Brooklyn Knight

by null

  Probably not, the agent thought. After all, even if he had all the facts on Bakur’s terrorist connections and was trying to warn us about something, there’d be no need to do so in public, in front of him.

  The FBI man, on the one hand, found himself trusting Ungari more in that moment. Yes, the suspicious parts of the agent’s brain were feeding him a score of devious reasons as to why the doctor had made his introduction the way he did, but Klein chose to ignore them. Standing in the man’s presence, shaking his hand, Klein felt no sinister vibrations. Following his gut instinct, he found himself willing to relax his guard slightly as far as Ungari was concerned—at least for the moment.

  Knight, on the other hand, was not quite the thespian Klein was. The professor had come up with the idea of introducing the FBI man as a museum employee. He did have a quick and agile mind; of that there was no doubt. But, in many ways Knight was not an overly duplicitous man. Upon hearing his old friend introduce his assistant as a functionary of the Syrians, he could not help raising one eyebrow. Catching the motion, in a tone heavy with challenge, Bakur asked;

  “Something distresses you, Professor?”

  “Oh heavens, I think ‘distress’ might be too strong a word,” answered Knight politely. “Let us say instead that I was simply surprised.”

  “And at what would your surprise be aimed? At the fact that the Syrian government takes an interest in what happens to its national treasures? That after more than a hundred years of open theft on the part of the West, that finally we would say ‘no more’ to those who would rob us of all they could carry away?”

  The shorter man spoke in clipped, polite sentences, his tone that of a polished academic. There was nothing of the accusatory to be found within his voice, just, of course, his words themselves.

  Speaking in just such a hypothetical tone, the professor answered him, asking;

  “Heavens, are you saying the Syrian government feels the Brooklyn Museum is out to plunder the Memak’tori site?”

  “Why would it not?” Bakur’s eyes flashed ever so slightly as he said, “It is not a person, after all. People can be judged for their qualities, for integrity, for honor—a corporation cannot. And, is a museum anything more than that? For all the marble columns and solemn sense of history, is all of this with which you surround yourself, Professor Knight, anything more than just another business?”

  “Since you have history on your side, Mr. Bakur,” replied Knight, working to draw the man out further, “let’s not go down any foolish paths. All men have trouble in their past. No one’s ancestors come off particularly clean. Countries other than yours come to mind, where what are now considered as treasures were then thought of as merely lumps of rock to be removed. Amazing, the ignorance of one’s own culture some peoples can maintain.”

  “Especially when such ignorance is encouraged by those who would victimize such innocence.”

  “Well said,” admitted Knight. “But then, sir, that’s why we have laws about such things these days. Or are you of the type who doesn’t know how to forgive or forget?”

  “Gentlemen,” broke in Ungari, his tone revealing he was somewhat concerned where the tempers of his assistant and his friend might lead them, “surely we—”

  “Doctor,” said Bakur, cutting into Ungari’s interruption, his tone still silkenly calm, “the professor has asked a question—he wonders if the memory of the Syrian people can be mollified with ephemeral trinkets. I think he might possibly be an honest man, one who believes the West can truly police itself, despite the ever-building mountain of crushing evidence to the contrary.”

  “I believe my question concerned the Syrian people’s disposition toward the Brooklyn Museum.” Allowing a bit of his actual feelings to color his voice, Knight continued, saying, “To be perfectly frank, I could care less what the rest of the world does or thinks. My only concern is the reputation of my little slice of the world—this particular set of walls and the history of all mankind which they contain. And, I tell you, sir, that I shall defend it as dearly as you or anyone else will defend what is theirs.”

  “Very impassioned, Professor,” responded Bakur smoothly. “I am quite certain your ancestor, the man for whom I assume you were named, the Piers Knight who helped create your precious Brooklyn Museum—your great-great-grandfather, yes?—he, too, must have felt quite certain this ‘noble’ establishment of yours was correct in all its dealings.” Adjusting his thick, horn-rimmed glasses, more for the reason to make a dramatic pause than anything else, Ungari’s assistant then added;

  “Tell me, how many of the acquisitions he made for the Brooklyn Museum were justly compensated? Pieces like the so-called Dream Stone, which, of course, the viewing of such is why we are here in the first place?”

  “Professor,” came Klein’s voice, a certain shakiness foreshadowing his following words, “perhaps this would be a good time to tell the gentlemen what has happened—yes?”

  “Something has happened?” Ungari’s voice was shot through with concern. Unlike the pleasant tones of his assistant, the doctor’s words conveyed a dread he seemed incapable of concealing. As he turned his head back and forth from Knight to the FBI man posing as his assistant, the professor finally answered his old friend, saying quietly;

  “The Dream Stone has been destroyed.”

  The doctor’s reaction to the news was one of utter shock, followed by an unbelieving fury. Cursing in Egyptian, he managed to rein in his anger after a moment, at which time Klein related the story of the attempted theft. The professor allowed the agent to do so, both of them assuming that “the museum’s liaison to the outside world in all matters governmental” would be the one to pass along such information. Of course, knowing far more of the details of the incidents, Knight felt far safer letting Klein do the talking, since he only had the official version of the story and thus could not possibly let any secrets slip.

