To Catch a Thief

PROLOGUE

Draycott Abbey

Sussex, England

May 1622

THE BOOK WAS THE KEY.

All its dangerous secrets lay inside fragile yellow pages. He had to hide these secrets now, while twelve guests slumbered over their spilled port, with wigs askew. Their sleep would not hold forever, and he must act before their greed and suspicion returned.

In the shadows across the elegant room, the Earl of Wetherton mumbled in drunken dreams, his heavy goblet cracking as his wrist sent the glass flying to the floor.

Motionless, Viscount Draycott studied the ornate walls of the house he knew and loved beyond all logic. As the last candle guttered out, the cynical aristocrat stood in a bar of moonlight, cradling a fine leather book. The weight of history pressed down, filling him with excitement.

And finally with dread.

Such a treasure, a notebook from the hand of Leonardo da Vinci, carried too many secrets. According to the man who had lost the notebook, it was cursed. Equally cursed was the exquisite piece of art now hidden upstairs in his suite. But the memory of the luminous beauty of the art made the viscount forget the danger.

A sudden movement at the drifting curtains made him slip back into the shadows. Who came in stealth through the darkness?

But the figure was only a great gray cat, slipping up the stairs with black-tipped paws, as quiet as the night. Behind the cat the viscount saw a new maidservant, her eyes wide as she crossed the hall, a basket of freshly folded linens in her arms. A cat and the new maid.

But his worry would not be gone. Men would kill to hold the art of Leonardo da Vinci even if the art was cursed by its creator.

The abbey’s lord was a careful man, a generous man, and the weight of duty drove him hard from the moon-touched Long Gallery to the library and to the shadows of a stone staircase above his wine cellars.

The cat was somehow before him as he took the stairs in hurried steps, a lantern held high to mark his way. The worn notebook did not move, cradled at his chest for safety.

Maledetto con gesti e’ parole.

The words burned like poison in his head.

Cursed by hand and tongue.

Cursed to dream and want, all who hold this book.

Up the stairs a chair fell with a clatter. Drunken voices echoed through the sleeping house, calling his name. No more time.

Quickly he pressed at the wall, opening a niche between stone and mortar. In the small, snug opening he shelved the notebook.

For now, the sketch that had come from the hand of Leonardo da Vinci would hide in his own chamber inside a similar wall recess. He would make a safer hiding spot for it later.

The abbey’s lord could do no more. A prize won in a turn of cards, the sketch caught at his heart. Da Vinci’s hand was clear in every stroke and curve of the Mona Lisa’s face, all distant grace and soft seduction.

According to the notebook, the sketch was the artist’s final study before he began his painting. As was his custom, the Italian master often chose chalk to sketch the details of all he would later attempt in oil, and the notebook recorded his process of creation.

Both were priceless. Together they provided an unmatched look into the mind of a genius.

But there was no time for the viscount to linger. Upstairs boots rang out and petulant voices shouted for more port. Draycott felt a sudden disgust for his dissolute guests.

They were not real friends. He knew that any one of them would kill for the notebook and the art it described. The worn leather cover taunted him. His hands shook as he sealed the niche.

Here the notebook and its secrets would rest. With luck his descendants would have the strength to preserve this treasure, keeping it safe along with the priceless sketch it described in such intricate detail, capturing all da Vinci’s agony of creation.

Frowning, Draycott raised the lantern for one last look. All was sealed. No signs of cracked stone or shifting mortar gave away the notebook’s hiding place. By all appearance the wine cellar wall lay untouched, ancient as the house.

It was done.

But the weight of the curse remained.

Maledetto.

Draycott Abbey

Summer 1785

THE WALL WAS EMPTY.

Plaster spilled from a gaping hole, wood beams broken crudely. Blood stained the silk wallpaper where the thief—or thieves—had worked in painful haste. Boot tracks crossed the white snow of fallen plaster, vanishing at the far window, where the curtains fanned out like searching hands.

Adrian Draycott scowled at the hole in the wall. He cursed as he saw the broken recess, the hiding place of his family’s da Vinci masterpiece. Now only a carved and gilt frame remained, its pieces discarded on the marble floor.

