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  Marie wrapped her arms around the king's neck, and then she ran her hands down his chest, slowing to brush her fingers against the Golden Fleece.

  “It is a pity,” she said, tracing the blue diamond lightly with her finger. “There is a stunning gown of blue organza in my wardrobe that would complement this jewel exquisitely.” She dared a glance at her king and asked, “Will you continue your stubbornness and refuse my enjoyment of this trinket?”

  Louis grabbed her wrist firmly. “Last I checked you were not the king of France.”

  She tightened her jaw and yanked her hand free. “That has not stopped you from allowing me use of the other crown jewels. I do not see why you remain so selfish with this one.”

  “This one,” he hissed, “is mine. Will you be demanding use of my crown next?” Louis covered the brooch with his palm and stepped backward.

  Marie Antoinette stared at his hand, cheeks flushed. “Of course not, Milord. Forgive my indiscretion.” She turned on her heel and marched from the room, the train of her gown whipping across the floor.

  17

  IT TOOK LONGER THAN THIRTY MINUTES FOR WAYNE EDWARD TO CALL Daniel back. But when he did, Daniel was waiting, wide awake, and The Castle was empty except for a skeleton crew of night security. He monitored the security terminus alone.

  “Sorry that took so long,” Wayne said when Daniel answered on the first ring.

  “Don't worry about it. I'm awake.”

  “Yeah, what's new? Have you ever slept in the fifteen years I've known you?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Well, here's what I've got. I ran both images through Identix. Neither one has a confirmed criminal history, and believe me, if they did, Identix would find it. As far as that goes, they're both clean.”

  “And the surveillance footage?”

  “That,” Wayne said, “is where things get interesting. I got one confirmed hit of the male suspect on that length of tape. He's on camera for almost an hour taking pictures the entire time. My guess is that he's not using a standard digital camera, but I can't confirm it. In one shot he gives the security camera a direct glance for about ten seconds. He knows he's being watched.”

  Daniel sucked on his front teeth, pondering. “Interesting. What about the girl?”

  “Wait till you hear this. According to the time stamps on the footage you provided, I've got about six months worth of tape.”

  “Yeah, that's about right.”

  “Well, I was able to get a facial recognition hit of the female suspect's face more than one hundred and twenty times.”

  “What?”

  “From what I can tell, she went to the display every Monday through Friday during that time.”

  Daniel tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “I see. Thanks.”

  “She's not bad looking.”

  “Don't be deceived. She's a clever one.”

  Wayne laughed. “They usually are. Well, good luck with that, man. Seems like you've got an issue on your hands.”

  Daniel glared at the computer screen. “Nothing I can't handle.”

  It was well past midnight when Douglas Mitchell returned to his penthouse in Bethesda, Maryland. He walked through the dark rooms, not bothering to turn on the lights. There was no furniture to maneuver around, and his footsteps echoed from the walls. As usual he went straight for his laptop. Its cold blue light flashed across his face, casting distorted shadows on the blank wall behind.

  There was a single message in his inbox from Dr. Peter Trent. Douglas pursed his lips and opened the email immediately.

  He sat on the edge of his bed, back straight, and palms flat on his legs as he pondered his next step. He typed a quick message and sent it into cyberspace, indifferent to the consequences.

  Somewhere in the early morning hours the murky darkness grew less dense. The change was imperceptible at first, but Abby felt it even when she could not see the difference. She lay in bed, eyes open, and stared into the blackness. A thought tugged for entrance at the fringes of her mind.

  Breakfast with my father. Why did I agree to do that?

  Out in the living room, her alarm clock broke the silence with a harsh metallic buzz. She jerked into a sitting position and crawled out of bed. She had developed the habit in college of putting her alarm in the living room; it forced her to get up instead of hitting the snooze button.

  Abby navigated through the apartment until she found the green numbers flashing 5:00. She turned off the alarm and stood for a moment, longing for the warmth of her bed. Instead, she turned on a lamp and threw open the curtain. Only the faintest hint of dawn broke the darkness along the horizon, and yet the city was already awash with activity.

  It took her but a few minutes to fix coffee and curl up in the red blanket on her usual spot on the couch. She looked for traces of sunlight to illuminate the chapel across the street, but it was still shrouded in darkness. She reached for her laptop instead.

  Abby intended to spend a few moments putting the finishing touches on her speech before taking a shower, but first, she checked her email. A single message from Douglas Mitchell appeared in her inbox.

  Her neck stiffened, and hot tears pressed at her eyes. She didn't need to open it to know what sort of message she would find. Abby felt more of a fool than she cared to admit. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and clicked open the email.

  Abby,

  I got caught up on business and won't be able to make our breakfast date. I'm headed to Paris this afternoon, so I'll catch up with you next time I pass through D.C.

  Dad

  Abby read the e-mail three times. She pressed her lips together, holding back the all-too-familiar emotion. But she was not strong enough to restrain the tidal wave that broke over her. A moan, deep and primal, clawed at her throat. Abby tried to swallow the tears, but was overcome by the collision of anger and sadness. She pushed her laptop aside and threw herself down face first, sobbing into the pillows.

