A Magnificent Crime (3 page)

I stood at a corner, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn. A cool breeze kicked up; it smelled of rain. A storm was coming.

And then someone gripped my upper left arm with a hold as tight as a pit bull's jaws. Someone else grabbed my right. The hands belonged to two men the approximate size of Kodiak bears.

“Cat Montgomery,” the one on my right said in my ear, his voice low and threatening. “We need you to come with us.”

Panic flooded over me, and alarm bells clanged in my ears. Had I been less distracted, I might have been quicker with an evasive maneuver. But it was too late for that—these men had grips of iron. There was nowhere for me to go.

As they marched me quickly down a side street, I clenched my teeth, mostly with anger at myself for not being on my guard immediately after a job. I looked sideways at them. These guys did not look like cops. Were not acting like cops.

I needed to get out of here. I didn't know who these men were, and I didn't want to know.

Then, before I could do anything, a black Lexus limousine pulled up to the curb.

This might be my only chance to get away. The one thing I had to my advantage was that people usually underestimated me. Especially men. Especially steroid monster-type men. I began to execute a Krav Maga escape maneuver to break free—and found my move immediately anticipated, eliciting a counter-maneuver from the man on my left.

I barely had a second to register shock at this as the door to the Lexus flung open and I was roughly stuffed into the backseat.

This was bad.

I struggled upright. A man sat opposite me, and the two thugs lowered themselves in on either side of me. My every nerve screamed at the entrapment, but I stayed quiet, rapidly making calculations and observations. The interior was lined with buff-colored leather, and there was a lit crystal bar at one end. The air smelled of cigars and single malt.

The limo began to move, gliding quietly away from the curb. I quickly glanced out the window; to stay oriented, I needed to keep track of the direction we were headed in.

I turned my attention to the barrel-chested man sitting opposite me. He looked to be in his late sixties. His watch, a Patek Philippe, was worth more than my condo. He watched me coldly from behind gold-rimmed glasses. The downturned, taut set of his mouth betrayed a misanthropic son of a bitch.

I looked closer at his face, and recognition clicked.

Icy cold water poured down my spine. I was in trouble. Very big trouble.

Albert Faulkner III had been the victim two years ago of a high-profile theft: the Caesar Diamond. The jewel was a sixty-four-carat, cognac-colored stone, one of the largest in private ownership. It had been ripped from the famous Kimberley mine in South Africa in 1982, cut into a cushion shape, and sold at auction for six hundred thousand dollars. It was considered a deal at the time—brown diamonds were not as fashionable then as they are now. In today's market, its value would be much more than that. The Caesar had been the pride of Faulkner's substantial collection.

Until two years ago, that is, when it was stolen from his private safe in Palm Springs, California. The perpetrator was never caught.

Faulkner had been quite public about the fact that if he ever caught the thief, he would have his revenge. His threats were highly unpleasant but rather creative, with a . . . shall we say,
medieval
flavor. Fortunately, he never discovered the identity of the bandit.

Until now, it would seem.

I tried to still my nerves, to not show visible shaking, as he leveled his viper gaze at me.

“Miss Catherine Montgomery. We have some business to attend to, you and I.”

“Oh?”

“I believe you took something of mine.”

My stomach curdled. I needed a way out of this vehicle. “What do you mean?” I decided to stall. Stalling was always a safe tactic.

Faulkner gave an infinitesimal nod. In a heartbeat, the thug on my left grabbed me by my throat and gripped firmly. Panic bounced inside my skull as crushing pain seared into my throat from his grip. I raked at his hand. I couldn't move it.

“Miss Montgomery, perhaps you don't realize this, but I do have other business to attend to besides yours. So cut the shit,” Faulkner hissed.

“Okay,” I choked out.

The thug released me. I breathed hungrily and rubbed my bruised throat.

Memo to self:

I realized the only way to get out of this car alive was to play along, play nice. My next move was straight-up honesty.

“You're talking about the Caesar Diamond,” I said.