The thief had come by night, moving straight to this room while Adrian was in London on estate matters. No one had heard the furtive steps. No one had seen the knife that slit the wall and dug to find the hiding place of Leonardo’s chalk study.

Now the elegant smiling face, accursed in its glory, had vanished. The eighth Viscount Draycott closed his eyes, breathing hard in the shock of the theft. Yet even then he felt something close to relief.

Maledetto con gesti e’ parole.

The words drifted, twisting like smoke.

Cursed by hand and tongue. Cursed to dream and want.

The still-hidden notebook had recorded Leonardo’s curse long centuries before. Both sketch and notebook had been stolen from Leonardo’s studio by a charming servant ever alert to the chance for profit. For his crime the servant had earned the artist’s curse. So had all others who came in contact with the stolen possessions.

Adrian Draycott ran a hand across his eyes. Well did he know the bitter pains of great loss, of trust betrayed. That pain he kept well hidden beneath a cold, languid facade. He cared for no one and nothing—only his beloved home.

The great gray cat pressed at his boots, tail raised, eyes alert. The viscount bent low, smoothing the warm fur. So here ends both the tale and the curse, my friend. The art is gone, and though I should feel fury, I do not. I am…relieved. Let another poor fool carry the curse’s weight. The Mona Lisa’s smile is too cold and enigmatic for my taste.

The cat meowed, brushing against the viscount’s boot. I almost wish they had taken the notebook, too. In truth, I care not for this curse it carries.

The cat’s eyes moved, keen in the spring night. Slowly Adrian turned, facing the open window that marked the thief’s retreat.

Drops of blood stained the broken sill.

Maledetto.

No matter, the viscount muttered, trying to believe his words. The curse cannot hold power here. Not after so many years. It is done. Over.

Adrian Draycott prayed it was so. But the cold wind through the tall windows and the prickle at his neck argued otherwise.

CHAPTER ONE

The Isle of Skye

Scotland

SHE WAS COLD and tired and hungry. Her blistered feet ached and right now all Nell MacInnes wanted was a hot bath and a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea, followed by a warm bed to rest her weary body.

She closed her eyes, listening to the buzz of quiet pub conversation around her. The little inn nestled up against a pristine loch with towering mountains on three sides. The locals were far too polite to intrude on Nell’s reverie, and when she dumped her mountain gear and backpack on the floor, sinking into a worn wooden chair, no one raised an eyebrow.

It was heaven to be warm and dry after six days of climbing the nearby peaks, battling rain and wind on every ascent. If not for her climbing partner, Nell might have curtailed the trip three days sooner, but Eric’s enthusiasm was hard to resist. No doubt he would appear from his room upstairs within the hour, after taping his badly sprained ankle.

Warmth began to seep into her bones, as gentle as the low burr of the Scottish voices around her. Scotland was truly heaven, she thought.

And I’m telling you it was no such thing as my imagination, Angus McCrae. A grand fish it was—bigger than two arm spans, I’ll tell you this.

Over the muted, good-natured argument about a lost fish, Nell heard the pub’s front door open. Cold wind snapped through the room as two men entered, scraping booted feet. Where is the American man, Angus? We need the climber called MacInnes.

Nell stiffened at the flawed description. Who wanted her now, when all she craved was one precious night’s rest? No one from San Francisco even knew she was in Scotland.

The man at the door wore a muddy parka and broken-in boots. A satphone was gripped at his chest. We’ve bad weather up on the hill and I need the American—assuming the man’s as good as I’m told.

Nell took a short, wistful look at her half-eaten shepherd’s pie and the cup of tea, but a request for aid was never refused.

She gulped the rest of her tea and stood up. I’m the American named MacInnes.

You—a woman? The man looked startled.

Nell nodded, used to the surprised glances after twelve years of climbing on four continents. How can I help you?

A team of young climbers has gone missing on Blaven, and there’s bad weather already, with more due through the night.

Blaven.

Nell recognized the name of the dark peaks that girded the valley on three sides. They’re on the peak now?

Aye. They were expected down three hours ago and no sign of them yet. We have just now received word that they’re stranded. He raised the satphone, his eyes grim. A German climber saw them scattered out over the south slope like lost sheep. They did not answer his hails, and at least two had the look of being hurt. His voice fell. Badly hurt.

