Dark Rhapsody Read online

  “A doctor. Guy was already on our radar because he did a bit of off-the-books plastic surgery now and then to earn some extra lira.”

  Beckett stiffened, tried to control the fierce rush of fury. “Plastic surgery … Son of a bitch. Dane. Has to be. Do we know what he looks like now?”

  “Nada.”

  “His location, then?”

  Sugarman smiled. “No. But we’ve got inquiries flying all over the Dark Net. Welcome to a whole new day in Europe, pal. The way I figure it, Dane worked for Victor Orsini, so he either has Orsini’s looted art, or he’s searching for it. His hunger for the art—and the power that goes with it—is his fatal flaw. Well, one of them … Find the art, we find him. And the underground art world chatter says that something big is going down in Rome.”

  “When? And how big?”

  “End of the week, that’s all we’ve got. My guess is a major power struggle for leadership in the European market for stolen art, now that Orsini’s gone. Got our eyes on the top Italian black-market art guy. My team, working with Interpol, followed a transatlantic money trail to a small Roman art gallery in the Piazza Navona. Owner’s name is Angelo Farnese. ‘The Angel.’ He specializes in old masters, seems to be the one loosely in control of the international trade of illicit art since Orsini’s death.”

  Beckett leaned closer. “Loosely? So you think a new leader is vying for control?”

  “Maybe more than one. It’s a swanky, sweet business, Mike. A major network, a global empire worth hundreds of millions. Maybe billions.” Sugarman turned to the chief. “I’m guessing a hush-hush meeting of the top guns in the stolen art market, maybe a vote, under the guise of an under-the-radar art auction. One of those quietly arranged, very private sales to very private collectors. All the main players gathered together.”

  Beckett leaned in. “If Dane wants to take Orsini’s place, he needs leverage, needs to get hold of Orsini’s art to take control. Best guess, he’s searching for the art Orsini hid just before he died.”

  Sugarman scowled. “Aren’t we all. Talk about a king’s fortune.”

  “And Dane will do anything to get it,” said Beckett. “He won’t hesitate to kill anyone who stands in his way, Chief. He likes the intimacy of a knife, but he’s a master of explosives and disguises as well. Whatever he’s planning, innocent people are going to get hurt. Because Dane will be at that meeting.”

  “Agreed,” interrupted the chief. “Agents are on their way to Tuscany, and our top team is already in place in Rome and ready to roll. My fault it’s last minute—truth is, I argued with Sugar about including you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re too close to this one, Beckett. But Sugar convinced me that we need you. Don’t make me sorry.”

  Thoughts raced through Beckett’s head, collided, coalesced. He leaned forward. “We can use this. My gut tells me it’s all connected. What happened to me tonight, being run off the road—that was as real as it gets, not a warning. Someone wants me out of the way.” He smiled grimly. “Only one person I can think of. Let him think I’m out of his hair, he won’t be expecting me. The meeting in Rome is the best shot we’ve had at Dane since he went to ground in July.”

  “This plays outside the box, Beckett,” said the chief.

  “Let me do this, Chief. My way.”

  The chief stared at him for a long time. Then he poured two fingers of dark whiskey into each glass and handed one to each of the men. “Okay, Frank Sinatra,” he said, raising the glass toward Beckett. “Your way. What do you have in mind?”

  Beckett told him.

  “I don’t know if you’re a brilliant son of a gun or crazy as a loon,” murmured the chief when Beckett stopped speaking, “but I’ll see if I can get what you need.” He held up his empty glass. “Another?”

  “Why not? I’m not driving.”

  The chief chuckled, poured, then leaned back in his leather chair. “It won’t be easy. You’ll have to fly out late Tuesday night.” “Welcome to our lives, right, Shiloh?” For the first time since the crash, Beckett smiled. “I have just one request.”

  “Just one?”

  “The woman Sugar asked me about. She’s a pianist, Magdalena O’Shea. We’re—close. Dane will come after her, no question, he’s already told me so. I want her protected while I’m gone. Until I can stop him.”

