About Face (39 page)

“Sir, I have no idea about any of this. My boss—”

“Your boss? You mean Chad Daniels?” I say stepping to him, cutting him off. “Oh, wait—that would be the Director of the Visitor Center, the individual your boss reports to. Your boss would be Anne Marie Maxwell. Now, what do you think happens when I have to explain to Ms. Maxwell that you questioned me and refused to move on this? What do you think happens then?”

I anticipated some push back, hence the research of information such as personnel in order to be nimble, but my operational window is small. The key to pulling this off is converting this guy quickly.

I look at the Perregaux, then around the room before back to Mitchell with a look that says “don't fuck with my job, bro.” I turn back toward the display case. I stop when he still hasn't moved.

“Fuck this,” I say, taking out the iPhone, “We'll get someone else over here and you can go fight for your job.”

I pretend to dial. I lift the phone to my ear.

“Wait,” Mitchell mutters, “Wait. Okay.”

I put the phone away.

“Good choice. Now let's get to it.”

I step behind the case. Mitchell stands a foot in front of it, hands clasped down in front of him as he scans the area. I survey the lock then take my keychain from my right inside suit jacket
pocket. A few eyes are looking in our direction, but not many. I place the proper key between my thumb and index finger, and slide it into the keyhole.

Nothing.

Keeping my composure, I jiggle it a bit, hard enough as to engage in a bit of force, but delicate enough as to not draw attention.

Still, nothing.

I remove the key. I take a deep breath. I reinsert the key. I try again.

Nothing.

Fuck!

I start to jiggle harder, then harder.

Mitchell turns around. He sees I'm having an issue. His expression grows concerned.

“Sir—”

“Hey!” I say sternly, pointing straight at him with my free hand, “don't you
dare
turn your back on the people you're supposed to be securing.”

Work with me, Mitchell.

Because you have no idea where I'm willing to go.

“Turn your ass back around, now! Or I promise you you'll never work in this building again!”

I turn the key one more time. It turns all the way, releasing the lock. I start to slide the display deck and back glass wall of the casing toward me. I stop, as if to say “until you turn back around, dip-shit, I can't get this over with.”

Mitchell turns around, reclasps his hands.

I slide the deck fully out. A few more eyes now. People thinking, “interesting—one of the artifacts is actually being handled.”

No time to waste.

Not a second.

It feels like ages, it feels like only seconds, since I've last seen, held this rare tribute to true artistic beauty and craftsmanship. I take in the mostly smooth blue-and-white enamel surface, the tiny,
intricate human faces, and graceful gold vines. I quickly scan the finely cut emeralds, diamonds, and rubies.

How are you, old friend?

You are still as breathtaking as the moment we met.

I look for all parts gold, for the place most likely to hold the writing I need.

I take the loupe from my pocket. I start with the gold vines where they are thickest. It is immediately clear this is not where I'll find what I'm looking for. I move to the base, made of the same materials as the actual egg it holds and topped off with three golden lions each on its hind legs. Below the lions is a thick band of gold. Nothing.

More eyes in our direction. A few folks actually start coming closer to see what I'm doing.

“Please,” Mitchell has to say to someone, “you can't come any closer. We'll only be another few moments.”

I look at what's happening. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of Mitchell's counterparts across the way looking toward us curiously.

Tick.

Tock.

I throw all my attention back to the egg. Finally, around the bottom of the base, is yet another thick gold band. Here, I find the writing.

“Mijn beste PD, mijn familie
—”

This portion of the writing is followed by a skull and cross-bones. Then, “
Bevestigd. X2. Moordenaar!”

Translation will be later. For now—it's all about the picture. I take out my iPhone. I take the necessary pictures, which again garners the attention of Mitchell.

“Necessary for the Historian Procedural Sequential Protocol,” I say, conjuring up such nonsense on the fly as I place my loupe and iPhone back in their respective pockets. “It's a very important step in the proper preservation of such artifacts.”

Mitchell's look says all I need to know.

