Pirate

  “You take photos,” Sam said. “I’ll watch for Fisk.”

  She used her phone and snapped pictures of every item. “Done,” she said after a couple of minutes.

  A woman in a business suit approached, her ID tag clipped to her pocket identifying her as a museum employee. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  Sam’s first inclination was to agree with her, but he decided that action would elicit less information. “What is?” he asked instead.

  “The Mortimer Collection. Our newest. I helped put it together.”

  Sam and Remi exchanged quick glances, and Remi moved closer, smiling. “What a fascinating job you must have, Ms . . . ?”

  “Walsh. Meryl. And, yes, it most certainly is fascinating.”

  Sam asked, “What can you tell us about the collection? Edmund Mortimer, Second Lord Mortimer—where does he fit in?”

  “It’s Mortimer’s grandmother, Maud de Braose, who generated our interest in this display as well as giving us the idea for our event name, A Royal Night at the Museum. Through her children, Maud de Braose is related not only to the last Plantagenet kings, Edward IV through Richard III, but all English monarchs from Henry VIII on. When Grace Herbert-Miller offered the artifacts for display, we couldn’t resist.”

  “Impressive,” Sam said. “Anything about Mortimer’s illegitimate son that makes him stand out in history besides a distant link to royalty?”

  “Unlike his ancestors, who certainly have their share of skeletons in their closets—massacres, plots to dethrone the king—Sir Edmund Herbert and his descendants appear to have led rather boring and exemplary lives—as long as you overlook his half brother’s feud with this notable character.”

  She moved to the adjacent display. “Here we have the illegitimate grandson of Hugh le Despenser, a man who was reputed to be having an affair with King Edward II. Queen Isabella hated him and managed to convince her husband to force Hugh into exile, during which Despenser was said to have turned to piracy.”

  A pen-and-ink illustration of a single-masted ship was posted on Despenser’s time line in 1321, with a paragraph below noting that Despenser was “the monster of the sea.”

  Remi leaned in for a closer look. “I’m assuming this feud is the reason these two sons were placed next to each other?”

  “It is,” the woman said. “When Despenser took to the seas, he attacked a ship belonging to the Mortimer family, which was carrying a fortune belonging to Queen Isabella. Roger Mortimer, who helped Queen Isabella depose her husband, Edward II, from the throne, was eventually executed, and some say it may have been due to the loss of Isabella’s fortune.”

  “Despenser?” Remi said. “If I recall my history, Mortimer was executed several years after Despenser.”

  “True,” she continued. “But there was also the matter of family honor. For generations, Mortimer and his ancestors had sworn an oath of fealty to the kings they served. Edward III could forgive Mortimer for participating in the deposing of his father, whose relations with Despenser had endangered all of England. But once Edward II had abdicated, Mortimer’s duty was to step aside. He failed to do so.”

  Sam, who had always been a history buff, took it all in while examining the artifacts laid out in the cases. “How do these illegitimate sons play into this? Beyond simply being born on the wrong side of the blanket?”

  “Sir Edmund Herbert, Mortimer’s half brother, managed to recover part of Isabella’s treasure stolen by Despenser, which in turn brought the Mortimers back into the good graces of Edward III. In contrast, Despenser’s illegitimate son, Roger Bridgeman, carried on the new family tradition of piracy.”

  Bridgeman? Sam thought. That certainly explained Avery’s interest.

  “Fascinating,” Remi said. “But is this everything?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I mean, all the artifacts from the Mortimer side? We were fortunate enough to run into Grace Herbert-Miller, who mentioned that she’d recently turned everything over to you. Naturally, that made us wonder if this was everything or were there some items that didn’t make it to the display?”

  “Well, naturally, not everything would fit, and so we picked the most relevant pieces or those that we thought would tie into our theme. Was there something in particular you were interested in seeing? I might be able to arrange a private viewing at a later date.”

  “That,” Remi said, “would be appreciated. Do you have a detailed inventory list of what was turned over?”

  The woman hesitated when she noted Remi typing into her phone. “May I ask what your interest is?”

  “Writers,” Sam said. “We’re hoping to complete a history on the Mortimer family. And now that we know there’s a Mortimer-Herbert on the wrong side of the blanket, we’d like to add him.”

  Remi nodded, holding up her phone. “Notes.”

  “Oh,” Miss Walsh said. “Then you’ve come to the right person. Let me get your name and number and I’ll be glad to give you a call.” She pulled a small notepad and pen from her pocket.

  “Longstreet,” Remi said. “Mr. and Mrs.” She recited her cell phone number.

  “I’ll give you a call.”

  As she walked off to speak with other guests, Sam asked Remi, “You get all that?”

  “Texting to Selma and committing it to memory as we speak.”

  Since Remi had a near-photographic memory, he didn’t doubt it for a second. “Let’s see what else we can find.” He looked up and saw Colin Fisk approaching, in his hand a black cane with a wide brass handle—not that he seemed to walk with any noticeable limp. “Guess who just arrived.”

  “Lovely. And here we were having such a good time.”

  “How original,” Fisk said. “Man with a gun? That’s all you could think of?”

