Just Watch Me Page 4

  It didn’t matter. Close was still a miss, and he had a job to do. He worked his way toward Park Avenue, along a tunnel that had not been used in living memory. Rubble had fallen from the walls, and even from the ceiling. There were still train tracks underfoot, but they were rusted, broken in many places. So he picked his way along carefully, until the tunnel ended abruptly at what had once been a stop for a long-gone train route. Here he paused, shining his light across the old platform. There was a marble arch on the back wall, but whatever doorway it had framed was gone, bricked up and then plastered over. He moved his light around the vaulted ceiling, which was decorated with a surprising amount of nineteenth-century detail work, and a mural of the Rape of Europa, badly faded and peeling but still visible. The man smiled and took out a map. He examined it carefully, checking it against a GPS on his wrist. Then he nodded and refolded the map.

  Next he opened his duffel bag and took out an orange device, about the size and shape of a rifle case. At one end of it was a hand grip, with some kind of electronics mounted on it. He flicked it on and stepped onto the platform and over to the far wall, the one with the sealed arch, and began moving slowly along the wall to his right, watching the dials while holding the other end of the gadget up to the wall.

  For the next hour the man went back and forth, covering every inch of the wall with the orange device. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. He put the orange thing back in his bag and took out another piece of equipment, a black box with twin antennae on top and a meter of some kind on its face. He spent another half hour with this, along the same wall, but when he was done, he was still unsatisfied. He shook his head and mumbled, “Solid fucking steel.” He stared at the wall for a while, but that didn’t seem to help. So he put the box away, took out a bottle of water, and sat on the ground.

  For a long time he just sat, sipping his water, sometimes looking over at the wall and then at the ceiling. Finally, he gave this up, too. “Shit,” he said softly. Then he stood, dusted off his hands, and went back down the tunnel toward the platform for the Lexington local, bag over his shoulder.

  * * *

  —

  Angela Dunham was a busy woman. Ordinarily, as assistant curator at the Eberhardt Museum, she did not need to work at the frantic pace she was at now. It was true that her boss, Benjy Dryden, the curator, was a cousin of the Eberhardts, and he was not a man who believed in the virtues of hard work—at least, not for himself. He did expect it from his assistant, and that kept Angela occupied.

  Normally, that was not a huge burden. Angela loved the work, and it seldom demanded more of her than she could give in an eight-hour day. But now, with these bloody crown jewels coming in, she was in constant tumultuous motion, arranging extra insurance, overseeing the installation of all the new security—which meant dealing with the men from Tiburon Security, and they were a bit frightening, in her opinion. Curator Benjy kept himself remote from all of it. Angela even had to supervise the design elements for the exhibit—it just never ended. There were so many details that required her attention, and it seemed to her like she never got two seconds to sit down and drink her coffee anymore.

  Angela had acquired a taste for coffee—practically an addiction, she admitted to herself. Of course, that was partly because it was new to her; she’d grown up with tea, drank PG Tips all the way through her master’s at University of Birmingham, back home in the UK’s Midlands. But when she’d come to America to take this job ten years before, she’d grown fond of coffee instead. Among other things, it made her feel a bit more like she belonged here. She’d come to relish the ritual of pouring a cup, sitting and sipping for a few minutes while she mentally organized her day. But the last few weeks had been so hectic she scarcely had time to pee, let alone sit and sip.

  So when her assistant, Meg, told her that a Mr. Beck was here to talk to her about electronic security, she did not see the visit as an annoying interruption, as she usually would have. Instead, she welcomed the chance to sit at her desk, just breathe and talk for a few relatively calm minutes—and, of course, have a wee small spot of coffee. “Send him in,” she said, and poured herself a cup from the thermos on her desk.

  She’d had only one sip when Mr. Beck came in. He was a stocky man in a gray suit, probably in his fifties, with a bristly gray mustache, gray hair in an old-fashioned brush cut, glasses with big black frames, and a bow tie. “Ms. Dunham,” he said, holding out his hand with a business card in it. “I’m Howard Beck, from Cerberus Security Systems.”

