The Rogue's Fortune

“Does he know where Masler is?”

“Let’s find out.”

The two men pulled the terrified Egyptian out of the trunk and set him on his feet, keeping a hold on his arms as he swayed unsteadily. Beneath his olive complexion, the man was green. Roark understood why. Smith’s driving through Cairo involved short bursts of acceleration, followed by hard braking and frequent lane changes. The fence had probably gotten pretty scrambled. Roark only hoped the guy retained enough of his faculties to assist them.

“I’m not telling you anything,” the fence declared after Smith shoved him into a chair.

Roark had just finished securing their captive’s legs and arms when a plain black car entered the warehouse. Ad

renaline spiking, Roark cursed the intrusion, but Smith’s only reaction was to shoot the vehicle a look of disgust. Vigilance easing, Roark slid the hunting knife with its six-inch blade back into its sheath inside his boot.

“You’re late,” Smith said to the man approaching them.

He was about a head shorter than Smith and wore a navy windbreaker emblazoned with an Interpol emblem. “You said one o’clock. It’s five after.”

Smith grunted a reply and handed a camera to Roark, and a beer to the Interpol agent. Before the fence knew what they were about, the Interpol agent goosed him in the ribs, producing a somewhat lively expression and Roark caught the two men in a celebratory moment. After a quick check to make sure he’d gotten the shot they needed, he handed the camera off to Smith who uploaded the photo on to his laptop.

“Nice,” Smith remarked and tossed a fat envelope toward the agent. “Thanks.”

Without checking its contents, the man from Interpol pocketed the envelope. “Call me when you track down Masler.”

“Will do.”

Roark stared at the fence while Smith clicked away on the computer. It took a lot of willpower not to grin at the terrified Egyptian. “My friend here is uploading that photo of you and an Interpol agent even as we speak.” He glanced toward Smith. “Where are you posting it?”

“His Facebook page.”

The man’s dark eyes showed white all around. “I don’t have a Facebook page.”

“You do now. I’m sure Masler is going to be very unhappy to see you being so chummy with your new Interpol buddy. Not to mention how the rest of your clients will react.”

“It will ruin me.”

“It will get you killed.”

“Or worse,” Smith added as Roark watched the man’s composure fragment.

“Yes, killed.” The fence nodded vigorously, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “They will kill me. You cannot do this.”

“Maybe you should tweet about it while you’re at it. Hashtag snitch.” Keeping his gaze glued on the fence, Roark tossed the suggestion over his shoulder. “I’ve heard Masler follows Interpol.”

Obviously it never occurred to the panicky fence that someone in Masler’s business stayed miles away from any sort of social networking. His gaze bounced between Smith and Roark, agitation growing by the second.

“Stop,” the fence cried, clearly at the end of his rope. “I’ll tell you how to find Masler.”

Smith stopped typing and stared at the man in the chair, his finger hovering over the laptop. “Speak.”

An hour later, Smith and Roark dumped the man a mile from his home and then drove to Roark’s hotel.

Inside the hotel room, Roark asked over a passable single malt, “Think he’ll warn Masler we’re on to him?”

Smith tossed his back in one swallow and poured a second. “Doubtful.”

That meant he could set a trap for Masler and bait it with something the thief would find irresistible like the second leopard statue. Smith finished his second shot with the same efficiency as the first and headed toward the door.

“Thanks for your help on this,” Roark called after him. “And let me know when you locate Darius.”

“Will do.” Smith paused halfway out the door and turned back. “This girl, she good for you?”