The Art of Possession Page 6

  “Because you seemed, perhaps, a bit… disbelieving?” Mal put on an expression of contrition that I only partially believed. “Am I wrong?”

  I thought about it for a moment, then said, “I wasn’t able to tell whether he’d really been choked unconscious or not. There was no bruising, but she might have been exceptionally good at blood chokes.” If Mr. Ashad was telling the truth, then this woman had some real skills.

  Mal began to speak again, but then the cab came to a stop outside our hotel. “Thanks,” I said, paying the cabbie in cash before I got out. It was still raining, but Mal and I made a dash to the front door and barely got caught by the drizzle. “Which is your room?” I asked as we entered the lobby. It was sparsely populated at this time of night—a few people still in the café feeding their coffee addictions, a father with two small children admiring the fish tanks, and a gentleman sitting in an armchair with a single, black leather bag at his feet, looking at his phone.

  “I, ah, I’m up at the top, actually. Eight-oh-seven.”

  “Same here, Eight-eleven.” I actually kind of hated being on the top floor—the more distance it took for me to get from my room to the exit, the less I liked it, but I was only going to be here one night. “What do you say we change out of these monkey suits, then meet up in your room in fifteen minutes? I’d like to go over our potential next steps with you, see what you think.” I led the way to the elevator—I hated to do it, but Mal didn’t look like a nine-flights-of-stairs kind of guy—and punched the button for the top floor.

  He looked at me with surprise clear on his face. “Does it really matter what I think? I mean, you’re the expert at retrieving things like this, right?” He scratched the back of his neck with one hand. “I rather assumed that you’d be calling the shots on most of this. I’m basically just here to determine whether or not the thing is the genuine article and then get it back to the museum in time for the exhibition.”

  “That’s not true,” I said firmly. “If we’re going to work together on this, then it’s important that we talk things out, make a plan in advance that’s good for both of us. I’ll pull rank if I have to when it comes to saving our lives, but I think you’re selling yourself short, Mal.” It was only the second time I’d tried out his name, and the little flush that erupted around his ears was pretty telling.

  “I appreciate the consideration,” he said, smiling a little as the doors opened again. “Fifteen minutes, then.”

  I watched him enter his own room after fumbling for the key for a moment, then walked down to my own. I shut the door and did a quick check of the room for anything that looked out of order, but it seemed like nothing had been disturbed while I was away. And why should it have been? The hotel employees had no reason to come in, and I had no reason to think anyone else would. I had an itch going in my mind now, though, the kind I couldn’t scratch no matter how hard I tried. It would stick with me until the job was done. I knew that much from experience.

  Not safe, not safe, not safe.

  Well, shit. There went all my hopes of a good night’s sleep. I pulled the bow tie and jacket off, set my gun and holster aside, then got started on the cuff links as I called up Robert.

  “Kensington here.”

  “I’m on the verge of demanding double for this shitshow of a job,” I said.

  “Ah.” He laughed. “I see you’ve gotten the details from Mr. Ashad.”

  “And his friend, Gerard Thorburn, who really seems to be the one pulling the strings. How much do you know about these guys?”

  “Not much more than what’s publicly available.” I heard tapping over the phone. “Gerard Thorburn is a member of the aristocracy whose family has a long history of generous and sometimes dubious donations to the British Museum.”

  I grabbed at that. “Dubious how?”

  “Well, apparently some of the pieces they handed over didn’t have good, established provenance. It’s not too surprising, considering the time period, but it’s given the family something of a reputation in academic circles.”

  Interesting. “And Mr. Ashad?”

  “A moderately wealthy man with a love of history who owns menswear shops in several big cities around the globe.” A few more taps. “His business has been hit hard by the economic downturn, though. Not as many people are willing to shell out for custom suits these days. It looks like he’s on the hook for several loans.”

  Even more interesting. “Do any of them come from Thorburn?”

  “It looks like they’re all from established banks, but I’ll check into it more.”

