Counterfeit Conspiracies Read online

  "All I did was strike up a conversation."

  "And ask me to dance, and offer me drinks, and shanghai me out into the Italian night with some line that probably came out of a bad romance novel."

  I jerked out of his grip and moved toward the rock wall that separated the balcony floor from a sudden trip to the beach far below us. I paced as I continued. "Besides, where did you pick up that pitiful drawl? It never really worked for Gable, and you don't have the charisma to pull it off."

  He stepped closer, stopping a few feet short of the rock barrier. He grabbed my right wrist with his left hand. I continued moving, deliberately taking a couple of steps too many. The pointed heel of my shoe accidently landed in the middle of his Italian loafer. Hard.

  I heard a quiet oath as he dropped my wrist and swung his right arm. My stiffened forearm thwarted the potential blow, and I shot a leg out, aiming for his knee.

  My foot never made contact. Reflexes better honed than mine reacted even faster. He flipped my foot heavenward and I overbalanced, falling backward onto my . . .

  Well, let's just say the stone floor proved every bit as uncomfortable as it looked.

  He then had the nerve to reach out a hand to help me up. Unbelievable. Knocking it aside, I scrambled to my feet, but couldn't keep from rubbing my injured anatomy. Adding salt to the wound, he didn't even bother rubbing the foot I knew must be throbbing.

  His drawl was replaced by a clipped English accent when he spoke again. "So the little lioness knows how to fight. I wonder what else she knows."

  "Oh, I took self-defense courses with the rest of the ladies in my neighborhood," I said, smiling at the explanation I'd so often used. "Let's forget about me and talk about you. I notice you have a penchant for accents. First, Rhett Butler, then Maurice Chevalier, and now the Prince of Wales. What's next? Vladimir Putin? Look, I'm tired. Why don't you just tell me what you want, why you've been dogging me all night, and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you walk away without taking exception."

  "I've been wondering the same thing about you," he said, only addressing the first part of my question. "You work a room quite nicely. In fact, the first time I saw such orchestrated movements was a little soiree in Monaco about six months ago. Of course, the woman there was a graceful redhead, but . . ."

  I kept my features a poker-faced mask as I waited for him to go on.

  He took a deep breath and leaned against the railing. "Then, three months ago, I was at a party on a yacht anchored off Crete when I noticed a sleek brunette laughing up at a man, obviously her lover, as they drank bubbly in the moonlight. Everyone has certain movements they make over and again. A living fingerprint if you will. Your gestures are unmistakable, like the way your teeth worry your bottom lip, and remove all your lipstick."

  Startled, my teeth released my errant lip. Damn. He was right.

  He chuckled, then raised his right hand. "Yes, I would swear in a court of law that the redhead at the baccarat table, and the brunette with her lover were the same long-limbed blonde I'm staring at right now."

  I knew that yacht party. It was the last time I'd been with Simon Babbage, my mentor and the head of European operations for the Beacham Foundation. The last time we'd been a couple. It was also when a Dutch Master slipped out of museum circulation and into "the other realm."

  "You must be mistaken. I know I've never seen you before or I would have . . ."

  "What? Run the other way? Grabbed me with both hands? Searched and seized me?"

  I looked at my watch. Where the hell was Nico? Who the hell was this guy?

  "Who the hell are you?" I voiced my thoughts aloud.

  He pulled a cheroot from the inside pocket of his jacket and lit a gold Dunhill lighter. "They call me Bond. James Bond."

  It took everything I had to keep from slapping him. "Look, your fairy tale was flattering. Obviously, I'm the girl of your dreams, but I've never been near Monaco, nor has my hair ever been red. Maybe you should have your eyes checked. Or see a therapist. I'll pardon your behavior on the grounds that you thought you recognized me, so I can perhaps salvage the rest of this night. If you'll excuse me . . ."

  There was a sudden a shift in atmosphere between us. I had about three seconds of "civil" left before he sprang into whatever action he'd followed me here for. I got two steps from the open French doors before his viselike grip had my elbow again.

