Thief (46 page)

The missionary, Monarch, and the others looked at Claudio in puzzlement. He went up to Chavez, who'd been quiet and reflective since taking the shot.

Claudio dropped to one knee. Chavez's hand went to her mouth, but her eyes never left his.

“I've been trying to … since the day you got here,” the painter choked as he revealed the diamond ring. “But there was just no place or right time to … to say, Chanel Chavez, will you marry me?”

The sniper couldn't talk. She just nodded, burst into tears, and threw her arms around him.

“Awww,” Barnett and Sister Rachel said.

Fowler whistled. Monarch grinned at the knowledge that he'd brought them together. And Tatupu lost it again.

“All this crying's going to destroy my reputation,” he sniffled.

“Already has,” Monarch said.

After Claudio had put the ring on Chavez's finger, they all clapped. And there were hugs, and back poundings, and delighted words of heartfelt congratulations.

“Stand up for me?” Claudio said to the thief. “Be my best man?”

“I'd be honored, brother,” Monarch said. “Honored.”

When Sister Rachel at last broke from them and started up the hill to the children and her life, a small, red, four-door sedan pulled up the drive and parked by the van. A long, whippet-thin black man wearing round wire-rimmed glasses got out.

“Robin?” Barnett said, gesturing at the man with both hands. “Meet Zullo.”

“Mr. Zullo,” Monarch said, walking to him with his hand outstretched. “At long last we meet.”

Zullo seemed to be uncomfortable, but nodded, and shook the thief's hand. “Nice to meet you. Can we talk about something?”

Monarch glanced at Barnett, who nodded. “Sure,” the thief said.

“Robin?” Claudio called when they began to walk off.

“Two minutes,” Monarch said.

They walked over near Zullo's car. The thief's toe and his shoulder were aching, and he wondered if he should see a doctor. But then Zullo told him what was on his mind, and he forgot all about the pain.

“You're a good man,” Monarch said, shaking Zullo's hand again. “I hope we'll see more of you.”

Zullo nodded uncertainly, and then got back in the car and drove off.

“What'd he want?” Barnett said.

“Want?” Monarch said thoughtfully. “Nothing. He didn't want anything.”

Before Barnett could reply, Claudio, with his arm around a beaming Chavez, cried, “We must go to the finest restaurant in Buenos Aires and order bottle after bottle of the finest Malbec, and celebrate this momentous occasion!”

The others cheered this idea, but Monarch said, “I'm all for celebrating when the time is right, but I think you two need to be alone.”

“Buzzkill,” Claudio said indignantly. “You got somewhere else to be?”

“Rio,” Monarch said. “And sooner than later.”

 

60

RIO DE JANEIRO

9:00
P.M.

RIDING IN THE BACKSEAT
of his bulletproof Mercedes-Benz, Silvio Barbosa realized he had not heard a word from Beau Arsenault in more than twelve hours, and it made him nervous. He'd doubled his bodyguard detail and destroyed anything on paper, disk, or computer that talked about mining in the forbidden zone. He'd also thought about leaving Rio, heading to his beach house in Bahia, lying low, and riding this thing out.

But who would run the company? It just wasn't—

He felt a pang of hunger. He knew he should go straight home. He had a panic room there. But a man had to eat, didn't he?

“Take me by Quadrifiglia,” he said, referring to his favorite restaurant of the moment.

Correa turned around in the front seat, said, “You sure?”

“It's a small place,” he said. “Easily controlled. We'll be in and out in an hour.”

The bodyguard nodded, but Barbosa could see he didn't like it. Tough. The mining magnate didn't like other men getting in the way of a great meal.

Ten minutes later, they pulled over in front of the restaurant. Barbosa waited until Correa had gone in and scanned the interior. Then the driver, who was also armed, came around and opened the door.

Barbosa moved fast across the sidewalk with the driver and Correa flanking him.

Inside, he ordered his favorites on the menu and for the first time that day allowed himself to relax and savor the food and wine. During dessert, he decided to put the palladium mine on the back burner. It wasn't over. Not in the long haul. Just on a ten-year versus a five-year horizon now.

