The Art of Possession Read online

  “Why not?” He was sweating heavily, his palms gone slick. I could see him regrip the gun, his trigger finger tightening reflexively.

  “Because you don’t need them anymore. I told you, the money is in the car. I’m perfectly willing to let you have it in exchange for Sophie there.”

  “I say what we do!” he screamed at me. Sophie trembled. “Me, not you!”

  “All right,” I said placatingly. “What would you like to do, then?”

  “I will… you… you get out of the way. I take her to the car with me. If the money is there, we leave. I drop her on the side of the road in five minutes.”

  She would definitely die if I let that happen. I smiled at him. “Sounds good,” I said. “I’m gonna back up now, okay? So I can let you out the front door.”

  “Go slow.”

  I stepped backward, into the darker anteroom. Picot had to jostle Sophie to get her moving, pressing his slippery gun even harder to her temple. He was too nervous—at this rate he would kill her by accident before he meant to.

  Not on my watch.

  The instant that he looked down at her feet, which were stuck to the floor like they’d been buried in sand despite his prodding, I dropped the tranq gun, pulled the Glock I’d tucked against the small of my back, and shot Picot right through the forehead.

  Blood and brains hit the wall behind him. He slumped to the ground while Sophie stared wide-eyed at me, trembling uncontrollably.

  “What happened? Alex, talk to me!”

  Patricia must be upset if she was using my name over the com. “Just making Robert mad at me,” I replied, putting my gun away before stepping closer to Sophie. She swayed and took two tumbling steps forward, finally landing in my arms with a sob. “The package is secure. So is the money.” I knew Sophie’s father would ask about it, the bastard.

  “Good work. You get her to the safe house, I’ll handle cleanup and deal with Robert. Her father will be on his way to get her shortly.”

  “Understood.” I took Sophie out of that sordid room, into the fresh, sweet evening air. I should have chivvied her along to the car, but it seemed like she needed a moment to collect herself. I stood back and let her have it, leaving my hand in her tight grasp.

  “Tout ça semble tellement irréel.”

  If I were her, I’d probably be doubting the reality of everything around me too. “C’est bien réel.”

  She looked at me through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Je n’arrive pas à y croire.”

  “You will soon,” I promised her. “Let’s go somewhere safe.” I repeated it in French, slow and calm, and finally got her feet moving again.

  All in all, not a bad day’s work.

  “WHAT DO you mean, he’s calling it breach of contract?” I scowled at the phone while I cleaned my weapon in the bathroom of the little guesthouse I’d been sent to after things had wrapped up.

  Well, my part of the job was wrapped up, at least. Patricia, not pleased to have to tidy up a dead body on top of everything else that needed doing, had cancelled my reservations in the nearest Marriott and sent me here instead, a tiny Airbnb where the plumbing rattled, the bed was a single, and the air conditioner was nonexistent. It was still nicer than a lot of places I’d bedded down over my career, though, and I’d been prepared to check in with Robert and call it a night.

  “Monsieur Mercier claims that his daughter is mentally traumatized by the death of her captor, and that because we didn’t return her to him completely sound, he shouldn’t have to pay.”

  “And did you tell him to shove his claim up his ass?” I demanded. “Because I can assure you, that girl was traumatized by her situation way before I came on the scene. They didn’t even give her a bucket to use, Rob, and I don’t think she’d had more than a little water to drink the entire time they had her.”

  “It’s completely spurious, of course,” Robert agreed. “But I thought you were going to try and take everyone alive, Alex. What happened to that plan?”

  “The situation called for a change.”

  “Alex—”

  “What happened was I had a dangerous man with a shaky trigger finger holding a gun on a young girl, and as good as our knockout drug is, it still takes a few seconds to affect fine motor control,” I snapped. “Even if it had gone straight into a vein, he could have killed her. I bet her dad would have liked that a lot fucking less.”

  Robert was silent for a long moment. “I’m just a little concerned about you,” he said slowly, carefully—as if I was someone he needed to be careful with. “You’ve been working a lot lately, and I think it might be wearing on you.”

