Page 14 of Code Name: Harbor

The person I met in the cabin of his fishing boat was most definitely a third, but I have no proof of that.

I close the tab just as one of the newer agents walks up to my desk, a young woman named Felicity who came straight from an enlistment as an army helicopter pilot.

“These were just delivered for you, Josie,” she says brightly.

My jaw drops as I take in the massive bouquet in a crystal vase. It’s jammed full of peonies and ranunculus in soft pinks and creams.

She places them on the edge of my desk and plucks out a card, handing it to me. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”

“I’m not,” I murmur as I take the small envelope and open it.

I slide the card out and turn it over.

Hope you were able to get some good sleep and recuperate from your adventure last night. - F

I read it twice, my eyes cutting back and forth between it and the flowers.

I’m flabbergasted he reached out to me, and in such a… romantic way? Or maybe it’s just thoughtful.

But flowers.

That means something, right?

But what? He’s a criminal. Or he used to be. Maybe still is.

“What’s it say?” Felicity asks.

I slip the card into my desk drawer. “Nothing. Just a sweet note from a thoughtful friend.”

“If you say so,” she replies, lifting a shoulder before turning away.

I stare at the flowers, reaching out to touch one of the peonies. My hand shakes slightly.

Six women in a panel van. A man with a fast boat who shot at the Russians on my behalf. A bouquet from a smuggler.

I have no choice but to find him.

CHAPTER 4

Finn

The painting should not be in my house. In the years I’ve been smuggling artwork from Canada to the United States, I’ve never brought items to my home or my art gallery. It’s always handled at arm’s length.

But when I decided to rescue Josie last night, it screwed up the land transfer, and we had no choice but to bring it here. After we dropped Josie off, it took another hour and a half of navigating the waterways to a public marina where Connie met us. Luckily, no one was walking the docks and we were able to get the case into her Bronco. It’s temporarily residing in my home until I can meet up with the buyer tonight.

The de Hooch painting is currently in my study in a custom archival case, and I have no desire to open it up and take a gander. Despite the fact that I own a fine art gallery and smuggle illegal art, I don’t have much interest in it. And while I know most everything about the business, I leave that in the capable hands of my gallery director.

No, the thing I understand is money and that people will pay a premium for a three-hundred-and-seventy-five-year-old painting.

And what a journey it’s had. It once hung in an Amsterdam house by a family of Jewish sympathizers. Their home was raided and the art was confiscated by the Nazis, which was typical. From there it was mislabeled, misplaced and forgotten amid the chaos of war. It resurfaced in a private European collection years later with just enough paperwork to look legal but too many missing years to be auctioned off at legitimate houses like Christie’s.

Thus, it sunk into the gray market where it made its way to Canada. To get across the border to the US buyer, my services were enlisted to keep the painting off the books with no customs declarations, no questions.

And now here it sits, waiting for a buyer who has so much money, he doesn’t care if it’s authenticated. He only wants to possess it. Until midnight though, the painting stays in my study.

I exit the room and close the double doors behind me. It’s almost five p.m. and the great room is flooded with amber light.

This house and my ability to buy it speaks to everything I’ve done to claw my way to the top. I’ve spent the past seven years making it the version of itself I imagined when I was fifteen and sleeping under a viaduct off Aurora Avenue.