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‘You heard me. I’m calling it off.’
‘You having me on?’
‘The truth is Archie, I’m done with this shit. I just don’t want to do it any more. I can’t do it any more. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ The word was hammered back into Tom’s ear. ‘Sorry? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You do me over and then you apologise? You must be having a laugh. Well, I’m sorry too, sunshine, but sorry just doesn’t bloody cut it. You’re sorry and I’m buggered because I’ve got to deliver two Fabergé Eggs to Cassius in twelve days time or I’m a dead man. Capeesh?’
‘Cassius?’ Tom’s lips formed around the word. He stood up again, his feet sinking into the trash-strewn floor like it was quicksand, his voice a whisper. ‘That was never the deal. You said it was for some guy called Viktor. A Russian client. You never mentioned Cassius. You know I don’t work for people like that. For him especially. What the hell are you playing at?’
‘Listen, when I took the job I didn’t know it was for him either.’ Archie’s voice was calm, soothing even. But to Tom it sounded as if he’d practised this speech many times, knowing how he would react. ‘And by the time I found out, it was too bloody late. We were already on the hook. You know as well as I do that you don’t muck Cassius about. Not now, not ever.’
‘Especially if the money’s good, right?’ said Tom bitterly. ‘Has a way of making you forgetful, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, do me a favour!’
‘What’s your take, Archie? Did he promise you a few extra points for keeping quiet?’
‘The money don’t come into it. It’s a sweet deal for both of us and you know it. Straight in, straight out with a buyer lined up. You never even needed to know it was for Cassius.’ Tom stood with one hand against the wall, his head bowed, the phone pressed to the side of his head. ‘Felix, I know it’s bang out of order but maybe we should meet.’ Archie’s voice was gentle, almost pleading. ‘You know, go for a pint or something. We can plan the second job, deliver both Eggs to Cassius and then move on. If you want to call it a day after that, fine, but we got to do this one thing and we got to do it right.’
What surprised Tom most was how quickly his answer came. He would have expected perhaps some silent deliberation, some internal dialogue as he considered Archie’s position and the implications of Cassius’s involvement on them both, weighed up the pros and cons of doing nothing or agreeing to follow through on this last job. But his answer was instinctive and immediate and had required no debate.
‘I’m sorry, Archie,’ Tom stood up straight, his voice hard. ‘You should have told me the truth. This is your problem now, not mine. You can have the Egg I’ve got as agreed but then that’s it. I’m out.’ He snapped the phone shut and breathed out. There, it was done.
He looked up and flinched. When he had thrown it earlier, the ski mask had snagged on a nail. Now, as it hung there, the empty eye sockets seemed to be mocking him.
FOUR (#ulink_c3824439-838b-5f58-9fd0-5da426e5f505)
Louisville, Kentucky18th July – 2:23pm
It was the sound of the engine that finally woke him. It had broken into his dreams and gotten louder and louder until the noise had shaken him awake. The strange thing was that he had this dizzy, floating sensation as if he was still asleep. Then he remembered. The knock on the back of the head, the sudden flash of pain. Then nothing.
Blinking through the smoke, his head throbbing and awkwardly slumped forward onto his chest, his streaming eyes could just make out a steering wheel, a window, a red tube jutting into the car. The truth slowly dawned on him and his eyes opened wide with fear. Not like this, surely not like this. This wasn’t how it was meant to end.
He realized then that he was coughing, struggling to catch his breath, gasping for air as the blood raced around his head, the dull pumping of his heart echoing in his ears, the tie and collar of his uniform tight around his neck. He felt sick and random thoughts began to tumble through his head as he strained to remain conscious, fireworks of memory that exploded brightly and then immediately dimmed only for another to go off.
His Auntie May, drunk at Thanksgiving when he was eight. Kissing Betty Blake at the Prom. Falling off his bike at college and cutting his chin open. His retirement party when Police Captain O’Reilly had clapped him on the back and whispered that if he ever wanted his old job back, then it was his. The time he’d picked the phone up to do just that, but then slapped it back down in the certain knowledge that Debbie would say no. Debbie and the kids waving to him from the porch, smiling and happy and oblivious.
Debbie. At the thought of her he had started to cry, tried to wrap his guilt in grief, but found that the tears wouldn’t come now, that his arid body had begun to ignore him and his throat merely constricted further with the effort.
Sweet Lord Jesus, he prayed through the drumming in his head, let me live long enough to tell her what really happened; why I really did this; why they killed me.
