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“She’s on her way here now. My guess is to inform me of the same thing.”
“I have a bad feeling.”
So did I, and I wasn’t about to stay in Lyon while Siren faced danger in my grandmother’s hometown, or anywhere else in the world, for that matter.
* * *
There was no way around it, I had to fly to Charles de Gaulle first and, from there, to Dublin. Once there, it would take me three hours to drive to Kinsale. Even with the shortest connections, total travel time would be more than ten hours.
According to Casper, the agent Decker had informed me was on the move had a two-hour jump on me. While I waited to board the first plane, I called Deck back.
“Can you get a contact number for Siren?”
“Negative. Already tried.”
“Hughes?”
“Won’t give it up.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Best guess is Siren told him not to.”
A growling noise rumbled in my throat. When I got my hands on that woman, and I had every intention of doing so, the first thing I’d do is wring her neck. After that, I’d fuck her senseless.
* * *
While I was in flight, both Casper and Decker were gathering as much information as they could regarding Siren’s whereabouts now and where she’d been since she arrived in Kinsale.
When I landed in Paris, I had emails from both of them, containing essentially the same information. Five days ago, Siren had visited an antique shop owned by a man by the name of James Mallory, the grandson of a man who’d not only owned the business before passing it on to James’ father, but had confessed to hiding the Irish Crown Jewels on behalf of Sir Arthur Vicars, the man last known to be in possession of them.
Her pursuit of solving this mystery was slightly curious although nowhere near as baffling as why the current head of IMI had any interest in her doing so. It wasn’t as though the missing jewels had tremendous value. They consisted of only two pieces, valued today at twenty million at best.
They were not even linked to any monarchy but, instead, to the Order of St. Patrick, an elite aristocratic order founded in 1783. The last knight of the order, who would’ve been the one to wear the regalia, had died in 1974. Even if there had been successors, they wouldn’t have owned the jewels; they would merely have been in possession of them.
Apart from it being Ireland’s greatest mystery, there seemed to be little reason why anyone would pursue finding them. And then the accolades would only be in notoriety—something Siren wouldn’t want or could afford in her line of work.
According to Decker, since her first visit a day prior, it appeared Siren was surveilling the antique shop but, according to the security footage Deck had hacked into, hadn’t been back inside.
Once in Dublin, I rented a car and drove to Kinsale. A feeling of foreboding settled in my chest and grew increasingly worse with every kilometer I traveled. Siren was in danger, I swore I could sense it.
I was halfway there when a call came through from Decker. I pulled to the side of the road before answering.
“What’s up?”
“I had two agents that were in Dublin take a drive down to Kinsale to visit the antique store Siren’s been so fascinated with.”
“And?”
“They went in as a couple, and while the woman engaged the shop owner, the man took a look around. They both reported that the guy, James Mallory, seemed agitated by their presence, particularly when the pair split up. When one of the agents got to the back of the store, he saw an office and, beyond it, an old safe in a storage room. Mallory charged past him and slammed the door closed.”
In Siren’s words, the feckin’ eejit just drew more attention to the safe than he otherwise would have. “There’s something in it that he doesn’t want anyone to know about.”
“I’d agree.”
“Anything else?”
When Decker said there wasn’t, I thanked him and ended the call.