  The chief gazed toward the night-filled window. “Okay, we don’t want her hurt. How do you want to handle her?”

  “There’s no ‘handling’ Maggie O’Shea, believe me. The woman’s contrary as a cat.”

  Shiloh raised his head, suddenly interested. The chief set down his glass and stood up with a sigh. “You sure about this, Beckett?”

  Beckett closed his eyes. Saw the blinding headlights coming closer.

  “Go big or go home, right? They almost killed my dog tonight, Chief. I’m sure.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TUSCANY

  ON THE HARD tiles in the farmhouse attic, Dane rolled over onto his stomach and began a series of push-ups. Pale dawn light stained the window beyond the bed.

  He was getting stronger every day. Switching to one-armed pushups, he checked his watch. In just a few more days, he would be in Rome. “The Angel” had dared to tell him he wasn’t welcome to attend the meeting of the top black-market art dealers he’d summoned to Rome. The man was strengthening his hold, resisting Dane’s demand to take over the leadership role. A mistake. They would not shut him out. It was time to send all the art dealers a message. He was taking over the mantle from Victor Orsini.

  The king is dead, long live the king.

  And after that?

  If he was going to take control of the stolen art market, he had to locate the art collection Orsini had hidden just before he died. If he had just stayed with Orsini that night in France, he would have been trusted to help conceal the canvases and would have known exactly where those paintings were. But Magdalena O’Shea had ruined his plans. It was all her fault.

  Now, only two people knew where Orsini had hidden his art. Someone he trusted from his old days at Yale. And one other person. Orsini’s son, TJ. The kid literally had the key to his father’s hiding place, and he had no idea what he was sitting on.

  Damned brat. I should have killed you when I had the chance.

  He exhaled deeply. Dispose of one problem before concentrating on the next.

  As he shifted his weight to the left arm, he could feel the tight knot of tension pulsing in his chest. It was always like this, just before an operation. In Germany, at the very moment he’d looked into the detective’s eyes and opened his hands, so that the body dropped like a screaming stone from the fifth-floor window. The woman in Paris, the Saudi minister. Ireland, then four months ago in Athens. And in two more nights, Rome.

  He lived for the drama. It was this edge—this risk—that kept life exciting.

  The same way he’d felt before he became caught up in the world of violence, standing in the wings of the old theaters in London. Icy cold, not breathing—waiting for his cue. The smothering costumes, the creak of a floorboard, the scent of curtains musty with age. Then the great rush flooding his body as he swept forward into a brighter world, his worn velvet cloak shining richly under the magic of the stage lights.

  He had gravitated to the roles of Shakespeare’s villains, played so many of them in London’s theaters over the years. Iago, Claudius, Caliban, Lear, Macbeth. Richard III, a particularly nasty piece of work. He smiled. You could always trust the bard. He understood vengeance, lust, betrayal. Rage.

  Now the same cold expectancy was stirring in his loins.

  I want a woman, he thought suddenly. He pictured Magdalena O’Shea, struggling beneath him on the dark wet sand, the long black ribbons of her hair blowing across her face as she fought him off. Bitch.

  No. Don’t think about that night on the beach in Cassis.

  Control, he reminded himself. Always be the master of your fate. He had to have control, over his emoti
ons, his missions, his enemies. His lovers …

  His father had taught him well. Without control, you couldn’t be safe.

  I have to be safe.

  Dane stood up and draped a towel across his sweating shoulder muscles. His one unbandaged eye sought his reflection in the dawnstreaked window. His hair was longer, lighter, spilling beneath the white bandages. Today, the bandages would come off.

  What would his face look like?

  His mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “You are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you,” he said to the single wolflike eye glittering back at him in the new day’s sun.

  * * *

  “So how is La Maggie really doing, Mike?” Simon Sugarman’s SUV sped south, too fast, on Virginia’s George Washington Parkway. “She went through a helluva time in France.”

  Beckett stared out at the dark shapes of trees rushing by the window. “She’s doing better, working to bring back her music. Not easy for a pianist who hasn’t played in almost a year.”

  “She’s a tough lady. But I’m guessing she still has the dreams. I sure do.”

