But he wasn抰 giving up hope.
Maybe one day.
Ahead, the motor to the boat he was pursuing cranked.
Not good.
No way he could keep pace by rowing.
Luckily, the boat barely puttered along. Surely trying not to attract attention. There were speed limits within the city. The banks on both sides of the river were lined with houses, shops, and restaurants. Portions were lit. Others not so much. He抎 passed three boats out for the night, both low to the water, designed to fit beneath the many bridges that provided only minimal clearance.
He grabbed the oars and decided to add a little speed to his drift. The current was helping, but only enough to keep him barely moving. He kept his gaze locked on the boat about fifty yards away. Its occupant seemed unaware of being followed. Otherwise they would have used their horsepower advantage and sped away. Thankfully, the ever-increasing darkness blotted him from sight.
Ahead he spotted the Gravensteen, a fearsome twelfth-century fortress, lit to the night. Once the seat for the Counts of Flanders, it had been first modeled after a Syrian crusader castle, he knew, then remodeled in the nineteenth century to reflect what Victorians thought a medieval castle should look like. It came complete with a moat, turrets, and arrow slits built originally to thwart Viking invasions. He抎 toured it once.
The boat ahead passed the fortress.
Now about a hundred yards separated them.
Ghent抯 downtown was chopped up like a puzzle, its pieces outlined by rivers, tributaries, and canals. Hard to go in any direction and not find water. Luckily, here the river was straight, devoid of bends, more empty boats at anchor against the stone walks and walls at the edges. He grabbed his bearings and realized they were heading toward the northern reaches of town, the buildings on either bank becoming progressively darker. He kept paddling, trying not to lose the other craft.
He抎 come a long way from the FBI抯 Art Crime Team. Cultural trafficking was a looming criminal enterprise. Billions of dollars were stolen annually. The FBI had long operated a team of twenty agents, trained and supported by another special team of Justice Department prosecutors. The twenty were divided into five units of four, each responsible for cases in an assigned geographic region. His team had been headed by a no-nonsense special agent named Bill Muntan and oversaw the southwest United States. During his five years with the FBI hundreds of millions of dollars in looted art and cultural treasures had been recovered. Then, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, his life changed.
揢NESCO is looking for a field asset,?Muntan said to him. 揟his is something new for them.?
He抎 worked with UNESCO several times on cases. It possessed a wealth of information and access to even more. But he抎 been unaware that it employed active assets.
揟hey want someone young, eager, and hungry,?Muntan said. 揑 thought of you.?
揑 like my job now.?
揂nd I抦 not particularly fond of losing you. But if the UN is going to get into the same hands-on business that we do, I want a friend over there. Someone I can call on and who will call on me. I like to have friends in places.?
Point made. So he抎 taken the job.
And never regretted it.
The past six years had been the most exciting and productive of his life. His professional success seemed due to an alchemy of intelligence, courage, and a capacity for hard work. He was now thirty-seven years old, fit physically and mentally, with a solid career and the prospects of even more.
So what else mattered?
At the moment retrieving Kelsey抯 laptop had vaulted to the top of his must-do list.
A part of him wanted to be there for her.
No matter what.
Ahead, he saw his target ease toward the east bank of the river. He stopped paddling and watched as a black figure hopped from the boat and headed up a set of stairs to street level. It was hard to tell if the form was male or female. A lit building stood at the top, across the street from the river, a few parked cars hugging the curbs in front. He watched as the figure topped the stairs, laptop tucked under one arm, crossed the street, and stepped through a gate in what appeared to be an iron fence. The figure then vanished through the building抯 front door.
He resumed paddling.
A light came on in a second-floor window, near the center of the rectangle. He made his way to the same quay, secured the dinghy, and climbed the stone risers. At the top, he crossed the quiet street and approached the iron gate. The building beyond was a four-story, brick rectangle with two projecting wings that stretched from either side toward the back. It was flanked on one side by more multistory brick buildings that all faced the river. Its roof was steeply pitched slate dotted with dormers. The spiny tentacles of tall blooming trees rose close to the walls. Windows sheathed by opaque curtains allowed only a halo of light to seep outward in the upper stories, the pedimented front door shielded by a porch and lit by two iron fixtures. He saw no cameras or other overt security, and the gate itself was unlocked. But what really puzzled him was the sign near the main entrance.