"And if he won't?"

"Then I'll find another way to get inside information. Cla.s.sified or not. Even if it means breaking the rules. And even if that means blowing my chances of getting back into the Bureau."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

MUNICH, GERMANY.

The Kunsthalle Munchen was a rectangular building of concrete and gla.s.s, the perfect venue to exhibit modern masterpieces.

Near Barer Stra.s.se, the area was filled with art galleries. But the three men who were casually pushing a twin-size baby stroller weren't interested in window shopping. They strolled toward the museum entrance, pausing to bend over the stroller, as if trying to appease two fussing infants.

All that changed when they reached the main door.

Straightening, they yanked on their black masks and exploded into the museum, waving their submachine guns and shouting orders to the security guards in Slavic-accented German. They restrained them with Flex-Cufs and, holding them at gunpoint, forced the guards to accompany them upstairs.

They reached the third floor. The guard at the entrance to the main hall was practically asleep. From beneath half-lowered lids, he spotted his comrades walking toward him. Slowly, he came to his feet -and then froze. His eyes widened with fear as he focused on the MP5K now aimed directly at his heart.

The third gunman rushed forward and quickly disarmed him, pocketing the guard's Glock inside his own inside jacket pocket. He then secured the guard's hands with another set of Flex-Cufs.

Using their terrified captives as human shields, the gunmen headed down the corridor and toward their objective.

The outer exhibition room contained the Impressionists on their list: Renoir and Sisley. Using his wire cutters, the tallest gunman made quick work of the wires holding the paintings in place. He tucked the two paintings under one arm, s.n.a.t.c.hing up his submachine gun and gripping it tightly in his other hand. He and his two accomplices shoved their hostages toward the inner room that contained the two most valuable paintings: the Van Gogh and the Seurat.

As they were about to enter the room, one of the captured guards yelled out, "Halt!" The three guards protecting the inner sanctum instantly hit the floor facedown, as they'd been trained to do in a hostage situation. Crouched behind metal and gla.s.s display cases marking the entrance to the exhibit, two other security guards began firing handguns at the masked thieves.

They were no match for the MP5Ks.

All three gunmen opened fire. Their bullets hammered the guards and annihilated the tops of the display cases, sending shards of gla.s.s flying everywhere. Without pausing to a.s.sess the damage, they each loaded another clip into their weapons and continued firing.

The silence that followed was abrupt and eerie. The walls behind each case were splattered with blood, bullet holes, and gla.s.s fragments.

The leader motioned one of his accomplices to check the guards. The first guard was dead. A short burst of gunfire finished off the second. A quick wave signaled that the path was clear.

Without the slightest hesitation, the leader pounded the three p.r.o.ne guards with bullets, leaving them dead in rivers of their own blood.

The tallest gunman had been hit in the shoulder. Relieving him of the Renoir and the Sisley, the leader motioned for the other gunman to get the Van Gogh and the Seurat.

Less than two minutes later, their goal was achieved.

With the leader helping the injured gunman, and the third member of the team carrying all four paintings, they hurried downstairs, went through a fire exit in the rear of the museum, and rushed toward the waiting BMW.

The paintings were quickly wrapped in blankets. The sedan lurched from the curb, speeding down Gabelsbergerstra.s.se. The driver eased onto the Oskar-von-Miller-Ring, and around the center of Munich, en route to A-8 and the Austrian border.

Final destination: Budapest.

Inside SSA Tony Sanchez's office, a closed-door meeting was going on.

Tony, Derek, and Rich Williams were gathered around Tony's desk, reviewing the various pieces of the C-6 case against Xiao Long, and how it might factor into the shady provenance surrounding the genuine Rothberg.

"All nine of the recent burglaries on the Upper East Side are tied to Xiao Long," Derek told Rich.

"One break-in every two or three weeks. He's got a great scheme going. A nephew of his, Eric Hu, a bright kid who graduated from MIT a few years ago, has a start-up computer support company-oh, and an addiction to crack, which is an easy get for Xiao Long. Turns out Hu's company serviced the computer systems of eight of the nine burglarized apartments. Also turns out all the owners of those apartments are affluent, with lots of expensive jewelry, electronic equipment, and artwork."

"Hu's computer support team scopes out the apartments and their owners' routines," Rich surmised.

"They take note of where all the valuables are, and where the lady of the house keeps her jewelry.

They probably take pictures with their cell phones. That way, Xiao Long's guys know just where to go to get as much as they can, as fast as they can."

"Right." Tony tapped his pen against his leg. "We've been onto this part of Xiao Long's business for almost six months-since he started it. He's coming up in the world. He used to deal in just gambling, drugs, and prost.i.tutes. Now he's graduated to fencing top-dollar goods."

