Sidney Sheldon: Chasing Tomorrow

Jeff’s mind raced. What would be the easiest thing to steal?

He sprinted into the coin room.

Everything seemed in order. The priceless sixth-century gold coin, the centerpiece of the exhibition, was still in its locked glass case. Nothing appeared to have been moved, or broken or disturbed. Visitors covered their ears and filed toward the exit, but there was no panic, no screaming or drama. It was all terribly British and reserved. A man in a suit was the last to leave, and he stopped and held the door politely for Jeff.

“False alarm, I expect.” He gave Jeff a patient smile.

“I expect so.”

ABOUT HALF AN HOUR later Jeff found Tracy, outside. The whole museum had been evacuated onto Great Russell Street, but no one seemed especially put out. People were chatting and laughing about the unexpected drama as they waited to be readmitted.

“Everything all right?” Tracy asked Jeff.

“I think so. Some idiot left a lit cigarette in the bathroom.”

“Nothing was taken, then?”

Jeff shook his head. “I thought the same thing, but Rebecca and I went through everything three times. It’s all there. None of the other departments have reported any problems.”

“Good.” Tracy hugged him. She felt hugely relieved.

“We’re getting too cynical in our old age, you and I,” said Jeff, only half joking. “We’re gonna have to work on that before Jeff Junior arrives.”

FOR THE NEXT FEW weeks, Tracy saw very little of Jeff. There were no further dramas at the museum, and Merovingian Treasures proved to be a huge hit as an exhibition, taking up all of Jeff’s time.

Professor Trenchard called him.

“Everybody’s raving about you in Bloomsbury. I can’t tell you how much kudos I’m getting for having brought you in.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” said Jeff. “I really don’t know how to thank you, Nick.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m quite happy enough to bask in your reflected glory.”

THE NIGHT THE EXHIBITION closed, Jeff came home disconsolate.

“I can’t believe it’s all over.”

“Poor baby.”

Tracy wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her tiny baby bump against the small of his back. She’d been feeling exhausted recently, a side effect of the pregnancy according to Alan—Dr. McBride—but so far had avoided morning sickness and the smell of food didn’t bother her. Tonight she’d prepared Jeff a special dinner of spaghetti carbonara. A delicious scent of bacon, cheese and cream wafted through from the kitchen.

“I’ve got something for you. To cheer you up.”

She led Jeff into the drawing room, a beautifully proportioned Georgian living room with high ceilings, wide oak floorboards and original sash windows overlooking the richly planted “Queen Anne,” British slang for a front garden.

“You already cheered me up,” said Jeff, sinking into the sofa. “How are you feeling today, beautiful?”

“I’m fine.” Tracy handed him a gin and tonic with ice and lemon. “But this is gonna cheer you up more. At least I hope it will.”

She pulled a small, black leather box out of her pocket and handed it to him, a little nervously. She knew there was a chance Jeff might take the gift the wrong way, and she desperately wanted to please him, to bring a touch of their old life back with all its fun and excitement.

“Let’s just say I went to a lot of trouble to get ahold of it.”

Jeff opened the box. Tracy watched, delighted, as his eyes widened.

“Where did you get this?”

She grinned. “Where do you think?”

“My God.” Jeff gasped. “It’s the real thing, isn’t it? I thought for a second it might be a really good copy.”

“A copy? Please.” Tracy sounded offended. “Copies are for the hoi polloi, darling. Only the best for you.”

Jeff stood up. Tracy thought he was coming over to kiss her, but when he looked up she saw that his eyes were alight with anger.

“Are you out of your mind?” He held the coin up to her face accusingly. In his hand was the silver coin of Cynethryth of Mercia, one of the British Museum’s rarest treasures. “You stole this.”

“Yes. For you.” Tracy looked confused. “I know how much it meant to you. Besides, you said it yourself. Nothing could be more Anglo-Saxon than a bit of looting.”

She smiled. Jeff didn’t smile back.

“That was a joke!” He looked at her aghast. “How did you . . . when . . . ?”

“The day your exhibition opened. I knew the other Saxon rooms would be totally empty. All anyone was interested in was Merovingian Treasures . So I set off the fire alarm, slipped into the south wing, and, well . . . I just took it. Those cases aren’t even alarmed,” she added, a note of disdain in her voice. “It’s like if it isn’t the Elgin Marbles or the Rosetta Stone, no one cares.”

“Everybody cares!” said Jeff furiously. “ I care. In any case, those cases are locked. Where did you get the key?”

Tracy looked at him as if he were mad.

“I copied yours, of course. Really, darling, it’s not exactly rocket science. I Googled the coin, after you said you liked it so much, and I got a copy made at a little jeweler in the East End. Then I swapped it out for the original. Easy.”

Jeff was speechless.

Upset by his reaction, Tracy added defiantly, “And you know what? No one noticed the difference! No one except you even looks at that thing. Why shouldn’t you have it?”

“Because it’s not mine!” Jeff said, exasperated. “It belongs to the nation. I’ve been trusted to protect it, Tracy. And now my wife, my own wife, goes and steals it!”

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Tears welled up in Tracy’s eyes.

“Well, I’m not.”

She couldn’t understand Jeff’s reaction. Especially after she’d gone to so much trouble. He used to be proud of me when I pulled off jobs like that. No one had been hurt, after all. The old Jeff would have been pleased, amused, delighted. Tracy wanted the old Jeff back.

Jeff was staring down at the coin in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “Rebecca said she thought you seemed distracted on opening day,” he murmured. “I remember she asked me if there was anything up with you.”

“Oh, Rebecca said something, did she?” Tracy shot back angrily. “Well, bully for Rebecca! I’ll bet perfect little Rebecca would never sink so low as to steal a national treasure, now, would she?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” said Jeff.

“Because she’s not a dishonest con artist like me, right?”

Jeff shrugged as if to say, If the shoe fits.

Tears of anger and humiliation streamed down Tracy’s cheeks. “Your little girlfriend may be better than me—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jeff snapped. “Rebecca isn’t my girlfriend.”

“But if she’s better than me, she’s better than you too, Jeff. Have you forgotten who you are? You’re a con artist, Jeff Stevens. You may have retired, but you’ve got a twenty-year life of crime behind you, my friend! So don’t you come playing the high-handed saint with . . .”

Tracy stopped abruptly, like a child freezing in a game of musical statues.

“What?” said Jeff.

Tracy stared at him, her eyes wide and desperate, like a rabbit about to be shot. Then she looked down. Droplets of blood, dark and heavy, fell slowly from between her legs onto the floorboards.

She started to sob.

“All right, sweetheart. Don’t panic.” Jeff dropped the coin and put his arms around her. This was Tracy, his Tracy. What was he thinking, getting so angry with her in her condition. “It’ll be okay. Just lie down.”