Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

AGNES FOTHERINGTON OBSERVED THE gathering crowd outside the exhibition room and felt a warm glow of pride. Merovingian Treasures was the biggest event for Anglo-­Saxon history enthusiasts in a generation. Not since the famous ship burial at Sutton Hoo was unearthed in the late 1930s had such an impressive array of treasures from the period been found in one place, and so perfectly preserved. And once again, Agnes Fotherington was part of it.

A keen amateur archaeologist, Agnes had assisted on some of the later digs at Sutton Hoo back in the 1980s. She’d been in her midforties then, teaching history at a local grammar school in Kent. Her husband, Billy, had gone with her, and together they’d had a whale of a time.

“Imagine!” Billy used to say, over a steak-­and-­kidney pie at the Coach & Horses in Woodbridge after a long day on-­site. “A ­couple of nobodies like us, Ag, becoming footnotes to history!”

That was his expression. Footnotes to history.

Agnes missed Billy.

He’d been dead ten years now, but he’d have loved to see all the fanfare today. Jeff Stevens, the lovely American antiquities director, rushing about like a blue-­arsed fly, anxious for everything to go well, but somehow always with a smile for everyone, despite his nerves. Billy would have liked Jeff.

He’d have liked Rebecca too, Jeff’s young assistant. So many young ­people were getting interested in the period now; that was the really marvelous thing. Anglo-­Saxon history used to be considered distinctly unsexy. It had never had the pizzazz of Egyptology, say, or the popular appeal of Ancient Rome. But perhaps Merovingian Treasures would change all that. How wonderful if the golden wonders unearthed beneath a Norwich parking lot should one day become as famous as Tutankhamen’s tomb.

“It’s a great turnout, isn’t it?”

Tracy Stevens, Jeff’s young wife, put an affectionate arm around Agnes Fotherington’s shoulder. Agnes liked Tracy. They’d met a few times in the run-­up to the exhibition when Tracy had popped in to say hello to Jeff or to help out with the cataloging. Of course all the volunteers knew that Mrs. Stevens was pregnant, and that she and Jeff were over the moon. The pair of them were obviously madly in love. Agnes Fotherington was sure they’d make wonderful parents.

“Phenomenal turnout,” Agnes agreed. “And do look how young some of them are. I mean, take that chap over there with the tattoos. You’d never peg him as a seventh-­century history buff, now, would you?”

“No,” said Tracy, who’d been thinking exactly the same thing, although for very different reasons. “You wouldn’t.”

She’d already spotted at least four potential thieves in the crowd. The tattooed young man looked more like your smash-­and-­grab type. But there were others. A pregnant woman who seemed overly interested in the CCTV cameras in the lobby. A pair of Eastern European men in jeans and T-­shirts who appeared nervous and kept making eye contact with each other without speaking. One dark-­suited man in particular, quiet, unobtrusive and here alone, had caught Tracy’s attention. It was nothing she could explain rationally. More of a sixth sense. But something told her he wasn’t just an interested tourist.

Part of Tracy wouldn’t have blamed them for trying to make off with the gold. With security this lax, the British Museum was almost asking to be robbed. She said as much to Jeff, but he didn’t seem worried.

“I guess we’ll just have to take our chances. A robbery attempt might even give the exhibition some spice! After all, there’s nothing more authentically Anglo-­Saxon than a bit of looting.”

Tracy had loved him for that comment. It was the old Jeff to a tee.

At eleven o’clock exactly the red rope was unhooked from its silver clip and the visitors began streaming into the first of four display spaces. Their handbags and backpacks had already been spot-­searched at the main entrance, but they were not examined again now, Tracy noticed. Instead the visitors were offered a chance to leave their coats in a cloakroom and encouraged to buy programs and take advantage of the audio tours being handed out by two of Mrs. Fotherington’s friends.

After that they were ushered in a slow-­moving figure eight past the various displays—­weaponry, coinage, ceremonial objects and daily life—­before being funneled into a temporary Merovingian Treasures gift shop, selling replicas of all the above, along with the usual key rings and “I Love the British Museum” T-­shirts.

Jeff and Rebecca mingled with the visitors, moving from room to room. Tracy left them to it, limiting her support for Jeff to an encouraging wave as she returned from the ladies’ room to the front desk.

