To Catch a Thief (14 page)

The British royal family and three heads of state were among those people.

Nicholas picked up the phone. The calling number was unfamiliar, but there was no mistaking the voice of his old friend.

Nell's father.

“I
REPEAT
.
There was nothing you should have done differently.”

Dakota stripped off his gloves and tossed them into the back seat. “Tell that to the parents who just lost their daughter.”

“Your orders were clear.
Do not alert the target.
You complied with those orders,” Izzy said curtly.

“And now the woman's dead. If I'd taken them out first, she'd still be alive to question.”

“Do the math, Smith. We now have a concrete link between Gonsalves's company, a murder and the museum theft. The October Twelfth Brigade is hidden in there somewhere. It's time to focus on the chain and work the details.”

Dakota scowled down at his metal case filled with high-tech firepower. All the expensive, shiny equipment in the world wouldn't bring the woman back. Dakota knew he was going to see her face in his nightmares.

But Teague was right. Ryker's orders had been unequivocal. Dakota was going to have to live with the memory of Lydia Reynolds's crumpled body.

Civilians always meant trouble during an op. They headed straight into danger, a disaster just waiting to happen. When things went hot and the civilians were shot, all a soldier could do was move on.

And try to bury the guilt.

Soldiers knew the risks they took when they picked up a weapon. Killing another soldier was a cold, predictable part of war, but civilians were a curse, he thought grimly.

Nell MacInnes was a perfect example. Whenever she turned up, things took a nosedive straight to hell. It wasn't her fault that she'd been pulled into her father's dangerous scheme, but her presence only complicated things.

Sure, she'd been fast and decisive on the peak in Scotland. Dakota remembered the calm way she had maneuvered the panicky teens down to safety in near-zero visibility. Not many people—men or women—could have done that.

And he still didn't like it. He especially didn't like how he couldn't get the memory of her sleek body or her smoky laughter out of his head. Bottom line? Civilians meant unacceptable complications. Getting mixed up with one during a mission could get you killed fast.

“What do we have on Lydia Reynolds, Izzy?”

“I've got someone running her employment history and credit card usage. Seems that she had a habit of slipping off to Atlantic City every few months.”

“Love interest?”

“Gambling interest,” Izzy said flatly. “I'm thinking that she owed money to the wrong people, which made her a target for more wrong people. One thing probably led to another. I called a friend in Atlantic City while you were on your way back from the dock. He told me that Lydia Reynolds was recently posted on every casino's no-admit list because her losses were getting worse. If they wanted an insider, she would be easy to turn.”

“She won't be doing any gambling now,” Dakota said harshly.

The van pulled off onto a smaller dirt road. Izzy opened his cell phone and dialed Ryker. When he hung up, he was smiling for the first time in three hours. “Score one for the home team. Once Gonsalves moved up on our list of probables, I put a tech team in place. They've been running aerial and satellite photos of all the family properties. One compound is on an island in the Caymans, one estate is in Ireland and two sites are in Scotland. I've been watching traffic patterns and food deliveries on the assumption that they'll need to prepare before people assemble for the auction and bingo, and I've just established a pattern. We're looking at a castle Gonsalves owns on a small island north of Skye.”

“Castle as in turrets and parapets?”

“The genuine article, built in the twelfth century and expanded by Edward II. Full renovations were made just last year. Their people started stocking provisions two days ago and today two dozen of his private security force blew in from Macau.”

“Bada bing.”
Dakota frowned at the van racing under the dark trees. “What about them? They can't just walk away.”

“I've got a videotape for future legal action. My people will handle them from now on. Ryker wants you in England tonight.”

“You're sure this castle in Skye will have the art?”

Izzy nodded. “You're going in. Ryker's been given a green light on forced-entry scenarios at Gonsalves's estate.” Izzy rubbed his neck, frowning.

“What else? Teague? Your pulse just spiked and I'm reading heat fluctuation in your hands. Something else is going on.”

“You're to meet Nell in England. Given that there is no time to locate and transport an outside expert, Ryker wants her to go over the estate photos and provide whatever technical instruction you need.”

Dakota's head snapped around. “I
don't
work with civilians. Ryker of all people knows how dangerous that kind of situation can be.”

“I don't like it very much either, but that castle has sheer walls and constant armed surveillance. You're going to need all Nell's help to get in and out without tipping off Gonsalves. Ryker said to suck it up and get moving.”

Dakota glared at his gear bag. The hell of it was, he could see that Nell's knowledge, training and climbing ability made her the perfect fit for a successful mission. She was a prize package with vital expertise in two areas—climbing and art.

He didn't want it to be true, but it was.

“Damn,” he said softly.

“My thoughts exactly.” Teague looked away. “Let's get moving.”

N
ICHOLAS
D
RAYCOTT LISTENED
to static hiss over the phone line.

The American spoke quickly. “Is she there? Is she safe?”

“She's here with me, don't worry.” The Englishman's voice tightened. “I just got word that one of the curators was killed.”

Jordan MacInnes expelled a harsh breath. “They had someone important inside at the museum. I never could find out who. There may be more than one. Remember that.”

“Understood.”

Out of the corner of his eye Nicholas saw Nell emerge from the gatehouse. With a sweater pulled around her shoulders, she paced the front courtyard, deep in thought. Then she crossed to the front door, frowning.

Worrying about her father, no doubt.

