Eye of the God (9 page)

Isaac had just taken his final photo when his cell phone rang. “Yeah?”

“She's at work this morning. I wasn't counting on that. You'll have to steer clear of her office,” Alex said. “I thought she wasn't coming in today.”

“So did I. But I just called her office, and she picked up. You'll have to go back later.”

“Okay.” Isaac tucked the camera into his front pocket. He was just about to leave the Gem and Mineral Collection when he looked up and saw Abby walking toward him, with keys in one hand and a briefcase in the other. “Hey Al?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“You were holding out on me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you told me she was pretty, but you failed to mention how great she looks in jeans.”

“What do you mean?”

“She's walking straight toward me.”

“Really? What's she doing there?” Alex asked.

“We'll talk later,” Isaac said.

“Hey, don't go messing with my territory.”

“Don't worry, little brother. I know what my job is. I trust you do as well.”

“That's why I love my job,” Alex said. “I get to mix business with pleasure.”

Isaac stuck the phone into his pocket and pulled out his camera. He wandered around the gallery as unobtrusively as possible, taking pictures of Abby as she stared at the Hope Diamond.

She stayed in the gallery for just a couple of moments, gazing silently at the deep blue stone. Abby brushed her fingers against the display case, her face unreadable, and
then turned on her heel and left. A thought occurred to Isaac, and he looked at the thick glass display case for a moment. It was in the direct view of at least six different security cameras. He had an idea.

Isaac stepped into the hallway and walked toward a security guard a few yards away.

Once back at her apartment, Abby drank two more cups of coffee and let the cobwebs clear from her mind. Door and windows locked tight, she climbed in the shower and let the hot water pour over her until her fingertips puckered and turned white. Dow and DeDe, efficient people that they were, would consider it a pure waste of water to take such a long shower, but that was where Abby did her best thinking.

Thirty minutes later she emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel on her head, an old tee shirt, and a pair of sweats. She gathered her laptop, clicked on the TV, and plopped on the sofa. The sound of the morning news faded into background as she checked her email. Her face went pale.

There was only one message in her inbox, but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat. The sender was Douglas Mitchell.

“Dad,” Abby muttered.

She waited a moment before clicking on the message and then read:

Abby,

I'm going to be in town next Friday, and wondered
if you wanted to have lunch.

Dad

“Hello to you too,” she snapped. She stared at the screen for a few minutes and then tentatively hit the reply key.

Dad,

Friday is crazy for me. What do you say we have breakfast?

Abby

She let the cursor hover over the send button for an uncomfortable length of time, debating whether to reply at all. She squeezed her eyes shut, let out a sigh, and sent the message.

Why do you do this to yourself, Abby? It never ends well.

The security badge declared his name was Randy Jacobs, Smithsonian Physical Security Specialist, and that his clearance level was A5. The picture had obviously been taken several years ago and showed a thinner, happier version of the disgruntled employee. However, it was the magnetic strip on the back that captured Isaac's interest. The badge hung from a nylon pulley attached to a clip at Randy's waist.

Isaac approached the guard, transforming into a friendly tourist. “Excuse me, sir,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I seem to have misplaced my wife.” Isaac looked sheepish. “She left about thirty minutes ago to take a picture of the Hooker Emerald Brooch. I think she said she was going that way.” He pointed down the hall, drawing the guard's attention with his outstretched right hand. “But I've gotten all turned around, and now I can't find her.”

As Randy looked down the hallway, Isaac slowly raised his left hand and carefully unclipped the badge with the skill of a veteran pickpocket.

“No, no,” Randy said, shaking his head. “You're looking in the wrong place. That wing of the collection houses all the minerals. You're looking for gems.”

As Isaac maintained eye contact, listening to his directions and nodding emphatically, he pulled the camera from his pocket and slid the security badge into an empty slot that would normally hold the camera's battery. He waited three seconds while it read the information on the magnetic strip and then removed it, waiting for his opportunity to return the badge.

“Yeah,” Isaac said, offering an appreciative smile. “I see where I've gone wrong.” He gave Randy a good natured slap on the back, while clipping the badge back in place with his free hand. “Thanks, man,” he said, offering a genuine smile. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem, sir. I hope you find your wife.”

“I'm sure I will. She just won't want to leave. You know women and jewelry!”

