Chapter 16

CHAPTER16

Marin woke to find Otto poised at the side of the big bed, his chin resting on the mattress; the sound of his tail swishing on the hardwood floor serenaded her. She reached over and gave his head a pat.

“At least one male in my life is loyal.” She climbed out of the bed and stretched in the afternoon sunshine. Things always looked a little better after a warm bath and a nap. Marin pulled on a pair of jeans and a bubble gum-colored scoop-neck top that was much clingier than she preferred. But when she looked into the mirror, she liked what she saw.

She slipped on the pink espadrilles that went with the top. “Chin up, Otto. What do you say we go find the kitchen and make ourselves useful?”

The dog danced happily around Marin as she made her way downstairs. The large kitchen was a cook’s dream with state-of-the-art appliances and plenty of counter space to work. The fridge and cabinets were stocked with enough ingredients to prepare a small state dinner. It was obvious the agents watching over her were hopeful Marin would continue to keep them well fed. She was happy to oblige them. It helped break up the futility of her situation.

“I’m feeling lemon bars.” She picked up a fresh lemon from the fruit bowl and tossed it between her hands. “How about you, Otto?”

The dog barked his agreement before settling down in front of the back door. Marin lost herself in the act of baking. An hour later, the aroma of lemons and powdered sugar filled the room. Agent Groesch and her partner entered the kitchen just as Marin was slicing into the gooey treat.

“This protective detail is hazardous to my hips,” Agent Groesch complained. She helped herself to a lemon bar anyhow.

“Are you kidding? This is one of the best perks of the job,” the other agent said. “I wouldn’t mind if this assignment lasted several weeks.”

Marin felt faint at the thought.

“I’m pretty sure the chef would mind, Agent Todd,” Director Worcester said from the doorway leading to the foyer.

Both agents started.

“Chef,” the director continued, “I’ve come to return you to the White House.”

“Griff didn’t send word that Pillsbury should be moved,” Agent Todd countered.

“Pillsbury?” Marin squeaked.

The young agent shrugged. “It’s your code name.”

“Agent Keller’s instructions are being superseded here,” the director interjected. “By orders from the First Lady.” His gaze fell on Marin. “Little Arabelle is sick. And she’s asking for you. I’m to bring you back right away. Otto, too.”

Marin’s glimmer of hope that her tormentor had been captured was replaced by worry for the little girl. Aunt Harriett was a trained pediatrician. She wouldn’t have summoned Marin if something wasn’t terribly wrong with her granddaughter.

Once again, they rode in the decoy vehicle, Marin and Otto in the back and the director up front with the driver. Agent Groesch stayed behind at the safe house which meant she was likely to be returned there. While Marin was troubled that Arabelle was ill, she was relieved to be returning to the familiarity of the White House. Perhaps she could convince the director to let her stay.

The admiral greeted them at the North Portico. “Good to see you, Chef,” he said. “The child is distraught and demanding to see you.”

They took the elevator up to the third floor where the president’s son and his family lived. The First Lady intercepted them in the hallway. Otto darted past them into the little girl’s room.

“How is she?” Marin asked her godmother.

“Physically, I can’t find anything wrong with her.” Aunt Harriett was visibly frazzled. “But she’s been weepy and clingy all afternoon. She was fine this morning. Bita took her to breakfast before school. Of course, Farrah is in Santa Barbara at some charity polo event and Clark is in surgery. Neither one of them should have ever become parents,” she mumbled. “Arabelle just keeps crying and asking for you. She says you’re the only one who can make her better.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Eight years of medical training and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m happy to help,” Marin said. “And even happier to be back in the White House.”

Her aunt hugged her. “They are going to find this guy, Marin.”

“Mrs. Manning,” the First Lady’s chief of staff prompted.

“Crap,” Aunt Harriett said. “I have a speaking engagement at the Girls and Boys Club this afternoon.” She glanced at Arabelle’s bedroom. “I should cancel and stay with her. Bita was supposed to, but she’s picked up some kind of bug. Which leads me to believe Arabelle is coming down with something, too.”

“I’m here now. I’ll stay with her until you get back,” Marin volunteered.

