Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  Her fingers gripping the door handle, Cleo turned. “Not nonsense. I misunderstood him. Good luck to you with the wrong clue.”

  The door closed behind her with a soft click.

  Chapter 20

  WHEN ALL HEADS in the outer office turned Cleo’s way like prairie dogs popping up from their dens, she slammed on the brakes. A flirty wave, a smile, and heads ducked down again. Spotting a familiar sign, she ducked inside the blue-and-yellow tiled and floral-scented ladies’ room.

  She stared into the white-framed mirror over the sink. Dammit, what are you doing? Think, Cleo Marie. This is exactly what Thomas accused you of— running away when things go wrong.

  Which they had.

  Hunt didn’t buy the link between the chip and the necklaces. Yes, she had a job to do, and Cleo could be no part of bringing down Centaur. Except that for her, finding the necklace and bringing down Centaur were all bound up with René’s murder and the attack on Mimi. Had Cleo’s impulsive exit—yes, dammit, impulsive— sent Thomas’s strategy careening into a ditch? Now she’d left, she had nowhere to go. Nowhere safe. Not even a mind escape.

  Her eyes burned and her breath caught. She couldn’t give up.

  After using the facilities, she wandered back toward the conference room. The brass nameplate on the open door of the adjacent office read J. Hunt. She dug in to wait, leaning against the wall between the two doors, her nerves sparking like live wires.

  The door swung open. In two strides, Thomas joined her, his expression a mix of relief and surprise. He hustled her into Hunt’s office.

  She shrugged from his grip and crossed the burgundy rug to the window. New-carpet smell hung in the air with hints of perfume— Hunt’s probably but incongruous. On the Champs-Elysées, tiny lights draping the trees painted the scene in a romance of color. The way she’d paint it if— She pivoted away.

  On the polished mahogany desk, piles of folders teetered beside a computer. So Ms. FBI did more than just preside.

  She looked up at Thomas. “I won’t be shut out. Hiding me in some dingy flat will accomplish nothing. Zervas is following me, not you. You promised.” The sympathetic tilt to his straight black brows nearly had her caving.

  “Right. These investigators are burning up their screens with nothing to show for it, both for the clues and for Ahmed Yousef’s possible high-profile target. After you left, I argued that point, but got zip. So here I am, with you.” He heaved a sigh, his gaze soft, and placed his hands on the desk, bracketing her between his outstretched arms. “You don’t know how relieved I am you didn’t leave.”

  The heat in her cheeks prompted a wan smile. “I almost did. Paris is a big city. I could hide for a while.” And Zervas could’ve found her. She suppressed a shudder.

  “What you said, about misunderstanding Moreau’s clue, did you make that up?”

  “Oh, please. I didn’t say anything earlier because I need more information before I’m sure. Lucas—”

  “Somebody call my name?”

  Cleo peered around Thomas to see Lucas’s burly torso fill the door frame. A wide grin made his eyes twinkle as he took in their near embrace. His boxer’s countenance complete with scars would be intimidating to some, but his smile and his quiet manner charmed her. Judging from his reaction to meeting her, he cared for Mimi, more than as a bodyguard.

  “Sit rep, Sergeant.” Thomas slid away from her.

  “Yes, sir.” Lucas executed a crisp salute. “I had to talk fast but Hunt agreed to give your way a chance.” He shifted his gaze to Cleo. “She wants you to return to the meeting.”

  She whooped in victory and sailed past Lucas. “I’m in.”

  “I don’t know how you did that, but when this is over remind me to give you a raise,” Thomas said as a grinning Lucas stepped aside to let him pass.

  All the agents glanced up as Cleo and the others entered the conference room. The French agent’s mouth pursed before she averted her gaze. The Scotland Yard man focused on picking lint from his sleeve. The Italian, who’d barely looked up from his tablet earlier, studied her with an expression that might’ve been respect.

  Taking her seat, Cleo waited to see what Hunt would do.

  “I consider following your trail a slim possibility but it could narrow our search for Yousef’s target. That is, if your supposed clue leads to the recovery of the Cleopatra necklace,” Hunt said, her expression guarded, not too different from Thomas’s warrior mask.

