Favreau rang off without another word and immediately called Ace Diamonds.
27
Queen got out of the taxi and did a quick 360 degree visual sweep, before stepping aside to allow Mulamba to climb out. Rook, who had been up front with the driver, got out as well, passing over a handful of Euro notes that generously exceeded the amount shown on the meter.
“It is as I told you,” the driver said in French. “The museum is closed. Are you certain you wish to be dropped off here?”
“Yes,” Mulamba insisted. “This is where we need to be. Thank you.”
Queen frowned, wondering if they would not have been better off taking the driver up on his offer and going to a nearby hotel instead. They were too noticeable as it was, and the taxi driver wasn’t likely to forget them or their destination. But there was no reasoning with Mulamba, and it probably wouldn’t make much difference anyway. They would be done and out of the country long before anyone realized that the missing Congolese president was skulking around a museum in Belgium.
The Royal Museum for Central Africa was housed in a stately palatial structure in the municipality of Tervuren, just a short drive from the capital city of Brussels. The museum grounds appeared completely deserted. The small parking area opposite the museum entrance was empty, except for an enormous statue of a trumpeting elephant that guarded the path into the beautifully cultivated, but uninhabited, forest park surrounding the edifice. The utter lack of activity was due, in part, to the lateness of the hour, but was also because the museum was closed to the public for renovations, which were expected to last several years.
They had only learned of the renovation during the two-hour train ride from London to Brussels. While this development had thwarted Mulamba’s goal of finding a scholar or curator to walk him through the Stanley archives, Queen had seen it as a blessing in disguise.
“We’ll sneak in, find what you’re looking for, and get out before anyone knows we were there,” she told him. “Zero footprint.”
The African president had not been particularly happy about the idea of breaking and entering, but his eagerness to find the missing pages of the Stanley diary far outweighed his moral restraint.
Which left only the question of how they would actually accomplish the break-in.
“Leave that to me,” Lewis Aleman had told her.
Aleman was the team’s tech guru. Someone — probably Rook — had once jokingly referred to him as R2-D2, because of his uncanny ability to solve any problem related to computers or electronic systems. The resemblance to the mech-droid from the Star Wars movies stopped there however. Aleman was a tall, lean, endurance athlete and former Special Forces sniper. A combat injury had taken him permanently out of the field, but over the years, he had done more to ensure the success of Chess Team missions from his computer console than he ever could have with a long-range rifle. Although the original design was not his, Aleman’s technical savvy had made the quantum computer network a reality, leapfrogging developments in the private sector by decades. If anyone could get them past the security in the museum, it was Aleman.
What was unusual was that Aleman was now communicating with them directly. “Deep Blue is wrapped up with the situation in the Congo,” he had told Queen, “so you’ll be dealing with me directly.”
That wasn’t a problem for Queen, but she was concerned about the matter that now occupied Deep Blue’s attention. She knew that King and Asya had escaped custody in Kinshasa, and that they were now launching a raid on the national palace, but there had been no word from Bishop and Knight, and it was clear that Deep Blue feared the worst.
Queen couldn’t quite bring herself to believe that her teammates were dead. Bishop had always seemed indestructible to her, even before he had been given the regen serum. The fact that he had survived the dire side-effects of that serum, which transformed ordinary people into unstoppable rage monsters, had only deepened her sense of his invincibility. Even though he — like King — was now one hundred percent mortal again, she still couldn’t imagine him dead, especially not at the hands of a few rebel fighters.
It was difficult to believe that Knight was gone, too, though for much different reasons. She had known Knight longer than anyone on the team. They had worked together in her first field assignment. He was always calm and coolly professional, essential to the success of any mission, and yet at the same time, almost invisible, which for a sniper was a critical skill. Even though she often forgot he was there, she couldn’t imagine a world without him.
It had been Bishop’s quiet invocation of the Special Forces motto that had prompted her decision to help Mulamba in his crazy quest. Like him, she felt a keen desire to defend the defenseless. If Bishop and Knight had made the ultimate sacrifice on behalf of the innocents living in the Congo region, then she was going to make damn sure that it wasn’t for nothing.
As eager as she was for news — good or bad — she understood the importance of staying focused. King and Asya needed Deep Blue’s full attention, and as it happened, she and Rook needed Aleman’s expertise.
They strolled along the fringe of the park until the taillights of the departing taxi disappeared from view, then they reversed directions and headed back down the brick sidewalk that ran the length of the museum’s north wall. Just beyond the building’s corner, illuminated only by streetlights, a wrought iron fence blocked access to the museum campus. The gate to the staff parking lot just beyond — also empty — was secured with a heavy padlock.
“Stealth mode activated,” Aleman said. “I’ve looped the security camera feed, so you’re invisible for the moment, and I’ve bypassed the alarm. Not much I can do about that padlock though.”
“We’ve got that,” she replied, and turned to Rook. “Got the picks?”
He took a slim wallet from his back pocket. They’d left their weapons in the trunk of the sedan at a car park in London, but had managed to slip a few other items through the train station security checkpoint, including a set of carbon composite lock-picks.
“I got this,” he announced.
“You know I’m better with the…” she licked her lips seductively, “delicate stuff.”
“Nice try, babe,” he replied in the same tone. “But I’m the key master.”
“I’ll flip you for it.” She made a show of checking her pockets, then said, “Got a quarter?”
Rook rolled his eyes, and jammed his free hand into the front pocket of his jeans. Queen casually took the pick case from him so that he could check the right side, and as he did, she spun around and went to work on the lock.
“Call it in the — hey!”
The lock released with an audible click and Queen handed the picks back to him. “Told you. You’d still be fumbling around trying to get it in.”
Mulamba laughed, and Rook shot him a venomous look before turning back to Queen. “You have the glasses. That’s cheating.”
“That must be it.” She patted him on the shoulder, then pushed the gate open just enough to permit access. Rook entered first. As Mulamba passed through the opening, she followed and pulled the gate shut again.
Queen’s research indicated that they would find what they were looking for in the Stanley Pavilion, a three-story satellite structure a short walk from the museum palace. They moved quickly to the elegant pillared porch and found the main entrance door, locked.
Rook stepped forward and went to work with the lock-picks, trying several before finding one that he thought would do the job. After a full minute of teasing the tumblers, he said, “These institutional locks are a lot trickier than a big ass padlock.”