Page 10 of The Scarab's Game
On the open market, a two-inch-long gold and carnelian gem of its quality would be worth no more than a hundred thousand. But this one had been a gift from Pharaoh Khufu to his chief surveyor, which increased its value. I wouldn’t have expected that many millions more, but the black market was fickle.
Or the broker who’d put us in touch with the client was setting us up.
I pulled up my suit cuff to check my watch. Black leather and white gold Patek Philippe on the outside. Underneath? Custom Reynolds tech. It was a sin to have taken it apart, but Will—our team’s gadget guru—maintained the exterior so perfectly that someone would only know the truth if they popped it open.
Three o’clock. Late enough to have visited the other two galleries as cover, early enough I might be able to spend time with the De Rosas.
And Jenn would be there.
Scarlett had called her last night to gather intel, but Jenn had been tight-lipped, saying only that Dante had brought her to Monte Carlo and she’d be working at the gallery. Something was off with her. But what?
I couldn’t read her like I could most people. Something about her had always thrown me, from the first time Scar introduced her as‘my new best friend’after we moved to Halifax. She’d brought cookies her mother had made for the new kids in the neighborhood. Things went downhill after people started talking about whose kids we were.
‘If I ever catch you near my daughter again, you’ll regret it.’Her father’s words spun around my brain.‘Your sister’s bad enough, but you are where I draw the line.’
I’d quashed his insults fifteen years ago, so why were they haunting me now? None of the other taunts about my father being a spy were bubbling up. Just Mr. Thatcher’s. He didn’t matter. He didn’t know my family; he didn’t know the good we did.
My father’s incarceration wasn’t relevant in my life, so why would it matter to anyone else?
I straightened my cuff and slowed in front of the gallery.
Tall windows flanked the glass door, showcasing two paintings, a jewelry display, and a Greek sculpture roughly my height. Inside, a security guard sat on a chair by a narrowelevator, while a thin man in glasses sat behind a desk straight ahead. Two leather sofas sat off to the right side. Not much on display—the wide, curved staircase by the sofas would take guests to the real treasures.
I pulled open the door and smiled when the man behind the desk looked up. “Good afternoon.”
He nodded in return and stood.
As I drew closer, I rechecked my watch—not to find out the time, but to show the indicator of wealth. My greeting made it clear I wasn’t there to browse, and the watch made it clear I had the money to purchase. “Is Signore De Rosa in today?”
“He’s out.” Strike one. “However, my name is Jean-Philippe, and I am intimately familiar with the inventory. Can I help you?” His accent was French with a hint of Spanish—likely from the southwest.
“I have a client in the market for Egyptian antiquities. Do you have anything available?”
“Of course.” The man picked up a tablet from his desk and gestured to the staircase. “We have a few pieces on display on the third floor. If nothing suits your interest, we have additional pieces awaiting cleaning or restoration, and I can review them with you.”
I followed him toward the stairs, glancing into the back of the gallery, where a few paintings were displayed. “We’re looking for jewelry or funerary items. Accessories around five centimeters.”
“Very small. Is your client starting a collection or building upon one?”
A short hallway on the main floor led to a door, with one or more doors likely unseen opposite it. Where was Jenn? “They’re building upon an existing one. They sold a few coins recently and want to fill the space with something the same size.”
“Most of our Egyptian items are pottery, but we have a beautiful scarab that arrived in February.”
It wouldn’t be this easy, would it? “That sounds like it might work.”
“It’s an exquisite mold-made scarab in Egyptian blue from the Scarab Factory in Naukratis.”
Strike two. “We’re looking for something more… gold.”
As we reached the second floor, the front door’s bell chimed. My guide raised a hand and returned to the top of the stairs. “Ah, Monsieur De Rosa! You’re back.”
“I won’t be staying long,” replied a deep male voice with an Italian accent. Massimo or his son?
The father hadn’t spoken enough last night for me to get a read on their tonal differences.
“Dante?” That voice, though, I knew. Jenn was downstairs. “I’m just packing up for the day.”
“I thought you wanted to get further ahead?” asked Dante.