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“. . . Angela?” Katrina said.
Angela dropped the fist from her mouth and let out a louder moan. “He’s dead,” she said. “Walter is dead . . . !” And then she resumed her wailing.
* * *
—
While the echoes of the first explosion were still ringing in the hallway, the guards in the exhibition hall reacted immediately. Moving their automatic weapons to the ready and switching off the safeties, they slid into combat postures all around the room. From his post opposite the doorway, Lieutenant Szabo called, “Reed! Snyder! Tremaine! Check it out!” waving three of his men toward the explosion. The three pounded off immediately, trailed by a handful of Revolutionary Guards.
The rest of the men stood ready—there were four, including Szabo, plus six men of the Revolutionary Guard—and it was a tribute to the high quality of their training that a moment later, when a man ran into the room, not a single shot was fired.
Szabo recognized him at once. It was Mr. Miller, the curator. “Hold your fire!” he yelled. “He’s with the museum!”
The guards, both Iranian and American, returned to combat-ready positions, facing outward. Szabo waved Miller over. “What’s up?” he asked. “What the hell happened?”
“The alarm system is all off!” Randall said excitedly.
“The backup is on,” Szabo said. “What was the explosion?”
“I think it’s a diversion,” Randall said. “Somebody’s trying for the jewels!”
“How many somebodies?” Szabo said.
“It would have to be a lot of them,” Randall said.
Szabo nodded; he agreed. All the papers had run stories detailing the number of armed guards and the elaborate electronics. Anybody making a serious attempt at the jewels would have to bring a large, well-armed force. Szabo knew damn well there were plenty of people who would figure it was worth it. He looked quickly around the room. There were only two ways in—the main entrance and a fire door. “All right,” Szabo said. “Let’s—”
The second explosion cut him off. It was much closer than the first, and when the lights went out in the hall, Szabo went into action. “Cover the doors!” he yelled, waving an arm at his team. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the museum guy, Miller, look around and then move over beside the case in the middle—the one with the huge fucking diamond in it. Szabo frowned. Miller was only a civilian, but he’d seen something Szabo had missed. With all the guards facing outward, that middle case was vulnerable. He pointed to one of his men and yelled, “Braun! Center!”
Instantly, Braun ran to the middle of the room and took position by the case holding the Ocean of Light. The Iranian commander yelled something, and two of the Iranians pounded over and joined him. The others had already split into two teams and were facing the two doors, fanning out in front of them, Black Hat and Iranians together.
The emergency lights flickered, then came on, and the guards held their positions, frozen in place as the tension grew.
For a full three minutes, nothing happened. Szabo glanced around, making sure he’d overlooked nothing. His men looked ready, as did the Iranians. Szabo noted that Miller was still standing in the center of the room, slightly behind the guards, right beside the case for that giant jewel, the Daria something. Miller looked just as alert as Szabo’s team, like he would jump on anybody who tried to get past him, and Szabo almost smiled.
There was a clatter of footsteps, and one of the Black Hat men, Snyder, pounded into the room. “You better come see this,” he said.
* * *
—
When Angela resumed her hysterical crying, Katrina had followed her instinctive impulse and stepped forward to hug the crying woman. They were not friends, barely acquaintances, but it seemed like the right thing to do. “All right,” she said as she put her arms around Angela. “It’s all right,” she repeated, wondering why people always seemed to say that to someone who was hysterical. Especially since it really wasn’t all right whenever the words were said. “Come on, now,” Katrina said, pulling Angela out of the closet, away from the body. As they stepped clear, Katrina glanced back.
The utility closet was just big enough for two people to stand in, but only if they were on very good terms. On the back wall, the small metal door that covered the circuit breakers hung open. One of the breakers had been pulled out of the panel and hung by a wire. The wire was bare, a small sleeve of melted insulation around the end still connected to the breaker. The other end hung down, pointing like a slim blackened arrow to the body below.
The big man was stretched out with his back against the closet wall. In his right hand was a screwdriver. The tip was blackened like the hanging wire, smudged black as if it had been stuck into a fire—or a blast of electric current.
The man’s face was contorted by death and what had to have been a tremendous electric shock. But Katrina recognized him. It was the man from the security team who had confro
nted Randall so strangely, with his weird threat to “remember.” The one they called Chief. And he was most definitely dead.
A man pushed through the ring of onlookers. He was distinguished-looking, with perfectly coifed white hair and a tuxedo Katrina saw was a very nice Italian make, probably a Zegna. He frowned at the body, then looked up at Katrina, and she recognized him as the police commissioner. “I’ve called this in,” he said. “I’ll have officers here in five minutes.”
“Thank you, Commissioner,” Katrina said.
* * *
—
