Counterfeit Conspiracies

by Ritter Ames

  I kept my poker face. "Good for him. She's not a tall redhead by any chance?"

  "No, Jane is a blonde about your height."

  He was trying to shake me with the revelation, bring me into his corner. But with the emotional bullying I'd suffered from my "peers" once my father disgraced the family, I'd learned to run ice through my veins on command. Protective measures in place, I focused inwardly, and my thoughts went back to the calendar page I'd spirited out of Simon's office. The one that should have noted both appointments Hawkes just mentioned, with the name of Jones heading both prospective times—but didn't.

  Instead, the scrap provided a location noting the docks region running southeast of where we now huddled, and only alluded to the evening meeting. I couldn't be sure if the missing piece corroborated Hawkes's story, or if he knew about the scrap and used the missing area to make his case. He hadn't mentioned the Amazon and didn't say anything about a redhead when I asked about Simon's new paramour. However, that didn't mean he didn't know about the Amazon, or didn't want me to know she was working with him. Those were just two possibilities—besides his not knowing anything about her at all, of course. I needed to tread carefully. Use him like he may be using me. In the meantime, I truly needed Nico to text back a GPS on the scribbled address. What could be keeping him?

  At that moment, Cassie's phone buzzed. Nico's name appeared for a text alert. A swipe of my finger showed the street address for the evening's meeting. His translation skills came through once again.

  "Something good? You're smiling," Jack said. "Rather smugly, I might add."

  "Let's just say satisfied," I slipped my phone into a pocket.

  "Now, now, didn't your mother ever teach you to share?"

  "Only with people who reciprocate."

  "I've shared information."

  "Gossip about Simon's new love and mostly your information about me. I already know all of it, and unless his girlfriend is someone I need to meet, I don't really need to hear that either."

  "You don't want to hear about Moran, you don't like how much I know about you, you aren't interested in Simon's private life, and you won't tell me what your phone said." Jack stroked an eyebrow with his index finger. "If I had to guess . . . I'd say your compatriot just gave you information about this evening's meeting. If the message had instead reported Babbage or the sword was found, you would have responded as more relieved than excited."

  How did he do that? Like the way fake psychics know what to say by asking a few questions and reading a person's facial expressions. Well, I knew the expression I carried right then was not one he needed to deduce. "How do I look now?"

  "Pissed." Jack grinned. "So I must have guessed correctly."

  Damn! Stepped right into it again.

  Which left me wondering when Hawkes could have seen the noted information on the calendar if he wasn't telling the truth about the girlfriend, or working with the Amazon. The new question, however, revolved around how insecure I would sound if I demanded more information.

  "I'm surprised Simon told anyone about his business."

  "His girlfriend, you mean? She was in the office and saw the calendar when she tried to make a date for them this evening."

  "So they don't live together?"

  "Not yet."

  "But she does live in London?"

  He grinned. "Would you like her address?"

  "Don't mistake my interest. I am very happy for him. Just concerned."

  "I knew that."

  Arrrrgggh. I made myself breathe naturally. Yes, I was an art recovery specialist, but I prided myself on my abilities to blend, bully, and break anyone until I got the item and info I needed. Something told me conventional tactics would not work with Mr. Teal Eyes here. Time to try another tack.

  "You seem to have all my credentials, Hawkes—"

  "Call me Jack."

  "Jack." I pushed hair behind my ear, knowing it was a tell for frustration, and that he would accurately recognize it as such, but I couldn't help myself. "Look, I need some references. Got any names I can call?"

  "Her majesty is in town. You could try Buckingham Palace. I understand you were by there earlier today."

  "You're telling me you've worked for the queen?"

  "She was most appreciative. Much like your experience with Margrethe II of Denmark."

  "I would never presume to call her by her first name."

  "Understood. Just because Lizzie brought me in for tea after I stopped the theft of the Cullinan Diamond—"

  "The largest gem-quality diamond ever found—"

  "And still in the crown jewels due to the efforts of Jack Hawkes."

  "But I thought you were MI-6."

