All Gone Read online

  She was grateful for the financial support. But the Trustees, led by Sir Robert Howell, had been a constant distraction throughout the planning and construction of the exhibit, offering opinions and suggestions that she didn’t need but couldn’t afford to dismiss. Now she’d find out how dedicated to their mission they were.

  She found Sir Robert’s private number in her list of contacts and called. It was 4:52 a.m., but Sarah didn’t care about waking him. She’d go over there and drag him out of bed by his ankles if she had to.

  TWO

  CASSIE IRELAND SPENT SUNDAY afternoon strolling the 16th Arrondissement in Paris. She walked past a two-story mansion several times, lingering to aim her cellphone at it as the owner, Jason Seabolt, came and went. She’d downloaded software to her phone enabling it to receive and transmit wireless radio signals, including the unencrypted signals from the home’s alarm system so that she could identify and store the code to disarm it.

  The house was surrounded by a wall that came up to her chin. On one of her passes, she peeked over it, drawing the attention of two Doberman Pinschers that raced toward her, barking, lips curled back and fangs exposed. They threw themselves against the wall, sticking their noses close enough to hers that she could smell what they’d had for breakfast.

  “See you soon, boys,” she said.

  Seabolt was a wealthy, ex-pat African American. He lived there with his wife and six-year old daughter, Ameila and a caretaker for the estate. A month ago, he put the house on the market for 12.5-million euros. Cassie had studied the photographs of the exterior and interior and a drawing of the floor plan the realtor had uploaded to its website.

  There were nine rooms on the first floor, including a ballroom, study and music room, plus five second-floor bedrooms. On the lower level, there was a 1000-bottle wine cellar, state-of-the art fitness center and cinema. French doors opened to the back of the house from the lower level onto a large flagstone patio where there was a fountain with jets of water spouting from a statue of Poseidon. The grounds were landscaped with mature oaks and shrubs manicured into the shapes of monkeys, giraffes and other zoo animals. The dogs had what the realtor described as their own mini-mansion near the back wall, a hundred square-foot heated and air-conditioned pitched-roof shelter with front and side entrances.

  Relying on aerial photographs of the neighborhood she found on Google Maps, Cassie scouted the route she would take to and from the house, practicing it with Google’s street view feature. Her Sunday afternoon walk was a dry run.

  The house was filled with valuable works of art and museum quality collectibles but she’d been hired to recover only one of them. A human skull, cast in platinum and encrusted with ten-thousand flawless diamonds with a pear-shaped pink diamond mounted in the forehead. The mouth was open in a silent grin, the original teeth, dull with age, in sharp contrast to the skull’s glittering afterlife glow. The diamonds alone were worth more than twenty-million dollars. Some critics derided it as kitsch. Others called it genius, appraising it for five times that.

  Seabolt had acquired the skull by persuading its owner, an elderly man too incompetent to know better, to change his will, giving the skull to him rather than to his daughter. After her father’s death, the daughter hired Cassie’s employer, Prometheus, to recover the skull. She was happy to pay his million-dollar fee, twenty-five percent of which was Cassie’s share.

  Cassie returned to Seabolt’s house after midnight dressed in skin-tight black running pants and a matching top under a black zippered waist-cut jacket and wearing a black watch cap and thin, black leather gloves. She strapped a black fanny pack around her waist. Her ebony skin blended with the clothes.

  The house was dark. She walked around to the side, clambered up onto the wall and whistled for the Dobermans. They bolted from their doghouse and jumped at her, snarling. It took a second for them to recognize the raw steaks she was holding in each hand. She let them get a good sniff, then threw one to her right and the other to her left. The dogs didn’t hesitate, splitting up to claim their prize. She waited for them to chew the meat and for the sedative she’d laced it with to take effect. If that didn’t work, she’d use her tranquilizer dart gun. Five minutes later, they were asleep.

  Cassie stood in front of the French doors to the lower level and sent a signal from her cellphone transmitting the code to turn off the alarm system. The lock was a simple deadbolt that she picked in less than a minute. When she opened the doors, the alarm remained silent.

  The client had assured Prometheus that the skull was in Seabolt’s house but said she didn’t know where. Cassie had a lot of ground to cover and knew that the longer she stayed, the more likely something would go wrong. If things went her way, the skull would be displayed on a table or shelf rather than locked in a safe.

  The skull wasn’t on the lower level. She checked her watch as she searched the first floor. Fifteen minutes had passed. Too long. She stood at the foot of the spiral, marble staircase in the entry hall, listening for any hint that someone on the second floor was awake. Hearing nothing, she moved on.

  The study was paneled in honey-colored wood. The parquet floor was partly covered by a Persian rug. Cassie surveyed the bookshelves covering two of the walls. They were filled with first editions and rare manuscripts. A desk faced a wall of glass with a sliding door leading to a side yard. An overstuffed easy chair was in one corner. The skull sat on a gold stand in the center of an end table next to the chair. Cassie admired it for a moment, then slipped it into a cushioned velvet bag from her fanny pack.