“Thank you.” The First Lady hugged her again. “If she starts to develop any symptoms, have the agent on duty alert me.”

Arabelle’s room was decorated like a castle, complete with vine-covered floor-to-ceiling turrets framing the low bed draped in crinoline. Otto was already snoring on the mattress, his big body curled around the small child.

“Marin!” Arabelle cried, jumping off the bed, startling the dog. “You’re here.”

“Hey, sweetie.” Marin wrapped her arms around the girl, inhaling the sweet smell of baby shampoo and cinnamon candy the head butler had likely snuck to her. “Your grandma Harriet says you aren’t feeling well.”

“I’m not sick,” Arabelle insisted with a shake of her head. “I just needed to tell you something ‘portant.”

“Well, perhaps we should sit down for such a serious discussion.” Marin eased into the upholstered glider, careful not to dislodge Arabelle from around her waist. “Is this about that boy, Charlie, in your class?” she teased.

“I don’t love Charlie anymore,” Arabelle replied solemnly. “I love Peter. But this isn’t about them. It’s about Grandma Bita. And you.”

A sense of unease crawled up Marin’s spine. “What about your Grandma Bita?”

“She gave me a very ‘portant job to do. But it’s a secret. Just for you.” Arabelle placed her chubby hands on Marin’s cheeks. “You have to listen to me and do just as I say.”

The unease was fast becoming a full-blown panic attack. Marin did her best to remain calm in front of Arabelle, however. She didn’t want to frighten the child any further. Bita had been in the pastry kitchen the morning Marin had seen the supposed art thief. Was Arabelle’s grandmother involved with the thefts somehow? Good Lord, why would the woman involve her granddaughter in any of this? Marin wrapped her arms more firmly around the child.

“I’m listening,” Marin said.

“The mean man who always makes Grandma Bita whisper in Farsi to him made her go somewhere with him. He said the only way she can come back is if you go and get her. She made me promise to tell you. Grandma Bita gave me a note to give you.”

Arabelle scrambled off Marin’s lap and ran over to her bed. She pulled a folded piece of paper from behind one of the pillows.

“Grandma Bita said she’ll take me to Build-A-Bear if I kept the secret,” Arabelle said proudly as she handed Marin the paper. “I kept it good, didn’t I?”

Marin could barely find the words her body had become so numb with anger. “You did awesome.” Marin looked at the paper. It contained only an address—1250 Potomac Street, Northwest—and a time—eight-thirty p.m.

The child crawled back into Marin’s lap. “You’ll go get Grandma Bita, won’t you? I want her to come home.” Arabelle’s thumb circled her lips as she tried not to suck on it.

Ice ran through Marin’s veins. She’d seen him briefly and the man was bent on killing her. Arabelle had obviously seen him, too.

“Sweetie, have you met Grandma Bita’s friend often?”

“He’s not her friend,” Arabelle protested. “She always gets shaky when he calls her. I only saw him one time. He was in the pastry kitchen before school. I went in there looking for you. Grandma Bita was with me. She gave him a present.” The girl glanced at Marin, her eyes serious. “I asked him if it was his birthday. He didn’t answer. Grandma Bita said it was a ‘just because present.’” Arabelle’s bottom lip trembled. “Today he was at the donut shop. Grandma Bita was mad that he was there. She took me to the potty and told me the secret. I didn’t want her to leave with the mean man. I almost told Agent Joe, but Grandma Bita made me promise not to. She said I had to get you instead.”

Marin kissed the girl on the top of her head. She blew out a breath to steady her nerves. “You did a great job keeping the secret,” she said. “And now it doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.” She picked up Ellie, the same stuffed animal Arabelle had given Marin the other day, and handed it to Arabelle. “I’ll be right back.”

She slipped out of Arabelle’s bedroom into the hallway where the two members of the child’s protective detail stood guard.

“I need to see the director, right away,” she told the agents. “And call the First Lady back. It’s an emergency.”

* * *

Griffin prowled through the curator’s office. Ben’s forensics team had already picked the place clean. But waiting around for leads on the Ukrainian art thief targeting Marin was making Griffin stir-crazy. If he could figure out the connection between the White House intern and the Ukrainian, he’d be one step closer to finding the son of a bitch.