  Sam gave a casual shrug as he scanned the room for any more of Avery’s cronies. “Did the job.” He was surprised to see Fisk without one of his henchmen. “No ‘plus one’?”

  “Some of us have the good sense to leave our stunning wives at home when danger lurks.”

  Sam felt Remi bristle beside him at the veiled threat. “I’d ask what brings you here, but we know the answer to that.”

  “Or do you? I see you’ve found the Mortimer Collection. A shame they put it next to the Despenser display.”

  “Seems the perfect location, considering their background.”

  “If you only knew.” He gave a cold smile, his gaze flicking to Remi, then back. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to precede me out the hall toward the back.”

  “You think we’d go anywhere with you?”

  “Naturally, no. Which is why I’ve taken the liberty of ensuring your cooperation. That young curator . . . Walsh, I believe her name is? On the far side of the gallery?”

  Sam looked that direction. She seemed to be watching them, her face pale. Two of Fisk’s goons, Ivan and some new guy, stood behind her—too close, Sam realized.

  “And if we choose not to cooperate?” Sam said.

  “Then you’ll have the lovely Miss Walsh’s death on your conscience.”

  “You really think you can get away with that here? In the middle of the British Museum?”

  “It’s already in motion. The question is, how many people do you want to see hurt?”

  “What’s in motion?” Sam asked.

  “In less than sixty seconds, the fire alarms will go off. The museum staff, being well drilled, will usher everyone out in an orderly fashion. What they won’t realize is that there is an ambulance loaded with enough explosives to take off the front of this building. It’s about to pull up as we speak—to care for a man complaining of chest pains. So your choices are these. When the alarm sounds, you’re ushered out with the hundreds of others to the front, putting your lovely wife in danger of a blast that will undoubtedly have a very high body count. Or you save doz
ens of lives, your wife’s included, by accompanying me and the frightened curator, who is undoubtedly feeling the very sharp point of Marlowe’s dagger at her back.” He held up his cane as if to imply that’s how the knife was smuggled in. “And for all your wasted efforts in sending security after us, Ivan managed to bring a gun in after all.”

  Sam looked over at the two men. Ivan, his right hand in his jacket pocket, smiled at him as though he knew he was the subject of their conversation. And then, as though to prove Fisk’s point, he lifted his jacket, his hand, and the concealed weapon aimed in their direction. A moment later, the fire alarms went off.

  “Your decision, Mr. Fargo. Make it quick.”

  Thirty-three

  Remi gripped Sam’s arm as the fire alarms blared throughout the gallery. “I’m not leaving my husband.”

  “The choice is not yours, Mrs. Fargo.”

  Sam asked, “What happens to my wife if I cooperate?”

  “When she dutifully shows up alone out front, they’ll know not to set off the explosives—as long as no police arrive. The better question is for her to ask what happens to you.” He pinned his gaze on Remi. “Stay in sight of the entrance, don’t use your phone, and your husband will be safe.”

  “Sam . . .”

  “I’ll be fine, Remi. Go.” He looked toward the exit, where museum employees were guiding the guests out.

  She stopped before Fisk, looking him in the eye with a cold stare. The last thing she wanted was to anger him and so she turned to Sam, saying, “Be careful.”

  He gave a quick nod, and she forced herself to walk away, finally glancing back as she neared the exit, willing Sam to look at her.

  They’d reached the far end of the gallery, and Fisk’s man forced Miss Walsh around, plucking a white key card that was clipped to her pocket, using it to open the door. Finally, Sam looked toward Remi. He crossed his fingers, touched his temple near his eye, then pointed at her.

  She did the same. Their own little signal for Don’t worry, I love you.

  Forcing herself to walk calmly among the other evacuees, she tried to regulate her breathing, get her fear under control. Sam was very capable, and if anyone could defeat Fisk, he could.

  The cool air hit her as she stepped out, and she looked around, hearing sirens in the distance. Guests milled about near the entrance, the sequins and jewels on the women’s gowns sparkling in the lights.

  Laughter and quiet conversation filled the air. No one seemed to be panicking.

  She saw no ambulance—nor any guest who seemed to be suffering from a heart attack, fake or otherwise.

  Fisk had lied to them.

  Idiot. Of course he had.

  She turned on her heel, walked to the door where security was still ushering other guests out due to the fire alarms.

  When she tried to enter, one of the guards put out his hand. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ll need to stay outside until the fire department clears the building.”

  “My husband,” she said, her hand to her throat, attempting to look as panicked as she felt. “He’s . . . diabetic. He needed his insulin and said he was going to the restroom to give himself an injection. He hasn’t come out. I—I don’t see him anywhere. Please. It’s the first-floor restrooms in the atrium. If I could just go check . . . ?” Pleading with her eyes. “I’ll come right out as soon as I find him.”

  He considered her for a moment, then nodded. “In and out,” he said.

  “Thank you! I’ll be quick!”

  She walked straight toward the atrium. Glancing back, she saw the guard was no longer paying her any attention. Perfect. She continued on, saw perhaps fifty or so guests coming down the grand curved staircase on the left. Two young women, both museum employees, stood on either side at the base of the stairs, repeating, “Please head to the nearest exit. Thank you.”

