Fool Me Twice (Riley Wolfe 2)

Or hold on just one fucking minute. Was he trying to tell me that—I mean, it was totally not possible, but that was what we had started with, and it would certainly fit that description if—I mean, it wasn’t even impossible; it was unthinkable! But was he really suggesting that—

“Stop the clock, Slim,” I said. “Is that it? You want me to steal a fucking fresco?”

“I want you to steal the fucking fresco,” he said. “I want you to steal Raphael’s Liberation of St. Peter and bring it to me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said.

“No, just Saint Peter,” he said—the first little touch of humor he’d shown.

“You do understand what a fresco is? I mean, it’s a painting that is literally part of a fucking wall! Like painted right into the fucking wall.”

“You don’t need to steal the entire wall, Mr. Wolfe. Just the fresco.”

“Wonderful. Just the fresco, not the wall—which conveniently ignores the fact that the fresco is actually part of the actual wall.”

“So I have been led to believe,” he said.

“And you know that on top of asking me to steal a fucking wall, this particular fucking wall is in the Vatican?! Which has like the tightest security in the world?”

“So we are told,” he said.

“I mean, the fucking Vatican—with twenty thousand visitors every fucking day—and if I steal a fucking wall from the fucking Vatican, don’t you think somebody is going to notice?!”

“I suppose that depends on how you do it,” he said. Totally calm, relaxed, like he’d just said, “Hey, let’s talk a walk in the fucking park.”

“No,” I said. “That’s crazy. N

o. It can’t be done. No fucking way.”

He cocked his head to the left, just a little. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely positive,” I said.

“Perhaps you could think of some way? If, perhaps, you brainstorm with Bernadette?”

“On the other hand,” I said, “there are a couple of things I could try.”

Four millimeters of smile this time. “I’m delighted to hear it,” he said.

6

The call came on her unsecured cell phone. But Betty Dougherty recognized the area code. It said the call came from Iasi, Romania. She was pretty sure it didn’t. She didn’t know anybody in Romania. She had no idea where Iasi was. But that area code was used by one of her special clients. All his calls went through dozens of servers around the world before they got to her. She was fairly sure he was nowhere near Romania. That was just routine caution. And she had no idea where the calls really came from. She didn’t need to know, and the rules of her profession were clear. The less everybody knew, the better. All that mattered was that the wire transfers went through, and this client’s always did. Where he sent them from was none of Betty’s concern.

Even so, Betty was alarmed. None of her clients ever called her at this personal, unsecured number. In theory, they shouldn’t even know this number existed. Anyone getting in touch to request Betty’s professional services sent a note to a PO box in Newark. The box was not in the name of Betty Dougherty, of course. It was registered to an extra identity, one she would never use for anything except that PO box. When the time came to abandon the box, that identity would die, too. No big deal. IDs were cheap, and the box was important. She went across the river from her modest Manhattan apartment once a week to check it and collect any messages waiting there.

This private phone number ringing now had no apparent connection to the box, or to her working identity. This phone was for her “real” life, the day-to-day normal existence she lived as a cover for her true occupation.

But Betty was not really surprised that this particular client knew her cell phone number. He had enough money and raw power to get whatever he wanted. Betty knew that better than most; she had gotten it for him often enough. Until now, he had always played by the rules, too. As far as she knew, he had always been content to use her professional services and had never tried to track her down. That’s how it was supposed to work.

Something had changed that. It probably wasn’t good.

Still, she was sure it was him, so she answered cautiously. “What,” she said.

A voice with a slight British accent on the other end said four words. “You have a letter.” And then the connection broke.

Betty thought for a moment. Obviously, this client had a job for her, and he regarded it as urgent enough to break normal protocol. Normally she would simply pick up the information about the job at her PO box. She had checked the box only two days ago. Normally she would not check again for several more days. The client knew that. So he had to have a job for her so pressing he was willing to run the risk of using an unsecured number. Even more, to take a much larger risk by revealing that he knew her private number—and therefore that he knew who she really was. That was troubling. The fact that the caller had been cautious with his words was a very small relief.

She put all that out of her mind for the moment. Whatever the implications for the long run, the message meant the details of the job had gone to her PO box; they had not been conveyed in the open over the phone. And the call itself had given away nothing at all. Even though anybody could access her call register and see that the call had come in, there was no way to trace it back to the caller. Betty could say it had been a wrong number, and no one could prove otherwise. After all, the call came from Romania, for God’s sake. Who even knew where that was?