The Gray Ghost by Clive Cussler
“Grazie,” Remi said, smiling. In her best Italian-accented English, she added, “You are very kind.”
She stepped on, expecting him to let go of the door. But he stood there a moment, looking out toward the path. A younger man, wearing a gray suit, no tie, his shirt open at the collar, carrying a slim briefcase in his right hand, ran up.
“You’re late,” the man standing next to her said.
“Sorry. Took a wrong turn.” He handed over the briefcase and, without another word, turned and left.
Out of the three levels on the control panel, the top one could only be accessed with a key. He pressed the first button and, a moment later, the elevator rose. When the door slid open, he held it for her.
Remi, grateful that he seemed to be in a hurry, moved to the side, allowing him to pass her as he exited. He gave a polite nod to her quiet “Grazie,” then strode off toward the front doors, clutching the briefcase in his hand.
Sadly, Luca, the man she’d hoped to avoid, had definitely noticed her presence, taking the steps up two at a time. He blocked her way, his back to the house. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Looking for my husband,” she said, keeping her voice low. “He came up with the briefcase maybe ten minutes ago. I broke the heel of my shoe and had to go back to the car to change,” she said, lifting her gown so that he could see the toes of her boots.
“You’re expecting me to believe that he let you walk back to the car alone?”
“Since we were late, we worried we’d miss you. He was right here by the elevator when I left him. Surely you must have seen him if you were waiting?”
Luca studied her face, as though trying to gauge her truthfulness. “I wasn’t watching the elevator,” he finally said.
“Is it possible he somehow got in without you?”
He looked back toward the door, past the man checking invitations, then down toward the parking area, spying the few late stragglers walking from their cars to the shuttle. Remi followed his gaze, grateful that Sam was well hidden behind the oleanders. “Possibly,” he said.
“I say we go in and look. He has to be here somewhere.”
She started toward the door. Luca hesitated, then followed her, handing his invitation to the guard, who looked it over, waved them in.
What had appeared to be the entrance to the house was actually a wide veranda, with a view of the rolling hills and the lights of Rome in the distance. On their left was an open kitchen where the caterers worked. On their right, a wide travertine staircase led up to what was most likely the main living quarters, which formed a U shape around the veranda. Numerous doors on that level opened out to the wide balcony overlooking the lower veranda. That, unfortunately, left a lot of real estate when trying to figure out the best place to enter.
She and Luca moved away from the entry, Luca searching for Sam, Remi pretending to. The conversations she heard sounded like every other fund-raiser she’d been to. The value of a certain stock, who was wearing what designer, who was divorcing whom. The one thing she didn’t hear was anyone talking about cars, classic or otherwise.
Odd, she thought, until it occurred to her that the party was probably a convenient cover for an auction that was dealing in stolen cars.
She was about to ask Luca if that was the case when she noticed the man she’d ridden the elevator with walking toward the stairs with the assurance of one who knew where he was going. He stopped as two men, looking like linebackers in expensive suits, blocked his entrance. Whatever he said, or showed to them, they immediately stood to the side, allowing him to pass.
“Who’s that walking up the stairs?” Remi asked.
Luca looked that direction. “Probably one of the buyers. They’re the only ones allowed up there. It’s all prearranged.”
She watched the door at the top open, and the man step in. The door started to close, but not before she caught a glimpse of another guard, this one blond with a goatee, inside the door, patting the man’s jacket and pockets, searching for weapons. “Prearranged? How?”
He looked away so quickly, Remi became suspicious.
She moved so that he’d have no choice but to face her. “How were you going to get Sam in if it was prearranged?”
“I wasn’t. The truth is, I don’t even have access. This is as far as I’ve ever gotten.”
“Did you really think you were going to get away with taking our money?”
The look of guilt on his face told her everything she needed to know.
“I think our business here is done,” she said.
“You still owe me the entrance fee.”
Several seconds ticked by while Remi contained her fury. Taking a calming breath, she leaned in close, whispering, “I’d like to see you try to collect it.”
His jaw dropped. Remi plucked a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, tempted to toss it on him, instead walked to the balustrade that overlooked the sweeping stretch of manicured lawn surrounded by a high stucco wall, the moonlight gleaming off the deadly glass shards topping it.
51
Sam, hidden behind the oleanders, kept his binoculars focused on the palatial building while he examined the six floor-to-ceiling windows, each with two potted cypresses set on a Juliet balcony barely wide enough to fit them. The only security on this side of the grounds happened to be the two young men shuttling the guests and the guards at the door. He swept his eyes along the ten-foot wall surrounding the estate, not seeing any security outside the perimeter. There were a couple of cameras, however, mounted high on the corners of the house, one pointed toward the front entrance, the other toward the back. He looked for a camera aimed along the south face of the wall but didn’t see one. It was either hidden behind the line of trees growing near the wall or someone felt it wasn’t needed due to the wall’s height and glass topping it.