  “Thanks.” I unbuttoned my dress shirt and shucked it onto the bed.

  “Anything else you want me to look into?”

  I paused, my eyes narrowing. “You’re being awfully accommodating.”

  “I’m a nice boss.”

  “You’re a nice person, but you’re a ruthless taskmaster of a boss. What’s making you so congenial?”

  “Monsieur Mercier caved.” Robert sounded very satisfied by that. “Apparently his daughter had a lot to say to him once she found out he was trying to renege on the deal. She even got you a bonus.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I shook my head. “Poor kid. She shouldn’t have to worry about shit like that after what she’s been through.”

  “Sometimes the best thing for a person is having something else to focus on after shit like that,” Robert said quietly. “It gives you an outlet for things you’re not ready to face yet.”

  Robert would know. I changed the subject. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to do a little digging into Malcolm Armstrong.”

  “The guy you’re going to be working with?” Tap-tap. “I’ve got a basic workup already that I’ll send to your inbox. Tech is still trying to identify the thief, but we gave you a few good stills.”

  “Thanks.” I should check that now, but I had something else I needed to get off my chest. “Just so you know, I’m a little amped up about this one.”

  “Yeah?” Robert knew my own personal code phrases—hell, he’d helped me develop them. Amped could mean several things, ranging from simple paranoia and mild insomnia to full-blown flashbacks if things got really bad. It had taken me a while to feel comfortable sharing what I viewed as weaknesses with him, but again—if anyone got it, it was Robert. If he was going to be my handler for this mission, then he needed to know that the itch was alive and well this time around.

  “Yeah,” I confirmed. “I’ll let you know if my capabilities end up compromised.” It was potentially a weeklong mission, and there was a limit to how long I could still do my job without adequate sleep.

  “I know you will. I’ll have backup read in and on standby in case you need it.”

  “Thanks.” I undid my belt, let my pants drop and put them on the bed with the rest of my discarded tux.

  “Anything else? Do you feel comfortable in your room? I’ve got a guy with a safehouse not eight blocks from where you are now, if you need something more defensible.”

  “It’s fine.” Bland, but fine.

  “Good. Let me know if things change.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  Robert laughed. “Good afternoon, you mean.”

  “I said what I said.” I ended the call and took a moment to hang up the tux, then put on a far more comfortable set of work clothes—dark blue jeans, gray henley, plain black socks, and a sturdy pair of shoes. I glanced at myself in the bathroom mirror and took a second to ruffle my rain-flattened hair.

  Had it been fifteen minutes? I checked my watch—close enough. I put my weapons back on—I didn’t believe in leaving those kinds of thing lying around, even in a private room—tossed my regular jacket over the top of it all, and opened my door.

  I stepped out into the hall just in time to see the door next to me swing closed. It was the room in between mine and Mal’s, and it wasn’t the fact that it was occupied that caught and held my attention. It was the fact that as the door swung shut, the last thing I saw
vanish inside of it was a vaguely familiar black leather bag. The man sitting down in the lobby had a bag like that. Funny that he would end up here, right between us. Funny that he was staying at all—I’d assumed he was waiting for a cab, not sitting around before checking into the hotel.

  Not safe, not safe, not safe.

  Not necessarily unsafe, though, and I didn’t want to jump to conclusions and frighten the wits out of my new partner before we’d even really gotten started on the job. I rolled my shoulders a few times, then knocked on Mal’s door.

  He opened it a moment later, in khakis and a white cotton button-down now instead of his tuxedo. He wore a pair of faded brown socks on his feet, his hair was parted at the side and combed into submission, and for a second he reminded me of my crush on the professor of my history of the Civil War class back in college.

  “Alex? Did you want to come in?”

  I kickstarted my brain back into gear. “Yeah, thanks.” I glanced over at the door to the right again, but it remained firmly closed. I stepped into Mal’s room, a carbon copy of my own except for a blue bedspread instead of beige.

