Palmer pushed the button on the side of his watch to illuminate the time. It was getting late, but he knew that there would not be any sleep tonight. Events had taken an unexpected turn the night before, and the stakes had increased significantly—the spider was loose in the city.
This was not, Palmer had reminded his team, the time to panic. The mission had to proceed—obstacles had to be overcome. But the fact remained that unless they could locate the spider within the next two days, years of effort would prove worthless.
Palmer did not intend to let that happen.
A member of Palmer’s team had spent the entire day watching the small apartment from across the street. To Palmer’s surprise, no one had shown up. Palmer knew it was risky, but they had to search the apartment. Time was running out, and, although there was no guarantee that they would even find what they were looking for, they had to make sure it wasn’t here. Maybe they would get lucky, but Palmer doubted it.
“Windows secure?” Palmer said aloud.
A short, thin man dressed entirely in black used a small flashlight to check the seal on the thick cloth that covered the window in the kitchen. The edges of the cloth were backed with a strong adhesive that attached securely to the wall surrounding the casement. Similar cloths covered the rest of the windows in the apartment.
“All secure,” the man said.
“Doors?” asked Palmer.
“Secure,” another man said.
Palmer and his team had made it inside the apartment and secured the windows and doors within three minutes. His team consisted of only five members, but they were the best money could buy. They were professionals from across the globe who had been highly trained in covert operations. Specialists in electronic surveillance, computer technology, alarm systems, and night operations, they broke into places that were never supposed to be broken into. Every member of his team spoke at least three languages, three were pilots, and all were experts with a wide variety of weapons. They could blend into almost any environment and survive almost any challenge. They were dangerous people who had spent their careers in dangerous situations. And they were also highly paid, which ensured a reasonable measure of loyalty.
“Lights on in three,” said Palmer as he removed his night-vision goggles. The two other men followed suit. At the count of three, Palmer flicked the switch in the living room. Bright light flooded the room.
“Any light bleed outside?” asked Palmer. The small communication device in his ear transmitted his question to another team member stationed outside as a lookout.
A moment later a woman’s voice crackled through the device. “No bleed,” the voice said. “All dark.”
“Clear?” asked Palmer.
“Residents of main house have not returned,” said the voice in his ear. “No sign of anyone else. All clear.”
“We’re secure,” said Palmer. He checked his watch again. “Top to bottom. Five minutes, no longer.”
The two members of the team who had accompanied Palmer inside proceeded to search every drawer in every room in the small nondescript apartment. They did so quickly and precisely, disturbing nothing and leaving no trace. Every book and magazine was opened, examined, and returned to its original location. The small area rug in the living room was pulled up, turned over, and then put back in place. The covers of every light switch and electrical outlet were removed and the boxes examined. The mattress on the bed and the pillows on the couch were patted down. Everything in the small apartment was opened up, turned over, and otherwise thoroughly examined. And everything in the small apartment was returned to the exact location in which it had been found.
Palmer slowly made his way through the house. He ran his hand across the top of every door. He removed every floor vent, wall vent, and ceiling vent. He checked the refrigerator. He checked the freezer. He checked the small closet that served as a pantry and every can, bottle, and bag in it. He tried to think of everywhere and anywhere it could be hidden. His job was to make sure every single part of the search protocol was followed and that nothing was missed. And despite his youth, the two men on his team—both at least a decade older than he was—knew he was good at his job. He had to be. The business at hand did not allow for mistakes.
“Report,” Palmer called out.
“Negative,” both of the men replied.
They located a laptop in the bedroom. It did not prove terribly difficult to get into—it had taken Palmer all of about thirty seconds to find a back door around the password. A quick glance at the files on the hard drive did not reveal anything particularly interesting—mostly personal stuff. His team would, of course, take the computer, and Palmer would examine it more thoroughly on his own time, along with the smartphone they had retrieved the previous night. But Palmer didn’t have high hopes for what he would find on either the phone or the laptop, and the rest of the apartment did not appear any more promising.
Palmer knew that searching the apartment had simply been an effort to cover all their bases. The truth was, they knew who could bring the spider to them.
Find the boy, and they would find the spider.
But the boy had already slipped through their fingers once. And now he had managed to elude them for almost twenty-four hours. As far as they could tell, the boy had not gone to the police, which had been surprising given the circumstances of his escape. Palmer, however, had arranged a contingency plan in the event the police became involved.
Two days to find the spider.
Palmer checked his watch. It was time to go. He placed a small video transmitter above one of the windows in the living room so he could continue to monitor the apartment. He then called the two men into the living room. One of them handed him the laptop.
“Everything still clear outside?” Palmer asked.
“All clear,” the voice in his ear responded.
“Lights out in ten,” said Palmer, “then clear the covers and let’s get out of here.”
The men nodded. They put their night-vision goggles back on and prepared for the darkness.