  The lights came on and a gruff voice from behind her said, “Don’t move. I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it. Turn around and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Cassie eased her dart gun out of the fanny pack. “Okay, take it easy. I’m not armed.”

  She turned toward him, dropped to a knee and fired a dart before he realized what was happening, hitting him in the shoulder. He let loose his gun and tried to move his mouth but no sound came out. A quizzical look came over his face as he sank to the floor. It was the caretaker, a short, middle-aged, skinny Frenchman wearing boxers and a t-shirt. Cassie picked up his gun. It wasn’t loaded. She pulled the dart from his shoulder and dragged him to the easy chair, placing his gun under the cushion. Then she lifted him off the floor and sat him in the chair, letting his chin rest on his chest.

  Cassie put the dart gun back in the fanny pack and latched the velvet bag to her belt with a carabiner. When she turned around, Amelia was standing in the doorway to the study, her natural hair coils hanging over her eyes and past her ears, wearing a nightgown that hid her feet. Cassie towered over her. For an instant, she thought she was looking back in time at herself at that age. Same dark skin, same hair style. But there was something else familiar in the wide-eyed expression on the child’s round face. She was more curious than afraid.

  “What’s the matter with Francois?” she asked.

  Cassie crouched in front of the girl. “Nothing. He’s just sleeping. Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I had a bad dream. Francois always tells me a story after I have a bad dream. I went to his room and he wasn’t there.”

  “So, you came looking for him.”

  Amelia nodded. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a night watcher.”

  “What’s a night watcher?”

  “I watch over little girls when they’re sleeping to keep them safe.”

  The girl looked at the table where the skull had been, then at Cassie. “What happened to the skull?”

  Cassie said, “I took it.”

  “Why?”

  “It belongs to someone else. I’m going to return it to her. Is that okay with you?”

  Amelia thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’m glad because I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t? Why not?”

  “It’s scary.”

  “Well, I won’t let it scare you anymore.” Cassie walked to the sliding door. She stepped outs
ide and looked back at the girl. “Go back to bed, mon Cheri, and dream sweet dreams.”

  The girl waved as Cassie closed the door behind her.

  She walked toward the wall, stopping when she heard growling coming from either side of her. She had been inside too long. The Dobermans were awake. She broke into a run as they charged after her. Leaping onto the statue of Poseidon, she held onto its neck as she spun around, letting the dogs pass beneath her. She jumped to the ground and ran toward the doghouse. The Dobermans were closing fast. She scrambled onto the roof, grabbed an overhanging branch on a nearby oak tree and swung over the wall. Hitting the ground, she kept running until she couldn’t hear the dogs barking.

  THREE

  SIR ROBERT HOWELL STUDIED one of the fake Magna Cartas, leaning over the display case until his nose was inches from the surface. He was tall enough that he had to bend his knees and fold him forearms on top of the case to get a good look without losing his balance. He drew an ivory handkerchief from the front pocket of his tweed jacket and wiped away the fog his breath had left on the glass, then straightened and returned the handkerchief without uttering a word. He repeated the routine for each of the fakes, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  Sarah St. James stood a few paces behind him, digging her fingernails into her palms as she waited for him to say something, anything. When she explained to Sir Robert over the phone what had happened, he said he’d be there straightaway and hung up without asking for details or raising his voice. He was so calm she wondered if he’d understood what she’d said. And he was just as calm now, betraying none of the anxiety that threatened to reduce her to a puddle.

  She backed up as he stepped behind the rope line, eyeing the exhibit from the same distance as the visitors who would fill the gallery in a few hours. He tugged on his mustache, an abundant, iron gray shock of hair that dominated his thin face, and tilted his head to one side, muttering as he walked back and forth.

  “Hmmm…quite right….indeed.”

  “I did the best I could…”

  Sir Robert turned to her and raised his hand to cut her off. “You’re quite the clever girl, aren’t you?” She didn’t know what to say. He let her suffer for another long moment. “From behind the rope, these reproductions look entirely authentic and would certainly satisfy all but the most discerning eyes.”

  Sarah exhaled a long, shaky breath. “Then we’ll proceed with the opening.”

  “I believe that’s our best option.”

  “Brilliant. If we’re lucky, no one else will ever have to know what happened.”

  “Unless we fail to recover the originals, which is frankly the more pressing matter. I’ll have to alert the other Trustees, of course. I rather think they’ll want an explanation before they part with a hundred million pounds.”

  Sarah tried not to sound too desperate as she asked the crucial question. “Do you think they’ll pay the ransom?”

  He shook his head, again playing with his mustache. In his early sixties, his bony frame, complimented his oblong head and gray eyes. Take away his money and station in life and he’d pass as an ordinary commoner. Dressed and rich, his piercing gaze and cool, detached manner warned others to tread lightly.

  “We shall see, my dear. None of us want the Magna Cartas lost on our watch but, shared among the nine of us, the ransom comes to a bit more than eleven million pounds each, a not inconsiderable sum even for the Trustees. I’ve called an emergency meeting for later today. I will urge them to be prepared to pay but it might be well to consider other options.”