The crunch of footsteps nearby alerted him to Remi’s return. She crossed the graveled lot, circumventing the parked cars, until she reached the far side, where he was hiding behind the oleanders.
One look at her face told him something had gone wrong. “What happened?” he asked, as she crouched down beside him.
“I think Georgia needs to cross her friend of a friend off her Christmas card list.” She told him what happened.
He laughed softly.
“How do you find that funny?”
“You’ve got to love the irony. If we hadn’t been hacked, he’d be up there stealing our money.”
Remi cracked a smile.
“What’d you find?” he asked.
“The party’s definitely a cover. To let the high-priced buyers in without attracting notice.”
“Any idea where they go once they’re in?”
“They entered a door on the South Wing. That’s all I could tell. No one’s getting in without passing through heavy security. All the other guests are one level down, on the veranda.”
That would explain why, with the exception of a few windows on the South Wing, most of the house was dark. Sam surveyed the second floor. A faint light was coming from the fourth window over, making him think it was a very small lamp or the door to the room was open and the light was from beyond it.
He handed Remi the binoculars. “Take a look. You see the light coming from the one window? Second floor. Could that be it?”
Remi adjusted the focus. “I can’t be sure. It looks like the general location of the door where I saw the guy from the elevator go in. But there’s a lot of windows on that floor, Sam. And I was looking in from the opposite side.”
“One way to find out. Get a closer look myself.”
“And what good is that going to do?”
“It may not do any good. Then again, I might get lucky. I won’t know until I get up there.”
“Not without me.”
“Sorry, Remi. You’re n
She lowered the binoculars, giving Sam a look of mild annoyance. “Give me two minutes and I will be.”
The truth was, he had a bad feeling about this place, and not just because of Luca’s attempt to swindle them. Maybe it was just the fact there was a lot of cash being brought in, but this broker was going to a lot of trouble to guard this auction, which would lend credence to the cars having less than stellar certificates of ownership. “Someone has to stay and keep watch.”
“Flip a coin. Winner stays here.”
Odds he could live with—as long as Remi lost. He took a coin from his pocket, tossed it, the dull brass gleaming in the moonlight as it spun. He caught it. “Your call,” he said.
“Heads.”
He opened his palm, dismayed to see that she’d won. Even so, in the time it took Remi to change her clothes, he changed his mind. She reached for the backpack and its coil of rope, but he picked it up before she could. They’d learned long ago to trust each other’s instincts, and clearly this was one of those times. “I have a bad feeling about this. I’m going instead.”
“Which is why I’m going with you,” she countered. “If something’s going to happen to you, I plan on being there.”
“Fine,” he said, slipping the straps of the backpack over his shoulders. “But if anything goes wrong, you’re heading back to the car and out of here.”
“Scout’s honor.”
52
Sam held tight to one end of the rope, tossing the coil up and over the branch of a sycamore, catching it before it hit the ground on the other side. He tugged on the length, the limb feeling solid supporting his weight, then looked over at Remi. “This is your chance to back out.”
“You’re wasting time, Fargo.”
He climbed up, using the other branches to balance himself as he edged his way along the limb, careful of the long, thick, pointed glass glittering below him like a deadly mosaic of colorful daggers.
Remi followed, retrieving the rope, and coiling it. When she reached him, he slung the coil over his shoulder and maneuvered through the tree until he was on the limb that ran parallel to the balcony. He judged the distance. There was at least five feet between the balustrade and the thickest part of the branch.
As long as he kept his balance, he could easily make it. That wasn’t the question. What worried him was if the stone balustrade was securely anchored to the balcony and would hold his weight. The thrust of his jump, followed by Remi’s, would not mix well if there was any dry rot or other degradation.
“Maybe I should go first,” Remi whispered.
They were at least twenty feet from the ground. If that balcony was going down, it wasn’t going to be with Remi. “It’ll be fine.” He hoped.
Remi reached out, grabbing his arm, as he was about to jump. “Company,” she whispered.
From the corner of his eye he saw two security guards in black uniforms rounding the corner, walking directly toward their tree. Had it not been for Remi, Sam might have been mid-jump before he saw them. Too late to step back out of sight, he waited where he was, hoping they wouldn’t look up. Unfortunately, the two men decided to stop beneath the tree, the taller of the guards pulling out a cigarette pack, offering one to the shorter man.
“Grazie,” the man said, accepting a cigarette and a light. He took a deep drag, while the other man held the lighter to his cigarette, his face glowing, as he puffed. But instead of moving on, the two stood there, talking softly, their smoke drifting upward, while Sam balanced on the branch, trying to look as treelike as was humanly possible, while gripping the branches above him. Remi, at least, was partially hidden behind him in the crook of the tree.
