Island of Thieves Read online

  The billionaire’s professional background had been easy to piece together from twenty years of sporadic articles in the Wall Street Journal and other business periodicals. Born in Geneva and educated in England, Rohner first appeared in the public eye when Droma Solutions began to make some real money through its contracts to provide resources to UK and European stock-trading firms. In the past decade, Droma had expanded its reach into North America and its specialties into property development and industrial sciences.

  A personal profile of the man, including the nickname Rampage Rohner, had come to light more recently.

  The earliest mention of Rohner’s private life was twelve years earlier, when the captain of industry had sponsored and led an expedition to the South Pole. Shaw would have dismissed the trip as a wealthy man’s try-hard vacation, more to boast about than to actually achieve. Except that Rohner and his team had made the trip without help from planes or snowmobiles. Two months on skis, over seven hundred miles from the coast to the pole. Rohner had been around forty then. Shaw was at least ten years younger and wasn’t certain he could endure that trek.

  From there the stories became more frequent—and more dramatic. Mountain climbing, which drove Rohner to conquer at least one tough peak every year or two. BASE jumping into pit caves in Mexico. Wingsuit flights over the Alps.

  Along with the exploits came conflicts. A nasty divorce from his first wife, both of them alleging mental abuse. A second marriage almost immediately after. From the single photo Shaw had seen, wife number two looked to be in her late twenties, the same age as Rohner’s daughter at the time. There had been public shouting matches with competitors and some partners alike, one of which, in a three-star Michelin restaurant in London, had earned him the first Rampage Rohner headline. Rohner’s people had issued a statement immediately after, claiming that Rohner was reacting to his companion’s being verbally attacked by a rival, but the name had stuck.

  An enthusiast, Linda Edgemont had called Rohner. Shaw admitted the tycoon didn’t lack for energy.

  C.J. tapped her keycard on an exit door, and they stepped outside. The bright early sun made Shaw squint.

  “There,” she said over the whine of plane engines and other machinery. She led him toward a small jet parked seventy yards from the charter terminal. The aircraft’s white paint gleamed from every rivet but lacked the Revol Air gyroscope emblem. Shaw wondered if the fledgling air service shared the vehicle with other companies. He and C.J. crossed the tarmac to a mobile stairway leading up to the jet’s open door.

  The interior of the plane was a balance of austerity and luxury. Ten chairs, all the same, each spaced a body’s length or more apart along the clean white fuselage walls. The ceiling was similarly white, and tall enough for Shaw to stand without feeling cramped. Recessed cabin lights ran in two gleaming silver rows like crown molding along each edge. The ovoid windows beneath were much larger than those on a commercial jetliner, allowing a flood of sunlight to fill the space. The boldest color inside the plane was the leather of the chairs, a buttery tan.

  “Sir?” C.J. said.

  One of the chairs near the rear of the plane turned.

  Sebastien Rohner stood up from where he’d been working at a table that folded out from the wall. The CEO was an inch or two over six feet tall and very lean. His dark blond hair had turned mostly white, giving the chiseled planes of his head a platinum sheen that went right along with the private jet’s decor.

  “Mr. Shaw,” Rohner said. He didn’t come forward, and it was left to Shaw to walk down the length of the plane to meet him. They shook hands. Rohner gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Please.”

  “I’ll see to the flight papers, sir,” C.J. said. “One hour until takeoff.”

  Rohner nodded and she retreated down the stairway. They sat.

  Seeing Rohner in person, Shaw had little trouble imagining the man trekking the Andes. Or marrying a socialite twenty-five years his junior. His clear gray eyes were wide set, as if to offer deference to a strong, slightly avian nose. He wore a ribbed fleece jacket over a turtleneck sweater and wool pants. Shaw didn’t recognize the emblem on the jacket, assuming it was a European brand, but he knew a thousand-dollar casual ensemble when he saw it.

  “I appreciate your meeting me today,” said Rohner. “A sliver of available time in a very busy week. I was impressed with your achievement.” He glanced at the gym bag, now on the floor by Shaw’s chair.

