The Emperor's Revenge Page 16
“You will be able to see them tomorrow at the auction, of course. And all of the holographic records are to be destroyed once the auction is complete, so this will be your only possibility to see most of the items at all. But this technology gives us a chance for us to show you some of the details that we wouldn’t otherwise be able to show you. For example . . .” He walked toward the center of the atrium, coaxing them to follow.
They came to a stop in front of a display case marked Lot XVI. Two guests were already standing in front of it—a short, powerfully built man in his forties and a thin, attractive blonde half his age, a difference in years not uncommon in the party’s couples. Talavera introduced them as Sergey Golov and Ivana Semova.
“I present Napoleon’s Diary,” Talavera said proudly. “The handwriting inside has been authenticated to be the emperor’s. It is thought to have been stolen by one of the soldiers or servants upon the Little Corporal’s death in 1821. Its existence had been legendary until it surfaced in this exquisite collection.”
Juan and Gretchen leaned in and saw that the copy of The Odyssey was in excellent condition. The book was written in Greek, with French notations in a tight scrawl along the margins, and some of the printed text underlined or circled. After a moment, an animation flipped the page.
“You see,” Talavera continued, “we couldn’t have shown multiple pages of the book to our guests without risk of damage.”
Juan frowned at the diary. “Mr. Talavera, it seems odd that Napoleon wouldn’t have a French version of the story. Did he know Greek?”
“Not that we know of. That’s one of the great mysteries of its existence. Some believe Napoleon was attempting to learn the language. Perhaps if you purchase the piece, you will be able to have someone study his notes.”
“Have all the pages been scanned?” Gretchen asked. By this time, Golov and his companion had turned to join the discussion and watched Talavera intently for his answer.
Talavera shook his head. “Only a select few—again, to handle the document as little as possible. It will be up to the owner of this magnificent piece to decide how to display and catalog it.”
Someone caught Talavera’s eye. “If you’ll excuse me, I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.” He glided away to welcome more guests.
“Are you collectors?” Juan asked the couple standing next to them, who had yet to say a word.
“My employer is,” Golov said in accented English. “He particularly enjoys artifacts from the Napoleonic Wars. Do you intend to bid on the diary?” His smile was jovial, but his eyes shone with a barely contained intensity. He didn’t carry himself with the ease of the wealthy but rather with a bearing that hinted at a military background. The blonde, however, watched them with amusement. And, a bit of disdain.
“I see a lot of items I’d like to buy,” Juan said. “My wife and I are big history buffs. I understand there are a couple of old cannons for sale that I have my eye on.”
“Oh, honey,” Gretchen said, looping her arm through Juan’s, “you know we couldn’t even get those things into the elevator, let alone up to our penthouse.”
“No, I was thinking of the Hamptons estate, dear.”
Golov leaned over and muttered to Semova in Russian. She snickered in response.
He had assumed Juan wouldn’t be able to understand, but Juan made it out perfectly, and Gretchen would have as well.
Perhaps we should call them Tsar and Tsarina since they have winter and summer palaces.
Gretchen playfully swiped at Golov’s arm. “Now, that’s not fair. What did he tell you?”
Semova gave them a Cheshire Cat grin. “He said that every house in America is armed like that. Is that true?”
“Not ours,” Gretchen said. “I won’t allow loaded guns in the home. Nonworking antiques only.”
Juan nodded at the diary. “How about your boss? Is he bidding on it?”
“No,” Golov said. “Old books are not of interest to him.”
“And what is?”
“Perhaps we should simply acknowledge that neither of us is going to reveal our intentions, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson. We both know that the art of bidding requires secrecy, wouldn’t you agree?”
Juan raised his glass. “We do indeed.”
“Shall we take a spin around the room, dear?” Gretchen cooed. She led Juan away by his elbow. As they moved out of earshot, she commented, “They’re an odd couple.”
“Not the friendliest, either. Something about them seemed off.”
“You got that, too, then. But I can’t put my finger on why.”
“Let’s hope we’re not as obvious.”
“We kept up a fake marriage for three weeks. I think we can handle one more night.”
As they wandered around and chatted with other guests, Juan subtly kept an eye on Golov and Semova. After thirty minutes, Semova was teetering on her heels even though she’d only consumed one glass of bubbly. They were standing near Talavera when all of a sudden he wobbled, then stumbled and fell onto his back. Amid the surprised gasps from around the room, Golov, Semova, and several others bent down to aid the stricken museum director.
Golov yelled, “Someone call an ambulance!” Security guards swarmed over to them and began tending to Talavera.
“Did you see that?” Gretchen said.
Juan nodded. “Semova’s good. I barely saw her slip something from his pocket.”
“It was some kind of card. And she can’t be tipsy. I’ve been counting her drinks.”
“Talavera looks like he’s been ‘roofied.’ They must have slipped it into his drink earlier tonight and have been hovering around him waiting for him to collapse.”
Golov and Semova backed away and walked straight for the exit, Semova showing no signs of impairment at all now.