“So far, the admiral’s auditors have only identified four other pieces in the House as forgeries,” Leslie informed him. “Including the Jackson Pollack. They still have the third floor to go, but that would bring our total to only eight. And four of them you recovered at the warehouse in New Jersey.”

“We need to get the information about the others out to Interpol,” Griffin said. “I’d like to recover them all if we can.”

“I sent it out this morning. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. A lot of times these pieces end up in the home of private collectors who don’t care where they came from.”

“Yeah, like someone who wants to stick it to the President of the United States,” Griffin added with disgust. “They’ll boast about it eventually, though, and I’ll nail them. Do we know how an intern was able to get his hands on valuable paintings without anyone in this place catching on?”

Leslie grimaced. “From what I can gather from the White House Historical Society, Ari’s specialty was art restoration. His grant entailed examining each canvas to look for some sort of chemical breakdown.”

Griffin laughed at the absurdity of the scenario. “When actually he wasn’t interested in restoring anything. Just reappropriating fine art for his clients. And they say crooks are stupid. The White House just got majorly duped.”

“His security clearance checked out,” Leslie said. “And he came highly recommended, according to the society. The White House curator liked having fellows in the office. The society is always scrambling to fill the position. It’s likely they saw a need and filled it with whomever applied first.”

Griffin picked up a framed photo off the desk. The picture was of the deceased curator posing with the Queen of England. “And Wes’s enthusiasm to give back got him killed.”

“I checked Ari’s bank records. He’s made some staggering deposits over the past several months,” Leslie told him. “The deposits began about the time he started his fellowship here. His yearly stipend is paid monthly, but it’s barely enough to live on in DC.”

“Please tell me Ari was paid by check for his moonlighting?”

Leslie shook her head. “The deposits were all money orders issued from a Greek bank. Tracing them is going to be extremely difficult.”

Griffin swore.

“Before coming to the White House, Ari was in Athens studying at the Acropolis Museum,” Leslie said. “I spoke with their director this morning. He didn’t want to admit it, but it sounded like they might have a case of switched art there, as well. My Interpol liaison is going to investigate whether Ari had access to any of those pieces.”

“We’re still missing the vital link to the counterfeiters.” Griffin sat down at one of the desks, scrubbing his hand down his freshly shaven face. He’d showered and changed in the Secret Service lounge after leaving Marin at the safe house. Then, he’d spent the next several hours sifting through what little clues they had. The task had only marginally preoccupied him from thinking about Marin.

Twice he’d reached for his phone to call and check with the agents at the safe house. Despite all of his attempts—even his honest declaration when he left—he was still distracted by thoughts of her. He was sure Marin had lied when she told him she hadn’t read anything more into their hookup last night. But she’d given him the out he needed this morning. And her gesture made Griffin even more enthralled with her.

Marin was brave and quick thinking. With everything they’d endured yesterday, she’d never once complained. He couldn’t even blame her about the stupid cell phone fiasco. That was Adam’s fault.

“Griff, are you listening to me?”

Leslie’s question pulled him back into the here and now. Which was exactly where his head needed to be.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I haven’t had much sleep in the past couple of days. What did you say?”

She shot him a knowing grin that clearly conveyed she didn’t believe his excuse. “I’ve been doing some digging into Yerik Salenko, our Ukrainian mercenary,” Leslie said. “He’s been off the radar for over ten years since leaving the Ukrainian Army. Intelligence reports put him in Iran during that time, but that’s a country that’s hit or miss with regard to information. Adam is correct that Salenko is known as an expert marksman, but Interpol believes he’s equally lethal with chemicals. Given what he’s done here, I’d have to agree.”

“Yeah, but none of that intel explains how Salenko got involved with Greek counterfeiters doubling as art thieves.”

“That’s because I haven’t finished,” Leslie said. “Would you believe he has a daughter who lives in Athens? One who also worked at the Acropolis Museum for a brief period.”

Griffin bolted upright in his chair. “Definitely not a coincidence.”

