Too Damn Rich (89 page)

"Of course it will. All you have to do is buy
the painting. I'll see to it that it's withdrawn from the auction,
and arrange for a private sale."

"Well?" Karl-Heinz asked. "Do we get to see
what's on the other side?"

"Who cares?" Dina said, turning it over.

Zandra stared at the portrait. "Dina!
Darling, couldn't you possibly have found us something, well,
something a little cheaper?"

"I chose it specifically because it's small,"
Dina sniffed.

"Small in size, perhaps. Dina! That's a
bloody Rembrandt!"

"It is? Well then, it looks like you've
bought yourselves a Rembrandt, doesn't it?"

Then Karl-Heinz and Zandra began to laugh.
Dina would have joined in also, but at that moment, she caught a
movement out of the corner of one eye.

She turned and watched, her heart leaping, as
the first member of the SWAT team dropped soundlessly out of the
vent, landed lithely on the carpeted concrete, and rolled a perfect
somersault before leaping to his feet, the weapon he held never
once scraping the floor.

In short order, three other men followed,
none in the usual protective gear, which would have rendered them
too bulky for the duct.

The leader of the four gestured toward the
open double door. Two of them nodded and slipped behind the
painting racks, using them for cover to reach the far side, where
they melted silently against the wall, their weapons raised and
ready.

The other two took up identically stealthy
positions at the near side.

Dina watched them, impressed by their catlike
agility. They were undeniably pros. For some strange reason, she no
longer felt frightened, and was certain she and the others would
come out of this alive. But a niggling thought bothered her, as if
there was something she should tell the men.

She couldn't recall what it was, and then it
was too late, anyway.

Simultaneously, and without warning, they
sprang into action and leapt out onto the dais, semiautomatics
stuttering.

"Jones," hit repeatedly, spun around under
the impact of the bullets and then collapsed. One of the Colombians
and the Lebanese raised their weapons, but too late. Bullets hit
them squarely in the center of the chest, and the impact hurled
them backward and off their feet. Before the terrified, screaming
auction-goers could dive for cover, the ceiling seemed to spit
bullets, and death rained selectively down out of the heating
vents.

Within twenty seconds, the shooting stopped.
There was an awed silence. All five of the remaining terrorists had
either been killed or entirely disabled.

The gallery had been secured.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the leader of the
SWAT team announced through a miniature microphone. "Everything is
under control. Please remain in your seats while we remove the
explosives from the doors. I repeat: do not try to leave until the
explosives are removed."

The atmosphere in the gallery had changed.
Now it was that of an airliner which had crash-landed safely, and
whose passengers sat there, relieved, confused, stunned, dazed.
Unable to comprehend that it was over. That they had gotten through
this alive.

A pair of men sprinted to each of the three
sets of doors, where they began the meticulous process of removing
the magnetized Semtec, careful to keep the connecting wires
intact.

Kenzie and Dina went out onto the dais,
avoiding the bodies of Mildred Davies and "Mr. Jones." Standing
side by side, they looked around in amazement.

"Can you believe it, sweetie?" Dina was
saying. "The only casualties other than poor Mrs. Davies are the
terrorists!"

But Kenzie wasn't listening. Hannes had
hopped onto the dais and had taken her in his arms, saying, "Oh,
Kenzie, my darling. Thank God nothing happened to you!"

She stared into his eyes and listened to his
voice, soft and full of concern, and loved him for it. But she
wasn't in love with him, she knew that now. It was Charley to whom
she would yield her soul, with whom she wanted to spend the rest of
her life. And she knew that Hannes could somehow read that in her
eyes.

"You're shivering," he said, taking off his
jacket and draping it around her shoulders.

She nodded. "I think they turned the heat
down so the SWAT team wouldn't roast. I wish they'd turn it back
up."

"I have to go see the SWAT team commander."
He placed one hand on each of her shoulders and held her gaze.
"You're sure you're okay, Kenzie?"

She nodded and smiled. "Yes, I'm fine."

He kissed her forehead chastely. "We'll talk
later?"

"Yes," she said softly, "we'll talk later."
She watched him hurry off. There's really nothing to talk about,
she thought. I had my fling. I was in lust with Hannes, but that's
all. It's Charley I love.