Barbosa nodded to Correa when he was done. The huge slab of a man got out his cell phone, and called the car back.

It pulled up in front of the restaurant and idled in the street when Correa motioned to Barbosa that it was safe to move. The mining executive got to the door. His bodyguard gestured to him to stop when an old man in an orange jumper appeared, pushing a trash cart and carrying a broom. He looked like his day had begun long before dawn.

“C'mon, let's go,” Barbosa said.

Correa waited until the old man passed, and then walked out onto the sidewalk, where the driver waited. Barbosa stepped out and was flanked by his bodyguard and the armed driver. They were a step from the curb, and a bus was passing, when Barbosa thought he heard a thud.

Correa wobbled and fell, blood streaming from a wound to his head. Barbosa lunged toward the car, hearing a second thud and a moan as his driver was hit. The door was unlocked. He wrenched it open, dove inside, and tried to pull the door shut.

A hand grabbed the door, pried it open. The old man with the trashcart lifted a sound-suppressed pistol and aimed it with cold precision.

“No!” Barbosa cried, throwing up his hands. “Mercy!”

The assassin jerked and fell dead, half in, half out of the Mercedes.

Barbosa was in total shock when an enormous man with a sheer white stocking over his face appeared and used one hand to hurl the dead killer out of the car and into the gutter. The front doors of the car opened. Two more men wearing sheer stockings jumped in. The driver threw the car in gear and screeched away.

“Who? Who are you?” Barbosa stammered.

The one beside him said nothing. The one in the front passenger seat said, “We're not with the guy who just killed two of your men, and tried to put a bullet in you.”

Barbosa was confused. “Who are you then?”

The one in the front pulled off his mask, looked over his shoulder at Barbosa and said, “My name's Monarch. I'm a thief.”

“No,” Barbosa groaned.

“Odd thing,” Monarch said. “We were waiting to snatch you and here someone tries to end your life. Lucky for you we were around.”

Barbosa thought about that, but said nothing.

“You have enemies, Silvio?” Monarch asked. “People who want you dead?”

“I … I don't know, I…”

“Obviously there's someone other than me. Who?”

“I don't know,” Barbosa said. “Seriously.”

“My gut sense?” Monarch said. “The guy who hired that assassin? Same guy who sent in mercenaries to kill me in the jungle. Same guy you partnered with to wipe out the Ayafal and the scientists, and get that palladium.”

Barbosa knew the thief was right. Who else would want him dead now? And Arsenault had not returned his calls. Wait, he thought. Monarch doesn't know that Arsenault is involved.

Sitting up straighter, Barbosa said, “If I give you his name?”

The thief pondered that, said, “By all rights I should be killing you, or turning you over to the national police.”

“But if I give you his name, you won't?”

“That's right. But here's the deal. You're going to cease and desist in ever trying to get at that palladium. And you're going to clean up your act, change the way you do business—the pollution, the human rights violations. And you're going to give Estella Santos five million dollars so she can—”

“Five million! That's too much. I—”

Tatupu grabbed Barbosa by his throat, said, “Shut up, and hear the man out.”

“Make it six million dollars,” Monarch said. “So she has a war chest to fight any effort to open up the restricted zone from development by assholes like you. I will have people keeping tabs on you for the rest of your sorry-ass life, Silvio. Make one move toward that mine, and you will die. Don't clean up the way you do business and you will die. Tell your partner that I'm coming for him, and you will die. And don't go thinking that hiring new and improved bodyguards will help you in any way, shape, or form.”

Tatupu drew his hand back. Barbosa choked and sputtered.

“Silvio,” Monarch said. “You have exactly fifteen seconds to accept this deal, or suffer the dire consequences.”

“Deal,” Barbosa said hoarsely. “His name is Arsenault. Beauregard Arsenault. Do you know him?”

If the thief was surprised, he didn't show it, said, “Transfer the money to Santos.”

“Now?” he said. “I can't.”

“Sure you can,” Monarch said. “I'm sure a guy like you can do it from your phone. I've got her account and routing number.”

Barbosa started to protest, but Tatupu reached for his throat again, and he said, “Okay, okay.”

