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“Fine. Excellent—now we are all well acquainted. Very well then, explain yourself, policeman. What did you mean when you said that the Dream Stone would not be returned to Syria? Who are you to interject yourself so? This is an outrage. It is beyond outrage. This is an affront to the international community, you humorless little man. I would have you know that civilized nations have laws concerning—”
Dropping all pretenses to any form of civility, LaRaja fixed Bakur with a stare so brutally cold it shocked the younger man into an abrupt silence. So uncharacteristically grim was the detective that even Knight felt himself somewhat taken aback. Never having seen LaRaja so intense, the professor joined the others in playing mute as the detective answered the Syrian, telling him;
“Let me tell you something about outrage, sonny. Seeing your best friend shoveled up and stuffed into bags because he died—burned alive—trying to defend your damn stupid, useless piece of rock, now that, that’s a goddamned outrage. Listening to some punk pontificate about the rights of an outlaw nation, one that floods the world with cowardly murderers, that’s another goddamned outrage.”
“Who do you think you are speaking to, old man? Do you know who I am?”
Both Knight and Klein wondered what Bakur might be attempting. He appeared to no longer possess any regard for concealing his role as an extension of the Syrian government—a pose neither man could understand. Moreover, Bakur almost seemed to be on the verge of reverting to his terrorist roots. The FBI agent, like the professor, had spotted the telltale bulge beneath the ranting man’s jacket. Both assumed he must have picked the weapon up somewhere along the way, most likely at the Syrian embassy, since there was no way he would have been able to bring one aboard a plane. Even diplomatic courier pouches received no such privilege anymore. Before either could comment, however, LaRaja raised his voice to answer the questions posed to him.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do believe I have some idea of just exactly what it is that I’m addressing. I’m talking to a punk. And just in case you missed my meaning there, that’s you.” As the shorter man stewed, his expression showing clearly that he was not used to be treated in such a manner, LaRaja continued to tear at him, saying;
“You’re a punk—period. I don’t care on whose authority you think you’re acting, or how high up some jerkwater political ladder you can climb when you need to, you’re still nothing more than a punk. And a fairly cheap one, at that.”
Bakur began to shake as an inexplicable rage built within him. It seemed obvious to everyone else there, including even Ungari, that the detective was purposely goading the Syrian. Understanding that he was an agent of his government, most likely trained to resist such situations, none in the room could fathom how Bakur could so easily be pushed to the brink of foolishness. And yet with each word the detective jolted the younger man ever closer to that particular edge.
“Whatever else it might be, this miserable Dream Stone of yours is the key to all the insanity going on around here,” LaRaja told Bakur. “And so, like I said, it’s going somewhere, all right. It’s going with me.”
“You have not the right—”
“I have all the right in the world, sonny boy,” snarled LaRaja. Thumping Bakur in the chest with a solid index finger, the detective physically moved the Syrian backward as he poked him repeatedly, telling him, “That miserable piece of crap is evidence in a police investigation, and that means if I want to lock it up and keep it from the sight of man for the next hundred years, I can do just that, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
The color drained from the younger man’s face, his swarthy complexion going an odd, sickly pale. The change was so rapid the others could practically follow it even in the feeble lighting there in the museum’s sub-basement. Coupled with the ways his limbs were trembling, the way his very skin seemed to be vibrating, it appeared it would not be long before Hamid Bakur would snap. Trying to make his actions appear normal, Knight shifted his position, placing himself in between the younger man and Bridget. As he did so, Bakur responded to LaRaja’s threat, spittle flying from his mouth as he shouted;
“You cannot do this to me. I will not allow it. I—”
“Oh, give it a rest, little boy,” growled the detective. “You’re not going to do anything, and here’s why. You have no legs to stand on in this matter. The best you can do is get your miserable terrorist government to lodge a protest. And if you were thinking of finally sliding your hand all the way inside your jacket, perhaps you should take a look behind you.”
As Bakur’s head jerked awkwardly, everyone else followed his lead. So absorbed had the group become in the small drama playing out between the two, they had failed to notice LaRaja was not the only new arrival in Section F. Standing several steps back in the gloom were four uniformed police officers, all of them standing with their hands on, or at least near, their holsters.
“Give us the excuse, ‘Mr.’ Bakur.”
Wide-eyed, blinking rapidly, the terrorist agent gave every impression of getting ready to do exactly as the detective suggested. Then abruptly Bakur’s manner changed, his mood turning from crazed to calm in less than a heartbeat. Pushing his hair back on his head, pressing hard as he did so as to contain the inordinate amount of sweat greasing his scalp, Bakur straightened his suit jacket, offering;
“You are quite the quaint provincial, Detective. You must be a welcome addition to meals held out-of-doors, and perhaps children’s parties. I shall take your advice, sir, and see about, as you said, lodging a protest. Although I think I might take my petition to a higher authority than the ‘terrorist government’ you have suggested.”