  “Would you care for some water? Or tea? They left an assortment by the kettle.” He pointed at the table next to the television, where a black plastic box and an electric kettle were perched along the wall.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Right, then. Right.” Mal ran a hand through his hair and said, sheepishly, “You ought to know that I’ve got absolutely no clue where we go from here. Isn’t it possible that this thief is already in a different country? I mean, what are the chances of us finding her now?”

  “It’s hard to say,” I said. “We don’t know who her buyer is, so it’s not unlikely that she hasn’t even left London yet. On the other hand, there’s CCTV everywhere here, and she’s on a watch list, so while the number of people here works in her favor, the surveillance makes it less safe for her to be here.” I sat down in the chair across from the bed. “Take a load off, we’ll be here a while.” Once he was sitting across from me, I asked, “Who’s the market for a piece like this? Who would want the scepter of Mansa Musa?”

  “That… is an interesting question.” Mal’s eyes lit up as he considered it. “It’s particularly interesting because of the questionable provenance of the scepter. Most professional facilities wouldn’t engage a thief to handle something like this without complete assurances that they were after the genuine article—it’s not as farfetched as it sounds,” he added, taking in my expression. “The Chinese government has been funding the return of their own artifacts for years now, and not always legally. Of course, legality is a muddled business when you consider that so many of the artifacts were looted in the first place, but nevertheless, it does happen.”

  “So we can cross other museums off the list of likely suspects,” I said. “Who’s next?”

  “Private collectors would come next. They would have the same issue as an organization, but if they’d become assured somehow of the truth of the scepter’s origin, it would matter less that they couldn’t display it to the world. They don’t collect art to feed the souls of others, they hoard it like dragons in environmentally-controlled vaults and half the time forget it’s even there.”

  I hid a smile behind my hand as I scratched my chin. “You sound very annoyed by that.”

  “Well, I am! I think anyone with any sense should be. Art is something that should be shared, appreciated by as many people as possible. One piece can represent the essence of an entire civilization, and to think that some blue blood or plutocrat can use something as crass and ephemeral as money to steal it away from the masses… it’s disgusting to me, it truly is.” His eyes lit up as he elaborated, bringing a liveliness to his face that was startlingly appealing. I adjusted my position in the chair. It had been a long time since any guy had gotten to me as fast as Mal did, but we were working a job together. Now was decidedly not the time for a hookup.

  “The scepter would be of particular interest to African collectors, of course, or those with a large personal collection of African art. Possibly someone within the Malian government might throw their hat into the ring, but I doubt they’d go so far as to hire thieves to go after it, especially if they didn’t know it was genuine.” Mal pursed his lips. “Then we have the bottom feeders, so to speak. Those who would take something like this—something with priceless historical potential—and melt it down so they could sell the gold.” He sighed, then brightened slightly. “Of course, with the gold market the way it is right now, they wouldn’t have any reason to pursue such a degradation quickly. But I sincerely doubt it’s someone like that. There are easier paths to take.”

  “I agree.” Huh. That narrowed things a little bit, but not as much as I liked. “Are there any private collectors here in London that you can think of who’d be interested in something like this?”

  “A few… but you have to understand, I’ve been out of the game for several years now. Fortunes rise and fall so quickly, it’s hard to keep track of who’s still a player. Not to mention, there’s been a precipitous rise recently in the use of art as a means of laundering money. Of course, that’s generally with art that’s bought in the public sphere, but….” He shrugged. “I’m so sorry, I wish I could be more help to you.”

  “It’s fine. This is a good place to start.” I pulled out my phone. “Let me get in touch with my handler, see what he can dig up.” I noticed I had a new message from Robert and opened it. It was a picture—several pictures—of a woman. I looked at her, and for a second I didn’t move a muscle.

  The picture was in black and white, and her long black hair might be pulled into a tight french braid, but I knew that woman. I’d seen her earlier today, right outside the opera house. What the fuck?