  She lay there for the better part of an hour, with liquid emotion spilling from her eyes. Slowly, the first ray of new sunlight crossed her face. Abby rose, eyes red and swollen, and looked out the window.

  As if on cue, the small chapel was bathed in light, a dark silhouette against the sun. She stared at the worn stones and bright stained-glass window, almost daring them to speak, to give her reassurance that she was a daughter wanted by someone. She looked and she longed, but the words on a computer screen a few feet away shouted louder than the gentle beckoning of the church across the street. She was not wanted; she was not loved.

  Abby turned her back to the window and walked toward her bedroom, passing the wall of framed photographs on the way.

  “Why can't you love me!” she screamed, raking her arm across the wall. Three pictures flew across the room, shattering on the hardwood floor. Abby knelt beside them, picking shards of glass from the sepia photographs. She studied the churches for a moment, hesitated, and then stuffed them in the wastebasket beneath her desk. Abby thought about retrieving them, but instead sought comfort beneath the hot water of her shower, attempting to scour her heart from the outside.

  Daniel left The Castle at six in the morning and returned home long enough to eat breakfast, nap for thirty minutes, and take a shower. He was back at work hours before Blake Marshall even considered waking up. Yet when Daniel charged through the employee entrance he was headed not toward the security terminus, but to the office of Peter Trent.

  He glanced at his watch, hoping Trent would be at work by eight-fifteen. He took the stairs two at a time and burst into the second floor hallway at a jog.

  He knocked on the door, fully expecting to wait on the bench outside until Dr. Trent arrived.

  “Who is it?” A voice yawned from within.

  Daniel stuck his head in the door, eyebrows raised. “I didn't think you'd be here.”

  “Then why'd you knock?”

  He shut the door behind him and approached the desk. “On the off chance.
There's something we need to talk about.”

  Peter held up his hand, palm toward Daniel. “Please stop right now if this is another diatribe about how lax our security is and how worried you are. I've got a long day ahead of me, and I don't need your speculations. I just need you to do your job.”

  Daniel stiffened. “Not exactly that, sir.”

  “If not that, then what exactly might you be doing here, Mr. Wallace?”

  “How well do you know, Dr. Mitchell?”

  “Abby?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Trent removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Very well. Her father is an esteemed colleague of mine, and Miss Mitchell has been a regular presence within the walls of this institution since she was a child.”

  “And do you trust her?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you trust her?” Daniel repeated.

  “Implicitly,” Peter said, stressing each syllable. “I insist you get to the point of all this nonsense. I'm losing patience.”

  “Sir,” Daniel said, struggling to keep his voice level, “part of my due diligence as head of security is to run surveillance on the Hope Diamond.”

  “And what does that have to do with Dr. Mitchell?”

  “She was in the Harry Winston Gallery late last night visiting the Hope Diamond display, and she seemed quite upset.”

  Dr. Trent leaned back in his chair, playing with his glasses. “A little out of the ordinary, granted, but she's been under a great deal of pressure lately. It's not something that worries me.”

  “But that's just it. Her visit wasn't out of the ordinary at all.”

  “I don't follow.”

  Daniel moved into the room and lowered himself into one of the chairs before Dr. Trent's desk. “I was running a check on the Hope display against the surveillance footage of the intruder, and just as I thought, he was there. But I discovered something else quite startling.”

  “Okay, I give. Humor me, Daniel. Just what did you find?”

  “I checked a section of tape covering the last six months and found that Abby has been to the Hope display well over one hundred times.”

  Peter's eyebrows rose slightly, but he said nothing.

  “So you see, Dr. Trent, I don't know that I feel comfortable allowing her to wear the diamond during the ceremony. Something just doesn't feel right. She seems quite obsessed with it, and our suspect has it under surveillance.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  He paused, trying to find the right words. “That under no circumstances should Dr. Mitchell be allowed anywhere near that jewel.”

  “Well,” Peter said, placing his reading glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “I'm afraid that is not an option, Mr. Wallace.”

  “But I just told you—”

  “I know what you just told me,” he interrupted. “And honestly, I find it somewhat juvenile. Unless you have proof that Dr. Mitchell, an employee and personal friend, is up to criminal activity, you may leave my office.”

  “You can't let Abby wear that necklace.”

  “I can. And I will.” Peter looked at his watch and then jumped to his feet. “As a matter of fact I'm taking the issue to the Board of Regents right now for their approval.”

  “Please reconsider,” Daniel begged.

  Peter grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and moved toward the door. “I'm leaving now, Daniel, which means you are too.”

  Alex sat on his balcony with a cup of black coffee in one hand and a roll of Smithsonian blueprints in the other. The air was crisp with the hint of fading leaves and coming winter. He inhaled deeply, savoring the change of season. With any luck he would never set foot in Washington, D.C., again when this heist was over. His lease expired in three days, and he had no plans of renewing.

  He dialed Abby's number and took a sip of coffee, waiting for her to answer. The call went to voice mail. “Good morning, Dr. Mitchell. I missed you last night,” he said with a playful edge in his voice.

  Alex tossed his phone aside and spread the blueprints across his lap, mentally tracing the route Isaac would use in a little over forty-eight hours.

