Eye of the God (20 page)

Douglas Mitchell maintained his penthouse in Bethesda, Maryland, even though he rarely stayed there. The physical address came in handy, as did the two-story, three-thousand-square-foot apartment with valet service, sauna, and private rooftop pool. Although he originally paid millions for it and enjoyed an obscene rate of appreciation on the property, it was empty except for a bed, a fully stocked liquor cabinet, and a laptop. The walls were devoid of pictures—even of his only daughter.

Tall and clean shaven, Mitchell was unfamiliar with the phrase “business casual.” He dressed in a tailored three-piece suit every day and expected those who worked for him to do the same. He removed his jacket, laid it carefully on the bed, and grabbed his laptop. A series of hollow footsteps
followed him across the parquet wood floors as he made his way to the spiral staircase and up to the second level.

The French doors leading to his rooftop terrace were unlocked, and he pushed through them, refreshed by the chill of an early evening. A teak patio set rested near the pool, and Douglas Mitchell slid into one of the chairs and opened his computer. It hummed for a moment, warming up, and then he checked his email. There were several messages waiting, but he only opened the one from his daughter.

He read the trepidation behind her sparse words. She requested breakfast. Short. Noncommittal. An easy escape. Just like Abby.

Ripples danced across the swimming pool, but he did not see them. For the first time in weeks, he thought about his daughter.

Dow stood before the large, industrial window that was once part of a steel manufacturing warehouse and watched the sun set on another day. The building now housed his second home, and he and DeDe relished their time spent in the loft apartment. Low, indirect lighting fell in pools across the floor, blurring the lines between light and darkness.

“It's been a slow day,” he said over his shoulder, feeling his wife's presence.

“I thought your assistant was going to transfer your calls here?”

“She did. There just weren't many of them.”

DeDe joined him at the window, placing her hand in the small of his back and resting her head against his shoulder. “I hate this part.”

He nodded. “The calm before the storm.”

She slid in front of him and looped her hands around his neck. “Have you ever wondered why we chose this career? I mean, really, normal people don't do this.”

“The thrill of the chase, I suppose.”

“Perhaps. But we're getting old. The travel takes its toll you know.”

“What else are we going to do? Retire to the French Riviera?”

DeDe snorted distastefully. “Gracious no. I just wonder if we'll ever truly be satisfied with what we've accomplished.”

“Proud yes. Satisfied no. There is always more to be done.”

In a city of 5.3 million people, it only made sense that Alex would see the same style car on more than one occasion. Yet it wasn't the silver BMW that bothered Alex, it was the driver. He had seen Wülf many times over the years while working for the Broker, and Alex wasn't such a fool as to believe he and Isaac went unsupervised in their work. But he didn't like the increased level of scrutiny that came with this heist. It was all well and good in the early days when he and Isaac were up against a slew of other professionals vying for the job. But they no longer had anything to prove. The other guys were winnowed out or ended up in prison. Hundreds of thefts later, he and Isaac were the only big players left in the game. And that was just the way they liked it, cherry-picking the best jobs from an endless pool of opportunity. Let the little guys fight for the table scraps; Alex Weld wanted to enjoy the feast. But he didn't like being shadowed in the process.

On a whim he crossed over two lanes of traffic and glanced in his rearview mirror. Sure enough, the silver BMW stayed with him, six cars back.

Alex took the next right, drove down one block, and slipped into a parking garage. He steered his Mercedes into the nearest empty spot and turned off the engine. A digital camera rested in the console, so he grabbed it before slipping from the car. The concrete rail hid him as he jogged into the shadows beside a large support column and waited, camera ready. Within a few seconds the BMW came into sight but didn't pull into the parking garage. Alex let it pass and then zoomed in on the license plate.

He got back in his car and looked at the picture, committing the license plate to memory.

Abby's mind was adrift with ideas floating on a sea of improbability. In just a few days she would host the single most important event in Smithsonian history, and she was about to ask the largest museum in the world to disregard every one of its security measures.

So it was with measured determination that she approached the office of Dr. Peter Trent, curator of the Smithsonian Institution, for their scheduled meeting. Behind his door waited not only the man ultimately in charge of every major decision at the museum but also the one who would prove to be her greatest challenge in getting the diamond out of its case—Daniel Wallace.

Abby stopped outside the door and took a deep breath. Juggling an armload of files, with her free hand she smoothed her skirt and combed her fingers through her hair. When she walked through the doors of Dr. Trent's
office, she wanted to give the impression that she was a woman worthy of wearing the Hope Diamond. The fitted black pencil skirt, three-inch heels, and tailored blouse were a perfect blend of professionalism and femininity. And they were a marked departure from her typical conservative attire.

“Come in,” Dr. Trent replied, his voice muffled.