"And finding willing buyers for the artwork," Rich noted. "Keeping that under the radar is easy, unless any of the pieces are collectors' items or famous masterpieces. Which, judging from the partial list you rattled by me, they're primarily not." A glance at Derek. "You said eight of the nine burglaries fit the profile. The ninth, I a.s.sume, is Matthew Burbank's apartment."

Derek gave a tight nod. "Burbank's not rich. He is an art dealer, so it stands to reason that he has a few decent pieces in his place. But Eric Hu never set foot in that apartment, and his company never serviced Burbank's computers. So how would they know?"

"Let's play devil's advocate. Let's say they read or overheard something that made them think Burbank had more than he did, and that they tipped off Xiao Long, who had his gang break in and rob the place."

"Fine. So they saw the Monet and ripped it off. Makes sense. Monet's famous, even though you said it wasn't one of his well-known works. But they're not connoisseurs. So they grabbed it, along with a bunch of other pieces that had more sentimental than actual value. In addition to that..." For the tenth time, Derek studied the list of stolen items the cops provided. "We're talking standard household stuff-a flat-screen TV, a couple laptops, a set of silverware, a pair of diamond studs, and a gold necklace. Nothing close to the haul they got from the other thefts. And what bugs me most is that the rest of what they took smacks of camouflage-a DVD player they could get for sev- enty-five bucks at Best Buy, a hundred-dollar men's watch they could buy on the Internet for less, and a whole slew of knickknacks. They spent more time trashing the place than robbing it."

"You think they were looking for something else."

"Yeah. And I think they were disguising that search as a burglary. Why else would our wiretap catch Xiao Long getting word about finalizing a deal with an old art dealer on East Eighty-second?"

"Could be payback for anything," Rich suggested.

"Right," Derek returned drily. "And it could be coincidence that the very next morning you had an appointment to interview Burbank about a dirty art deal."

"Which we have no reason to believe he was involved in." Rich pursed his lips. "Look, Derek, I understand how frustrated you are. But I haven't found the connection you're looking for. The painting Burbank sold was genuine. As for a link between Burbank and Xiao Long, when I slipped in Xiao Long's name during the Hong Kong portion of our interview, there wasn't a flicker of recognition. Burbank's a lousy actor, and I'm a great reader of body language. I'd know if he was hiding something."

"Unless he doesn't know what he's hiding."

Rich shrugged. "We can speculate all day. All I can say is that, if Burbank's sale of Dead or Alive to Cai Wen, or if Cai Wen's murder itself, is in any way tied to your investigation of Xiao Long, I can't see it. Then again, a killer and a thief isn't about to leave a sales receipt. So the gaping hole in our provenance certainly leaves room for a variety of possibilities."

"All the more reason to keep digging into Burbank's art investment group and the timing of their sale. Please, Rich. I'd consider it a personal favor."

"Fine," Rich agreed, eyeing Derek quizzically as he spoke. "I'll review each of their interviews.

But, just to clarify, are you leaning toward Burbank being a p.a.w.n or a criminal? I'm getting mixed signals."

"That's because Derek's giving them off." Tony leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on his desk.

"Rich, would you excuse us for a minute?"

"Not a problem. Actually, I've got to run anyway." Rich got to his feet. "I'm waiting for a call from Interpol."

"That museum heist in Munich earlier today?" Tony asked.

"Yup. b.l.o.o.d.y and profitable. Five dead guards. And a haul including a Van Gogh worth about forty million."

Tony whistled. "You've got your hands full."

"Always." Rich headed for the door. "I'll let you know if I find anything in those interviews."

"Thanks," Derek replied.

He waited until he and Tony were alone. Then, he got right into it. "You want to discuss my objectivity where it comes to this case."

"Do you blame me?"

"Not a bit. And you're right. I've got a personal stake in this. But my loyalty is to Sloane, not her father. Which is all the more reason I want to get at the truth-whatever it is. Sloane believes her father's innocent of whatever wrongdoing he presented to her, be it real or fabricated. She also believes he's in danger. She's hired security to watch both her parents. I checked that out. And if Burbank's lying, if he is involved with the Red Dragons, then it's not just him and his wife who are in danger. It's Sloane, too. So I might not be objective, but I've got a h.e.l.l of an incentive. Which makes me the best lead agent on this case."

Tony contemplated Derek's argument, then nodded. "If I didn't know Sloane so well professionally, I'd say your argument's thin. I'd say she's an attorney acting in the best interests of her client, and that that client happens to be her father-which gives her twice the motivation to protect him from prosecution if he committed murder. But I do know Sloane. I mentored her during her hostage negotiation training in Quantico. I know how ethical she is. And, coming from me, that's objective.