“Very good, Catherine. Now we're going to get somewhere.”

“It was nothing personal. It was just my assignment.” I tried to strike an innocent lamb expression. This also happened to be the truth. I worked for an organization—AB&T, the Agency of Burglary & Theft—as one of their roster of professional thieves. They assigned us heists whenever they were hired by an outside client in need of a job done. Much like an advertising agency, but with a little less pinstriping.

“Oh, yes. I'm sure it was just your assignment,” Faulkner said. “Nonetheless, you were the one responsible. And you cost me dearly.”

I frowned for a minute, thinking. “But didn't your insurance cover the theft?” The idea that I'd done a job that violated one of my rules made me very uncomfortable.

You see, I have three policies, my Thief's Credo.

Never steal from anyone who would go hungry.

Never steal anything that's not insured.

Never steal frivolously.

Stealing was my job. But I decided long ago that this didn't give me a license for bad behavior in the rest of my life.

Faulkner looked at me with impatience. “Yes, of course my insurance covered it. That's not the point. I lost something special. Something no amount of money can replace. And now I want it back.”

I studied Faulkner carefully. There was something heartfelt in what he was saying. Two years ago, when I'd been casing his home and planning the Caesar theft, I did some background research. I had encountered stories about Albert Faulkner III. His family had been wealthy and powerful before the stock market crash in 1929. But that was fifteen years before Faulkner was born. He had grown up the hungry youngest child in a house full of kids who remembered what life was like before, and with a father embittered by the loss of wealth, status, everything. They had been raised to fight for everything they had lost, taught to claw and battle back to the top, trained to possess and hold on to every scrap that was their own.

I sat silently, not sure what he wanted me to say at this point. I actually sympathized with his plight. But did he really expect me to hunt down the Caesar and steal it back for him?

I didn't have to come up with any sort of response, however, because he kept talking. “Trouble is,” he said, “I've had my people look into it. And here's the tricky bit. There is no Caesar anymore. It was broken up into three pieces and sold off. The pieces are scattered all over the place now.”

I winced at the very idea. It was repellent. How could they do it? The Caesar had been spectacular. I remembered holding it in my hand, admiring the fire that smoldered inside the ice. How could they break up such a rare gem? At the same time, I knew why it had been done. The Caesar was such a recognizable diamond, even though it was worth more as a whole stone, intact it was, essentially, worthless. You wouldn't be able to sell it, wouldn't be able to move it. The only way to gain financially from stealing the Caesar would be to break it up and sell off what would still be decently large diamonds.

But where did all this leave me?

“So . . . you want me to, um, retrieve the pieces for you?” I said, guessing.

His mouth twisted, and he laughed scornfully. “No. Those pieces are meaningless now. The Caesar was special to me, but it's gone.”

I found myself of the same opinion as Faulkner. But if he didn't want me to steal the pieces, why had I been brought here? My skills were of no use to him.

My skin cooled. Perhaps he just wanted revenge. I had an image of my throat cut, my body dumped in a ditch somewhere. I shuddered. I had to get out of this car.

I gripped the leather seat and tried to slow my breathing. I couldn't have a panic attack in this car. I needed to keep a clear head. My glance flicked to the doors again. No handles.

“It's not about the money,” Faulkner was saying. “I want the jewel. But I can't have my precious Caesar back. So here's what we're going to do. Since you're so clever at stealing things, I want you to get
this
for me.”

The thug on my right handed me a newspaper clipping.

I held the smooth paper and stared at a black-and-white picture of a diamond. A full-page article spread beneath it.
INFAMOUS CURSED DIAMOND BLAMED FOR DEATH AND DISASTER THROUGHOUT THE AGES
read the headline. I didn't need to read the article to identify the diamond.

It was the Hope Diamond.

I choked again—not from a thug's hand gripped about my throat this time, but from pure disbelief.

“What?
The Hope?
It's impossible,” I sputtered. I studied Faulkner's face. Was he serious? “The Smithsonian is a fortress. Nobody has ever stolen anything from the Smithsonian.”

