The Revelation Relic

by Rob Jones

  When the elevator pinged and its brushed steel doors slid open, she looked not to Max Hunter but to Sal Blanco. Normally their modus operandi was to intercept and infiltrate criminal enterprises like this covertly, but there was no time for an operation like this now. This needed action and fast. That was why they had recruited two more agents from the NY office in the shape of Karl Mitzner and Mike Barnes.

  “You ready for this, Mr Blanco?”

  “It’s why I have my badge.”

  A typically honest answer from an old friend. She said nothing, but gave a nod and made eye contact with the rest of the HARPA team. No one was expecting any violence or personal danger in here; that wasn’t how men like Alexios Kandarian rolled. Their retaliation was subtler, invidious, litigious. He would name them in lawsuits and hound them for years. Go digging around looking for dirt. Lean on contacts in lobby groups and governments to fire Gates and shut down their department.

  Amy turned to face the penthouse lobby, straightened her suit and lifted her chin. She took a deep breath and reminded herself she had joined the FBI for moments exactly like this one. She stepped out of the elevator and walked over the thick plush pile to a desk where a young man in a crisp suit and wayfarer glasses was now looking up at her. He looked officious but content. She was about to ruin all that.

  “Can I help you?”

  Amy caught a note of contempt in his tone.

  “I’m here to speak with Alexios Kandarian.”

  He tutted and looked at his watch. “The event has already started and all doors are locked.”

  “Nevertheless, I need to speak with him.”

  He leaned back, smug with power. “Do you even have an invitation?”

  Mitzner sniffed, unimpressed by the attitude as Amy flipped open her ID wallet with the casual ease borne of years of experience. She flashed the young man her gold FBI badge. “I think this is my invitation.”

  He hesitated and glanced down at the phone on his desk. “Maybe I’d better speak with Alina Jahovic.”

  “Who is Alina Jahovic?”

  “Mr Kandarian’s personal assistant. There’s nothing goes on in the Kandarian Group without her knowing about it.”

  Amy and Blanco exchanged a glance. “That’s too bad for her,” Amy said.

  “She’s also very busy,” the man said.

  “Aren’t we all?” Barnes said, shoving his hands into his pockets and sighing.

  Blanco stepped forward. “You think we should do this guy for obstruction of justice?”

  Amy made a big show of weighing it up. She leaned forward and looked at the polished brass name plate on the young man’s desk. “I think maybe we do. Mr Peterson here is now fully aware there’s a formal proceeding underway and clearly he has specific intent to obstruct and interfere with my investigation.”

  “I think we get a conviction,” Blanco said nonchalantly.

  “I do too,” Amy said. “I think he’d get five years.”

  Peterson cleared his throat. “Now, just wait a minute. I never said you couldn’t speak to him at all. I merely said the doors were locked and asked to see your invitations.”

  “And I showed you my invitation,” Amy said, putting her ID badge back in her suit. “Are you going to take us Mr Kandarian or is your next phone call to the most expensive lawyer you’ll ever need?”

  Peterson sighed and picked up his phone. “Please wait a moment while I try and get Ms Jahovic.”

  Amy sighed. “That’s a start.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Blanco said.

  “Progress at last.” It was the first thing Hunter had said since entering the penthouse. Amy had silently appreciated the English archaeologist keeping his mouth shut while they were talking to Peterson. He knew nothing about US law enforcement and had wisely decided to let the experts handle the situation. If there was one thing a situation like this didn’t need it was Hunter’s unique brand of humor.

  A wooden door clunked open and a tall, athletic woman with blonde hair and bright red lips stepped into sight. As she crossed the carpet in her stilettos, she instantly owned the room and everything in it. Without even acknowledging Peterson, she approached Amy and her team.

  “Is it me or is it getting hot in here?” Blanco muttered, tugging at his collar.

  “I heard that,” Amy said.