Palmer took one last look around the apartment. He sensed that something wasn’t right about the whole setup. The apartment was too normal, too neat.
He turned off the light switch.
The small apartment was dark once again.
9:32 p.m.
Friday, December 15
Sullivan residence, Washington, DC
“Time for bed,” said Mary Sullivan. “It’s getting late.”
Camille placed her book on the nightstand. She loved reading mysteries, and this particular mystery about Shakespeare was great. But there was no sense in arguing with her mother. It was already well past her normal bedtime, and besides, she could feel herself starting to drift.
Mary sat on the edge of Camille’s bed. “So what do you think?” her mother asked. “Of the boy?”
“He’s nice,” said Camille. “Doesn’t talk much, though. He barely said anything all night.”
Mary paused. “He’s lost,” she finally said. “He doesn’t know who he is or where he came from—and it’s almost Christmas. That has to be hard.”
Camille nodded. She couldn’t imagine being away from her mother at Christmastime. “Maybe he’s a spy,” Camille suggested. “You know, some sort of secret agent or something. There’re all kinds of those people in Washington, DC.”
Mary smiled. “Don’t let your imagination get the best of you. He’s just a kid, like you. And he has parents out there somewhere who are worried about him.”
“I suppose,” Camille said as she snuggled deep under her covers. “But being a spy would be way cooler.” She could feel her eyelids growing heavy.
“He needs a friend,” said Mary. “Someone who will look out for him. Can you do that for me?”
“I always do,” replied Camille sleepily.
Mary kissed her daughter lightly on the forehead. “I don’t know what happened to him,” she said, “but he needs to know that he
’s safe with us.”
“I’ll watch out for him,” said Camille. Her words were faint and slurred—her eyes closed. “I promise.” A moment later she was deeply asleep.
Chapter 5
He came upon a tall gate—cast iron with patches of rust, and cobwebs strung between its thick metal pickets. The gate swung ever so slightly in the wind, creaking as it made its way back and forth on ancient pins.
It was late, and the shadows had grown deep and long. The bright colors of the day had faded into gray.
He turned to head back the way he had come, but night had overtaken him. The path was now dark and uncertain.
He could feel his heart beating in his chest.
He had been here before, but he couldn’t remember what happened or which way to go.
He called out for help, but there was no reply. He was alone.
There was nowhere to go but forward.
The gate was ajar—the path beyond, uncertain.
6:30 a.m.
Saturday, December 16
Sullivan residence, Washington, DC
The boy sat straight up in bed.
He tried desperately to hold on to the dream, but it slipped from his memory.
Faint images were all that remained, the afterglow of something real. It was like trying to grab smoke.
The doctor at the hospital had told the boy not to get frustrated. The memories would come back when he was ready, the doctor had explained. So the boy held on to his dreams. They weren’t much—and they were weird—but they were more than what he’d had yesterday.
He glanced over at the small clock by the bed—6:31 a.m.
It was strange. He still couldn’t remember his name, where he was from, or who his parents were. He knew nothing about himself. But he knew exactly where he was at this precise moment—the home of Mary Sullivan and her ten-year-old daughter, Camille. He remembered every detail from the night before. He remembered arriving at the home that Mary and Camille Sullivan shared—a narrow three-story white-brick house squeezed into the middle of a block of red-brick homes. He remembered listening to Camille go on and on about her pet turtle, Theo, as her mother prepared dinner. He remembered diving into a large plate of spaghetti, feeling as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He remembered the long, hot shower before bed. He remembered climbing into the tall bed in the guest room, sinking into the soft, thick mattress, and falling immediately to sleep.
And that’s what made it so frustrating. Everything from the past twelve hours was so vivid. But before that? Nothing but vague memories from a dream. It was as if he had simply popped into existence yesterday afternoon at the museum. He had no idea who he really was. Was he one of those kids—like Camille—who talked nonstop about everything? Or was he quiet and shy? Did he have a bad temper, or did things just roll off his back? Was he bothered by little things, like people chewing gum too loudly or the sound of potato chips crunching in a bag? Did he have lots of friends, or was he a loner? Was he a good student? Did he like sports, or was he more into video games? What type of music did he like?
There were so many questions—and absolutely no answers.
The boy lay down and tried to sleep, but it was useless. His brain was working overtime—his thoughts raced along at a mile a minute, trying to make sense of the small clues provided during his sleep.
He sat back up, turned on the lamp beside his bed, and listened for any sign that someone else was awake—he didn’t feel right about wandering around the house by himself.
It didn’t take long. Almost immediately he heard someone walking around on the first floor. The boy jumped out of bed and headed downstairs.
He found Mary pouring herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. She seemed surprised to see him.
“You’re up early,” she said as she poured cream into her mug.
