NewYork City, where the chic and commonplace clash along
busy streets that make the perfect place to pursue a man.
"OH MY, MY, but the man is even more dishy in the skin,"
Lindy Gardner said to no one in particular as she focused
the digital-cam binoculars.
The device had been designed to look like a pair of
stylish sunglasses, so she didn't concern herself with the
passersby on the street, but zoomed in on the tall blonde
leaving the ritzy Piazza Hotel.
Joshua Benedict aka Stuart Temple. Approximately thirty-
eight years old.
Origins: unknown.
Current residence: Nice, France.
Occupation: Fixer.
She produced the man's stats by rote, but peering through
those lenses, Lindy didn't see a familiar image from the
surveillance photos the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6,
had collected during recent months.
Life sparked the lifeless images she'd studied during
mission briefing into a wholly 3-D man. He stepped onto
the pavement, his smile dazzling as he inclined his head
to the doorman and moved past with smooth strides.
Definitely a man her old school chums would have called a
cut above bog standard.
With the depression of a button, zoom lenses magnified her
vantage again. Startling black eyes and brows contrasted
with his pale hair and tanned skin. His hair glinted in
the late-afternoon sun.
Joshua Benedict looked as if he spent much of his time
sailing, fishing and windsurfing on the deep-blue waters
of the French Riviera.
According to her intel, he did.
But Lindy also knew he spent the rest of his time jet-
setting around the globe conducting business.
Legitimate society believed this man to be nothing more
than a businessman with many areas of interest. But the
world of the Secret Intelligence suspected Joshua Benedict
of conducting illegal business, which was precisely why he
was in New York City on this bright spring afternoon.
And why she'd followed him here.
Tracing her finger along the binoculars in what would
appear to the casual observer as an adjustment to her
sunglasses, Lindy depressed another button and captured
the man's image as he moved beneath the Piazza Hotel's
marquee.
Target acquired.
Joshua Benedict appeared to be a tourist, looking for all
the world as if he belonged in the crush of people that
ebbed and flowed along the street.
Lindy knew there was nothing casual about this man's
visit, however. An informant had relayed reliable intel
that connected Joshua Benedict to a recent auction-house
theft.
Not as the thief, though.
This man maneuvered easily through the layers of society,
from the wealthy glitterati to the shadowy underworld of
international organized crime. He rubbed elbows with power
brokers, from global financiers to old-money families who
made up high society on three continents.
He had established his reputation as a man who could
mastermind brilliant business deals, "fix" any sort of
unexpected situation and leave behind no prosecutable
evidence. Most importantly, he could keep secrets.
A regular Johnny of all trades.
The thought made Lindy smile. Ironically, his job
description didn't sound so far off from hers.
Except that Joshua Benedict worked for the bad guys, and
one bad guy in particular.
Henri Renouf.
The man SIS wanted to apprehend in a big way.
In much the same fashion as Joshua Benedict, Henri Renouf
was known to the general public as a businessman with a
cutthroat reputation — a reputation built through rumor,
innuendo and suspicion. Since Renouf had been around for
over four decades, he'd established himself as a private
and very powerful man whom most people didn't dare to
cross.
According to Secret Intelligence, the rumor, innuendo and
suspicion surrounding Renouf was well-founded. The man was
known to be an obsessive antiquities collector, but Renouf
didn't let the availability of artifacts deter his
acquisitions. In Britain alone, he was suspected
of "acquiring" numerous priceless relics from museums and
private residences through thefts spanning several decades.
Since Renouf had the resources to conduct his shady
actions through intermediaries, he protected himself with
distance. But with each passing year, he got bolder. While
no international agency had enough evidence to prosecute,
after a recent rash of heists all over the globe, her
agency, in conjunction with Interpol, had deemed the time
ripe to make contact with one of Renouf's associates.
Joshua Benedict was a means to an end.
With that thought, Lindy watched him cross the street then
found herself suddenly on the move.
In her chic two-piece ensemble, she could have been any
resident of this big city, where people favored practical
walking shoes and relegated more stylish footwear into
carryalls until reaching their destinations.
Her own carryall contained shoes, plus a few items that
would mark her as a visitor to the Big Apple. Mostly cover
essentials. Passport. Notebook computer. Cellular phone.
Hiking the bag higher on her shoulder, Lindy marked their
path along Fifth Avenue, keeping her gaze on her target,
admiring the way he affected the perfect blend of casual
disinterest and purposeful concentration as he passed
upscale stores.
Admiring the man himself.
Benedict moved with a boldness she knew would make him a
native of any city on any continent. Confidence. He wore
it as easily as the lightweight blue shirt and tan slacks —
clothes that had clearly never seen a rack, judging by
the way they molded the athletic lines of his body. If she
could see his feet, Lindy knew she'd find him wearing
something butter-soft and expensive.
So far, the man fit his profile to a T.
Except that she hadn't expected him to be quite so
handsome.