I'm not the one who's in love with her. So, fine, you're the lead agent on the case. Now solve it."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The one thing Derek hadn't approached Tony with was how much of the FBI's need-to-know policy still applied to Sloane. She wasn't currently a Bureau employee, but she had been and she would be again. She also consulted for them on a case-by-case basis, and had retained all her old contacts.

Talk about a gray area.

Derek leaned back against the cushion of the living room sofa in Sloane's cottage, and contemplated that delicate matter, rolling his goblet of merlot between his palms.

Being here alone felt more comfortable than he'd expected. Not that he was really alone, he noted with a grin, glancing down at the three hounds who were sprawled around him, snoozing. He'd picked them up, along with the last of his bags, around six and driven straight to the cottage. Sloane was finishing up with a midtown client, dropping by her parents' apartment, and then heading home.

That had given Derek time to grab a snack, run the hounds, and do a little unpacking. Now he was relaxing with a gla.s.s of wine and a couple of takeout menus. Even though he was still mulling over the day's events, he could do so in a quieter, less frenetic manner while deciding between Chinese and Thai food. Sloane loved both.

Half and half, he decided. An eclectic Asian meal for their first night officially living together.

Asian. How ironic.

The telephone rang, and Derek reached over to get it. "h.e.l.lo?"

There was a long, awkward pause at the other end of the receiver before a man's guarded voice replied, "h.e.l.lo. This must be Derek."

"It is. And you are...?"

"Leo Fox." The guardedness remained as he identified himself, and Derek knew just why. He was well aware of who Leo Fox was.

"Yes, Mr. Fox, what can I do for you?" Derek had no intention of tipping his hand.

"I don't know if Sloane's mentioned me," Leo continued tentatively. "I'm a friend of her father's.

I'm also an interior designer."

"Oh, sure, of course. You're the magician who's going to transform this cottage so it doesn't scream out only feminine and canine."

Leo chuckled, his relief so acute that Derek almost pitied him. "So Sloane did tell you about my offer. I was afraid she'd think I'd just made it out of obligation, given how far back her father and I go. I wanted her to know it wasn't lip service. I really do want to help you two settle in as a couple."

"Well, I appreciate that, and gratefully accept. Sloane's got great taste, but this place is designed for her, not us."

"Of course. You need to feel comfortable, make it so you can call the cottage home." A pause. "I remember the layout of the house, but I haven't been there in years. Nor have I seen the decor since Sloane moved in. I'd like to set up an appointment to drive out there when both you and Sloane are home. I can look the place over and also talk to you, get to know who you are, so I can give the right flavor to my design, and the right blend of your tastes and Sloane's."

Derek felt his lips quirk. "Makes sense. The only problem is Sloane's not home yet. But I expect her soon. Can she give you a call tomorrow? That'll give us a chance to coordinate our schedules before she sets up an appointment with you to visit the cottage and work your magic."

"Of course." At this point, Leo sounded almost relaxed. "I'll be in my office all day tomorrow. I'm really looking forward to this project."

"So am I." As he spoke, Derek heard the faint crunching sound of tires on gravel from outside.

Sloane must be home. "Thank you again, Mr. Fox."

"Please-Leo."

"Leo," Derek amended. "I'll talk to Sloane tonight."

"Excellent. You have a nice evening."

"Same to you." Derek hung up the phone just as the hounds heard Sloane's key in the door and sprang to life, jumping off the sofa and scrambling toward the front hall.

Derek rose as well, setting down his gla.s.s of wine and watching as Sloane came in, dropped her briefcase and coat, and squatted down to greet the three elated dachshunds.

No matter what else was going on-even if his workday had been a nightmare, if he was dead on his feet, or if he was under ma.s.sive pressure; even when the two of them weren't on speaking terms, when she frustrated the h.e.l.l out of him, or when they were so at odds he wanted to punch a hole in the wall-she always had the same effect on him. One look at her and he wanted her.

"Hi, my little jumping beans," she was saying to the hounds now, affectionately scratching their ears. "What a wonderful welcome."

"I can provide an equally wonderful welcome," Derek offered, his tone half teasing, half seductive.

As he spoke, he made his way over to her. "I'm just afraid of getting mowed down if I try to beat these three to the door."

Sloane rose, her eyes glinting and a warm flush starting to tinge her cheeks. The fire between them was mutual. And she was just as attuned to him as he was to her. "Be daring. From you, I'm up for a different type of welcome home."

"I like the sound of that." Derek wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him. "And I like the sound of the word 'home.' It feels right."