Island of Thieves Read online

  “Consulting for what?” Shaw prompted.

  “Ephraim has been kind enough to share some of your background. The high points, at any rate. You served in special operations for the army?”

  “The Rangers. That’s light infantry. Is Droma a PMC?”

  “Private military?” Edgemont showed that warm smile again. “No. Our leading areas of expertise are business management, technology, and finance. But if we discover a role that’s a potential growth area, we’ll proactively seek out subject-matter specialists. We hire the very best and offer their services worldwide.”

  Shaw sipped his mineral water. It went well with the implied flattery.

  “Your training is an excellent marketing hook,” Edgemont said, “but it’s not what brought me here. Before the army you had another occupation.”

  Shaw looked at Ganz. The attorney’s restlessness broke into words.

  “As I explained to Linda, your grandfather Dono was the one with the past.” Ganz turned back to Edgemont. “Van here has no charges or convictions on his record.”

  “I’m glad for that,” Edgemont said.

  “Glad because I’m not a criminal or glad because I haven’t been caught?” said Shaw.

  “Either might be a point in your favor. Let me describe what we’re looking for.” She leaned forward. “We need someone to beta-test the security at one of our recently acquired facilities. A warehouse where we intend to hold goods on behalf of import clients on the Pacific Rim. The contract with the firm who currently provides guards and alarm maintenance is up for renewal. Mr. Rohner believes strongly in stress-testing any prospective system, physical or technological, before we invest.”

  “And I would be providing the stress.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Van is especially good at that,” Ganz said. “I can vouch.”

  “Why me?” said Shaw. “There must be a dozen security companies who’d be salivating to take potshots at a competitor’s work.”

  Edgemont shrugged minutely. Shaw thought he glimpsed something like resignation behind her polite smile.

  “You said you haven’t heard of Sebastien Rohner. He wouldn’t be what you’d call a celebrity in Europe, but he’s certainly better known there than in the States.”

  “‘Rampage’ Rohner, the British tabloids call him.” Ganz smirked.

  “He’s an enthusiast,” Edgemont said. “Sebastien made his first fortune at nineteen and founded Droma Solutions when he was twenty-six. The company’s growth was unprecedented. In the past three decades, he’s guided it through countless recessions and political upheavals to establish offices in fifteen nations. We’ve employed people in three times that number of countries.”

  Shaw nodded. It was a speech Edgemont had given before. She lent it just the right amount of reverence.

  “So Rohner can be excused a few eccentricities,” Ganz said, “like expeditions to recover sunken treasure.”

  “Sebastien admires individualism,” said Edgemont. “His direct quote was, ‘Find me someone with the proper mind-set.’”

  “Which you believe is a guy with my history,” Shaw said.

  “And to find you I called the best criminal attorney in the city.” Edgemont touched her fingers to the back of Ganz’s hand. Ganz flushed lightly. “Ephraim says your grandfather was extremely skilled. And that you might be even better.”

  Shaw looked out the window. Across a narrow stretch of Lake Union, the beautifully rusted silos of Gas Works Park were surrounded by families enjoying the first bright weekend in recent memory. Grass covered the slopes outside the fenced silos, the lawn so lush after the wet spring that the green hills shimmered as if lit from within.

  “I’ve got the knack,” he said. “What’s the job?”

  “The proposition is simple. A small piece of art from Mr. Rohner’s private collection will be placed in the warehouse. You’ll be told where, but no more than that. Mr. Rohner insists on real-world conditions.”

  “Your real conditions sound like they’ll lead to a real jail cell.”

  “We thought you might have that concern. This trial will be fully legal and documented. I have a contract drafted, and I’ve engaged Ephraim not only to find you but to be a witness as to why Droma is employing you.”

  Ganz nodded. “If you want, we can also record Linda on video making a statement to that effect.”

