The door closed.
“It’s going to be okay. I’m right here, Nell.” His arms slid around her. “How did they find you?” Her father looked exhausted and there was a bruise along his jaw. “You were supposed to stay with Nicholas.”
“Eric—Eric was involved. He called me and maybe they tracked the cell phone calls. I don’t know.”
“They used Eric?” Her father closed his eyes, stifling a cough.
“Daddy, are you okay? You look…”
“I’m tired, that’s all.” He gripped her hand, then turned away to pace the small room, which looked like an average servant’s bedroom—except for the newly installed metal bars on the door. Abruptly he came back and leaned down, his head beside hers. “We have to convince them we’re on different sides.” Jordan MacInnes kept his voice very low. “I don’t want him harming you to get at me, do you understand? So we fight. We fight about everything. Hide any emotions but anger from him, Nell.”
“Who?”
“The man who controls all of this. They’ll be coming soon. If I can create a diversion, I want you to run. Don’t wait for me—just go. Do you understand?”
“But what about you?”
I’ll be fine, Nell. Just remember what I said. Don’t give him anything he can use against us.”
MORE BLACK LIMOUSINES cruised up the driveway, followed by a silver Aston Martin and a white Rolls-Royce Corniche. Each car was met, each guest was carefully checked for weapons and ushered inside. By eight in the evening. Glenmor Castle’s little parking lot was full.
The last car was a black Escalade. The side door opened, a small motorized ramp powered down, and a sleek silver wheelchair buzzed along the ramp. The wizened old man in the chair had mahogany skin and papery white hair and looked around him with cold arrogance.
His name was Bujune Okambe and he had led the military force of his African state until staging a successful coup d’état. That same afternoon Okambe proclaimed himself president and took personal control of his country’s newly discovered oil reserves. Now he was one of the wealthiest men in the world.
His aged hands shook on the wheelchair controls as he submitted to the weapon search. Then with icy impatience he motioned to his striking daughter to follow him up the walk to the castle.
Martim Gonsalves’s guest list was now complete.
The auction was about to begin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THEY CAME for Nell twenty minutes later, two tall men with scars on their cheeks and leaden eyes. One wore a blue tie, the other wore green. The stocky one in the blue tie grabbed her arms when she didn’t move fast enough, shoving her toward the stairs.
“Where are we going?” she snapped.
No answer.
Nell glanced at her father, then looked up as they were forced into a big service elevator. From the smell of cooking food, it had to run down near the kitchen and food service area.
Jordan went in first, followed by the bigger guard, with Nell close behind. Suddenly her father made a strangled sound and locked his hands over his chest, staggering back through the open elevator door.
“Get in, fool.” The big guard hauled him back, but Nell’s father groaned, his arms flailing at the guard’s face.
“My heart. Crushing. I can’t—breathe.”
When the second guard leaned down for a closer look, Nell dropped her sweater over his head from behind and yanked the arms in a knot. While her father grappled with his captor, she ran back down the passage to a small storage closet located beyond the corner. She opened the door a crack, tossing linens onto the floor, then ran down the opposite hallway and waited, crouched behind a cart full of dirty laundry.
Her throat was dry, her heart pounding.
Both guards sprinted along the corridor and the big one stopped at the storage closet, holding up one hand. The second guard nodded and drew a revolver, kicking at the linens.
Silent, Nell crept back toward the elevator along a parallel hallway. Her father was very pale, gesturing upward. Nell climbed the wooden panels inside the elevator, pushed open the small access door at the ceiling and climbed out, then lowered the access door.
She heard footsteps and angry voices below her as she climbed with adrenaline-fuelled grace, hand over hand along the small emergency ladder inside the elevator vault.
Three stories higher the vault ended. Nell hesitated. She pulled the grate from a ventilation duct and crawled inside, her heart pounding.
The elevator creaked and then shot past. When the doors opened, two guards dragged her father out.
“Where is she?”
Her father shrugged. “Women, always making trouble. I told her not to—”
The guard snapped the butt of his gun across MacInnes’ jaw. “Where is she?” he repeated.
“I told you. I don’t—”
Another blow, harder this time. Nell heard her father’s muffled groan followed by the sound of his body hitting the wall.
“Next time I’ll shoot you, old man. Where is she?”
She spotted a commercial fire extinguisher mounted near the floor opening. As her father was struck again, she pulled the heavy unit free and climbed back onto the elevator. She tossed out the safety pin and waited until it cracked against the floor far below.
The guards shouted, and the elevator began to descend, with Nell clinging to the roof. As the guards struggled in confusion inside, she lifted the emergency access door and dropped the body of the fire extinguisher on the bigger guard.
“Nell, go.” Her father’s voice was harsh. “Don’t do this.”
She jumped down into the elevator, struggling with the second guard, who kicked her against the wall and then raised a pistol to her father’s head.
Nell froze, raising her hands slowly. When the elevator doors opened, three more guards were waiting out in the corridor.
Somewhere in the distance laughter mingled with the sound of harp music.
THE SMALL STONE ROOM where they took her was full of people in formal evening attire.
