Pirate

Thirty-two

From the backseat of their hired Mercedes, Sam watched the entrance where the luxury sedans dropped off the formally dressed guests, then departed. Slipping into a tightly controlled and heavily guarded event unnoticed wasn’t going to be easy. Liveried personnel stood at the doors checking invitations before allowing entry.

“Ideas?” he asked Remi.

“Waltz in like we own the place?”

“Don’t think that’s going to work. What we need is some sort of distraction. A bottleneck of some sort. Something creative…”

“The royals are always good for a distraction.”

“You happen to know any who are coming?” Sam asked as the Maybach pulled to a stop.

“It’s called A Royal Night at the Museum. Surely one or two will be attending.”

“Or it’s just a theme, which explains the liveried servants.”

A footman approached and opened their car door. A moment later, Sam and Remi stood waiting behind a number of other people near the entrance.

Sam noticed a few admiring glances turned their way, undoubtedly directed at Remi, who wore a sleeveless black silk gown and a diamond pendant at the neckline that drew the eye to the hint of cleavage. Some designer. Chanel? Armani? The moment she rattled the name off, he put it from his mind, not that it mattered. What did was that his wife looked amazing.

Remi nodded at the footmen. “They’re announcing names at the door.”

“That presents a slight problem. At least if we want to stay low-key.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“I’m working on it.” The truth was, he hadn’t yet come up with anything. Within seconds, they’d be at the door, only two more couples ahead of them.

He glanced around him, hoping something would come up, as he heard the footman announce, “Sir John Kimball, Lady Kimball.”

“Sam,” Remi whispered, a smile pasted on her face. “We’re almost up.”

“Isn’t that Charles Avery’s Rolls-Royce?” he asked. “Or, rather, his hired henchman Fisk?”

She looked back. “It would seem so.”

“What are the chances he or his driver has a gun in the car?”

“About a hundred percent.”

Sam leaned toward her, whispering, “And what would happen if a beautiful, frightened woman were to make that fact known?”

“You know any?”

“Beautiful? Yes. Frightened? Never.”

“One way to find out…”

As they reached the doors, the so-called footman asked for their invitation. Remi placed her hand on her throat, her beautiful green eyes turning all doe-like, as she said, “Thank heavens.” She moved in closer, lowering her voice. “I’ve never been more frightened in my life. There’s a man with a gun.”

The footman, his shoulders tensing, scanned the crowd behind her. “Where?”

“Standing near that Rolls-Royce. He’s tall, dark hair, graying at the temples. You see the way he keeps looking at us? It’s like he knows.”

“Wait right here, please.”

He left them to go talk to a couple of men in dark business suits standing about ten feet to their right, undoubtedly part of the security detail.

Sam used that moment to take Remi’s arm and lead her in. They were stopped by another footman, who asked for their invitation. “I gave it to that other gentleman,” Sam said, pointing to one of the three men who were now walking toward Fisk and the Rolls.

The guard eyed them, slightly confused. “What names to announce?”

Remi stepped forward. “Longstreet,” she said, giving her maiden name.

Sam added, “Mr. and Mrs.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Longstreet,” he intoned, and he waved them through.

Sam moved Remi quickly from the door, planning to get lost in the crowd before anyone realized what had happened. Especially if Fisk connected the contact by security to them. “That worked out well,” he said once they were safely inside and there didn’t seem to be anyone coming after them.

A liveried waiter passed by carrying champagne flutes and Sam took two, handing one to Remi. “Here’s to beautiful women who are good actresses.”

“And handsome men who can think on their feet.” She touched her glass to his and sipped as they strolled through the atrium, neither of them wanting to waste any time mingling.

Sam glanced back as they exited toward the gallery with the display.

Remi asked, “Something wrong?”

“We probably stirred a hornet’s nest by siccing those guards on Avery’s man.”

“If we’re lucky, we can get in and out before we get stung.”

“Let’s hope so,” he said as they neared the gathering of guests just outside the new exhibit. He took in their surroundings, searching for anyone who looked the least bit suspicious. He noticed a few undercover security guards, something to be expected. He dismissed them as a threat, instead looking for anyone who might be working for Avery or Fisk.

So far, so good.

