Wednesday, 30 June 1999, 7:37 PM
Laurel Ridge Farm
Near Columbia, Maryland
Hesha stirred in his sleep.
“Sir?”
Hesha forced his eyes open. He tasted the cool air of the tomb, dusky with the scent of his pets. He was alone…as his mind cleared, he knew the voice. “Janet?
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but there’s been a development I think you should know about.”
“Give me a moment.” Hesha stood and found his way to the door unerringly. In Vegel’s chamber, he let the lights come up. The stone door swung silently shut behind him. “All right.”
“We had a call today from Rutherford House…through ordinary channels, but undeniably concerned with your projects there. It seems that Kettridge has seized on Miss Dimitros as a potential source of information. Mrs. Rutherford didn’t put it like that, of course.”
“Which Mrs. Rutherford?”
“Amaryllis. She expressed concern that you had exposed Miss Dimitros to some sort of danger…and frankly, laid down an ultimatum; if there is trouble between you and the professor, Miss Dimitros must be kept out of it.” Janet paused, and speculated, “I got the impression, sir, that she thinks your statue is a stolen item, and that there are black-market forces beneath the mystery.”
“That’s harmless enough. Don’t encourage it, however.” Hesha pulled the loose, white eye out of his robes. Ever since the night Elizabeth had discovered how to remove it, he’d kept it on a thong around his neck. He scrutinized it as if for the first time, and made a decision.
“Janet, we’re going to take Miss Dimitros out of the professor’s way. Start making arrangements for an appropriate Friday flight.”
Thursday, 1 July 1999, 11:20 AM
Rutherford House, Upper East Side, Manhattan
New York City, New York
Agnes Rutherford strode stiffly through the front doors of her establishment, and her sharp eyes took in every inch of the display floor with no sign whatever of approval. She looked down at her nephew James’s wife—they were nearly the same height, but Agnes could look down at people who were head and shoulders taller than herself without straining.
“Good morning, Aunt Agnes,” said Amy. She leaned forward and exchanged dry pecks on the cheek with her elderly relative. “How was your flight?”
“No worse than usual, for this time of year. I look forward to the end of the tourist season, however.” The senior partner took a few steps farther into the shop and looked down at Amy from even greater heights than before. “Have we any important appointments scheduled for today? No? A pity, but it will at least leave us time to review the figures for the last week.”
Agnes took a moment to view the display again. Her glance came to Elizabeth—and if Amy was dwarfed by the old lady’s eyes, Elizabeth was less than an ant. “Miss Dimitros.”
“Welcome back, Miss Rutherford.”
“Carry on down here.” Agnes started for the stairs to the offices, and turned back halfway. “You attended to Mr. Ruhadze last Wednesday? Were you able to sell the collar to him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Agnes said nothing, but continued up the stairs.
That night, Thompson brought the sedan to a perfect, parallel halt at the curbside. The walls of both tires grazed cement. Between his master’s door and the doors of Rutherford House there could be no shorter distance, but he worried anyway. “Careful, sir.”
“Relax a little, Thompson. It really is too much to hope that the professor would have staked out the store.”
“And if he did?”
“Then you are here, the Asp is…waiting in the wings, and I am not entirely without defenses of my own.” Hesha slipped into his suit coat, picked up a shining black alligator briefcase and a brass-topped cane, and stepped out of the car.
Amy Rutherford welcomed him inside. “Good evening, Mr. Ruhadze.” He looked at her through earnest eyes, and shook her hand. Her manner was as polished as ever, but beneath the gloss, she was not pleased with him. “Aunt Agnes is waiting for you in her office. Shall we?” She led him through the dim and empty display floor to the office stairs. The workroom was dark. At the end of the corridor, she stopped, knocked once, and ushered him into the throne room, as she thought of it.
“Mr. Ruhadze, Aunt Agnes.”
“Punctual as ever, Hesha.” Agnes Rutherford looked neither down on him, nor up, but she gave Hesha Ruhadze the gaze of an equal, and half-rose to greet him.
