The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Another Mercedes pulled up to the gate.

“Oh, what luck!” Spadaro said cheerily. “That’s Arturo Talavera, our museum director. Perhaps I can have him say hello before he goes in.”

Spadaro honked his horn and waved as he got out. Golov and Ivana followed him. The door on the other Mercedes opened and a portly gentleman with graying hair shuffled toward them with an outstretched hand.

Spadaro introduced them and said, “They will be our guests tomorrow night, representing Maxim Antonovich.”

Talavera’s eyes lit up at the mention of the billionaire’s name. “We are hoping Mr. Antonovich finds some of the pieces intriguing. I wish I could show them to you now, but I have urgent business to attend to in the warehouse.”

“Nothing unfortunate, I hope,” Golov said with a smile.

“No, no. Of course, with the unfortunate incident yesterday and the passing of our curator, my responsibilities have doubled, so I have some last-minute items to take care of before the auction. We have over five hundred pieces to sell, and buyers are descending on the island from all over the world, so you can imagine how much there is to do.”

“I saw how full the harbor is with yachts.”

Talavera nodded. “The airport is just as packed with private jets. Mr. Antonovich will certainly have some competition when it comes to the bidding. Well, I must be off. I look forward to speaking with you more tomorrow night.”

As they walked back to the car with Spadaro, Talavera sped through the gate and parked next to a door with a keypad on it. He inserted a card into the slot and entered when the door buzzed.

“I hope you are impressed with how we are safeguarding your future purchases,” Spadaro said as they drove off.

“Very impressed,” Golov replied.

He leaned over and softly spoke Russian into Ivana’s ear. “We’re not waiting until the auction.”

“When, then?”

“During the gala.”

After watching Talavera, Golov now had a plan to assure they were the ones who would get Napoleon’s Diary.

TWENTY-ONE

Juan ducked his head as he stepped out of the helicopter and then turned to help Gretchen exit. The slit of her black, floor-length gown fell to one side, revealing a toned leg, the one that hadn’t been injured. During the past day and a half, her wound had healed enough for her to walk with a barely noticeable limp, but Julia Huxley had insisted she loan Gretchen flat shoes instead of the four-inch heels that would have been more appropriate for such an elegant dress.

When they were out of the chopper’s rotor wash, Juan straightened his tuxedo and waved at Gomez, who took off and headed back to the Oregon, which was stationed twenty miles off the coast in international waters. Normally, her decrepit condition was an asset when coming into a port because Third World bureaucrats were often lazy or easily bribed, but Juan didn’t want to risk a ship inspection by Malta’s by-the-book harbormaster.

With Erion Kula and his family safely evacuated to Corfu and the waiting arms of Interpol, the Oregon had made good time to Malta. After analyzing Kula’s information, they concluded that he really was Whyvern and had been framed by ShadowFoe. Their only lead, however, was the hacker’s intense interest in acquiring Napoleon’s Diary and the treasure it would supposedly reveal. The link to the European electrical grid was still a mystery.

After a check at airport customs, Juan and Gretchen got into a BMW driven by Mike Trono, who had arrived earlier in the morning with MacD by boat to smuggle in the needed gear. The guys had spent the day casing the layout of the auction house and warehouse.

“Well, don’t you two look spiffy,” Trono said. “It’s amazing what Kevin can whip up in the Magic Shop.”

“Julia loaned me the gown,” Gretchen said, omitting that Kevin Nixon had to adjust it to her more athletic frame. Juan always had his tux on hand for occasions like this.

Juan chuckled. “When she heard we were going to a fancy party, she nearly shot you up with a sedative so she could come in your place.” He could see glimpses of the harbor as it sparkled in the setting sun. “Where’s MacD?”

“Securing alternate transportation in case we need it,” Trono said. “He didn’t think he’d have a problem.”

“Good. Hopefully, the police will never know we’re here, but better safe than sorry. Earpieces?”

Trono handed a small box over his shoulder. Juan opened it and gave one of the miniature transceivers to Gretchen, who fitted it deep in her ear canal. Juan inserted his own and said, “Does everyone read me?”

“Ah can hear you just fine,” MacD replied in Juan’s ear. “I’m done borrowing mah ride for the next couple of days. It’s not stealing if Ah plan to give it back, right?”

“They won’t miss it?”

“Ah left a nice note,” MacD joked.