The Black Madonna

by Davis Bunn

  Storm hurriedly jabbed the cane at the back of the man’s skull. The sound was that of a pool cue striking a ball. The man’s gun hand wavered. Storm did not have time for the full swing she wanted, but a ten-inch arc knocked the man to his knees.

  The woman kicked the pistol from his grip, sending it rattling across the pavement. She gripped the man by his lapels and rapped his head against the front fender. “Who sent you?”

  Storm thought she detected a strong accent in the woman’s voice, but her own rasping breath and the shouts that rang from the manor behind them interfered with her hearing.

  The woman rapped the man’s head against the fender a second time. His heels scrabbled across the pavement. The woman shouted in a language Storm could not understand and rapped his head yet again, this time hard enough to dent the fender.

  The driver raced around the hood, snarling with fresh menace.

  But before the driver came into range, a white van bounced over the curb, scraped past an elm, and halted between the woman and the driver. The man driving the van shouted and gestured violently at the woman.

  She released the dazed attacker, gripped Storm’s arm, and said, “You must come with us.”

  “Why?”

  The woman was already moving for the van, dragging Storm with her. “If you stay, you die.”

  She climbed into the van’s rear door and hauled Storm in after her. The van sped away as the driver of the Rolls dragged Storm’s unconscious attacker back into the car.

  In the distance a siren wailed.

  TWENTY-ONE

  HARRY DRIFTED THROUGH MUCH OF the four-hour drive. He came fully alert with taut little jerks, pulled to wakefulness by jabs of either fear or pain or both. The jolts were worth the trouble, for Emma was there each time. Ready to gentle him with a stroke of his arm, the softest word, a caress to the undamaged side of his face. She held his hand throughout, snug in her lap.

  They returned to the main highway and headed south. Just past the Petra turnoff, Saleem halted to refill his tank. At Emma’s request, Saleem purchased drawstring pants and a T-shirt decorated with the Jordanian flag. Ten miles farther on, he then pulled into a desert turnout. Harry limped into the shadows and changed clothes. His ribs hurt too much to do what he wanted, which was fling the djellaba at the stars. Harry returned to the car and resumed his hold on Emma’s hand.

  It was fully dark when they reached the port city of Aqaba. Harry heard Emma discuss the hotel situation with Saleem without fully coming awake. He worked their words into his dream, finding bone-deep comfort from a woman he could trust to take charge.

  Saleem chose for them a hotel two blocks off the main waterfront. An Indian couple smiled them in and made cooing sounds over Harry’s injured state. Emma explained that he had been in an accident and needed to rest. She claimed that his papers had been lost in the accident, along with all his clothes, and that the embassy was sending down new ones. Emma paid for three rooms in cash and offered a generous tip. The proprietor smiled his enjoyment of her tale.

  When she was done, Harry gestured toward Saleem and said, “We need to have a chat with your pal.”

  “You look all done in.”

  “I’ve felt better. But if we hold off until tomorrow, there’s a good chance Saleem will vanish with the dawn.”

  Emma went over and asked Saleem to join them. The portly gentleman carried himself with a nervous air. Harry said, “We need your help, and we will pay.”

  Saleem’s fearful gaze shifted from one to the other. “I am thinking anything with you has much danger.”

  Harry glanced at Emma. She motioned that this was his show. Harry said, “Listen to what we need, and if you think there is any risk, then leave. And we’ll pay you anyway.”

  “I leave, you still pay?”

  “Not as much as if you help us. But I’d say you’ve earned a bonus whatever you decide. Emma tells me you had relatives who are smugglers. Do any of them live in Aqaba?”

  Saleem’s furtive glances, the nervousness, the mobile features, all vanished. “Who can say?”

  “I’m asking because we’re looking for a smuggler who calls this town home. His name is Wadi Haddad.”

  “I am not knowing this man.”

