White Heat (21 page)

“Daklin?” He barely raised his voice, but the other man appeared in the doorway as if by magic. Max reached down and pulled Emily to her feet. “Get her to the car and stay with her.”

Her face was as still and pale as a mask, her eyes dark with fear “Come wi—” She bit her lower lip, cutting herself off, clearly realizing that this was his job, then nodded. Her boot heels clicked on the stone floor as she walked away with Daklin. At the door she turned around. “Don’t
touch
it!”

“
Go.
”

She went. Crouching down, he used his pen to push the small glass vial away from the bits of smooth glass. There was no stopper, and of course, nothing inside. How the fucking hell had the team missed this in their earlier sweep? A tiny smudge of bright orange paint was smeared down the side. He took out the sat phone as he rose and walked over to look at Jacoba Brill’s last painting.

“Aries” he identified himself to his Control as he left the studio to finish his call in the hallway. “Found another empty glass vial at this location. Studio in back, on the floor in the southeast corner of the room at the base of the bookcase. Send another hazmat team ASAP to Jacoba Brill’s home at Kruislaan 409. Yeah, Utrecht. Take the orange painting in for analysis as well. There’s a faint impression of the vial on the bottom left-hand corner. Let me know what the lab makes of it.” He paused to listen.

“No shit. I don’t have to be told twice.” He strode down the hail. “Anything else—Want to hang on? I have another call coming in. Okay. Keep me informed.”

Max switched to the other call as he walked through the house. “Aries’

“Sir, this is asset Raymond Ackart. Wiesbaden.”

Max paused inside the front door. He could see the sun reflecting off the top of the waiting car at the bottom of the walkway, and knew Emily was safely inside, but the hair on the back of his neck rose. “And?”

“I was ordered to report to the safe house on Tempelhof Strasse. I just arrived, sir. Zampieri, Kurtz, Banther, and four unknowns are dead.”

Max bit off a curse. “Describe the scene.”

“Someone was pretty pissed off, sir. Our guys are all sliced and diced. They gave as good as they got before they went—but holy Mother of God, there’s a shitload of blood. It’s bad, really bad.”

“I have an idea,” Max said, picturing the scene in the Bozzato family kitchen.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Have you called for the garbage detail?”

“Waited to talk to you first.” The guy sounded ready to puke.

“Call, then wait for further orders.” Max shoved the phone back in his pocket as he strode down the walkway, his attention not on the pale oval of Emily’s face behind the darkened window of the car, but the surrounding woods and trees. “God damn it.”

Wiesbaden was one safe house out of many, but who had known that Emily was supposed to be secreted there within hours? Only himself, Control, and Zampieri.

And someone else.

EMILY STACKED THE USED PLATES ON THE TRAY. THE AFT CABIN OF the jet looked like a high-end boardroom, and at the moment, smelled of strong coffee, tomato soup, and delicious, gooey grilled cheese sandwiches made with provolone. She was impressed. Not only had Max fixed the meal for everyone, he’d also brought it— on a tray no less—to them at the table. Emily, along with AJ, Keiko, and Max, had fallen on the food like starving animals.

When she complimented him, Max muttered that the soup was out of cans, and the cheese sandwiches were the only thing he knew how to cook. It was kind of endearing to realize that making a meal for three women didn’t diminish his masculinity in any way. Before he’d brought the tray in, AJ had told her that everyone on the team had to pull their own weight. Still, Emily was charmed by this culinary side of the man whom she imagined slept with his gun in one hand. If he slept at all.

The cabin was all mahogany paneled walls and high-tech electronic equipment, the beds tucked away behind the paneling. With the push of a button, a section slid back, revealing an enormous sleek video screen embedded in the wall behind Emily. The tiny red eye of a camera blinked in the left-hand corner.

Daklin and Navarro were on one half of the split screen, a man with a puckered scar across his face took up the other half. His name was Darius. Whether that was his first or last name, Emily had no idea. Maybe he was like Cher. One name. He had the build of a linebacker, and the well-modulated voice of a seasoned Rotarian. The scar, and a pair of dark glasses, effectively obscured his features, making them unreadable.

Max worked with some interesting people.

A picture flashed up on the monitor of an almost eerily striking woman, with long, improbable red hair, and crystalline green eyes. Barbie with red hair, Emily thought, not liking the woman’s eyes. They looked both cold and creepy.