  While the FBI man explained all that had happened, the professor wondered about Bakur’s reaction to the news. He was the one, after all, who seemed so concerned over the stolen treasures of Syria, and yet here was one, possibly one of the most important ever discovered, one with the potential to unlock some of history’s greatest secrets, now lost to all time.

  Yes, Knight realized, certainly the museum would have copies of the text. The secrets themselves would not be lost. But the stone itself, losing it would be like allowing the Mona Lisa to be consumed in a fire. Despite the millions of copies of the painting, exact matches down to the brushstrokes and filigree cracks, the loss of the original would be a devastating blow to the world of art—an irreparable hole in the fabric of history.

  And yet, thought Knight, not certain what to make of his observation, this man so concerned with his nation’s antiquities does not seem very upset over this news.

  The professor was willing to grant that Bakur was an extremely in-control personality type, the kind of man capable of not blinking in the face of the most devastating news. Still, why would he choose to control himself at that moment when anger over Western carelessness would only strengthen his position?

  Unless, thought Knight, he’s not showing any reaction because he already knows.

  And then, before anything more could happen, a slight tapping came at the door to the professor’s office. Knight’s simple response to “enter” brought a quite excited Bridget into their midst. After the professor made introductions all around, starting with Klein’s new identity as a museum employee, Knight’s assistant bent close to his head and whispered into his ear. Allowing himself a moment to grin wickedly, he announced;

  “Everyone, I believe my assistant has some information that will be appreciated by everyone here.” Giving the young woman a nod, indicating she should share her news, Knight then sat back and studied the faces of the others as Bridget said;

  “Gentlemen, I do believe the Dream Stone may not have been destroyed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Bridget’s news, of course,
threw all those assembled within the professor’s office into quite a tidy frenzy. As soon as he had grasped her words, Knight immediately threw his complete attention toward Bakur. Focusing all his well-honed powers of observation upon the Syrian, he was not surprised to find that his old friend’s assistant was suddenly capable of showing quite an extensive array of emotions. Quite a number more, in fact, than the professor could account for reasonably.

  That man is something a bit more than elated, Knight reasoned. Narrowing his field of vision, he continued to stare—unblinking—thinking, His surprise here is most genuine. Overwhelmingly so. And yet he evidenced no such level of emotion when told the treasure he had come seeking was no longer in existence.

  Somehow, the professor was completely convinced, the man calling himself Hamid Bakur had known of the theft and ruin of the Dream Stone before he had ever entered the Brooklyn Museum—probably before he reached the country. But what appeared even odder than that to Knight was the fact that where the assistant almost certainly knew of these incidents, the doctor employing him almost certainly did not. Filing away these newly learned bits of information, the professor commandeered his own assistant’s attention, silencing the others so they might all learn what she could possibly mean by her announcement.

  “Has news come from the police department,” he asked, going to the only feasible possibility of which he could think. “Did they somehow find the Dream Stone intact in the rubble? I admit, such seems so utterly impossible, but—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” the young woman insisted. Smiling as she spoke, obviously enjoying her center stage moment, she told the others, “The piece removed from the museum was destroyed; there doesn’t look to be any question about that. However … as I’m certain you remember, you did give me an assignment when we arrived here this morning—yes?”

  “Well,” mused Knight, still not certain where he was being led but willing to be led, “I asked you to go down to the old files, Section F, to try and find any of the original drawings and etchings that were made of the piece, anything from the old days, back when it was first brought to the museum … but—”

  When the professor simply shrugged at the redhead, she smiled, then continued, saying;

  “I did as you asked, of course, and when I did, one of the things I found was a complete diagram for reproducing a replica of the Dream Stone. It was earmarked for a world’s fair–like symposium held somewhere in California in 1935. Now, remember what you said, Professor, that the men carrying the Dream Stone seemed awfully strong, because they were carrying it so easily? What if—”

  “Oh my God,” Knight blurted, actually slapping his forehead at the same time. Wincing from the force of his blow, he whispered, “I don’t believe it.” After allowing himself a moment to let Bridget’s news soak in, he asked her, “Did you check it out? What did you find in—”

  Bridget cut her employer off, reminding him;

  “I don’t have clearance to enter the storage units on my own. That’s why I came back here.” Before anyone else could speak, Dr. Ungari broke in, his voice overwhelmed with hope as he asked;

  “Is it possible, Piers?”

  “I wouldn’t want to make any promises I couldn’t keep, Ashur, old friend,” answered the professor, an uncontrollable smile stretching itself across his face, “but I think this calls for an immediate reconvening of this little meeting. Gentlemen, and, of course, you as well, my dear, most wonderful of creatures ever to walk this earth, what do you say, all? Shall we adjourn to Section F?”

  AFTER A BRIEF INSPECTION OF ALL THE VARIOUS BITS OF PAPER-work that had sent a quite excited Bridget to Knight’s office, the small party made its way into the sub-basement from where the team of intruders had removed what until that moment all had believed had been the actual Dream Stone. The area was still festooned with yards of yellow police tape, but none of the assembled gave it the slightest notice. Ripping it aside without regard, the party made its way forward into the narrowly set shelves until they reached the aisle in question.

