To Catch a Thief (12 page)

“I'm afraid not. Not completely. But when I ran their names, I picked up a connection with criminal investigation six years ago in Macau. One of the men was working for East West Properties at the time. Another
ping
for our favorite company.”

“What have you got on the owners?”

“The president, Luis Gonsalves, is a big-time art collector.
Macau News
ranks him as the number-two buyer in Asia, yet his collection has never been photographed, studied or published. None of the major insurance companies handle coverage for his art, either.”

“Hardly surprising. If you stockpile
stolen
art, you can't exactly go to Lloyd's of London for coverage, can you? What else?” Ryker asked impatiently. “Does Gonsalves have any known terrorist connections?”

“There have been several investigations by the Macau police, sir. Nothing stuck. This Gonsalves looks like a careful man. Either he's clean—or he's kept his distance from anything that would be damaging.”

“Stay with it. I'll have our tech people work it from this end, too. Whatever you do, none of this goes outside us. I don't care if the director himself calls you. Be polite, be accessible, but relay all questions to me.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I'm packing you two out tonight. You're to be in D.C. by dawn. I want every detail about the people connected with those cell phone calls the night the theft was reported.”

“Rog—”

Ryker hung up before Izzy could finish.

Dakota was watching him. “Where to next?”

“We've got orders to be in D.C. by dawn.”

Dakota put the SUV in gear. “Join the navy, see the world.”

Washington, D.C.

T
HEY MET
in a green van parked below the Lincoln Memorial. Rogers looked nervous, constantly checking over his shoulder even though the streets were deserted.

“It's getting hot. They've been running everyone's personnel files and doing background checks.”

“Nothing we didn't expect. Relax, Rogers. Sit tight until the storm passes. You're going to be a very rich man in a few months, remember?”

The guard managed a thin smile. “About time, too. I'm getting too old for this kind of work.”

“After this, you won't need to work again.” His contact flipped on the windshield wipers as a soft rain began to shroud the Potomac. “The replacement tapes have held up so far?”

“Perfectly. I don't know how you did it, but every pixel checks out.”

The curiosity in the guard's voice was irritating. “I leave nothing to chance. That's all you need to know on that subject.”

Rogers watched the rain. “Lydia is getting worried. I'm not sure she's up to this.”

“You found her, Rogers. If she is no longer trustworthy…” The driver let the phrase trail off.

“I can keep her in line,” the guard said firmly. “She'll be quiet. I just thought you should know.” He cleared his throat. “She wants more money, too.”

The driver didn't move. “Out of the question. I think you need to explain to her how this works.”

The guard shrugged. “I tried. She's spooked.”

“In that case I'll call her myself.” The head of the October 12th Brigade traced a line in the fine dust on the dashboard. “Where is she now?”

“At the museum. Cocktails with several big collectors. She should be finished around nine.”

“I will take care of all the details for her. Money, a new passport, whatever she requires. I want no problems.”

“I knew you could handle it. I told her that.”

“You told her about
me
?” The question was very soft, but the sudden tension in the air made Rogers turn sharply.

“Not your name or any details. Nothing like that. Nothing about the…organization, of course. She's not a believer. All she cares about is her job and her latest bank balance. I said that she'd be taken care of, and no one would ever know she was involved.”

“I see. You are a very valuable member of our group. Have I told you that lately, Rogers?”

The guard shook his head and turned back to watch the rain that hammered against the steps beyond Lincoln's feet. “I saw it when they brought it in. So much life packed into a small sheet of paper. How did he do that?”

“Every artist has asked that question. Some call it madness, some call it genius. The beauty and skill are irrelevant, however.” The driver didn't look up. “Good night, Rogers. I will be in touch soon.”

The guard nodded and pulled up the hood on his cheap plastic poncho, then stepped out, hunched against the sheeting water.

The driver of the van frowned and punched a number on the new cell phone. “He's headed south. Blue plastic poncho and a black gym bag. Do it now.”

Down the broad drive a black laundry truck pulled out of a service road, headlights off. When it accelerated sharply, the man in the poncho turned and began to run, arms flapping. Rain muffled the thump of contact. The scream was abruptly cut off as the truck's heavy wheels crushed Rogers's throat and chest.

The driver of the parked van watched to be sure there was no more movement from the body sprawled on the wet pavement. After a lingering glance at the Lincoln Memorial, blurred by rain, the figure at the wheel turned south, keying in another number.

“I need to talk to him now. Get me his home number on the boat. Of course it's
important
, you fool.”

D
AKOTA STARED
out at the quiet streets of Fisherman's Wharf, dark and silent in the fog. “How does someone set up a sale like this, Teague? You need good people and a secure location, something remote, off law enforcement radar.”

“Remote but accessible,” Teague corrected. “They'll require account transfers up front for all bidders. Millions just to secure a spot, so I'm told. Everyone gets a look at the art and then the bidding starts.”

“So they'll have to be present to bid?”