“Sorry, wrong screen,” the man said apologetically, bringing up Navarro and Daklin again.

“That,”
said AJ flatly to Emily, “was Catherine Seymour. If you ever run into her—run like hell. She’s vicious, untrustworthy, and lethal.”

“Emily and Savage wouldn’t ever come into contact,” Max told everyone, his voice cool and flat. “She’s under surveillance and won’t be making a damn move we don’t know about. Right, Darius?”

“Closing in as we speak.”

“As we should be. Let’s make that sooner than later. Okay, let’s get started, people.” Max took a swig of coffee. He seemed to survive and thrive on adrenaline and coffee. Other than a five o’clock shadow on his strong jaw, and his hair pushed back off his forehead by running his fingers through it a time or two, he looked and sounded relaxed, fresh and as though he’d had eight hours’ sleep.

Emily bet she’d had three times as much rest as he had, and she was exhausted. Her adrenaline had come and gone, and come and gone again, leaving her limp and lethargic. AJ and Keiko also looked the worse for wear, although Keiko had managed to squeeze in a quick shower while Max was out in the galley. AJ shot Emily a sympathetic glance.

“This is a long flight,” Max said, speaking to the camera as he placed his empty mug back on the table. “I’m planning to use some of that time to catch some z’s. I’ve asked Emily to sit in on the briefing because she is, I believe, central to this op. Let me recap, then if anyone has questions or observations you can have at it when I’m through.”

He spent several minutes bringing everyone up to speed on the timeline of events, from his father’s murder to the death of Jacoba Brill. Emily had been present for most of what Max was recapping for the others. Still, when clumped all together in the retelling, it sounded exactly as bad and scary as she’d remembered it. Maybe more so because Max was giving the recap in a calm, matter—of— fact voice with no drama or fanfare.

He paused briefly to bite into his sandwich, chew, and swallow. “Point. One: Daniel Aries copied several of Richard Tillman’s masterpieces over a span of ten years. As did Emily, here. As did Brill. Two out of the three are dead—”

“Make that three out of
four
,
”
the man with the dark glasses inserted, not glancing up as his attention was snagged by a computer monitor on the table in front of him. “Just got intel. Alaire Drousé died in his home half an hour ago. Apparent heart attack.”

Keiko folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, her black eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement. “Another art restorer?”

Emily had noticed how quiet the older woman was; she seldom asked questions, but she was clearly always listening and learning. She was sure Keiko wasn’t happy to hear someone else had died, but she was clearly excited to be included in this briefing.

Emily knew of Drousé. “He’s an authenticator for the Louvre.”

Max’s glance touched hers briefly. “Know him?”

She rubbed her arms, feeling a chill that didn’t seem to want to leave her. “Only by reputation.”

“Get those toxicology reports back to us ASAP,” Max instructed. “And three attempts,” he continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted by the report of a fourth death, “that we’re aware of, have been made on Emily’s life.”

Three close attempts, she wanted to point out, but she bit her lip and kept quiet instead. Her emotions were in turmoil with all of this. For Max and the others, this was business as usual. How in God’s name did they ever get used to so much violence? So much darkness?

“Two,” Max continued. “The man sent to Emily’s palazzo was a Black Rose asset. Whether he was working for BR, or freelancing, has yet to be ascertained.

“Three: An incendiary device was found in a painting’s frame at La Mezquita. That makes three paintings used as vehicles for bombs.” Max wiped his hands on a paper towel, crumpled it, and tossed it on his empty plate. “Four: That makes
three
bombings.
Three
paintings, and
three
places of worship.”

Emily got up to pour him another cup of coffee, and he shot her a grateful glance as she dropped in several cubes of sugar. She refilled her own mug, and AJ’s as well. Keiko hadn’t even picked up her still-full mug, she was too engrossed, and hanging on Max’s every word.

“Five,” he said, drinking his hot coffee, “according to the provenance papers we received from Father Antonio in Córdoba, the painting there leads us right back to Tillman.”

“I have one more piece to add.” Emily almost raised her hand before voicing a question as she’d been taught to do in boarding school.

