Easy enough, she’d figured, especially the blood and corpse part-but she could see why some people would get excited about that particular power.
She didn’t imagine she’d be holding it up in the moonlight either, and she would definitely be doing her damnedest not to accidentally take the thing apart, but she knew the Sphinx had parts, the gold death mask for one, apparently removable crystal eyes for another, and the pièce de résistance, an RFID, a radio-frequency identification tag. The scanner for that nearly invisible piece of technological wizardry had been in her briefing packet and was now in her purse, a pen-shaped gadget that fit neatly in the palm of her hand. If she got within three meters of the DIA’s Sphinx, the scanner would light up and register the location via its built-in GPS. Three meters was an amazing range for an RFID powder chip with an internal antenna, and the DIA was rightly proud.
“You know whom I represent,” she said to Ruiz, keeping her voice very low, very cold. “Are these Señors Asher and Ponce more important than my client?”
It was a trick question.
She was in Paraguay for only one reason-Buck Grant had asked her to be-but Jimmy Ruiz had been led to believe she was on a buying spree for a certain congressman from Illinois, the kind of man who could exert his influence to get the U.S. government off Jimmy’s back, if things went well in Ciudad del Este, if perhaps Ms. Royal came home with a few particularly prized pieces.
Ruiz’s gaze slid to hers again.
“There must be someone you can call,” she said coolly. “If not, there’s certainly someone I can call.”
That did the trick.
With a furtive glance back at Esteban Ponce’s henchmen, Ruiz pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit a speed-dial number. He lowered his chin and turned away as he spoke-a few quick words.
In a matter of seconds, one of the henchmen’s phones rang, and in less than another half a minute, both of the bodyguards stepped aside, allowing Ruiz to escort her into the Old Gallery with the 9mm pistol Ruiz had reluctantly supplied her with safely concealed in a shoulder rig under her suit jacket.
And there she goes, Dax thought, into the lion’s den. Dammit.
His plan had been to cross the street and head down toward the gallery to get within useful range. Useful for what, he hadn’t precisely determined. He supposed there was an off chance that Ms. Toussi had no clue about the Old Gallery’s less-than-kosher reputation-but he doubted it. She hadn’t struck him as the kind of girl who didn’t have all the angles figured before she got out of bed in the morning. Every angle, every morning.
No, she knew what was going down in there, and she was part of it. The biggest surprise here was that she hadn’t shown up anywhere in his investigation of the Sphinx. Hell, he’d been investigating her at the same damn time. Somewhere, somehow, some kind of connection should have shown up between her and the Egyptian statue. That it hadn’t meant one of two things. He’d either missed something big, and his answer to that was “Not very damned likely.” Or she was working for one of the other players on his list, which didn’t make a damn lick of sense, not considering her avocation. The list was one scumbag after another: guys like Esteban Ponce, who had too much money and a sense of entitlement to match; an overwrought and high-strung dealer like Levi Asher, whose sexual proclivities ran the gamut from lurid to illegal; and by far the worst of the lot, Erich Warner, his handler on this damn thing, who played hard and fast and under the table for millions of dollars on every deal, running drugs and guns and women and children and stolen art and anything else he could turn for a profit, which included some pretty damn strange things. Half a dozen other world-class con artists and criminals were all in his files as having also been actively pursuing the Memphis Sphinx since it had first started getting some play in the underworld market, and Suzi Toussi’s name had not been attached to any of them.
“Mademoiselle, how kind of you to come to my small shop,” he heard Remy Beranger again through his handset. The man’s voice wasn’t quite as effusive as when he’d been speaking with Ponce, but an American woman looking to make a score in Ciudad del Este was enough to put anyone on edge.
It sure as hell put him on edge.
“Mr. Beranger,” Suzi Toussi said, and there wasn’t a damn thing about the sound of her voice that didn’t make Dax’s gut churn just a little bit. He was in the right place at the right time, but she wasn’t, not by a long shot. She had no business being here, not according to everything he knew about her, and he knew plenty. He knew the tragedy of her first marriage. He knew about the girls she brought back from Eastern Europe, and he knew about the one in Ukraine who hadn’t made it three months ago. And really, he had to wonder if the violence and loss of that failure had given her some kind of guilt-induced death wish, because, baby, this was the place, and this was the deal, for people who wanted the odds stacked overwhelmingly against them.
“Jimmy tells me you are in the market for Incan gold,” Beranger said. “You and your client, a man, I hear, who is placed very highly up in your government.”
“Incan gold, yes, the congressman is very fond of all the ancient cultures of the world and the artifacts they left behind,” the in-it-up-to-her-neck Ms. Toussi replied. “He’s especially in the market for something unique, a rare and powerful piece perhaps, not necessarily Incan, if you have anything currently in your shop that would qualify.”
A significant pause ensued, and Dax could just imagine the sweat breaking out on Remy Beranger’s brow. The word “congressman” was making him sweat a little, too, along with that not-so-coy allusion to the damn Memphis Sphinx. Geezus. What in the hell was a U.S. congressman doing in the middle of this deal? And if Suzi Toussi was representing a congressman, he’d sure as hell like to know why and which one.
“If you’d like to come with me,” Beranger spoke again, “I believe I have a few things that might be of interest. Jimmy, here, take my bag, please, and see to the men in the viewing room.”
Viewing room?
Now which, Dax wondered, of all the dozens of squirrel-sized rooms in the gallery was the viewing room? And why in the hell hadn’t he figured that out yesterday morning and gotten a transmitter in there? And what was in the bag Beranger had just handed off?
“Mademoiselle Royal, if you please.”
Dax had emplaced four transmitters in the gallery-one each in the entrance, the main ground-floor room, Beranger’s office, and in a junk room full of broken artifacts. He didn’t know where Remy Beranger was “if you pleasing” Suzi Toussi, but after fifteen seconds of silence, and then another twenty, he knew they’d left the entrance, skipped the main gallery room, and hadn’t ended up in Beranger’s office, all the places Levi Asher and Esteban Ponce weren’t either.
As a matter of fact, of the thirteen people in the gallery, Beranger, Suzi, Ruiz, Ponce, Asher, and enough bodyguards between them to fill everybody’s dance card, he currently had a bead on exactly two-the guys standing outside the front door. Everyone else had disappeared off his grid. Dammit.
CHAPTER THREE