Even though he couldn’t feel his legs, somehow he managed to summon the strength to beat his hand weakly against the glass, scrabble at the door handle. The handle moved, but the door wouldn’t open. The seat belt was hugging him, pressing into his stomach, crushing his chest, stopping him from breathing.
He tried to scream, but his red lips barely parted. And then, despite everything, despite the heat and the smoke and the fear, he smiled at the beautiful simplicity of it all. Gently, the sound of the engine lulled him back to sleep.
FIVE (#ulink_ec5c7749-311c-5a73-83c8-5564fff5ab8e)
FBI Laboratory, FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia
18th July – 11:10pm
‘You still here?’
Dr Sarah Lucas paused in the doorway to the laboratory as she pulled her jacket on, lifting her blonde hair out from under the collar. The room was dark apart from the pool of light around the computer at the far end, the outline of the person hunched in front of it silhouetted against the flickering screen.
‘Yeah,’ the outline grunted back. ‘I promised some cop in New York I’d run something through the system before I left tonight. Kinda wishing I hadn’t.’
Sarah smiled. David Mahoney was a rookie fresh out of Quantico, full of zesty enthusiasm and uncomplicated ambition. He still had a lot to learn; knowing when to say no was right up there. But that would come with time and experience. Then again, she mused, it was past eleven and she was still there. Maybe some people just never learned to say no. She put her briefcase down and stepped into the room.
‘What have you got?’
Mahoney was tapping furiously into the keyboard, his stubby fingers complementing his round, fleshy face, greasy brown hair parted on the left hand side and scooped behind his ears. He barely looked up when she peered over his shoulder, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses on her face.
‘Get this. Some guy abseiled down to the 17th floor of a Park Avenue apartment block, stole a nine million dollar Easter egg and then vanished. NYPD forensics found an eyelash on the floor next to the safe. They figure it’s probably unrelated but wanted us to run it through just in case something showed up. It’ll only be another few seconds.’ He looked up at her, the spots on his shiny forehead glowing purple in the flickering blue light. ‘What about you? What are you still doing here?’
‘Keeping my promises, like you.’ She smiled back. ‘Here you go.’
The screen flickered red, a boxed message flashing intermittently.
‘Restricted Access – Security Clearance must be sought before viewing this file.’
Beneath it, a name and a phone number.
‘Shit.’ She swore as she read the message and stood up straight.
‘What just happened?’ Mahoney was clicking furiously on his mouse as he tried to get the previous page back. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you forget you ever saw this.’ Her voice was grim, her jaw set firm. ‘You call up the NYPD tomorrow and tell them that you didn’t get a match. This never happened, understand?’
Mahoney nodded dumbly, his eyes wide and bewildered. She reached past him for the phone and dialled the number at the bottom of the message on the screen.
‘Yes – hello, sir,’ she said when the phone was answered. ‘This is Dr Lucas over at the FBI Lab in Quantico. I’m sorry for calling you so late. It’s just that NYPD sent across a sample taken from a crime scene two days ago. When we put it into the computer the system locked us out and said to call you … yes, sir … no, sir, just me and a new recruit … yes, sir, I’ve told him the drill.’ She fixed Mahoney with a cold stare. ‘I think he knows the consequences … thank you, sir. You too, sir.’
She put the phone down and turned to a confused-looking Mahoney with a tight smile.
‘Welcome to the FBI.’
SIX (#ulink_a195c9e1-c827-53f3-8abc-0e3c9dac6370)
Washington DC19th July – 08:35am
The car was new and the smell of faux leather and moulded plastic hung heavily in the air. A silver crucifix hung on a thin chain from the driver’s mirror and spiralled gently, its flat surface catching the light every so often.
Looking up from her notes, Jennifer lowered the window and let the hot breeze massage her face as the car crawled through the downtown traffic on Constitution Avenue towards the Smithsonian, as first the Lincoln and then the black hulk of the Vietnam Memorial inched past. A lone veteran was on patrol, two small Stars and Stripes taped to the handles of his wheelchair like pennants on a diplomatic stretch. Up ahead, two huge coaches spewed Japanese tourists onto the sidewalk, cameras unholstered as soon as their feet hit the concrete.
Unconsciously she smoothed the left lapel on the jacket of her black trouser suit. She always wore black. She looked good in it and besides it was one less decision to make in the morning. Noticing the time on the dashboard clock, Jennifer shook her head in irritation. She was late for her appointment and she hated being late. Five minutes later, seeing that she was only level with the Washington Monument, she opened her purse.
