pouncing, and then he’d have his visit with Mimi/Marie.

  As the last of his five minutes of grace expired, he grabbed his tablet from his desk and strode into the CTF director’s office. Trace aromas of take-out meals hung in the air—wine sauce, beef, frites. He was still adjusting the noose around his neck. Damn, he hated ties and being an office wonk.

  SA Jessica Hunt sat at the head of the conference table, her laptop open and ready for the meeting. Her reading glasses perched on top her head, anchored in her short salt-and-pepper hair. She waved him to the seat to her left.

  Another FBI agent filed in behind him to sit farther down the long table. A few other seats were occupied by members of the CTF—another Feeb as well as intelligence agents of the French, British, and Italian governments.

  He took his seat and noticed the screen opposite, where images of their remote conferees would be projected. He’d read the briefing. Security at a Palo Alto research facility with government contracts had contacted authorities with suspicions of one of their scientists and contacted authorities. The FBI obtained surveillance tapes of the man, a chemist and computer engineer, meeting with a courier of the Iranian terrorist Ahmed Yousef. Agents arrested the chemist, but Yousef’s man escaped. The man in custody would be at the San Francisco FBI office for the interview.

  Because no actual sale had been witnessed, Lucas had his doubts about what a video conference could accomplish. How a geek selling secrets—if that’s what he was doing—to Yousef had anything to do with his arranging the theft of Cleopatra’s necklace, he couldn’t speculate. He’d rather get back to locating Zervas’s Venice hole in the wall.

  The wall screen flickered and a man about fifty wearing black-framed glasses appeared. The suit and gray buzz cut pegged him as FBI. “Good evening, Special Agent Hunt,�
� he said in an official tone.

  “Special Agent Parker,” Hunt replied, nodding. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Likewise, Jessica. It’s been awhile since that RICO takedown in Jersey.”

  “A few years.” A smile might have crossed her lips but Lucas could’ve imagined it. “Several members of my task force have joined us. What do you have for me?”

  Parker rubbed knuckles along his jaw. “I had hoped to know by now what exactly our alleged thief sold to Yousef’s man. Unfortunately the lab where he worked had a small fire that destroyed some of their records. Suspicious origin, of course. We’re looking into it. But the result means what might be missing is unclear.”

  “If your tapes don’t show the chemist actually passing something to Yousef’s man,” Hunt said, “what do you have on him?”

  “This morning we discovered that two months ago Victor Chung opened an account in the Caymans with an initial deposit of three million U.S. dollars.”

  A murmur rippled around the table. What technology could Chung have passed to Ahmed Yousef worth that much? Spyware? A virus? A guidance component for missiles?

  The door behind Parker opened. Two agents, one man and one woman, entered and took up posts on either side of the doorway. Another, a man as hefty as Lucas, escorted the prisoner, a slight man of medium height. In khakis and a blue dress shirt and wearing wire-rimmed glasses, Victor Chung looked like the geek he was, except for the handcuffs shackling his wrists and the bruise-purple bags beneath his eyes.

  Bringing up the rear, another man strode in. Silver mane of hair set off by a golf-course tan. Tailored pinstripes. Red patterned tie that probably cost more than the threads of all the FBI agents in the room. The attorney. The look on his patrician face said stone wall. Now Lucas knew this was a waste of time. A charade.

  Parker directed Chung to sit on his left. The attorney took the seat on Chung’s other side. Parker made introductions, informing the chemist that SA Hunt would conduct the questioning.