The shadowmaker, p.20
The Shadowmaker, page 20
“While I appreciate the kind words, sir, I have years of solid intel from this guy on record. The information I gleaned from his meetings over the years has resulted in over a dozen arrests and quite possibly saved the lives of two federal judges. I’m sorry we’re not able to see eye to eye.”
“That’s all well and good,” Harwick said, his voice eerily calm. “But none of it matters now. He’s dead.”
“So where do you want me?”
“Get with Garza. He needs help trying to track down Henry Sirola. Krunoslav’s preparing to make his move, this whole thing’s about to come to a head and I’m sure Sirola will be there when it does.”
“Why is Garza trying to track Sirola down? Didn’t he return to his apartment?”
“Maybe he did, who the hell knows. Just get with Garza and sort it out. The kid’s probably still shook up from the shooting, but he’s been off the grid since yesterday.”
“I’m right on it.”
Harwick stood from the table and glared out the window at the Park Avenue building. “Why is Anton being so quiet?” he wondered into the glass.
“Well, one of his captains was just gunned down in a public park,” said Miles. “He’s reorganizing, preparing his team for whatever it is he’s got coming in from Brazil.”
“The research vessel returned to port three days ago.”
“No shit?”
“Yep. Brazilian Customs apparently checked the ship, but they’re probably in Krunoslav’s pocket so I’m not holding my breath. Or maybe it was all a distraction—a wild goose chase.”
“I don’t think he’d spend that kind of coin just to distract us.”
“I asked CIA to nab one of the crew, try to shake something loose.”
“What’d they say?”
“They won’t get involved unless one of the crew members steps foot on American soil. Which means there’s no black site, no interrogation. Nothin’.”
“Great,” scoffed Miles. “So much for containment. We’re five thousand miles away from a boat we’ve only seen through a monitor with no way of finding out what was on it. We should’ve had a team waiting for it when it pulled into port.”
Harwick turned and headed for the exit. “Find Henry Sirola!” he shouted as he charged out of the room.
Miles slung his hands onto the armrests and leaned back in his chair. He stared out over the skyline at a set of clouds passing by in the distance.
Nearby, a young NSA analyst pegged away at his keyboard. “He seems fun to work with,” the kid joked softly.
Miles turned his head and looked him over. “How long you been doing this?”
“Four years,” remarked the young man. He had a thick head of dark hair and a wispy patch of growth where a goatee would someday be.
“What’s our surveillance total at the moment?” Miles asked.
The kid continued typing. “Five: we’ve got full surveillance on Krunoslav from here; you and Garza are now assigned to Henry Sirola; we’ve also got a team watching Asa Petrovi; and a team on the warehouse off Krog Street.”
“Good,” replied Miles. “You’ll feel the buzz when Anton’s treasure arrives. They’ll all start scurrying around like cockroaches.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.”
The FBI agent stood from his chair and walked across the carpet. “Can I get you anything while I’m out?”
“No, sir. I’m all set here.”
Miles left the room, and as he walked up the hallway toward the maintenance elevator, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Go ahead,” a voice answered.
“Hey, Garza. Anything on Sirola?”
“Absolutely nothing,” the DCIS officer replied. “His car hasn’t left Scranton and Brooks since yesterday. He’s not at his apartment either.”
Miles winced with frustration. “Okay, where are you?”
“I’m back at the Forty West building just waiting for this little prick to show up.”
“You’re at the wrong location. Meet me at Scranton and Brooks in ten minutes.”
CHAPTER 23
The rented minivan merged south onto the interstate. It was Monday afternoon and rush-hour traffic was already backing up.
“How’d everything go?” she asked. Henry glanced out the passenger window at a light fog gathering to the west. “Henry,” she tried again. “Did something happen? Did you find anything?”
“No. Sorry, I just… didn’t get much sleep.”
“So what’s on the laptop?”
“Darius has enough evidence to bring down the entire organization,” he said ominously.
Isabell gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I still don’t understand why we aren’t setting that house on fire and burying A.J. in the backyard.”
But Henry didn’t answer. He continued to stare blankly into the passing landscape.
“Henry?” she asked. “What are you not telling me?”
He let out a deep exhale and shut his eyes. “Anton promoted me to captain.”
“When?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“Okay. And how does that change things?”
“I guess it doesn’t.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” she gently pressed. “What exactly is going on?”
“We’re looking for answers, Isabell. Something about all of this made Darius want to turn on Anton. Somewhere on that laptop is evidence of something Anton did that was so fucked up, Darius was willing to burn him for it. Whatever it is, I intend to find it.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then we’ll destroy everything, cancel A.J., and pretend we were never there. Besides, we’re on the verge of a deal that could change our lives forever, so it’s not like I’m trying to ruin a good thing here.”
“How is this deal still going through? Darius is dead, Hassani almost had us killed in Sorrento, and you’ve got a small army of feds watching your every move. There’s no way we’re still on track.”
“I found more info on the asset.”
“You did? What?”
