Tom smiled, his twinkling eyes suggesting that he knew she hadn’t told him everything, although he didn’t press the point.
“Well, whatever the reason, it was the right one. We’re going to finish this together. Now, hold your hands out.”
He reached into his jacket and gently placed the small egg in her cupped hands.
“Oh, my God. It’s beautiful,” she breathed, stroking the egg’s smooth green surface, her fingers tracing the gilded flowers that snaked up its side from the twisted roots that served as its base. “What’s it called?”
“The Pansy Egg. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Why?”
“I’ll show you.”
He opened the egg and revealed a removable golden heart-shaped shield with eleven tiny doors, mounted on a delicately crafted easel.
“Each door opens to reveal miniature portraits of different members of the imperial family.” He opened a few of the doors. Somber, pale faces stared back. “I’ve always thought they look very sad, as if they knew what was going to happen to them.”
“You’re talking about the Russian Revolution?”
“I’m talking about the Bolsheviks murdering them and then confiscating the collection and selling it to finance Stalin’s army. For me, this one piece tells me more about the history of Russia than a thousand textbooks. It’s all here. The glory and the horror.”
“How many eggs are there in all?”
“Fabergé only made fifty. Eight have been lost. The Armory Museum in the Kremlin still has ten and a Russian billionaire recently bought nine from the Forbes family. The rest are in the hands of other museums and private collectors.”
“Haven’t you ever been tempted to keep all these things you’ve taken over the years for yourself?”
“Never.” Tom smiled. “It’s one of the first rules you learn. You do the job and then you move on. You can’t afford to fall in love with whatever it is you’re taking.” He held out his hand and reluctantly she handed the egg and the shield back. Tom wrapped up the egg and put it down on the dresser. “Let’s check in with Archie.”
“Who?”
“A colleague.” She sat down on the bed next to him as he dialed. “It’s me,” he said when the phone was answered.
“Are you all right, mate? Is there a problem?” Archie’s concerned voice filtered back down the phone.
“No, I’m fine. I’ve got it.”
“You’ve got it. Oh, thank fucking God. Well done, mate. Well fucking done.”
“Thanks,” said Tom, smiling at his friend’s relief.
“Any problems?” Archie had calmed down now and his tone was more businesslike. Tom gave a short laugh.
“You could say that. Archie, did you let anyone know that I was going to hit that place tonight?”
“Of course not. What do you take me for?”
“Okay, okay.”
“Why, what happened?”
“Well, as I was coming out—”
“Oh, bugger me!” Archie interrupted. “I did mention it to someone. Not where you were going to hit exactly but the city it was in.”
“Who?”
“The other night. Cassius.”
“Cassius? For Christ’s sake Archie. Who’s side are you on?”
“I know, I’m sorry. He caught me by surprise. Why, what happened?”
“Someone shot my winch out to try and get me caught.”
“Why the hell would Cassius get you to half-inch something, then make sure you got pinched nicking it? It doesn’t make any sense. It must be someone else.”
“Maybe.”
“How did you get out?”
“Jennifer.”
“The fed? You having me on?”
“No.”
“What’s her game? She must want something.”
“Maybe.” Tom eyed Jennifer, who was listening to his side of the conversation avidly. “I’m not sure of anything anymore. We’ll talk about it later. Anyway, I’ll leave the egg with Fleure in the morning together with my kit. You can take it from there.”
“No problem. Oh, and, Tom?”
“Yeah.”
“Cheers.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The line went dead. Tom turned to face Jennifer.
“Did you get all that?”
She nodded, her face serious.
“Archie, who I’m assuming is your fence, told Cassius about this job.” Tom nodded. “Now you think Cassius deliberately tried to have you trapped in that museum. And you don’t know why.”
“Do you?”
“The answer’s in Istanbul. It must be. I’ll get us down there in the morning,” she said calmly. “Max will take care of the details.”
“Don’t you need to call your boss? Let him know what’s happening?”
“I will. But for now, we should both get some rest.” She paused, looked him in the eye. “By the way, who was that girl?”
“What girl?”
“Back there. The blond one with the Victoria’s Secret dress sense.”
“That’s Fleure, the girl I’ve got to deliver the egg to in the morning. She’s just someone I know. Someone I can rely on. Why? You jealous?” Tom asked with a grin.
“You wish!” She shrugged the question away. “Now, do you want to flip a coin for who gets the floor?”
“No need,” Tom said generously. “The bed’s all yours.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Behind the garden’s thick walls the clattering of the trams, the incessant sounding of car horns and the fierce cries of the street traders gave way to a cool, stony stillness and the gentle rattle of dice on large and elaborately inlaid backgammon boards. Several enterprising locals had arranged brightly covered cushions and kilims on the benches and hung rugs from the walls. These were subtle traps, designed to tempt a few of the garden’s many guests into one of the stalls that had been set up in the small cells that had served as classrooms when the garden still housed the medrese, or Islamic school, of the neighboring mosque.
As always, the air was thick with smoke from the water pipes, a sickly sweet concoction of apple-flavored tobacco laid on top of an endless supply of red-hot coals dispensed by a leathered old man who shuffled between the tables with sepulchral resignation. As the tobacco smoke was drawn down through the clear water, the gentle rumble of bursting bubbles rippled through the air like a large purring cat.
“Why do they do that?” asked Jennifer, as they sat down in the far corner of the garden, waving away the rug sellers who had immediately zeroed in on them as possible buyers of “genuine” Turkish kilims.
“It cleans the smoke. Cools it down,” Tom explained.
“You’ve been here before?”
“I spent some time here once,” said Tom, trying to attract the waiter’s attention.
“You’ve spent time in a lot of places,” Jennifer observed.
“More than is healthy,” Tom agreed. “What do you want? Apple tea or coffee? Just so you know, the apple tea is so sweet that it makes your teeth feel like they’re about to fall out. But on the other hand, the coffee is so bitter that it will make you grind your teeth together.”
“Oh, my, what a choice.” She rolled her eyes. “The coffee, I think.” Tom ordered a tea and a coffee and they appeared moments later, the tea steaming in a small curved glass, the viscous coffee bubbling like molten lead in its porcelain crucible.
“So why are we here?” asked Jennifer, sipping her coffee and looking around her, gratefully feeling the hard slap of the caffeine against her brain. The garden was busy but far from full, and she was aware of suspicious glances from the small groups of Turks who had gathered around the low tables to drink and smoke.