“Let’s see where they’re going with that card,” Juan said. “Mike, meet us outside in thirty seconds.”
“On my way,” Trono replied.
Juan waited until the Russians were out the door, then took Gretchen’s hand and started the pursuit.
TWENTY-TWO
Flashing lights of an ambulance passed them as they sped off from the museum. Trono did a masterful job staying back at a discreet distance while keeping Golov’s car in sight.
Golov traveled only a few blocks before his car came to a stop next to a black SUV. He unrolled his window and handed the white card to someone.
“Who do I follow now?” Trono asked.
“The SUV,” Juan said. “We need to know why they stole that card.”
The SUV drove on and separated from Golov’s car. It arrived at a gate outside a modern warehouse surrounded by a chain-link fence.
Trono turned the corner and pulled over so that the SUV was still in view.
The gate’s barrier was already raised and the SUV drove through and stopped next to a door. After a minute, two large men, an Indian and a redhead, got out, clad in black pants and sweaters, and pulled ski masks over their faces. The Indian swiped the card at the reader and they slipped through the door, which closed behind them.
“That’s the museum’s warehouse,” Trono said.
“Now we know why they drugged Talavera,” Gretchen said. “Do you think all these people are working with ShadowFoe? Or that this woman is ShadowFoe?”
“Only one way to find out,” Juan said.
“Are we going to wait for them out here?”
“We can’t. If they’re after the diary and ShadowFoe realizes that Erion Kula was compromised, they may destroy it inside the warehouse after they get the info they need. Mike, we’ll take those weapons now.”
Trono reached under the front seat and removed two Glock 9mm semiautomatics, a pair of sound suppressors, and four spare magazines. Juan and Gretchen each took a pistol and spare ammo. Juan tucked his into his waistband and Gretchen put h
ers into her purse.
“MacD, do you read me?” Juan said.
“Five by five.”
“Come pick up Mike. We may need you two for a quick evac from the warehouse, depending on what we find in there.”
“Ah’ll be there in fifteen seconds.”
“We’ll leave the car here,” Juan told Trono. “Keys?”
Trono handed them over and they all got out of the car. “Radio the Oregon and tell Gomez to bring the chopper back now. I’m guessing we’ll be needing to get off the island soon.”
“Chairman, you sure you don’t want me and MacD to go into the warehouse with you?” Trono asked.
“I’d rather have you watching our backs out here. But I’ll push the panic button if I want you to come running.”
A blue and white police car rounded the corner and came to a stop next to them. The driver rolled down the window.
“Am Ah going to have to arrest y’all for loitering?” MacD drawled. His uniform was an impeccable copy of Malta Police Force issue, thanks to Kevin Nixon’s handiwork. His Maltese accent, however, needed a lot of work.
“You better worry about yourself,” Juan said. “You’ll get thrown in the pokey for grand theft auto.”
“Nah. It was in the maintenance depot. They don’t even know it’s missing.” He looked at Trono. “Ah’ve got your uniform in the backseat.”
“We’ll keep our ears open,” Trono said before getting in the boosted police car. They drove away, and Juan and Gretchen walked toward the warehouse gate.
Juan peeked into the tiny gatehouse and confirmed that it was empty.
“Odd that it’s unmanned,” Gretchen said.
They tried the door the Indian used, but it was locked tight.
“Come on,” Juan said. “Let’s see if there’s another way in.”
They went around the side of the warehouse and found the loading dock door open. Next to it was a truck that had been backed up to it. No one was in sight.
Juan glanced at Gretchen. “We should have seen some guards by now.”
They crept through the opening and took a moment to let their eyes adjust to the darkened interior of the warehouse. Deep shadows ruled where the few active lights couldn’t reach in the cavernous space.
“This place is huge,” Gretchen whispered. “How are we going to find them?”
“We find the diary, we find them.”
The warehouse was packed with rows of crates, items covered with canvas, and exposed pieces. The row they were in seemed to hold items dating from the sixteenth to nineteenth century, including an iron anchor from a galleon that had sailed with the Spanish Armada and a ship’s bell from Captain Cook’s Endeavour. Most of the items were marked with serial numbers, but Juan couldn’t make sense of the cataloging layout. He motioned for them to keep looking.
Gretchen stopped him when they were halfway down the aisle. She pointed at a silver placard mounted on a gray metal case. It read Lot LXXII. The placard listed it as a scimitar taken by Napoleon during his Egyptian campaign.
“At least the auction items are marked,” Juan said.
“Yes, but they don’t seem to be stored in any particular order.” She pointed farther down the row. “See? There’s another one.”
They walked down the aisle and saw it was marked as Lot XLI.
“Any hunches where they put Lot Sixteen?” Juan asked.
“No. Maybe we should split up and—”
Voices ahead of them interrupted her. They crouched down behind a crate and peered over it. Flashlights bobbed as the voices approached, accompanied by the sound of wheels rolling along the concrete floor. When the group passed through the beam of an overhead light, Juan could see a man being propelled forward by four heavily armed thugs who reminded him of Nazari’s terrorist cell. One of them was pushing a dolly.