When he stopped to await a signal to navigate another
cross-street, Lindy slipped the digital-cam binoculars
back up her nose and snapped a second image, just to see
if she could capture his expression as he glanced up at a
building, surveying his environs as skillfully and
inconspicuously as she might.
But there was no question in Lindy's mind that he was
taking stock of his surroundings. Something about the
stone cut of his jaw, perhaps. Or maybe the furrow between
those dark eyebrows that suggested a deliberation she
recognized.
It took one to know one — someone who was up to a lot more
than he appeared to be.
Hanging back a step, Lindy moved behind an older woman
wearing a wide hat, who had just enjoyed a spree at
Amali's, according to her sacks. And when the traffic
signal changed, she made her way around the woman with a
quick smile and a cordial, "Lovely bonnet."
While she wasn't sure precisely what to expect from
Benedict, she'd come prepared for any number of scenarios.
She knew why he'd come to town, but had no way of knowing
how he would take care of his business.
She'd come up with a few likely guesses, of course, but
not one of them had led her to the sweeping spires of St.
Patrick's Cathedral. Yet that was exactly where he was
heading — right up the bloody front steps.
Well, well, well. What business did her handsome target
have with God today?
Now there was a question she wouldn't spend too much time
mulling. Lindy wasn't particularly religious, but she had
been reared in the English countryside, where Sunday trips
to the village church had been a way of life.
As a result, she had a healthy respect for passing
judgment and throwing stones in places where she herself
wouldn't want others passing judgment or throwing stones.
With her work as an intelligence agent over the past
decade, she'd found herself in enough situations that some
might label morally questionable. Unless Joshua Benedict's
business with God had something to do with Henri Renouf,
Lindy wasn't interested.
But she couldn't help thinking a cathedral would be an ace
place to hand off a stolen artifact, so she strode lightly
up the steps and made her way inside.
Given that her work covered every European city in what
was once known as Christendom, Lindy thought old Gothic
cathedrals pretty standard fare. While she didn't know
much about this one — and honestly hadn't thought to
research more — she did know the place was the seat of New
York's archbishop.
Stepping inside the cool interior, she found the cathedral
no less majestic than any other she'd ever been in — a
tribute to the architects, as America was regarded as
distinctly substandard in architectural grandeur.
The bustle of a busy city vanished behind the heavy doors,
and the silence — a tangible serenity that seemed a unique
and integral part of churches everywhere — settled over
her like the mist after a London rain.
Sliding her digital-cam binoculars on top of her head,
Lindy sighted her target. She attached herself to a small
group of women, all hastily affixing lace chaplets onto
their teased curls, and bowed her head reverently.
Through her periphery, she watched Benedict stroll down
the main aisle, taking in his surroundings almost
absently, as though he made a habit of visiting churches.
Sun spilled through stained glass, throwing light that
splintered his handsome features with color.
Had he come to this place to make a pickup?
During mission briefing, Lindy had decided her target's
usual MO consisted of using busy public places to cover
his shady business dealings. She'd watched video footage
of the man strolling into Queen's Cross as boldly as he
pleased to take possession of Princess Charlotte's tiara
and scepter from a man believed to have conducted the
museum theft.
Unfortunately, even with the video footage, her agency
didn't have enough evidence to prosecute the thief or the
man who allegedly had delivered the goods to Renouf.
Joshua Benedict was bold, to be sure, but a cathedral?
Maybe her prosaic upbringing made conducting shady
business in a church seem to be tempting fate too closely
for comfort.
As long as it wasn't her eternity at stake...Lindy
followed her little holy ladies to a bas-relief statue of
a saint.
She watched him head to an altar flanked by two stone
saints and several-dozen-odd tourists as if he owned the
place, and her heart raced to think he'd take delivery of
the stolen auction-house artifact in plain sight.
Shades of Queen's Cross?
Disengaging from the holy ladies, she slid into a pew,
knelt and lowered her head as if in prayer. She slid the
digital-cam binoculars down her nose to watch her target
move toward a station filled with tiers of votive candles.
Lindy could see no one else approach, detected nothing
about the man to suggest he might be searching for
anything that had been left concealed for him.
He made a donation and lit a candle.
Lindy observed him, the moments stretching almost
painfully as he stared at the flame, his expression
thoughtful, an almost-smile playing around his lips.
He did not meet with anyone to make a handoff.
He did not reach underneath the station and come up with
any small package.
He just genuflected before the altar, made the sign of the
cross then headed down the aisle the way he came, leaving
Lindy staring after him with a narrowed gaze.
Joshua Benedict had come to church to light a candle. Had
she been made?
Lindy had no choice but to consider whether this seemingly
purposeless side trip was for her benefit. Instinctively,
she stood and moved down the aisle before he reached the
doors. Wouldn't do to lose him now. Not until she could
decide whether or not he was on to her.
Timing her paces as he paused to hold the door for a
couple, she veered sharply right and headed out of a side
exit. She sprinted around the corner of the building,
swung around a gate and onto Fifth Avenue just as he
stepped onto the pavement.