Fifteen minutes later, he looked up and said, “It's done.”

“Thank you, Silvio,” the thief said. “And it would probably be smart for you to disappear for a few months.”

The driver pulled over. Barbosa looked out the window, saw that they were on a muddy street in one of the favelas, the crime-ridden slums of Rio. Small mobs of young men were eyeing the Mercedes hungrily.

“Get out,” Monarch said.

“Here?” Barbosa said, horrified at the idea. “Are you mad? I—”

Tatupu leaned across him, jerked the door handle, threw open the door, and heaved Barbosa out sideways. He stumbled and fell hard in the mud.

Fowler yelled something out the window in Portuguese, and they sped away.

“What'd you say there?” Tatupu asked, pulling off the stocking.

Fowler grinned. “I said, ‘The fat one's stinking rich and he's all yours.'”

The thief smiled as he picked up the phone, hit send.

Barnett answered.

“Give Zullo the bonus,” Monarch said. “His instincts were dead on.”

“Beau Arsenault,” Barnett said. “How did he get on to you?”

“Spreading a lot of money around, I imagine.”

“Well, we finally have the real target,” she said. “What next?”

The thief thought about that, and then said, “Arsenault's rich, ruthless, and without conscience, maybe the most dangerous and powerful man we've ever faced. We take our time. We quietly find his enemies. And then we make the son of a bitch squirm.”

 

61

CHICAGO

FOURTEEN WEEKS LATER …

FLANKED BY TWO ARMED
security guards as he left the Board of Trade around eleven in the morning on a warm, blustery June day, Big Beau Arsenault was thinking that life was good. Very good. Corn and soybean prices were strong. So were U.S. Treasury futures, and the tycoon was long on all of them. Hell, he was up nine percent overall from the beginning of the year, nearly three billion bucks in four months.

Could life get any better?

Arsenault flashed on his suite at the Drake, and allowed himself a grin because his life was about to get better in a big, big way. Janelle Ford, his newest protégée, would be waiting for a few hours of uninterrupted gourmet chocolate bingeing before he had to fly back to New Orleans.

A limousine pulled up in front of the Board of Trade, and the tycoon climbed in the back, surprised to find Billy Saunders inside.

“Thought you were in New York,” Arsenault grunted.

“On my way,” his security chief said. “And then I found out you were here, and I figured we could take care of a few things in person.”

“I'm on my way to an urgent meeting,” Arsenault said, irritated that Saunders had forgotten his routine.

“I'm aware of that, Beau, and you won't be delayed a minute,” Saunders said, before telling the driver to take them to the hotel and rolling up the divider.

“What's on your agenda, Billy?” the mogul asked impatiently.

Saunders got out an iPad and handed it to him. Arsenault put on reading glasses and saw he was looking at a satellite image of dense jungle interrupted by blackened cliffs and a river fed by two waterfalls. He knew where it was in an instant.

“That's the canyon?” he asked, fascinated.

Saunders nodded, said, “Took awhile, but I was able to backtrack the signal from Dokken's satellite phone. I typed in the GPS coordinates into Google, and up it came.”

The mogul's attention was riveted on the image. He zoomed in on the interior where the savages supposedly lived. Other than the clearing by the waterfall, and some lanes slashed through the jungle, there was no evidence of them. No structures at all. Dokken had done his job well.

“Enticing, isn't it?” Saunders asked. “A mega-fortune in palladium right there for the taking? And no competition now whatsoever?”

It was beyond enticing. Every high-tech electrical device used palladium now. And Saunders was right: there was no competition. Barbosa's stripped and stabbed body had been found in a garbage dump near a Rio slum nearly three months ago. How had Saunders pulled that off? Arsenault didn't know, and didn't want to know.

“We'll face opposition,” Arsenault said.

“That's what money's for,” Saunders said.

“Greed helps in this sort of thing,” the tycoon agreed. “What else?”

The security chief looked as if he was about to taste something bitter, but said, “Sister Rachel, the missionary doctor in Buenos Aires. She's not dead.”

Arsenault's head swiveled. “What? I thought you said it was done, and we paid.”