  “The nightmares are there, all right. The sleeplessness, that sudden shine of tears. Emotional recovery can be just as tough as physical, but …” He hesitated. “But there’s something more, Sugar, something she can’t—or won’t—talk about. It’s like a cold black stone she’s carrying around inside her heart.”

  “Give her time, Mike. She’s worth it.”

  “Yeah, she had me at ‘Who the hell are you?’” Beckett grinned. “I walked into a French cemetery as one man and came out as another. When I took an aggressive step toward her—she’s the only woman I ever met who didn’t back away. Stepped closer, in fact, chin up.” He shook his head. “But she’s still grieving for her husband. It’s only been a year.”

  “I know about fighting the ghosts, pal, so do you. No surprise she’s still hung up on hers. Just keep trying.”

  “I am, because I want her to know I’m all in. Filed my divorce papers when we got back from France.”

  Sugarman’s eyes widened as he gave a whistle. “You really are in. Your wife okay with it?”

  “Yes, thank Christ. I didn’t want to hurt her. Hell, Maggie didn’t want to hurt her. But Jeannie’s in a good place right now—hasn’t had a drink in months.”

  “Good for her. And she knows you’ll always be there for her.”

  “I loved her, Sugar. Still do, in my fashion.”

  “So, you’re free to move on, too. Lucky bastard.”

  Beckett turned to Sugar with a surprised look. “You’re as free as I am, Sugar. More.”

  “Not in my cards, pal. No ‘love at first sight across a crowded room’ for guys like me.”

  Beckett turned to the Golden, curled in the back seat, and threw him a famous-last-words look.

  “Maggie’s good for you. Got that brainy intensity thing going on, you know? And, damn, she sure stops traffic.”

  “Yes, the woman is drop-dead fine to look at, even on her worst day.” Beckett smiled. “Funny, although she doesn’t know it. Radiates intelligence, crazy talented. Loves fireflies.” He shook his head. “She looks fragile as blown glass, but she is strong and fierce and brave as hell. Whiskey in a teacup.”

  “Sounds like she’s the one who can keep you from walking the dark streets.”

  “There’s just something about her. Something about me when I’m with her. I like myself more.”

  “I gotta say, Mike, sure sounds like you’re in love with her.”

  Beckett’s breath caught. “She’s complex. Enormously challenging. And she surprises me. How could I not be in love with her?”

  Sugar glanced over at him. “So tell her.”

  “Can’t quite say the words.”

  “What’s the problem, lover boy?”

  “I’m closer in age to her father than to her,” scowled Beckett, looking down at his cane. “I have hats older than she is. So what the devil is she doing with a battered old guy like me?”

  “Not buyin’ it. She’s your safe place.”

  He stared at his friend. “Hadn’t thought about it that way, but—yes. She lights up the dark places. Only—”

  “You want to be a safe place for her as well.”

  Beckett let out his breath. “Don’t you just hate irony? Because my life is all about violence. She wants me done with the darkness. But now I’m making the same call again. I’m going back into the dark.”

  “Yeah, well. There is that …” Sugarman’s hands drummed on the wheel as he slowed to take the exit for the Key Bridge. “Maggie’s sure not going to like that you’re going to Rome with me, Mike.”

  “Maggie isn’t gonna know.” Beckett blew out a breath. “At least not until I get back.”

  Sugarman glanced into the back seat and spoke to the Golden. “Better file that one under ‘upcoming disasters.’”

  “Since when did you grow a conscience?” muttered Beckett. “Look, I know you can’t always reconcile hurting someone you love in this business. There’s always a personal cost. But I’ve got to know if Dane is back in the game, Sugar. He threatened Maggie—he meant it, damn him. I’m going because of her. I’ve got to find him.”

  “Hear that, Shiloh?” said Sugarman. “A man will do anything to protect the woman he loves when she’s threatened.”

  Shiloh kept his opinion to himself.

  Beckett ran a hand through his silvering hair. “You think it was Dane who tried to run me off the road? Why now? And if it wasn’t Dane—then who the hell else wants me dead?”

