Cleopatra's Necklace (Devlin Security Force Book 3) (24 page)

“My God, Andie, I’m blown away. I can’t tell you how proud I am, how proud Mom would be. And Dad. Why did you keep this from me?”

She shook her head, then smiled, knowing he couldn’t see. “I was afraid I’d fail. I needed to see if I could keep it together, make it all work.”

“I’d have helped.”

“You did help, financially. The doc took care of that. I made it this far, Tommy.”

“Feels good to have you call me my old name again, sis. My hat’s off to you. I’ll be home in a few days and we’ll celebrate.”

He called her
sis
, not
kid
. The pride and affection in his voice made her breath catch. She brushed away the tears leaking down her cheeks. Confessing all to her brother would make talking to her dad easier. But not until Thomas came home for moral support. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

“One more thing. Andie, these crooks are dangerous and clever. I had Max send in a team to check over the condo for bugs and phone taps. All was clear but they didn’t find your cell phone. Until you can get that cleared, be careful what you say. Don’t mention anything about this call, including Cleo. To anyone. Okay?”

She hadn’t thought much about her brother’s work in security but now
security
had a whole different meaning. A personal meaning.  “I promise.”

Now she could use some BFF support. “Tommy, is Cleo there? Can I talk to her?”

London

THOMAS LISTENED AS
Cleo talked to his sister. They supported each other, and being unable to connect had chafed. Gratified, he relaxed against the headboard of the St. James Hotel’s king-size bed.

The hour had been late when the three of them left the West Acton building, too late to fly to New York. After days on the move, exhaustion dimmed Cleo’s eyes. And now Big Ben would be chiming midnight.

The Madame Tussauds production director’s search had located the missing necklaces—one on the wax Cleopatra in the Las Vegas museum, and the other in Berlin. Once he shared the information with the Centaur Task Force, engines turned at a fast pace. They would stop an assassination and have a good chance of snaring Marco Zervas. The CTF would come out golden and the original necklace could return to the Cleopatra’s Tomb exhibit.

If it all worked. He refused to let himself think it wouldn’t.

Other matters were working out. Max had identified the mole who’d fed the spy software into the DSF system. Hell, Thomas should’ve fired Dinkins when he screwed up in the spring. Luring lost clients back to the company would mean lots of schmoozing, but the necklace’s return would help put DSF back on track.

He tuned back in to Cleo’s conversation with Andie. Hearing his sister sound positive instead of angry amazed him. If only she could hold it together.

“Hey, Andie, you go have fun tonight. Talk to you soon.” Cleo ended the call and handed him his secure phone. She walked fingers up his bare shoulder before laying her head there and snuggling closer beneath the silk coverlet. “Thanks for that. It means so much to me. Andie too. I knew about the social work degree but not about the new job.”

He pulled her closer. “I hardly know the new Andie I just talked to. Thanks for being there for her. I’ve been too tough.”

“You were scared for her. And she shut you out. I kept urging her to level with you but she insisted on soloing. She didn’t want you to know we talked either. She’s leery of being managed.”

Something he needed to keep in mind when dealing with
both
females. “What did you mean about having fun tonight?”

“Oh, she had to go because her date just rang the doorbell.”

“Date.” He nearly surged upright. “Did she say who?”

“Hoo boy, Mr. Overprotective Boss never left the building.”

“Hard to break old habits.” He slid farther down and kissed her deeply, drinking in her sweet energy. “And when I forget, I know you’ll call me on it.”

“You got that right.” She smoothed back an unruly lock from his forehead. “You’re forgiven for your skepticism where Andie and men are concerned. In the past she hasn’t been too discriminating.”

“And don’t forget the long reach of Centaur.”

“No worries, Thomas. Her date’s a guy she met on campus. A casual dinner, no big deal. She’ll be fine.”

She sounded much more confident than he felt. With Andie, he was never sure. Those kinks in his shoulders were tightening.

Rolling over her, he bracketed her slender body with his arms. He nuzzled her hair, absorbing her scent, her warmth and reveling in the press of her breasts against his chest, the friction of her body against him. “Not Andie I want to think about. Time for total focus on the woman in my arms.”

“Total focus,” she murmured against his mouth. “I do like how that sounds.”

