Curious Minds

  She read the information on the anesthesiologist and the gynecologist and was about to check out the chemist when there was a knock on her door.

  “Fortunately, this hotel has an excellent personal shopper,” Emerson said, handing over several boxes. “This should get you through the next twenty-four hours.”

  Riley looked at the boxes. “How did the personal shopper know my size?”

  “I gave her the information. I have an excellent eye. And I personally made the decision on the dress. I think it will be perfect.”

  “Did the Siddhar tell you to do this?”

  “Perhaps telepathically. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him yet.”

  Emerson left and Riley brought the boxes into her room and opened them. Silky pajamas, lingerie, basic toiletries, jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, fleece hoodie, and a little black dress. She stripped her suit off, dropped the dress over her head, and looked in the mirror. Emerson was right. The dress was perfect. Better than perfect. It was the dress of her dreams. Simple, classy, sexy, flattering. She was Anne Hathaway after the transformation in The Devil Wears Prada.

  —

  The Café Carlyle is an intimate dining room with a tiny stage, low-key lighting, and wall murals that look like Matisse and Picasso painted them after they’d been out together on a bender. The waiters are elderly gentlemen who take their jobs seriously. There was no barbecue on the menu and no room on the floor for the Texas two-step, but Riley thought it was wonderful all the same.

  She looked at Emerson sitting across from her. He was wearing a black Tom Ford blazer over a black T-shirt. He was getting a five o’clock shadow, and his teeth were exceptionally white in the dimly lit room. Riley was reminded of the wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood.”

  Riley took in the candlelight, the wolf, and the glass of champagne that had magically appeared in her hand.

  “This isn’t a date, is it?” she asked Emerson.

  “Between you and me? I don’t think so. Do you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t think so either.”

  She sipped her champagne and looked around the room.

  “Is that Al Roker at the next table?” she asked Emerson.

  “Yes. He’s a nice man. And surprisingly funny.”

  “You know him?”

  “I did him a favor once.”

  “You do a lot of favors.”

  “Opportunities arise,” Emerson said.

  “I bet. Tell me about Dr. Bauerfeind. I ran out of time before I could research him.”

  “He’s a German chemist who has developed a technique for reading the fingerprint of gold even after it has been recast.”

  “Fingerprint?”

  “Precise chemical composition.”

  “And this fingerprint reading is a big deal?”

  “It’s unique to him.”

  “And we care about this, why?”

  “On a personal note, someone could be stealing my gold, melting it down, and putting it into some other form. Ordinarily it would be untraceable. On a global scale the theft and transformation of the world’s gold could bring about economic chaos.”

  “Wow.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So have you done Bauerfeind any favors?”

  “Not lately.”

  “About tomorrow,” Riley said.

  “It should be a fascinating day. I have a plan in place.”

  “I’m not part of the plan, am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  Emerson glanced at his menu. “I’m very fond of the chicken hash.”

  “I’m going with the prosciutto-wrapped monkfish,” Riley said. “I’m all about anything related to bacon. Although it’s sort of a bummer that it’s wrapped around fish.”

  “You don’t like fish?”

  “I like to catch them. I’m not crazy about eating them unless they’re fried and smothered in tartar sauce.”

  “I’m sure if we give those instructions to our waiter it can be arranged. The chef is very accommodating here.”

  “About the plan, and the fact that I’m not participating in any way other than driving you to the Federal Reserve.”

  Emerson reached behind him, grabbed the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, and refilled Riley’s glass.

  “Thank you,” Riley said, “but I still want to make my role in the plan perfectly clear.”

  “We can talk about it tomorrow,” Emerson said.

  Riley narrowed her eyes. “Now.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to ruin the moment,” Emerson said.

  “I thought we weren’t having a moment.”

  “We aren’t having a date, but we could have a moment.”

  “Would it be a romantic moment? A romantic moment might be awkward.”

  “It could be a chicken hash moment,” Emerson said.

  “I suppose that would be okay.”

  “And you can have a prosciutto moment.”

  “I owe it to the dress to have a moment,” Riley said. “It’s wonderful. Thank you. But just to state my position one last time before the moment begins, I’m dropping you off tomorrow morning and going home.”

  —

  Emerson was already at the breakfast table when Riley came out of her room dressed in the new jeans and sneakers.

  “I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Emerson said. “Cheese omelet, hash browns, multigrain toast, a side of fruit, a short stack of pancakes, and extra bacon. I didn’t know what you normally ate in the morning, so I ordered everything.”

  Riley started with coffee and worked her way around the table. “Are you eating any of this?” she asked Emerson.

  “I’ve already eaten.” He checked his watch. “We need to be downstairs in thirty minutes. I’ve called for the car to be brought to the back door.”

  “Why the back door?”

  “I thought it would make the day more interesting for Rollo.”

  “You think Rollo knows we’re here?”

  “Yes. You’re carrying his phone. And while we’re on the subject, I’d like to see the phone.”

  Riley gave him the phone, and he locked it in the suite safe.

  “This should make Rollo’s job a bit more challenging.”