  “I’d be happy to,” she said. “Mr. Rohner decided your incentive should be on a sliding scale. Your fee for taking the job and providing a summary analysis of the system’s potential weaknesses is three thousand dollars. If you can lay hands on the art yourself, regardless of what happens after, that’s an additional fee of the same amount. And if you manage to take the artwork without setting off the alarm or being caught by any security staff on-site, add another four thousand to the total. Ten in all.”

  “If the guards know I’m coming, the job’s over before it starts,” said Shaw. “They can sit on the art and nail me the second I show.”

  “They won’t be told,” Edgemont said. “That wouldn’t be a proper test. None of the staff will know that anything is out of the ordinary in their usual routine.”

  “What’s the time frame?”

  “We’d like your analysis, at a minimum, within one week.”

  “That’s very tight.”

  “Mr. Rohner is very driven,” she said.

  Corporate speak for impatient, Shaw mused. Normally he’d want twice that much time for casing a target and prepping a job. But he could use the money. He had some eccentric ventures of his own.

  And if Edgemont was on the level, Shaw wasn’t risking prison. That was practically a bonus in itself.

  “The pay structure’s off,” he said. “You want a rush job. I’ll have to devote all my time and purchase gear. Five thousand up front. Another ten if I get away clean. You can forget that stuff about counting coup with the art. If I don’t manage to escape with the prize, what’s the point? Your security team still caught me.”

  “That’s a two-thirds increase on the initial payment and half again on the final total. Fifteen thousand is too expensive.”

  Shaw smiled. “What’s the billing rate for a top attorney? Eight hundred an hour? You want an expert, you pay in arrears for the time acquiring the expertise. Plus, I’m betting on myself. If the vendor is worth your investment, you’ll have saved yourself five grand.”

  Edgemont gave a polite chuckle. “Mr. Rohner might appreciate your confidence.”

  “Does the new system have aggressive countermeasures?” Shaw asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Shock plates. Tear gas. A bear trap that will cut my hand off. Anything like that.”

  The personal attorney looked as if Shaw had suddenly spit on the table. “I don’t know the particulars of the system myself, but no. Certainly not. We wouldn’t endorse something of that nature.”

  “I’ll want that in writing,” Shaw said. “I’ll want it all in writing, including the fact that this conversation took place. The full details of how Rohner or Droma or whoever is asking me to break into their property and take something of value all while avoiding company personnel. With an exemption from property damage.”

  “Within reason,” Edgemont countered. “You can’t burn down one of our buildings, to cite a random example.”

  “Shucks. That was my plan.”

  “He’s joking,” Ganz said quickly. “He does that.”

  Edgemont nodded. “I have an agreement drafted. I’ll confirm that the proof-of-concept has no . . . countermeasures, you said? that might cause harm and add a clause to that effect. And that so long as you abide by the terms, you’ll be exempt from all suits or action, now or in the future.”

  Shaw had met a few lawyers and was always amazed by their ability to make jargon sound like an actual conversation.

  He turned to Ganz. “You’ll review the contract?”

  “Why not?” Ganz said. “Since you’re the one taking all the risks.�
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  Shaw saw Edgemont’s gaze flick to his facial scars before smoothly moving on, down to her clutch purse. She drew a business card from a slim case made of sterling silver with a floral design of pavé diamonds.

  “I’ll have the papers to you by tonight,” she said, handing Shaw the card. “Call me if you have any questions. Assuming everything in writing meets with your approval, may I tell Mr. Rohner we have an agreement?”

  Shaw shrugged. “Like Ephraim said, why not?”

  Halfway through the meal, Edgemont set down her fork to take a sip of tea. She considered Van over the rim of the glass.

  “If the prototype had included a bear trap, or something that lethal,” she said, “would you have turned us down?”

  Shaw finished his bite of filet mignon and smiled.

  “No,” he said. “I would have demanded hazard pay.”

  FOUR

  Wren looked at the black statue of the baboon in Shaw’s hands. “A legal theft. That’s bizarre. And they paid you?”

  “The first installment. I’ll get ten grand more when I return this fellow.”