“I had a dream,” he said as he took a seat at the small kitchen table. “Couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Bad dream?” Mary asked. The boy could tell she was concerned, but she hid it well.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Can’t really remember. There was something there, and then it was just . . . gone.”
“Dreams are like that. Don’t read too much into them.”
“I suppose,” he replied. But he also suspected that this particular dream did mean something.
“Hot chocolate?” she asked.
“Yes,” the boy said. “Thank you.” He was pretty sure he liked hot chocolate.
Mary filled a small saucepan with milk, placed it on the stovetop, and turned on the gas. She sat down at the table across from him.
“I have something to show you,” Mary said. She picked up her iPad, turned it on, and passed it across the table.
“This morning’s Post,” she said. “Look at the headline on the right side.”
The boy took the iPad and glanced at the right-hand side of the page. Mary had not told him what he was looking for, but it immediately became evident.
The headline read: “Police Seek Identity of Mystery Boy.”
He glanced up at Mary.
“Me?” he asked. “I’m the mystery boy?”
She nodded and took a sip of her coffee.
He tapped the headline with his index finger, and a new page quickly appeared. There—in full color—was the picture of him taken at the police station the previous night. He quickly scanned the article. It explained that he had been found at the National Gallery of Art and that he suffered from some form of amnesia. According to the article, the efforts to find his parents—or anyone who knew him—had so far proven fruitless. The police were seeking the public’s assistance.
Mary stood up and tested the milk on the stove. She turned off the gas, poured the milk into a large cup, and stirred in a packet of hot chocolate mix. She placed the steaming mug in front of the boy.
“Not looking good, is it?” he said.
“It’s still early,” she said assuringly.
“Early for what?” The question came from the far side of the kitchen. It was Camille, dressed in dark blue pajamas covered with tiny images of the TARDIS—the time machine from Doctor Who. Her red hair flew off in all directions. She made her way over to the kitchen table and plopped down beside the boy.
“Morning, Art,” she said. She glanced down at his image on the iPad. “Holy cow! Is that you? Mystery boy! How cool is that? You’re a freakin’ celebrity.”
“Morning, Camille,” he replied. “And I’m not a celebrity.”
“Hot chocolate?” Mary asked Camille. Art appreciated Mary’s effort to draw her daughter’s attention away from the news article.
“Absolutely,” said Camille. “And in my favorite mug?”
“Always,” replied her mother.
Mary poured more hot milk into a large mug, stirred in hot chocolate mix, and handed the beverage to her daughter. Camille turned the mug so that the image on it faced Art. It was a painting of a harbor, two boats loosely sketched in broad strokes on pale blue water. In the background was the sun—a small orange circle—its reflection rippling in the water below.
“Mom got this for me when she was in Paris,” said Camille proudly. “It’s my favorite. I’m going to Paris someday, ya know. I want to see the Eiffel Tower, eat croissants, and wear a beret. That sounds very French, doesn’t it? Mom says Paris is a great city.”
Art stared at the mug.
“It’s pretty, don’t you think,” said Mary as she sat down again at the breakfast table with her coffee. “And very famous. It’s a painting by—”
“Claude Monet,” said Art. His voice was calm. His eyes didn’t leave the image on the mug.
Camille sat up straight in her chair. She could see the wheels turning in Art’s head. Something was happening.
“Whoa,” she said as she turned the mug back around in an effort to see if she had somehow missed Monet’s name emblazoned upon it. Hot chocolate splashed on the table. “Yo
u know about the guy who painted this?” She was impressed.
“I know a lot about the guy who painted it,” replied Art. “Claude Monet is one of the most famous painters in history. The painting’s called Impression, Sunrise. The entire impressionist movement is named after that painting.”
“The impression what?” asked Camille. Art sounded more like a teacher than a twelve-year-old.
“The impressionist movement,” said her mother. “It was a style of art followed by a group of painters in the late nineteenth century. And he’s right—the movement was named after the painting on your mug.”
Mary turned to the boy. “So you know about the painting?” she asked. “Do you remember how you learned about it?”
The boy stared at the mug in silence.
“I know where I’ve seen that painting,” he finally said.
“Good,” said Mary. “In a book? Maybe a report you did at school?”
“No. I saw it in Paris.”
6:43 a.m.
Saturday, December 16
National Mall, Washington, DC
Dorchek Palmer jogged eastward along the pea gravel path of the National Mall. To his right was the Castle, the original Smithsonian Institution—a beautiful Gothic structure of red sandstone. To his left was the imposing marble façade of the Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum. Directly in front of him was the United States Capitol. It was still at least a half hour until sunrise, but the Capitol was, as always, brightly lit—a beacon at the end of the long grassy lawn that separated the majestic, ornate building from the simple marble obelisk at the far end. The Capitol Christmas Tree—a giant white spruce—stood between the reflecting pool and the Capitol.
The Van Gogh Deception Page 3