“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.