  “You can’t mean the police. The ransom note said…”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve learned from hard experience that it would do more harm than good to involve them, especially Commissioner Wilkinson. He’d like nothing more than to strut before the cameras and tell all of England that he recovered the Magna Cartas notwithstanding our collective incompetence.”

  Sarah looked at him, surprised. “I thought… Didn’t he rescue your grandson a few years ago?”

  His eyes creased with a flash of pain at the memory of the boy’s kidnapping. “That was the official story. The truth is that he nearly got Lawrence killed. The Commissioner insisted on taking charge of the case himself since it was such a high-profile affair. He took a hard line with the kidnappers because he said that if we showed any sign of weakness, they would demand more for Lawrence’s release.”

  “And I take it that didn’t work out.”

  “They sent my daughter two of her son’s toes in a gift-wrapped box. We managed to keep that out of the news but I’d had enough. My solicitor suggested I engage a firm called Global Security.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They specialize in recovering lost assets, anything of exceptional value.”

  “An asset recovery firm for a kidnapping?”

  “Yes, it sounded unorthodox, and Global Security’s methods are just that, but I had lost faith in the police and was willing to try anything.” Sir Robert fixed his eyes on hers. “That’s who really saved Lawrence. Within forty-eight hours, they rescued my grandson and told the police where to find the kidnappers all trussed up like a flock of Christmas geese awaiting the butcher.”

  “The newspapers didn’t say anything about…”

  He cut her off again. “Global Security wanted it that way so I let Commissioner Wilkinson take all the credit which he was happy to do. I didn’t trust him then and I won’t trust him now. I’ve already reached out to them. Their operative will be at the Library today. Give them your full cooperation. Until then, you are to say nothing to anyone about this matter. Is that understood?”

  “Of course, Sir Robert, but aren’t you worried the thieves will consider Global Security the same as the police and destroy the Magna Cartas?”.

  He waved his hand dismissively. “My experience is that the thieves won’t know about Global Security until after the Magna Cartas are recovered.”

  “Still, in all, it’s quite a risk, isn’t it?”

  He smiled. “This from the woman who mounted such a remarkable cover up in the blink of an eye?” He patted her cheek. “Chin up. Now be a good girl and get yourself cleaned up for the opening.” He tapped his watch. “Tick tock.”

  Sir Robert took the stairs from the gallery at a brisk clip, leaving Sarah alone. The mild relief she’d felt after calling him had vanished, replaced by a sickening certainty that the world as she knew it was about to end. An asset recovery firm? What could they possibly do? Then again, what could anyone do but pay the ransom and hope the thieves were honorable men.

  FOUR

  AN HOUR LATER, Cassie weaved her way through a crowded private poker club in Montmarte until she reached the VIP room. The paneled walls were painted a creamy shade. Impressionist prints hung on the walls. The plush carpet was a muted tan. Amber light fixtures mounted on the walls kept the light soft. Servers waited nearby, pouring wine, whiskey and beer without waiting to be asked. Jake Carter sat with seven others at the only table. She stood next to a server, watching him.

  Jake pursed his lips, then turned the corners of his mouth up in a wry smile as the dealer turned over the final card in the middle of the table. When the bet came to him, he tossed five thousand euros into the pot. Four other players were still in the hand. Three folded leaving only a stocky German named Gunther. He studied Jake for a moment.

  “You’re bluffing.”

  Cassie couldn’t tell. He’d taught her that there were all kinds of poker faces from idiot grins to disgusted frowns. Only amateurs tried to maintain a perpetual, imperturbable flat expression. It was like trying not to blink. You could do it for a while, but not all night. For a professional like Jake, the trick was to be both natural and inscrutable. His handsome, boyish features and native charm were his secret weapons.

  Jake cocked his head to one side, stretching his smile by a fraction. “Then call.”

  “You’re bluffing, I know it!”

  “Gunther,” one of his friends who’d
folded said, “you can’t let him steal the pot. You’ve got to call.”

  “No, you don’t,” Jake said. “You should fold.”

  “Listen to you,” said Gunther. “Giving me advice like you’re my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend. I’m the guy who’s going to take your money.”

  “This is supposed to be a friendly game and now you threaten me?”

  “I’m doing you a favor.” Jake was matter of fact, making his prediction a certainty.

  “Look at the table,” Gunther’s friend said. “There’s no way the last card could have helped him. I’m telling you, he’s got nothing. You’re a fool if you don’t call him.”

  Gunther stiffened his spine, set his jaw and matched Jake’s bet along with another wad of Euros. “Ha! I call and raise you five thousand.”

  “You really shouldn’t have done that. I’m all in,” Jake said and pushed twenty-five thousand euros into the center of the table.

  A red flush rose from the German’s neck and crept across his face. Sweat popped along his upper lip as his hand hovered over the last of his cash, his fingers trembling. He looked at his cards, then at Jake, then back at his cards. Grimacing, he gave his cards a final look before slamming them down on the table.