  "Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I may interrupt?" An unexpected voice came out of one of the terrace's dark corners.

  Relief flooded through me when I recognized the indeterminate accent of our host. As the suave billionaire approached, someone fired a roman candle from the beach, briefly illuminating the man's gentle curiosity with exquisite pyrotechnics. The aging playboy directed an apologetic smile in my direction, then turned to Teal Eyes.

  "Claudio is looking for you, my friend. The game is about to start, and we've been unable to find several of those who reserved seats. Will you go at once, or shall I inform them you've been delayed?"

  "I'll be there shortly, Giovanni." My captor's southern drawl was back firmly in place, and his tone remained even. However, the momentary tightening of his hand on my arm told me that here was a man who hated to be questioned or have his plans altered. He dropped my arm and smoothed down his jacket, limping slightly as he reentered the ballroom.

  Alone at last, I headed straight for the wall and removed my stilettos before my feet hit the sand. Nico was on his own. I declared myself officially off duty.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two cabs, a plane flight, and one Tube ride later, meant that by the next morning I was at Heathrow and on my way toward a promised vacation. A week in a lovely B and B on Lake Tahoe. One whole week of soft pillows and fluffy duvets, and the crisp, clean mountain air I remembered from childhood visits. Even white sun and millionaire beaches pall after the steady diet I'd been on. I wanted the mountains. I wanted to feel the seasons change. I wanted my first break in four years.

  The Pretenders' "Back on the Chain Gang" ringtone echoed from my red Prada purse, and my heart sank. I debated not answering. I cursed myself for even having turned the phone on when we landed.

  It had to be a new assignment. Everything else I'd worked on lately had been completed, as promised, on time. Except, of course, the last job, but the circumstances had left me no option but to abort. I squeezed the cellular, wishing the stranglehold would stop the signal.

  The phone stopped ringing. For some psychotic reason I felt equally glad and fearful.

  I didn't want a new assignment. I wanted the quiet vacation I'd been promised. I wanted to start writing a novel, even a silly trashy novel—anything that would be created and completed without second or third party suggestions or directives. A solitary luxury I had yet to experience. It had been four years since my last vacation!

  The ringtone resumed its impatient '80s rock scream.

  No one had to tell me I was good at my job. There was no one better. But I didn't care anymore. This was like one more cancelled birthday party because Daddy is drunk again. I didn't want to hear it.

  With suppressed fury, I stabbed at the faceplate of the "smart" phone. If it's so smart, why did it accept this call?

  "What?"

  I wasn't surprised when Max's voice bellowed incoherently through the speaker.

  "Calm down, Max." I held the thing out in front of me and screamed to be heard over his tirade. "I can't possibly understand a word you're saying until you bring the volume down several hundred decibels."

  "Where the hell have you been?" he screamed, loudly enough that the woman standing next to me jumped. "Damn it, Laurel, you have an obligation to this organization. I should not have to listen to forty-nine rings before your phone is answered." My boss had a tendency toward hyperbole, and could chew up workers faster than George Foreman did justice to a plate of ribs.

  Having survived a half-dozen years in the trenches carrying Max on my back, I knew giving excuses would do little more than fuel his volcan
o of self-righteous anger. But I also had no intention of becoming someone's idea of a virgin sacrifice, either—not that I even met the chief qualification.

  "I'm in the middle of Heathrow. And, I might note, every person within a three foot radius of me can hear you yelling. "

  This did the trick. The man valued privacy above all other things. "Laurel . . . ah, well . . . sorry . . . I ah . . ."

  "You have a job, right?" Might as well cut to the chase.

  "Yes, exactly. A pick-up. You have two days to retrieve the object. I've already had the instructions sent to your email."

  "I'm on vacation."

  "But Laurel, I need you for this assignment—"

  "There has to be someone else who can handle it."

  I knew he was shaking his head even before I heard the answer. "No, this pick-up has to be done by you. I can't trust anyone else with it."

  "Why? What is it?" His histrionics didn't convince me; I'd heard it all before. But until I knew the specifics I couldn't suggest an alternative courier.