***

New York City

Cleo savored her third mug of coffee. Caffeine was the only thing keeping her awake and upright. They’d flown from London to the States two days ago and jet lag was a bitch. Putting more distance between her and Mimi twisted emotions—worry and guilt and fear—inside her. Not that she could do anything for the present.

Waiting to set the bait in their trap, she sat in a private lounge in the Metropolitan Museum of Art—a remarkably bland room for such a rich setting.

Her mobile phone—a new one, secure like Thomas’s—buzzed in her lap. The screen displayed the code for the call she’d been expecting.

“Hello, sweetheart. Your father and I, we’ve been so worried.”

Her spine went rigid. Of course the admiral had put her mom on first as a buffer. “Hi, Mom. I’m great. Tired, but this whole thing may be over tomorrow.”

“Max Rivera has kept us posted but I doubt he told us everything.”

Cleo smiled.
Definitely not everything.
“We’ll have plenty of time to talk after this is all over. Do I have a new nephew?”

“Keith Horace Chandler, Junior.” Pride filled Irene’s voice. “Nine pounds, nine ounces. Everyone’s fine.”

“That’s epic, Mom. I hope they don’t call him Little Hoot.” Her grin faded and she swallowed. “And Dad? How’s Dad?”

From the amused hmm, she could picture her mom’s eye roll. “Healing and it can’t happen too fast. I may hire an ambulance driver to wheel him to his office during the day.” She cleared her throat. “He’s reaching for the phone but I want to have my say first. I’ve rarely gone against whenever your father insisted on something, even where you children were concerned. I’m sorry now I didn’t, for your sake. I’m not like the rest of you, strong or tough.”

“Mom, you didn’t—”

“Let me finish, please, Cleopatra Marie. Hoot couldn’t understand you had your grandmother’s creative talents, but you have enough of his grit to stand up for yourself and pursue your own future. And I’m proud of you. From what Max has said, I have a whole lot more to be proud of. And so does your father.”

“Oh, Mom, you’re the one who’s tough, for putting up with us kids.”
And the admiral.
“I don’t know what to say except thank you.”

“Irene heard you, baby, but she’s blowing her nose.”

At the sound of her dad’s gruff voice, Cleo uncrossed her legs and planted her feet on the floor. Would he demand she go home? Would he blame her for all this trouble? Hell, she
had
started it all with the Facebook picture.

“Dad. Sorry about your fall.” Oh, God, how lame was that? What else could she say after four years?

“I’ll live. And so will you, thanks to Thomas.”

“Ah, Thomas, he... thanks for sending him, Dad. We’ve had a wild ride but he’s protected me.”

“We’ll watch the press conference. You come see us when this is over, you hear?”

She mumbled a promise and other encouraging words before saying good-bye. Shaking her head in amazement, she ended the call. Not
come home
when this was over? Not
be sensible and get a real job? Like the U.S. Navy?
Admiral Hoot Chandler conciliatory? Compromising? Maybe on the phone with Mom at his elbow. Cleo would see what happened if she set foot under his roof. No,
when
. She’d promised.

But today’s conversation was a start. And she was four years older. Four years wiser. She hoped.

A glance at her phone reminded her it was time to head to the Met’s press room. She dropped the device in her small handbag and stood, smoothing her skirt. On the television screen across the room a noontime local news alert caught her attention.

“In a few minutes our reporter Ruth Nance will bring us a special announcement from the director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art about tomorrow’s opening of the Cleopatra Tomb Exhibit,” the blonde newscaster said in a perky tone. “While we wait, here’s an interview she taped earlier with the U. S. Secretary of State.”

The camera shot zoomed in on the two women seated opposite each other on upholstered armchairs, tiny mics clipped to their jackets. 

“Secretary of State Vinton is in the city for final talks on a trade agreement with the president of Iran.” Turning from the camera to the cabinet official, the reporter asked in a deferential tone, “How historic is this development, Madame Secretary?”

“Very important, Ruth,” said Helen Vinton, elegant in an upswept blond ’do and a rose silk suit. “And it’s more than a trade agreement. Our two countries have had our differences and confrontations during the past few decades. Because of dialogues with the Islamic Republic of Iran’s new, progressive leaders, including President Farhadi, we enter a new era of trust and cooperation. Although the president is here primarily for a speech at the United Nations, I do have more than one meeting with him.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she smiled. “Including tomorrow evening’s reception. An opening at the Met is always a special occasion. I’m looking forward to seeing the new exhibit.”

