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“Apparently nothing,” Delgado said.
Sneed snorted. “Pull the other one,” he said. “If he was there, I promise you he didn’t leave empty-handed.”
Delgado frowned. “The museum says there’s nothing missing,” he said. “It’s all there.”
Sneed shook his head vigorously. “Don’t believe it,” he said. “Not a fucking prayer. Riley leave empty-handed? Never in life.”
Delgado didn’t believe it, either. But the museum had been positive that nothing was missing. “If it was you,” he asked, “if you’d gotten inside like you planned—what would you have taken?”
“The Daryayeh-E-Noor, nothing else,” Sneed said, and there was a note of reverence in his voice. “It really is an ocean of light—beautiful, like you’ve never seen. One of a kind—and it’s small enough to carry easy, and worth a fucking fortune.” He opened both eyes now and they shone as he looked at Delgado. “Fifteen billion dollars, mate. With a b.”
“The museum says it’s still there, in its case.”
“Look again, mate,” Sneed said. “Look again.”
* * *
—
He stood right there,” Lieutenant Szabo said, pointing to the space next to the Daryayeh-E-Noor’s case. “He had his weapon out and ready, and he stood there while we chased after the other guy.”
“What kind of weapon?” Delgado asked.
“Glock Model 23,” Szabo said.
Delgado nodded. That was the weapon most agents carried. But that was well-known. It didn’t mean much here. “Describe him for me again?”
Szabo shrugged. “I’d say five foot ten, average build, but a little bit of a paunch? So maybe a hundred seventy-five pounds. Reddish-brown hair and mustache.” He frowned. “Like I said, the most noticeable thing was the glasses. Lenses were like an inch thick. Nobody could see through those unless, you know. If it was their prescription.”
Delgado turned away and scanned the hall. With his years of experience in the FBI, he could spot most of the electronic security devices. Szabo had already sketched out for him where the two teams of guards had been deployed. Nobody in their right minds would even try to get past all that—it was suicidal.
BUT . . . if somehow somebody did get past it, the real problem was getting the jewels and getting away. He looked at the rows of cases, each one with an apparently untouched item still on display. Szabo insisted that nothing had been taken. But to Delgado, all the signs pointed to Riley Wolfe. And he agreed with Sneed—Riley Wolfe would not leave empty-handed.
Delgado stepped closer to the case holding the Daryayeh-E-Noor and looked at it. Beautiful, amazing, and stunning. It was worth billions of dollars—but it could be easily concealed and carried away. It was a clear first choice for any thief. And yet there it sat. Unless—
Abruptly, he turned back to Szabo. “How long was he alone in here?” he said sharply.
Szabo looked away, embarrassed. “Ah—maybe five minutes?”
“Five minutes? With the alarm off?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
“Where were you?”
Szabo sighed heavily. “I ran up to the roof, like a fucking idiot,” he said. “When I heard the shots.” He shook his head and met Delgado’s eyes. “I mean, my team was right here, but . . .”
“But nobody had eyes on . . . ‘Special Agent Shurgin.’”
Szabo looked away again. “No,” he said. “Nobody.” He bit his lip, then looked back at Delgado. “But I told you—nothing is missing! I mean—it’s all right there, see for yourself!”
Delgado nodded impassively. He looked once more at the case holding the massive jewel, and he was sure. “Call an appraiser,” he said. “The best one you can find. Have him look at this one. The Ocean of Light.”
Delgado looked at Szabo. “And keep it quiet. Nobody knows about this but you and the appraiser.” He held out his business card, and Szabo took it. “Call me when that’s done,” he said.
“Uh, yeah, sure. Yes, sir,” Szabo said.
Delgado turned and walked out of the exhibition hall, out of the museum. There was nothing more to say. He knew what the appraiser would find. And he knew how Riley Wolfe had done it. An FBI agent has inherent authority. Who would question him? Except the FBI had no Special Agent Shurgin. Delgado had been sure, but even so he had double-checked. The only thing he still wondered about was the glasses—glasses with lenses an inch thick. He knew Szabo was right about that—nobody could see through that unless it was his proper prescription. How the hell could Riley Wolfe?