“They launched a research boat from Brazil. Darius was there last month when it set sail from Porto Santos, but he didn’t tell me about it.”
“Why not?”
“Probably because it was the biggest haul Anton had ever gone after.”
“You know what it is?”
He nodded spitefully. “I saw the spec sheet. It’s the biggest diamond in existence.”
Isabell darted her eyes from the road to Henry, then back to the road. “What are the specs?”
“Nine-sided, double-rose cut. One hundred and thirty-seven carats.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re kidding me, right? That’s not even possible, Henry. A diamond that size doesn’t exist.”
“What if it did?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s been sitting at the bottom of the ocean for the last five hundred years.”
Isabell blinked in disbelief. “What? What are you talking about?”
“It’s the Florentine Diamond.”
“I don’t believe you. There’s no way you found it—it doesn’t exist. Anton’s full of shit.”
Henry shook his head. “It would explain why Hassani reacted the way he did. Even he knows it’s impossible.”
“No offense, but you expect me to believe you didn’t know anything about this?”
“I really didn’t. I suspected Darius was in Brazil recently, but I never asked him about it. And then, when I met with Anton the other day, I asked him point blank what the asset was.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I had to see it to believe it.”
Isabell puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. “Okay, let’s just pretend for a moment that Anton has recovered the Florentine Diamond. What’s it worth?”
“It’s priceless,” Henry answered. “It was discovered in the fifteenth century in India. Charles the Bold was the first owner. He carried it with him into war against the Swiss, and when he was killed, he and the diamond lay on the battlefield field for several days before a soldier recovered it. By the mid-seventeenth century, the diamond was in the possession of the Medici family.”
“How do you know all this?” she interrupted.
Henry turned up the corner of his mouth. “Because any good jewel thief knows the story of the Florentine Diamond; it’s the most sought-after gem in the history of the world.”
“When exactly did it go missing?”
“No one really knows for sure. After the fall of the Medici dynasty, it was stolen by the archduchess of Austria, who displayed it in Vienna for a while. After the First World War, her family was exiled to Switzerland. From there, nobody really knows what happened. Some stories say it was cut into smaller pieces and sold. Others say a servant pocketed it and fled to South America.”
“What do you think happened to it?”
Henry puckered his lips and raised his brow. “I’ve never really thought much about it. It’s a unicorn. Like you said, it doesn’t exist. Or, at least, it’s not supposed to exist.”
“Did Anton say when this mysterious stone would arrive? Do we get to see it?”
“Next week sometime. I’m sure Asa will be securing it with a small army.”
“Where would he possibly store something like that?”
“The vault.”
“What vault?”
“We have a large safe for keeping valuables. A couple years ago, I lifted a British ceremonial crown that was on display in Los Angeles. Anton kept it in a secret vault beneath the Fox Theater until it was ready to be shipped to a buyer in Moscow.”
“The Fox Theater?”
“Yeah, there’s an old underground tunnel where the Confederate Army kept priceless works of art during the Battle of Atlanta. Anton updated the place with reinforced concrete and a steel vault.”
“This is crazy,” she grumbled. “You guys have gone too far this time.”
“It can’t be real. There’s just no way.”
“Well, if it is real, this thing’s going to sell for a fortune. Listen, I know you’re struggling with your moral compass and all, but do not mess this up with Anton until the deal’s finished and I get paid.”
But Henry was distracted—drifting in some obscure daze.
“Seriously,” she tried. “We both need this. Afterwards, you can do whatever you want with all of Darius’ evidence. You’ll have enough money to create a whole new life—get a fresh start in a new place.”
“Maybe I don’t want a fresh start.”
“Well, that’s an option too,” Isabell granted as the minivan cruised along the interstate. “Henry, I can’t imagine how hard it was for you to watch Darius die. I know how much he meant to you. Please take some time to mourn, to wrap your head around everything before you decide to do something stupid.”
“I miss him so much,” he softly confessed.
“I know you do, sweetie. I know you do.”
The van exited the interstate and continued to Sandy Springs MARTA station.
After pulling into the lot and parking at the curb, she reached for his hand. “Tell me you’re going to be okay?”
“I’m going to be okay.”
“Any word on the funeral?” she asked gently.
“I haven’t checked my phone since yesterday morning. But I’ll get in touch with Anton when I get home and let you know something.”
“I’d appreciate that. Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”
He looked up, locking his gaze into hers. “Why did you lie to me about your boyfriend?”
“Excuse me?”
“Jacob—why did you lie to me about him?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did,” he revealed calmly. “I know he doesn’t exist.”
Isabell searched for a way out. But there wasn’t one. “I’m sorry, Henry. I only did it to keep a wedge between us.”
“A wedge? Why do we need a wedge between us?”
“You know why. Don’t make me say it.”
Henry lowered his gaze. “Just say it, Isabell.”
“We have history,” she explained. “I wanted to keep everything professional. I didn’t want old feelings boiling up, especially at a time when we’re both vulnerable.”
“I just want to trust you. I need to trust you.”