“Read closer, my dear. The Hope is taking a little vacation from the Smithsonian. I know you can get it for me then.”

I looked down at the page. The paper crinkled in my hand as I scanned the article.

The Louvre? If I wasn't so terrified, I might have laughed. The Louvre was even more ridiculous than the Smithsonian. Sure, people had successfully taken things from the Louvre in the past, in contrast to the Smithsonian. But after the Louvre had been embarrassed by the truly sloppy—but, nonetheless, successful—theft of eighteenth-century silver candlesticks in 2002, they had totally overhauled their security. And then, last year, they'd upgraded everything again. The Louvre would be impossible now.

Although, maybe there were chinks. New systems often contained bugs, little quirks they hadn't quite ironed out. Moreover, visiting displays with temporary security systems were often more vulnerable than the permanent, well-seasoned installations in a museum. There was a good chance there would be gaps and cracks. The sort of things an enterprising young crook like myself could take advantage of.

In spite of myself, I felt a glimmer of excitement, a ripple of possibility. My fingers twitched.

But no. It was ridiculous. I couldn't possibly pull it off.

Besides, this was how I'd landed in trouble with my Agency last time, with the Fabergé egg job. Taking assignments outside of AB&T was the quickest route to getting fired. It was also risky—I would be safer with the resources and backup of my Agency.

The limo took a slow turn around a corner, and I realized I had lost track of where we were headed. Raindrops began to splatter against the windows. Fat splotches of water blurred the streetlights outside, serving to further disorient me.

I needed more time. I needed to think. I glanced down at the newspaper article again. It was dated three weeks ago, which meant the Hope Diamond was already in Paris.

Farther down the page there was a small photo of a woman in her sixties—impeccably groomed, with flinty eyes and a square jaw. “Madeleine York,” read the caption. “Director of the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History.”

“She looks tough,” I said.

Faulkner gave a grunt. “She is. We belong to the same private club in Palm Springs. I've met her many times.” I glanced at him in surprise. “And she's tough as nails. Relentless and sharp. Which is why it will be easier for you to procure the diamond when it is not under her eagle eye.”

I nodded, thinking.

“It's interesting, Mr. Faulkner, but I still don't believe it can be done. The security around the Hope will be ridiculous. There won't be any getting near it.”

He examined the cuffs of his shirt. “I'm sure it won't be easy, Miss Montgomery. But, to be honest, I don't really give a shit about the degree of difficulty here.” He fixed me with a hard stare. “You're going to do this for me. And, by the way, I don't want to wait forever. You have one week. Do not forget that you owe me. And I intend to collect on that debt.” Faulkner's mouth grew even harder and thinner than before.

“Okay, but—”

He stopped my protest before it even started. “Let me be clear,” he said. “If you do not do this for me, if you do not acquire the Hope for me, I will have my satisfaction in another way. I cannot have a thief who has stolen from me—who may yet steal from me again, in the future—walking around. I do not have any degree of squeamishness, Miss Montgomery. I have seen a lot of violence in my life. Torture means very little to me.” His voice was flat. He was stating plain fact. I could tell that much. “It has been pointed out that I do not seem to be afflicted by any degree of empathy when it comes to human pain or suffering.”

My mouth went dry.

“The punishment for a thief,” he continued, “in ancient times was cutting off his—or her—hands.” At this, Faulkner caressed my bare wrists, sending unpleasant prickles up and down my spine. “I do believe this to be a fitting sentence and will happily mete it out.” He glanced at the man on my left. “This is something that is still done in certain countries, yes?” The thug grunted his assent.

It was true. Under strict Islamic law, this was still the punishment for theft, as dictated by the Koran.

The man on my right produced an envelope, withdrew a photograph, and showed it to me. “This was the last thief who crossed me,” Faulkner said. It was a black-and-white photograph of a blindfolded man tied to a chair, with both arms severed at the wrist.