Abby pushed through the door and found Daniel Wallace already seated in one of the antique chairs facing the oversized mahogany desk. Bookshelves that held rare first editions by such famous authors as Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, and John Steinbeck lined two walls. On either side of the door hung original Ansel Adams photographs, matted in white and framed in black. Yet the most striking feature in the room was the large gothic arched window that rose ten feet behind the desk. Peter Trent's office resided inside the main turret of The Castle and, with this place of honor, enjoyed fifteen-foot ceilings, thick hardwood floors, and a stunning Persian rug. The room was approachable but formal, just like its occupant.

The secretary of the Smithsonian Institution was nearing sixty but retained a head of dark brown hair and a certain youthfulness that came with having a job he loved. His eyes were surrounded by deep creases, exaggerated both by smiles and laughter. Many years spent in the field on archeological digs had given him a permanent ruddy complexion. Yet several years ago he traded his khaki digging garb for a herringbone jacket and bifocals.

“Hello, Daniel.” She slid into the chair next to him and crossed her legs.

Daniel's eyes narrowed as they passed from her hair to her heels. He nodded a greeting and returned his glance to the security schematic in his lap.

Peter Trent looked at her over the rim of his glasses and his eyes opened wide in surprise. “Good afternoon, Abby … Dr. Mitchell. You look … well … nice today.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Trent tapped his fingers lightly on the desk. “I'm sorry for arranging this meeting so late in the day, but there are some things we need to take care of right away. I have a meeting with the Board of Regents soon, and I need to present them with our plan of action.”

“I was working late anyway.” Abby placed her files on his desk and pushed them forward. “I have the information you requested.”

“Ah, yes,” Dr. Trent said. He took the pile and flipped through the pages slowly. “The two of you met with Mr. Blackman?”

Abby nodded. “Yes. The security measures that Diebold has in place are quite impressive.” She turned to Daniel and smiled. “Wouldn't you agree?”

He gave her a sharp look and replied, “Impressive, yes. Perfect, no.”

Dr. Trent glanced over the file in his hand. “What could possibly be lacking? They are the most renowned security firm in the world.”

“Diebold's procedures are solid; I have a problem with the assumptions they've made.”

Abby settled into her chair as Daniel climbed aboard his soapbox.

“I don't understand, Mr. Wallace, please enlighten me,” Dr. Trent said, the faintest air of condescension in his voice.

Daniel stiffened in his chair and sat up straight. “They assume the Hope Diamond can't be stolen. That assumption is always the first, and greatest, mistake made by a target. The reality is that
anything
can be stolen.”

Peter Trent shook his head. “I don't know that I agree with your assessment. I would agree that most things can be stolen, but not all.”

“I don't mean this as a form of disrespect, Dr. Trent, but most of my career has been spent outside the walls of a museum. There are people today who, if they want it bad enough, could get that diamond out of its case and walk out the front door.”

“I have a deep regard for you, Daniel, which is why I hired you in the first place, but I find that implausible.”

“You hired me to think of the things you couldn't.” Daniel dropped the words carefully, hitting their mark with measured intensity.

Peter Trent leveled his gaze at Daniel. “Mr. Wallace, I am going to make the assumption that you did not just call me stupid.”

“Absolutely not, sir. You are one of the most intelligent people I've ever known. However, I think we both understand that there is a big difference between earning a doctorate and having street smarts. What we need at the moment is a commonsense approach to our security measures. We do not have the luxury of assuming anything.”

Peter ground his jaws together as he thought about Daniel's comment. The insinuation was thinly veiled with respect. Instead of answering Daniel, he turned to Abby. “What do you think, Dr. Mitchell?”

“Well,” she said, resting a hand on Daniel's arm, “I was in that meeting with Henry Blackman and, to be honest, Dr. Trent, I have to agree with Daniel.”

Daniel flashed a triumphant look at Dr. Trent and leaned back in his chair.

“I do think there are people out there who would like nothing better than to steal the Hope Diamond,” Abby said. “But in all honesty I don't think they would ever succeed.”

Daniel stiffened and watched her with narrowed eyes as she continued.

“The fact remains that Diebold has created a system of groundbreaking measures to protect our diamond. However,” she said, with a disarming smile. “I have so much confidence in Daniel and his abilities that even if I were to
wear
that diamond during the celebration, he and his team would be more than capable of protecting it.”

“Wear the diamond? Have you lost your mind, Abby?” Daniel perched on the edge of his chair, shaking his head.

“I believe what Abby is saying is that regardless of where the diamond is, you would be up to the task of protecting it,” Dr. Trent added, coming to her aid.

Abby nodded. “Exactly.”

Daniel's temper hovered at the surface.

“And I find the idea fascinating,” said Dr. Trent.

“What idea?”

“Abby wearing the diamond.”

Daniel tilted his head to the side. “Excuse me? Have you lost your mind? We've already had a major breach of security and now you want to take the Hope Diamond out of its case?”