‘I’ll walk from here,’ she said thrusting twenty dollars past the driver’s right ear.
She opened the door and stepped out onto the street, the tarmac already soft under the heel of her shoes as the temperature climbed. She squeezed between two government-issue black sedans, their air-conditioned passengers shielded behind smoked glass, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A bit further on, a hot-dog seller had already installed himself on the corner of 16th Street and the smell of frying onions and reheated sausage meat made her stomach lurch unsteadily. Gritting her teeth and breathing through her mouth, she walked on.
The Smithsonian Institution is the largest museum complex in the world, comprising fourteen separate museums and the National Zoo in DC itself and two further museums in New York. Taken as a whole, the museum’s collection numbers over one hundred and forty-two million separate objects.
The Money and Medals Hall of the National Numismatic Collection is housed on the third floor of the National Museum of American History, a low-slung, white stone 1960s building on the National Mall at the junction of 14th Street and Constitution Avenue. The Collection numbers over four hundred thousand items although only a tiny fraction of these are ever on display.
Ten minutes later, Jennifer was ushered into a dark wood-panelled office, her feet sinking into the thick green carpet. A Stars and Stripes loomed in the corner. Framed by two large windows at the far end of the room, Miles Baxter, forty-two, the curator of the National Numismatic Collection, was sitting behind a massive desk covered in files and papers. He wore a dark blue sports jacket over a button-down white shirt and beige chinos and the air was heavy with the scent of freshly applied aftershave. He didn’t get up.
‘They didn’t tell me they were sending a woman.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ Jennifer felt herself tensing automatically.
‘Quite the contrary, Miss Browne. It’s a very pleasant surprise. It’s just that if I’d known I’d have made more of an effort.’
He smiled and two rows of piano-key perfect teeth flashed back at her from a tanned and confident face. They shook hands and his palm felt moist. Almost subconsciously she registered that his hair was less fluffy where it parted on the left hand side. She knew instinctively that he had licked his hand and then smoothed his hair down just before she had been shown in. So much for not making an effort.
‘It’s Special Agent Browne, actually,’ said Jennifer, taking out her ID and passing it to him.
His smile faded.
‘Of course it is.’
He studied her ID carefully, diligently comparing her face to the picture with several searching glances. She took the opportunity to wipe her palm, still damp where he had clutched her hand in his, against her trouser leg. He snapped her wallet shut and handed it back to her.
‘Of course, I’ve dealt with the FBI before, although if I may say so never with someone quite so … attractive. Unfortunately I’m not at liberty to discuss those cases with you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘A small matter of national security; I’m sure you understand.’ He gestured towards the right hand wall which she could see was decorated like a small shrine with photos, carefully calligraphed certificates and gilt-lettered diplomas. She nodded and hoped that he didn’t notice her stifle a smile.
‘Do you know Washington well?’ She gave a slight shrug which seemed to be all the encouragement Baxter needed. ‘You know, if you want someone to show you around, I’d be very happy to act as your tour guide one weekend.’
A couple of years ago, when she had still believed that intelligence and hard work would be enough for a black woman to make it as an FBI agent, Jennifer would have met that sort of offer with an acidic smile and a dismissive laugh as a matter of principle. But that was before the dull blade of experience had taught her to use all the tools at her disposal. If that meant telling Miles Baxter what he wanted to hear so that she would have something good to go back to Corbett with, then so be it.
‘I’d like that.’ She brushed her hand coquettishly through her hair.
‘Great.’ He beamed. ‘Please sit down.’ He nodded towards the leather armchair opposite him. ‘And you must call me Miles.’
‘Thank you Miles.’ She smiled warmly. ‘You must call me Jennifer.’
Baxter placed his hands together as if in prayer, his fingers sore and ripped where he had bitten his nails.
‘So, Jennifer, how can I help?’
She reached inside her jacket.
‘What can you tell me about this coin?’ She held the coin still sealed inside its protective plastic envelope, out to Baxter, who slipped on a steel-rimmed pair of glasses and angled it underneath the green shade of his desk light so that he could make out the embossed detail. He looked up, his eyes wide with amazement, his voice halting and for the first time uncertain.
‘Where … what … how did you get this?’ He shook his head in disbelief, the slack skin under his chin tracking his head movements like a small pendulum. ‘This is incredible. It’s impossible.’ His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling slightly as he turned the coin over and over in his fingers as if it was too hot to hold still.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well … it’s a 1933 Double Eagle, of course.’
