The Geneva Deception - James Twining

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a smile at life’s occasional burst of comic irony; he knew this person, or rather he’d come across them before on a previous job. Beneath it was a simple message:

       Target confirmed arriving LAS tonight. Terminate with extreme prejudice.

      Good, he thought, climbing on to the bed. He hated being kept waiting, especially now the minibar was running dry and he’d cycled through both the porn channels.

      Unscrewing the ceiling grille, he lifted down a black US Navy Mark 12 Special Purpose Rifle from where he’d hidden it inside the AC duct and began to disassemble it. This weapon was a recent issue to US Special Forces in the Middle East and he liked what they had done with it, producing a rifle with a greater effective range than an M4 Carbine, while still being shorter than a standard-issue M16. He especially appreciated that although it had been chambered for standard NATO rounds, it performed much better with a US-made Sierra Bullets MatchKing 77-grain hollow-point boat-tail bullet, although for jobs like this he preferred using his own bespoke ammunition.

      Stripped down, the dismembered weapon parts lay on the crisp linen sheets like instruments on a surgeon’s tray. Laying a white hand-towel down next to them, he carefully arranged the pieces on it and then rolled it into a tight bundle that he secured shut by wrapping duct tape around it several times. Shaking the trussed-up towel hard to make sure nothing rattled, he placed it in his backpack.

      Draining the last of the whisky, he turned his attention to his uniform, pulling on his red jacket and ensuring that his buttons were straight and done up right under his chin. Not quite as smart as the Army Green hanging in his wardrobe back in Charlotte, carefully positioned so you could see the gold flash of his Rangers badge through the plastic, but it would serve its purpose. He doubted the dry-cleaning company had even noticed that it had been taken from its storeroom, and as for the waiter whose security pass he’d stolen and doctored…well, he wouldn’t be missing anything anytime soon.

      Finally, he smoothed down his light brown hair, almost not recognising himself without his straggly beard. That was one thing that had thrown him about Vegas. You could walk around in an Elvis suit or with a twelve-foot albino python around your neck and nobody would give you a second look. But wander more than twenty feet down the strip with a beard and people would stare at you like you were a freak in a circus side-show.

      In the end, he’d had no choice but to shave it off. How else to blend in with the casino staff? How else to get where he needed to be, to take the shot?

       NINE

       McCarran International Airport, Nevada

       17th March - 10.37 p.m.

      ‘Kezman’s laying it on pretty thick,’ Tom observed as the plane taxied to a halt and the stairs folded down. A stretched white Hummer emblazoned with a gilded letter ‘A’ was waiting to greet them, its neon undercarriage staining the apron blue. ‘First the jet. Now this. What does he want?’

      ‘A friendly word with the Nevada Gaming Control Board,’ Stokes growled, as he pushed past Tom and stepped through the doorway. An unmarked FBI escort vehicle was drawn up behind the limo and he gestured at them to follow. ‘One of his pit bosses was caught dealing ecstasy to some college kids out here on spring break and he doesn’t want to lose his gaming licence.’

      An envelope was waiting for them on the white leather seat, together with three glasses and a bottle of Cristal on ice. To Jennifer’s surprise, it was addressed to her. She opened it with a puzzled frown which relaxed into a slow nod as she realised what it was.

      ‘Status update from my other case,’ she explained as she flicked through it, guessing that someone in the escort vehicle must have been entrusted with it to pass on to her. Nodding, Stokes shuffled further along the seat towards the driver and reached for his phone.

      ‘Bad news?’ Tom asked eventually, his question prompting her unconscious scowl to fade into a rueful smile.

      ‘Isn’t it always?’ she replied, placing the typed pages down next to her.

      ‘Anything I can help with?’

      She paused, her eyes locked with his. Discussing a live investigation with a civilian, let alone a civilian with Tom’s flawed credentials, wasn’t exactly standard procedure. Then again, her case wasn’t exactly standard either, and she had learned to value his opinion. Besides, who would know? Certainly not Stokes, whom she could overhear noisily checking on the money and making sure that Las Vegas Metro weren’t playing their usual jurisdictional games.

      ‘A few weeks ago the Customs boys over in Norfolk got a tip-off about a shipment of car parts out of Hamburg,’ she began in a low voice, leaning in closer. ‘When they opened the container everything looked fine, but something weird showed up on the X-ray.’

      ‘A marzipan layer?’ Tom guessed.

      ‘Exactly. Car parts stacked at the front and round the sides. A smaller crate hidden in the middle filled with furniture.’

      ‘Furniture?’ Tom frowned.

      ‘Eileen Gray. Ten to fifteen million dollars’ worth.’

      Tom whistled, echoing her own surprise when she’d first understood what they were dealing with. Eileen Gray art deco furniture was apparently as rare as it was expensive.

      ‘They boxed it back up and then followed the shipment via a freight-forwarding service to an art dealer in Queens, an Italian who moved here in the seventies. He started squealing the minute they kicked down the door. It turns out he thought they were a hit squad. I don’t think anyone’s ever been so relieved to see a badge.’

      ‘Who did he think had sent them?’

      ‘It turns out that he’s been smuggling pieces for a high-end antiquities trafficking ring for years. The furniture was a little side-deal he’d cooked up for himself. He thought they’d found out.’

      ‘What sort of antiquities?’ Tom asked.

      ‘Statues, vases, plates, jewellery, even entire frescoes. Most of it illegally excavated from Roman and Etruscan tombs. One of their favourite tricks was to cover objects in liquid plastic and then paint them so that they looked like cheap souvenirs. That’s when they called me in.’

      ‘My mother used to be an antiquities dealer,’ Tom sighed. ‘I remember her once describing graverobbing as the world’s second oldest profession.

      ‘You’re talking about tomb robbers?’

      ‘In Italy they call them tombaroli, in Peru huaceros,’ Tom nodded. ‘Mexico, Cambodia, China, Iraq - The truth is that as long as there are people prepared to buy pieces without asking difficult questions about where they’ve come from, there’ll be others only too happy to dig them up.’ But Italy is ground zero, the Terra Santa of the tombrobbing world. It’s got over forty UNESCO World Heritage Sites and the remains of about five different civilisations.’ A pause. ‘Did your guy ID any of his buyers?’

      She gave a firm shake of her head.

      ‘His job was just to get the stuff through Customs. He never had any idea where it was coming from or going to. But he did give us another name. Someone from within the organisation who had apparently broken cover a few weeks before, looking to bring something across. We passed it on to the Italians and they said they’d check him out.’ She tapped the file next to her in annoyance. ‘The State Department’s been working on them to make sure they keep us in the loop, but so far they’re playing hard to get.’

      ‘Does this outfit have a name?’

      ‘We’re not sure. Have you ever heard of the Delian League?’

      Tom frowned.

      ‘League as in club?’

      ‘When we

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