BILBAO, SPAIN
Dressed in white coveralls, the team of Albanian gunmen kept their heads lowered as they pushed the maintenance carts across the plaza. They looked like custodial workers—nondescript, virtually invisible to the patrons exiting the museum. Their caps were pulled down low, concealing their faces. No one noticed the stocking masks they’d yanked on moments earlier—masks that now completely distorted their facial features and hid their Mediterranean coloring.
The choice of museums had been deliberate.
The nearby Guggenheim Museum got all the attention. A prominent landmark, it had been targeted by the ETA, a Basque separatist group with a propensity for violence. In October 1997, just before the museum’s grand opening, a guard had been killed there. As a result, the Guggenheim was packed with armed guards, making it too risky.
In contrast, security at the Museo de Arte Moderno was light. Just a few guards with batons, a couple of docents, and a curator. Very peaceful and serene—especially near closing time, which was only minutes away.
The gunmen reached the entrance. They grabbed their MP5Ks from inside the canvas utility carts where they’d been hidden. Bursting through the doors, they instantly overpowered the startled security guard, seized his baton, and ordered the frightened attendant to remain silent. In complete control, they forced their captives away from the entrance and shoved them through the museum at gunpoint. With speed, purpose, and an extensive knowledge of the floor plan, they made their way to the second level.
A minute and a half later, they were there.
Footsteps. Another security guard turned the corner. Using the just-confiscated baton, one muscular gunman dealt a punishing blow to his head. The guard’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, unconscious.
Right on schedule, the well-trained team entered the display of nineteenth-and twentieth-century paintings. They headed first for the Cassatt. The tallest gunman pulled out a pair of wire cutters and snipped the wires that suspended the painting from the ceiling. He then turned to the adjacent wall and repeated the process, releasing the Bacon from its mounting wires. With both paintings safely in their possession, they headed to the other room and the works of those artists who inspired great national pride: Miró and Picasso.
An unexpected guard appeared on the scene and spotted them. He pulled his baton from its holster, lunging at the thieves and shouting, “¡Ustedes! ¡Para!”
They had no intention of stopping.
The team leader turned, releasing an explosive spray of bullets from his submachine gun. The first shots ripped the baton from the guard’s hand, sending the baton tumbling to the ground and severing two fingers in the process. Bullets also pierced the guard’s torso, puncturing his chest and shoulder. He screamed, lurching forward in agony. Instinctively, he reached over to clutch his mangled hand, dropping to his knees as he did. Another burst of fire and he was dead.
The other gunmen had already gone on to complete their mission. Once they’d secured the Miró and the Picasso, they turned to their leader for further instructions. He motioned for them to leave.
Blood was oozing from the dead guard’s body and pooling around him, the last of his screams still echoing through the expansive building as the team of gunmen raced off. They passed stunned onlookers, who were frozen with fear as they tried to assess what had just happened. Once outside the museum, the gunmen dashed across the plaza with the four paintings and jumped into a white Mercedes Sprinter that had been waiting, engine running. The van screeched off, heading toward the A-8 and Santurtzi, where a cargo ship was departing tonight for the Philippine province of Cebu.
Derek shoved aside the foam cup on his desk. There was nothing left except the dregs of his third cup of morning coffee.
The coffee was foul. The weather was foul. And his mood was foul.
Swiveling around in his chair, Derek stared broodingly off into space. He’d waited for hours last night for Sloane to come home. She’d called twice from the hospital, both times giving him brief updates on her mother’s condition, both times cutting the conversation short. When she’d finally gotten back to his place, she’d looked like hell—exhausted and stressed out. She’d greeted him and the hounds, taken a few halfhearted bites of lasagna, and provided him with details about the break-in that he already knew or could read in today’s newspaper. A half hour later, she’d crawled into bed and fallen asleep.
This morning had been no better. She’d been asleep when he left for the gym, and gone when he returned, leaving a note saying she’d gone to the hospital to visit her mother, and hopefully, to expedite her release.
Sloane’s worry over her mother was genuine. But it was crystal clear to Derek that she’d learned something else—something that her father had shared with her, and that she had no intention of sharing with him.
The worst-case scenario was that Matthew Burbank had done something illegal that linked him to Xiao Long, and that Sloane was protecting him. But that theory didn’t fly. Sloane would never agree to hide information that kept organized criminals in business. Especially when it was Asian organized crime, the very gangs Derek was trying to bring down. Sure, Matthew could have lied to Sloane about who the players were or about the extent of his involvement. But Sloane was way too smart for that. If her father had fed her a line of crap, she’d see through it.
Besides, Matthew was an art dealer—well established, financially comfortable, with a clientele who was educated and affluent. What possible link could he have with a Dai Lo?
Xiao Long was a thug, not an art connoisseur. So maybe Derek was walking down the entirely wrong path. Maybe Matthew’s career had nothing to do with this. Maybe he’d witnessed something he wasn’t supposed to, something he didn’t even recognize as significant until last night’s robbery had shoved his nose in reality. Maybe he had no idea who he was dealing with, or, if he’d figured it out, what Xiao Long was capable of.
Finding his wife bound, gagged, and knocked unconscious would be a major eye-opener. It would certainly explain why Matthew would panic, and why he’d turn to his daughter rather than the cops. If he felt threatened, his first instinct would be to protect his family.
That had to be the explanation—not just for Matthew, but for Sloane. Her loyalty to her father, and her own independent pigheadedness, would spur her into action. She’d get whatever facts her father had, including any he might have omitted from his official police report, and then run with this alone.
She had no clue what kind of danger she’d be walking into.
That did it. Derek was going to insert himself in the situation—now.
Gripping the arms of his chair, he shoved himself around to face his desk. He’d finish up his critical work here, and then head over to the hospital, or the Burbanks’ apartment if Rosalyn had already been released. He’d respectfully check on her recovery. And then, he was going to get Sloane alone and pry information out of her.
Reaching for his keyboard, he nearly knocked over his almost-empty coffee cup and a pile of paperwork.
Son of a bitch. His desk was a disaster. He didn’t have a minute to organize it—not today. But, damn, he hated clutter.
The paradoxical thought almost made him laugh aloud. Clutter and the far corner of the twenty-second floor, where C-6’s squad was located, went hand-in-hand. Boxes of confiscated goods—from fake Rolexes to equally fake Nike sneakers—were stacked everywhere. Getting from point A to point B meant weaving your way around the crap and through the aisles.