Three cases gleamed beneath small focused beams. Ten men and one woman circled the cases, watching light play over the delicate face of a woman with a haunting smile. La Gioconda had never looked more mysterious.
Three sketches.
Nell caught her breath in awe. Da Vinci’s genius shone in the smooth curve of the woman’s cheek and the shading of the expressive eyes. Was there smug satisfaction in her gaze or did her face hide some piece of secret knowledge? Scholars had argued about that expression for centuries.
“Gentlemen, and ladies, I am Martim Gonsalves. I welcome you.” As a slender man in an Armani suit moved from the back wall, the group parted to make way for him. “This is what you have come to bid on. You are looking at Leonardo’s preliminary chalk sketch for the Mona Lisa, with probable oversketching by Michelangelo, noticeable in the fine marks at her shoulders and her hands.” All other sounds in the room faded. Every face studied the three examples of Renaissance genius.
Martim continued calmly. “The piece was recently discovered in a bank vault in Switzerland. How it came into my possession need not concern us tonight. You see three cases here as a precaution, should one of you plan an act of theft.” He eyed the group coldly. “One of the pieces is real. The other two are holographic images. If you have questions about authenticity, I suggest you direct them to Jordan MacInnes and his daughter. Her credentials as a conservator and art expert are a matter of record and you all know Jordan personally, of course.” A guard squeezed Nell’s arm, holding her in place beside her father.
Martim strolled through the silent group, smiling. “Recently, this sketch was removed from the National Gallery. As you would expect, all copies of authenticating tests and supporting photographs are available, in addition to those that have already been e-mailed to you. The curator at the museum was most thorough.” He smiled thinly.
“Martim, one question.” A wheelchair hummed over the wooden floor, steered by an o
ld man with leathery skin. “I respect your experts, of course, but with a price so considerable I require spectroscopy results and pigment analysis. Further, I want proof that these lighter marks belong to Michelangelo. Can you provide these things?”
“Mr. Okambe, shrewd as always.” Martim’s eyes narrowed. “Here are two experts to answer all your questions.”
He motioned to Jordan, who gripped Nell’s arm tightly and guided her toward the cases. Heads nodded in recognition and several of the men reached out to shake hands as Nell’s father passed.
Several people frowned but no one commented about Nell’s rumpled clothes or the bruises on her father’s face. Nell realized that this was the shadow world she had imagined for years but had never glimpsed until now.
Her father held out a folder. “My daughter will answer any questions you may have, starting with Mr. Okambe’s.”
She summoned the calm arrogance that these assembled buyers would respect. The only other female present was a striking African woman with scars in the shape of tears dotting her high cheekbones. The woman studied Nell with disdain, moving closer to the man in the wheelchair, carrying herself like a princess.
In a clear, calm voice Nell explained the results of the various tests, riffling through the folder she had been given. Her host would not know that she had already studied the data line by line, of course.
When she was done, Gonsalves nodded. “An excellent explanation. Now are all the questions answered?” The buyers shuffled and then murmured assent, and their host gestured to his security chief, who punched a number into the keypad. The heavy door opened. “Caviar is now being served in the Blue Ballroom. I will join you there shortly to begin our bidding.”
Mr. Okambe gestured to the tall woman—his daughter or his mistress, Nell wasn’t sure. “Make Jordan’s daughter wait. She must explain the results of the last infrared test.”
Martim smiled but shook his head curtly. “Any questions are open to all, Mr. Okambe. It is fairer that way.” He gestured to Nell. “Elaborate on the test for us.”
Nell ignored the imperious edge to the man’s voice and kept her cool smile in place. As she explained how the paper and materials showed results consistent with da Vinci’s style and dating, Mr. Okambe listened closely, his chin sunk against his chest. Then he raised one hand, palm up. Nell saw the same set of tear-shaped scars along the base of his wrist. “One moment. I understand that this art is cursed. I do not take such a thing lightly.” At his words, excitement snapped through the room.
Nell moved toward the display cases, cutting in front of the African man’s wheelchair. “True. Maledetto.” She let the sound roll over her tongue, watching the reaction to her words. “Legend says it was cursed by da Vinci after it was stolen from him, possibly by his disreputable servant. If you buy this piece, you should understand that harm may come to you.”
Martim’s jaw locked in a line of fury. He moved casually beside Nell and took her arm, then his fingers twisted harshly on her wrist. “A legend, no more, my dear. We are adults here, not children who cry and run from shadows.”
As Martim’s fingers tightened cruelly on her arm, Nell bit back a gasp.
“You’ve explained all that we need to know, my dear.” His nails dug into her skin, a painful warning. “Now you must let our honored guests relax before our business begins.” He glanced at Mr. Okambe. “You are satisfied?”
The old man nodded, then wheeled outside, with the regal woman close beside him. In his wake the room cleared quickly, and as soon as the door closed, Martim Gonsalves turned and slammed Nell against the wall. Pulling a small metal unit from his pocket, he drove it under her chin.
Nell fought to breathe, the world flashing white as Gonsalves triggered the power on the Taser.
THE MOON WAS A BROKEN sliver against racing clouds as Dakota neared the base of the castle wall. In a few smooth strokes he found the mouth of the water pipe.