“Tracy, thank goodness. We’re almost out of brochures!” Agnes Fotherington grabbed her arm in a panic. “I had a hundred copies here but they’ve gone in about six minutes.”

“I can go and grab some more from the gift shop if you like,” Tracy offered.

“Would you?” The old woman was visibly relieved. “You’re an angel.”

Weaving her way through the exhibition, already packed with ­people, Tracy hurried toward the shop. As she moved through the coin room she noticed the man who’d caught her attention earlier in the lobby. He was leaning over the display case housing the rare Frankish coins, looking at them with a controlled intensity that made her distinctly uneasy.

I must mention him to Jeff.

At the gift shop, Tracy had just collected a stack of brochures and asked Maurice Bentley, the volunteer in charge, to call down to the stockroom for more when it happened. An earsplitting alarm rang out, a combination of sirens and bells and a grating, electronic vibration that made the cheap Merovingian coins rattle and jump in their plastic display cases.

“What on earth . . . ?” Maurice Bentley covered his ears.

“What is that?” Tracy shouted through the din at a passing staff member. “Has something been stolen?”

“No. It’s the fire alarm. Probably just kids messing about.”

Or not.

Tracy’s heart rate began to quicken.

“DON’T LOOK SO PANICKED,” Rebecca shouted in Jeff’s ear. “It’s probably just kids messing about.”

Jeff wasn’t listening. He was in Amsterdam, at the diamond-­cutting factory. The lights went out and an alarm sounded, just like this one. An alarm that he and Tracy had triggered. In Amsterdam, steel shutters had slammed down over doors and windows, sealing the exits. But Jeff and Tracy had still made off with the Lucullan Diamond.

Tracy had posed as a pregnant tourist for that job, Jeff as a technician. Wasn’t there a pregnant woman in the crowd outside today?

Jeff’s mind raced. What would be the easiest thing to steal?

He sprinted into the coin room.

Everything seemed in order. The priceless sixth-­century gold coin, the centerpiece of the exhibition, was still in its locked glass case. Nothing appeared to have been moved, or broken or disturbed. Visitors covered their ears and filed toward the exit, but there was no panic, no screaming or drama. It was all terribly British and reserved. A man in a suit was the last to leave, and he stopped and held the door politely for Jeff.

“False alarm, I expect.” He gave Jeff a patient smile.

“I expect so.”

ABOUT HALF AN HOUR later Jeff found Tracy, outside. The whole museum had been evacuated onto Great Russell Street, but no one seemed especially put out. ­People were chatting and laughing about the unexpected drama as they waited to be readmitted.

“Everything all right?” Tracy asked Jeff.

“I think so. Some idiot left a lit cigarette in the bathroom.”

“Nothing was taken, then?”

Jeff shook his head. “I thought the same thing, but Rebecca and I went through everything three times. It’s all there. None of the other departments have reported any problems.”

“Good.” Tracy hugged him. She felt hugely relieved.

“We’re getting too cynical in our old age, you and I,” said Jeff, only half joking. “We’re gonna have to work on that before Jeff Junior arrives.”

FOR THE NEXT FEW weeks, Tracy saw very little of Jeff. There were no further dramas at the museum, and Merovingian Treasures proved to be a huge hit as an exhibition, taking up all of Jeff’s time.

Professor Trenchard called him.

“Everybody’s raving about you in Bloomsbury. I can’t tell you how much kudos I’m getting for having brought you in.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” said Jeff. “I really don’t know how to thank you, Nick.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m quite happy enough to bask in your reflected glory.”

THE NIGHT THE EXHIBITION closed, Jeff came home disconsolate.

“I can’t believe it’s all over.”

“Poor baby.”

Tracy wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her tiny baby bump against the small of his back. She’d been feeling exhausted recently, a side effect of the pregnancy according to Alan—­Dr. McBride—­but so far had avoided morning sickness and the smell of food didn’t bother her. Tonight she’d prepared Jeff a special dinner of spaghetti carbonara. A delicious scent of bacon, cheese and cream wafted through from the kitchen.

“I’ve got something for you. To cheer you up.”

She led Jeff into the drawing room, a beautifully proportioned Georgian living room with high ceilings, wide oak floorboards and original sash windows overlooking the richly planted “Queen Anne,” British slang for a front garden.

“You already cheered me up,” said Jeff, sinking into the sofa. “How are you feeling today, beautiful?”

