THE COLD FIRE-

by Unknown

  The Austrian thief ran fast, but John ran faster. He reached out and his fingers grazed the back of Dornal’s coat, but with a sharp turn, the convict swerved into a doorway and they found themselves in the middle of the giant barn-like space which held the Eastern Market. The building was filled with vendors selling fresh produce, colorful cut flowers, and kosher meat.

  The thief burst through a stall, overturning a display of Granny Smith apples and ripe Georgia peaches. The people in the crowded market panicked and screamed as Dornal turned and pinched off another shot in John’s direction, missing him by a fraction of an inch, before leaping over a counter bursting with dyed hot pink and orange carnations.

  Pushing an ancient Korean fishmonger out of the way, John leapt forward and caught the Austrian’s sleeve, knocking the UMP submachine gun across the floor. John shoved his own pistol in the thief’s ribs.

  “Stop right there, Zagen! You’re under arrest,” John puffed, as sweat ran down his flushed cheeks.

  Dornal’s free hand closed around the handle of a toddler’s stroller that a frantic mother had not been able to pull away in time. Quick as lightning, the scalpel was at the little girl’s rosy throat. The child burst into tears, as her hysterical mother screeched, grabbing at John’s arm and trying to pull him away.

  “Drop the gun,” said the convict curtly, his dead shark eyes nailing John’s.

  There was a ninety-nine percent chance John could pull the trigger before Zagen hurt the kid, but John knew if something went wrong, he’d have the image of the little brown-eyed girl in her denim overalls and the feral cries of her grief-stricken mother burned into him for life.

  “Please, please drop your gun!” whimpered the mother as her fingers dug into his arm.

  Anger pumping through every cell in his body, John replaced the safety and slid the Glock 27 across the floor away from the Austrian.

  The frantic mother screamed again as Dornal backed away with the toddler’s stroller.

  “Let the girl go!” yelled John, squeezing his fists tight in impotent rage.

  As Dornal reached the exit, he gave the stroller a hard push and it went flying in John’s direction. Cursing, John caught the toddler before the stroller slammed into the corner of a stainless-steel meat counter. Shoving the kid into her sobbing mother’s arms, he ran after Dornal, but as he burst onto Seventh Street, he saw no evidence of the thief.

  Coming to a halt, his breath flowing in ragged bursts from his lungs, John turned and swung his head from left to right. He looked up at the trees and the roofline of the Eastern Market. With a sick feeling in his gut, John knew he’d lost Dornal Zagen. He collapsed onto a bench out front as the wail of sirens heralded the arrival of the DC police.

  John’s head shot up. He wasn’t a federal agent anymore and carrying a concealed weapon and getting involved in a shootout was no longer an officially sanctioned activity for him. Sure, Quinn could probably get him out of any trouble with the police, but he didn’t need an incident like this to go on his record if he ever hoped to rejoin the FBI.

  Before he knew it, John was on his feet and back inside the market. The Glock still lay on the floor in the corner of the room. Without breaking his stride, he snatched up the pistol and ran back through the alley. He’d decide what to do once he was back in the quiet of his hotel room and could think straight again.

  It was dark by the time John returned to the Monticello. He grabbed a cold seltzer out of the minibar, kicked off his shoes and lay back on the king-sized bed. It had been a while since anyone had taken a shot at him. It was no mystery why Dornal Zagen was trying to kill him or what he was doing in DC. If John were not very much mistaken, he’d see the notorious thief again at the Diamond Ball tomorrow night. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He’d been dodging bullets for most of his adult life, but he was concerned for Veronica. What if the Austrian thief had penned the letter warning her to stay away from the ball? If only she’d listen to reason.

  Then again, maybe she knew how to take care of herself better than John expected. After all, if she was friends with Nicholas Bezuhov, she might not be as innocent as he had originally believed.

