by Davis Bunn
The ambassador said, “Agent Webb, can you tell us what Storm Syrrell might be working on at this time?”
The day’s tumult condensed to where it crimped her very soul. “Storm is in Europe.”
“Are you aware, Agent Webb, that Ms. Syrrell recently bid on and purchased a Russian oil from the postrevolutionary period?”
She blew her nose. “You’re not making sense.”
“I agree this is most confusing. But please try to understand. At the same time that Mr. Bennett was tragically lost to us, Storm Syrrell arrived at an auction to bid on one particular item. The sale price was one million dollars. This is double what the painting should be worth. Possibly three times its value.”
Emma reached for her door. “I have to go.”
“Agent Webb, please hear us out. We fear that whatever killed Harry Bennett may also be targeting your friend Ms. Syrrell. There is the utmost urgency to our determining why the Russian government considered Mr. Bennett such a threat. We are concerned they might also go after Ms. Syrrell.”
Her door handle did not work. “Let me out of this car.”
The ambassador spoke to the agent behind the wheel. Instantly the man was moving. “Please, Agent Webb. Can you tell us—”
“Storm is supposed to search out something called the Amethyst Clock.”
The priest said, “But that is a myth.”
“Storm thinks so as well.”
“What is this?” asked the ambassador.
“It is nothing; is what it is.” Father Gregor appeared insulted by the news. “A legend that should have died centuries ago. A fable with no importance except that it represents a most tragic period in my nation’s history.”
Emma was moving before the agent fully opened her door. The ambassador leaned over farther and offered her his card. “Please, Agent Webb. Call me if there is anything further you might think of.”
“Or need,” Father Gregor added, pressing a second card into her hand. “We are ready to serve you, madame. And please accept—”
Emma slammed her door on the condolences and fled.
But midway up the path, she found herself turning around and hurrying back to the car. Apparently the analytical portion of her brain still functioned, even when her heart was crushed and her life over. When the agent opened the rear door, she leaned down and asked the priest, “Why you?”
“Pardon me?”
“A Polish priest just happens to receive word about a bomb in the West Bank. Why?”
The priest shared a look with the ambassador, enough for Emma to know she had this one thing right.
Father Gregor said, “There is far more at stake than a good man’s tragic demise.”
Not for me, Emma thought, and was forced to clear her face once more.
“No matter what Ms. Syrrell has told you, this crisis does not revolve around a mythical clock.” The priest’s blurred image leaned in closer. “The Black Madonna. Remember this name. If you hear it mentioned, any fragment of information at all, you must contact me, Agent Webb. Immediately.”
SEVEN
HARRY BENNETT WATCHED THE LIGHT fade. An hour earlier, when he had first awoken, the window across from his bed had framed a vision of purest gold. It was as fine a welcome-back as he could have ever imagined.
His brain felt fuzzy around the edges. Every motion had a tentative feel, as though he could rip the veil of drugs apart with one wrong move. Even shifting his gaze stretched his cocoon of safety.
Desert sunsets were slippery things. Back on the Herodium dig, the sun had dropped like a big red stone. Bang and gone in what felt like ten seconds. The Herodium crew usually stopped what they were doing and watched the western hills become a rim of burnished gold, then copper, then rust, then a simple silhouette against the stars. The heat faded more slowly. But by the time everybody had showered and gathered for dinner, the night winds carried a chill that would have seemed impossible a couple of hours earlier. Harry never thought he would look back on Herodium with fondness. But just then, being able to recall anything at all made for an extremely fine moment.
A nurse passed through the hall turning on the lights and shutting the windows. At least Harry thought she was a nurse. She wore a colored scarf over her dark hair and a tattered blue surgeon’s shirt over blue jeans and house slippers. She checked on several patients as she passed their beds. Harry’s field of vision gradually expanded to where he could take in the long chamber where he lay. Beds lined both walls, and every one that Harry could see was occupied. The nurse shut the window against the night breeze, crossed the aisle, and spoke to the kid in the bed beside Harry. The nurse stroked the forehead of the silent boy, then she noticed that Harry’s eyes were open.
She walked over and spoke to him. Harry thought for a moment that the drugs kept him from understanding. Then he realized she had addressed him in Arabic.
The nurse spoke again. Harry remained silent. It was not a conscious decision. He felt as though he needed to get his head fully around whatever it was that had landed him here. Wherever here was.
Then a pair of policemen appeared behind the nurse. They wore dark blue uniforms with Arabic lettering sewn in gold on their sleeves and above their shirt pockets. The nurse plucked a tattered ID from the white metal table beside Harry’s bed and handed it to them. The policemen studied it, inspected the bandages covering Harry’s forehead and cheek, then handed back the ID. As the nurse stowed it away, Harry recognized the ID as belonging to the parrot-faced guard he had last seen outside the alley.
Harry decided if the policemen and the nurse all thought he looked like that guy, he must be in as bad shape as he felt.
His thirst was so fierce Harry couldn’t let the nurse go. So he slowly ungummed his mouth. The nurse got the message and lifted a cup and fitted the plastic straw into his mouth. Harry sucked and moaned and sucked until the straw hit air.