  Sugarman chuckled. “You really want me to answer that?”

  Beckett scowled. “We don’t even know that Dane will be in Rome. It could be a setup, Sugar.”

  “We have forty-eight hours to figure it all out, pal. Yeah, Rome could be a fool’s errand.”

  “Then I guess you’ve found the right guy, Sugar.”

  Sugarman pulled up in front of the Key Bridge Holiday Inn and stopped. They looked at each other in the sudden quiet.

  “You know you guys can bunk with me tonight, right?”

  “I’ve seen your place, Sugar.” Beckett smiled wearily. “Thanks for the lift. Shiloh and I will be just fine.”

  In the back seat, the Golden gave a slight growl, as if he knew better.

  The two men grinned at each other. “Dang dog knows you better than you know yourself,” said Sugarman. “Okay, then. Our flight for Rome leaves midnight Tuesday, from Andrews. Dane won’t know what hit him.”

  Beckett shook his head. “When I’m done with Dane,” he said, “I’ll be done with all of it. For good. I just have to get Maggie to believe it.”

  Sugarman turned his dark eyes on Beckett. “You’re the one who has to believe it, Mike.”

  His tires screeched as he sped off into the darkness.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  SUNDAY NIGHT

  IN THE IMPERSONAL Holiday Inn hotel room overlooking the Potomac River, the small clock was just striking midnight as Beckett lay in the too-soft bed staring at the shadowed ceiling. He closed his eyes, knowing he was headed back into the unforgiving darkness.

  The Golden was sitting by the window, his eyes reflecting the lights along the river. Refusing to come to the bed. “Come here, boy, don’t be alone tonight.” He waited. Shiloh continued to gaze into the night, at something only he could see.

  Taking a ragged breath, Beckett tried to find a quiet place to go to in his mind. A place without a sinister, knife-wielding killer, without blinding headlamps in a rearview mirror. A place without blood-soaked dust and the still and broken bodies of children in the hot Afghan sunlight.

  A quiet place.

  Maggie.

  The image slipped softly into his mind, as if she knew he needed her. Standing as he had first seen her, less than four months earlier, in a Paris cemetery. Wild dark hair caught up, her slender frame vibrating in anger, huge soulful eyes flashing at him.
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br />   He stared at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, trying to imagine what his life would be without her. Couldn’t do it.

  His cell phone was on the bedside table. Call her. But what could he say to her?

  As if sensing his conflict, Shiloh lifted his head and gave a soft bark.

  “Okay. I know I shouldn’t call her. But she’s gotten so deep into my head.”

  I need to hear her voice tonight.

  “Don’t I get one more chance just to be happy?” Shiloh’s eyes glistened at him from across the room.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” He reached for his cell, punched in the numbers.

  Her voice, low and musical. Like a bass guitar.

  “Hello?”

  God, he missed her. That voice, stirring something so deep inside. The scent of her skin. The feel of her hair running through his fingers. Her face. Those damned beautiful edges …

  He wanted to hold her.

  “It’s me,” was all he said.

  “Michael. Thank God. Where are you?”

  “Can’t tell you, ma’am.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “Not sure.”

  A moment’s silence. He could hear her breath, quick and sharp as a cold mountain breeze. “Why?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”

  “I—nothing’s wrong, Maggie. I just wanted to hear your voice.” Before I leave for Rome.

  “Shiloh! Is it Shiloh?”

  He gazed over at the Golden. Two dark sad eyes stared at him from the window seat. “No change. Still got that mournful thing going on. I think he misses you.”

  “Tell him I miss him, too. But you need to tell me you’re okay, damn you. CNN reported that there was a terrible car accident in Washington tonight, near the CIA. And, earlier, I felt so cold all of a sudden, as if—”

  Accident. He pictured the gorgeous Beamer, engulfed in flames.

  “Would I be talking to you, Maggie, if something had happened to me?”

  “I just had this awful feeling …”

  She was too damned intuitive. “When most people hear hoof beats, they think horses. You think zebras!”

  “You’re saying I’m overreacting?” He heard the smile in her voice.