  The woman in black stopped in front of them. “I’m Alina Jahovic,” she said. “I’m Mr Kandarian’s personal assistant and I understand you wish to speak with him?”

  Noticing the looks on Hunter’s, Blanco’s and Lewis’s faces as they took in the lithe six-foot frame of Jahovic and the silken blonde hair floating just above her shoulders, Amy rolled her eyes and stepped up to her.

  “Yes, we do. I’m Special Agent Fox with HARPA.”

  “HARPA?”

  “The Heritage, Artifacts and Relics Protection Agency. We’re a rapid deployment team and part of the FBI.”

  Jahovic suspiciously eyed the team standing behind Amy. “And what might the FBI want to discuss with Mr Kandarian?”

  Amy knew she was trying to intimidate them, and worse, stall for time.

  “That’s between Mr Kandarian and the FBI. I already had to threaten young Peterson over there with obstruction. You want the same?”

  Jahovic smiled like a crocodile. “If you’re trying to apply obstruction to me you’re not going to get very far, Special Agent Fox. Code 1503 defines that very clearly and there’s been no threats or force here today. I majored in law at Stanford after leaving the Armenian Army.”

  Amy kept her eyes fixed on the woman. Paraphrasing the code had been intended to put her on the back foot, but it had failed. “If you were such a hotshot at Stanford you’d know the code’s definition includes any act corruptly impeding the due administration of justice which is what your attempt at stalling for time is doing right now. Take us to Alexios Kandarian now or you’re in cuffs by the end of the current minute.”

  Lewis leaned into their conversation. “And that’s a New York minute, naturally.”

  Jahovic was unfazed, but the smile faded. “Very well, please follow me.”

  *

  The woman in the black suit led the way through the wooden door and down a long wide corridor, resplendent with ancient classical statues and ornaments. Her heels clicked on the white marble tiles as she hurried past priceless sculptures, glancing at the Cartier watch on her slim wrist on the way. On their right, the wall turned into a long window. Amy glanced through it and saw a swimming pool covered in rose petals and floating candles.

  “How the other half live,” she muttered.

  “I don’t think fifty percent live like this,” Hunter said. “More like a hundredth of a percent.”

  Directly ahead was a sweeping glass and timber staircase leading up to an expansive galleried landing boasting works of art from the renaissance period.

  “Mr Kandarian is up on the second floor,” Jahovic said. “Please follow me.”

  “What else does she think we’re going to do?” Jodie asked.

  “Maybe steal the artwork?” said Quinn.

  The Californian woman gave a rare smile. “I’d settle for twenty minutes in that pool.”

  At the top of the stairs, Jahovic pushed open a door to reveal a large two storey room filled with an opulence Amy could barely comprehend. The FBI woman was inwardly taken aback by the surrounding luxury, but too professional to let anyone know it. The same sort of curved window wall she had seen behind Peterson’s desk, only this time much grander, was arcing around the outside of a vast living space decorated with furniture fashioned out of black wood and glass and chrome. It was not homely or inviting, but cold and stark and surgical.

  At least fifty men and women were sitting on chairs arranged to resemble an auction house, and at the front of the room a man in a gray suit was standing behind an art deco lectern with a handcrafted wooden gavel in his hand. Pointing at a man in the front row, he accepted a bid and raised the increment.

&
nbsp; Jahovic stopped on a dime and turned to Amy. “Wait here.”

  Before Amy replied, the PA was walking across the room to the front of the gathering. Amy scanned the crowd for any sign of Kandarian.

  “You see him?” Jodie asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Cruella de Vil seems to be walking around to the left,” Quinn said.

  Lewis suppressed a chuckle.

  “I think I see him now,” Amy said, ignoring the banter. “He’s sitting on the far left in the gray suit. Black shirt, no tie.”

  “Dude with the black hair?” Jodie asked.

  “I think so.”

  Jahovic and the man spoke for a few moments, then he turned and looked over at them with a look of irritation on his face. He was in his late fifties with a lean, chiselled jaw and the physique of a man who possessed a private gym and swimming pool in every home he owned.