“Mmm,” Leslie agreed. “She left the museum well before Ari arrived, but they could have met somehow. Maybe that’s how Salenko became acquainted with him.”

“We need to talk to her.”

“I’ve got Interpol tracking her down.”

Leslie’s IT agent, Eric, looked up from the computer he was working on at the other side of the room. “I’ve got something here, Agent Morgan.”

They crowded around one of the empty desks. Eric set the laptop down in front of them.

“Our friend Ari either didn’t trust his crime-loving colleagues and wanted to keep some evidence on them,” Eric explained, “or he was just cocky. He kept these files on his work computer. A middle schooler could have hacked into them.”

He moved the curser to a file marked Contracted and clicked. Photos of the Cezanne, the Monet, the Pollack, and thirteen other paintings came up on the screen. Next to each one were two sets of numbers—the appraised value and a percentage of that figure.

“He came to the White House with a damn shopping list,” Griffin said.

Leslie pointed to the second column of numbers. “I’ll have to pull up the bank records, but these figures look like the amounts of the deposits made into Ari’s account. Although, I don’t remember there being this many.”

“That’s because the originals of some of these pieces are still here,” Griffin explained. “You said the auditors had already checked everything on the public floor, correct?”

Leslie nodded.

“The Waddell painting is hanging in the East Room,” Griffin said. “Which means Ari hadn’t gotten to it yet.”

Leslie eyed him curiously.

“It’s one of my favorite pieces,” Griffin admitted tersely.

“Seriously, you and the pastry chef were made for each other,” Leslie said.

“Can we concentrate on the case here?” he grumbled.

“Hey, I’m not the one getting all moon-eyed in the middle of a conversation.”

Griffin shot her a quelling look. “We’ve explained how Ari got his hands on the paintings. But how did he get the forged pieces in and the real ones out of the House without anyone noticing?”

“He had an accomplice,” Adam announced from the doorway. “One none of us suspected. The director wants you both in his office, pronto.”

The Secret Service office was in chaos when Griffin and Leslie stepped across the hall.

“Agent Morgan,” the director bellowed through the crowd. “I want a log of all of Bita Ranjbar’s phone records for the last six months. I want her bank statements, her credit card charges, and a record of every time she used her damn library card. Anything the FBI can get me. And I want it ten minutes ago!”

Leslie had her phone to her ear before the director finished yelling.

Griffin followed the director into his office. “What’s going on?”

“This is why the woman declined a protective detail,” the director ranted, ignoring Griffin’s questions. “Because she wanted to rob the White House blind.”

Adam entered the office. Griffin noticed his friend was dressed in his counter assault team battle gear. “We’ve got live feed from cameras within a four-block radius around the meeting place. The cameras are streaming to the command center at headquarters. Once Salenko shows himself to make the grab, we can nab him.”

“What meeting place? What grab? Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” Griffin demanded.

The director sighed heavily. “Bita Ranjbar has been coming and going from this house under the guise of caring for her granddaughter. She’s also been working as Yerik Salenko’s mule, carrying the forged artwork in and the real paintings back out of the White House.”

Griffin was dumbfounded. “And we know this how?”

“Because a preschooler broke open your case.” Adam jovially slapped him on the back.

The director shot Adam a withering look. “Mrs. Ranjbar confided in her granddaughter.”

“That makes no sense,” Griffin said. “How do we know the kid isn’t making this up?”

Director Worcester picked up a plastic baggie that contained a piece of paper. “She gave Arabelle this note this morning. She told the child that Salenko was holding her hostage.”

Griffin carefully took the baggy and smoothed it out on the desk so that he could read the note inside. “This is just an address and a time. How do we even know this is from Bita?”

“It’s her handwriting,” the director said. “The First Lady confirmed it.”

Confused, Griffin glanced between Adam and the director. He was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. And he had the sneaking suspicion they were withholding it from him for some reason. “What aren’t you telling me?”

A pained expression settled in the director’s eyes. “Arabelle was instructed to deliver Bita’s message directly to Chef Marin. Apparently, Salenko wants to exchange one woman for the other.”

Griffin’s chest constricted painfully and he felt like his head might explode. “Like hell.”