Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3)

by Vaughan, Susan

  Her mobile phone—a new one, secure like Thomas’s—buzzed in her lap. The screen displayed the code for the call she’d been expecting.

  “Hello, sweetheart. Your father and I, we’ve been so worried.”

  Her spine went rigid. Of course the admiral had put her mom on first as a buffer. “Hi, Mom. I’m great. Tired, but this whole thing may be over tomorrow.”

  “Max Rivera has kept us posted but I doubt he told us everything.”

  Cleo smiled. Definitely not everything. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk after this is all over. Do I have a new nephew?”

  “Keith Horace Chandler, Junior.” Pride filled Irene’s voice. “Nine pounds, nine ounces. Everyone’s fine.”

  “That’s epic, Mom. I hope they don’t call him Little Hoot.” Her grin faded and she swallowed. “And Dad? How’s Dad?”

  From the amused hmm, she could picture her mom’s eye roll. “Healing and it can’t happen too fast. I may hire an ambulance driver to wheel him to his office during the day.” She cleared her throat. “He’s reaching for the phone but I want to have my say first. I’ve rarely gone against whenever your father insisted on something, even where you children were concerned. I’m sorry now I didn’t, for your sake. I’m not like the rest of you, strong or tough.”

  “Mom, you didn’t—”

  “Let me finish, please, Cleopatra Marie. Hoot couldn’t understand you had your grandmother’s creative talents, but you have enough of his grit to stand up for yourself and pursue your own future. And I’m proud of you. From what Max has said, I have a whole lot more to be proud of. And so does your father.”

  “Oh, Mom, you’re the one who’s tough, for putting up with us kids.” And the admiral. “I don’t know what to say except thank you.”

  “Irene heard you, baby, but she’s blowing her nose.”

  At the sound of her dad’s gruff voice, Cleo uncrossed her legs and planted her feet on the floor. Would he demand she go home? Would he blame her for all this trouble? Hell, she had started it all with the Facebook picture.

  “Dad. Sorry about your fall.” Oh, God, how lame was that? What else could she say after four years?

  “I’ll live. And so will you, thanks to Thomas.”

  “Ah, Thomas, he... thanks for sending him, Dad. We’ve had a wild ride but he’s protected me.”

  “We’ll watch the press conference. You come see us when this is over, you hear?”

  She mumbled a promise and other encouraging words before saying good-bye. Shaking her head in amazement, she ended the call. Not come home when this was over? Not be sensible and get a real job? Like the U.S. Navy? Admiral Hoot Chandler conciliatory? Compromising? Maybe on the phone with Mom at his elbow. Cleo would see what happened if she set foot under his roof. No, when. She’d promised.

  But today’s conversation was a start. And she was four years older. Four years wiser. She hoped.

  A glance at her phone reminded her it was time to head to the Met’s press room. She dropped the device in her small handbag and stood, smoothing her skirt. On the television screen across the room a noontime local news alert caught her attention.

  “In a few minutes our reporter Ruth Nance will bring us a special announcement from the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art about tomorrow’s opening of the Cleopatra Tomb Exhibit,” the blonde newscaster said in a perky tone. “While we wait, here’s an interview she taped earlier with the U. S. Secretary of State.”

  The camera shot zoomed in on the two women seated opposite each other on upholstered armchairs, tiny mics clipped to their jackets.

  “Secretary of State Vinton is in the city for final talks on a trade agreement with the president of Iran.” Turning from the camera to the cabinet official, the reporter asked in a deferential tone, “How historic is this development, Madame Secretary?”

  “Very important, Ruth,” said Helen Vinton, elegant in an upswept blond ’do and a rose silk suit. “And it’s more than a trade agreement. Our two countries have had our differences and confrontations during the past few decades. Because of dialogues with the Islamic Republic of Iran’s new, progressive leaders, including President Farhadi, we enter a new era of trust and cooperation. Although the president is here primarily for a speech at the United Nations, I do have more than one meeting with him.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she smiled. “Including tomorrow evening’s reception. An opening at the Met is always a special occasion. I’m looking forward to seeing the new exhibit.”