“That or a trusted representative. Would you drop thirty-two million based on a few pretty photographs?” Izzy laughed grimly. “No, they'll be present, count on it. They'll have an expert on hand, too, someone they all trust to declare the art authentic.” He looked down at his computer screen. “Here's what I've got on the phones. They were purchased two months ago in Kuala Lumpur. They've got some interesting new illegal encryption technology installed. Looks like someone doesn't want to have any conversations monitored.” Izzy shook his head. “But why
nine
cell phones, and none of them activated? That's starting to bug the hell out of me.”

T
WELVE MILES
away on the northern edge of San Francisco Bay, a short man with jet-black hair raised a bottle of expensive single-malt whisky. “A drink, Jordan?”

Fog swirled around the elegant houseboat docked in Sausalito's quaint harbor. “Of course. To celebrate our mutual success.” Jordan MacInnes gave a smile of considerable charm, raising his hands to the fire. “My apologies, Martim, for taking so long to return your calls.”

“No apologies needed. Your hesitation was expected.” Martim Gonsalves splashed an inch of amber spirits in two etched glasses. “The men I sent were clumsy and acted far beyond my orders. They frightened you and frightened your daughter, and I offer my sincere apologies.” He gave a thin smile. “They have been dealt with.”

Jordan took a seat. “The contacts I gave you in Europe were useful, I hope?”

“Without question. We have six confirmed bidders so far, with completed bank transfers. Your contacts in Asia and Argentina are still considering.” The younger man sat down in a handcrafted leather chair and studied the fire. “Do you know that my father still remembers you from years ago in Paris? Even now your name carries a great deal of weight among many of his acquaintances.”

And that's why I can never be free of my past,
Nell's father thought bitterly. “So the location for the auction has been set?”

“I prefer to wait.” Martim Gonsalves set his glass on the table, frowning. “A small precaution.”

“Perhaps I can advise you on the choice.” Jordan raised his glass to the light. Only someone sitting very close would have seen the tremor in his fingers. “Something with impeccable amenities and…agreeably absent hosts.”

Gonsalves laughed. “Thank you, but I have my own sources.”

Jordan leaned forward and coughed sharply. His face paled.

The pain again. Now it ate through his stomach. How long did he have?

“Jordan, are you sick?”

“Me? Not a day in my life. I had an argument with my daughter, that's all. Didn't sleep well after that. The little fool doesn't like what I do or how I do it. Always complaining, just like a woman.” He sipped his whisky, trying to hide the pain that was growing sharper. “What about the art, Martim? I would prefer to examine the piece before we leave. There are bound to be questions before the auction.”

His elegant host smiled politely. “I am afraid that will not be possible. I have matters to complete before we leave in two hours.”

Jordan kept his cool smile in place, raising his glass to his host. “In that case, all I need to do is relax.”

His shoulders tensed as Martim walked across the room to his desk. “And now, Jordan, I'll need the cell phone in your jacket. No point in risking a leak. You'll be given a new phone after the auction is completed.”

Jordan stared into the cold, predatory eyes of his host and shrugged. “Of course.” He stood up and stretched carelessly. “After all, my work is nearly done, and you're paying me very, very well.”

He tried not to think about Nell or wonder if she was safe.

Pain gnawed at his joints. He bruised easily now, and it was growing harder to hide the purple marks. But he held out his cell phone with a jaunty smile. “I'll consider it my vacation.”

Gonsalves nodded to his bodyguard, sitting in shadows by the window. “You won't mind if we verify you have no other phones?”

“Be my guest.”

MacInnes felt sweat brush his neck as the stocky bodyguard approached. Rain hammered at the deck. Across the bay, the lights of San Francisco flickered, visible but a million miles away.

Ignoring his pain, MacInnes raised his arms and allowed the bodyguard to search him thoroughly. When the man muttered approval, MacInnes sat down again.

The second phone, which he had shoved between the cushions of the sofa, slid back inside his boot.

W
HILE
J
ORDAN
M
AC
I
NNES WAS
escorted to a secure cabin at the back of the yacht, Martim Gonsalves sat alone, staring at the fake fire in the fake marble fireplace. Ignoring the expensive drink near his hand, he picked up the cell phone taken from the American and flipped through its call history.

The call log was empty.

A resourceful man. MacInnes could not be trusted, of course. With thirty million dollars at stake,
no one
could be trusted. Gonsalves thought about the fragile piece of art hidden in a climate-controlled storage unit outside Baltimore. In two hours it would be taken aboard one of their specially outfitted freighters. Once at sea, it would be transferred to a larger ship, locked in a cabin guarded by ten handpicked men who had never before met each other. The exact destination would be relayed to the captain after the da Vinci was safely transferred.

The theft had gone smoothly enough, discounting the deaths of the museum guards. Once again the October 12th Brigade prevailed.

The thought made Martim smile faintly. Fortunately, the Americans were easily drawn into paranoia about terrorists on their soil. While their FBI busily chased suspects, his contacts had worked undisturbed for months. Now the job of the October 12th Brigade was nearly done. One day they would simply stop claiming credit for new crimes, and the FBI would crow about another threat being neutralized.

He swirled his whisky, staring into the fire. Once the auction was complete, the funds would be wired to his private account in Brazil. Then he would finally be free of his father's constant scrutiny. As a boy he had never been smart enough or tough enough, but all that was about to change. One day his criminal enterprise would dwarf his father's.