  Riley and Emerson exited through a side door and found the Silver Shadow on Seventy-Seventh Street. A bellman handed them the key and wished them a nice day. Riley got behind the wheel and cranked the engine.

  “I assume we’re going to the Federal Reserve building,” she said.

  “Correct.”

  “I studied the route yesterday, but I’m going to need help when we get to the Wall Street area. Streets and avenues are in a grid all through Midtown, but they make no sense in lower Manhattan.”

  “No problem. I can find my way.”

  Thirty-five minutes later Riley drove up to the massive Federal Reserve building. It occupied an entire block on Liberty Street, and it looked to her like a limestone fortress, a positive citadel of finance.

  “We need to find a parking place on this block,” Emerson said.

  Riley scanned the street. “There aren’t any.”

  “Then we’ll have to wait for one.”

  Riley circled the block four times, and on the fifth pass found a vacant space in front of Blane-Grunwald’s New York office.

  “Perfect,” Emerson said, opening the glove box and pulling out what looked like a remote control timer for a camera. He set the timer and returned it to the glove box.

  “What was that all about?” Riley asked.

  “It’s part of my plan.”

  “You aren’t going to blow something up, are you?”

  “I thought you weren’t asking questions.”

  “Right. I don’t want to know, but it would be bad if you blew something up. And it wouldn’t be good for your karma.”

  “I’m touched that you care. Rest assured, my karma will stay
intact.”

  “Okay then. Have a nice day. Adios. Goodbye. Arrivederci.”

  “The ‘arrivederci’ is premature. We’re not parting yet.”

  “The deal was that I drive you to the Federal Reserve building, and then I get to drive home.”

  “Not exactly,” Emerson said. “The Silver Shadow stays here.”

  “How am I going to go home?”

  Emerson got out of the car. “I’ve made arrangements. Follow me.”

  Riley grabbed the key out of the ignition and scrambled to keep up with Emerson. “Where are we going?”

  “That’s a question again,” Emerson said, crossing Nassau Street.

  “I’m not going to just blindly follow you around.”

  “Of course not. You’re going to keep your eyes open. And if you must know, we’re going to the subway stop on Broadway.”

  Okay, that might be promising, Riley thought. The subway could lead to Penn Station. “Are we heading toward Amtrak?” she asked him. “If I get an early train, I might be able to check in at the office before everyone leaves for the weekend.”

  “Unlikely,” Emerson said. “We aren’t taking the subway. It was a point of reference. Once we get to the subway stop, we need to walk two blocks on Cedar Street to meet our ride.”

  “Why are we meeting our ride on Cedar Street? Why didn’t he just pick us up on Liberty Street?”

  Emerson walked past the subway stop and turned onto Cedar. “We’re meeting them on Cedar Street because they always stop at a little shop on Cedar for coffee when they’re in the neighborhood. It seemed like the convenient thing to do. A pickup on Liberty might raise red flags.”

  An armored truck was stopped on the second block of Cedar. An armed guard stood at the back of the truck. Another armed guard, carrying a white bakery bag and four cups of coffee in a cardboard box, stepped out of a shop and moved toward the truck.

  Riley stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Tell me that isn’t our ride.”

  Emerson took her hand and tugged her forward. “I’m told it’s quite comfortable inside.”

  “No way. No how. I am not getting into that armored truck.”

  The back doors to the truck opened, the man carrying the coffee got inside, and two men in black Kevlar vests sprang out.

  Someone inside the truck called out, “Good morning, Emerson.”

  “Good morning, Wesley,” Emerson replied.

  The two men in Kevlar scooped Riley up and swept her into the truck. Emerson followed, and the doors were slammed shut. When Riley lunged for the door handle, one of the men attempted to restrain her and she kneed him in the groin.

  The man yelped and doubled over. “I’m guessing you didn’t tell her about this part of the plan,” he said to Emerson.

  “Actually…no,” Emerson said.

  The truck lurched forward, and Riley put her hand to the door to steady herself. “This truck had better be taking me to Washington, D.C.,” she said. “And what’s under the blanket in the middle of the truck? Have you boxed up another kidnap victim?”

  A man leaned out from the shadows. “I’m Wesley Bachoo, Ministry of Finance and Economic Development of the Sovereign Republic of Mauritius. Allow me to put your mind at ease.” He stepped forward, pulled the blanket off the cargo, and revealed a small stack of gold bricks. “This is part of the treasury of the Republic of Mauritius.”

  “Lovely to meet you,” Riley said. “I’m Riley Moon of Blane-Grunwald. Sorry I kneed your guy in the groin. I might have overreacted.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Wesley said. “You were caught by surprise. Still, it’s very good of you to help set Emerson’s mind at ease that his gold is secure. I know this is something of a covert operation, so our lips are sealed. However, I will make sure your employer understands that we are favorably impressed with your assistance in all matters. After all, we owe Emerson a huge debt. He was instrumental in discovering who was responsible for putting ricin in the prime minister’s morning coffee and nearly killing him. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Knight, we might have gone to war over it.”

  “Was it a terrorist organization?” Riley asked.

  “No. It was our prime minister’s wife,” Wesley said.

  “They were having marital problems,” Emerson said.