  “I’m fine.” And I was fine, completely fine, especially compared to a few years ago.

  After getting my medical discharge from the Green Berets, I’d thought my life was over for a while—bum shoulder, shredded gut, couldn’t hit a target with my left hand from ten feet away. Then Robert, the friend of a friend with a network of connections that I could only dream of, had approached me, offered me a different way of doing things—a new job, using a lot of my old skill set if I could get it back, but finding important work for me even if I couldn’t. I’d rehabbed my ass off for six long months to get to where I was now, and I was determined to prove to Robert that I could handle it.

  “You haven’t taken a break since Christmas.”

  “I’m saving up. Gonna take a month off at the end of the summer, European-style.”

  “Really?” He sounded skeptical, and I couldn’t blame him.

  “Maybe.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “Look, do you need me to come in? Or meet with Mercier, explain to him face-to-face why I did what I did?”

  “No, I can handle him. And I was actually going to offer you another job, if you feel up to it. This one might be a little outside your comfort zone, though.”

  Was that… amusement I detected in his voice? “Unless it involves dressing up like a clown and riding a unicycle, it’s probably not outside my comfort zone.”

  “Clowns are the red line for you, huh?”

  “They’re freaky as hell,” I confessed. “I saw a mime outside the airport when I first got here and almost clocked him with my case when he pretended to lasso me.”

  Robert laughed, and I felt my own shoulders relax a little. We weren’t exactly friends, Robert and me, but we were closer than a commanding officer and a soldier would have been. He knew what it was like, having to leave behind the only life you’d ever known, the life you’d loved, and carve a new path for yourself. He was also gay, like me, which—well, it wasn’t something a lot of us talked about, new regulations notwithstanding, but it was nice to work with someone who was more similar to me than not. I didn’t have to worry about my sexuality affecting Robert’s opinion of me, just my field decisions.

  “Well, this doesn’t involve clowns, but you are going to need a monkey suit,” he said. “How do you feel about going to a gala?”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  “Because that’s where the potential client wants to meet to discuss the job. He said it would be like a… treasure hunt, of sorts. Are you interested?”

  A treasure hunt? Oh, I was interested now, if only because this was about as far from a sordid kidnapping as it could get. “Sure, I’ll hear the guy out. Where is this gala?”

  “At the British Museum in London.”

  Chapter Two

  I LIFTED my hand to my bow tie to tug at it for what felt like the dozenth time since I’d put the damn thing on.

  “Leave it, Malcolm,” my uncle advised me yet again, slouched on the luxuriously large bed in my room like a fat black crow gauging whether to preen or to peck. “It’s fine as it is.”

  “It’s a bloody noose,” I complained. “It couldn’t be choking the life out of me more effectively if Pierrepoint himself had tied it.”

  “That’s just the nerves talking, lad.”

  Of course it was. Better that I fuss with my bow tie and curse the difficulty inherent in fastening my bo
rrowed cuff links than focus on what was to come.

  The British Museum’s annual Director’s Dinner was its largest and most conspicuously spectacular gala every year. It was open to members who had donated at least three thousand pounds to the museum over the course of the year, and facilitated face-to-face time between influential patrons, scientists, celebrities, and even royalty. It would be an absolute monument to excessive pomp and circumstance this year particularly, what with the Glories of the Ancient World exhibit opening in another few weeks.

  I swallowed hard around the knot at my throat, and the knot within my throat. That exhibit had been my brainchild when I’d worked as a rising curator at the museum. I’d hoped that it would serve as a farewell tour to some of the greatest—and most notorious—items in the museum’s collection: artifacts that had been looted from their countries of origin and brought back to exalt the British Empire. Instead, one thing had led to another and I’d ended up flat on my backside, professionally disgraced and on the edge of ruination.

  “Malcolm, enough of that.” Uncle Gilroy lumbered across the room to me and gently batted my hands away. “You’ll wreck it at this rate.”