  “No, but your relatives might.” Harry slipped the Palestinian ID from his pocket. “Have them give this to Wadi Haddad. Tell Wadi the bad guys are on his trail. They’ve been tracking me because they want him. Tell him what you saw yesterday at Nebo.”

  “And tell him about me,” Emma said. “Tell him everything.”

  “We’re the only people who can help him.” Harry needed Emma’s help to rise from the chair. He kept the pain from his features as he said, “The clock is ticking, Saleem. Tell that to Wadi Haddad as well. I don’t know how much time we’ve got before they show up. But my guess is, we’d all be safer moving with the dawn.”

  HARRY’S ROOM WAS LARGE AND slightly seedy but immaculately clean. He took what should have been the finest shower of his entire life. He could not scrub as hard as he would have liked because of his ribs. He shaved away his stubble and grunted against the pain of lifting his arms to wash his hair. Worse than his physical discomfort, however, was the alarm bell echoing through his brain.

  All his previous relationships had hit a wall about now. Every time danger had reared its head, the next words his latest lovely uttered were, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

  The arguments that followed always ended with the same ultimatum. Either Harry chose a new line of work or their time was over. Harry’s problem was, his work was his life.

  Which meant he had always treated women with the same cavalier attitude as most treasure dogs. Relationships started, they broke apart, and he moved to the next hunt.

  Only not this time.

  Harry had known for months he’d moved far beyond his normal safety zone. But so long as Emma’s work kept her in Washington, he could put off confronting the new reality. The alarms had started clanging on the drive south. Now that he was here alone and safe and clean, there was nothing left to hide behind. What the lady might say, and how he might respond, left him quaking in his sandals.

  Emma arrived while he doctored his face with salve the doctors had given him. She pulled a feast from various bags and set the contents on the rusted balcony table. Chunks of roasted beef in a spicy sauce, lamb with pine nuts nestled in hummus, a fragrant Arab salad of cumin and coriander and mint, on and on the dishes came. Harry ate until his belly hurt worse than his ribs.

  They sat for a time, listening to the night. Harry’s balcony overlooked a bustling central market. From the street below came the electrified beat of modern Arabic music. Harry smelled charcoal and cumin and diesel and donkey in the hot nighttime wind. On the balcony above his, four backpackers chattered and smoked cigarillos laced with clove.

  Then he realized that Emma had shrunk inside herself.

  That was how it seemed. This strong and vibrant woman had shriveled up. The only thing big about her was her eyes.

  Harry realized he wasn’t the only one fighting old ghosts.

  The awareness brought no comfort, however. Harry was on new terrain. None of his old habits or shields or attitudes fit this scenario. The lady needed answers. Harry had none. He had never felt as poor as right then.

  He struggled to say, “Maybe I should get some rest.”

  Emma sighed with what Harry figured was pure relief. She gave him a hug as strong and swift as summer thunder and was gone.

  Hours later the traffic finally thinned, the hotel went silent, and Harry decided it was probably worth trying to get a little sleep.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE FEMALE GUARD WHO HAD rescued Storm was named Tanya. She and her partner had been tracking Storm since her arrival at the auction. Why, Tanya would not say. They drove Storm to a public restroom at the border of a village park. When they pulled up, Tanya slid open the van’s rear door and stepped out. The driver motioned for Storm to stay where she was.
He never spoke or ceased his constant search of the night.

  The restroom was built of brick and stone and resembled the surrounding Victorian village. Tanya fed coins into the restroom door, checked inside, then signaled for Storm to come over. As soon as she stepped out of the van, it sped away.

  Tanya wore a dark leather jacket over shoulders that bunched and shifted like a bodybuilder’s. Her dark hair was cut so short Storm could see the woman’s scalp. Her lips were a thin slit. “Inside.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You see soon enough.” She pulled Storm forward, but not unkindly. “For now, you are safe. Everything else must wait.”

  But when Tanya started to close her inside the concrete cubicle, Storm jammed the door open and said, “Are you Russian?”

  “Polish.” The woman’s smile was brutally tough. “You don’t like Russian?”

