Page 39 of The Devil Wears Orange
“Hello. This is Professor Jack Carey.”
“Jack! Thank God! I thought our plan was blown–”
His voice interrupts me. “If you would care to have your message returned, please speak clearly and leave your name, telephone number, the date and time you called.”
I open my mouth to speak, but the message proceeds after a short pause in which I thought he had been finished. I roll my eyes and mumble, “Come on,” then peek out the bathroom door to check I’m still alone. Satisfied, I shut the door.
“If you wish, please identify the purpose of the telephone call. Thank you.”
“Jack!” I breathe a half-whisper into the phone. “I thought our plan was blown when you didn’t make it inside the event, and then I lost sight of you and...and, wait where are you, anyway? And why aren’t you answering your phone? I feel like I’m doing this alone. Is that what’s happened? Have you abandoned me?” I pace the small space of the bathroom, my body agitated, my voice rising at the possible abandonment. “This isyouridea. You pass yourself off as some Interpol James Bond-type spy saving the art world, then you let me go in it alone. There are spies everywhere and I’m terrified so I want you to know that I’m in with Prince Rashid and leaving you–”
A hard knock at the door jolts me, and the phone slips from my trembling hand. By the time I realize what has happened, my mobile sinks into toilet water.
“No, no, no, no!” I plunge my hand into the toilet to retrieve it, shake the excess water. A second knock startles me, and I drop the phone again. The screen cracks as it hits against porcelain.
“Shit!”
The thumping at the door continues, harder and more pronounced.
I throw the door open.
Rashid’s driver stands in the hotel hallway. “You didn’t change,” he says, looking me up and down.
My eyes are drawn to the gun strapped in his waistband holster, something I hadn’t seen when he was inside my room moments ago. Terrified, I don’t take a last sweep through my room to ensure I’ve collected everything.
Chapter 20
Charlotte Milton wasn’t partof Rashid’s plan. At least not initially. But when they arrived at the Lumière show, an opportunity presented itself and it was easier to use someone who was already on the inside, which allowed Rashid and his men to hide in the shadows. However, it meant the involvement of an innocent woman. Charlotte’s entanglement was to end at the tent but, with adrenaline pumping through their veins from the heist and the heated exchange with Charlotte by the roadside, one of his men made the incalculable decision to grab her. Afterward, when they managed to escape through Paris’s streets to their hideaway, and once the helicopter lifted from the roof, Rashid was awarded the briefest of moments to considerwhat now? What was he expected to do with Charlotte?
Then he lost her.
It was sudden and horrifying, and he was wracked with guilt when she plummeted from the sky. And later, when he learnedshe had been plucked out of the River Seine, relief consumed him.
Rashid believed no one would consider Charlotte as anything other than a victim, made to commit a crime under duress with the threat of life directed at her friend and the museum guard, so he was aghast to learn the police thought her a suspect. Suspect? Surely, they’d figure it out soon enough, wouldn’t they? Terrible as he felt, he couldn’t barge into the police station with the best lawyer in tow and draw attention to himself. Besides, he was fifteen minutes late for his scheduled meeting with Pierre and Charlotte, enough time to start chipping away at his alibi. The feeling of shame overcomes him when he recalls his exasperated behavior with Pierre when Charlotte hadn’t shown for the meeting. Meanwhile,he’s the miscreant.
At first glance, it appeared fate brought Charlotte to him in that casino. She pitched herself for his magazine, and he saw a chance to make things right; he could save her reputation, and, if the police continue with their idiocy, he’d be in a position to hire a lawyer for his employee.
And suspicion would not fall on him. Not that it ever does, despite all his escapades.
As the eldest son, a life awaits him that drives him mad, and there are expectations made of him. He’s spent a lifetime obeying his father, performing, concealing the sheer boredom and resentment within him. Every so often, he pushes the limit and does something that, if caught, will offend his father, though it’s never his intention. He simply wants to break free from the constraints of his birthright. And the money the thefts bring may be enough to set him up financially, and he can escape his father’s control.
During the infancy of his chosen profession – before the partners, the negotiations, and the elaborate plans – there was Copenhagen. During an aimless stroll through the bustling city,the air chilled from the dreary, rainy day, Rashid was smacked with a sense of discontentment about his rigid life that had reached its pinnacle. He picked up his pace, skirted around a taxi, attempting a right turn. Above him, scaffolding surrounded a museum. It had not been up very long; in fact, work began only two days earlier. When he first arrived in the city and passed the museum on his way to the hotel, they were just in the process of erecting it. He paid little attention to it, his focus planted on the paper he was reading in the backseat of the car.
Rashid returned the next day for a tour. The guide was young and knowledgeable enough about the artifacts in the museum. Nothing amused him in the first room. Nothing delighted him in the second. The third was the largest on that first floor, and off to the left was one casing that captured his attention. Inside sat Perseus, on one side of a golden salt cellar, legs entwined with Medusa’s, his head turned away, sword in hand ready to strike.
Rashid was appalled that the museum had not given the small statue the deference it was owed, for indeed it was the most beautiful and extraordinary artifact there. As the only surviving gold piece by the great Renaissance master, Polluci, it’s a rare find. Did they not know how significant the work was?
Rashid returned at 4AM, stood on the first step of the covered scaffolding, two feet above the sidewalk. Wearing rubber-soled shoes, he quietly sped across the 38 mm thick wooden board; a dark blue plastic cover shielded him from view to the outside world. Within moments, he reached the small first-floor window, barely large enough for him to slide into. Rashid took a circle-cutter from his bag and held its pivot to the glass with a suction cup. The glass cut with such patience and precision, his steadiness equal to a doctor saving a life on the operating table.
Unlatching its lock, he hoisted himself one foot to the frame and pulled himself through headfirst. The knapsack snagged, and he tugged, accidentally unfastening it. The circle-cutter fell.Swiftly, he reached out and grabbed the flying tool before it hit the ground. His body tingled at the thought of a near disaster, and the excitement lifted him from his earlier ennui. He pulled at the bag again until it gave way, releasing him, and he landed on the museum floor with a quiet elegance.
He waltzed with the beams connected to the alarm – slid on his belly and dragged his knapsack behind him. He kept his heart rate at a steady pace, his sweat to a minimum, his breath controlled. Finally upright, he searched his knapsack for the hefty circle-cutter that had fallen to the bottom, then placed the tool on the display case and cut the glass. Rashid peered beyond the small hole to the artifact. He reached in and deliberately picked up the salt-cellar, amazed that such a small piece weighed so much. His fingers caressed the smoothness of Medusa’s arm like a lover admiring her beauty and craftsmanship. Holding it gave him an intense sense of pleasure, and something stirred within him.
A hacking cough sounded in the next room. A guard must be on his rounds.
Quickly, Rashid escaped. Once on the street, he rambled away. Having Perseus and Medusa safely tucked away in his bag was an adrenaline rush.
There was a period when he thought they’d be enough, but time left Rashid insatiable, and the money was never enough. He needed more to flee the life he was born into, so the thefts became grander, the payments astronomical. Over the years, he perfected his ways, improved his tools, learned to work with trusted teams for bigger jobs. Payments awaited him, though it wasn’t only about the money, despite the autonomy it gave from his father’s fortune. It was during these heists that he finally felt in control.