  “Well,” said Knight, pausing to allow himself a nervous swallow, “this is the place. If the Dream Stone is still intact, it’s either here or it isn’t.”

  So saying, the professor climbed several steps up a small, wheeled ladder, flashlight in hand. Shining his light along the shelf in question, he ran his hands over something out of the line of sight of the others. In a voice barely able to crack a whisper, Ungari asked;

  “Piers, is it there? Is it the Dream Stone?” Turning, his face breaking into the widest of smiles, Knight answered in a tone trembling with relief;

  “I can’t be certain just from touch, but if it isn’t, it will certainly do until something else comes along.” Then, trying to move the large piece of stonework with one hand, the professor grunted, then added;

  “Oh yes, I do believe we have the correct piece this time.”

  As a small burst of cheers went up in the confined area, the doctor pushed another of the small, mobile ladder units over to the opposite side of the aisle. Rapidly climbing to a height equal with Knight’s, Ungari pulled on the end of the stone closest to him while the professor manipulated the other. As the two men worked the ancient piece closer to the edge, both Bakur and Klein moved forward, each eyeing the ancient treasure.

  “Dr. Ungari,” his assistant cried out, “perhaps we should offer some assistance. We would not want the stone to fall. If even the slightest marking were to be chipped—”

  “Just get yourself in position, fellah… .”

  Bakur went silent, staring coldly at Klein. After a moment, however, he realized what he was doing and forced himself to blink, then finally did as the FBI man suggested. With their supposed coworkers ready to back them up, Knight and Ungari finally pulled the Dream Stone to the edge of the shelf, then held it aloft as best they could as the other, younger men got their hands beneath it. The situation proved tensely awkward for only a moment, though. Working together, in seconds the men had the large stone slab out of the aisle and on an inspection table in the light. As they simply stared, Bridget asked;

  “Is it the Dream Stone? Was I right?”

  “Yes, you were correct, my dear,” answered the professor, chuckling as he did so. “The thieves must have gotten their information by going through the storage records that predated the Californian exposition. When the copy was made, the real piece was removed to deep storage while the lighter copy was returned to its old place after the show.”

  “But if it was lighter,” asked Bakur, “how were these thieves so easily fooled?”

  “They didn’t have the same kinds of materials to work with in the thirties we do today. Then they would have simply had a copy made out of soapstone. Fake or not, they wanted the copy to look real, and the easiest way to make certain something looks like it’s made out of stone is to, well … make it out of stone.”

  As everyone continued to allow their spirits to climb, Ungari’s assistant patted the Dream Stone sharply, then announced to the assembly;

  “Given the strange events surrounding the recent need for this quite valuable piece, I think that no more time should be wasted. I am sure you would agree with me, Doctor, that we should begin immediate proceedings for shipping the Dream Stone back to Syria without delay.”

  “Begin what?” Knight stared at the younger man with a curious fascination. Moving closer, the professor asked, “Please, illuminate me, my dear fellow. What exactly is it that makes you think this piece is going anywhere?”

  “This treasure was stolen from my people by Western freebooters posing as scientists,” snapped Bakur loudly. His voice echoing in the narrow aisle, he added, “But now it shall be returned. And such will be done immediately.”

  “For starters,” interrupted Klein, moving forward to stand next to Knight, “you might want to use your inside voice. As a follow-up, I do believe you’re in no position to be making demands.”

  “The Dream Stone must be returned!” Bakur’s
hand slammed against the ancient slab once more, a blow so violent, the fact it did not force even a wince from Bakur surprised everyone else present. Then, to make matters worse, the professor suddenly realized the younger man was considering a rash act.

  “Do you hear me?”

  So agitated was Bakur becoming, Knight could see his left hand moving toward the inside of his sport coat. The professor, as well as Klein, both came to the realization that the man was armed and beginning to go for what had to be a weapon concealed beneath his jacket. As each of their minds raced, wondering what exactly to do, Bakur shouted once more.

  “I said, do you hear me?!”

  “They heard you,” came a new voice from behind the crowd. “Now hear me, mister. That stone’s going somewhere all right, but not with you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Ah, there you are, Detective LaRaja,” said Bridget, her voice as calm as if announcing nothing more startling than the return of a waiter to take orders all around. Keeping her tone pleasant, she added, “I see you were able to make it, after all.”

  “Oh my heavens,” answered the gray-haired detective quietly, “why, I wouldn’t have missed this party for anything—goodness no, Ms. Elkins.”

  When Bakur began to make resentful noises, demanding an explanation of LaRaja’s earlier statement, Knight was quick to make introductions all around, making certain that Ungari and his assistant knew the detective was the local authority in charge of the museum-break-in investigation. The professor was also careful to “reintroduce” Klein to LaRaja as the museum’s newly installed liaison to governmental agencies. LaRaja allowed one eyebrow to elevate to show he would like an explanation for the subterfuge but that he was also clever enough to make no mention of such desires in front of the newcomers. Growing more irritated with each passing second, Bakur demanded;