All of it was due to the skills of the dangerous and elusive October 12th Brigade. Raising a toast to the false fire, Martim laughed softly.
“Saude,”
he whispered.

“C
AR COMING
.
Watch those trees to your left.” Crouched beneath a tree, Izzy scanned the fallow fields below them with Zeiss binoculars. They had been parked out of sight for six hours already, waiting for activity near the scattered industrial buildings where the calls had come on the night of the National Gallery theft. Up the hill heavy foliage covered their Jeep, but provided a narrow view of a dozen buildings locked behind a twelve-foot fence with brand-new security cameras.

An hour before sunset a brown Ford van cruised to the electronic gate. The driver leaned out and swiped a keycard, giving Dakota a glimpse of a stocky figure in sunglasses and a second man in the passenger seat. Immediately upon exiting, the Ford picked up speed, fishtailing over the pitted road.

A second van pulled out of the compound, headed in the same direction.

“Run the plates, Izzy.” Dakota rattled off the Virginia license plate numbers as the two vans raced south, then turned onto an unmarked dirt road.

In two minutes Izzy had an ID. “Both of them are licensed to Holt Brothers Shipping, LLC. We sit here all afternoon and no one goes in or out, but suddenly we get two vans heading south hell for leather.”

“Let's find out what's got them so excited,” Dakota muttered. The two men sprinted up the slope to their mud-spattered Jeep and eased through the trees to the dirt road.

Dakota stayed out of sight behind the dense foliage along a small stream.

“They're headed straight south.” Izzy moved his binoculars. “Looks like some kind of a dock down there.” He pointed across the weed-covered fields. “The first van's stopped. Someone getting out.” The second van turned sharply and backed up to the edge of the river.

Dakota slowed, dropping below the curve of the hill to stay out of view of the two parked vehicles. Below them the vans were silent. No one got out. No one got in. The area was deserted, one small dock on one small waterway amid a maze of estuaries of the Potomac River, flowing out into Chesapeake Bay.

Dakota pulled off the road and cut the motor.

As shadows gathered into twilight, he pulled out night-vision binoculars. “Maybe we should go back to the compound.”

“Give it a little longer.”

“A hunch? I didn't think you tech guys believed in hunches. But then again, I'm just the brawn here.”

Both men knew it wasn't true. Dakota's insights were as honed as Izzy's. But the joke was an old one between the Foxfire operatives and their cool counterpart.

Izzy muttered something nasty without looking up.

“Any developments on the numbers MacInnes gave his daughter?” Dakota rubbed his neck. “What about a social security number?”

“Already checked. That number was never active. I've scanned phone databases for every major carrier, but
nada
there, too. We're working on offshore accounts, but that will be slow going. All in all, it's starting to piss me off.”

“Don't like to lose, Teague?”

“Oh, I haven't lost. I'm going to crack this, count on it.”

Down by the dock, the dark gathered.

Neither van moved.

“H
OLD ON
.
We've finally got some activity.” Izzy focused his night-vision binoculars over a line of boulders. “Van in front just turned around. Right front door opening.”

Dakota crouched on the ground beside Izzy, staring at the dock. “I make three men,” he whispered.

The driver, a stocky man with a buzz cut, was talking on a cell phone. Two other men, both wearing brown coveralls, stood a few feet away. By their sharp gestures, it was clear that they were arguing about something.

Dakota pulled on a black vest, then slid a receiver over his ear. “I'm going down.”

The tactical vest held a Sig Sauer P226 pistol and two combat knives. With the weapons secured, Dakota quickly streaked black and olive camouflage face paint over his cheeks, chin and hands.

Then he vanished into the darkness.

By the time he reached the edge of the creek, the moon was rising. Hidden in the marsh grass, he edged through the dark water toward the dock. As the cell phone conversation continued, he heard occasional words that were too low to understand.

The driver moved past the vans and stood at the end of the dock, watching the water while he spoke quietly. The other two men leaned against the van's front fender, their argument growing more heated. None of them saw Dakota circle past and inch through the trees.

Abruptly a door snapped open and someone emerged from the van near the dock. A woman's voice cut through the night, angry and querulous.

“You said he'd be here with the passport. Where is he?”

“Probably caught in traffic.” The calm male voice coming from the dock was American. “Have you finished copying all the files?”

“Only two more to go. My laptop is nearly out of memory.” She lit a cigarette and Dakota saw her face, its narrow forehead and thin mouth caught in the sudden yellow flare of a match. He recognized her from the briefing as one of the senior curators at the National Gallery. Now he knew the inside link, but where was the stolen art?

His fingers slid to his Sig as he crept closer.

“What else do you
need
me for? I've already wrapped the package. It's gone. There's nothing else—”

Inside the van a light flickered.

“Finally.” She tossed down the cigarette and ran a hand through her hair. “The files are all transferred. All the tests I ran are there along with complete photos.” She glanced down at the luminous dial of a small sleek watch and cursed. “Where
is
he, damn it? You said he'd be here an hour ago. I
need
that passport to—”