Slipping her arms into the sleeves of
Hannes's jacket, she looked around and saw Arnold sitting there,
looking dazed; Annalisa was pushing her chair back from the desk
and getting to her feet. Both had come through the ordeal
miraculously unharmed.

And then she saw Mr. Spotts coming forward
from where he'd been sitting.

Kenzie's heart soared. Thank God he's okay!
she thought warmly. This can't have been good for his heart. And
then he was on the dais and she threw her arms around him. "Oh,
Dietrich!" she cried. "I was so afraid something might have
happened to you!"

He smiled. "Didn't you know I have nine
lives?" he said.

And he pressed the barrel of a handgun
against her forehead—

—while Annalisa thrust a revolver under
Dina's chin.

"You see, my dear?" Mr. Spotts said. "It
isn't over until it's over."

In the painting storeroom, the first of the
sharpshooters from up in the ducts dropped down through the open
vent.

"First thing I want in here's EMS," Charley
snapped into his walkie- talkie. "We got us a newborn preemie and
its mother. Front of the gallery, storeroom behind the dais. This
kid has priority. Got that?"

"Roger."

"Over and out."

Zandra, head still nestled on Karl-Heinz's
lap, smiled up at Charley with misty-eyed pleasure. "Oh, Charley.
That's frightfully sweet of you."

"You're talkin' about Kenzie's godchild,"
Charley said. "Anybody tries to mess with the little guy, they
gotta answer to me."

Suddenly he cocked his head and frowned.

"The fuck—?" he whispered, reaching for his
weapon.

"What's the matter?" Karl-Heinz asked.

"Can't you hear it?"

Karl-Heinz listened and shook his head. "I
can't hear anything."

"That's what I mean. All of a sudden it's too
damn quiet out there."

Charley gestured at the sharpshooter to stay
back, then moved, seemingly like a liquid shadow, to the edge of
the doorway. Pressing himself flat against the wall, he inched his
head around the doorjamb—

—then just as quickly whipped it back out of
sight.

He slumped against the wall, feeling nausea
and a dry, aching scream well up inside him.

Aw, shit! he thought. That palsied, crazed
old coot Kenzie used to work for's holding a gun to her head! And
that bitch she hired's jamming a revolver up Dina Goldsmith's
chin!

Now what?

"Now," Charley told himself soundlessly, "you
do what you gotta do."

He signaled at the sharpshooter to gauge the
situation from his side of the doorway, then watched the man
flatten himself next to it, inch his head around, and just as
swiftly duck back.

A look of understanding passed between
them.

Charley raised the Wilkinson Linda, and with
his left hand, mimed masturbation. Then he pointed at himself.

Man. Mine.

The sharpshooter nodded.

Next Charley mimed voluptuous, imaginary
breasts. He pointed at the sharpshooter.

Woman. Yours.

The sharpshooter nodded again.

Then they took up position, each a mirror
image of the other, each prepared to whirl around, aim, and
fire.

But they had to wait for the right moment,
for all they would get was one shot each.

Neither of us can afford to miss,
Charley thought grimly
. Dina's life is in his hands. And
Kenzie's is in mine
.

On the dais, Dina stood stock-still, not
daring to move anything except her eyes. The muzzle of the revolver
dug painfully into the soft flesh beneath her chin, forcing her to
keep her head raised at an unnatural angle.

Then a thought flashed through her mind and
she suddenly remembered what it was that she had forgotten, but had
wanted to warn the SWAT team about.

The ninth man—the one in the audience with
the gadget which activated "Mr. Jones's" beeper.

Only I was wrong, Dina thought. Dead
wrong.

There wasn't just a ninth man.

There had also been a tenth person. This
woman.

Standing beside Dina, Kenzie remained equally
still, but her eyes snapped around in desperation, beseeching
someone—anyone!—to please try to help them. She had already used
her eyes and words to plead with Mr. Spotts, but he wasn't buying.
Nor was he in the least concerned for her. He kept glancing at
Velazquez's infanta, his eyes aflame with a maniacal kind of
greed.

