Sidney Sheldon - Chasing Tomorrow

JEFF STEVENS CHECKED IN to the Hotel de Russie under the name Anthony Duval. Gunther gave him the brief.

“Anthony Duval, dual French/American citizenship, thirty-six years old. Lectures at the Sorbonne and acts as an art consultant to numerous wealthy collectors in Paris and New York. He’s in Rome to make some acquisitions.”

“I hope Anthony likes the good things in life?” asked Jeff.

“Naturally.”

“How does he feel about the Hotel de Russie?”

“He only ever books the Nijinsky Suite.”

“I like him already.”

The girl at the check-in desk was a knockout, dark and voluptuous, like a 1950s Italian film star. “Your suite is ready for you, Mr. Duval. Would you like some help with your luggage? Or . . . anything else?”

For a split second Jeff considered the promising possibilities implied by “anything else.” But he restrained himself. The job Gunther had sent him on was complicated and dangerous. He couldn’t afford any distractions.

“No thank you. Just the key.”

The Nijinsky Suite was spectacular. On the top floor of the hotel, it boasted an enormous king-size bed and flat-screen TV, a marble, mosaic-tiled bathroom with a sunken bathtub, a living room and office area stuffed with priceless antiques, and a terrace with breathtaking views of the Pincio and the rooftops of Rome. Jeff showered, changed into linen trousers and a duck-egg-blue shirt that perfectly complemented his gray eyes and headed for the Russie’s famous “secret garden.”

“Will you be dining with us tonight, Mr. Duval?”

“Not tonight.”

Jeff ordered a double gin and tonic and strolled through the garden. The man he was waiting for sat quietly beneath the bougainvillea, reading La Repubblica newspaper. He wore a handlebar mustache and sideburns, and even sitting down, he was, Jeff could see, unusually tall. Not exactly the gray man in the crowd he’d been hoping for.

“Marco?”

“Mr. Duval. A pleasure.”

Jeff sat down. “You’re here alone? I was expecting two of you.”

“Ah, yes. My partner experienced an unexpected delay. We will meet him tomorrow at the foot of the Spanish Steps at ten, if that’s convenient?”

It wasn’t convenient. It was irritating. Jeff disliked working with other people. With the exception of Tracy, he lived by the rule that you could never trust a con artist and preferred jobs that he could pull off alone. Unfortunately, robbing Roberto Klimt of the Emperor Nero’s bowl, the centerpiece of one of the most closely guarded private collections in the world, did not fit into that category.

“Marco and Antonio are the best,” Gunther Hartog had assured him. “They’re both world class at what they do.”

And what exactly do they do, Gunther? Jeff thought now. Hang out in bars looking like the strongman from a traveling circus and blow off important meetings? Worse than that, someone had obviously been bragging about the planned heist. Jeff had heard whispers almost the moment he got off the plane. He knew he hadn’t said anything, and Gunther was far too discreet. Which only left one of these clowns.

Jeff waited for a woman to walk by before whispering in Marco’s ear.

“Everything has to be ready by tomorrow night. You both need to know your roles inside out. Wednesday is our one shot to do this, you do realize that?”

“Of course.”

“There can be no more delays.”

“Don’t worry, my friend.” The mustachioed man smiled broadly. “We have completed many such jobs in Roma in the past. Very many.”

“Not like this you haven’t,” said Jeff. “I’ll see you both at ten. Don’t be late.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, IN bed, he turned on his laptop and reread the file Gunther had sent him on Roberto Klimt. Revulsion and anger swept through him again, hardening his resolve.

A notorious predator, Klimt had sexually abused and raped two young Gypsy boys two years ago. Posing as a wealthy mentor who could offer them an education and a better life, he had paid the boys’ mother a thousand euros to have them accompany him on a tour of Europe. The older child reported Klimt to the authorities on their return to Rome, but thanks to the art dealer’s connections and deep pockets, the case never made it to trial. A few weeks later, rejected by their own families thanks to some obscure Roma honor code, the boys leaped from the roof of a tenement building to their deaths. They were ten and twelve years old.

Jeff would never forget Wilbur Trawick, the disgusting old tarot-card reader at his uncle Willie’s carnival. Wilbur had abused countless carnie kids before he made a pass at Jeff, who had ended the old man’s career with a deftly placed knee to groin. Wilbur Trawick had been grotesque, but he had never wielded the kind of power of a man like Roberto Klimt. Klimt knew that the law couldn’t touch him.

But I can, thought Jeff. I’m going to hit him where it hurts.

He prayed Gunther was right about Marco and Antonio, that they wouldn’t let him down. Jeff’s plan was bold and daring, but it required absolute precision timing, and it could not be done alone.

Klimt’s security team was SAS standard. Thanks to somebody’s loose lips, they already knew that Nero’s bowl was a target.

Jeff felt the adrenaline begin to pump through his veins.

It was on.

“HIS NAME IS JEFF Stevens and he’s posing as an art dealer.”

Roberto Klimt was irritated. He was supposed to be at his country house by now, enjoying a professional blow job from his beautiful new boy. Instead he was still in Rome, locked in a meeting with the head of his security team, a fat, middle-aged man with sweat patches the size of dinner plates under each arm.

“He’s checked in at the Russie under the name ‘Duval.’ ”

“So? Have him arrested,” Klimt snapped. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“Unfortunately he has not yet committed a crime. The police have an irritating reluctance to arrest apparently innocent foreign citizens going about their business.”

“Are you tailing him?”

The security expert looked affronted. “Of course. It appears he is planning to hit the apartment. He met with one of the top safe crackers in Southern Europe yesterday, Marco Rizzolio.”

Roberto Klimt thought for a while.

“Should we move the bowl today? As an additional precaution?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I want to make sure the transit is totally secure. Angelo’s sick, so I’m still vetting the new driver. But we can move it tomorrow. That’s a day earlier than planned and should be enough to throw off our Mr. Stevens and his friend.”

Roberto Klimt stretched and yawned, like a bored cat. “I’ll stay another night too, in that case. I don’t like to leave it here in the apartment without me. I’ll also put in a call to my friends at the police department. See if we can’t nudge them a little.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Klimt. My team and I can handle this. To be frank, police involvement may do more harm than good.”

“I don’t doubt that you are taking the necessary precautions. But I want to see this Jeff Stevens character spend the rest of his life in an Italian jail. For that, we need the Polizia. It will all be off the record, don’t worry.”

He picked up the phone and began to dial.

JEFF CALLED GUNTHER.

“I have a bad feeling about this job. Something’s wrong.”

“My dear boy, you always have a bad feeling the night before. It’s stage fright, nothing more.”

“Your guys, Marco and Antonio. You trust them?”

“Completely. Why?”

Jeff told Gunther about the rumors that were sweeping through Rome’s underworld. “Someone’s leaking like a sieve. I’ve had to change the plan twice already. You should see that apartment! Dogs, laser tracking, armed guards. Klimt sleeps with the bowl at night like it’s his teddy bear. They’re waiting for us.”