  "Sixth-century jeweled sword and scabbard."

  The man knew I despised handling items of war! No matter the age, I could always feel the tremors of the poor victims. And it never failed. The more bejeweled the hilt, the more blood known to have been wiped from the blade.

  "No, Max—"

  "Laurel, I know how you feel, but this time it's di—"

  "I'm not carrying any more weapons. I don't care how old and valuable they—"

  "Laurel, it's believed to be Arthur's!" Max shouted.

  I narrowed my eyes at the phone. "Arthur who?"

  "The Arthur."

  "You're pulling my leg. You don't seriously mean . . ."

  "Yes." Smug self-satisfaction colored the simple word, right over the technologically advanced wireless communication. "Our source has what is quite possibly the sword of King Arthur."

  "C'mon, Max, King Arthur and that whole roundtable story line is just a legend. A nice one, I agree, affording the Brits a few more tourists each year. But nothing has ever been proven."

  Even as I argued with good sense and logical words, I had to admit that I was intrigued. Just about any piece from that relative time period would be quite a find.

  "A very old parchment was discovered with the sword," Max explained. "Apparently, word is, it looks like it could be the real thing. Everything must be authenticated, of course, but without the items that cannot be done."

  "Where was it found?"

  "In an iron box set below the cornerstone of what had been a very minor ancient church. The area's been one of England's neglected ruins for centuries. A pair of local boys discovered it when they decided to dig a cave."

  "How industrious."

  They called my flight. I stood and grabbed the handle of my carryon bag. Even as I walked, however, something nagged at me, something I knew he was holding back. "How were we contacted?"

  "Wyndham-Hall heard about it and passed on the information."

  "Who did the negotiations?"

  "Babbage. In fact, he is the one holding it, now. You'll need to contact him at the London office."

  "Who else knows about this?"

  "Ah, well . . ."

  I knew there was something nasty about this. The airline attendant looked at my first-class boarding pass and blue passport, then waved me through. I prodded my boss harder. "Out with it, Max."

  "We, uh, understand Moran's gotten wind of the piece.

  Damn. The man could steal your eyelashes without your noticing it.

  "And someone else, Laurel," Max said, a strange note in his voice. "Someone new. I don't have all the particulars yet, but a man of around thirty was asking after the boys and their treasure."

  "But you don't have a name?"

  "Not even a good description. You can see now why you are best for the job."

  "Yes." Why fight the inevitable? "I'm still entitled to a week's vacation." I pivoted and began working my way back to the terminal, squeezing through the oncoming tide of passengers.

  "What about that ski trip you took?" he countered

  "Get it right, Max." I broke free of the crowd and smiled at the puzzled look the boarding attendant gave me as I reappeared. I'd get online later to rebook my flight. "My adventure in Switzerland was while I was on the trail of that Van Eyck painting, pursuing the defunct count who fancied himself the next ski champion of the world. I lost seven pounds, at least a yard of skin, and couldn't walk normally for a week after the so-called vacation."

  "We'll talk about it later, Laurel. Right now, time is of the essence."

  "We'll talk about it now. My plane hasn't left yet, and I can still get onboard."

  A hissing sound erupted from a nearby cappuccino machine, and a similar sound came through the phone. "Okay, okay. If you bring the piece in safely you can take a full week's vacation."

  Easier than I'd expected. Then I smelled the trap. "Before the end of this month, Max. Not next year."

  "You are very good, Laurel." Max laughed mirthlessly. "Per your terms. Please check your email and contact me immediately with any questions."

  A click and he was gone. I stepped into the coffee bar and ordered a caramel latte with lots of whipped cream.

  While I'll admit I was intrigued by the possibility of this piece, it was an art recovery expert's dream. After all, the thing that put me over the edge and off my flight was the mention of Moran. The man was a ruthless viper, nearly unstoppable in whatever quest he undertook. Could I beat him again? Did I have that kind of luck? Because luck would have to once more play a part. Talent wasn't enough. And until I knew more about the other player Max referred to, I planned to not dwell on the possibilities. I just hoped I could spot the mystery man before he or Moran spotted me.