  “I have been told they are after me.”

  “Yes, we think so.” She jerked her chin. “Get inside where you are safe. Relax. I wait here.”

  Storm had no way of knowing how long she was kept inside, but it felt like a very long time. At some point during the melee her watch had broken. The hands were frozen at a quarter past six. Her phone was still in the limo of the men who had abducted her, along with her purse and ID. Now and then Tanya tapped on the door and asked if Storm was okay. Twice Storm asked what was going on. When the woman did not respond, Storm did not push it. The restroom stank of industrial cleanser, but slits above the door let in a little of the night breeze. The walls were rough concrete and tightly constructed. Storm heard the sound of an approaching car. A door slammed. A motorcycle pulled up and halted. Fear blossomed in her gut at the sound of footsteps.

  There was another rap on the door. Tanya said, “Open the door.”

  “Who is out there with you?”

  “Friends.”

  When Storm did as she was ordered, the woman handed her a bag. “Take off everything you are wearing. You understand when I say everything?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Put it all in this bag. You keep nothing. Not even your rings. Do you have a hotel key?”

  “In my pocket.”

  Tanya held out her hand. “Give.”

  Storm thought of Raphael’s cash tucked into her suitcase’s side pocket and hesitated.

  Tanya gave another slit of a grin. “You think we wait this long to rob you?”

  Storm handed over the key. “Cirencester Grand. Room one eleven.”

  “Remember, put everything in the bag. Then put on these clothes.” Tanya pushed the door shut. “Hurry.”

  THE BAG CONTAINED A BLUE two-piece outfit of cotton thick as sailcloth. The pants were cinched by a drawstring. The jacket had two long flaps, like identical tongues. It took Storm a moment to realize she needed to tie one end under her left arm, then wrap the outer side around. Then she had to undo both ties because at the bottom of the bag was a T-shirt, her size, also blue. The T-shirt felt much better against her skin than the rough outer garment.

  The woman rapped on the door. “We must leave.”

  “Almost done.” On her feet went Japanese-style tabi socks with a slit between her big toe and the next, then rope-soled sandals. Storm assumed the outfit came from some studio teaching hand-to-hand combat. The knowledge left her feeling safer.

  She opened the door. “I’m ready.”

  Tanya reached for Storm’s bag. “Is everything in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “We check for bugs, then return everything.” She handed the bag to a small man with unruly hair, who grinned at Storm, then loped to a motorcycle and sped away.

  Tanya directed Storm back to the van. “Where are we going?”

  Tanya climbed in behind her and shut the door. “London.”

  “Why did you make me wait back there?”

  “Our job is to keep you safe. We are taking you to someone who can answer your questions.”

  As they entered London’s outskirts, the night clouds turned the color of old bronze. Storm thought she could smell rain through the van’s open window, but the streets were dry. They passed an electric sign that flashed the time, quarter past eleven. The numbers were meaningless.

  The buildings they passed grew steadily grander, the street broader. One side became lined with trees. Then a park opened up. Broad paths of what looked like sand or gravel ran beneath streetlights. The walks glowed like yellow streams. Despite the hour, Storm saw a number of joggers.

  The woman noted Storm’s interest. “Do you know where you are?”

  “I’ve only been in London once, and just for three hours. Less. A limo into the city, a meeting, then back out again.”

  “We are driving along Hyde Park.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Up ahead is Hyde Park Corner and then Piccadilly. The name is for a street and a circus. The word ‘circus’ in Latin means circle.”

  Storm studied the woman seated beside her. She was calm in the manner of an unprimed grenade. “You live here?”

  “Once. Not now. I studied in London. Four months.” She smiled thinly at the memory. “Nice place.”

  They sped past a cluster of fancy hotels, then turned down a broad thoroughfare lined with what to Storm looked like Regency houses. They stopped in the middle of the block. Storm asked, “Where are we?”

  “Your destination.”