  “I don’t care if I do.”

  “Well, I care, and I’m sure your host cares.” He glanced around the room appreciatively. “Putting you up in the Strand? Paying for you to come all the way here from Cornwall? He must have some sort of excellent news for you.”

  “He’s certainly buttering me up for something,” I agreed, filling my voice and demeanor with entirely fake joviality. “Perhaps he wants to watch me go down in flames once more.”

  “Now, Malcolm.” My uncle chided me gently. “You know that Gerard had nothing to do with that.”

  “He stood by and watched them accuse me and didn’t do a goddamn thing to—”

  “Did you want him thrown out as well, then?”

  I wanted him on my side! Gerard was supposed to be on my side—he was more than a member of the board of directors of the museum. Back then he’d been my lover as well, and an unfailing support. Until he’d abruptly failed, that is. And right or wrong—and a small but vehement part of me still thought I was very right about what had happened—he shouldn’t have abandoned me when I needed him most.

  “Let it go, lad,” my uncle said. “Just for tonight, eh? Go to the party, see the sights, make as much merry as you can on their dime, and see what Gerard has to say to you. Perhaps it’s an apology.”

  The sun would sooner stop in its tracks than Gerard apologize for anything. “Perhaps,” I said, finally giving up on my tie. I glanced at my watch. “Thank you for meeting me earlier, Uncle Gilroy, but I’ve got to be off to the museum. I’ll be entering with the madding crowd, and I don’t want to be late.” Or early. Better to arrive in a crowd of hundreds and work on my evasion tactics. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t have to see Gerard at all. I could grab a champagne or three and make my way back to some of my favorite collections, or even steal away into the Reading Room if it wasn’t locked up too tight.

  “Try and have a little fun,” my uncle advised, stepping back and pulling the edges of his jacket up to cover his neck. “And next time, I’ll treat at the pub, all right?” It was an indirect acknowledgment of my financial state, which was precarious, delivered as obliquely as my relation knew how.

  Little did he know that paying for him to eat lunch with me after retrieving me from the train station was far more of a favor for myself than for him. Anything, anything to keep me from dwelling on what was about to happen, had been greatly appreciated, and tales of my aunt Dottie and my numerous cousins made for a good deal of distraction.

  “I’ll walk down with you.” Of course, we didn’t walk—my uncle had been a plumber for most of his career, and as he liked to proclaim loudly and to anyone who would listen, his knees weren’t what they used to be. We took the elevator down, gilt and mirrors making it impossible not to catch a glimpse of myself.

  About all I could say in defense of myself was that the tux still fit. If anything, I wasn’t straining the fabric across the chest and stomach the way I used to. Midnight black and single-breasted, with a proper peaked lapel and no vents—because God forbid you want to access your pockets and check your cell phone during such a formal event—it was a style that would have looked good on anyone, but I thought complemented my fair coloring pretty well. The trousers were perfectly pressed, the cummerbund without reproach, and I’d even given my court shoes a shine. Perhaps their gleam would distract people from the look of impending doom on my face.

  You look like a man playing at being important again, I thought at my reflection. The last time I’d worn this tuxedo, I’d felt like I had belonged in it. Now there were lines of tension edging my mouth and the corners of my tired blue eyes. My hair had accumulated a few strands of gray as well—they were nearly invisible, thanks to my naturally light hair color, but right now I felt like the gray glowed. He would certainly see it.

  Look at you, all dressed up in your too-formal attire, so nervous you could be a boy escorting his date to prom. Pathetic.

  I was grateful to step out of the elevator, but my gratitude evaporated when Gilroy and I got to the front door of the elegant lobby and saw that it had started to rain outside. “Oh damn,” he sighed. “Wouldn’t you know it? And here’s me without an extra umbrella for you.” He shook his head. “It’s no matter. You take mine, lad, I’m not about to be surrounded by the rich and famous.” He held out his blue-and-yellow tartan-patterned umbrella, and I winced.