  What really troubled him was whether to tell Quinn about his encounter with Zagen. His ex-partner had enough on his plate to overwhelm ten men. Besides, over the years John had come to feel that Dornal was his bone to pick. The fact that the Austrian convict had just tried to blow his brains out only made this more clear. If he had not stopped to pray…

  John grew thoughtful as he pondered this. The only reason he was alive now was because he had bowed his head in reverence. Was it a sign? Was God watching out for him after all?

  Why now? Why did God seem to be around sometimes and not others? And why were so many messed-up things allowed to go on if there was a God? There were so many things he couldn’t come to terms with. His father’s death, Veronica and the White Russian, the junkie kid who wouldn’t get sober. John wondered why he was given the gift of sobriety but that poor kid was stuck in his own private hell. None of it made sense. He felt like he would never understand God and His plan. Simon had told him he didn’t need to understand, but John had spent his entire adult life trying to use his agile mind to uncover the mysteries, figure out the crime. It was hard to just throw up your hands and trust.

  He let out a long, deep breath and a fleeting sense of the peace he’d felt in Mary’s garden came back to him. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers, but he was at least willing to admit his life had been saved by a prayer today—even if it was just a coincidence.

  He rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and whispered, “Thank you.”

  He sat quietly for a moment and then picked up the remote, turning on a sports channel. It was time to give his brain a rest. If he couldn’t drink and he couldn’t smoke, well, at least there was college basketball. Forget Zagen, Veronica Rossmore, the White Russian, Simon, the sad junky kid, and the true nature of God and the universe. He would anesthetize himself in the fascination of March Madness.

  About forty-five minutes into the game, there was a knock at the door.

  He jumped up and opened it before he had a chance to think.

  Veronica stood there looking as beautiful as he’d ever seen her. She was dressed for dinner in a black evening gown. Her hair was coiled in an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck. The usual blast of white rocks shimmered at her earlobes, wrists, and throat. She seemed poised and calm.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” she said in her low voice, the scent of L’Heure Bleue faintly wafting into the room.

  John marched over to the TV and snapped it off. “No, that’s fine.” He sounded cold even though he could feel his neck and face catch fire and his body tense up on red alert.

  A bit of the sparkle died out of her eyes. “I thought I’d just say hello and let you know I’m going out for the evening.”

  “You shouldn’t be going out alone. It’s dangerous,” growled John.

  “John, I really can’t…”

  But he cut her off. “And by the way, why didn’t you tell me you’re friends with the White Russian?” John sounded more hostile than he wanted to.

  Now it was her turn to a go a little red, the color washing becomingly into her cheeks as she crossed her arms over her breasts. “It’s none of your business who my friends are.”

  “It is when they’re notorious jewel thieves and I’m being paid to guard your rocks.” He couldn’t help adding, “Besides, I mean, Veronica, the guy’s like a bad character in a Pink Panther movie. How could you possibly be friends with him?”

  She shook her head and came toward him so that she stood in all her overwhelming beauty just an arm’s length away. “I’ve known Nicholas for a long time. I met him in Switzerland when I was at school. We both share a passion for jewels, which a lot of other people don’t fully understand. We’ve had the similar experience of living all over the world, never being in one place for more than a year or two.”

  “I see,
and do you have any other criminals among your acquaintances?”

  “Nobody has any proof he’s the White Russian.” Her dark blue eyes flashed in defensive loyalty for her friend.

  “There’s proof and there’s proof, Veronica,” said John, sounding cynical and bitter. “Is he here for the Hope Diamond?”

  She looked him square in the eye. “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I asked him.”

  “And you believe him?” asked John incredulous.

  “Yes, I do!” She was furious. “Nicky knows as well as anybody that the diamond is cursed. He wouldn’t go near it with a ten-foot pole!”

  “So he’s Nicky now,” said John mockingly.

  “I told you, he’s an old friend and, I might add, a true artist,” she said indignantly.

  “He’s an artist all right—a con artist!”

  “He happens to be one of the most talented jewelers in the world,” Veronica informed him haughtily. “He’s created exquisite pieces for everyone from Princess Diana to Nicole Kidman!”