  Abby glanced at her phone but didn't answer even when Alex's name appeared on the display. She stood before her bathroom mirror, eyes bloodshot and jaw set with a look of determination. Her slacks, turtle neck, and high-heeled boots were all black today, a color that matched her mood. She applied minimal makeup and twisted her hair into a fierce knot at the nape of her neck.

  Two more days and this will all be over with.

  Then Abby Mitchell stuffed her phone in her jacket pocket, grabbed her briefcase, and left for work.

  When Peter Trent passed through the double doors of the Reading Room, the other six members of the Board of Regents Strategic Planning and Program Committee were already waiting for him.

  Not all members were required to attend each board meeting, nor could they, due to their respective stations in life. Therefore the board was broken down into specific committees that met to discuss certain aspects of the Smithsonian. The particular group of regents assembled for this meeting consisted of Dr. Trent, two Senators, one U.S. Representative, an esteemed artist, a businessman, and a respected scholar.

  Dr. Trent walked confidently into the room and took a seat at the head of an antique Brazilian cherrywood table. The edges were beveled, as were the matching chairs. The Reading Room itself was a cavernous rectangle on the second floor of The Castle, used only by the Board of Regents. During its entire history, it had remained stark and formal. Two-hundred-year-old wood floors, white walls, a fireplace with carved wood mantle, and burgundy velvet curtains were the only adornment in the room.

  “Thank you for meeting on such short notice,” Dr. Trent said, laying a single sheet of paper on the table before him. “I understand that most of you are needed elsewhere, so I will not waste your time. We have a single matter to which we must attend. I presume you were all provided with our agenda?”

  “We were,” said an older woman with short gray hair and a trim business suit. “But I must say, this proposal is rather ambitious, don't you think, Mr. Secretary?”

  “We will address that matter shortly, Senator Baker. And trust me I am conscious of what your initial response must be. But is there anyone present who is unaware of our purpose here today?” He met her glance for a moment and then moved on.

  Those present regarded Dr. Trent with stony silence; he had to force a smile. “Very well then, I'll get straight to the point so we can vote and leave. You are all aware that in two days the Smithsonian will celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the Hope Diamond's arrival. In its honor we will be hosting the largest fund-raiser in our 162-year history. At the center of this event is our own Dr. Abigail Mitchell who will give a presentation on the Hope Diamond, which is not only the single most viewed museum object in our Institution, but in the world. As our staff deliberated further on this point it became obvious that we would engender a spectacular response from our honored guests if Dr. Mitchell wore the diamond during the event. Our purpose in meeting today is to decide whether she will be granted that honor by the Board of Regents. We will vote on this issue momentarily, but first I would like to allow each of you to address the board and express any concerns you may have.”

  Senator Elizabeth Baker spoke first, which was not uncommon. “Honestly, I was stunned to receive not only the summons for this meeting, but your agenda as well. I'm aghast, Dr. Trent. I cannot fathom where this idea came from or who thought it valid. My vote is no and will remain such regardless of what is said here today.”

  Dr. Trent nodded, expecting as much. “Very well, Senator. As always your opinion is welcome. Anyone else?”

  “It seems the U.S. Senate is adversely against this idea,” said John Rubin, a lanky Senator from Idaho, “because I concur wholeheartedly with my colleague, Senator Baker. I vote no as well.”

  No surprise there, thought Dr. Trent.

  “I th
ink it's brilliant,” Anna Moore, Smithsonian artist-at-large, gushed, leaning forward with animation. “As someone who's attended these fund-raisers for the last twenty years, I believe this is the sort of detail that will set your event apart. Providing you have made all necessary security arrangements, I will vote wholeheartedly for this proposal.”

  “Very well, Miss Moore. I'm pleased to have your support.”

  So the conversation went for the next ten minutes as each board member took a turn, either voicing concern or approval of Peter Trent's radical proposal.

  When the room grew silent, Dr. Trent spoke up. “Obviously, I am in favor of Dr. Mitchell wearing the jewel. She's a remarkable young woman with incredible public speaking ability. I believe that if she were to wear the necklace, it would be a spectacular combination. At the moment we have three regents in opposition to the proposed item, and three in favor. Which,” he said, turning to a handsome gentleman at the end of the table, “leaves you, Mr. Mitchell. Ironic that you will decide whether your own daughter is allowed the unique privilege of wearing the Hope Diamond.”

  “I think Mr. Mitchell should be disqualified from this vote,” Senator Baker protested, “due to conflict of interest.”

  Grant Martin, token U.S. Representative chuckled. “Then I propose that you be disqualified from any vote on the Senate floor involving your state, Miss Baker, for conflict of interest.”

  Young, ambitious, and idealistic, Grant Martin had taken it upon himself to oppose the matriarchal senator both in Congress and at the Smithsonian. It was something Peter Trent counted on. Yet he needed to play the diplomat. “Now, now Mr. Representative, let's not get into politics in the Reading Room. This is a simple decision, and Mr. Mitchell has been on this committee for years. He has the right to vote, as do each of you, regardless of the fact that it pertains to his daughter.”