  Shaw made no move to hand it over. “Thank you,” he said.

  “How did you accomplish taking it?”

  Rohner’s Germanic accent was faint, the voice cultured. Maybe cultivated, Shaw mused. A refined tone that would suit a business leader who had to give frequent speeches.

  “My full report is in the bag,” he said.

  “Tell me in person. I would greatly enjoy hearing your story. It’s not every day I have such an opportunity.” Rohner spread his hands as if the matter were out of his control.

  Shaw recounted his casing of the Droma campus and took Rohner through his choices and actions at each step of besting the system. The summary reminded Shaw of his mission debriefings in the Rangers, as a squad leader or a platoon sergeant. Except that Rohner seemed less inclined to interrupt and challenge Shaw’s decision making after the fact than the Army brass had. The Droma founder asked questions to clarify particular techniques and seemed especially intrigued by Shaw’s ploy to recon the freight yard by mailing himself a crate.

  It had also occurred to Shaw that a formal confession of a crime, delivered to detectives instead of a corporate executive, would cover exactly the same ground. Maybe that was the cause of his unease. It went against Shaw’s every instinct to verbalize what would normally be kept secret.

  “If you hadn’t come prepared to defeat the infrared sensor,” Rohner asked when Shaw reached that part, “would you have found another way?”

  “Eventually. It would have been possible to remove the statue without entering the cage. I could’ve cut a hole in the roof and hauled it up.”

  Rohner nodded. “Still, your having the tools you needed might have been good luck rather than skill.”

  “Or skill making luck,” Shaw answered. “I’ll take fortune any way it comes.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I believe in chance. I myself am very lucky. And I am also a distracted host, not offering you anything. We have coffee in the galley.” Rohner nodded toward the back of the plane.

  “Thank you. I’ll take a wire transfer. Or cash.”

  “Linda will be here shortly. She has your payment. There’s something else I wish to discuss while we are in private.”

  “I’m a captive audience.”

  “I wish to offer you another assignment. Similar to the first, with additional aims.”

  Shaw raised an eyebrow. “So the warehouse job—an audition?”

  “You proved your expertise. If you accept the role, we will pay four times what you earned for the original task. Without your having to wager on success this time.”

  Sixty grand. Wren might be right, Shaw mused. Maybe this was a new vocation.

  “What’s the gig?” he said.

  “I have recently built a home here in Washington State. A retreat, for both my family and business associates. Along with my home is an art collection that holds considerable sentimental value apart from its tangible worth.”

  “You want me to test its security?”

  “I want you to be its security, Mr. Shaw.” Rohner leaned forward. “I believe someone will attempt to steal one or more pieces of art from me during the next week. I require you to stop them. Set a thief to catch a thief, yes?”

  SIX

  Shaw stared. The booming engines of a plane lifting off from the nearby runway made the fuselage of the private jet quiver. “Explain.”

  Rohner leaned back in his seat, seemingly pleased at how he’d captured Shaw’s attention. “This week I will be hosting a number of colleagues. Heads of their own subs
tantial companies. We are cordial, even warm, with one another. But there is always a competitiveness present, too.”

  “I know a teenage kid. She’d call that being frenemies.”

  “Accurate, if reductive. I suppose it has always been so with men who must be first in their fields.”

  “Probably women as well.”

  Rohner waved a dismissive hand. “My daughter, Sofia, might tell us. But it stands that these men and I, plus a few others in my circle, have something of a contest. We acquire things that the others care for. Two years ago I bought an antique vase at auction simply because I knew that an associate wanted it for his wife. Foolish, perhaps. But I traded that vase later when the same associate mysteriously came into possession of a wristwatch that had belonged to my father, a watch I had thought was secure in a home safe. He had clearly hired a professional.”

  “Breaking the rules?”

  “If there are rules. Pushing those boundaries has become part of our competition, too.”