Dow juggled the tottering stack of newspapers in his arms so he could answer the phone. DeDe sat in front of her easel carefully blending colors in preparation to paint. On her left was a print of Edvard Munch's classic,
The Scream.
She took a deep breath, swirled her brush on the pallet, and swept it across the empty canvas.

Dow managed to grab the receiver just before it went to voice mail. “Hello?”

“Dad emailed,” Abby said. Her voice sounded shaky.

“No phone call?”

“He never calls. You know that. Phone calls are too personal.”

Dow carefully set down his stack of papers and tugged at his earlobe. “What did he want?”

“Lunch. Next Friday.”

“The day before the event? He couldn't have picked a worse day. What did you tell him?”

“I asked for breakfast instead. Honestly, I don't even know if I'll have time for that.”

“Do you want to see him?”

She hesitated. “Yes … and no. You know how it is.”

“Abby,” Dow said carefully. “I don't know if this is such a good idea.”

“When has it ever been a good idea? It's just that, you know, he's my dad. He's the only one I've got.”

“I'd be more than happy to interview for the position,” Dow offered.

Abby laughed. “And if the position were open you would get the job. But I can't pretend he isn't my father.”

“Okay, deary, but be careful. He isn't good to you.”

“I know. And thanks. I just thought you'd want to know.”

Dow shook his head.
This is bad.

He moved a stack of newspapers to a long narrow desk on the other side of the room and sat on a wooden stool, sorting them into stacks.

7

T
HE SILVER BMW FOLLOWED ALEX'S MERCEDES AT A COMFORTABLE
distance. The windows were tinted an impenetrable black, rendering its passengers invisible. The driver was a nondescript man of European descent, quiet, yet formidable. He served many roles for his employer, the least of which was chauffeur. On more than one occasion he had quietly

dispatched enemies for the man in the backseat. Although he preferred not to, when needed he was capable of flying small aircraft. Kidnap, blackmail, arson, and torture were things he could have added to his professional resume, had he the need for one. He didn't. The man driving had never been in want of a job. He had gone by several names during his career, each of them adopted for the necessary task. Mikál was the name uttered at his baptism in a Roman Orthodox church in Slovakia, but Wülf was what the Broker used on the rare occasions that they conversed.

The Broker sat directly behind his driver, eyes on the red taillights of the Mercedes ahead of them. Neither man was bothered by the dense quiet in the car, undisturbed by radio or conversation. Both preferred it that way. So it was with almost palpable shock that the silence was broken.

“You have been following him for the last week?” the Broker asked.

Wülf nodded.

“Has he gone anywhere out of the ordinary?”

“What is
ordinary
, sir?”

“Anywhere that I wouldn't approve.”

Silence.

“And the girl? You've been tailing her as well?”

Silence again. Words were tools used sparingly for Wülf.

“Where has she been?”

“Work. Home. She has been out with Mr. Weld once. Occasionally she visits friends in a loft apartment on the other side of town. Nowhere else.”

The Broker nodded, pleased. “Good.”

There was a full ten car lengths between the BMW and the Mercedes. In the space between them were two other cars. Once they entered heavier traffic, Wülf navigated the streets, a safe distance away, and followed the car into the Smithsonian parking lot.

“Park and wait,” the Broker ordered, leaning forward to watch Alex hurry toward the entrance.

Wülf nodded and slipped into an empty parking spot fifty feet away.

Alex purposefully arrived at Abby's office five minutes early. The door was half open, and he watched as she carried on two conversations at once. Abby wore a pair of black slacks and a red v-neck sweater. Her hair was loose, and she had kicked off her black stilettos. Her bare feet played with the carpet while she held her iPhone in one hand and a diet Coke in the other. Her office phone was cradled in her neck. The desk was littered with stacks of paper waiting to be signed and an untouched Chinese takeout box from lunch, which she either didn't like or didn't have time to eat.

“Yes. That's right,” she said. “At least three hundred people. I should be able to get you a final head count in the morning… . Yes, the menu is finalized. The suggestions you gave me helped tremendously. Well, you know how
the D.C. social circle is. They have pretty high expectations… . Okay. Thanks. Bye.”

She set down her Coke and hung up the office phone, took a deep breath, and pressed the iPhone to her ear. “So sorry, Mr. Trent, it's been a little crazy around here today… . Yes I received the security information. I've got a meeting with Daniel Wallace tomorrow, and we'll be going over all that… . Yes, I know. You don't have to remind me how serious this is.”