Huh?

Wha?

Danish Jubilee Egg
back properly in its place, I close and lock the case. As I do, I notice Mitchell's coworker approaching. I emerge from behind the case.

“I'd hold that thought until later,” I say just as coworker is about to open his mouth. “I'm guessing Ms. Maxwell isn't a big fan of you guys standing around playing with yourselves when you're supposed to be securing one of the most important buildings in the world.”

They look at each other.

“I'm actually on my way to see Ms. Maxwell right now,” I go on, my eyes now on coworker. “You still sure this is the best place for you to be standing?”

Own the words.

The moment.

Always.

Both return to their posts.

As I exit the U.S. Capitol headed back to Union Station, my pace brisk, I'm already Googling a Dutch to English translation site on the iPhone. I flip back and forth from the first site that comes up and the photo of the writing on the egg until I have all the words entered. I hit “translate.”

“My dear PD, my family—

Then the skull and crossbones—or the universal symbol for poison.

“—Confirmed. X2. Murderer!”

Holy shit.

There it is.

Imposter Derbyshev is confirming for his cousin what she must have always known. The true love of her life, Nicholas I, was murdered.

X2. Times two.

As was, it appears, both Nicholas I and Alexander III's father—Czar Alexander II.

Legend has it Czar Alexander III had clear designs—right or wrong—on how Russia was to be run. And he wasn't going to let his father or brother stand in the way of that vision.

These eggs show this isn't just legend at all.

The premise of Nestor Korolyev's doctoral thesis is true.

Which means history is false.

I drop my arms to my sides, but keep my pace up as to make sure I'm on the Amtrak 2122 leaving Union Station for New York Penn Station at 4:25 p.m.

I'm in complete shock, but finally I get it. I understand why Galina Zhamovsky was willing to ruin as many lives as possible, including my own, in order to corral the missing eight Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs and stay “true to her own.” Galina Zhamovsky's maiden name is Romanov, as I learned from Mr. Mateev, and she's originally from St. Petersburg. Galina Zhamovsky is a descendant of the royal Russian family. And she knows the only way to ensure history remains as is, is to get those eggs for herself so no one can look close enough to actually see the truth.

Too late.

I enter Union Station. I find the Arrival/Departure Big Board and see my train's gate. I bury my nose in my iPhone again, as now I'm busy forwarding every photo taken of the writing on the eggs from my iPhone to the disposable.

My phone's blowing up. It's Julia.

“So, how was the tour, James?”

I stop and look up.

“Detective Morante,” I say, surprised. “I uh … the …I wasn't expecting you.”

“I know. Don't take this as a sign of my not trusting you, but I figured, why wait until you get in touch with me?”

He's thinking I wasn't going to reach out, hold up my end of the bargain. He's wrong. The only one who truly wants Jonah Gray brought to justice is ultimately the one most needed to clear his name.

I look around.

“I'm guessing you're on the 2122. Figured we'd ride back together,” he goes on.

“I am.”

“Great. Then we'd better get moving.”

We begin walking. My phone vibrates again—Julia. I immediately silence it.

“Get a good look at the egg?” Morante asks.

“I—what?”

I could give a shit about the chitchat. I'm more concerned with the bathroom we're walking by.

“If you'll excuse me,” I go on, “I need to stop in the restroom. I'll only be a moment.”

There's a gun I need to retrieve.

“Good idea,” Morante says.

We hit the bathroom together. I head right toward the stall I need, which is occupied.

Damn.

I need to make a split second decision. I opt for a urinal. Downside: I'm only feet from Morante. Upside: I can see the stall I need in the mirror. I take my sweet time. The feet I see between the bottom of the stall door and the floor have bunched pants around them, and don't seem to be moving. I pee and just stand there for a bit longer, lingering. Morante is already washing his hands. I can only stand here for so long. Finally, I zip up and head to the sink. Again—I take my time, thinking Morante will head on out and wait for me in the concourse. No such luck. He's waiting for me. I lather up, my eyes glancing in the mirror at Bunched Pants. No movement. I lather up a second time and rinse. Still nothing.