  “It looks old. Is it North African?” Wren was born in Morocco, spent most of her childhood in France, and had lived in more places in the United States than Shaw had probably visited.

  “Egyptian.” Shaw nodded. “I Googled this boy after I brought him home. An underworld god, eating the entrails and souls of the unrighteous. Nasty fellow.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. An authentic statue of the baboon was auctioned at Christie’s three years ago. That one was dated around 2400 b.c., a couple hundred years after the pyramids were built. It went for a million-two.” Shaw hefted the granite figurine, feeling its solidity. “But I think our primate friend here is just a replica, a very old one. See in the cracks? That’s probably bitumen for sealant and some gold leaf. Based on my shaky Internet research, I’d guess this piece is around a thousand years old.”

  “I suppose they wouldn’t ask you to steal something priceless.” Wren traced a finger over the markings carved into the cloak around the baboon’s shoulders. “Still, it must be worth much more than they’re paying you.”

  That had occurred to Shaw, too. If he’d stolen the figurine outright, he might have sold it for forty or fifty grand to a fence he knew who dealt in antiquities. The baboon might not date back to the time of the pharaohs, but it was in fine shape for a piece of art that had seen a millennium. Even the thing’s stubby phallus was intact.

  Wren began retrieving her clothes from where they’d been flung, folding each piece in turn neatly on the dresser. “Did you enjoy the work? Taking the statue?”

  “Yeah. I’m good at the job. And I like the challenge.”

  “Pitting your wits against others’ precautions.”

  “I suppose. The money doesn’t hurt. If I’m going to get the foundation rolling in any significant way, we’ll need capital.”

  Shaw had survived a strange and brutal start to the year. He’d come out of that time with a few unexpected life changes and a new purpose: carrying on the work of his mother, Moira. Moira had died when Shaw was six and she only twenty-two. Before her life was cut short, the young woman had been building toward a career in social work, helping kids whose parents were incarcerated.

  Shaw sympathized. He’d been thrown into the beleaguered foster system himself for a couple years, when his grandfather Dono was convicted on a weapons charge.

  A lifeline for children without other support. Therapy and tutoring and maybe more. That was the aim of the charity he wanted to create. It wouldn’t fix everything, Shaw knew. But it could fix some things for some kids, and that was enough for him.

  “I wonder if this might be a new vocation for you,” Wren said. “This testing of security alarms for businesses.”

  Wren had no accent aside from the leveled tones of the western U.S., but occasionally the rhythms of her speech reminded Shaw that English wasn’t her first language, or even her third.

  He set the statue on the dresser and touched Wren’s arm, where a spiral of small flying birds in different tattooing styles ran from her wrist up and over her shoulder. The line had lengthened gradually during her travels. He drew her to him.

  “You like it when I talk about thievery,” he said, their lips a quarter inch apart.

  “No. I like it when you’re so clearly enthused by someone throwing down the gauntlet. And”—she tugged him toward the bed, the sheets still twisted from before—“I like that you’re very good at what you do.”

  “Inspiration,” he said. “That’s the key.”

  They were dressing to go to dinner when his phone rang. Linda Edgemont’s mobile number, copied from her business card.

  “It’s Shaw,” he answered.

  “You don’t disappoint, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Van. People who pay me five figures get to use my first name.” Wren looked at him with amusement.

  “Van it is,” Edgemont said. “Do you have it?”

  Shaw glanced at the baboon statue. “It’s staring at me right now.”

  “I drove to the shipping yard myself this afternoon just to see how you managed the trick. And found my card where you left it. Amazing.”

  “When do you want to make the exchange?”

  “Are you free this evening? Sebastien Rohner would like to meet you.”

  “I’m busy tonight.”

  There was a momentary silence. Shaw had the impression that his answer had lacked the expected deference. When Edgemont spoke again, her tone was fractionally less cheery.

  “Tomorrow, then. It will have to be early. Mr. Rohner has a flight at ten o’clock.”

  “Fine.”

