Eye of the God (7 page)

“Call me Abby. Everyone does.”

“I look really forward to continuing our interview, Abby.”

“Likewise.”

“Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get going.” Alex rose, paid the tab, and hurried to his car.

Isaac sat with his feet propped up on the desk, deep in thought. Thick, sweet-smelling clouds of pipe smoke hung around him, making the dark room even more oppressive.

Once again the phone buzzed, and he answered on the first ring.

“Yeah?” He paused, listening. “I'll be there in thirty minutes.

Abby parked her Land Rover in front of a renovated brick warehouse that had been turned into a loft apartment building. She climbed the few short steps and pressed a buzzer beneath a pair of familiar names.

“Who is it?” a man growled into the receiver on the other end.

“It's just me.”

“Come on up.”

The door clicked, and Abby walked into the dark hallway toward an old freight elevator at the end. She pulled the grate down and pushed the button for the third floor. The elevator clinked loudly as it rose at a snail's pace. It jolted to a stop, and Abby stepped from the cage, thankful that once again it had made it to her destination without plummeting to the bottom.

A woman in her early fifties swung the door open before Abby could even knock and pulled her into the loft with a warm hug.

“Welcome, deary,” she said.

Abby leaned into her embrace. “It's good to see you again, DeDe.”

“It's been too long.” DeDe's salt-and-pepper curls, thin frame, and bohemian aura revealed her sense of personal style. It had found its way into the home and made it a comfortable if somewhat messy retreat. Black-and-white photographs, artwork, wall hangings, and stacks of old newspapers were scattered at random.

“Dow!” Abby beamed as her friend wandered in from the kitchen holding a glass of murky green liquid. Older than DeDe, Dow's wild-looking gray hair was held loosely in a ponytail. He chugged the contents of his glass with a grimace.

“Good Lord, what on earth are you drinking?” Abby asked, eyeing the glass suspiciously.

“Barley green,” he said, wiping the green moustache on his shirtsleeve. “Wretched stuff. Tastes like grass clippings.”

“Then why are you drinking it?”

“Because I'm old, I'm ugly, and I smoke too much. I figure I ought to do something that's good for my body.”

Abby laughed with affection and gave him a big hug. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but barley green won't change any of that.”

“You're probably right. But it keeps my wife happy.”

Abby surveyed the apartment, resting her eyes on a recent stack of newspapers. “Looks like you've been busy.”

“Busy yes … productive no. The Collectors have pulled off three major heists this year.” He dug frantically through a stack of newspapers in the corner. After searching for a moment, he found what he was looking for and
shoved it in Abby's face. “The heist in Rio … the Dali … and the others.”

“Ugh,” she said, waving the paper away. “You don't have to remind me. I was there.”

“Yes. Yes. Remarkably lucky you were able to witness them firsthand.”

“Not exactly the word I would use to describe it.”

DeDe shook her head. “Most men take up golf, or fishing, or welding. My husband spends his spare time documenting art thefts.”

“So you're sure it was the Collectors in Rio?”

“Without a doubt.” He dove into another stack of newspaper clippings and continued. “Fascinating, absolutely fascinating, how they work. It's a competition among them you see. They're in a race to acquire priceless works of art. We have yet to see a piece resurface. From what I can gather, it doesn't seem to be a business, but rather a pastime.”

“I'm sure Interpol would be interested to hear that.”

Dow snorted and waved an accusatory finger in her face. “Interpol isn't doing half of what they should to catch these guys.”

She shook her head and suppressed a laugh. “So it's up to you then? You're going to catch them on your own?”

“If I have to,” he said with a curt nod.

Abby lifted the top paper from the stack in Dow's arms and read the headline:

EDVARD MUNCH'S
THE SCREAM
STOLEN AGAIN

“What is that, like the twentieth time?”

“Mark my words,” said Dow. “It will be the last. You'll never see that painting again. The Collectors took it. It's gone.”

“But it always surfaces. Surely, it's just a matter of time.”

“I'm telling you, these men don't sell what they steal.”

DeDe bustled in from the kitchen, carrying a tray of food. “Enough of that. Let's eat.”

Abby eyed the tray. “Sorry, DeDe, but I've already had dinner.”

“With whom?” her friend asked.

“A reporter from
National Geographic.”

“A
date?”
Dow and DeDe questioned in unison.

“Hardly,” Abby said. “It was an interview.”

