Telling Lies (28 page)

A new knot of fear worked its way around the sweet tea in Laurel’s stomach.
No
, she told herself,
don’t go there
. So far he’d been nothing but kind. He’d put her in his car, returned her handbag, and driven downtown to the shabby apartment they were now occupying. She had huddled against the car’s door, trembling every time another vehicle came close, sure that David Hammersmith’s face would leer out at her from its window. Laurel had been too traumatized to speak, let alone voice the questions flooding through her mind. Her rescuer hadn’t volunteered any information, either. Yet, despite his kindness, underneath the surface he couldn’t conceal a dangerous hardness. Laurel had instinctively known that if she tried to use her cell phone to call or text Aaron—which she was desperate to do—or to leave, he’d stop her. By force, if necessary.

She didn’t want to test her theory. Not yet anyway. Playing for time as she considered her options, she toyed with her glass, turning it around and around on the kitchen table’s scarred wooden surface, the dim overhead fixture casting a wavering shadow all around it. Finally, downing the last of the tea and gathering her courage, she sought him out where he’d been standing across the room, watching her every move. “Who are you?”

The man stared back, eyes unblinking. Finally, after a few moments, he spoke. “My name is Lior. Lior Stern.”

“
Mr. Stern,” she paused. “Lior,” she shook her head. “I don’t mean just your name. I mean, who
are
you? What were you doing at David Hammersmith’s building? How did you know I was there?” Her voice rose in frustration. “Please, you have to tell me what’s going on.”

Lior continued to watch her. He lifted a brow at her words. “I don’t
have
to tell
you
anything.”

“
Is this,” Laurel gestured toward him, “about Moto and that mysterious painting?”

“
This,” he bounded across the room so quickly Laurel barely saw him move, “does not concern you. Be happy that you’re safe and not still locked up in Hammersmith’s basement,” he spat out, reminding her of where her stupidity had led her.

Placing his hands on the table, he stared down at her, letting his words sink in. Tension gripped him, and Laurel knew she was pushing him further than she should, but she couldn’t stop.

Slowly, not taking her eyes from his, she rose from the table. “I’d like to leave now.” She kept her voice calm and steady.

“
I don’t think that would be wise.”

“
Am I your prisoner?” She glared at him. “Is that how the Mossad operates? Holding a harmless woman against her will?”

He nearly succeeded in hiding his surprise at her knowledge that he was an agent, but a small tightening around the mouth gave him away. “I’d prefer you thought of yourself as my guest,” he smiled tightly. “I’ll take you to your boyfriend, Detective Gerrard, in the morning.” His words let her know that he knew all about her, as well. “But for tonight, it would be best if you remained here.”

“
And if I refuse and just walk out the door?”

“
That would be the second unfortunate decision you’ve made this evening.”

Lior had spoken calmly, yet there was no mistaking his meaning.

* * *

Lior had left the kitchen to give Laurel time to reflect. Now, in his bedroom, he assessed her behavior. She had gulped at his last statement but not backed down. She was still scared. But not too frightened to demand that he answer her questions. Her reporter’s instincts were surfacing. Maybe, just maybe, he could use that to his advantage. Rescuing her had been foolhardy, bringing her here even more so.

He’d broken every rule, rules he expected his team to follow without question. Had any one of them acted this impulsively, he’d rip them to shreds and send them back to Israel. Rebecca and Yuri were still at the embassy and wouldn’t return to the apartment until tomorrow. If they knew what he was doing, they’d have no choice but to report it to Elan, the Asset Recovery Department head, and inform him that the mission had been compromised. Lior couldn’t allow that. Not now. Not after all he’d been through to get this far.

He walked back into the kitchen and startled Laurel, who stood up at his approach. He’d reached a turning point, and she was at its center. The plan he’d quickly formulated was based on her presence
. I’m sorry I have to do this to you.
He looked at Laurel,
but I have no choice.

“
Ms. Imperiole, sit down. I have something to tell you. When I’m through, I think that perhaps you’ll want to stay.”

East 82
^nd
Street

New York City

“
Hi, Aaron. It’s me,” Laurel’s voice reached out from his cell phone’s voice mail. “I got your messages, but it’s just been crazy all day … and I’m … exhausted. I need to get some sleep, so I’ll call you first thing in the morning. Promise. ’Bye.”

Aaron flipped the phone closed and took a swallow of the vodka he’d poured thirty seconds after entering his apartment. He pulled off his tie and plopped down on the soft, plush couch that was his favorite place to relax.

Today’s stakeout at the Stanfield Hotel had been a long one, and it had taken its toll. He hadn’t left until well after midnight and walked the few blocks home, using the time to clear his head. He had waited to check his messages until he was ensconced in his living room.

“
Shit,” he muttered to himself as he downed the rest of his drink. Worry about Laurel combined with anxiety about Moto and the operation had taken its toll.

He recognized the tone Laurel used in her message—the
too
bright,
too
casual,
I’m lying to you
tone. Where the hell was she, he wondered, and what the hell was she up to? Was this typical Laurel, or should he be worried?

Laurel had ignored all of the messages he’d left throughout the day and evening, and he’d slowly started to get ticked off.

The stakeout, and selling Helen’s plan to Mickey, had occupied most of his time and attention, but every once in a while he thought about Laurel. He believed that they were okay after the fight they’d had, then settled, at the precinct, but maybe he was wrong. If it wasn’t anger keeping her from speaking to him, it had to be something else, something she didn’t want him to know about.