A woman at the entrance of the gallery handed them a colored, tri-fold pamphlet.

Remi looked over hers. Sam took the moment to examine the guests milling about inside the long room. No one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention.

“Fascinating,” Remi said.

“What is?”

She pointed to the pamphlet. “Considering what this display is focusing on, you’d think they would’ve come up with a different name for the event. It’s formally called the Illegitimate Royal Children of England.”

“Somehow I don’t think that would have the same cachet as A Royal Night at the Museum.” He looked around the room and noted a large number of older patrons. “Some of these people might have a hard time writing the official version in their checkbooks.”

Remi laughed. “Good point, Fargo. Shall we see what all the fuss is about?”

He took her arm, and they strolled through the exhibit, set out chronologically by year and by the family associated with it.

About midway through, they reached the display that contained the items donated by Grace Herbert-Miller and her cousin and they stopped, took their time giving everything a thorough examination. There were paintings, a suit of armor, weaponry, and jewelry, just to name a few of the many items. If the cipher wheel was there, it wasn’t in plain view.

“You take photos,” Sam said. “I’ll watch for Fisk.”

She used her phone and snapped pictures of every item. “Done,” she said after a couple of minutes.

A woman in a business suit approached, her ID tag clipped to her pocket identifying her as a museum employee. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

Sam’s first inclination was to agree with her, but he decided that action would elicit less information. “What is?” he asked instead.

“The Mortimer Collection. Our newest. I helped put it together.”

Sam and Remi exchanged quick glances, and Remi moved closer, smiling. “What a fascinating job you must have, Ms…?”

“Walsh. Meryl. And, yes, it most certainly is fascinating.”

Sam asked, “What can you tell us about the collection? Edmund Mortimer, Second Lord Mortimer — where does he fit in?”

“It’s Mortimer’s grandmother, Maud de Braose, who generated our interest in this display as well as giving us the idea for our event name, A Royal Night at the Museum. Through her children, Maud de Braose is related not only to the last Plantagenet kings, Edward IV through Richard III, but all English monarchs from Henry VIII on. When Grace Herbert-Miller offered the artifacts for display, we couldn’t resist.”

“Impressive,” Sam said. “Anything about Mortimer’s illegitimate son that makes him stand out in history besides a distant link to royalty?”

“Unlike his ancestors, who certainly have their share of skeletons in their closets — massacres, plots to dethrone the king — Sir Edmund Herbert and his descendants appear to have led rather boring and exemplary lives — as long as you overlook his half brother’s feud with this notable character.”

She moved to the adjacent display. “Here we have the illegitimate grandson of Hugh le Despenser, a man who was reputed to be having an affair with King Edward II. Queen Isabella hated him and managed to convince her husband to force Hugh into exile, during which Despenser was said to have turned to piracy.”

A pen-and-ink illustration of a single-masted ship was posted on Despenser’s time line in 1321, with a paragraph below noting that Despenser was “the monster of the sea.”

Remi leaned in for a closer look. “I’m assuming this feud is the reason these two sons were placed next to each other?”

“It is,” the woman said. “When Despenser took to the seas, he attacked a ship belonging to the Mortimer family, which was carrying a fortune belonging to Queen Isabella. Roger Mortimer, who helped Queen Isabella depose her husband, Edward II, from the throne, was eventually executed, and some say it may have been due to the loss of Isabella’s fortune.”

“Despenser?” Remi said. “If I recall my history, Mortimer was executed several years after Despenser.”

“True,” she continued. “But there was also the matter of family honor. For generations, Mortimer and his ancestors had sworn an oath of fealty to the kings they served. Edward III could forgive Mortimer for participating in the deposing of his father, whose relations with Despenser had endangered all of England. But once Edward II had abdicated, Mortimer’s duty was to step aside. He failed to do so.”

Sam, who had always been a history buff, took it all in while examining the artifacts laid out in the cases. “How do these illegitimate sons play into this? Beyond simply being born on the wrong side of the blanket?”

“Sir Edmund Herbert, Mortimer’s half brother, managed to recover part of Isabella’s treasure stolen by Despenser, which in turn brought the Mortimers back into the good graces of Edward III. In contrast, Despenser’s illegitimate son, Roger Bridgeman, carried on the new family tradition of piracy.”