  The reporter asked another question but Cleo had seen enough. Having Iran’s leaders negotiate with the West for more than oil sales must infuriate such an extremist as Ahmed Yousef. An assassination would seem to him the only way to short-circuit the possibility of peace. He likely relished the idea of a reactionary outcome, even war.

  Cleopatra’s necklace was the centerpiece of an international success or an international calamity. What they planned for tomorrow’s gala had to work.

  She turned off the television as her phone buzzed again. Mimi’s mother.

  “Oh, Cleo, my dear. I... it’s Mimi, she—”

  White noise filled Cleo’s ears and she closed her eyes. “Oh, no, no.”

  “Wait, don’t misunderstand. I’m just so upset. My daughter’s taken a turn for the worse. She was waking up, starting to talk, responding. But now she’s slipped back under.”

  The white noise receded a fraction. Thank you. “Back into the coma?”

  “That’s what the doctors say. She seemed to be healing, getting better, but now—” She paused, her breath shaky and harsh. “The doctors here don’t know what’s going on. I’ve arranged for a medical transport home. To see a specialist in Toronto.”

  “Trudy, I’m so sorry. If there was any way I could take—”

  “No, don’t even say it. This was not your fault. Those men, it was them. Mimi will say the same thing when she’s better.”

  When she’s better. Hard to feel that way but Cleo had to cling to Trudy’s belief.

  “Please tell Lucas Del Rio about Mimi,” Trudy said. “I don’t think I can explain this again.”

  Cleo had no idea how she would either, but she agreed. They talked for a few more minutes about the flight schedule and ambulance transfer. She’d just ended the call when Thomas stepped into the room and beckoned. She whisked to him and threw her arms around his waist, taking strength from his solid presence.

  “Hey, babe, what’s the matter? Your dad come on strong?”

  “No, he was fine. He didn’t tell me to come home. He said come ‘come see us’ instead. And my mom said I was tough.”

  “Babe, you are tough. It’s okay to lean on someone occasionally, even me.” He chuckled. “Is there more?”

  She couldn’t bring herself yet to talk about Mimi. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s go. Showtime.”

  ***

  Marco Zervas stared in disbelief at the TV screen as the press conference drew to a close. The camera panned from the director of the Met to the two people standing to his right.

  Thomas Devlin and Cleo Chandler.

  Cursing, he threw the TV remote against the wall. Paced the sitting room of the Ritz-Carleton suite. The faint smell of Hawkins’s efforts with antiseptic spray and air freshener hung in the air.

  Hawkins ducked into his bedroom, laptop beneath his arm. The door closed behind him.

  Nedik slid a glass across the mini-bar. A glass Zervas had personally washed. One couldn’t be too careful, even in New York. He slugged down the whiskey, willing the smooth heat to soothe nerves shredded by the news.

  How the fuck had Devlin recovered the necklace? Where the hell did Moreau stash it? Maybe he had only one. Could be either—the ancient one or the copy with the computer chip. Could be some kind of ruse. No trick, he decided. Not involving the museum director and the press. Too convoluted even for his old fucking captain.

  What Yousef would do if he got wind of the recovery didn’t bear contemplating.

  His mobile p
hone shrilled. Fuck, too late.

  “What have you done?” The Iranian’s voice blasted his eardrum.

  “A temporary setback, I assure you, my friend.” He sank onto a gold brocade chair.

  “You have assured me time and again you would succeed. The FBI has my necklace. You have failed.”

  The FBI? Yousef must have gotten the news mixed up. A bad translation on Al Jazeera perhaps. Zervas scrambled for ideas.

  “Not the FBI,” he said, keeping his tone calm while his heart battered his sternum. “But the civilians I told you about. The necklace is being returned to the Cleopatra Tomb Collection. The exhibit opens Tuesday at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

  “The necklace will be part of the exhibit, you are certain?”

  Fuck, yes, and with motion sensors, weight sensors, cameras, laser beams—all the shit. Except he knew a few thieves in Brooklyn who could steal anything regardless of the security set-up. “According to the news, the necklace is the centerpiece of the exhibit. After the excitement of the find ends, stealing—”

  “No,” Yousef interrupted. “Do not. The necklace is precisely where it needs to be. Watch for news of the opening gala reception and you will see.”