Static broke over the line. “Look, I don't have much time. The package has been transferred to a freighter. I'm being watched closely and all I've been able to find out is that the destination is somewhere in the U.K., on an island. Check the known residences of Martim or Luis Gonsalves, as well as any corporate properties that they own or lease.” Jordan talked fast, his voice strained. “Martim said there's a fishing operation nearby, but I don't know where. He's paranoid—locks everything up at night, even his phones and computers, then turns off all power. He hasn't told his pilot where we're going yet, but I know he plans to auction the package off within the next three days. Did you get that? Three more days.” Jordan MacInnes's voice fell. “Keep her safe, my friend. Whatever happens, whatever things you hear, promise me that.”

There was a note of finality in the words that made Nicholas frown. “You have my word.”

“Last thing before I go,” MacInnes said breathlessly. “I've verified that Gonsalves has a contact inside the government. Those numbers belong to the contact's offshore banking account. You'll have to track down the name. If I ask any more questions, they'll get suspicious.” The line went dead.

Nicholas Draycott stared at the phone for a very long time. If there was a contact inside the government, his old friend was in gravest danger. Jordan had always been too intelligent—and too complicated—for a simple thief, part of the reason that Nicholas had liked the man so much. Few people knew that Jordan had made it a practice to steal only from criminals or from institutions that dealt in illicit art. That he had occasionally provided timely warning of thefts planned by others was another fact that few people besides Nicholas knew.

Now they had a date to work with, but they had to know the location of the island. No one would find it faster than Izzy Teague. Draycott stared at a framed map of England and Scotland, then picked up the phone.

N
ELL FOLLOWED
the gray cat up the staircase past a dozen imposing paintings. She counted one Sargent, one van Gogh and a small but exquisite Picasso. At the top of the stairs, the cat disappeared into a room with vaulted ceilings and mullioned windows along one wall.

He ghosted through the dim room and stopped at the far wall, then stared up at Nell, as if awaiting her reaction.

“Okay, I'm impressed. I admit it. Great art.”

The cat didn't move. Nell rubbed her eyes and studied the blank wall. Nothing there.

She put her hands on her hips.

Jet lag. High stress. There was no other way to explain why she was standing in a room full of shadows having a one-sided conversation with a cat.

Nell could have sworn the keen amber eyes blinked with irritation. “Okay, I give up. All I see is a blank spot on a big wall.” As she spoke, cold air swept through the long gallery, brushing her hair back over her shoulders.

Except all the windows were closed and locked.

The sound of footsteps startled her. She turned to find Nicholas Draycott crossing the hall.

“Is something wrong, Nell?”

“Your cat seemed so intent that I followed him up here. He kept staring at that space on the far wall.”

Nicholas Draycott didn't move. “What cat?”

“The gray one. You must have had him a very long time, because he seems to know every corner of this house.”

The viscount frowned at her. “A large gray cat with amber eyes?”

Nell nodded. Why was he staring at her so oddly? “He darted away before you came. Very intelligent. What is his name?”

Nicholas's gaze ran the length of the gallery and settled on the portrait of an imperious ancestor in lace and black velvet. “We never knew that.”

They had never given their family pet a name? That was odd. “I'm sorry if I disturbed you by coming up here, Nicholas. Maybe the cat is—”

“You won't find him, trust me. He comes and goes at his own pleasure. Actually, it's been quite a long time since I've…seen him.” The Englishman stared at the bare wall where Nell had last seen the cat. “It used to be right there.” Draycott's fingers traced the old plaster carefully.

Nell frowned at him. “What?”

“The da Vinci sketch, the same piece that was stolen from the National Gallery,” he explained.

“Here?”

Draycott nodded. “It was hidden in a secret niche behind this wall. Before it was stolen,” he added quietly. “And that cat you saw is part of Draycott legend. He was often seen with one of my ancestors, a brooding, difficult man according to all reports.” The viscount stared at the blank space where the da Vinci had once been hidden. “I have seen the cat only a few times, Nell. Each time great danger was involved.”

“This is a joke.”

“Hardly. I searched for that cat during most of my boyhood just as I have searched for details of the da Vinci's loss during most of my adult life. Yet you, within an hour of your arrival, unerringly walk to the last spot where the piece was seen.”

Nell didn't move. She believed in facts, not hallucinations. The simple explanation was always right. “Then the cat must have been a stray. Probably I imagined that he walked to that wall. It is a scientific fact that light can be misleading in a house like this. Old mullioned windows are uneven and cast odd shadows, making distances hard to judge.” She glared at the wall, glared at the beautiful room, refusing to be misled by legends and her imagination. “Maybe I just thought I saw a cat.”

It was a lie of course. She would never forget those keen amber eyes.

M
ARSTON POURED
tea on the south lawn, his face impassive. The quintessence of propriety, he straightened a vase with newly cut roses and then left.

Nicholas stared at his untouched tea. “I'm afraid I have to go back to London shortly.”

Nell heard tension in his voice. “Something's happened, hasn't it?”

After a moment he nodded. “Your father called me a few minutes ago, Nell.”

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm. “How did he sound?”

“Frightened but probably enjoying himself just a little, the old fool.” The viscount watched a pair of swans drift beneath a sweeping oak. “He always said it would be hard to give up the life he led because the danger and excitement made him feel important.”

Nell stiffened. Was she more like her father than she'd realized? Climbing brought her the same feeling of risk and importance, along with the addictive adrenaline rushes. “What else did he say?”

“The numbers relate to an offshore bank account. There was no time for more details.”