Bridgeman? Sam thought. That certainly explained Avery’s interest.

“Fascinating,” Remi said. “But is this everything?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean, all the artifacts from the Mortimer side? We were fortunate enough to run into Grace Herbert-Miller, who mentioned that she’d recently turned everything over to you. Naturally, that made us wonder if this was everything or were there some items that didn’t make it to the display?”

“Well, naturally, not everything would fit, and so we picked the most relevant pieces or those that we thought would tie into our theme. Was there something in particular you were interested in seeing? I might be able to arrange a private viewing at a later date.”

“That,” Remi said, “would be appreciated. Do you have a detailed inventory list of what was turned over?”

The woman hesitated when she noted Remi typing into her phone. “May I ask what your interest is?”

“Writers,” Sam said. “We’re hoping to complete a history on the Mortimer family. And now that we know there’s a Mortimer-Herbert on the wrong side of the blanket, we’d like to add him.”

Remi nodded, holding up her phone. “Notes.”

“Oh,” Miss Walsh said. “Then you’ve come to the right person. Let me get your name and number and I’ll be glad to give you a call.” She pulled a small notepad and pen from her pocket.

“Longstreet,” Remi said. “Mr. and Mrs.” She recited her cell phone number.

“I’ll give you a call.”

As she walked off to speak with other guests, Sam asked Remi, “You get all that?”

“Texting to Selma and committing it to memory as we speak.”

Since Remi had a near-photographic memory, he didn’t doubt it for a second. “Let’s see what else we can find.” He looked up and saw Colin Fisk approaching, in his hand a black cane with a wide brass handle — not that he seemed to walk with any noticeable limp. “Guess who just arrived.”

“Lovely. And here we were having such a good time.”

“How original,” Fisk said. “Man with a gun? That’s all you could think of?”

Sam gave a casual shrug as he scanned the room for any more of Avery’s cronies. “Did the job.” He was surprised to see Fisk without one of his henchmen. “No ‘plus one’?”

“Some of us have the good sense to leave our stunning wives at home when danger lurks.”

Sam felt Remi bristle beside him at the veiled threat. “I’d ask what brings you here, but we know the answer to that.”

“Or do you? I see you’ve found the Mortimer Collection. A shame they put it next to the Despenser display.”

“Seems the perfect location, considering their background.”

“If you only knew.” He gave a cold smile, his gaze flicking to Remi, then back. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to precede me out the hall toward the back.”

“You think we’d go anywhere with you?”

“Naturally, no. Which is why I’ve taken the liberty of ensuring your cooperation. That young curator… Walsh, I believe her name is? On the far side of the gallery?”

Sam looked that direction. She seemed to be watching them, her face pale. Two of Fisk’s goons, Ivan and some new guy, stood behind her — too close, Sam realized.

“And if we choose not to cooperate?” Sam said.

“Then you’ll have the lovely Miss Walsh’s death on your conscience.”

“You really think you can get away with that here? In the middle of the British Museum?”

“It’s already in motion. The question is, how many people do you want to see hurt?”

“What’s in motion?” Sam asked.

“In less than sixty seconds, the fire alarms will go off. The museum staff, being well drilled, will usher everyone out in an orderly fashion. What they won’t realize is that there is an ambulance loaded with enough explosives to take off the front of this building. It’s about to pull up as we speak — to care for a man complaining of chest pains. So your choices are these. When the alarm sounds, you’re ushered out with the hundreds of others to the front, putting your lovely wife in danger of a blast that will undoubtedly have a very high body count. Or you save dozens of lives, your wife’s included, by accompanying me and the frightened curator, who is undoubtedly feeling the very sharp point of Marlowe’s dagger at her back.” He held up his cane as if to imply that’s how the knife was smuggled in. “And for all your wasted efforts in sending security after us, Ivan managed to bring a gun in after all.”

Sam looked over at the two men. Ivan, his right hand in his jacket pocket, smiled at him as though he knew he was the subject of their conversation. And then, as though to prove Fisk’s point, he lifted his jacket, his hand, and the concealed weapon aimed in their direction. A moment later, the fire alarms went off.

“Your decision, Mr. Fargo. Make it quick.”