  He rose from the chair, made his apologies to those around him and walked over to them with Jahovic gliding in his wake.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “That’s right,” Amy said, showing him her badge.

  “It’s not every day a simple businessman such as me is honored by the presence of such an esteemed organization. How can I help you?”

  Amy felt everything that had happened in her life distilling down into the next ten seconds.

  “Alexios Kandarian, you’re under arrest under Title 18 of the US Code, Section 659, theft from interstate shipment and Section 668, theft of major artwork. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  Dozens of eyes turned and crawled all over the awkward moment.

  “This is outrageous!” Kandarian said.

  “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

  “For this, I will destroy your career!”

  Amy ignored the threat. “Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”

  “All of you will be crushed by my lawyers!”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Amy said, turning to Mitzner and Barnes. “Take Mr Kandarian away, please, and then get everyone’s details and let them go.”

  *

  In the silence of the now empty penthouse and with Kandarian and Jahovic safely out of the way in FBI custody, the HARPA colleagues worked diligently for over an hour in search of anything that might further incriminate the billionaire. But the real prize was anything relating to the location of the lion statue Markovich had talked about.

  “I think I got something here,” Quinn said.

  Amy stopped her search of Kandarian’s desk and looked over at her. “On his personal laptop?”

  “No, on the iPad I found in the bedroom. It wasn’t hidden anywhere and neither is this conversation on Messenger. He’s in conversation with a man named Giuseppe Gallo who from what’s written here has the other statue that Markovich was talking about.”

  “We have a name!” Amy dropped the paperwork she was holding and walked over to Quinn. “That’s great! What else is there?”

  “Looks like he’s no friend of Alexios Kandarian, that’s for sure. Kandarian had originally struck a deal with the smuggler in Beirut to buy both of the statues, but then the smuggler reneged on the deal and sold one of them after a higher bid from Gallo. Kandarian tried to buy the statue from Gallo but he wouldn’t budge.”

  “Where is this Gallo?”

  “Looks like he owns some sort of private museum in Rome, Italy.”

  Hunter caught a sparkle in Amy’s eye. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it, right?”

  Amy said nothing. She was thinking about what Gates might say – visas, travel budgets, connections at the US Consulate General in the city.

  “So, what’s next?” Lewis asked. “Are we going to Rome?”

  Amy and Blanco shared a mutual look of pity. “You think we’re going straight to Rome without running this past Mr James Gates?”

  “Judging by the look on your two faces, I’d guess not.”

  “Good guess,” Amy said. “Not only will Jim want a full debriefing about the raid on the Goa Express, he’s probably going to order some serious research into our findings so far, especially the detail on the statues. This isn’t some crazy adventure novel where we just fly off all over the place whenever we feel like. This is real life, with real lives and real bureaucracy.”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “And God, how I love bureaucracy,” Amy said sincerely.

  “Weirdo,” Quinn said.

  Jodie said, “You love computer coding. I’d stop talking if I were you.”

  Amy turned to Hunter. “How much longer will you need to look at the photos Quinn took of the statue back on the Goa Express, Max?”

  “Five or six hours.”

  “You’ve got three, and that includes the flight time back to DC.”

  “That clears that up then,” Hunter said. “So we’re heading back to HARPA HQ now, are we?”

  “You bet your ass,” Amy said, taking out her phone. “I’m calling the pilot.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Back in DC, Lewis took another peek at the image of his newborn son on his phone and couldn’t resist smiling. He replied to his wife’s message, signed off with a kiss and slipped the phone back into his pocket. They were both safe, inside the family home in the Southwest Waterfront, having just returned from the Maine Avenue Fish Market. Meg was going to attempt a smoked salmon and halibut fish pie with mashed Yukon Gold potatoes while simultaneously looking after their two week-old child. He saluted her optimism.

  “Earth to Dr Benedict Lewis.”