  “No doubt,” Riley said. “What happened to them?”

  Wesley smiled. “They went to couples therapy. They’re doing fine now.”

  “Good to know,” Riley said. “Attempted murder is something a lot of couples can’t get past.”

  She looked at the rearview monitor attached to the wall and saw that they’d picked up a police escort.

  “I don’t suppose they’re here to rescue me,” Riley said.

  “They’re a courtesy afforded to us by the city,” Wesley said.

  Riley sucked in her anger. Get a grip, she told herself. Punching Emerson in the face won’t make the situation any better.

  “We’re going into the Federal Reserve vault, aren’t we?” she said.

  “We are.”

  “Why?”

  “Mauritius is making a deposit,” Emerson said. “And I’m going to look around.”

  Damn! “Okay. We’re going to look around and then we’re going to leave, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And just looking around wouldn’t be considered a felony?”

  “We’re going in as a part of the Republic of Mauritius’s security team to make sure their gold is deposited safely,” Emerson said. “We have the permission of the minister of finance, don’t we, Wesley?”

  “Indeed,” Wesley said.

  “And we are all citizens of Mauritius,” Emerson said.

  “I’m not,” Riley said.

  “Wesley, could you make her an honorary citizen of Mauritius?” Emerson asked.

  “Consider it done,” Wesley said, handing over Kevlar vests and black polo shirts. “Both of you need to put these on.”

  Emerson pulled his polo shirt over his existing shirt and slipped into a Kevlar vest.

  Riley stared at the vest and polo shirt. “Is this necessary?”

  “Protocol,” Wesley said.

  Riley tugged the shirt over her head and shoved her arms into the vest. “This isn’t going to be dangerous, is it? The vest is just a formality, right?”

  “Right,” Emerson said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  One of the men handed Riley an AR-15 assault rifle. “Just in case,” he said.

  “In case of what?” Riley asked.

  “In case someone expects you to follow protocol,” Wesley said. “I hope you aren’t afraid of guns.”

  “I’m from Texas,” Riley said. “And my daddy was the county sheriff. I can shoot the eyelashes off a roach half a football field away.”

  “Beats me,” one of the men said. “I couldn’t hit the side of a barn.”

  Riley turned to Emerson. “You knew Mauritius was making a deposit this week?”

  “Serendipity,” Emerson said. “Mauritius is an emerging force in the banking industry. You might say Mauritius is the Cayman Islands of Africa.”

  “Not yet,” Wesley said, modestly. “In time.”

  The truck stopped and went into reverse. The bands of sunlight from overhead louvers vanished from Wesley’s face. The truck was plunged into semidarkness and came to a halt. The guards stood, rifles at their hips. One of them moved forward and opened the back door. They were met by more men in black with more assault rifles.

  Wesley stepped out and was greeted by his opposite number, a drab-looking portly man in a Brooks Brothers suit. “Wesley Bachoo? I’m John Varnet, vault auditor with the Federal Reserve. What do you have for us?”

  “A ton of gold, give or take a few ounces.”

  One of the Federal Reserve guards rolled a reinforced dolly up to the back of the truck and the gold was off-loaded. Riley counted out seventy gold bricks. The dolly was pushed down a long corridor to an elevator, and all the gua
rds, along with Emerson and Riley, crowded in with it. The doors closed and the elevator began its descent.

  “For those guards who haven’t been into the vault before, we’re going eighty feet down, into the substratum of Manhattan Island,” Varnet said.

  The elevator doors opened onto a small green hallway. More guards greeted them at this floor, and the dolly was pushed a short way to a massive vault door. It looked like a cartoon version of a safe. Riley expected to see Yosemite Sam come out from behind it, guns a-blazing.

  Instead of one dial in front, there were two on either side. One guard turned the right wheel a few times. Another guard turned the left wheel about twenty times, and the door spun slowly around, like a huge childproof top on a bottle of golden pills.

  “That’s a steel cylinder, weighing ninety tons,” Varnet said, still in tour-guide mode. “It revolves in a hundred-forty-ton steel and concrete frame. When it rotates, it drops three-eighths of an inch. This creates a seal that is both airtight and watertight.”

  The transport dolly was pushed rattling and clinking through the open door, down a corridor, and into a dingy waiting room with floor-to-ceiling metal bars at the far end.

  “It takes three separate keys to unlock the gate that will take you past this last barrier,” Varnet said. “The keys are assigned individually to two vault custodians and the auditor, me.”

  The three men with the three keys unlocked the three locks and the gate swung open. Beyond the gate, lockers with iron cage doors were filled to the ceiling with gold bricks.

  “There it is,” Varnet said. “One-quarter of the world’s gold reserves. Approximately seven thousand tons, worth approximately two hundred fifty billion dollars.”

  Riley and Emerson exchanged glances, and Riley suspected Emerson was thinking the bricks in the vault might be worth a lot less than two hundred fifty billion. She suspected he was thinking some of those bricks could be fakes.

  “A little safety tip,” Varnet said, crossing to a large cabinet, opening the doors. “When you’re working with gold bars you have to wear these.”

  The cabinet contained rows and rows of what appeared to be bedroom slippers made of metal.