  "I never said that. Dylan said I was MI-6," he said. "But I have to ask, why is the number distinction of Military Intelligence the thing you fixate on?"

  I smiled. The man so underestimated me. I didn't want to give everything away, though, so I focused on his question. Or fixated, as the case may be. "Because of my own contacts with the FBI and the CIA in the course of my work, I know the recovery of any crown jewel within the U.K. environs would fall under the jurisdiction of MI-5."

  "If the prospective theft was on British soil, yes. But not if the prospective heist occurred while the royal family toured South Africa. Then it would definitely fall under the purview of MI-6."

  I realized suddenly how long our gazes had locked, but try as I might, I couldn't look away. There was something about the man, a sexy strength, a confidence I rarely encountered. "The Cullinan Diamond?"

  "Yes, the Cullinan Diamond."

  "So your interest in the particular item we're pursuing is due to its jeweled hilt?" I asked, wishing I had taken that beer he'd offered to fetch. "Who is your prospective buyer, or are you connected with a museum or foundation, too? Or are you sticking to the MI-6 story?"

  "In this case, my interest in the sword has nothing to do with art or profit, but rather to preserve a British treasure."

  "But the Arthurian legend . . . It's just that, right? A legend. No matter how romantic the tale and lovely the bedtime story."

  He shook his head. "Until I can see it for myself, and either get it authenticated or unmasked as a fraud, all possibilities are on the table. Legends exist because enough proof isn't yet available to call them real. That's not to say this sword isn't counterfeit, but it could also be precisely the proof needed for the Camelot legend. Or an early link in a chain of evidence."

  At that moment, another customer jostled into the back of Jack's chair, rocking our table and the empty glasses.

  "Sorry, mate." The guy was huge. No way would he have thought he could make it through the gap. His gaze met mine for only a second . . . and I knew. He was here to get me.

  I shouted, "Block him, Jack." I pulled free in the excitement and pushed away from the table. My boots rang on the tiles as I fled for the exit. As I hoped, I heard Jack holding him off. The fact they didn't both come after me together said they weren't working together. Slightly comforting, until I realized it could also mean Hawkes was pulling an even bigger con. A double bluff was always a risk if I let myself get sucked in by the wrong person.

  I slammed into the silver bar across the door and hit the sidewalk, wishing I'd grabbed Jack's umbrella during my escape. Too late. I looked around for a cab, but none stood unengaged. I almost stole one at the corner, until I saw a woman with a cane making her way to the door the cabbie held open and waiting.

  Only options seemed to be to hijack someone's car or find a place to hide. The alley behind the pub gaped open a few feet away. I was a split second from choosing the best dumpster when Jack raced out the back door and grabbed my arm. This was getting a bit tedious.

  "You have any wheels nearby?" I asked.

  In response, he jerked me toward the street and produced an ear-shattering, two-fingered whistle. A driver popped up in the seat of an off-duty cab at the curb. The vehicle glided up to us just as the bruiser from the pub roared out o
f the back door.

  "Guess I should try hitting him a trifle harder next time."

  I slid onto the backseat. "Damn it, Hawkes, get in here!"

  He hit the door locks as the cabbie broke into the traffic pattern, and we left the muscle-bound creep in the dust. At almost the same instant, Jack's phone rang. As he answered, he trained a gaze on me so strong I felt an almost physical push from the unwavering hold his eyes had on mine. Neither of us blinked when he said, "Cecil, I bloody well lost her. Our best suspect is MIA because you're too bloody cheap to provide me adequate backup. Get your shit together or get out of the game, mate."

  I'd worried about a double bluff, but didn't dream I'd see him pulling one on someone else. One that protected me. And with his boss no less. Put him in a new light.

  When he punched the key to end the call, I finally spoke, "Why?"

  "We have a mole somewhere in this set-up. Possibly more than one. I am not ready to share what I know with anyone. Even Cecil. Maybe especially not Cecil."

  The fact his words echoed my own thoughts added to his credibility. As long as they weren't part of a larger con.

  I realized he was missing his umbrella. "Where's your brolly? I was wishing I'd grabbed it as I left."