  “I’ll tell you what I believe the clue to be after—”

  “Believe? You’re still unsure?” Hunt demanded.

  Beside Cleo, Thomas leaned forward as if to defend her. She gave him a small shake of her head. He subsided except for tightening around his mouth.

  “I’ll answer that question after Mr. Del Rio explains what’s in that London building owned by Merlin Entertainment.” She turned to Lucas.

  Color rose to his broad cheeks. “Ah, um, I started a search until the exploding chip issue sent it to the back burner.” His fingers flew over his tablet computer. “Give me a minute.”

  Hunt’s mouth thinned but she said nothing.

  Beneath the table, Thomas closed his hand around Cleo’s, and she exhaled and deliberately relaxed her shoulders. Other than wanting her in bed, he kept his feelings for her guarded, except for rare moments like this. Whether or not he believed in René’s clues, he was with her. Did he realize how much his support meant?

  Lucas looked up from his screen, excitement on his countenance. He licked his lips. “Merlin Entertainment is a conglomerate running a wide range of international companies. The building in the West Acton section of London contains production facilities—design studios, workshops, offices and so on—for the chain of Madame Tussauds Wax Museums.”

  Cleo’s heart sprinted like a greyhound. “Yes! That makes perfect sense.”

  “It does?” Thomas asked.

  She shot him a grin, then addressed Hunt. “René once worked there, creating jewelry for the wax figures. He didn’t say ‘melon.’ He said ‘Merlin.’ And the rest wasn’t ‘Pope’ and ‘ladder,’ but ‘Poe’ and ‘letter.’ ”

  Consternation crinkled the agent’s dark forehead. “Po the river or Poe as in Edgar Allen Poe?”

  “René was a big fan of Poe’s stories. The rest of what he said was ‘Poe’s letter.’ Remember “The Purloined Letter”? The stolen letter was hidden among others—”

  “—in plain sight,” Thomas finished.

  ***

  Crystal City, Virginia

  Mara Marton flopped onto the chair in front of the boss’s desk, every cell in her body projecting frustration. “I can’t access any of the databases I need for my research assignments, Max. I can’t help Mr. Devlin. I can’t do squat. I’ve resorted to playing Spider Solitaire. You have to stop this hacker. Now!”

  As if Max’s own frustration didn’t already have his guilt meter zooming through the roof, her glare pierced him like a poison dart. He swung his leg with its two-ton cast to the floor and leaned forward. “Mara, I hear you. Everyone on this floor hears you. The security office downstairs hears you. Trust me. Gaspar is doing all she can to erect barriers and track the source of the malware.”

  “Sorry. Sorry.” She fluttered her hands in apology. “Anything I can do?”

  “Maybe. You’re damned good at reading people. When you were working with Cort on the crown jewel thing, you picked up nuances on your suspects the police had missed. I could authorize you to dig into personnel records. Gaspar has them protected. You willing?”

  “Just a different sort of research. And a whole lot more satisfying than Spider Solitaire.” She grinned. “Count me in.”

  “Look for any motivation to betray the company. Money, something in their background, a gripe against DSF. Anything, no matter how slight.” Dios, they had to find something soon. With no new contracts and long-standing accounts leaving for other security companies, the company was losing big bucks on a daily basis.

  Her gaze
turned pensive, as if an idea had occurred to her. “Or something against Mr. Devlin personally. I’ll get on it as soon as you clear me for access.”

  ***

  Paris

  “It’s Rivera.” Thomas glanced up from his phone. “I have to take this.”

  Cleo raised a hand in acceptance as he strode away from the reception desk for more privacy. She fished inside her suitcase for a scrunchie. While he talked and while they waited for Lucas, also on the phone in his cubicle, she might as well braid her hair before they went out and the rain frizzed her mop.

  Immediately following the statement that René had probably hidden both necklaces in the Madame Tussauds building, Agent Hunt had adjourned the meeting. Afterward, the offices emptied like an ebbing tide. No wonder, it was after eight on a Thursday. A rumble in Cleo’s stomach reminded her she’d eaten nothing but airline pretzels since breakfast.