  He spoke with a middle-aged rasp in his voice, but he seemed nice enough. Angela took the card and inclined her head toward the folding chair across from hers. “Sit down, Mr. Beck. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you. That’s very kind, but no. Doctor’s orders.” He smiled apologetically.

  “Well, I hope you’ll forgive me if I have a bit myself?”

  “Oh, of course, absolutely—I still love the smell, but I’m not allowed to indulge.” He shook his head. “Arrhythmia, they tell me. My heart.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Angela said. “Still, it could be worse, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes, much worse, I don’t have any complaints,” he said. He allowed her another sip, and then broke the silence by saying, “Ms. Dunham, I know you’re a very busy woman—”

  “You have no idea,” she murmured.

  “—so I’ll cut right to the chase. I know the Eberhardt has always had top-notch security—but the Iranian crown jewels are going to paint a great big bull’s-eye on your museum. And if anyone is taking aim at it, they are going to be better than anybody you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I’m quite certain you’re right.”

  “They’ll know everything there is to know about how to get around any kind of alarm or sensor you can possibly have—they’ve seen ’em all and beat ’em all before, many times. So if you really want to keep those crown jewels safe, you’re going to need a few things that these light-fingered gentlemen have never heard of. And that’s where Cerberus Systems comes in. Confidentially, Ms. Dunham, I can help you do a system upgrade that is so far beyond state of the art that some of our components are not even on the market yet.”

  “Really? That’s very interesting, but—”

  “In fact, I can promise you that with a new Cerberus System in place, you will be getting a few new developments that have never been installed anywhere—and that means the bad guys don’t know how to beat ’em.” He nodded, once, with confident satisfaction.

  “Mr. Beck—I’m sorry, but we have already hired a firm to upgrade our security system.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but with all due respect—they can’t have the kind of cutting-edge technology Cerberus can offer.”

  “Yes, but really, Mr. Beck—”

  “Most of these other people don’t think about somebody tunneling in underneath, to your basement—Cerberus has you covered there.”

  “We’ve been promised full electronics in the basement, actually. And I’m afraid—”

  “Now before you say no, hear me out on this one thing: the roof.”

  Angela waited, but he said nothing, merely nodding with a serious expression on his face. “I can assure you, we do have a roof,” she said at last into the awkward silence.

  “Yes, ma’am, I know you do. But is it equipped with laser sensors that can detect any movement or shift in pressure from anything that weighs more than fifty pounds?”

  “As a matter of fact, the firm we hired has informed me that they will install something in that line, yes.” She gave him a very British superior smile. “As well as an armed human presence, of course. On the roof and at all other possible access points.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Beck said. He looked a bit deflated, Angela thought. “If you don’t think I’m being too pushy, could I ask you the name of that firm? Because—”

  “Tiburon Security,” Angel
a said. There was a gentle knock on her door—three soft raps; it was her assistant, Meg. “Come,” she called.

  Meg stuck her head in, a worried look pasted onto her pale, round face. “It’s the swatches,” she said. “For the drapery?”

  “I’ll be right there,” Angela said. She looked at her coffee cup and sighed: It was empty. “Mr. Beck—I’m afraid I really can’t give you any more time.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I understand, and I thank you for the time you have given me.” He stood up. “Tiburon is very good, but if there’s any sort of problem . . . ?”

  In spite of herself, Angela smiled. “I’ll be sure to call. Thank you, Mr. Beck.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Dunham,” he said. He nodded his head in something that was almost a bow, and then went quickly out. And with a last regretful look at her thermos, Angela followed him out a moment later.

  * * *

  —

  Chief Petty Officer (ret.) Walter Bledsoe sat behind his desk in the front office of Tiburon Security. It was a plain-looking office, although a veteran of the Navy might have recognized the way it was organized as highly reminiscent of a Naval Office, Operations, Special Warfare Command. That’s how Bledsoe set it up. It was what he was used to. And it was his post. He was an organizer, a facilitator. He was not one of the pointy-headed guys who worked with the high-tech stuff. They were all veterans of the Teams, but the geeks kept to their workroom in the back, and he sat out here and faced the world.