One of the cops spoke to him in Arabic. Harry followed the guy with his eyes but made no move to speak. Not yet, he decided. He had, after all, been wandering a Hebron street well after midnight in search of illicit gold. Which was bound to rank fairly low on the Palestinians’ list of decent jobs.
Not to mention the fact that he was a professional salvager. Who just happened to be in Hebron secretly helping the Israelis track down counterfeiters.
The other cop chimed in with the first one. Harry followed the exchange with his eyes, thinking, Thanks just the same, but I think I’ll sit this one out.
Then he made the mistake of trying to cough.
Harry had never imagined so many different parts of him could shriek all at once.
The problem was, now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. And every cough only racked his poor body further, wrenching out more pain.
The nurse hustled the two cops away. Harry would have begged her for something to ease his situation, only just then he couldn’t find the air to breathe, much less speak. Which turned out to be for the best. The nurse rushed back over, this time holding an old-timey glass syringe with metal loops like trigger guards for her fingers and an oversized ring for her thumb. Harry noticed all this because he watched the needle find his vein like a starving man inspecting a slab of prime rib.
The drug flooded his system like ice. He could actually feel it swoosh through his veins, a huge rush that just plucked him up and carried him away.
EIGHT
THE SPANISH AUCTION WAS PROVING to be a rolling three-day circus. None of the first day’s items had interested Storm. But there were worse places for a girl to have a day off than Marbella, even if she did share the old city with a million beer-swilling Brits. She did a little shopping, then retreated to poolside. But an early night did little to prepare her for Emma’s surprise arrival with world-wrecking news.
“Are you sure he’s gone?”
“As sure as I can be with nothing to go on.” Emma paused long enough to reapply her handkerchief. “Nobody can tell me a thing.”
Storm was ma
king do with Kleenex. She had gone through the little packet in her purse and was now working on Emma’s. The space around her chair was littered with damp white blotches. “Did you speak with the archeologist in charge?”
Something about the question caused Emma’s eyes to leak more. “Twice.”
“What did she say?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me, Emma.”
Her neck was so taut that Storm could watch her pulse. “They can’t identify enough remains to bury.”
That silenced Storm for a time. “How can they be sure?”
“They tracked Harry into Hebron. The last time we spoke, he said he was on the trail of a master counterfeiter.” Emma blew her nose. “I could wring his neck for taking such risks.”
“But if they haven’t actually found—”
“Let’s not forget the mystery guests who demolished my last afternoon in Washington.”
Marbella’s main theater was filling for the auction’s second day. Storm and Emma occupied a pair of chairs at the back of the foyer. New arrivals broke and swirled about them like dark-suited fish avoiding some tragic shoal. Storm said, “If they haven’t identified Harry it means he could still be alive.”
Emma gave her the look of a woman afraid to hope. “I’ve been trying to tell myself that very same thing for a day and a half.”
Storm needed both hands to pry herself out of the seat. “It’s time for us to go be corporate.”
Emma rose in stages. “I’m not sure how much good I can be.”
“I can’t handle this alone. Not now.” Storm gave her face another wipe, pushed back her hair, and said, “Let’s do this so we can get out of here.”
Storm knew she looked a wreck and didn’t care. The cloak of mourning was evident enough to silence all conversation as they passed through the crowd. The other attendees glanced over and then swiftly turned away, as though Mediterranean etiquette said it was impolite to watch two women fall apart.
The four men and one woman surrounding Aaron Rausch fled as though Storm and Emma’s sorrow were contagious. Jacob Rausch’s father, however, was made of sterner stuff. “My son will be most displeased to learn you are here, Ms. Syrrell.”
Storm ignored the rebuff and said, “This is Emma Webb. Emma is a senior agent with Homeland Security. Emma, show the man your badge.”
The sight of Emma’s leather case, combined with the women’s stricken features, left the New York antiques trader very pliant indeed. He made no protest as Storm pulled him to the stairwell leading to the closed upper balcony. “What is the matter?”
“I can’t tell you.” Not and keep hold of what control she had left.
Emma added, “Our current crisis does not directly affect you or your company.”
Though in his seventies, Aaron Rausch possessed a certain ravaged handsomeness. His hair was swept back into a mane of silver froth, his clothes impeccable. Where his son Jacob Rausch was New York slick, Aaron Rausch revealed a courtly eastern European veneer. “Forgive me, Ms. Syrrell, but if you can tell me nothing and you have a crisis that does not affect me, then why are we speaking?”
“I want to offer you a take-it-or-leave-it bargain.”
“Every deal contains a certain amount of what my son likes to call wiggle room.”
“Not this one.” Storm pulled from her purse Raphael Danton’s list of the four items she was to acquire. She passed it over. “Not if you want to acquire any of these. I have been granted an unlimited budget and instructions to pay whatever is necessary to obtain them.”
He handed back the paper and tried for disinterest. “And your offer is?”
