It was now eight o’clock, but Locke and Benedict had been in the city since 3 P.M. Orr tossed back an espresso and smiled at the thought of having the Midas Touch in his possession by the end of the night after all these years of searching.
His phone rang. It was Crenshaw.
“Where’s the video?” Orr said. He was supposed to have received the last proof-of-life recording thirty minutes ago.
“The video?” Crenshaw said, his voice cracking. “Jesus, that’s the last thing on my mind!” Orr heard an engine downshift in the background. Something was wrong.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the truck heading up to New Jersey. The warehouse is toast. Had to blow it early. Phillips is dead.”
Dead? That idiot Crenshaw. “What the hell happened?”
Gaul stopped chewing and looked at the phone.
“General Locke got loose somehow. He killed Phillips, but I was able to shoot the general twice. I would have stayed, but the police were on their way. Locke must have called them.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s in pieces, along with the girl and those two Muslim guys.”
Orr stopped himself from screaming in frustration. This was why he kept his team small. He had to do everything himself if he wanted it done right. Still, if Crenshaw completed his part of the mission, the situation could be salvaged.
“What about the truck?” Orr said. “Is it ready to go?”
“I’ve got the bomb rigged. It’s buried in the trailer under the sawdust.”
“Good. You know where to park it, right?”
“You think I’m doing this on my own?”
“Crenshaw, we are a couple of hours away from finishing the mission. As soon as I call you, I want the timer on that bomb set.”
“No way. You think I’m dumb? I know that you’re after the treasure of Midas. And I want my share.”
Orr’s lip curled in anger. That was not the plan, and no one changed his plan but him.
“What do you want?” Orr said.
“I know that what I’m doing is worth a lot more to you than two million dollars. I want twenty million.”
Orr heard the plastic seams on the phone crack as his grip tightened. “Fine. But you’d better do your part.”
Orr planned to sell off the Midas Touch in a private auction. When the price of gold shot through the roof after lower Manhattan was rendered uninhabitable, he would start the bidding at a billion dollars. Crenshaw was jeopardizing everything.
“I’m not setting off the bomb by myself,” Crenshaw said. “I want you here.”
“What?” Orr yelled, drawing the stares of the other patrons. “Why?”
“Because I want to see the Midas Touch in person. I want to know that it really works.”
Orr snorted in disgust. Asking for more money was one thing. But this weasel was going too far by blackmailing him. He vowed silently that Crenshaw would never get to spend the twenty million.
“Okay,” Orr said, “we’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Oh, and when we see each other, don’t try to kill me. I’ve designed the detonator with a code. You’ll never be able to set it off without me.”
That little pig. Orr couldn’t believe it, but he had no choice but to agree.
“All right. We’ll do it your way. I’ll call you when we have it.”
Orr hung up. He wanted to indulge his rage somehow, upend the table or throw the phone through a plate- glass window, but he had to control himself. The Midas Touch was all that mattered right now.
“What’s the problem?” Gaul asked.
“Sherman Locke and Carol Benedict are dead. Some shootout at the warehouse.”
“Phillips?”
“The general killed him.”
Gaul nodded slowly as he mulled over the news, his face revealing nothing more than his concentration on how it affected their scheme. “What now? Locke won’t show himself without the proof-of-life video.”
Orr checked the tracker again. It was headed straight down Via Don Bosco. If it kept going, as he thought it would, it would be near Piazza del Plebiscito in ten minutes.
Instead of Locke’s number, he dialed Stacy Benedict’s.
“Yes?” she said.
“You have the geolabe?” Orr said.
“Yes.”
“Good. Let me speak to Locke.”
Locke answered. “What?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice. I’ve missed you terribly.”
“Screw you. What about the proof-of-life?”
“I’ll send you the video before we meet. But I need assurance that you have the geolabe with you. Have Benedict take a picture of it right now using your phone. Put her phone next to it so I can see my number and text the photo to me.”
He heard a muffled voice. Locke was covering the mic on his phone.
“It’s on the way.”
Orr’s phone buzzed. He opened the text. There was the gleaming geolabe. His number was easily visible on the phone beside it, meaning the photo had to have been taken in real time.
“Happy?” Locke said.
“Very. I’ll call you in an hour with our meeting location. You’ll get the video then.”
“If we don’t get the video, we don’t show.”
“Oh, you’ll get it. Ciao.” Orr hung up and tapped the table absently.
“We have to accelerate our schedule,” he said finally.
“You sure?” Gaul said.
“Crenshaw’s stupidity crapped all over the original plan. Make the call.”
Gaul nodded and pulled out his phone, dialing the number Orr had obtained through some of his local contacts.
“I need to speak to Gia Cavano,” Gaul said. “A message? Okay, tell her I know how she can find Jordan Orr.”
Gaul grinned. That got their attention. Orr leaned close to the phone so that he could hear Cavano.
“Who is this?” she said.
“I hear you’ve got eyes all over Naples looking for Orr,” Gaul said.
“So? You have information?”
“Better. I can give you a man named Grant Westfield. He’ll tell you where Orr is.”
A pause. “Why should I believe you?”
“Then don’t.”
Another pause. “All right. Where is he?”
“He’s heading down to Piazza del Plebiscito.”
“Alone?” Cavano asked.
“No,” said Gaul, who had seen Westfield and his men less than an hour ago when he intercepted the tracker signal on a city street. “He has company.”
“That’s a big area. How will we find him?”
Gaul gave her the Web address with the tracker location.
“How do I know this isn’t some sort of trap?” Cavano said.
“You don’t. Be careful.” Gaul clicked END.
“Think she’ll do it?” he said.
“She won’t be able to resist. Once her men confirm that it really is Westfield, they’ll take him.”