  She finished binding her braid as Thomas crossed to her, his call finished.

  “The secure line, complete with encryption software, still holds against the hacker,” he said, grim lines bracketing his mouth, “Small comfort.”

  “Any breakthrough?”

  “Nothing has been lost, but that’s all so far.”

  No data maybe, but DSF had other, serious losses—some major accounts and new business—he clearly didn’t want to mention The fallout didn’t compare to that day in Afghanistan but she could see he felt just as helpless, not in control. “You wish you could be there to take care of the problem.”

  “Thank God for Rivera’s cool head and Gaspar’s expertise. The inside man didn’t open a portal to our hacker. He fed the malware in using a USB drive.”

  “Why do it that way?” Cleo asked, zipping up her bag. “Doesn’t he run the risk of being caught with the evidence?”

  “Risky, yes. The low tech aspect may help in nailing the guy.” He fingered her braid. “Ready to brave the elements once Lucas is finished calling London?”

  In spite of the success of her remembered clue, Cleo’s stomach remained jittery. She didn’t like where they were headed. “I thought you were on my side. No safe house.”

  “Only for the night. A flat in the Sixteenth, a quiet residential section of Paris. Much safer than a hotel. Temporary, but you could stay there and rest.” He caressed her cheek. “Let Lucas and me go to London tomorrow.”

  “No, you need me. I’ve worn the necklace.” She remembered the feel of the ancient collar on her shoulders and summoned Queen Cleopatra’s confidence. “I know its weight, its jewels, its glitter.”

  “Could’ve been the copy.” His wry expression told her he saw she had no rejoinder to that. “I handled the real one. Heavy as chain-mail. I’ll know it.”

  “I won’t stay here alone, Thomas. Zervas could still find me. Besides—”

  “I promised,” he finished. Cupping her shoulders with his big warm hands, he fixed her with his steady amber gaze, the one that seemed to see inside her and never failed to heat her from the inside out. “We’ll go together to London. But hear me. If I thought locking you in a safe house was the best way, the only way to keep you safe, I’d break that promise in a heartbeat.”

  Heat tugged low in her belly and she swayed toward him. Thomas in protector mode was irresistibly addictive, more powerful than any drug. She forced herself to remember protection was his job. She needed no reminder his other default mode was being in charge. Didn’t he just warn her of that?

  A throat-clearing cough announced Lucas’s return, and Thomas released her.

  The big man scrubbed a hand over his mouth, an obvious attempt to hide a grin. “Here’s the deal. The Madame Tussauds director will tell me nothing over the phone. Apparently they’ve had trouble in the past.”

  “Stalkers? Wax figure perverts?” Cleo asked.

  He laughed. “Anything’s possible. But he mentioned industrial spies. Anyway, the Brit agent here is having one of his Scotland Yard colleagues vouch for me. But he’ll want to verify my ID in person.”

  Thomas nodded but a scowl crimped his forehead. “Hunt still has doubts. She’s deliberate and by the book but too slow. We need to line up the tomb exhibit dates and places with locations of the wax museums. Tonight.”

  “We may already be too late.” Cleo slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the lifts. “The figures wearing the necklaces could still remain in the workshops or they could be in place in a Madame Tussauds anywhere from New York to Tokyo.”

  “Wait, Cleo.” Lucas’s hand covered the button before she could press it.

  She whirled around. Lucas’s tight expression told her something was very wrong. Thomas’s face had that wary soldier look. “What?”

  “No guards.” Lucas pointed to the CCTV monitors mounted on the wall where the outer-office guard on duty during the day could see them. Two of the three screens showed the black-and-white marble floor, the potted plants camouflaging the exit door, and the half-circle security desk, but no uniformed guards. The third screen, which would have pictured the doors to all three lifts, showed a blank screen. Dead.

  “Piss-poor security in this damn building. Cameras and a few rent-a-cop guards,” Thomas said, disgust on his face. “The CTF is temporary but, hell, they ought to have automatic alarms, auto shut-down if the guards are compromised. Thomas pointed at the central monitor. “There, off to the side, a movement.”