  "Too bad you didn't. I cracked it over the git's head, and the umbrella is the only casualty. Bloke has got a skull like iron."

  He slipped his phone into his pocket. I used the action to segue into a new avenue of pursuit. "So, you and your boss believe I'm your chief suspect, huh?"

  "Just as I'm likely yours. But you're looking more innocent all the time."

  "No one has said that about me in years."

  "Undoubtedly."

  "You either, I'll bet."

  He offered a grunt in assent, adding, "I'll save my wagers for something a little more risky. When the payoffs are higher."

  I wasn't sure how to interpret any of this in relation to our next move, so asked instead, "What do we do?"

  His lips offered that slow, sexy smile he produced the first time we met, and he switched to the southern drawl. "Why, we go rogue, darlin'. Sooner the better I always say."

  CHAPTER NINE

  "I'm confused. You seem to have all the answers, and unless you're omnipotent, you must have quite a few people working on your behalf. Yet, you just told Cecil you need backup."

  "One can always use more help in the field."

  "But . . ."

  "Yes?"

  My eyes rolled for the second time in less than an hour. "Hawkes, you have to have your fair share of confederates."

  "Ah, but they aren't Cecil-employed confederates."

  "And that makes a difference?"

  "Quite. To my bottom line at least, since my dosh pays for their help, and the recruiting along the way. Much like you and the pickpocket at Buckingham."

  "I don't pay him, Hawkes."

  "Again, you've forgotten to call me Jack."

  "No, I don't think I did. I tend to shy away from becoming familiar with people who don't listen when I talk."

  "I listen. You simply don't reveal anything important until I ask directly. So, how do you recruit help?"

  I shrugged. "Charm, family ties, turning a blind eye when a certain pickpocket goes after a mark who just acted rudely."

  "That's your criteria, eh? Any particular range of etiquette faux pas considered beyond rudeness?"

  "Sometimes. Sometimes it's enough to be able to pretend to hold the act over someone's head."

  "Nothing I've found on you suggests a dabble in blackmail."

  "No, but I'm an expert at using guilt to get my way."

  "Keep a bit to bargain with. Good to know."

  "I'm sure you've never felt guilty in your life, Jack."

  "Thank you."

  "For what?"

  "Remembering to call me Jack."

  The cabbie turned his head in profile and said, "Looks like we've lost the bloke. Have a particular locale in mind, or should I just keep driving?"

  Smash.

  Bullets pounded a five-second staccato against the back window. We all dove to the floorboards, and the cab shuddered to a stop. Brakes squealed around us, and the buildings made the screams sound like we were in an echo chamber. Something big slammed the rear bumper. Another round of bullets gave me a fix on direction. "Out the door. Your side. Now!"

  Jack's moves were smooth. Door open and outside in one fluid motion, he crouched and held out a hand to hustle me from the vehicle. He yelled to the cabbie, "Call nine-nine-nine."

  We dove under a nearby lorry and rolled to the other side. I dragged the poor Prada along the asphalt, then slipped the scarred metal-looped leather strap over my head and anchored the bag halfway under my arm.

  More gunfire. This time coming from ahead of us. Jack slammed against me, pushing my body flat and covering my back and head. The pitch of the cries rose. Obviously, the crowds weren't scaring the shooter.

  "Brazen bugger," Jack whispered, his lips close to my ear.

  My head was turned, one cheek against the roadway. I couldn't see him; his skull pushed at the back of mine, the lorry's fat tire keeping us hidden from the gunfire. I could smell his cologne over the trace petroleum aromas, probably mixed with a lot of testosterone and pheromones, too. I knew he wouldn't let me up until we had a plan of sorts. "Who do you think it is?"

  "No clue. You okay?"

  "Fine. Can we make it to that alley between the shops?"

  "And be like fish in a barrel?"

  "Best idea I see. Unless you have another." I heard a high-performance motorcycle in the distance.

  "No, I—"

  The roar of an oncoming Kawasaki drowned his words, and I smelled rubber as the machine screeched to a stop mere inches from my nose.

  "Here." I heard Nico's voice.