And, so saying, the eerily calm man turned and headed for the exit. With a hand signal from LaRaja, two of the uniformed police officers turned and followed Bakur, ready to escort him all the way to the front door. Making rapid apologies for his assistant, Dr. Ungari begged off, explaining that it would be best for all if he was to accompany the younger man and try to contain whatever actions he was contemplating. The others expressed their understanding and concern, allowing the Egyptian to save face and depart. Ungari practically had to break into a trot to be able to reach the elevator before its doors closed.
“Well,” said Knight, once the museum’s visitors had removed themselves from earshot, “that was certainly an interesting little display.”
“Yes, it was,” agreed Klein, “but quite an effective one.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” answered LaRaja. His “bad-cop” persona neatly tucked away, he continued, saying, “It’s always nice when one’s work is appreciated.”
“So,” asked the professor, his tone suggesting honest curiosity, “what were you thinking was our next move, Detective?”
“You mean now that the little grease stain has been removed from the picture?”
“Something like that,” answered Knight with a chuckle.
“I’d say now we decide exactly what we’re going to do with that damned hunk of rock of yours, that is, before Mr. Charm figures out what he’s going to try and do with it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Did I mention, by the way, my dear,” asked Knight, “exactly how impressed I am with your first day’s work on the job?”
“No, come to think of it,” answered Bridget, pretending to be quite severely wounded over the fact. “You have not. Typical, though, of a male-dominated society. Oh, the indignities. Oh, the humanity. To think—”
“All right, Tallulah—”
“Who?”
Knight looked from his assistant to Klein to LaRaja and then back to Bridget. The detective’s eyes revealed that he had understood the professor’s reference to the onetime star of the international stage, so well-known for making hugely overdramatic much of the tiniest of moments. Klein’s gaze, however, was as devoid of any idea over the meaning of the name as Bridget’s.
Taking pity on them both, Knight said merely;
“Ah, youth is so truly wasted
on the young. Still, age brags of its common knowledge and does nothing more than send youth to resentfully bragging of its own—”
“Who said that?” asked LaRaja.
“Someone dead longer than Tallulah, I’m afraid,” the professor answered. “So perhaps we should get down to business. And the first business I would like to take care of is to say, well done, my dear.” Blushing slightly, Bridget made an overly affected curtsey in Knight’s direction, telling him;
“It was nothing, really. I just stumbled across the diagram while I was looking through the other papers, and I realized the possibility—”
“No, no,” interrupted Knight. Waving his hands in the air, he cut his assistant off, adding, “I mean, yes, of course, I’m impressed enough with you realizing what you might possibly have uncovered as quickly as you did. I’m talking about your other bits of resourcefulness.”
“Can I ask you to shower me with compliments for a moment, just so I’ll know what it was you considered so resourceful?”
“Women,” growled the professor playfully. “The price we pay to be allowed the privilege of their company.” Bridget smirked in response, giving Knight the opportunity to roll his eyes back in her direction. While Klein and LaRaja both chuckled, the professor’s features softened as he added;
“You’re apprenticing here, young lady, so yes, I will give you a catalog of what you did correctly so you can continue to do such things throughout your career.” Counting on his fingers, Knight announced;
“You used your brain. You thought. That single characteristic of yours outweighs any other. You made the connection that the Dream Stone might still be intact. You remembered what you had been told of Bakur and realized what that particular news might mean to him. You then brought the detective here on your own, along with enough firepower to keep our visitor from causing a scene.”
“You know, Knight,” said the FBI man in a tone too sincere to be anything but honest, “I do believe my opinion of you has been elevated somewhat simply because this young woman is willing to keep company with you.”
“I know mine has,” added LaRaja softly. Klein laughed at the detective’s comment. The professor was tempted to chuckle himself, but he realized that despite the fact that Bridget had jokingly asked for compliments, she was becoming more than a little embarrassed by the overwhelming amount of them. Attempting to come to her rescue, he said to the lawmen;
“Fine, gentlemen, your begrudging admission of my greatness is faint praise, indeed, and yet it thunders in my ears. However, with Ms. Elkins’ fine example before us, perhaps we should cease wasting time and get back to business.”
“What do you have in mind, Professor?”
“Well, Mr. Klein, I do believe the good detective here was correct. The Dream Stone must be removed from the museum. Let me ask you gentlemen, are you as convinced as I am that our Mr. ‘Bakur’ had something to do with the attack on the museum?”
The conversation became quite animated at that point, Knight’s question sparking instant agreement. Everyone had been aware of the fact that the terrorist had to have been armed. Those present in the professor’s office had also noted Bakur’s lack of surprise at the news the Stone had been destroyed, as well as his overwhelming show of emotion when it was announced it might not have been.
“Fine, we’re all in agreement then. Bakur is almost certain to have had something to do with the first theft. Most likely the attack on the police station as well. To me, that means he most likely will make another attempt.” Turning to the detective, Knight said quietly;
“I know how personally you must be taking this entire affair. Jimmy Dollins was a good man, and I suspect an excellent friend. But I think it best for all if Agent Klein here is allowed to remove the Dream Stone.”
“You want me to take it to FBI headquarters?”