A gust of wind rustled the leaves, sending tree pollen and smoke swirling around him. Sam felt a sneeze coming on and tried to alleviate the tickle by scrunching his face and wiggling his nose. When that failed to work, he let go of one of the branches, slowly bringing his hand toward his face, pinching his nostrils. The tickle disappeared.
The two men did not. They took their time smoking and laughing. At long last, the first guard dropped his cigarette in the grass and ground it out with his foot. The second guard took one last drag, then did the same, the two finally moving off to continue their patrol.
Sam waited a few seconds after they rounded the opposite corner to be sure he’d given them enough time before making the jump. He caught the travertine balustrade, pulling himself up and over onto the balcony. Remi followed with her usual catlike grace, and he caught her hands, helping her over.
The balcony was just wide enough for the potted cypresses on either side of the window, but not much more. He looked for any obvious signs of an alarm but didn’t see anything. Of course, there was only one way to find out and that was to open the window. Perhaps with the party in full swing, and whatever was going on with this secret auction, the alarm—if there was one on this level—wasn’t set. He peered in the window, the curtain inside parted enough to see into the darkened room.
“Bedroom,” he whispered.
“It’ll be faster if we split up.”
She was right, but that feeling of foreboding wouldn’t leave him. Going against his instincts wasn’t worth the risk to save time. “We stay together,” he said.
Fortunately, there was only a space of a couple of feet from one balcony to the next, and he held Remi’s hand while she stepped across. She’d just swung her leg over the stone balustrade, sitting on the edge, when a light went on inside, illuminating the entire balcony. Before she had a chance to move, an audible click sounded as someone unlocked and opened the window.
53
Remi froze, as the floor-to-ceiling window opened out onto the balcony. She glanced over at Sam, who quickly moved behind the cypress on the other balcony, pressing himself against the wall. When she motioned that she should return to his balcony, he shook his head.
There was little she could do but wait and hope that whoever had just opened the window wasn’t planning on stepping out for a better view. Trapped between the potted cypress and the balustrade, she moved back against the wall, feeling the sharp stucco at her back, her pulse pounding in her ears almost too loudly to make out the voices inside. “My apologies,” a man’s voice said. “The room should quickly cool off, though.”
Once she realized they weren’t coming out, she inched closer to the cypress and the open window, peering through the spiny branches, now able to see inside the room. Two men, both wearing dark suits, their backs to the window, stood near a massive mahogany desk. “You were saying that you’ve already made arrangements for the car?” he asked. No doubt this was the broker who’d arranged the auction.
“I plan to have it shipped back to the UK,” the other man said. “One question I did have . . . Since I’ve no idea how you acquired the car for the auction—”
“We value the anonymity of our sellers as well as our buyers.”
“Which I more than appreciate. And not where I was going.”
“My apologies, Signore Wrent. What was your question?”
“While I appreciate your guarantee that this is the forty-fifty I was inquiring about, was there anything about who was the original owner? Photos, documents found in the car. Anything that will help prove the provenance?”
“It’s the same car. I question what good the documents, if there are any, will do. Surely you must realize that the car can’t be sold on the open market?”
“Very aware. I have no intention of selling it.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what’s so special about this particular vehicle?”
“I value history, which is why I’d like anything that seems of significance when it comes to the car’s past.”
“We’ll include everything we have on it.”
“I appreciate it.”
A barn owl swooped down from the rooftop, past t
The man from the elevator.
“If there’s nothing else?” Remi heard the broker ask.
“Where is the car? Rather than make an extra trip, I was hoping to see it in person before I fly home.”
“A warehouse outside of Paris, I’m afraid. Once the bank transfer is made, and the funds are placed in our account, we’ll contact you with the location.”
“Not before?”
“Surely you appreciate the position I’m in, Signore Wrent. While I believe you to be a man of your word, my commodity is not one that attracts the best of clientele. I find it safer for everyone involved to make sure all funds clear the bank before disclosing the location.”
“And surely you appreciate my position? I don’t intend to give up the funds until the car is in my possession.”
“I suggest a compromise.” The broker opened a desk drawer, took out a pen, wrote something on a pad of paper. “Since there’s very little either of us can do until Monday, here’s the address and phone number of my Paris office. We’ll meet there. You transfer the money, I’ll personally take you to the car. Understand, though, that this arrangement may add a few hours to your trip. The car is kept at a secure warehouse at the shipping yard.”
“What time on Monday?”
“Shall we say eleven in the morning?”
“A rather tight schedule, but I think I can work around it.”
“I’ll see you then.” She heard the squeak of his chair as he rose, followed by the sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor. “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I do need to make an appearance with my guests.”
“Of course.”