  A helmet landed near my head at the same time the weight holding me to the pavement slid away. Jack quickly switched places with Nico. I pulled the helmet over my hair, swung the ragged-looking Prada to the side, and climbed on behind Jack. My arms circled his waist. He gunned the crotch rocket once and we took off. As we pulled away, I watched Nico disappear in the alley we'd been discussing a moment before.

  Sirens wailed around us. Jack wove the motorcycle through the vehicle logjam, shimmying through tight spaces and pushing the throttle when an area opened up for a second. I kept my knees tight against the bike, my eyes constantly on a search for our enemy. Law enforcement would only hinder us at this point.

  "We can't have the authorities catch us either," Jack shouted over his shoulder.

  "Agreed." I patted his shoulder for emphasis. I wasn't sure when he and I started operating on the same wavelength, but at that moment I could truly say I was glad Jack Hawkes was on my team. My heart pounded, and I got a tighter hold as he twisted the accelerator.

  When we slowed for a moment, a forearm clad in brown canvas grabbed the arm I used to anchor the Prada. I thought it was a purse-snatcher until I got a better look.

  "Weasel!" I warned Jack, and kicked out with my heel.

  Jack whipped around, trying to see what was going on, and almost lost control of the bike. I had to handle this myself. "Eyes forward! Get us out of here!"

  The skinny hood latched onto my hand and almost unseated me. I could feel the motorcycle wobble under us, and Jack overcorrect to stay vertical. Weasel moved closer. I wrapped my right hand around Cassie's cell. The curve of my knuckles thickened as they embraced the phone's narrow edge, and I silently willed the plastic to add more oomph to my next hard won effort. My fist crashed into his shoulder, driving hard. I gave the punch everything I had.

  It wasn't enough.

  He grabbed my shoulders to pull me toward him, off the bike, and away from escape.

  He thinks he's winning. Can't let that happen.

  I hauled back as far as his grip allowed, then head-butted Nico's helmet into his nose.

  Weasel staggered back. Crimson floods erupted from his nose and lip. One look into his ey
es showed how cloudy his brain was after the blow. I slammed another kick into his torso, and almost fell completely off the bike in the emotional rush.

  "Go!" I slapped Jack's shoulder twice for emphasis, and wiggled back into the bike seat.

  "Hang on!" He hit an opening, running the Kawasaki so fast I couldn't be sure if either wheel actually met the asphalt. Cool, damp air rushed at us, calming my stomach. Excess adrenalin raced through my veins, and I had to fight an urge to kick out at everyone who passed close to the bike. Toes curled in my boots, grip tightening like a grappling hook around Jack's waist. I forced myself to breathe slowly, ducking my head to stay safely hidden by his broad back and shoulders as I took the few seconds of respite.

  At least for the moment.

  Jack looped the machine every direction on the compass, using alleys and avenues with equal abandon. I hung on, but took the risk to text "Thx" to Nico so he would know we'd broken free. I needed to start thinking now about a Christmas gift. The guy was truly a lifesaver.

  After another half-hour or so, the tires wobbled over a cobblestone lane beside a small bistro, and the Kawasaki finally quieted from its nonstop rumble.

  "You want a coffee?" Jack asked. His voice muffled through the full-face helmet.

  "I want scotch. A double." I couldn't see his smile, but heard his laugh, and followed him through the door.

  The helmets went on the extra chairs beside us, and we scooted up to a round table. I shook out my hair, then finger-combed it back into place and hoped for the best. Jack wore his customary casual air, giving the appearance we were only out for an evening ride. I would have been annoyed except the jerk was growing on me.

  He moved to the bar and placed our order. I took the opportunity to send a more detailed message to Nico, asking him to see what he could learn about the Mayfair address for Moran that I found in Simon's file. The phone gave me the 'message sent' signal just as Jack returned with a tray holding two coffees and fish and chips.

  "Messaging the waiter from the Italian job?"

  I laughed. "You make it sound like we're bank robbers. But, yes, I did notify Nico we are safe and thanked him. I didn't realize you'd recognized him in the heat of the moment back there."