“I would never willingly waste your time, Miss Agnes,” he said courteously. “It would be an insult to keep a lady waiting, particularly one with such demanding responsibilities.”
Agnes half-smiled. “Sit down, Hesha, and tell us how we can be of assistance to you today.”
Amy drew the door shut behind them, and sat respectfully in a corner chair to watch the giants meet. Her aunt—Jim’s aunt, she reminded herself, grateful that her own family was less…everything—sat behind a stately, massive desk. Her thin, frail body dwindled in the equally impressive, red leather-upholstered chair.
Ruhadze, on the other hand, fitted the matching seat as if it had been built around him. He was a vision in monochrome—the red leather, in shadow, was the warm, brown-black color of his skin. His suit—of an outdated cut, she realized suddenly, almost contemporary with Agnes’s father’s days—was the color of coal. The old fabric devoured the light, but his shoes, his bag, the ebon cane he held across his knees, and his bright eyes shone with it.
“I have an unusual request, Miss Agnes.” He hesitated, and seemed to pick his words carefully. “I’m afraid that I have inadvertently endangered one of your employees.”
Agnes lifted her fine gray brows. “Miss Dimitros,” she said quietly. He nodded. “Please explain yourself, Hesha.”
“I own a particular item—”
“A statue?” interjected Amy.
“Yes.” Hesha half-turned in his chair to include her in the conversation. “It is not, I assure you, ‘hot’ or ‘black market’ or anything of the kind. On the other hand, as with many antiquities, the country of its origin disapproves of any entity other than itself possessing the piece. Just as the Greeks want the treasures of Athens returned from England, a certain nation wants my little treasure returned to native soil. I have no more intention of giving it to them than I have of handing the collar I bought last week over to Cairo—less, in fact. Egypt and Greece at least have democracies, museums, and relative peace. They bring their heritage back through treaties, special funds, the United Nations…diplomatic means.
“The government in question, however, has abandoned diplomacy in almost every matter, and is a known haven for terrorists. The ruling party has made it clear that they will hide and back even the most radical of organizations, provided their demands are met and policies adhered to…one of which is the recovery of ‘cultural artifacts’ that, in fact, they have little claim to.
“I showed Miss Dimitros the statue as a challenge—I wanted to test her skills. Unfortunately for all of us, she was more clever than I could have hoped. Not only did she find some details previous experts had missed, she recognized a piece of the statue in a diagram in a professional publication, and contacted the author.”
“Professor Kettridge,” murmured Agnes.
“Yes. And Kettridge came to New York to find her.” Amy clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth, and said, “I’ve looked into Jordan Kettridge’s background. He’s a fine scholar and no more a terrorist than I am.”
“I don’t mean to suggest that he is. I suspect that the terrorists recognized the bead, and tried to steal it. They were obviously unsuccessful. From his point of view, I suppose, Elizabeth’s message was just another tactic of the thieves. When that failed, there came the extreme bid for the piece…
“I don’t know what they may try next, but Kettridge has had two contacts with Elizabeth, and the terrorists are likely to think that she knows more than s
he does, or can lead them to the professor. For her own safety, I want to take her out of New York and away from Kettridge, the terrorists, and Rutherford House.”
Agnes’s eyes narrowed. Her thin, pale lips twisted into a speculative frown. “And that’s why you asked me to keep her here tonight. Well, Ruhadze, what do you intend to do with our Miss Dimitros?”
Hesha stroked the harsh line of his cheekbone. “My own collection,” he began, “is in need of some restoration. From what I’ve seen of her work, Elizabeth would be the ideal candidate to work on it.” He lifted his briefcase to his lap, opened it, and slid a small sheaf of paper across the desk to Agnes. “I would make up your losses, of course, and supplement Miss Dimitros’s salary while she was contracted out to me.” He waited while the old lady examined the numbers. “These are figured on a week-by-week basis. I doubt that her absence would be prolonged…though there is certainly work enough in Baltimore to keep her busy for months, if need be.” Amy watched her aunt’s ice-blue eyes scan the bottom line, and knew what Agnes’s answer would be. “Mr. Ruhadze,” asked Amy, “Isn’t this a matter for the police? Or,” she continued sharply, “if all you’re suggesting is true, a matter for the CIA and the FBI and Interpol?”