She shrugged.
‘I’m not a coin expert, Miles.’
‘No, of course not. Sorry. Well, you see, the US government has been minting gold coins since the mid 1790s and twenty dollar coins, or Double Eagles, since the 1849 Gold Rush.’
‘Why Double Eagle? There’s only one eagle on the coin.’
‘Just one of those things, I guess.’ He sniffed. ‘Ten dollar coins were known as Eagles, so when the twenty dollar coins appeared, they were called Double Eagles. Most people can be very unimaginative if they try hard enough.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s all down to the date,’ he said, with a thoughtful look on his face.
‘You mean on the coin? Why, what happened in 1933?’
‘It’s more what didn’t happen in 1933,’ said Baxter, tapping the side of his pink nose enigmatically as the colour began to return to his cheeks and his voice grew more confident. He placed the coin on the desk and sat back in his chair. ‘The interesting thing about a gold coin minted in 1933 is that at the time America was in the grip of the Depression. And as a result, days after assuming the Presidency in March 1933, Roosevelt took the country off the gold standard and banned the production, sale and ownership of gold.’
Jennifer nodded as a long-forgotten high-school history project bubbled back to the top of her mind. The Wall Street Crash in 1929. The Great Depression that followed. A quarter of the nation out of work, the country in chaos. And in that hurricane of human misery, with stocks and bonds worthless and life savings wiped out, people had clung onto the only thing that they believed had any real value. Gold.
‘The President wanted to stop the hoarding and calm the markets by shoring up the Federal gold reserves,’ Baxter continued, illustrating this with a series of increasingly animated hand gestures. ‘Executive Order 6102 prohibited people from owning gold and banks from paying it out.’
‘Leaving coins like this stranded, I guess.’
‘Exactly. By the time FDR passed this law, 445,500 1933 Double Eagles had already been minted and were just sitting in the Philadelphia Mint, ready to be put into circulation. Suddenly there was nowhere for them to go.’
‘So they couldn’t issue them?’
Baxter smiled. ‘They couldn’t do anything with them. Except melt them down, of course, which they eventually did in 1937. Every single one.’
He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper.
‘You see officially, Jennifer, the 1933 Double Eagle never existed.’
SEVEN (#ulink_d34823b4-0fdd-54d0-9246-2634cc1ff1a8)
Clerkenwell, London19th July – 2:05pm
He’d had the shop’s frontage painted a treacly black, although the windows themselves were still obscured from the street by the thin coat of whitewash. Against this background the shop’s name, freshly painted in large gold letters in a semicircle across both panes, seemed to stand out even more prominently. Tom read it proudly: ‘Kirk Duval’. His mother would have liked that. And then under it in a straight line and smaller letters: ‘Fine Art & Antiques’.
He checked both ways and then crossed the street, stopping halfway as he searched for a gap in the traffic, eventually reaching the shop door. It opened noiselessly under his touch to reveal a jumble of hastily-deposited boxes and half-opened packing crates, their contents poking resolutely through straw and Styrofoam. In one, an elegant Regency clock. In another, a marble bust of Caesar or Alexander, he hadn’t checked yet. Across the room, an Edwardian rosewood card table had been completely unpacked and a large Han Dynasty vase filled with dried flowers stood in the middle of the dark green felt. It was going to take weeks to sort it all out.
Still, that didn’t bother Tom. Not now. For the first time in as long as he could remember he had time on his side. He had thought about stopping before, of course, or at least toyed with the idea. After all, he hadn’t needed the money for years. But he’d never been able to stay away for more than a few weeks. Like a gambler ushered back to their favourite seat at the blackjack table after a brief absence, he had been sucked back in every time.
This time was different though. Things had changed. He’d changed. The New York job had proved that to him.
And yet one name lurked beneath the thin veneer of normality that Tom had tried to build for himself over the past few days. Cassius. He wasn’t sure if Archie had been lying or not, using Cassius’s name perhaps to try and force Tom’s hand to follow through on the job. If so he was taking a big risk. But if it really was Cassius that had commissioned the theft, then Archie was rolling the dice without even properly understanding the rules or how Cassius played the game. Or even perhaps what was at stake.
But Archie wasn’t his responsibility. That’s what Tom kept reminding himself. Not now, not ever. If he had gotten himself into this mess then it was up to him to get himself out of it. Tom wasn’t being heartless. Those were just the rules.