  “I’ll just borrow one from the concierge,” I told him. “They’re sure to keep them on hand for guests. Go on, get back home to Dottie before she sends the police out looking for you.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he reflected. “All right, Malcolm. Take care of yourself, and try to enjoy that shindig tonight, won’t you?”

  “I certainly shall.” The bar was free, after all. “Good night.” I watched him walk off into the drizzle, then headed for the front desk.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the young woman said with a regretful smile after I asked, “but we don’t keep umbrellas on hand for guests. We do sell them in the gift shop, though.” She pointed me toward the boutique on the other side of the fish tanks in the lobby.

  I’d already splurged on a London-priced lunch today. There was no way I was purchasing a London-priced tourist umbrella as well. “Thank you,” I told her, and headed back for the front door. I wasn’t even a mile from the museum, and it wasn’t raining hard. I could wait for a bus and miss my opportunity to blend into the crowd, or I could risk a little damp damage to my outfit for the night and work off some of my nerves. I decided to walk.

  It turned out, a brisk ten-minute walk in party-only court shoes pinched my toes something fierce, and despite doing my best to stay under awnings as I made my way along Drury Lane, I felt akin to something the cat dragged in by the time I got to the walkway that led into the British Museum. The building was beautifully lit, the space behind the colonnade glowing with white light, and the multitude of well-heeled people stepping through its front doors only enhanced the elegance of the scene.

  Well-heeled people with umbrellas. I wiped my face off, tucked my hair back into a semblance of the style I’d had it in ten minutes earlier, and headed for the crowd.

  I felt drab, but hardly anyone gave me a second glance as I merged into their midst. I accidentally bumped into a man to my left as my shoe slipped on the wet pavement. A strong hand caught my elbow in a firm grip before I could do more than slide a few inches. “You okay?” he asked in a decidedly American accent, his deep voice soft but carrying.

  I couldn’t make out his face in the darkness, and his silhouette was obscured by the umbrella, but I nodded at him and tried to make eye contact regardless. “Quite, thank you.”

  “No problem.” He let go of me, and that was that, although I fancied I could feel the heat of his large, competent hand through my damp jacket for a while longer.

&nbs
p; They were asking for invitations at the door—luckily mine was in my inside pocket and still dry. I presented it to the black-gowned woman wearing a museum badge, and she glanced at it cursorily before starting to hand it back. “Thank you very much, Dr. Armstron—” She paused and did a double take. “Dr. Armstrong?”

  Oh hell, I’d been made. “Thank you,” I said, jerking the gilt-edged paperboard out of her hands and tucking it back in my jacket. I walked past her as quickly as I could with my aching feet, but I felt the weight of her regard on my back as I entered the Great Court. I had to admit it—my breath caught for a moment.

  The space was lit in jewel tones, with traveling spotlights capturing acrobats dangling from the ceiling on complicated apparatuses, twisting and spinning, their costumes glittering like gems. People milled about the enormous room, dodging the crystal-laden tables as they chatted to each other and gaped at the performers, and somehow the mingled scents of all their perfumes and colognes made a harmonious whole. Quick, silent waitstaff passed out drinks and appetizers, and near the base of the Reading Room, beside the dais that would undoubtedly be used for plentiful speechifying as the dinner began, were the director of the museum and several of the board members.

  Not Gerard, though. That was odd—he generally liked to be joined at the hip to the director at these things if he could swing it. Gerard was a bit of a dying breed in the academic world—he was actually Lord Thorburn of Reading, and his family had been very heavy donators to the museum over the centuries. Their private collection was one of the most extensive in England, the product of many generations both buying and absconding with artifacts from wherever they happened to be fighting in at the time. Gerard was the last of his family, and not an academic himself—he’d barely been accepted to Oxford and had only graduated thanks to his father’s bribes—but he did like to be the center of attention.

  Which made it all the more strange that he wasn’t up there basking in the reflected glow of the director’s prestige.