“No, sir,” answered the professor. His manner suddenly terse, he said, “You’ve nothing there that the police didn’t have at their disposal. No—I’m thinking you need to relocate the Dream Stone to a military facility. And not a National Guard station such as Brooklyn’s Fort Hamilton. Close it might be, but it’s most likely not manned by what we may need.”
“What are you thinking, Professor?”
Knight lowered his head for a moment, taking a deep breath, one he held for quite a long moment. Finally releasing it, he looked from the FBI man to the detective, then back again, before finally answering Klein’s question.
“Understand, gentlemen,” he started, “that I know my place in the world’s affairs. I offer my advice merely as, shall we say, a consultant. But that being said, I think our Mr. Bakur is quite mad. He threw killers armed with guns and explosives at a museum. No one seems to know what he threw at the police station, but a sizable portion of it was burned to the ground as a result.”
“If,” inserted the FBI man, “he is our man.”
“Are you thinking there is some other possibility,” asked Knight quietly. When the federal agent admitted he had no other ideas on the subject, the professor continued, saying;
“I believe Bakur is quite agitated now. He most likely believes his next attempt to secure the Dream Stone will be his last. Thus, I cannot believe he will resist throwing all his readily available resources at it.”
None of the others thought anything different. The assembly continued to speak for a few more minutes, but with little debate. Klein assured the others it would not take much to find a general interested in protecting something terrorists wished to place their hands upon. Leaning in close, Bridget asked the professor in a whisper;
“Why not have your friends at Homeland Security handle things?”
Knight had to pause for a moment, uncertain as to whether his assistant was serious or she had finally realized how he had been attempting to sidetrack her with such talk over the previous few days. Feigning deference to Agent Klein, he asked the FBI man to continue. His tone filled with assurance, Klein said;
“Let me get on it. I’m fairly certain that within a half-dozen phone calls we can have the Dream Stone on its way to upstate New York, where it’ll be ringed with more than enough tanks and commandos to keep it safe.”
“Safe, yes—maybe,” started LaRaja, then asking, “but safe from what—exactly?”
“When it is explained how your station house was destroyed,” responded Knight, “then we shall both know. Tell me, Detective, have your forensics people, or your arson experts, has anyone put forth a theory as to what happened in that basement that makes any sense whatsoever?” When LaRaja admitted that so far no one had been able to even determine the conflagration’s point of origin, let alone what might have caused it, the professor offered;
“Gentlemen, I tell you now, as I am certain you both believe yourselves, there is something going on here that we do not understand. Whether they’re using some form of extreme science with which we are not familiar, or some ancient, impossible magic—for lack of a better term—someone out there, somewhere, is willing to do whatever they must to procure the Dream Stone for themselves. I do not have the slightest idea what they feel they might use it for, but I fear that even without knowing what they are up to, it is of monumental importance they be stopped.”
After a long, silent moment, Klein finally shattered the quiet. Nodding his head in short, barely perceptible motions, he told Knight;
“I’d make some kind of wisecrack about your flair for dramatic overstatement, if I didn’t think everything you said was right on the money. I’ll be letting people know this thing should be moved A, S, A, and P, and surrounded by as much firepower as possible when it arrives.”
“If you don’t mind, Agent Klein,” LaRaja started, his tone firm and cold. Resting his hand on the Dream Stone, he finished, saying, “I’d like to tag along to wherever this thing ends up. Be there whenever the fun starts.” The FBI man was about to answer the detective when Knight interrupted, saying;
“I understand your feelings, Denny, but if you would
n’t mind, I believe I have something more important for you to attend to right here in Brooklyn.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was later that night when Detective Denny LaRaja met the professor and his assistant on the front steps of the Brooklyn Museum. The police officer informed the pair that he had heard from Klein. The Dream Stone, for the moment at least, appeared safe. The uniformed patrolmen who had accompanied LaRaja to the museum earlier in the day had escorted the FBI man when he had removed the antiquity from the premises. Now the artifact was hundreds of miles to the north, headed for the U.S. Army installation maintained at Fort Drum. The detective related Klein’s assurance that the military was prepared to take extreme measures to protect the Dream Stone.
Knight thanked LaRaja for the information with honest sincerity. The potion the professor had spiked the meeting-room water with had almost completely worn off, at least as far as Klein was concerned. He had not heard anything of the agent’s thoughts since the episode with Bakur. The back of Knight’s mind was, however, still filled with the thoughts of Abigail Brinkley. The museum’s director had downed three glasses of water during the meeting, taking one back to her office with her when their meeting finally broke up.
I swear, Knight mused to himself, if she doesn’t solve the overwhelming problem of whether to go strapless or not to the Weinstein formal, I may have to drive a pencil into my ear simply for the relief. Attempting to distract himself from such thoughts, the professor asked the detective about the facility in question.
“The whole place is one big wilderness,” LaRaja told him. “I used to do National Guard training there.”
“Really,” quipped Knight, trying to hide a smile. “I didn’t know the Guard dated back to the Civil War.” Ignoring the professor, the detective turned to Bridget instead, saying;