“Look at me,” she demanded. “You can trust me, Henry. I promise.”
He put on his ball cap and reached for the door handle. “I truly appreciate everything. And for what it’s worth, I do trust you.”
“Please be safe, Henry.”
He stepped out of the van and jogged away, into the station, fighting the urge to look back. He continued down the escalator and disappeared below ground.
The platform was nearly empty now. The stench of brake fluid and urine floated through the air as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and waited.
The next train brought him to Midtown, where he walked two blocks to Ammazza Trattoria and into the hidden tunnels.
Now standing in his office at Scranton and Brooks, Henry peered out the window in both directions. With no visible signs of federal agents, he made his way through the lobby and stepped out beneath a blanket of dark clouds. His Maserati darted out of the lot and continued northbound through the Old Fourth Ward, then Virginia Highlands.
As he crested over a small hill and into a busy intersection, a black Suburban cornered the street and casually fell in line several cars behind him.
Henry parked in the underground deck of the Forty West building and took the elevator to his penthouse. There, he slipped out of his dirty clothes and into a hot shower. He inhaled the steam and took a series of deep, calming breaths. As the water pounded against his chest, he heard a faint clank in the hallway. Startled, he stepped out of the shower with the water still running and placed his ear closer to the door.
For several seconds, he listened to the quiet. Finally, he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and pulled it open.
He remembered setting his pistol on the entry table in the foyer.
With tightened fists, he charged up the hall in a naked dash for his gun. He snatched the pistol from the table and traced it across the penthouse, searching for signs of an intruder. His senses were suddenly heightened as his eyes narrowed toward the balcony. He trained his weapon and began a slow, methodical march through the kitchen.
He gently opened the sliding glass door and peered outside. The brisk air brushed across his body as he turned and retreated back to the hallway. He moved cautiously toward the study and pushed open the door. As he steadied his pistol and entered the dark room, he could see the silhouette of a man sitting behind his large oak desk.
“Put some clothes on, Henry,” the deep, throaty voice instructed.
“Asa? Jesus Christ, you scared the living shit out of me!”
The figure sat motionless, his hands folded in his lap.
“Just give me a minute,” Henry implored as he stormed out of the room. He returned a minute later in a light blue shirt and a pair of khakis. “Can I get you something to drink?” he offered as he clasped the cuffs of his shirt.
“Where have you been?” snapped Asa. “We’ve been worried about you.”
Henry’s mind searched for an answer. Surely Asa already knew that he hadn’t gone to his Aunt Sara’s. It was a trap.
“I was out,” he finally answered.
“You told Anton you were going to your aunt’s house.”
“I changed my mind.”
“So where were you?”
“I spent a couple nights with a friend.”
“What kind of friend?” Asa pressed.
“A hooker,” Henry confessed. “Happy now? I spent the weekend drinking and fucking. Now why the hell are you in my apartment?”
“You know, Henry, this is no time to be keeping secrets.”
“Give me a break, Asa. Anton told me to take some time off. Besides, I didn’t know I had to keep you informed of my whereabouts at all times.”
Asa rose from the behind the desk and buttoned his jacket. “Don’t play games with me. Anton wants to see you tonight. Six o’clock.” With that, the stout Croatian showed himself into the hallway and onto the elevator.
Henry kept his eyes on the small screen mounted against the wall, watching as Asa rode the elevator to ground level and exited through the lobby.
Henry grabbed a gray wool coat from a hall tree in the foyer and slid his keys into his pocket. He hurried down to the parking deck, fired up the Italian twin-turbo engine, and tore out of the garage.
Through the rearview mirror, he could see the black Suburban doing its best to keep up. He pressed his foot on the gas pedal and slipped lanes before hanging a hard right onto Tenth Street. From there, he pushed the sportscar through two intersections and ducked into a parking lot behind an upscale bar on the east side.
He lunged out of the car and checked over each shoulder. Agent Brennan’s Suburban was nowhere in sight.
Across the street, a family-owned deli was drawing a late lunch crowd. Henry broke into a light jog and stepped through the front door. He waited in line for several minutes before a man in a grease-stained white apron handed him a paper bag from behind the counter. Henry thanked him with a nod and pushed through the crowd to the sidewalk outside. With an anxious glance, he walked several blocks to a small community park and took a seat on a wooden bench.
He stared at the paper bag for a moment before opening it. Inside, there was a thick stack of bills accompanied by a single folded piece of notebook paper. He reached in and unfurled it.
Spartan has arrived.
He leaned back and gazed into the clouds. Three simple words told him that his paintings had arrived at the port in Savannah and been loaded onto a freighter—the first leg of its journey now complete. It was a handsome reward for months of planning and flawless execution.
Henry stuffed the cash into his coat pocket and stood from the bench. He tossed the paper bag into a trashcan and strolled along the sidewalk, up the alley, and to the parking lot.
The clouds had finally started to clear as a cool breeze came across the pavement. He climbed back into his Maserati and drove to the safe confines of Scranton and Brooks.