  Shaw was fascinated despite himself. Rohner and his ilk, despite running huge corporations, somehow had too much time on their hands. The games rich people play.

  “And you think this guy is going to have a burglar break in and steal a painting while you’re all enjoying brandy and cigars,” he said.

  “You misapprehend. Or I haven’t fully explained. This is a business event at its heart. These colleagues will be staying at our home for a few days. They will bring key employees. I will have household staff and my personnel, too. It will be an active time, with many people involved while we negotiate details of a new partnership.”

  “What about hiring me? Is that another flex of the boundaries?”

  Rohner inclined his head, not quite a nod. “I view it as a logical progression. A knight to take a pawn.”

  “And if the pawn is captured? Do you trade this guy for the next wristwatch?”

  “No, no. I gain . . . the upper hand, I suppose it would be.”

  “Bragging rights.”

  “Suffice it to say that I want you there, protecting my collection. A unique task often requires a unique individual.”

  “I’ll give my first impression for free. It’s nuts. You can hire a trainload of bodyguards and off-duty cops. Enough to have two men guarding every piece of art around the clock and a dozen left to guard the guardians.”

  “Which would look absurd to my guests. This is an important time for Droma, Mr. Shaw. For me as well. I won’t embarrass valued clients by having them feel as though they are under suspicion.”

  “Even if they are.”

  “Perhaps especially if they are.” Rohner glanced out the nearest window toward the terminal. “There are other reasons. Some of the pieces in my collection are . . . disputed. Their ownership. Not, I assure you, by the authorities. Everything I own has been acquired through reputable sources.”

  “But.”

  “But the provenance of art can be complex. Employees may be bribed by the unscrupulous. Tiny details can be twisted, or even invented, in the pursuit of salacious stories.” He shook his patrician head. “The fewer people involved, the better. I have an instinct for such things. This instinct tells me to have a man with your eyes watching for what only you might see.”

  Or to send the serf to fight the laird’s battle for him, Shaw thought.

  “Will you accept the challenge?” Rohner said.

  Shaw inclined his head to the same angle Rohner had before. “The price is right. When do your guests arrive?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. But you should begin early. That will give you time to examine the gallery and acquaint yourself with the estate.”

  Estate. Jesus.

  “You’ve obviously thought this through,” said Shaw. “What’s my cover story?”

  Rohner picked up the china cup and cradled it in manicured fingers. “A work in progress. I’d originally thought you might pose as one of the household staff. However . . .”

  “I don’t really blend,” Shaw agreed. “What about security staff?”

  “We employ such people already. You’ll meet my head of security. Warren Kilbane.”

  “But you’re not relying on him to solve your burglar problem.” Shaw didn’t put it as a question.

  “Warren has been told that you will be evaluating our alarm system. It’s not necessary to involve him beyond that.”

  “How’s he feel about that? Your bringing in outside help on his turf.”

  Rohner sipped from his cup. “The turf is mine. And we were discussing your . . . cover. You have some background in building construction, I understand?”

  A complete little dossier they’d compiled, Shaw thought. Then again, Droma was a recruiting company. Deep background checks would be second nature.

  “My grandfather was a general contractor. I apprenticed with him.”

  “In that and in other things,” Rohner said. “You’ll be our new facilities manager. On site during the event this week. Checking with the guests to see how comfortable they are and whether the estate’s new construction requires any modifications. That should permit you to circulate, within reason.”

  “Where’s your home?” Shaw asked, imagining a mansion in Madison Park or Medina. Something with three French Colonial stories and a lawn that could field Olympic archery competitions.

  “Briar Bay Island,” said Rohner.

  “In the San Juans?”

  “Yes. Do you know the islands?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Then you’re aware there’s one bearing your name, too. Shaw. Our island is not nearly so large, barely a mile long.”

  Shaw blinked. Only a billionaire could downplay owning an entire landmass.

  Someone knocked at the plane’s entrance.

  “Yes?” said Rohner.

  C.J. stepped in. “Ms. Sofia and the others are here, sir.”