“It is,” said Hesha. “And I have gone to them,” he lied. “That’s how I came by what information I know. We could arrange to have them take care of her. But Amy,” he said, trying to meet her gaze in the shadowy corner, “do you know what the phrase ‘protective custody’ actually means? It means jail, and isolation, and little hotel rooms with no one to speak to but police officers and nothing to do but wait. I’d rather not inflict that on Elizabeth. She’ll be safe in Baltimore, and she will be working at what she likes best. Unless one of us tells her about the danger, she won’t even need to know it exists until after it’s already passed.” He looked away again, down at the thick Persian carpet. “I’d offer the same protection to Kettridge, if I could find him.”
“Hesha,” said Miss Agnes. “I concur with your appraisal of Miss Dimitros’s value to us as a shop assistant, but I believe you are underestimating the restoration costs we will be subject to in her absence…”
And Amy listened in vague disbelief as Jim’s aunt proceeded to dicker over Elizabeth Dimitros as though she were a French Provincial chair or a Ming vase. Mr. Ruhadze, at least, had the grace to be embarrassed—their eyes met once, as Agnes pulled a rate list of out-of-house fabric workers from the files. He put up very little fight; he seemed genuinely more interested in the merchandise than in the price. At least Lizzie was going where she was…highly valued. Amy stood up, suddenly unable to take any more of the haggling, and Agnes’s piercing voice split though the growing headache.
“Amy, where are you going?”
“I need an aspirin, Aunt Agnes. Excuse me.”
Amy fled into her own office, downed the aspirin, and sank into her big, overstuffed sofa. She tried to think straight. Terrorists and fugitives and contacts…it sounded like a spy movie, and a poorly constructed one. Ruhadze had explained everything, but…there had to be simpler ways to protect Lizzie. Was he going to all this trouble to protect her because the danger was real and he cared for her? Or was he trying to entice her away for nefarious purposes? Oh Lord, she thought, Lizzie’s well over the age of consent…. She argued herself into circles and corners for another half hour or so, until she heard the door open to Agnes’s room. Speech spilled into the hallway.
“I’d like to speak with her myself, of course.” Hesha’s baritone came clearly through the walls.
“Of course,” answered Agnes. “She’s in the bindery…the third door on your left, Hesha.”
Amy left the couch for the door, and opened it just as Ruhadze approached. “Mr. Ruhadze? I have some more questions for you.”
He came in and sat.
“Why doesn’t Kettridge go to the police? Why shouldn’t we simply transfer Elizabeth to our London offices for a month, or a year, or however long this takes? What gives you the idea that there will be an end to it, if terrorists are the enemy? You’re moving Elizabeth to Baltimore at a great deal of trouble and expense. Now, if you weren’t telling the truth to Aunt Agnes, I doubt you’ll tell it to me. Please let me make one thing clear to you. I want you to take good care of Lizzie.”
Hesha smiled. He stood up, took her by the hand, and stared deep into her eyes. “Trust me,” he told her, overwhelmingly serious, and compassionate, and sure. He waited for the command to sink in. Satisfied that she believed, he released her.
She sighed. “I’m sorry to have gone on like that…but I’m all she has, and I can’t just let her disappear. Oh, Lord, do you realize Lizzie’s been here since nine? Let’s go talk to her, and send her packing. Promise me you’ll keep the poor child working only eight-hour days. She’ll think it’s Christmas. Agnes is just a slave-driver, really.”
“I’ve noticed,” said Hesha, as he picked up his things. She smiled, and led him down the hall to the bindery.
Elizabeth looked up as she came in. “The diary’s finished, Amy. If I never read another word about Elizabethan shipping businesses, it will be too soon.” She flicked a hand toward the work table with contempt. “I went ahead and started the blasted papyrus—” Hesha followed Amy into the room, and Elizabeth stopped short.