  “Huh?” He turned and saw Amy looking across the briefing table at him.

  “I’m judging from the goofy look on your face that message was from Meg.”

  “Your judgement is good, Special Agent Fox. You will go far.”

  “They both doing okay?”

  He nodded, still unable to fight the grin from his face. “I think so. It’s all so new.”

  “You’ll get used to it, I guess.”

  Gates stormed into the room and threw a folder down on the desk. “He might, but as for me, I won’t get used to all this talk about babies in my briefing room.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Lewis said, still beaming.

  Gates gave him a chunky pat on the shoulder as he walked past to the head of the table. “How are they both, Ben?”

  “All good.”

  “That’s good to hear, Special Agent Lewis. If you need anything, just ask. Anything at all. Anything except time off.”

  Lewis laughed. “You got it.”

  “Or a raise.”

  “Received loud and clear, sir.”

  Hunter walked in with a laptop under his arm and took a seat at the table. By now, they were starting to accept the newest arrival on the team, and for his part, Hunter was slowly beginning to learn about them, too.

  Blanco was the diplomat, bringing the younger members of the team together. Once bitten, twice shy Jodie was distant and yet in the Atlantis debriefing, she had been the one to ask Gates if Hunter was on the team. That had surprised him and let him see her in a different light. When it came to Jodie, he was reminded of the old sixteenth century English dramatist John Fletcher’s saying, deeds, not words shall speak me.

  Quinn liked to appear as an unknown quantity. Unpredictable and mysterious. The definition of enigmatic. And yet he saw through the smoke and mirrors and found an insecure young woman looking for a safe haven. Worse, her intelligence frightened him.

  Lewis was straight enough – he spoke his mind and stepped up to the plate without being asked. He liked Lewis, and he respected the time he had served his country in the marines as well as funding himself through a history doctorate while trying to start and support a young family.

  And then there was Amy.

  Amy was something else altogether. A complex childhood. Old money. A demanding mother wh
o had pressured her into making decisions against her will. If any of this had harmed her, he couldn’t see any sign of it. She was solid, intelligent, funny and a great leader – not that he would ever tell her any of that. As for Gates. Gates was a former US Navy officer who took no shit and wouldn’t give you an inch, but he was also the type who would take a bullet if it meant protecting his team.

  How they saw him, he had no idea. An English interloper stumbling into the middle of their patch with a head full of ancient knowledge and a smart mouth, probably. What he wanted them to see was a reliable and valuable member of the team, which is why he’d worked so hard on the statues.

  Earlier, he had taken his laptop into a quiet room and spent a few hours poring over Quinn’s photos of the ox statue stolen by the Russians. Comparing it to the eagle statue already in HARPA custody and consulting extensive research notes from previous projects, he had made good progress but it was getting late in the day. As he walked in, Gates sighed and looked at his watch, then pushed a chair out for the Londoner with his shoe.

  “Glad you could join us, Dr Hunter.”

  “When I told Special Agent Fox I needed five or six hours, I wasn’t just pulling a number out of my arse.”

  Amy sighed. “Ass.”

  “Arse,” Hunter said. “I don’t even own a donkey.”

  “What the hell?” said Jodie.

  “Whatever you call it,” Blanco said, “I think Max is trying to tell us he needed longer than six hours to analyse the statues.”

  “Damn right, I did,” Hunter said, unapologetically. “I always mean what I say and I meant five or six hours.”

  Quinn glanced at the time on her phone. “And yet you did it in four. You’re my hero.”

  “Gee, what a great responsibility.” Hunter took the seat Gates had pushed out for him and set the photos and his laptop on the table. “Let me start by saying that the reason it took that amount of time is because of what I mentioned back on the Goa Express. The painted images are clear enough but the ancient Greek inscription has not fared so well over the intervening centuries. I had to use a magnifying glass to make out some of the lettering and ensure I had that right before I could even begin to think about translating it.”