  And because everybody in the Teams is expected to pull his weight and perform multiple tasks, Bledsoe was also Tiburon’s receptionist. Most days he didn’t mind. The people who came in here were generally flag-rank assholes, but in twenty years in the Navy Bledsoe had made a career out of handling desk jockeys and pogues just like them, guys who thought their shit was pure gold. He ran into even more of the dickless shitbags now that he was a civilian, but the same techniques worked on them, and Bledsoe was an absolute artist at putting them in their place, civilian or flag rank, without anything that could be called outright insubordination.

  A small electronic tone sounded, and Bledsoe looked up from his paperwork. The high-def monitor on his desk showed a man approaching the front door—average height, wiry build, dark and shaggy hair, wearing pressed khakis and a white shirt neatly tucked in. He also sported a pair of large glasses with bright cranberry-colored frames. “That’s just fucking darling,” Bledsoe muttered. He watched as the guy looked again at a slip of paper in his hand, comparing it to the number on the door. “Well, come on, Tinker Bell. Push the fucking button, fucknuts,” Bledsoe muttered.

  As if he’d heard, the man reached up and punched the small black button beside the door. Bledsoe moved the mouse over his computer monitor and clicked to open the door. A moment later, the stranger stood before him. “How can I help you . . . sir?” Bledsoe said, deliberately being a bit snarky.

  “Uh, I’m looking for a—I mean, I was hoping you might have a job opening?”

  “A job? Here?” Bledsoe said. He gave the man a slow and insulting once-over before shaking his head and adding, “You sure you got the right place? We don’t do much ballet here.”

  “No, I—I mean, Tiburon, right? And, uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s— You know, I heard about what you guys do, you’re cutting-edge and so forth, and that’s—oh!” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and placed it in front of Bledsoe. “Uh, my résumé? It’s— I have a master’s? From Stanford? Electronic engineering? I specialize in surveillance and security? And, uh—I got a job at one of those start-ups, you know, Silicon Valley? But, uh—” He gave a one-syllable laugh. “They went belly-up, like, before they even paid me? So, uh . . .” He trickled to a halt and blushed as he saw that Bledsoe’s face had taken on a look of pitying disbelief.

  “Listen, buddy,” Bledsoe said after letting the guy sweat for a minute. “I don’t know what you heard, but we only hire guys from the Teams.”

  “The teams? You mean—I was on the tennis team in high school . . .”

  He stumbled to a stop again as Bledsoe shook his head and said, “No, sport. Not tennis. SEAL Teams. We only hire guys we know from the SEAL Teams.”

  “But—but I have a master’s—I know I could help—”

  “Not gonna happen,” Bledsoe said firmly. “Not never, not nohow.” He cocked a dubious eyebrow. “Unless you wanna enlist and try for a spot on the Teams first?”

  The poor guy just opened and closed his mouth like a goddamn fish. He was obviously suffering, but what the hell did he expect? Bledsoe let him stand there and sweat and swallow convulsively for a moment, and then he finally said, “Seriously, buddy. No fucking chance. Okay?” Bledsoe clicked his mouse, and the door swung open, startling the stranger into a small jump. “Have a nice day,” Bledsoe said, and the guy swallowed one more time, looked around, and then bolted out the door like he was being chased by Apaches. “Fucknuts,” Bledsoe said. “Dumb-ass cock-breath fucknuts.” He flipped the résumé into the trash.