His rebreather unit hissed quietly against his mask, the tide driving him forward onto the heavy iron grate at the opening of the pipe. He pried the cover free and slid inside, the water churning up mud in turbid waves around him. Small fish shot from the pipe’s bottom as he navigated by the infrared dial of the compass on his wrist.
Abruptly the tunnel opened. Mud gave way to gravel and weeds and drifting sediment as he came to the edge of the castle moat.
He checked his watch.
One minute early.
Inching from the water, he waited, hidden by reeds. Dakota counted out the seconds, following his prearranged schedule. No guards moved over this part of the grounds. There was no flare of heat around him, no movement on the high parapets. Crawling through the reeds, he reached the low grass, his breath loud in his ears, his mask down and rebreather turned off.
Somewhere a bird cried shrilly as Dakota had his first glimpse of the wall he had to climb. Weathered and stark, its stone face loomed up above the loch’s edge. He sighted his route, picking out ledges and cracks by the uneven heat patterns that still reflected the afternoon sun.
He read the wall just the way Nell had told him to do, picking out his first three footholds. With his route clear, he eased out of the grass, ready to climb, one foot braced against a ridge of stone.
Then he stopped.
Something she’d said—something important.
The shoes.
Quickly he stripped off his rubber-soled diving boots and stowed them in his pack. Wearing only thin climbing shoes, he grabbed his first hold and toed into small cracks with his weight centered.
Somewhere a car door slammed. The buyers would be inside now.
Find a grip, weight steady. Roll from your feet.
He was already at the arrow loops when a bird shot out of the darkness, diving at his head. Dakota held steady, despite the talons shredding the back of his Neoprene suit. Ignoring the slash of pain at his shoulders, he willed himself to stay motionless.
With a loud cry, the bird soared away into the darkness. Dakota looked up, reading the wall, and reached for the arrow loop. Suddenly the narrow ledge beneath him crumbled.
He swung free, legs dangling. Instantly, he jammed his hand into a crack and held on with two knuckles just the way Nell had shown him.
Near the moat a light cut through the darkness, followed by the static screech of a walkie-talkie.
NELL COULDN’T BREATHE, and the burning pain wouldn’t stop.
Her father’s voice rose in fury.
“Put your toys away, Martim. It is time for business, not ego. I will take care of my difficult daughter.”
Time stretched out. Finally the metal box slid away from Nell’s neck. Her knees crumpled and she braced her shoulders against the wall to keep from falling.
“Then take care of her now. Otherwise, I will rip the tongue from her throat.” Martim smoothed his suit with tight, angry movements. As he punched in the key code he shot a cold look at Nell.
The door slid open. A tall man with silver hair waited in the doorway flanked by two bodyguards. His cool eyes held the confidence of a man well accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed un-questioningly.
“Father?” Martim Gonsalves stood frozen, his face a mask of shock. “How—why have you come here?”
“I am not to visit one of my own homes?” The silver-haired man glanced through the room, noting the three lit cases. “I may not visit my eldest son?” His voice hardened. “Even when he conducts business without advising me?”
“It was…to be a surprise, to show that you can trust me.” All Martim’s bravado was gone. He moved from foot to foot like a guilty child. “I will explain everything, Father, but not now. Not in front of these outsiders.”
“Now, I think.” The old man ignored his son, walking to the display cases. “So this is the piece of art. Why three, Martim?”
“A precaution to deter any thieves.” The younger man triggered the remote with a flourish, and the two outer cases went dark, leaving only the center display li
t. “Here is the real work. But Father, my buyers—”
“Our buyers,” the older man said coldly. “And I believe that they can wait a few more minutes.” He never once looked at Nell or her father as he spoke to his son. “I know that this American selected your bidders. Yes, I have my sources, Martim. You kept your secrets well, but not quite well enough.” Luis Gonsalves frowned, walking thoughtfully around the case. “What I do not understand is why the man’s daughter is here.”
“To authenticate the art, Father. I knew there would be questions, and we needed an expert.”
The old man frowned. “She is an outsider.”
Nell started to answer, but her father’s slight head-shake stopped her.
“She—” The son cleared his throat. “She is no longer of any importance. After the auction I will make arrangements for her.”
Jordan MacInnes cleared his throat. The powerful older criminal turned to study him. “You are the man who stole a Vermeer and three Rembrandts from the Gardner Museum in Boston, I understand.”
“Never proved. Never recovered,” MacInnes said calmly.
Gonsalves shrugged. “Prison has not been kind to you.”
Nell’s father met his gaze. “Only to be expected. Now it is my honor to be of service to your son. But one thing first. As one father to another, I ask that my daughter be allowed to leave.”
“She was brought here against her will?”
“That need not concern us as long as she leaves now. She is young and arrogant, foolish as young women will be. But family is family, and she is all that I have left.”
“Family.” The old man nodded slightly. “Always a blessing and sometimes a curse.” Luis Gonsalves turned to study the art. “It is the genuine work of da Vinci?”
“Without a doubt,” Nell’s father said. “The bidders are well chosen, all of them enemies driven by old anger and feuds. They will pay any price to win against each other.”
To Catch a Thief Page 22