  “How did Zervas get here so fast?” Her pulse zinged and she pictured shadowy figures brandishing automatic weapons invading the building like swarms of killer bees.

  He wrapped one powerful arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “He didn’t. He probably called in a favor.”

  Her heart still rabbited. Her nerves felt wound, tight. Fear, yes, but more. Tuned in to her surroundings, even the normal sounds and smells—the hum of air conditioning, the distant blare of car horns, the spearmint sharpness of the receptionist’s candies. Was this—every sense on alert—what hummed through warriors like these two men in the face of danger? In anticipation of adventure?

  “Cleo?” Thomas began.

  “I’m fine.” She licked her dry lips, ready to do whatever was necessary. She trusted Thomas’s expertise and instincts— and Lucas, loyal to his boss, just as vigilant and capable.

  “No telling how many men are downstairs.” Lucas reached behind him and withdrew a pistol that looked like the one Thomas borrowed on Santorini, a Beretta. “Sooner or later they’ll get tired of waiting for us to go down.”

  Thomas nodded. “Car’s on fourth. They’ll use the stairs. We have to get out of here.” He now held an identical pistol. More of Lucas’s doing.

  He turned to her. “We’ll need to move fast. Del Rio will take care of our bags later.”

  Her purse with her passport and money went into the zippered pocket of her jacket, a small attempt at protecting it from the rain she could hear peppering the skylight. A scarf wouldn’t keep her dry but the Mondrian-print foulard would hide her bright hair. She tucked away her red flats in favor of black leather brogues. Ugly but practical in Venice. And here.

  She observed intently as the men organized their escape in terse phrases and hand gestures, seeming to communicate almost by telepathy.

  Their plans apparently in place, Thomas caught her to him. “Stick to me like paint, Cleo. Move when I say, stay put when I say.” He demonstrated the corresponding hand signals. “Trust me. Can you do that?”

  Like Santorini and Venice. Cleopatra could. She could. Think of the chase as an adventure.

  Rubbing her damp palms on her pants, she nodded. Speaking might morph the mind-escape thrill coiled inside her into panic and paralysis.

  Catching the faint gleam of what looked like mutiny still in Cleo’s eyes, Thomas kicked himself mentally for coming on too strong. He would protect her however he saw necessary, but he needed her trust.

  He prayed he had it, then shifted into the alert stillness of the zone. Ready, he brushed a kiss across her lips. “Then let’s go.”


  He held her arm to keep her by his side as they approached the elevators. One on two, one on the ground floor, another on four. He punched the button. He noted her expression of alarm when Lucas slipped into the stairwell. “He’s going to distract them while we beat it out a back door.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was steadier than he’d expected, her gaze clear and alert.

  A car started up from four, a floor Lucas had said housed the offices of an insurance company. Probably empty, but he would take no chances. He motioned her to the side and plastered himself to the wall, out of range. They’d appear in the glass wall’s reflection but so would anyone inside the lift.

  Ding. The doors opened.

  Chapter 21

  THE BERETTA COMFORTABLE in his palm, Lucas crept down the stairs, his sneakers silent on the concrete steps.

  He had to give Thomas and Cleo time to slip out to the Métro. Might have to take down the hired thugs, not just distract them. Tricky in the middle of Paris.

  He paused on each landing, listened, processed. No indication of human movement above or below, only the faint hum of the building’s ventilation, the dry smells of metal and concrete, and his own sweat.

  On the last landing, he crouched and peered through the metal railing. Small window in the upper half of the steel door. The lobby light seemed dimmer. And not to save electricity during night hours, he bet. If he looked out, the brightness of the stairwell would provide Zervas’s thugs a fat target—his head.

  Hydraulic mechanism on this side meant the steel door opened inward. Fifty-fifty chance he’d have heard a man make that move. Recessed bulbs in the walls on either side of the door and the fluorescents overhead cast stark light in all corners. Nobody.

  He let out a breath, slow and quiet. Checked the automatic. Safety off. His back to the green concrete wall, he edged down the last six steps. Tuned in with all his senses. Swung around to check below the stairs. Empty.

  He crouched on the bottom step. Listened for sounds in the lobby.