“I’m fine.” Tracy handed him a gin and tonic with ice and lemon. “But this is gonna cheer you up more. At least I hope it will.”

She pulled a small, black leather box out of her pocket and handed it to him, a little nervously. She knew there was a chance Jeff might take the gift the wrong way, and she desperately wanted to please him, to bring a touch of their old life back with all its fun and excitement.

“Let’s just say I went to a lot of trouble to get ahold of it.”

Jeff opened the box. Tracy watched, delighted, as his eyes widened.

“Where did you get this?”

She grinned. “Where do you think?”

“My God.” Jeff gasped. “It’s the real thing, isn’t it? I thought for a second it might be a really good copy.”

“A copy? Please.” Tracy sounded offended. “Copies are for the hoi polloi, darling. Only the best for you.”

Jeff stood up. Tracy thought he was coming over to kiss her, but when he looked up she saw that his eyes were alight with anger.

“Are you out of your mind?” He held the coin up to her face accusingly. In his hand was the silver coin of Cynethryth of Mercia, one of the British Museum’s rarest treasures. “You stole this.”

“Yes. For you.” Tracy looked confused. “I know how much it meant to you. Besides, you said it yourself. Nothing could be more Anglo-­Saxon than a bit of looting.”

She smiled. Jeff didn’t smile back.

“That was a joke!” He looked at her aghast. “How did you . . . when . . . ?”

“The day your exhibition opened. I knew the other Saxon rooms would be totally empty. All anyone was interested in was Merovingian Treasures. So I set off the fire alarm, slipped into the south wing, and, well . . . I just took it. Those cases aren’t even alarmed,” she added, a note of disdain in her voice. “It’s like if it isn’t the Elgin Marbles or the Rosetta Stone, no one cares.”

“Everybody cares!” said Jeff furiously. “I care. In any case, those cases are locked. Where did you get the key?”

Tracy looked at him as if he were mad.

“I copied yours, of course. Really, darling, it’s not exactly rocket science. I Googled the coin, after you said you liked it so much, and I got a copy made at a little jeweler in the East End. Then I swapped it out for the original. Easy.”

Jeff was speechless.

Upset by his reaction, Tracy added defiantly, “And you know what? No one noticed the difference! No one except you even looks at that thing. Why shouldn’t you have it?”

“Because it’s not mine!” Jeff said, exasperated. “It belongs to the nation. I’ve been trusted to protect it, Tracy. And now my wife, my own wife, goes and steals it!”

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Tears welled up in Tracy’s eyes.

“Well, I’m not.”

She couldn’t understand Jeff’s reaction. Especially after she’d gone to so much trouble. He used to be proud of me when I pulled off jobs like that. No one had been hurt, after all. The old Jeff would have been pleased, amused, delighted. Tracy wanted the old Jeff back.

Jeff was staring down at the coin in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. “Rebecca said she thought you seemed distracted on opening day,” he murmured. “I remember she asked me if there was anything up with you.”

“Oh, Rebecca said something, did she?” Tracy shot back angrily. “Well, bully for Rebecca! I’ll bet perfect little Rebecca would never sink so low as to steal a national treasure, now, would she?”

“No, she wouldn’t,” said Jeff.

“Because she’s not a dishonest con artist like me, right?”

Jeff shrugged as if to say, If the shoe fits.

Tears of anger and humiliation streamed down Tracy’s cheeks. “Your little girlfriend may be better than me—­”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jeff snapped. “Rebecca isn’t my girlfriend.”

“But if she’s better than me, she’s better than you too, Jeff. Have you forgotten who you are? You’re a con artist, Jeff Stevens. You may have retired, but you’ve got a twenty-­year life of crime behind you, my friend! So don’t you come playing the high-­handed saint with . . .”

Tracy stopped abruptly, like a child freezing in a game of musical statues.

“What?” said Jeff.

Tracy stared at him, her eyes wide and desperate, like a rabbit about to be shot. Then she looked down. Droplets of blood, dark and heavy, fell slowly from between her legs onto the floorboards.

She started to sob.

“All right, sweetheart. Don’t panic.” Jeff dropped the coin and put his arms around her. This was Tracy, his Tracy. What was he thinking, getting so angry with her in her condition. “It’ll be okay. Just lie down.”

Jeff ran for the phone. “I need an ambulance. Yes, Forty-­five Eaton Square. As fast as you can, please.”