“
Shit.” He heaved himself off the couch and poured another shot of vodka from the bottle he’d left open on the kitchen counter, knowing that he would want more. Some detective. Can’t even figure out what’s going on with your girlfriend. Good thing Moto had made it easier. Although, at one point it appeared that the operation was going to be anything but easy.

Since Moto had left the Islip Airport, the FBI had been tracking his whereabouts with a team following the billionaire’s entourage as it made its way west on the Long Island Expressway toward the city. The traffic had been creeping along at its usual snail pace, and all had gone well until a tractor trailer overturned, causing a massive pile-up.

The problem was that Moto’s limo and the two SUVs accompanying it had passed the tractor trailer seconds before the accident, but his FBI tail had not. Mickey had nearly gone berserk. Without anyone watching, Moto could take a detour and move the painting before coming into the city, offloading it anywhere and totally screwing the operation.

Mickey, who had put a chopper in the air for a flyover to survey the expressway and the routes adjacent to it, had been waiting for a report.

The thought of Moto on the loose gave Aaron major concerns of his own. He was sure Sargasso was planning to meet with the billionaire. It was the perfect chance to nab the murdering prick. In Aaron’s mind, no painting equaled no Sargasso. If he lost him now, he might never get another chance at him. Aaron couldn’t let that happen. It had been a tense few hours.

Ten minutes after taking off, the chopper pilot had reported in. He’d spotted Moto’s stretch limo and the SUVs flanking it, still en route to Manhattan. Unfortunately, the FBI tail would be stuck for hours, inching along with the rest of the frustrated motorists.

Mickey had ordered another team to patch into the chopper’s communications and pick up and follow the limo until it arrived at the Stanfield. He had been relieved that the billionaire was still in his sights.

The hours after Moto’s arrival proved to be a real eye-opener for Aaron, who’d never had the opportunity to see the fabulously wealthy in action.

First, a truckload of provisions arrived from Agata & Valentina, one of the city’s priciest uptown grocers. None other than the hotel’s General Manager signed for the delivery. No service entrance or busboys for these guys.

Next came celebrity chef Mario Batali in his signature orange clogs, trailed by two assistants loaded down with bags of equipment.
Dinner was going to be spectacular
, Aaron thought, recalling the one time he’d eaten at Del Posto, the chef’s newest hot restaurant.

At around seven o’clock, things really picked up. It was a virtual traffic jam of town cars and parade of two-thousand dollar suits, as men with names like Trump, Zeckendorf, and Tisch alighted in front of the town house, shot their cuffs, and were whisked inside by the hotel’s Head of Security. He was the same man Aaron had met earlier and now wanted to avoid at all costs. If he saw Aaron skulking around the hotel, he’d be all over him like a drunk on a pole dancer.

It had been strictly business tonight, thought Aaron as he’d watched these men, who controlled a large chunk of the world’s real estate, move with an assurance few people could carry off. They expected doors to open before them and people to be waiting to serve them. Men this powerful didn’t take kindly to being under surveillance, no matter what the circumstances. In fact, he was sure everyone from the mayor, to the head of the FBI, and maybe even the President, would suffer the equivalent of the wrath of God if the stakeout came to light.

Watching the parade, he and Mickey had discussed their options and come to the conclusion that while the dinner Moto was hosting was obviously important, it didn’t rule out the possibility that he might still be planning to do a deal with the painting.

“
With all these big shots in the house, Moto has the perfect cover. He could step away for a few minutes on the pretext of a business call or urgent message and do his thing,” said Mickey. “No one would have the slightest idea of what was going on.”

“
Yeah, but he’s been so cautious up to now. He’d have to get the buyer inside, plus Sargasso and maybe Delrusse. The deal could take a while, and his other guests might begin to wonder where he was.” Aaron shrugged. “With his intelligence network, he might even know that we’re onto Sargasso. I don’t think the deal is going down tonight.”

In the end, they had decided to leave the team in place and on a yellow alert status.

“
We sound like the fucking Department of Homeland Security,” said Mickey after he had relayed his orders to his agents.

Aaron had done the same with his crew, and the two men had made a plan to take alternate breaks of a few hours.

Aaron checked his watch. He’d like to get an hour’s power nap and have a shower before heading back. Maybe even consume something a little more nourishing than vodka.

He sighed as he bent over and put his glass on the coffee table next to his cell phone. His hand went to it, automatically acting on an irresistible impulse from his brain. He wanted to call Laurel, to tell her, what? That he knew she was lying to him? To say that he missed her? Reluctantly, he let the phone go. Whatever he had to say to Laurel would have to wait until the morning. Maybe by then he would even figure it out.

The Stanfield Hotel

New York City

“
This is Ms. Stratton. Have room service send up breakfast for two—cheese omelets, bacon, croissants and coffee.”
It is so hard to keep up this rich bitch attitude.
Helen smiled to herself as she replaced the receiver without waiting for a reply.
Those socialites must be exhausted by the end of the day.

She lay back and stretched luxuriously in the huge king-size bed. It was nice to have someone else do her bidding, even if she were piling it on a little thick.

Five more minutes, she told herself, pulling up the 600-thread-count Frette sheets that she recognized from one of her favorite stores on Madison Avenue. Then she would get up and face what lay ahead. Her stomach did a flip at the thought of what that might be.