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