  Remi wandered up, smiled at the employee closest to her. “Excuse me. I’m worried about my husband. I can’t find him and I’m hoping he’s upstairs.”

  “Just wait here, ma’am. They’re clearing everyone from upper levels.”

  “Thank you.” Stepping back, Remi stumbled against someone, lost her balance, fell forward against the woman, her purse flying from her grasp to the floor, its chain strap rattling as it slid across the surface. “Oh no,” she said, trying to right herself as the woman helped to catch her. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Remi said. “More embarrassed than anything. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “No. Here. Let me get your purse.”

  “I can get it,” Remi said, moving past her, scooping up the chain, then holding the purse against her as she strung the chain over her shoulder. “I can’t believe I did that. Darn high heels.” She glanced upstairs. “I don’t see him. I guess I can wait at the front.”

  Remi moved with the crowd toward the exit, hiding the stolen key card behind her purse as she quickly sidelined toward the gallery. After a quick glance back to make sure no one was watching, she made a beeline toward the door leading to, she hoped, Sam. She slid the key card against the lock, hearing it click as the light turned green. Opening the door, she slipped inside, entering a stairwell, then dropped the key card into her purse. She looked up, dismissed that direction, and descended, cracking open the door at the bottom. She saw it was clear, stepped in, and quietly closed the door behind her.

  Remi pulled off her shoes before starting down the hallway. She passed several doorways, all closed, following the corridor to a T intersection at the end. An EXIT sign on the wall pointed to the left. Doubting they’d leave the museum—unless they’d already found what they were looking for—she peered around the corner to the right. About ten feet in, she heard the faint sound of voices, floating down the corridor.

  Remi stilled, tried to listen. She couldn’t tell who was talking or what they were saying.

  At least she was heading in the right direction.

  Pressing herself close to the wall, she continued on, the voices growing louder.

  “Keep looking.” This voice sounded like Fisk.

  “Maybe,” came a woman’s voice, “if you told me what you’re trying to find?”

  “I did tell you. Something round with symbols on it.”

  Remi edged her way toward the room, her back against the wall. The door was closed, but not tight. Fisk stood with his back to the door, watching Miss Walsh sort through items on a table. Marlowe, his dagger in hand, stood next to them. What Remi didn’t see was Sam or Ivan. She eyed the door. A slight push would be all it would take. She reached out, pressed her fingers against it. A quarter inch more allowed her to see into what was apparently the workroom where they’d been cataloguing the Herbert Collection. Several weapons scattered on the table clearly didn’t make the cut for the upstairs display: a mace detached from the handle, a maul, an old leather shield, and pieces of body armor. Unfortunately, nothing that could readily be used as a weapon on her part—except, perhaps, a brass star that appeared to have been attached to the leather shield at one time, its points possibly sharp enough to do some damage if thrown with enough force.

  The door swung open. Ivan shoved the barrel of a small pistol right toward her. “Don’t move.”

  Remi glanced into the room, seeing Sam off to one side, seated in a chair, his hands zip-tied in front of him, but otherwise unharmed. “No need for violence,” she said, giving a glance at the gun.

  “You should’ve stayed outside.”

  “I’d be glad to return.”

  “Too late,” he said and yanked her into the room.

  Thirty-four

  Sam forced himself to remain still when he saw Remi stumble past the door, landing against the table of artifacts. As much as he wanted to blast his fist through Ivan’s face, then break his neck, he knew their best bet was to wait. Ivan might only have two shots in that
small-caliber handgun that he’d managed to smuggle into the museum, but that was two shots too many.

  “What’s this?” Fisk said, watching Ivan take hold of Remi.

  “Visitor.”

  The older man took a frustrated breath. “Does no one listen around here?” Then, realizing Miss Walsh was distracted from her search, he turned back to her. “Keep looking.”

  She nodded, hurriedly searching through stacks of folders and papers.

  Remi leaned over the table, reaching for one of her shoes that had slid across the tabletop when she fell.

  Ivan grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

  “Leave my wife alone.”

  “Or what?”

  Sam started to rise from his chair until Marlowe rushed over and shoved him back in his seat. “Stay there or I’ll slit your throat.”

  Remi, clutching her shoes and her purse to her chest, turned a stern eye on Sam. “I’m fine.”

  If there was one thing that he and Remi excelled at, it was coming up with alternative plans. They were definitely going to need one now, he thought, watching as Ivan led Remi to Sam’s side.

  “Sit,” he ordered, shoving Remi into a chair next to Sam.

  She stole a glance Sam’s way. “Come here often?”

  “Shut up, you two,” Ivan said, then crossed the room, standing where he could keep an eye on them.

  Miss Walsh, who was currently dumping the contents of yet another box on top of the table, looked over at the dagger in Marlowe’s hand. “Must you stand so close with that thing?”

  He said nothing, just stared at her. She turned back to the box, her hands shaking as she sorted through the papers.

  Fisk glanced at his watch, then at Miss Walsh. “You’re sure you don’t remember seeing anything like that in the artifacts?”