Tess Gerritsen: Thief Of Hearts aka Stolen

“MacLeod?”

“Interpol. That was his man on the train platform. The one who saved your lives.”

Jordan chewed on that piece of information for a moment. “If we come in, how will it be arranged?”

“Through your uncle. Scotland Yard will oversee. Whenever you’re ready.”

Jordan was silent as he dodged around a tight knot of traffic. “I’m ready,” he said at last.

“And the woman?”

“Clea’ll take some convincing. But she’s tired. I think she’s ready to come in, too.”

“How shall we do it, then?”

“Sloane Square, the Underground. Make it an hour from now-eight-thirty.”

“I’ll let Hugh know.”

They were coming up on the Tavistocks’ London residence, one in a row of elegant Georgian town houses. The car was still following them.

Jordan pulled over to the curb. “One more thing, Richard.”

“Yes?”

“There’s a ship docking this afternoon in Portsmouth. The Villafjord. ”

“Van Weldon’s?”

“Yes. My guess is, she’ll be taking on cargo tonight. I suggest the police perform a little unannounced inspection before she leaves port.”

“What’s the cargo?”

“It’ll be a surprise.”

Richard stepped out and made a conspicuous point of paying for the ride. Then he walked up the steps and entered the house. As Jordan drove off, Richard saw that the car that had followed them remained parked outside the Tavistock residence. It was just as he’d expected. The men were assigned to watch him; they had no interest in any Sikh driver.

All the tension suddenly left his body. Only then did he realize how edgy he’d been.

And how close to the precipice they’d been dancing.

Back at the hotel, Jordan parked the taxi a block away, and sat for a moment in the driver’s seat, watching to see if any cars had followed him. When he saw nothing suspicious, he stripped off his beard and turban, got out and headed for the building.

Trust me, he thought as he climbed the stairs. You have to learn to trust me. He knew it would be a long, slow process, one that might take a lifetime. Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps all the damage done in childhood had robbed Clea forever of her faith in other people. Could they live with that?

Could she?

Only then did he realize that, lately, all his thoughts of the future seemed to include her.

Sometime in the past week, the shift had occurred. Where once he would have thought I, now he thought we. That’s what came of sharing so much, so intensely. It was both the reward and the consequence, this link between them.

Trust me, he thought, and opened the door.

The room was empty.

He stood staring at the bed, suddenly, painfully aware of the silence. He went into the bathroom; it was empty, as well. He paced back to the bedroom and saw that her purse was gone. And he saw his jacket, lying draped across a chair.

He picked up the jacket and noticed at once that it was lighter than usual. That something was missing. Reaching into the pocket, he discovered that his father’s gold watch was missing.

In its place was a note.

“It was fun while it lasted. Clea.”

With a groan of frustration, he crumpled the paper in his fist. Blast the woman! She’d picked his pockets! And then she’d headed for…where?

The answer was only too frightening.

It was eight o’clock. She’d had a solid three hours’ head start.

He ran back down the stairs to the taxi. First he’d swing past Sloane Square, to pick up some Scotland Yard assistance. And then it’d be on to Portsmouth, where a certain little burglar was, at this moment, probably sneaking up the gangplank of a ship.

If she wasn’t already dead.

The fence was higher than she’d expected. Clea crouched in the thickening gloom outside the Cairncross Biscuits complex and stared up in dismay at the barbed wire lacing the top of the chain link. This was not the usual penny ante security one expected for a biscuit warehouse. What were they afraid of? An attack by the Cookie Monster? The fence ringed the entire complex, interrupted only by the main gate, which was padlocked for the night. Floodlights shone down on the perimeter, leaving only intermittent patches of shadow. Judging by the fortune invested in security, there was more than just biscuits being stored in that warehouse.

Right on the money, she thought. Something else is going on in there besides the manufacture of teatime treats.

It had required only a small leap of logic to lead her to the Cairncross warehouse on the outskirts of London. If Van Weldon’s ship was taking on illicit cargo tonight, then here was the obvious holding place for that cargo. Legitimate trucks were probably in and out of here all the time, pulling up to that handy warehouse platform. If a truck showed up tonight to pick up a load of crates, no one in the neighborhood would bat an eyelash.

Very clever, Van Weldon, she thought. But this time I’m one step ahead of you.

She’d be ahead of the authorities, as well. By the time Jordan and his precious police converged on that Portsmouth dock, there’d be no telling how many people would know about the forthcoming raid. Or how much warning Van Weldon would have. Now was the time to view the evidence-before Van Weldon had a chance to change plans.

The sound of someone whistling sent Clea scrambling for the cover of bushes. From her hiding place she watched a security guard stroll past, inside the fence. He had a gun strapped to his hip. He moved at a leisurely pace, pausing to flick away a cigarette and crush the butt with his shoe. Then, lighting up another, he continued his circuit.

Clea timed the gap between his appearances. Seven minutes. She waited, let him go around again. This time it was six minutes. Six minutes, max, to get through the fence and into the building. The fence was no problem; a few snips of the wire cutter she’d brought and she’d be in the complex. It was the warehouse that worried her. Those locks might take a while to bypass, and if the guard circled around too early, she’d be trapped.

She had to take the chance.

She snipped a few links in the fence, then hid as the guard came around. The instant he vanished around the corner she cut the last link, scrambled under with her knapsack and dashed across the expanse of pavement to the warehouse side door.

One glance at the lock told her she was in for some trouble. It was a brand-new pin tumbler, and six minutes might not be enough to bypass it. She set her watch alarm for five minutes. Holding a penlight in her teeth, she set to work.

First she inserted an L-shaped tension wrench and gently applied pressure to slide apart the plug and cylinder plates. Next she inserted a lifter pick, with which she gingerly lifted the first lock pin. It slid up with a soft click.

One down, six pins to go.

The next five pins were a piece of cake. It was the seventh one-the last-that kept tripping her up. She felt the minutes tick by, felt the sweat beading on her upper lip as she struggled to lift that seventh pin. Just one more click and she’d be in the door. Interrupt the effort now, and she’d be back to square one.

Her watch alarm gave a beep.

She kept working, gambling on the chance she’d conquer that last pin in the seconds that remained. She was so close, so close.

Too late, she heard the sound of whistling again. The guard was approaching her corner of the building!

She’d never make it back under the fence in time. Neither was there any cover along the building. She had only one route of escape.

Straight up.

Sheer panic sent her clambering like a monkey up a flimsy-looking drainpipe, seeking the cover of the shadows above.