Nell thrust her arms into her waterproof jacket, already making mental notes. How many are in the group and what level of climbing experience? I’ll need to know the exact coordinates where they were last seen, too. Even in a blizzard, the GPS would help Nell track those missing.

I’m assembling that information now.

Nell unzipped her pack, assessing her resources. I’ll need drinking water and dried high-energy food, along with a more extensive first-aid kit.

I will have it prepared for you, Ms. MacInnes, and our thanks to you for your help. My SAR team is understaffed, all but myself sent over to assist in the recovery of plane crash victims on Uist. A terrible thing, that. I only wish I had two more people and I’d climb up myself.

No, you’re right to stay here. Someone experienced needs to be available to coordinate resources and guide the authorities. Besides, I’m familiar with Blaven. She smiled crookedly. I worked SAR here myself nine years ago during my summer vacation.

The man looked pleasantly surprised—and a little relieved. So you know the Cuillin, do you now? I’m glad to hear it. There are those who take our Cuillin lightly. Some of them do not live to learn their error, I’m afraid.

I won’t make that mistake, rest assured. Nell’s voice was firm. She had seen enough dazed climbers and shattered bodies during her rescue summer to know just how fast conditions could change up on the nearby peaks. Within minutes an exhilarating climb could turn into a zero-visibility nightmare. What’s the weather prediction up there?

Northerly gale force eight. Snow already falling on the summit. Temperatures dropping to minus nine Celsius.

Nell made the conversion to Fahrenheit quickly, taking the bottles of water and zippered food bags that the local SAR coordinator handed her. One more thing. Ruefully, she looked down at her feet. I’m afraid I’ll need dry socks. These are fairly well soaked after walking down through the rain all day.

Without a word, every man in the now silent pub bent down and began to unlace shoes or unzip boots, hearing her quiet words.

In seconds hand-knit socks appeared on every table.

Nell smiled at this instant generosity.

She cleared her throat. I appreciate your help. What I meant is, I have special climbing socks up in my room. I’ll do better with my own gear, you understand.

Of course. The local SAR man said a few words of explanation in Gaelic. The men around Nell nodded. The socks vanished back on hidden feet.

She started toward the stairs to her room, calculating exactly how much she could cram into her pack and what injuries the lost climbers might have incurred. There was only so much possibility for medical intervention on the top of a mountain with limited supplies.

One word, miss. Your partner—he will be going with you, will he?

Nell shook her head. Not with a sprained ankle, he won’t. But Eric will stay in contact. He can help you down here with backup arrangements. I’ll tell him the situation.

Nell knew her friend would insist on joining her, sprained ankle or not, but he’d be no help with an injury that had kept him limping for most of the day. She’d have to make the climb alone. She didn’t need any amateurs slowing her down.

I’ll be down in two minutes. If someone can drive me up to the trailhead at the end of the loch, it will save twenty minutes.

A Land Rover is already waiting for you, miss. The local rescue coordinator ran a hand through his hair. I’d much prefer to go up the hill with you, truth be told. It’s a fair nasty stretch across the south slope in weather like this.

I’ll be fine. Nell was calm, with years of climbing experience, focused on planning her route. She was used to facing the worst. Climbing a rugged peak in nasty weather wasn’t half as bad as the other shocks that life had thrown her.

HE WATCHED her shoulder the heavy pack and then adjust both padded straps, working with the intense focus of someone used to carrying heavy weight well into the pain zone.

The woman clearly knew what she was doing, Dakota thought, slouched out of sight inside a dusty delivery truck parked up the road from the inn. The bug in her backpack was working perfectly, allowing him clear access to every word she said. So far she’d made no slips. Her conversation with her climbing partner had been full of good-natured bantering and reminiscences of earlier climbs.

No talk of art theft or organized terrorist activities, the Navy SEAL thought cynically.

His orders were absolutely clear. Close surveillance and assessment of all contacts made by Nell MacInnes. She’d done something to land on the government’s highest priority watch list.

Better than anyone, Dakota Smith knew that SEALs didn’t get called up for aimless threats. Nell MacInnes was up to her slender neck in trouble.