The reporter asked another question but Cleo had seen enough. Having Iran’s leaders negotiate with the West for more than oil sales must infuriate such an extremist as Ahmed Yousef. An assassination would seem to him the only way to short-circuit the possibility of peace. He likely relished the idea of a reactionary outcome, even war.

Cleopatra’s necklace was the centerpiece of an international success or an international calamity. What they planned for tomorrow’s gala had to work.

She turned off the television as her phone buzzed again. Mimi’s mother.

“Oh, Cleo, my dear. I... it’s Mimi, she—”

White noise filled Cleo’s ears and she closed her eyes. “Oh, no, no.”

“Wait, don’t misunderstand. I’m just so upset. My daughter’s taken a turn for the worse. She was waking up, starting to talk, responding. But now she’s slipped back under.”

The white noise receded a fraction.
Thank you.
“Back into the coma?”

“That’s what the doctors say. She seemed to be healing, getting better, but now—” She paused, her breath shaky and harsh. “The doctors here don’t know what’s going on. I’ve arranged for a medical transport home. To see a specialist in Toronto.”

“Trudy, I’m so sorry. If there was any way I could take—”

“
No
, don’t even say it. This was not your fault. Those men, it was them. Mimi will say the same thing when she’s better.”

When she’s better.
Hard to feel that way but Cleo had to cling to Trudy’s belief.

“Please tell Lucas Del Rio about Mimi,” Trudy said. “I don’t think I can explain this again.”

Cleo had no idea how she would either, but she agreed. They talked for a few more minutes about the flight schedule and ambulance transfer. She’d just ended the call when Thomas stepped into the room and beckoned. She whisked to him and threw her arms around his waist, taking strength from his solid presence.

“Hey, babe, what’s the matter? Your dad come on strong?”

“No, he was fine.
He didn’t tell me to come home. He said come ‘come see us’ instead. And my mom said I was tough.”

“Babe, you are tough. It’s okay to lean on someone occasionally, even me.” He chuckled. “Is there more?”

She couldn’t bring herself yet to talk about Mimi. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s go. Showtime.”

***

Marco Zervas stared in disbelief at the TV screen as the press conference drew to a close. The camera panned from the director of the Met to the two people standing to his right.

Thomas Devlin and Cleo Chandler.

Cursing, he threw the TV remote against the wall. Paced the sitting room of the Ritz-Carleton suite. The faint smell of Hawkins’s efforts with antiseptic spray and air freshener hung in the air.

Hawkins ducked into his bedroom, laptop beneath his arm. The door closed behind him.

Nedik slid a glass across the mini-bar. A glass Zervas had personally washed. One couldn’t be too careful, even in New York. He slugged down the whiskey, willing the smooth heat to soothe nerves shredded by the news.

How the fuck had Devlin recovered the necklace? Where the hell did Moreau stash it? Maybe he had only one. Could be either—the ancient one or the copy with the computer chip. Could be some kind of ruse. No trick, he decided. Not involving the museum director and the press. Too convoluted even for his old fucking captain.

What Yousef would do if he got wind of the recovery didn’t bear contemplating.

His mobile phone shrilled.
Fuck, too late.

“What have you done?” The Iranian’s voice blasted his eardrum.

“A temporary setback, I assure you, my friend.” He sank onto a gold brocade chair.

“You have assured me time and again you would succeed. The FBI has my necklace. You have failed.”

The FBI?
Yousef must have gotten the news mixed up. A bad translation on Al Jazeera perhaps. Zervas scrambled for ideas.

“Not the FBI,” he said, keeping his tone calm while his heart battered his sternum. “But the civilians I told you about. The necklace is being returned to the Cleopatra Tomb Collection. The exhibit opens Tuesday at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“The necklace will be part of the exhibit, you are certain?”

Fuck, yes, and with motion sensors, weight sensors, cameras, laser beams—all the shit. Except he knew a few thieves in Brooklyn who could steal anything regardless of the security set-up. “According to the news, the necklace is the centerpiece of the exhibit. After the excitement of the find ends, stealing—”

“No,” Yousef interrupted. “Do not. The necklace is precisely where it needs to be. Watch for news of the opening gala reception and you will see.”