  “In fact, why don’t we meet at Paine Field at nine? Ask for Revol Air.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Once they’d ended the call, Shaw rewrapped the baboon in its protective towels. The little god’s snout seemed to sneer as Shaw closed the terry-cloth shroud over it.

  “Have you heard of Sebastien Rohner?” he asked Wren. She was leaning over the sink in the apartment’s master bathroom, applying eyeliner.

  “Yes, a little. A businessman and philanthropist. Though all very rich people seem to call themselves philanthropists. He’s Swiss. Married to an American, I think. I remember seeing a news story when I was in London about the couple meeting one of the royals.”

  Shaw nodded. “I saw that article when I was doing my homework on him and his company.”

  “Droma?”

  “Droma. I’m meeting Rohner in the morning to return his lost pet.”

  Wren swept her hair to one side to place a tiny gold stud in her upper ear. She looked sideways at Shaw as her fingers did the work.

  “You know interesting people,” she said.

  Or they know me, Shaw thought. Rampage Rohner. Shaw had never gotten a celebrity’s autograph, but if the signature was on a check for ten grand, there could be a first time for everything.

  FIVE

  The last time Shaw had seen Paine Field was more than a decade before, during his initial months as an active soldier. His unit had been part of maneuvers out of Lewis-McChord, joint exercises that included the 4th Battalion SOAR, one of the first Spec Ops teams Shaw had seen in action.

  Shaw and the rest of the boots were mere seat fillers, learning the pace by watching more experienced teams do the fun work of fast roping. His fireteam had been hustled onto a big twin-rotor Chinook that had touched down and then just as promptly lifted off again. As though the chopper had been playing a game of tag.

  Paine had been renovated from the foundation up since then. They’d built a new passenger terminal and introduced commuter routes that had been squeezed out of SeaTac forty miles to the south. Even after the expansion, Paine was only about one-twentieth the size of the larger airport. Shaw was able to park within a hundred feet of the new terminal and stroll inside, crossing the road without having to wait for a break in traffic. />
  Inside, he reviewed the departures screen. The screen had been designed to mimic an old-fashioned train station’s reader board, complete with clicking sounds as each letter or number changed. He didn’t see a flight listed for Revol Air. Upon asking, he was informed that Revol was a charter service. The clerk directed him back across the lot.

  The charters terminal was sedate, with a communal waiting area flanked by various company desks. Most of the desks were unoccupied. A slim brunette woman in a blue pantsuit and red necktie sat behind the nearest desk, intent on paperwork. Her name tag was shaped like a gyroscope, with her name, C.J., stenciled across the horizontal axis. She looked up at Shaw’s knock on the doorframe.

  “Good morning,” she said. Her eyes touched on Shaw’s scars and her widening smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Do you have a flight today, sir?”

  “No. I’m here to meet people from Revol Air.”

  “Mr. Shaw?” Shaw nodded. “Welcome. I’ll take you through.”

  She stood and draped a lanyard with airport IDs and other pass cards dangling from it around her neck. His gym bag with the baboon statue inside it received a quick examination from the lone TSA agent, who stared at the sneering little visage for a moment before shrugging and handing the bag to Shaw to swaddle the figurine in its towels.

  “Is Mr. Rohner some sort of diamond-level flyer?” Shaw said to C.J. once they were on the other side. “Shepherding me seems beyond the usual duties for airline personnel.”

  “Mr. Rohner owns Revol Air,” she said, in a tone that implied a wink. “It’s a new subsidiary of Droma International. I just joined myself a few months ago.”

  Sebastien Rohner seemed to have no shortage of ventures. Despite Edgemont’s claim that Rohner wasn’t famous, Shaw’s online research had found everything from a profile in Forbes to a spread in the French edition of Architectural Digest, showing off the pied-à-terre that Rohner and his wife had created on the Île Saint-Louis in Paris. Shaw’s French pretty much stopped at ordering croissants, but it didn’t take fluency to read affluence in every fold of the apartment’s silken drapes.