With or without her father’s help, she was suspected of participating in the theft of one of the most valuable pieces of art ever to enter the National Gallery. Dakota’s job was to find out who she was working with and locate the stolen Renaissance masterpiece before it vanished forever, traded through a shadow network of international criminals, sold to finance the activities of an elusive terrorist group active on American soil.

The SEAL’s eyes narrowed on the woman’s back as she climbed into a battered Land Rover, accompanied by the head of the local search-and-rescue volunteer team. Dakota wondered what made her tick, what drove her back out into a pounding storm after six days of strenuous climbing. He doubted it was simple selflessness. No, he figured that Nell MacInnes enjoyed walking on the edge, tasting danger. She looked like a classic thrill seeker, which would also explain her involvement in a complicated, high-stakes robbery.

Not greed. She didn’t drive a late-model Maserati or own a string of houses. Her apartment back in San Francisco was neat but small, and her only hobby appeared to be climbing. Yet appearances could be the most unreliable thing in the world, Dakota knew.

Still, he wondered about that brief note of resignation he’d heard in Nell’s voice back at the pub. The confidence had faded, along with the high energy, and she had sounded tired and worried, as if she genuinely cared about the missing climbers.

Forget about the target’s emotions, a voice warned flatly as Dakota pulled onto the road, following the Land Rover at a careful distance. He’d track her up the brooding slopes of Blaven and make certain she came down in one piece. But he’d break his cover to save the other climbers only if it was absolutely necessary, mindful of his orders to stay well under the radar until all Nell MacInnes’s shadowy contacts were bagged and tagged. The mission came first.

Always.

After parking down the slope from the small trailhead, Dakota pulled on an all-weather parka and a fully stocked backpack, then fingered his shortwave radio. His contact would be waiting for an update. Teague, are you there?

Yo. Izzy Teague’s voice was clear, despite an edge of static. I’ve got the topo map on the screen in front of me. I checked with SAR and got the coordinates. You’ll have a straight ascent for an hour, followed by a fairly strenuous climb through shifting rock when you near the south face. A chopper is on its way over from the mainland, but the weather may prevent a landing until tomorrow.

So I’m on my own, Dakota said calmly. Fine with me. I don’t need anyone slowing me down or asking questions.

Watch out for yetis up there, Izzy said wryly. I’ll keep a bottle of Glenlivet on ice for you.

You do that. Alpha out.

The dark face of Blaven was veiled in clouds as Nell set off up the rocky trail. The Land Rover headed down to the inn. The first wet flakes of gale-driven snow lashed at Dakota’s face as he started up toward Blaven’s brooding darkness, Nell already out of sight before him.

FOR SOME REASON she couldn’t shake the sense that she was being followed. For the third time Nell stopped, peering through fingers of clouds, looking for other climbers behind her.

Only rocky slopes met her sharp scrutiny.

Of course you’re alone, idiot. Any climbers with good sense are inside huddled before a roaring fire right now.

But a climber didn’t turn away in an emergency. Rules of the road.

Rules of life, too.

Turning back into the cutting wind, Nell nursed her aching right knee and chose each step, careful not to trigger a slide in the loose rock. Her face was cold, wet from the wind driving up from the sea. She estimated she’d reach the missing climbers’ last coordinates in another twenty minutes. If the weather didn’t shift, she could begin guiding them down off the peak immediately.

But Nell was prepared for a dozen unknown variables from shattered morale to shattered ankles. Any one of them could hamper a fast descent.

No point tilting at windmills, MacInnes. Every rescue was different, so she’d tackle each obstacle as it appeared. She eased her pack lower on her shoulders, trying to stay loose.

Once again she was struck by the twitchy feeling that someone was down the slope in shadow.

Watching her.

Blaven face.

One hour before sunset.

WIND RAKED Dakota’s neck.

Icy rain howled over the cliff overlooking the restless Sea of Hebrides.

Visibility was down to zero and already the storm was driving intermittent gusts of nearly sixty miles per hour.

Over the slope Nell MacInnes had made contact with the frightened climbers. Thanks to the howl of the wind, Dakota could only pick up one word in three, but from what he heard, Nell was dealing with the rescue quickly and by the book.