  “Really. Is that why you snuck into his room this afternoon without letting me know?”

  Veronica opened her mouth to say something, but instead pressed her lips tight and her eyes turned as hard and cold as the icy diamonds that shimmered in teardrops around her throat. “Have you been spying on me?”

  “What were you doing sneaking into a known jewel thief’s room?” he demanded, nailing her to the wall with his eyes.

  “He just acquired some new stones and he was showing me his jewels.”

  “I bet he was,” sneered John.

  Then she took a step back and shook her head, recognition coming into her eyes. She’d been through this too many times before. “You don’t give a damn if Nicholas is a thief. You’re just jealous.” She shook her head in disgust. “Well, let me tell you something, John, I don’t like jealous men.”

  His mind flashed once more to the photograph of her on the front page of the New York Post after her ex-husband, Derrick Chapin, had thrown her down the stairs. It was like a slap in the face. She was right. He was so jealous and angry he could barely speak. He knew he should apologize, but he was too mad.

  “I’m going now to have dinner with the wife of the President of the United States. As I told you before, I am also old friends with her. Hopefully you won’t have any objections to that!” She turned sharply, fury written into every tense line of her body as she marched out of the room.

  Just before she left, he called out, “For such an antisocial girl, you’re friends with just about everybody!”

  It was childish of him. She didn’t respond, of course. The door slammed and she was gone.

  ****

  The black sports car came to a silent stop on the street in front of Senator Hayes’ Capitol Hill townhouse. Maggie the Cat, clad all in black, slid out of the passenger seat and shut the door behind her. She winked at René, who sat behind the wheel with the motor still purring quietly. Maggie motioned for him to cut the lights and he quickly obeyed.

  With a silent leap, she sprang up and grabbed the bottom branch of the stately old magnolia which graced the small garden in front of Senator Hayes’ home. In seconds, she had reached the top of the tree. Uncoiling a slim metal cord from her belt, she tossed the rubber-coated grappling hook attached to the cord and it hit its mark. The rubber muffled the sound of the hook catching on the open window of an upstairs bedroom. Securing the other end of the cord around the tree’s trunk, Maggie put one foot on the rope, testing it to make sure it could handle her weight. As gracefully as the cat she was named for, she tiptoed across the wire and stood just outside the window peering in.

  She smiled. It was the master bedroom, the room where people almost always kept their valuables when they were not securely locked up in bank safe-deposit boxes. The old gray-haired senator lay in his striped pajamas with his back to his wife, who from the look of the prescription bottle of sleeping pills by her bedside, was down for the count.

  A low growling came from the foot of the bed and a cranky-looking bulldog raised his head.

  Looks as though you need a nice sleeping pill like your mommy. The fat, slobbering mess of a dog jumped off the bed with a thud, and growling louder, came toward her.

  “Bonsoir,” Maggie whispered, as she waved a little doggie treat laced with a harmless, but extremely effective, sedative through the window.

  The bulldog put his two front paws on the window ledge and sniffed the treat. It must have checked out, because with a phlegmy snort, he accepted the gift and waddled back to a corner of the room to enjoy his feast.

  The minutes ticked by, but Marguerite knew better than to enter the room before the dog was fully sedated. Patience had never been her forte, but she was able to recognize when it was a necessity.

  On the street below, the flash of headlights spilled across the cobblestones as a car turned onto the block. Catching her breath, Marguerite leaned as close to the building as she could, hoping the shadow of the magnolia hid her from view. A midnight blue Mercedes came to a stop across the street and an older-looking gentleman got out. He walked around to the passenger side of the car and opened it for a pretty blonde in a low-cut dress.

  Maggie smirked. These Americans were not so very different from the French after all. She stopped smirking when the older man frowned and looked at the black Lotus with René still sitting in the driver’s seat, but relaxed as the blonde slid her arm in his, and the gentleman quickly led her into his house.

