James Twining - The Gilded Seal

‘So I’m guessing you want this kept low key.’

‘Until we know what we’re dealing with.’ Green wagged his finger in agreement. ‘Ask around. See what you can find out without making too many waves. Both Cole and Hudson agree that this isn’t an isolated incident. If there’s an art forgery ring here in New York, we’d all like to know about it. I don’t want to scare anyone off until we’ve got something solid.’

‘One more question, sir,’ Jennifer said as Green made to step out on to the street where one of his flunkies was hovering with an umbrella, ready to escort him to the limousine’s open door. ‘Why me?’

The question had been gnawing away at her all morning. After all, it had been nearly a year since she had last spoken to Green, and even then it had been the briefest of conversations. She knew she should feel flattered that he had selected her for this, but she had been in the Bureau long enough to suspect an ulterior motive.

‘Because you’re good. Because you deserve it.’

‘The Bureau’s full of good agents.’

Green turned to face her, his eyes meeting hers and steadily holding her gaze. She had the sudden feeling that he was doing this deliberately, as if to try and convince her of his sincerity.

‘The press office got called up by some bullshit journalist a few days ago,’ Green began. ‘Leigh Lewis. Writes for one of the check-out rags – American Voice . You know it?’

‘No,’ said Jennifer, unsure where this was leading.

‘That figures,’ he sniffed. ‘Sometimes I wonder if anyone actually reads that shit. Anyway, he must have some good sources, because he was asking about the Double Eagle case.’

Jennifer’s eyes widened in surprise. As far as she knew, that case was still classified. Highly classified. And for good reason. At its heart was the cover-up of an old CIA industrial espionage operation and a theft from Fort Knox that led all the way to the White House. No wonder Green was being cagey.

‘What did he know?’

‘Not much. But he had a name.’

‘Mine?’ she guessed.

Green nodded.

‘Obviously we didn’t comment, but, given the extreme sensitivity of that investigation and your previous history…’

He didn’t have to complete the sentence for her to know what he was referring to. A few years back, while on a DEA-led raid, she’d accidentally shot and killed a fellow officer, her one-time instructor from Quantico. During the inquiry it came out that they’d been seeing each other. It was a real mess. Though she’d been cleared of any wrongdoing, that hadn’t stopped the press speculation and the Bureau gossips. It certainly hadn’t stopped her being shipped out to the Atlanta field office until, in their words, things had ‘blown over’, when in reality they had just wanted her out of the way.

‘You don’t think Lewis is going to drop the story?’

‘We’re doing what we can behind the scenes. But these things take time. That’s why, when Hudson called, I thought of you. Given the circumstances it seemed like a good fit.’

‘I don’t follow,’ she said with a frown. ‘What circumstances?’

‘This case needs to be run in stealth mode. That means you’ll be flying way beneath Lewis’s radar for a few months. It’s perfect,’ he exclaimed, clearly pleased with himself for devising such a creative solution.

Jennifer’s heart sank. Far from singling her out as she’d somewhat vainly assumed, all Green wanted was to banish her to the nursery slopes where she couldn’t do any damage. Suddenly two weeks of surveillance didn’t look quite the bum deal she’d thought.

‘Am I being suspended?

‘Of course not,’ he spluttered, a little too forcefully for Jennifer’s liking. ‘I wouldn’t have put you on this case if I didn’t think it was important and that you could do a good job. This is an opportunity, not a punishment. But until we find out what Lewis knows and where he’s getting it from, I don’t want you to take any risks. You know the potential embarrassment to the Bureau and to the Administration if the Double Eagle story gets out. We’ll all be in the firing line. This is for your own protection.’

Somehow, Jennifer seriously doubted that. There was a rumour that Green, armed with his new wife’s money, was thinking of running for office. A tilt at the Senate, some even said. The only protection he was worried about was his own.

Apsley House, London

18th April – 5.13 p.m.

The hall was dark and still. Several marble busts, once milky white and now curdled a creamy yellow by age, flanked its square perimeter and glared unblinkingly into nothingness. On the walls, a series of sombre paintings. Archie glanced at each piece as he waited, fidgeting longingly with the cigarette packet and solid silver Dunhill lighter in his pocket, the sharp click of his heels amplified by the cloying silence.

‘Mr Connolly?’ A female voice suddenly rang out.

Archie swivelled round to see a short woman striding towards him purposefully, her lips shining in the gloom.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hannah Key.’ She thrust out her arm and grasped his hand firmly. ‘I’m the curator here.’

‘Nice to put a face to the voice,’ said Archie.

She was much younger and prettier than he had guessed from their phone conversation a few days ago, with a pale oval face and large, inky eyes that reminded him of a Vermeer painting. Her long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that was fixed in place with an elastic band, suggesting she was more concerned with the immediate practicalities of keeping her hair out of her eyes than she was with looking good. This impression was further confirmed by her simple blue dress, complete lack of jewellery and makeup, and the unsightly chips in the pearl varnish along the edges of her nails. What struck Archie most though were her shoes, which were new, clearly expensive and a startling shade of emerald green. Perhaps, he speculated, these revealed a rather more impulsive and indulgent character than the severe and forbidding persona she projected at work.

Then again, Archie knew he wasn’t without his contradictions either. His accent, for example, straddled a broad social divide, occasionally hinting at a wholesome middle-class education but more often suggesting a rough apprenticeship amidst the traders who operated at the sharp end of the Bermondsey and Portobello antiques markets. And while he wore an elegant handmade suit and bright Hermès tie that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Pall Mall club, his gold identity bracelet, square-shouldered physique and closely cropped blond hair suggested a journeyman boxer of some sort.

In a country that invested so much meaning in external markers of social class, he knew that people often struggled to reconcile these seemingly conflicting signs. Some even questioned whether this was, in fact, deliberate. Archie chose not to elaborate. He’d always found it paid to keep people guessing.

‘Not everyone who works in a museum is an antique,’ she remarked wryly, seemingly reading his thoughts. ‘Some of us even have a social life.’

‘Not many.’ Archie grinned. ‘At least not that I’ve seen over the years.’

‘Maybe things have changed since you got started?’

‘I’m forty-five. That’s thirty five years in the art game and counting,’ he said with a smile. ‘Everything’s changed since I got started.’

‘By art game you mean museum security?’

He paused before answering. Sometimes he had to remind himself that Tom and he were running a legitimate business. Museum security was certainly not how he would have described his years as a fence, although it was probably the best training he could ever have received for what he was doing now.