“Can it wait?” Max asked, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

She shook her head. “Daniel did a copy of
The Holy Family
for Mr. Tillman about a year ago.” She’d realized on the way back to the air base that she could no longer keep that piece of information a secret.

While she knew she had to tell Max of his father’s involvement in the painting, there was no point, she’d decided, in telling Max that
she’d
done it instead of Daniel. Tillman had hired Daniel, and paid Daniel’s exorbitant prices. Not only would Tillman be furious if he found out that Daniel hadn’t done what he was contracted to do, he’d be pissed he’d paid him double what Emily would have charged him.

Not that that mattered since Daniel was dead and there was no reason to suppose that Max would divulge the information to him anyway. Still, what
did
matter was Daniel’s sterling reputation, which would be history if knowledge of his debilitating illness ever became public. Which was how and why this masquerade had started in the first place. The knowledge that Emily had done some of his work would put
all
of his work under intense scrutiny and debate. And that would ensure that his well-deserved reputation would be lost forever.

“From Tillman to your father, to Emily, to Black Rose, to a bombing? I’d be more convinced if the other two bombings carry the same signature. You two bozos on that?” Darius was, presumably, talking to Navarro and Daklin, because Daklin nodded and said, “Yeah.”

“Tillman in bed with Black Rose?” Navarro asked, his expression bland. There was a black marble pillar behind him, so Emily knew he and Daklin were back at La Mezquita.

“Yeah, that’s where I’ve gone, too,” Max told him, polishing off his second sandwich and picking up a third. “What better way to launder their money than through a suddenly philanthropic old man?”

AJ leaned her elbows on the table, her soup mug clasped between her hands. “I suppose it’s possible, but isn’t he like a hundred years old?”

Max half-smiled. “Mid-eighties. I’ve known octogenarians who are as sharp as tacks, so I don’t think his age would exclude him from consideration. I want a look at him soon.” He looked into the nearby camera mounted above the screen. “Dare. How soon can you get me that intel?”

The linebacker’s dark brows rose over the top of his shades. “Depends how deep you want me to dig.”

“Right down to pay dirt,” Max told him.

“WILL YOU BE ABLE TO SLEEP, OR DO YOU NEED SOMETHING?” MAX asked Emily as she came out of the forward cabin’s bathroom. The cabin was dim, with only the light over Max’s chair to illuminate her way. He’d offered the aft cabin with the beds to AJ and Keiko. She knew there were six beds back there, but he hadn’t offered to let her sleep with the other women.

He’d settled himself in one of the comfortable chairs in the middle of the cabin, and when she came out of the bathroom, he looked up from the papers he was reading. Even in the subdued lighting, and from this far away she saw the flare of heat in his eyes as she walked toward him, a towel around her shoulders.

She yawned as she padded toward him. AJ had given her a pair of shorts and a tank top—black, of course—to put on after her shower. Going commando was starting to grow on her, Emily thought as she moved barefoot down the thick carpet toward him.

“Believe me;’ she told him softly as she blotted her wet hair on the towel and yawned again. “The second I close my eyes I’ll be out like a light.”

“Will you,” he murmured, putting out his hand to guide her into the seat between himself and the bulkhead. A pillow and a luxuriously soft red wool throw had been tossed on the footrest. Looked like bliss to her.

“Forget it, Aries,” she told him, seeing the glimmer of the devil in his dark green eyes as she sank into a seat as wide and soft as a cloud. Max leaned over the few inches separating them, and pressed a button on her armrest. The chair slowly reclined so she could stretch out full length. In thirty seconds she’d be fast asleep.

She got a good look at this man who made her pulse race, and her heart did somersaults. She wanted to take his image with her to dreamland. “The brain is willing,” she told him firmly, pulling up the blanket over her shoulders. “But the body is too tired to make its own decisions. I’m so tired I might fall asleep
before
I close my eyes.”

“I’ll hold you while you sleep,” he offered as angelically as a choirboy as she settled into the big leather chair beside him with a moan of pure pleasure. Bunching the pillow under her cheek, she curled on her side to look at him through sleepy eyes.

His rumpled dark hair indicated that he’d showered, too, and he was wearing black drawstring pants. He was bare chested and barefoot. Temptation personified. His skin was tanned and other than an assortment of scars, nicks, and dents, as hard and solid as polished bronze.