Sweet Revenge

who’s managed to keep Interpol jumping for a decade, one who’s decided to retire from active duty, and would offer services in exchange for clemency.”
    “You’re speaking of The Shadow.”
    Philip meticulously brushed crumbs from his fingertips. He was a neat man, by habit and by necessity. “Hypothetically.”
    The Shadow. Spencer forgot his aching heel and jet lag. Millions of dollars in jewels had been stolen by the faceless figure of the thief known only as The Shadow. For ten years Spencer had tracked him, dogged him, missed him. For the past eighteen months Interpol had intensified its investigations, going so far as to set a thief to catch a thief—Philip Chamberlain, the only man Spencer knew whose exploits exceeded those of The Shadow. The man, Spencer thought on a sudden wave of fury, he had trusted.
    “You know who he is, dammit. You
have
known who he is and where we can find him.” Stuart braced his hands on the table. “Ten years. Ten years we’ve been after this man. And, damn you, for months you’ve been paid to find him while stringing us along. You’ve known his identity and whereabouts all the time!”
    “Perhaps I have.” Philip spread his long, artistic fingers. “Perhaps I haven’t.”
    “I feel like putting you in a cage and dropping the key in the Thames.”
    “But you won’t, because I’m like the son you never had.”
    “I have a son, blast you.”
    “Not like me.” Tipping back in his chair, Philip continued. “What I’m proposing is the same deal you and I made five years ago. You had the vision then to see that hiring the best had distinct advantages over pursuing the best.”
    “You were assigned to catch this man, not negotiate for him. If you have a name, I want a name. If you have a description, I want it. Facts, Philip, not hypothetical propositions.”
    “You have nothing,” Philip said abruptly. “Absolutely nothing after ten years. If I walk out of this room, you’ll still have nothing.”
    “I’ll have you.” Spencer’s voice was flat, and final enough to have Philip narrowing his eyes. “A man with your taste would find prison very disagreeable.”
    “Threats?” A chill, brief but very real, ran over Philip’s skin. He folded his hands and kept his eyes level, holding onto the certainty that Spencer was bluffing. Philip wasn’t. “I have clemency, remember? That was the deal.”
    “It’s you who’s changed the rules. Give me the name, Philip, and let me do my job.”
    “You think small, Stuart. That’s why you recovered only some diamonds while I took many. You put The Shadow in jail, you have only a thief in jail. Do you really think you’ll recover a fraction of what was taken over the last decade?”
    “It’s a matter of justice.”
    “Yes.”
    Philip’s tone had changed, Spencer realized, and for the first time in this conversation, he lowered his eyes. But not from shame. Spencer knew Philip too well to believe for a moment that the man was the least abashed.
    “It is a matter of justice, and we’ll come to that.” Philip rose again, too restless to sit. “When you assigned me to the case, I took it because this particular thief interested me. That hasn’t changed. In fact, you could say my interest has peaked considerably.” It wouldn’t do to push Spencer too far. True, they’d developed a grudging admiration for each otherover the years, but Spencer had always and would always stick to the straight and narrow. “Say, hypothetically still of course, that I do know the identity of The Shadow. Say we’ve had conversations that lead me to believe you could use this individual’s talents and that they would be given for the small consideration of a clean slate.”
    “Small
consideration? The bastard’s stolen more than you did.”
    Philip’s brows shot up. With a slight frown he brushed a crumb from his sleeve. “I hardly think it’s necessary to insult me. No one has stolen jewels with a greater total value than I did in my career.”
    “Proud of yourself, are you?” Color swept alarmingly into Spencer’s face. “Living the life of a thief isn’t something I’d boast about.”
    “Therein lies the difference between us.”
    “Crawling into windows, making deals in back alleys—”
    “Please, you’ll make me sentimental. No, better count to ten, Stuart. I don’t want to be responsible for an alarming rise in your blood pressure.” He picked up the teapot again. “Perhaps this is a good time to