  “But—” Zervas spoke to dead air.

  “Boss?” Nedik said, from behind the mini-bar. Perhaps he feared Zervas would launch more missiles. “Whole deal in the toilet?”

  His mind racing, Zervas meandered to the suite’s telescope set up before the picture window. He stared down at the Central Park treetops, their leaves beginning to fade from summer green. Shriveling. Dying.

  The leaves, yes, but not his scheme. He hadn’t been a fucking U.S. Special Forces sergeant for nothing. When the enemy outflanks you, reposition your forces.

  Chapter 25

  THOMAS LIFTED TWO glasses of champagne from the waiter’s tray and handed one to Cleo.

  Stark white columns and ancient statues and busts lined the high-ceilinged central court that connected the Met’s first-floor galleries. Concealed cameras monitored by federal agents panned the crowd touring the Cleopatra’s Tomb Exhibit—center stage in this gala.

  The trap was set. Now for the prey to take the bait. His pulse rattled and he steadied his breathing. Focused on staying in the zone. A hell of a lot easier job if he’d persuaded Cleo to stay away, secure in the hotel. No chance.

  Keeping her close by his side, he surveyed the crowd sipping bubbly. FBI and Secret Service agents in tuxes and gowns mingled with city officials, celebrities, and museum donors. Barely recognizable in a silver cocktail dress, Special Agent Jessica Hunt accompanied the agents guarding Secretary of State Vinton and President Farhadi. Thank God she’d persuaded the museum director to ban the media. Only the Met’s crew was recording the gala.

  He’d let the Feds and the task force nab the would-be assassin. Marco Zervas was his.

  “Shiny dome with mustache at your three,” Lucas said in Thomas’s earbud. The DSF operative lounged beside a canopied bed with a golden headrest.

  Thomas turned to face Cleo but looked over her head toward where the man in question stood chatting with a blonde. “Too short,” he murmured into the mic concealed beneath his shirt collar.

  He’d set out the first bait by using his personal credit card to reserve their hotel room. The CTF had video footage of Nedik and Hawkins boarding a Paris-New York flight. Not their boss. No Marco Zervas in any of his known identities.

  But he had come. Thomas knew it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. Yesterday’s press conference had baited the second hook. The museum director thanked Cleo and him for returning the necklace in time for the Met opening.

  A slap in the face. Zervas wouldn’t be able to resist.

  “Plenty of bald heads here,” Cleo said as they approached the displays of jewel-encrusted boxes and jewelry. Velvet pedestals held gold and silver arm bands, bracelets, pendants, and rings beneath pinpoint spotlights. A plus-sized couple moved away, the woman’s flowery perfume trailing behind her.

  He nodded, working his jaw. Zervas could wear a rug. Or he could insert a man. Depended on his level of desperation.

  The slide of Cleo’s arm through his eased his tension and drew his gaze from the party to the one who mattered more each day. He slid an appreciative glance from her upswept curls to down the long black column that hugged her curves. The gown could be taken for skin except for its shimmering fabric. “You look amazing.”

  Her answering smile sparkled in her green eyes. “You look amazing yourself. You should always wear a tux.”

  “I will if you’ll always wear that dress.”

  Her laugh drew his gaze to the cleavage displayed in the gown’s low neckline. “Deal.”

  He forced himself back from the brink before he lost too much vigilance. He returned to scanning the glitterati near Madame Secretary and her companion.

  The dignitaries and their entourage of advisors and protectors, trailed at a discreet distance by security, glided in a small school toward the centerpiece of the Cleopatra Tomb Exhibit.

  Cleopatra’s necklace.

  The other jewelry lay flat in cases, but the high gold collar with its gem-encrusted cape draped the neck of a black velvet bust, as the Queen of the Nile might have worn it. Damned impressive. No wonder people wanted to steal the thing.

  When a white-jacketed waiter walked by with a tray laden with empties, he stopped the man and passed him his glass. He needed both hands free.