  Maggie exhaled. The young blonde would keep that old man busy and out of her hair, but it would still be a good idea to get in and out as quickly as possible. She peered in the window and now the old bulldog was snoring nearly as loudly as his master. No wonder the lady of the house needed sleeping pills.

  Carefully, Maggie slid the window open a touch more. After all, she wanted a nice wide exit on her way out—especially if something went wrong. Open windows like this were the reason spring and fall were her favorite times of year to commit thefts. In the winter and summer, people kept their windows locked to keep out the elements, but at the turn of the seasons, who could resist inviting the fresh air into their home?

  Maggie’s foot silently touched the carpet and she was in the room. There’d be no alarms to contend with here in the bedroom while the owners of the house slept in it. If she’d tried to break in downstairs through the back door, it would have been an entirely different story. Maggie knew better than to pull an amateurish move like that.

  Now, if her friend Thomas at the Inter-Vac company, who had installed the senator’s safe, was on the money then what she sought lay behind that atrocious fake Renoir hanging above the vanity table. It would have been a fun test of her abilities to crack the safe, but since Thomas had already supplied the code, that would not be necessary. Soundlessly, she pulled the offending painting off the wall and placed it on the floor.

  Viola! The safe was just where it was supposed to be.

  She considered switching on the penlight she had brought with her for the occasion, but excellent night vision was one of her strengths and she could just make out the letters on the dial.

  Not wanting to fuss with papers in the dark, she had committed the code to memory which had not been difficult. She put her hand on the dial. Her fingers were sensitive even encased in gardening gloves with surgical gloves beneath those to prevent that naughty DNA-holding sweat from getting out onto the dial. She tried the code—J-E-F-F-E-R-S-O-N.

  The metal door swung open and she caught her breath. This was always the most intoxicating moment.

  Apparently the senator and his wife were a pair of packrats, because the safe was crammed with all sorts of bonds and papers. Without touching anything, she examined the contents with her eyes until she noticed a velvet jewel box in the corner. Maggie slid it out and gently lifted the lid.

  The Mogul Emerald glittered up at her from the silk-lined box. It was a massive 217 carats and had
once been the centerpiece of an Indian maharaja’s turban pin. More recently, Islamic prayers had been etched into the face of the stone and it was rumored to have spectacular, protective magical powers. Gleefully Maggie shut the box and began to tiptoe back across the room just as the old senator stirred.

  With those famous cat instincts, Maggie was plastered against the wall of the tiny hallway between the bedroom and the bath in the blink of an eye. She stood there, not breathing, as the senator sat up and rubbed his eyes for a moment.

  Merde.

  The old man raised his creaky body from the bed and began to head toward the bathroom—and Maggie.

  Thinking fast, Maggie shoved the velvet box down her body-hugging shirt. She noiselessly gave a little jump and grasped the top of the molding above the doorway leading to the bathroom. With a slight kick of her legs, she lifted her body up into a handstand and balanced precariously upside down above the doorway, thanking God the place had high ceilings!

  She closed her eyes and prayed to St. Nicholas, the patron saint of thieves, as the old senator walked though the doorway just below her and into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and it was only pure luck that the old man had not noticed his safe hanging wide open on the wall in the darkness. On his way back to bed, he might be more alert. She couldn’t take the chance.

  Swift as lightning, she sprang down from the doorway and was out the window and taking a flying leap from the treetop before René had time to look up. She jumped into the passenger seat, and giving him a wicked grin, commanded, “DRIVE!”

  René put his foot on the gas. The car went from zero to a hundred and sped off into the night.

  Not bad for a warm-up. Maggie clutched her new good-luck charm. She rolled the window down so she could feel the wind whipping through her flame-colored hair. Now she would be invincible at the Diamond Ball.

  Upstairs the senator stood gaping at the open safe.

  “Louise, wake up!” he bellowed at his wife. “Wake up, goddamn it!” But Louise Hayes, still under the influence of her pills, lay peacefully asleep.