Eagerly, Dow took her elbow and led her to the table. He could not hide the excitement brimming in his eyes. “Now tell me everything what happened in Rio. And I mean
everything.”

Isaac pushed through the revolving door of Driscoll's, an upscale watering hole in D.C.'s financial district, and headed toward a private room at the back where Alex and the man they knew only as the Broker were waiting.

“Have a seat,” the Broker said, motioning toward a plush leather chair. He was an attractive, brown-eyed gentleman, somewhere in his late fifties, with flecks of gray at his temples. He rarely smiled, and he never laughed. He would have been a great deal more handsome if he did.

“Let's get down to business,” Isaac said, wasting no time.

The Broker took a small sip of his dry martini and brushed an invisible piece of lint from his pant leg. “Have you made contact with the woman?”

“I have,” replied Alex.

“And you can use her to get the diamond?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Good. Then we just need to make payment arrangements.”

“Not so fast,” Isaac interrupted. “We still need to negotiate a price.”

“Negotiate? I think not. Our standing fee should be more than sufficient.”

Isaac laughed. “Twenty million dollars may be adequate to secure a few paintings, but it hardly scratches the surface on this job.”

The Broker leaned forward in his chair, lips drawn into a tight line. “Twenty million
dollars
is—”

“Not enough to draw me out of retirement,” Alex interrupted.

“Retirement?”

Alex cast a sideways glance at Isaac, but spoke to the Broker. “You were well aware that I stepped down from your employment after our last contract.”

“Your brother assured me—”

“My brother doesn't speak for me,” Alex said. “So if you want your diamond, and you want me to participate, then I'd suggest you up the ante.”

The Broker narrowed his eyes. “I doubt that your commission warrants such a drastic change in terms.”

“I beg to differ,” Isaac said. “After many months of reconnaissance, we've concluded that we cannot do the job for what you've offered. Our price is fifty million dollars.”

“That's ridiculous!” The Broker pounded his fist on the table. The door to their private lounge opened, preventing him from bursting into a full tirade.

The blonde waitress who entered the room was adept at distracting men from their business. She wore a form-fitting
black dress, three-inch heels, and a smile that instantly diffused the tension in the room.

“Crown and Coke for you,” she said, handing the first glass on her tray to Alex and the second to Isaac. “And Scotch and soda for you. Your friend ordered.” She met Alex's appreciative gaze, curled her lips into a seductive smile, and left the room.

It took Alex a few seconds to regain his train of thought. He lifted the tumbler from the mahogany table and took a long swig of his drink. “You remembered. How thoughtful.”

“You must be out of your mind,” the Broker said.

Isaac shrugged. “You know how this works. The price is never fully settled until we've completed the background work and determined the difficulty of the job. This heist is a logistical nightmare. The price is fifty million dollars.”

“Absolutely not.”

Isaac wiped the sweat from his glass and met the Broker's steely gaze without flinching. “The Smithsonian is a fortress, unlike any facility we have ever penetrated, and the odds of us succeeding are almost nonexistent. If we're going to risk our lives and almost certain prison time, we will be well compensated.”

“I have never paid such a ridiculous amount, and I won't do it now.”

The brothers exchanged a glance and rose from the table. They left the room without another word. Alex could not help but scan the bar for their waitress on the way out. It was not until they had exited the building that they dared look at one another.

“He'll come,” Alex said, sticking his hands deep in his pockets.

“Of course he will,” Isaac agreed.

“He wants it bad enough. I give him thirty seconds.”

They began to walk toward the parking garage.

The Broker stumbled out the revolving door, the fury evident on his face. He struggled to hide it. “Wait!” he shouted. “I need more time to consider the price.”

Alex pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. “Twenty-five million dollars will be wired to this account by midnight tonight as a down payment if you are serious about enlisting our services. If not, we don't ever want to hear from you again.”

The Broker took the paper with a trembling hand and slid into the back seat of a silver BMW that waited at the curb.

Alex's eyes narrowed as he watched the car pull away. “Call me when he makes the transfer.”

“Where are you going?”

A mischievous grin crept across his face. “I think I'd like to make the acquaintance of a certain waitress.”

Three hours later, Alex lay in bed wide awake, watching the clock. Beside him slept a naked woman, wrapped in sheets. Her blonde hair spilled across the pillow.

As soon as the numbers on his digital alarm clock changed to 12:01, the phone rang. He grabbed it from the cradle before it could ring a second time.

The pleasure in Isaac's voice was evident. “He was serious.”

“I thought he might be.”