  Cleo felt the charge in the atmosphere when Thomas stepped to one side, his gaze eagle sharp, his stance battle ready. The honored guests stopped within a foot of the necklace. The Secretary, her blond hair perfectly coiffed, elegant in ice-blue satin. The Iranian president, a slight dark-haired man in a black suit. His gaze swept the gathering.

  Cleo sucked in a breath.

  Her hands were too clammy to hold a glass. She added her flute to the tray. “Thank you,” she said to the waiter, who reeked of sweat.

  Without a nod, he adjusted the tray and moved on.

  Poor man. He must be new, to be so frazzled. Unlike the Secretary. “Vinton looks so cool and calm.”

  “Diplomacy requires ice in the veins,” Thomas growled. “Like anticipating an attack.”

  Secretary Vinton bent her head to listen to what President Farhadi said. The entourage gave the two of them elbow room as they circled the stand, closing in only inches from the gleaming necklace.

  Thomas turned away to watch whoever was watching the dignitaries, and so did Cleo. Security had scanned every attendee and the contents of their pockets and bags. Catching the assassin as he keyed the code left too much to chance, he’d complained, leaving them with no prey in the trap and their heads up their asses.

  The clink of glassware drew her attention to the right. The sweating waiter had set his tray on a bench by a marble bust. He fumbled with something in his pocket.

  “Thomas, over there, that waiter.” She tossed a nod toward where the waiter hovered. “When he took my glass, I noticed he was sweaty and nervous. All the other waiters carried empties away. Why would he set his down?”

  Already striding toward the waiter, he spoke an alert into his collar mic.

  The man withdrew a phone from his pants pocket. He frowned as he tapped the screen.

  Three men including Thomas circled him. Two agents seized his arms at the same time Thomas relieved him of his phone.

  Thomas studied the screen, then jerked a sharp nod.

  An agent handcuffed the waiter, who stood head lowered, mouth tight.

  Conversation near the confrontation hushed, and formal-clad people backed away.

  Hunt pushed through the spectators and relieved Thomas of the phone with a gloved hand. She passed it to an agent who placed it in an evidence bag.

  Agents gripped the waiter’s arms. Others formed a front and rear guard. Hunt signaled toward a side door. As a body, they marched the man out.

  Lightheaded, Cleo put her hand to her
throat, forgetting her neck was bare tonight. She forced herself to breathe slowly. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

  God, she’d known since yesterday when the DSF authenticator examined the necklace Lucas brought from Berlin that it was René’s copy but contained no embedded chip, explosive or otherwise. And still she’d nearly passed out from hyperventilation.

  Around her, whispered questions crescendoed to excited speculation.

  Thomas returned to her. He enfolded her and kissed her. “You’re the best, babe. Could’ve used you in my team to spot the enemy.”

  “You took him down.” She smoothed the front of his dress shirt, loving the thump of his heart against her palm. “He must’ve set down the tray so he could check the phone screen. Then he kept pressing the code, probably wondering why he couldn’t set off the explosion. Thank God the trap worked and you’re not hurt. Bummer you didn’t get Zervas. He—I’m babbling. I’ll stop now.”

  He smiled, kissed her again, soothing her vibrating nerve endings. “We have another shot at Marco Zervas.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” The museum director stood on the mezzanine steps with a hand microphone. The tall gray-haired man removed his glasses and slipped them into his tuxedo pocket. When the voices died to murmurs, he continued. “I apologize for the unfortunate interruption. For now I can say only that a disaster was averted and the man responsible is in custody. Please continue to enjoy this magnificent exhibit and the refreshments.”

  “Now what?” Cleo said.

  “I’ll answer that.” Lucas Del Rio joined them.

  She’d noticed the reactions to him earlier. Gala guests gave him a wide berth. He might as well have been carrying an AK-47 and wearing field gear instead of formal black.

  His somber expression was belied by the twinkle in his eyes. Great the take-down had lightened his mood, as gloomy and ominous as a thundercloud when she’d told him about Mimi’s downturn. When Mimi’s condition improved—she had to get better—Cleo would ensure the two of them met.

  “Special Agent Hunt sent me to deliver you to the director’s office,” Lucas said.