“My guess is, you’re planning to bid on all four items,” Storm said. “Maybe you came with the same orders as I did. Buy them all for whatever it takes. So it’s in the best interests of both our clients if we reach a compromise.”
“I’ll take the first two.”
The items were listed in order of descending estimated value. “First and third or second and fourth, that’s your choice.”
His gaze flickered over and back. “Second and fourth.”
“Done.” Storm stowed the sheet away. “See how easy that was?”
“Now if you ladies will—”
“Wait, Aaron, please. We’re not done yet. I told you. My client doesn’t care how much it costs. For all I know, he wants to bid you up, just to have the pleasure of winning no matter what you offer.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“That’s what your son thought and look where it got him. I want information, Aaron. That’s why we’re having this conversation. Tell me why this particular auction is so important.”
“I can’t speak for you and your associate. But I represent genuine buyers who—”
Storm stepped forward, revealing how close she was to the edge. “I’m going to offer truth in exchange for truth. I have a new client, one so wealthy the price of the items I’ve been sent to acquire does not matter. I do not know my client’s name. I am dealing with agents who take pleasure in mystery. I want to know what’s going on.”
“How on earth could you expect me to tell you that?”
She clenched herself tight enough to stay calm as she said, “Because my best friend has been killed, and I’m worried it was because of something tied to this auction.”
“That is why Homeland Security is involved?”
Emma replied for her. “Maybe. We’re not certain what the parameters are. Or the dangers.”
“You can’t expect me to divulge confidential information.”
“Anything you can offer is more than I have right now.” Storm fished in her purse. “Do you have a tissue?”
“I’m sorry—”
“Here.” Emma slipped a fresh Kleenex into Storm’s hand.
“Perhaps you ladies might care to sit down?”
“I’m okay here.”
“The auction. Well.” He shot his cuffs. Patted his silver-fox sideburns. Gathered his dignity. “This sale is under the auspices of the Spanish anticorruption judiciary. For the past ten years, the Costa del Sol has seen the biggest real estate boom in Europe’s history. When the bubble burst, the authorities discovered an underlying web of African dictators and Russian mafia who had used the boom to launder money. Licenses were granted to construction projects that have overwhelmed local services and wrecked southern Spain’s last remaining pristine wilderness. The auction yesterday was of assets seized from corrupt Spanish officials who were bribed huge amounts to look the other way.”
“And today?”
“Now it is the Russians’ turn.” His gesture took in their location, Marbella’s Teatro Municipale. “This theater is across the street from the bank used to store the seized assets. And other than the football stadium, it’s the largest venue they could find. They are expecting a standing-room crowd. I must warn you, bidding will be fierce, regardless of what arrangement you and I—”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“The Africans. The worst of them was Nguema Mbasogo, president of Equatorial Guinea. Supposedly he and his minions hid almost a quarter of a billion dollars around this area. Then there’s Sudanese oil money, Nigerian kidnappers, Zaire diamond merchants. This region has attracted a truly vile lot.”
Emma said, “Tell us about the Russians.”
“Their mobs operate throughout Europe, mostly prostitution and drugs.” He looked from one woman to the other. “Is that what this is about?”
“I told you, Aaron. I don’t know. Is there any tie to the West Bank?”
The dealer showed surprise for the first time. “Not that I am aware of.”
The auctioneer chose that moment to walk across the stage, tap on the mike, and welcome the gathered throng in both Spanish and English. Aaron said, “I suggest you ladies find seats unless you prefer to stand all day.”
“Wait. What can you tell me about the Amethyst Clock?”
“Only that it is a legend with no credenc
e whatsoever.” He stepped away. “I am very sorry for your loss.”
Emma waited for the dealer to make his way back to the center of the theater, shaking hands and giving a politician’s wave as he went. “He knows something.”
Storm tracked Aaron’s progress. “I think so too.”
“He tried to hide it. But when you mentioned the clock, he jerked like he’d been shot.”
STORM WOKE TO THE MELODY of a foreign land drifting through her balcony doors. Sunlight frosted the lace curtains. She smelled fresh-baked bread. Out to sea, a boat chugged a deep-throated cadence while gulls sang in frantic harmony. The miniature chandelier dangling from the high ceiling gleamed a cheerful hello. For a few easy breaths, Storm felt as though she actually held the prospect of hope.
Then her cell phone rang. And as she reached to the side table, she saw Emma watching her from the other bed. There in the other woman’s hollowed gaze was everything Storm had managed to forget. At least for a moment.
“Hello.”
“It’s Aaron Rausch, Ms. Syrrell. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“What time is it?”
“Just after seven. Don’t tell me I woke you.”
“No.” She slipped her feet to the floor and tried to locate her business voice. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rausch?”
“I am downstairs. I was hoping we might have a word before the auction begins.”
“Give me fifteen minutes.” Storm shut the phone, turned to Emma, and asked, “How long have you been awake?”
“Wrong question.” Emma spoke to the ceiling. “To wake up implies having been asleep.”
“Rausch wants to meet.”
“I might as well tag along.” Emma tossed her covers aside. “I’m sure not doing any good here.”