  The house was white with a colonnaded entrance. The sash windows on the first three floors were almost as large as the front door, fully ten feet high and eight across. The houses to either side were just as grand. Storm followed Tanya from the van. The driver sped away. Storm looked down a long street flanked by centuries of power. As she climbed the manor’s front stairs, the first drops of rain splashed against the portico’s roof.

  The woman pulled a handle set inside a brass circle. A bell jangled inside the house. The door was swiftly opened by a man in a gray morning suit. He glanced at Storm’s blue smock and frowned. Tanya spoke to him sharply. The man bowed them both inside.

  The entrance hall was twenty feet wide and lined in faded Persian carpets. At the back of the hall, double doors opened to an elegant dining hall. The majordomo pointed them up a grand staircase. The wall to the right of the stairwell was lined with black-and-white photographs of stern-faced men. Storm took her time going up the stairs, studying the pictures. She thought she recognized General Patton in one, wearing his trademark pearl-handled pistols and flanked by two men with handlebar mustaches. The three men stood before a burned-out Nazi tank.

  The upstairs hall was lined by several rooms, all of them occupied by men who smoked and drank from crystal goblets and played cards upon felt-covered tables. They observed Storm’s passage with unreadable gazes. Tanya knocked on the closed door at the end of the hall. At a voice from within, she motioned Storm inside and followed, closing the door behind her.

  The room was both grand and severe. Empty walls bore shadows from tapestries. The parquet floor was inlaid with what looked like a mosaic of bone and teak. Four lumpy sofas slumbered along one wall. A meager fire smoldered in a vast marble fireplace. Tall sash windows were open to the night and the rain. A lone table stood beneath the central chandelier. Two gray-haired gentlemen watched the women enter the room.

  “Ms. Syrrell, what a pleasure. Do forgive me for not rising,” one of the men said. He tapped his left shin with a walking cane. “My leg.”

  “Where am I?”

  The other man, a silver-haired priest, rose and bowed. “Welcome to Ognisko, Ms. Syrrell. The word is Polish for ‘hearth’ and signifies a place of safety.”

  “Our club was started by expatriates during the Second World War,” the seated gentleman said. “Nowadays it is mostly reserved for memories the rest of the world has long put aside.”

  The priest added, “It remains a haven for people like ourselves.”

  “We still have our uses.” The gentleman motioned to the chair beside his own. “Wi
ll you take refreshment, Ms. Syrrell? Tea, perhaps?”

  Tanya told them, “The lady missed dinner.”

  “We can certainly remedy that.” He waved Storm forward. “Please, dear lady. Do join us.”

  Storm remained where she was. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Antonin Tarka. My friend of the cloth is Father Gregor.”

  “You met Emma in Washington?” she said, looking at the cleric.

  “Indeed so, Ms. Syrrell,” Father Gregor replied. “Might I ask how your friend is?”

  “A lot happier than when she left you. Seeing as how you got the news about Harry completely wrong.”

  “A mistake for which I sincerely apologize.”

  She detected no danger, only the sweet fragrances of wood smoke and rain. She walked over and seated herself. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Gladly. That is, we will tell what we know. Which is much less than we might like.” He inspected her and said, “Might I say, Ms. Syrrell, I detect a great deal of your grandfather in you. It is most reassuring, given the situation we face.”

  “You knew Sean?”

  “We both did,” the priest said.

  “I considered it an honor to call him a friend,” said Antonin Tarka. He looked beyond her. “Ah. Your repast. Excellent.”

  The gray-suited butler entered the parlor, set a silver service on a card table, and asked, “How does madame prefer her tea?”

  “Milk, no sugar.”

  “The brown-bread sandwiches are salmon; the grain are tongue. The pots contain mustard and relish.” He settled a linen napkin into her lap. “Will madame be requiring anything further?”

  Storm found herself oddly comforted by their stilted formality. “This is great, thank you.”

  Antonin Tarka studied her carefully as she ate, then turned to Father Gregor and spoke in Polish.

  Father Gregor replied in English, “Are you certain?”