“Now, who are these people?” Gretchen whispered. “Are they with Golov, too?”
“Can’t tell,” Juan replied. “They definitely aren’t museum guards. Whoever’s in charge of security here should be fired. It’s like we’re attending a convention for bad guys.”
“Let’s hope they don’t check for our invitations.”
Juan drew his Glock. Gretchen took hers out as well. They threaded the sound suppressors onto them.
The group turned the corner, and Juan and Gretchen followed behind them. At the next intersection, Juan peered around a crate, careful to stay in the shadows. The gunmen and their hostage turned down an aisle and out of sight. There was no sign of the Indian or the redhead.
“Here’s another one,” Gretchen said behind him. “But I can’t read the placard. It’s too dark.”
Juan checked around them. “We’re clear for the moment. Shade your cell phone light.”
Twenty feet away, a pair of glass-walled water tanks reflected her light. Each of the tanks was the size of a small truck. One held various treasures on porcelain racks like a giant dishwasher. In the second tank, suspended by slings, were two large iron cannons that looked like they were in the process of being treated with distilled water to remove corrosion after centuries on the ocean floor.
“Not what we’re looking for,” Gretchen said in frustration.
“Let’s move quickly. I’m not a fan of crowds.”
With their pistols at the ready, they moved to the next aisle.
“Can you see where those men went?”
“Down and to the right. So we’ll keep left.”
While Gretchen checked every placard they found along the way, Juan kept watch. At one point, he saw two black-clad forms that he thought were the Indian and redhead, but they disappeared into the darkness before he could be sure.
Soon after, two of the gunmen who’d been escorting the hostage crept into view. Juan motioned for Gretchen to get down, but the gunmen weren’t paying attention to them. Their eyes were focused on something above Juan and they raised their weapons.
He followed their gaze up until he saw a man crawling along the scaffolding above. When the light caught him briefly, Juan was shocked to realize he recognized him. He’d met the man only once, but he never forgot a face, particularly one who worked for NUMA.
It was Joe Zavala, a colleague of Special Projects Director Kurt Austin.
And he was about to get killed.
Juan leaped up and fired four quick shots at the gunmen, taking them down before they could get a bead on Zavala.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
TWENTY-THREE
Surprised by Juan’s shooting, Gretchen whipped her head around and then brought her Glock up in a fluid motion.
“Behind you!” She popped off three quick shots. Juan turned to see a gunman dragging his injured comrade back behind some crates.
Footsteps pounded in their direction from where he’d taken down the two men aiming at Zavala. A head poked around the corner and Juan fired twice more to keep him back. A submachine gun stuck out and fired a wild volley, but none of the rounds were close to hitting them. A stack of clay amphorae shattered in a cloud of shards and dust.
They huddled at the intersection, Juan firing in one direction and Gretchen in the other.
“MacD, this is the Chairman,” he said. “We’re getting pounded in here. We need extraction pronto!”
“On our way,” MacD said.
Automatic weapons fire chewed into the priceless artifacts around them.
Gretchen fired off a couple more rounds and slapped a new magazine into her Glock before letting off two more shots. “They’re surrounding us, Juan! We need to move now!”
She was right. They’d be cut to ribbons if they stayed where they were.
Juan motioned for her to follow him down the only route open to them. He was about to sprint for it when a third set of gunmen rushed toward them. Juan dove to cover Gretchen.
The men with the C-4 were next to one of the water tanks when it was suddenly shattered by the cannon inside, sending down a wall of water that slammed the men into the shelves across from it.
A soaking wet man with a platinum shock of hair flowed out with the water and landed on top of one of the intruders. He punched the thug with a thunderous shot to the jaw and the man went limp. The man holding the C-4 was rising to his feet when a heavy object struck him in the head, thrown from the direction where Juan had seen Joe Zavala.
“Juan, this way!” the drenched man yelled.
Juan hesitated when he heard his named called. Gretchen peered around the crate in confusion.
The platinum-haired man pulled the electrical probes from the block of C-4 and turned in Juan’s direction. “Hurry! You’re getting surrounded.”
Juan was stunned by the man’s sudden appearance. He turned to Gretchen and said, “Go.”
They fired several shots to give themselves cover and ran over to crouch beside their new ally. It was now a standoff.
“Kurt Austin,” Juan said, shaking his head in disbelief at one of NUMA’s finest coming to his rescue. “What brings you to this shindig?”
“Saving your hide, by the looks of it,” Austin said, grabbing a pistol from the man he’d knocked cold. “And you?”
“Long story. It’s related to the thing in Monaco.”
By now, the intruders seemed less interested in getting to them. Perhaps they realized their numbers advantage had been whittled down. They could be spiriting away whatever they’d come for, maybe the same thing that he and Gretchen were after.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?” Gretchen blurted out.
“Old friend,” Juan said.
Austin looked her over. “I don’t suppose your name is Sophie?”