  CHAPTER

  4

  My desk was littered with shit. It usually isn’t. Unless I’m working, putting together some totally new plan. Which I was—or anyway, I was trying. And the crap storm on my desk told the story: photographs, charts, brochures, maps, papers stacked just high enough to hide the empty food wrappers—it was a mess that would have made Mom faint dead away. But she wasn’t going to see it. Nobody was except me. I couldn’t take a chance that somebody might notice it wasn’t what it looked like, which was a pointless shit heap of random papers with no connection. A closer look would show that each piece of this particular shit heap had some connection to the Eberhardt Museum. There were detailed photographs of every window and door, inside and out; close-ups of sections of the roof—especially the area around the skylight; floor plans of every inch of the museum, and even seismic maps of the area under it, along with an ancient map of the subway system. I had busted my ass to collect all this, turned myself into a sweaty fat redneck, spent the night by the dumpster in rags. I tried everything, covered every inch of the place you could possibly think of, and even a lot that you would never imagine—that’s kind of my trademark—and guess what?

  None of it was worth a rusty rat’s ass.

  There was just No Fucking Way In. Not even for me. Riley Wolfe. The genius of gems. The king of kleptomania. The greatest thief who ever lived. I was stuck on the outside of what could be the greatest heist in history—but only if I could get inside the museum.

  And I couldn’t. No way.

  “Shit,” I said. “Shit, shit, shit . . .” It didn’t help, no matter how many times I said it. No brilliant plan came to me. Not even a stupid one. I was on the outside looking in. And once the jewels arrived, it would get a whole lot worse. I wouldn’t even be able to get close enough to look in the door.

  I picked up a sheet of paper and snarled at it. My checklist. The starting point for my most amazing and impossible job ever. I scanned it, waiting for some overlooked weak spot to leap out at me. Roof access—nope. Basement access—not possible. Alarm system—brand-new unknown tech, so forget it. Infiltrate tech company—uh-uh, not happening with those 12-gauge assholes. Doors, windows, walls, floor, nothing. Every single possible entry point on the list was crossed out. And no matter how many times I stared at the paper, nothing new magically appeared.

  I balled it up and let it fall. It was worthless. I was worthless. I couldn’t come up with a single thing they hadn’t covered. Why? Because I couldn’t break out of brain-dead, ordinary, garden-variety thief thinking. Everything I thought of was something any two-bit wannabe would try. Oh, I know—go through the skylight! Sure. And land in front of a couple of trigger-happy assholes with automatic weapons. “Standard,” I mumbled. “Total normal-ass bullshit. Think, damn it.”

  But the thoughts were not coming. I’d made my rep by coming up with things nobody else ever could—and by doing them. And before
I did them, just to be extra safe and thorough, I always went through all the ordinary tricks, the dumb-ass things any clown could do—the kind of stuff the cops actually hoped you would try because they’d seen it before and they were ready for it. I checked it all out anyway, always. And usually, that would help me see some totally new and beautiful plan to get what I needed.

  This time? Nothing. I hadn’t expected anything, and I didn’t find it. But what I did find was enough to scare away anybody else. I’d thought the security at the Central Bank in Tehran was stiff. This was a lot worse. What they were doing to the Eberhardt was practically Star Trek, like two hundred years ahead of everything else.

  So I tried harder. And because nobody else would think of it, I did research on Ludwig Eberhardt, the dynasty’s founder, the old asshole who built the place. I did enough research to write a fucking thesis. I learned things about him I would bet nobody else in the world knew. And I even got one quick moment of hope when I learned about the private train track the old bastard had built so he could ride his luxury Pullman car from his home all the way in to his museum.

  I almost got squashed by a subway train, but I found the tunnel old Ludwig’s track was in. And it was just another dead end. Just like all the other dead ends that were piled up on my desk. All of them garbage, useless. Unworkable, even fatal. And I was out of ideas.

  I thought I needed to find something impossible. It was starting to look like I’d done it for real.

  “Shit,” I said one more time. It still didn’t help. “There has to be a way. Goddamn it, there’s always a way.”

  I glanced around the room without really seeing it. It was small and cramped, but it was all I needed right now. There was a bed, a dorm-sized refrigerator, a hot plate—and behind a tattered old shower curtain, there was a sink and a toilet. The room was in an old building south of Williamsburg, and it smelled like a public toilet. But what the hell, I’ve had worse. I can get used to anything, and nobody else was coming in here. I had paid a stupid amount of cash for three months’ rent and a guarantee that I’d be left alone, to “finish my novel.”