She assessed injuries, boosted morale and passed out dry trail rations and chocolate, then radioed down to the SAR leader to have transport with a medical team waiting at the foot of the mountain. The climbers were teenagers from an international school in London, and their leader, a burly ex-naval officer from Brighton, was clearly out of his element. Why he had tried the ascent was still unclear, but Dakota knew the speed of weather changes on Skye could take anyone by surprise.

He fingered his transmitter. Alpha to Teague.

Instantly static crackled. Pizza to go. What can I get you, Alpha?

I figure a large cheese with double pepperoni is out, Dakota said dryly. So I’ll settle for backup medical response at the lower trailhead. One girl up here has full-blown asthma with signs of respiratory distress.

Roger that. I’ll wander on by to help and make sure it looks like a coincidence. What about the other climbers?

There are seven in all, plus their leader, Ian Westlake. He might have had a heart attack. He’s holding on, but he’s no help to anyone. Nell’s about to try guiding the able ones down and I’m going to meet her on the slope to help out.

Copy that. Better get the lead out, Alpha. That storm is picking up speed.

Bad news, Dakota thought. Roger. I’ll check back in ten. Alpha out.

The SEAL stared across the slope. To his right a steep cliff fell away in a vertical drop straight down to the loch. To his left a lower ridge vanished into the notched teeth of the Cuillin range.

There would be no climbing down tonight.

They were on their own. No rescue chopper could land in this wind, even if any were available in this remote corner of Skye. Dakota had to help Nell hold the kids together, dig in on the ledge for the night and wait out the storm.

In exactly eight minutes he rounded a turn and saw the little group, huddled beneath a ledge. Nell was snapping out crisp orders to a gangly teenager in a brand new parka.

Hamilton, get your pack lashed over that boulder. Then I want you and Meyerson inside your tent in sixty seconds.

Yes, sir. I mean ma’am.

Once the boy’s pack was secure, he joined his terrified partner in the tent that had been pitched and tethered around stones in the lee of the wind.

What lee there was.

Another icy gust pounded over the ridge.

Wu, secure your tent. Hernandez, get that lantern ready to help him.

Dakota watched Nell work beside the kids, making temporary shelter. She was using their last names, which created distance and the comfort of hierarchy, making orders easier to give and follow.

He noted that two other boys were working to secure another tent to nearby boulders, with packs tied down near the tent entrance.

Good job, Nell called. Now all of you get inside.

So where were the wounded ones? Dakota wondered.

A tent flap opened. A slim girl crawled out, looking for Nell. I found that radio you asked about, ma’am. It’s—"

Wilson, go back inside and take cover. This wind is—

The rest of Nell’s order was swept away in an icy gust that screamed over the ridge, caught two unsecured backpacks and threw them into the teenage girl, knocking her into a spine of sharp granite. As her scream was swallowed by the wind, Dakota dove forward and caught her waist, pulling her away from the cliff edge. She moaned brokenly as he lifted her into his arms. Blood streamed over his fingers from a gash down the side of her forehead. Dakota noted her erratic pulse and diminished pupil response.

Neck wound and probable concussion. Internal injuries were also possible.

Who the heck are you? Nell blocked his way, looking angry and wary and relieved, all at the same time.

I was climbing over on the far side of Blaven when I picked up a distress alert from the local SAR. I changed route, circled the corrie and came up to see if you needed help.

Nell bit her lip, studying him intently. You’re American.

Navy. Dakota gave a wry smile. This was supposed to be a little holiday until I’m redeployed out of Coronado. I wasn’t counting on the weather going all to hell.

Nell seemed to relax slightly. It does that a lot here. So you’re a good climber? Can you help me get these kids down?

I’ll do whatever I can. Say the word. Dakota frowned. You’re up here alone?

Yeah, I am. Look—it’s a long story and I don’t have time to fill in the gaps. I’m Nell MacInnes.

Lieutenant Dakota Smith.

Well, Lieutenant Smith, you can put Amanda Wilson inside this tent. As she pointed to her right, wet sheeting snow cut off every sign of the terrain. All of you stay in your tents and keep your backs to the rock. No one moves. Hammond, get that flap closed.

Dakota