  Not safe, not safe, not safe.

  “Alex?” I heard Mal’s voice as though it was coming over a long distance. “Is there something wrong?”

  I shook my head to clear it, twisting my head to the side to crack a stiff vertebra. “Yeah, actually. There is.” I handed over the phone. “Do you recognize that woman?”

  “Is this the thief?” Mal perused the photos with interest. “Hmm, I—no, I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He looked up at me, his lips pressed tight. “I’m quite sure. Are you expecting me to lie to you about this?”

  “This isn’t about lying, it’s about spying, and I’m not accusing you.” I held out my hand for the phone. “I saw this woman earlier today—same person, walking around not four blocks from here.”

  “Oh.” Mal’s eyes widened. “You think she was spying on you? But—why would she bother? Did she know who you are?”

  “She must have.” How, I wasn’t sure yet, but I’d definitely be bitching to Robert about our lack of intel. However she knew…. “We can’t stay here.” I practically jumped to my feet. “Pack everything. I’ll arrange for another place for us tonight.”

  Mal frowned. “But the room’s already paid for.”

  “Yeah, and our names are in the computer. It wouldn’t be too difficult to hunt down which rooms we’re staying in.” And maybe to arrange to settle in right between them? It would be a good place for an assassination.

  You paranoid motherfucker.

  “I just don’t want to take any chances,” I said, taking care to keep my voice calm and measured. If Mal thought I was losing my shit, then the odds of him keeping it together went way down. It wasn’t his fault—he was a civilian, not a combatant. Still, it wasn’t anything I wanted to deal with right now. “So pack up, and I’ll make my call.”

  Mal nodded slowly. “If you’re sure.” He stood and headed for the bathroom. I heard the tick of plastic against marble, probably toiletries being put back into a shaving kit. I kept one ear on Mal as I called Robert again.

  “Miss me already?” he asked with a laugh in his voice. “Did you get the—”

  “I saw this woman on the street today. Mr. Armstrong and I need
alternate accommodations.”

  “Threat level?” Robert’s voice was all business now.

  “Yellow.” I was on edge, but I couldn’t prove anything yet. If this woman was really good, I probably wouldn’t be able to prove anything before bullets began flying. Then again, how good could she be, showing her hand to me like this?

  Then again, if she was really confident and had a very particular type of personality, she didn’t care if I knew she was here. She was sure I wouldn’t see her until there was nothing I could do to stop her.

  Or, fuck it, maybe it was inadvertent, or she was just sizing me up before selling her stolen treasure. Those options were as valid anything else right now.

  “Understood.” I heard his keyboard start to clack. “I’m sending a contact to meet you in the lobby of the hotel. He’ll be there in ten minutes. He’s wearing a red Arsenal ballcap.” Robert paused. “The football team, not—”

  “I know what you’re talking about.”

  “He’ll take you and Mr. Armstrong to the safehouse by a roundabout route.”

  I swallowed hard. “You trust him?”

  “With my life. Not that I’ve seen him in person in a decade.” Robert’s tone softened a bit. “He’s the reason we don’t have an office in London.”

  Oh. Oh. “You’re asking me to trust your ex on this?”

  “I am. He’s a territorial son of a bitch, but he’s as loyal as they come.”

  I sighed. “All right. I’ll need a bag once we get there, I’m leaving my personal effects except for my own arsenal behind.” I saw Mal look curiously at me as he emerged from the bathroom. “More ammo would be nice too.”

  Robert huffed. “He’ll charge me an arm and a leg for it, but fine. He’s got friends in Scotland Yard—I’ll get him to loop into the search for the woman. We’ll find her, Alex.”

  If she hasn’t already found us first. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll check in with you at 0800 your time if I don’t hear something back sooner than that.”

  It was going to be a late night for him. “Understood.” I ended the call and glanced at Mal. “How’s it coming?”