Amy took up her favorite chair, and watched as their visitor came around the table to examine Lizzie’s work.
“A tourist piece,” he said, and the same contempt filled his voice. “Nineteenth-century souvenir.” He leant over the beginnings of the repair work, and nodded approval. “But you know how to restore papyri properly. Good.”
“Lizzie, Mr. Ruhadze has asked Rutherford House to lend him one of our most prized assets. How would you like to go to Baltimore and do restoration work on his private collection?”
Elizabeth sat quietly, her hands folded on the desk in front of her. She tried to catch Hesha’s gaze, and did, but there was nothing there for her to read. She stared at a beaming Amy, and though the smile was luminous, the eyes were tight and worried. Slowly, the rays of confidence faded in that smile, and the older woman’s anxieties revealed themselves in the lines around her mouth, too.
“You don’t have to go, of course,” said Amy. “And it isn’t a permanent post. Your job here will be secure; we’ll look after the loft for you. But Mr. Ruhadze needs someone to do the work, and Aunt Agnes is simply putty in his hands. It’s all arranged—if you want it.”
Elizabeth’s glance appealed to Hesha again—and though there was still no sign on his face, his hand grasped her shoulder reassuringly.
“When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon?” he suggested. “You can settle in over the weekend and start work on Monday.”
“That’s fast.”
“I know.”
Elizabeth covered the crude cartouche in its protective wrappings. After the papyrus, there would be another diary, perhaps, or deed papers with “New Amsterdam” at the top instead of “New York,” or a Renaissance floral with no merit besides age. Hesha’s collection would be different. And Hesha himself…but she cut the thought off there.
“I’ll go.”
Inside the black sedan, it was unsettlingly quiet.
Elizabeth sat with her tote bag at her feet. The tickets to Baltimore were tucked into her sketchbook. She watched the lights of the city speed by, tinted blue-purple by the windows.
Introductions had been made between herself and Ronald Thompson, but Thompson wasn’t one to chatter. There were streets to watch, and other cars ever to be suspected of holding the Enemy in one form or another. Hesha sensed, too, that Thompson was unsettled by the “collection” of Miss Dimitros.
Hesha held his tongue. A kind word to Elizabeth would have soothed her fears and apprehension…but Thompson wasn’t ready to hear his master whisper sweet nothings to a “nice” girl. A curt, businesslike discussion with the girl would have put her in her place as a curator, and nothing more, and satisfied Thompson enti
rely…but Hesha wasn’t ready to relinquish the hold that a feigned romance might have over Elizabeth, and wasn’t sure that she would let herself be railroaded to Baltimore with that enticement taken away. He would take a moment with each, separately, soon. If the drive to her apartment was silent as the grave, so much the better for his concentration.
They dropped her off at the old warehouse. She wished them good night, and faded into the darkness of the front door. A loitering figure signaled to Thompson, and the driver confirmed the watchmen’s orders. The sedan pulled back onto the main roads, and Thompson looked for Hesha’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“Sir…”
“Not now, Thompson. Take us back to Rutherford House. Kettridge has been there recently, and I know now how to find him.”
“How well do you know New York?” Hesha asked, unexpectedly.
Thompson considered. “The main roads, the places you go, some of those neighborhoods in depth, and a little more, maybe.”
“We’re going to follow Kettridge with this.” said Hesha, dangling the milk-white bead from its cord. “Its power is very low, and I will have to shut out as much of the world as I can while I use it. I will close my eyes and direct you as well as possible. Take turns to follow my line whenever the roads allow. Remember exactly where we are each time I speak to you; if we lose the trail you will have to drive back to that spot as quickly as possible, and we will try again. Do you understand?”
“No,” admitted the driver, “but I think I can follow the orders.”
Hesha lay down on the back seat, holding the little eye between both hands.
“North from here,” he said. Thompson checked for cops, made an illegal U-turn, and drove slowly up the street.
“Stop.”
Thompson eased the sedan into place next to a fire hydrant, and waited for the still form in the back seat to say further.
Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 7