  I keyed into my secured email account, and the screen flashed confirmation of the incoming case instructions, along with several more files labeled as containing diagrams and pictures. Files previously forwarded to the foundation by the original contact, Wyndham-Hall. If only the little wonder machine could as easily have seen the timeline for the next few days. I called Simon.

  "Hi, love. I got an email earlier saying you'd phone. Got everything safely stowed away until we can get authentication," he answered.

  As he talked, I could hear the scratch his razor made over his tough beard. I knew the sound intimately. What Max and company didn't know was that Simon and I had shared an eight-month attempt at a Trans-Atlantic affair. The last time we'd spoken by phone was when it ended, both of us agreeing the delicious, illicit-feeling trysts took more time and energy than either of us could spare from work. It had been the best decision at the time, but hearing his voice now, even through the peripheral noise of the terminal, brought back a swarm of memories.

  "You're going to have to make it to the city without a welcoming party," Simon continued. "I have an informant meeting me this morning, and I don't know how long that will take."

  Water ran then stopped. Through a mental eye, I could see Simon shaking the razor before returning it to the antique, bone-colored shaving cup I knew stood on the basin. "Who's my competition?"

  Simon gave an easy laugh. "Believe me, Laurel, this one-eyed, smelly Welshman is no competition. I'd much rather be wrapping my arms around you. But the rogue claims he's privy to information guaranteed to 'interest' me about a piece."

  "About the . . . latest?" The barista started the coffee grinder, and I could barely hear over the unholy roar.

  "Right." Simon's answer seemed a whisper. "Laurel, this connection—"

  "Yeah, this is no good for a private conversation." I shouted into the microphone. "Meet you at the office?"

  "That would be perfect. I'll try to be there by two."

  I sighed. Luckily, I had my small carryon, but the rest of my things were on their way to Lake Tahoe. I needed to email Max to have someone pick up my luggage. I'd spend the time until my meeting with Simon scouting out a hotel room and shopping for whatever I needed. Wha
t really cheesed me was that my best lock picks were onboard the Tahoe flight, riding around in the cargo bay in my luggage. Useless to me there, but they would have never made it through security so I checked them. Now I had to find a set of replacements.

  Before putting the phone back into its pocket, I called a particular boutique hotel. One I had stayed in before and whose personnel had proven its discretion admirably. They had room for me. I headed for the taxi stand.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Milan will always be my favorite place to shop, but London stays in my top three. With shopping essentials completed, credit cards depleted, and the holes in my wardrobe refilled for this job, I jumped in a black cab and headed for Simon's office. The morning stole more out of me than I'd thought, but at least the shopping gave me the tools necessary to feel capable of handling any new challenge that reared its ugly head. I rested my head against the high-backed seat and closed my eyes. Just a quick catnap to refresh my mind.

  But it did little to refresh. Instead, I dreamed in some cryptic mélange, the images pushing me like a Fellini film treatment to run around Lake Tahoe, all the while carrying a huge silver sword. Footsteps charged through the underbrush behind me, and a voice wove through the trees, whispering in a clipped, English accent. "How far can you run, Miss Lioness? Do you really think you can escape?"

  I awoke when the cab stopped.

  "Here ya go, miss," the cabbie said. "Delivered as promised. And I'll drop these packages back off at your hotel. Would you like me to return and retrieve you?"

  The dream left me feeling off-balance. A ridiculous manifestation of my subconscious.

  The cabbie wore a black cap, and knocked it back to show the queer look on his face by the time I finally answered. I smiled and hoped he didn't think I needed a keeper. "My friend will get me back. Thanks so much for your help."

  I handed the driver a good portion of my emergency stash of British pounds. He doffed his cap, and I turned to look out the cab door at the building. A quaint example of early-nineteenth century English architecture, it reflected the conservative nature of the old-fashioned trust company that owned it. Simon's office was tucked away in one corner, off the main side of the building.