  “One minute.”

  She dutifully retreated. Rohner fixed Shaw with a look.

  “This is a private matter, Mr. Shaw. You and I and my chief of staff are the only ones who are aware. I don’t wish to worry my family or distract my team from the work to be done.”

  “And the contract?”

  “Will detail your role and your pay, along with granting access to the estate and grounds.” Rohner smiled microscopically. “No need for additional housebreaking.”

  C.J. reemerged and stepped aside to allow a line of people to troop into the plane. The first was a slender blonde woman in her mid-thirties Shaw recognized from his online searches as Sofia Rohner, the CEO’s daughter and executive VP of at least one division of the family business. The second was Linda Edgemont. Trailing her was a group of four more executives, all male, all around Sofia’s age.

  The two women walked the length of the plane. Shaw stood up. The businessmen hovered at the entrance, perhaps awaiting instruction.

  Edgemont gestured. “Sofia, this is Van Shaw. Van, Sofia Rohner.”

  “Mr. Shaw has accepted a position as facilities manager for the Briar Bay property,” Rohner broke in from his seat.

  Sofia’s right hand was holding her briefcase. Shaw shook her left, his fingers automatically gauging the size of the diamond in her wedding ring. She hadn’t inherited her father’s height, but the platinum hair and pale skin were unmistakable. On her, the Rohner nose looked less hawklike and more regal.

  “Welcome to the team, Mr. Shaw,” she said. “Will you be joining us this week?” Her accent was English, reminding Shaw of movies he’d seen with public-university students hurrying through castlelike halls and rowing on the Thames. She was dressed more for the office than for comfortable travel, in a slate-gray skirt and matching jacket and heels the color of a heavy fog.

  “Yes,” said Shaw, “thank you.”

  “Then we will see you there.” She turned to Rohner. “I need to review today’s presentation with you during the flight.”

  Shaw took the hint. He said good-bye to Rohner and glanced at Linda Edgemont, who walk
ed with him back to the front of the aircraft and down the stairs.

  The young executives eyed Shaw with curiosity as he passed. Probably trying to classify him. Clearly not competition. But he’d been granted a meeting with the big boss, one-on-one. Shaw’s barn coat and jeans could be misleading clues to his social status in casual Seattle. The slim cut of their suits and shorter lengths of sleeve and trouser legs on all four said Savile Row or Milan to Shaw.

  “Where are you flying?” Shaw asked Edgemont once they’d reached the bottom of the gangway.

  “Just a quick trip to Silicon Valley, to meet with clients while Sebastien is on the West Coast. We’ll be back tonight or tomorrow, depending on how things go.”

  On a Sunday. Shaw supposed Droma executives had long ago abandoned the idea of weekends.

  “And I’m sure you’ll want this.” Edgemont handed Shaw a closed white envelope. His initials, VS, were penned discreetly at the top right corner. The envelope was thick enough that its flap barely reached the opposite side. “Your payment for this past week and papers to sign for your new role. Please bring those to the island.”

  Already printed and sealed. Shaw had to smile at Rohner’s confidence that he’d accept the job, even if he felt unsettled at being predictable.

  “My new role,” Shaw echoed. “Is there a dress code?”

  “For you? If work clothes are most appropriate for what you’re doing, that will be fine. I’m sure you’ll be invited to dinner with the guests the first night at least. You’ll want a coat and tie for that.”

  “The first night. How long do the meetings run?”

  “Plan on three full days. Though I suspect the conference might finish early.” She held her finger and thumb half an inch apart, signaling a slim chance. “There’s a tendency for business leaders to enjoy the first day and push hard to wrap up on the second, even if it means working into the night. Men of Mr. Rohner’s stature often have half an eye on the next objective.”

  “I’m getting that impression.”

  “Rangi will provide you with travel details,” Edgemont said, indicating a heavyset man wearing a black suit, standing across the tarmac by the door to the charter terminal. “Happy to be working with you.”