Fuck.

Not good.

I grab a towel and dry my hands. I join Morante. As we head for the exit I hear a toilet flush. I can't just turn around. I get my last chance to sneak a look when we drift left with the gentle curve of
the hallway leading out. I look out of the corner of my eye and my peripheral vision just gets a glimpse of Bunched Pants exiting the stall.

Go get it.

I take a few more steps, then—I stop.

“Something wrong?” asks Morante?

I put my hand on my stomach. And make the face of someone who just ate bad cheese.

“I'm not sure,” I say. “Perhaps my lunch is not agreeing with me.” I look at the Perregaux for full dramatic effect. “We're going to be close as it is,” I continue.

I take a few more steps. Then I buckle over as if a surge of severe abdominal cramping has set in.

“Oh, not good,” I push out.

Before he can even respond, I make my move. I hightail it back to the bathroom.

“I'll hopefully only be a second,” I hurl back over my shoulder.

As I fly into the bathroom, I pass Bunched Pants who's on his way out. I hit the stall, close, and lock the door.

What if Morante followed me in?

Using my foot I flush. I had a good enough jump that an immediate puke would have already happened by the time he's in here. Damn Bunched Pants. Christ, it stinks in here. I hold my breath as I reach down, behind, the bowl thinking about what must have just happened in here to create this kind of foul. Thankfully, my hand finds the piece right where I left it.

Placing it in the rear of my pants' waistline I stand up. Holding my breath, as if I might actually taste the germ-junked air, I flush with my foot again. I unlock the stall door and step out.

“You okay?”

I step to the sink. I wash my hands, then rinse my face and mouth out.

“Actually, yeah. I am.”

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.
2013

We settle into First Class. The train is more crowded than earlier, but we're able to find seats that are pretty secluded.

“Do you mind if I complete some correspondence?” I ask.

“Please, go ahead. We'll have plenty of time to chat.”

I finish forwarding all the photographs taken of the writing on the eggs to the disposable. But what happens from here will have to wait as to bring the other phone out now will only raise suspicion. Next, I text Julia.

TIED UP. DEALING WITH A PROPERTY MATTER IN AMSTERDAM. WILL MEET YOU IN YOUR OFFICE IN A COUPLE HOURS. WE'LL CLEAR UP EVERYTHING THEN.

My mind drifts to Scott Green. A man who killed himself to do exactly that—kill himself. Get these animals off his back. What incentive was left for them to hurt his family if he'd never suffer for it? He found a small window in the trip to Amsterdam to do it. A tiny window he also used to dish off the necessary information to me—a good candidate because I was an unlikely candidate. One Brand would never see coming. I would be there, across the Atlantic, on their home turf. And Green was running out of time
to foil this deal, but, more importantly, save his family. In that one fateful night, summoning me and giving me that pen, riding a hope and a prayer, he accomplished both. Scott Green was a fucking hero. Like me, in his own way, a warrior.

Now it's up to me to finish the job.

The train starts moving. My eyes drift out the window as we slide past the platform.

“So, I did what you asked. Now where can I find Jonah?”

“I don't know.”

I turn to Morante.

“He won't be letting me know until tomorrow,” I add.

“Where has he been all these years?”

I don't answer.

Morante starts to shift in his seat.

“Look, you told me you can me lead me to him when you returned from D.C. Now—”

“I did. And I will. But things change. Like I said, now I won't know where he is until tomorrow. As soon as I know, you'll know.”

“This is bullshit. I swear, if you're fucking with me—”

“I'm not.”

Morante is about to speak again, but stops. He's gathering his thoughts.

“He killed that detective. The one they pulled from the river,” I start in, perking Morante up. “Only he did it in self-defense.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jonah trusts me. We've spent a considerable amount of time together these last years. I don't know if it was for my insight or if it was simply cathartic for him, but he told me what happened, what led to his fleeing New York City. He told me everything.”