"Can you imagine what it was like, my dear,"
he was saying, "devoting my entire life to providing rich
collectors with the paintings I loved, which I cherished, and which
I needed to possess? No, of course you can't. You are far too young
and still an idealist. But wait a few decades, and maybe then
you'll understand. Oh, yes! You'll come to loathe those
nouveau-riche culture vultures who can't tell a Rembrandt from a
Rubens!"

Kenzie shut her ears to the warbly diatribe.
She kept thinking, This can't be happening. If I pinch myself, I'll
wake up and discover it's only a nightmare.

For this was not the kindly A. Dietrich
Spotts she'd once worked with, that gallant, polite gentleman of
the old school.

This A. Dietrich Spotts was clearly
unbalanced, and had to have been one of the masterminds behind this
terror-ridden night.

"You played your part well, Kenzie," he told
her. "If you hadn't hired Annalisa, we would never have managed to
smuggle the weapons in."

Kenzie said sharply, "No! You are not going
to hang any of this on me."

And the SWAT commander called out, "Drop your
weapons and let the ladies go. It's over. You're surrounded."

Mr. Spotts cackled. "Oh, no. It isn't over.
Not by a long shot."

Charley and the sharpshooter peered around
the corner, then swiftly slammed back out of sight.

Goddammit! Charley growled to himself. Why
can't they move? We need to get clear shots!

Mr. Spotts raised his quavery, thin voice.
"We want our choice of ten paintings. Also, twenty million dollars
in cash, transportation to the airport, and a waiting jet. You have
one hour to arrange it, or ..." His voice trailed off.

Kenzie stared at him. "You're crazy! You'll
never get away with this!"

"But we are getting away with it, my dear, we
are!" he crowed, leaning his face right into hers and spraying
spittle.

Kenzie's reflex was automatic—she winced and
jerked her head aside.

Charley and the sharpshooter, sneaking
another quick glance, mouthed, "Now!" And raising their weapons,
they simultaneously pulled the triggers.

The bullets hit Mr. Spotts and Annalisa
squarely in the forehead, killing them instantly. They both let
their weapons drop and then fell, their heads striking the wooden
dais with sickening thuds.

"Charley!" Kenzie screamed. "Charley!"

But he was already rushing forward, sweeping
her up in his arms and twirling her around in midair.

"It's over, babe," he murmured softly when he
set her back down. "God, but I love you!" He cupped her face in his
hands. "I didn't even realize how much until I thought I might lose
you!" He kissed her passionately, then enveloped her in his strong
arms and held her close.

The three doors of the gallery were suddenly
thrown open and EMS personnel trotted in with collapsible gurneys.
The ones in the lead headed straight for the painting
storeroom.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the SWAT commander
announced, "you can leave now. If you'll take it slowly—"

He could have saved his breath. There was a
mad rush for the doors.

Only Charley, Kenzie, and Dina remained where
they were.

Dina, weak-kneed and wobbly, sat down on the
edge of the dais.

Robert lumbered forward. "You aw right?" he
asked, showing uncharacteristic concern.

"I-I think so, sweetie. But I could use some
Xanax. It's in my purse."

He lumbered back to their seats to fetch
it.

"Well?" Charley was asking Kenzie. "Does the
hero still get the girl?"

She sighed with exasperation. "Charley, how
many times do I have to tell you? The hero always gets the girl.
Hasn't tonight taught you anything?"

"Like what?"

"Like, the only thing that matters are
happily ever afters?"

She took off Hannes's jacket, and a thin,
square plastic object with push buttons fell out of a pocket. The
moment it hit the dais, the beeper in "Jones's" belt emitted a
bleat.

Dina jumped to her feet. "What the—?" She
stared around in terror.

Kenzie slowly bent down to retrieve the
object. She pressed one of the buttons.

"Jones's" beeper sounded again.

"My God," she exclaimed softly. "This is
Hannes's jacket! He lent it to me. Charley?"

"I have to go find him." He turned to go.

She took hold of his arm. "I don't think you
need to hurry."

"Why?"

"Because something tells me you'll never
catch him. I bet you anything he slipped the gadget into this
pocket on purpose."