by Davis Bunn
Storm carried the words, along with the things Muriel had brought, into the shower room. She returned not restored but at least awake. She sat for a time beside Raphael’s bed. He seemed a bit paler than the day before, the bruises protruding from his shoulder bandage much more savage in color.
She knew the ward nurse would probably bring her breakfast, but she had not left the hospital floor since her arrival the previous evening. Even a visit to the cafeteria was a welcome break.
As she crossed the lobby and passed the hospital gift shop, a rumpled bear approached her. That was how he appeared to Storm in her coffeeless state, a frizzy-haired man over six feet tall, wearing a dark, wrinkled suit. “Tell me you’re Syrrell.”
“Excuse me?”
“Storm Syrrell. That is you, right?”
She edged closer to the entrance of the hospital gift shop, scouting for someone who would hear her scream. “And you are?”
“Your new best mate.” He moved in close enough for her to catch his stale odor. “The bloke who can bring you the Amethyst Clock.”
She backed up. “Where did you hear about that?”
“A little bird.” He leered. “A cockatoo, to be exact. Drapes a silk hankie from his pocket. Likes to think he’s better than the rest of us.”
It could only be Curtis Armitage-Goode. “The Amethyst Clock doesn’t exist.”
“You know that. I know that. So does the cockatoo. But he’s asking about it anyway. Which means you’ve latched on to a client with too much of the ready and no brains to speak of. Tell me I’m right.”
Emma stepped through the hospital’s front doors, spotted her, and rushed over. “Is this man bothering you?”
The bear took on an affronted air. “The lady and I happen to be having a conversation of the private variety.”
“She stays,” Storm said. A faint chime sounded in her brain. One strong enough to pierce the pill’s fading haze. “Go on.”
The guy glared at Emma but continued. “I can have a clock like that made up. We’ll split the take.”
Emma started to speak, but Storm shook her head, both to squelch the outburst and to focus the jumble in her brain. “Go on.”
“I got my hands on a Chilean amethyst. Single geode. Eleven and a half inches tall. Shaped like an egg. Primo grade.”
His kind was known as a predatory dealer. They lurked around the edges of her profession. They dealt in false certificates of authenticity and goods with no past. Storm had spent years avoiding just such a conversation. But just then, she feared if the man walked away she would lose this thread of an idea.
“I know a bloke, he’s got his hands on a sixteenth-century chronograph. The workings fit inside the geode like they was made for each other. I know on account of how I scoped it out yesterday, soon as I heard from your cockatoo. I got me a mate, he can do wonders with gold. Carve us a stand that’ll sit up and beg for your buyer to take it home.”
But the idea would not take shape. Storm stepped away from the stale cigarettes on the guy’s breath. “No, thanks.”
“This is fate, I’m telling you. Banging on your front gate, begging for you to open up, make us both rich.”
But Storm was already moving away. “Good-bye.”
STORM CUT UP TWO PEACHES, mixed them into yogurt, and forced herself to eat it. Emma sat across from her at the hospital cafeteria table and complained over her willingness to listen to the predator, until she realized Storm was paying no attention to her.
Storm took her last cup of coffee upstairs. She settled Emma into the waiting room, then returned to Raphael’s bedside. The idea sparked by the predator stayed with her, nebulous and just out of reach. She settled into the chair by Raphael’s bed. She should talk to him like he was awake, the doctor had said. Not just talk; engage him. Use her voice to draw him back.
“I need to walk through everything that’s happened. It’s the only way I can think to make sense of it all.” Storm felt funny sitting there, talking to a guy whose only response was the dual beeps of his heart monitor and lung pump. Then the nurse at the central station looked up, smiled at Storm, and went back to her paperwork. Like it was not only normal but proper.
Storm shifted her chair so the partly open drapes blocked her view of the central station. She looked straight into Raphael’s face, which was disconcerting at first, but then it no longer mattered, because she became increasingly drawn into the one-sided conversation.
Storm found an odd semblance growing among the various events. Like a puzzle built of fragmented lives and hidden motives and a love demolished before it could take form. She had not seen this before. She had been too caught up, first in finding a way to save her company, then in Harry’s supposed death, then in the sudden chance to experience international life in the first-class fast lane. Twenty minutes into her lopsided conversation, Emma delivered a cup of tea, then leaned in the doorway and listened. At first Storm felt uncomfortable chatting with an audience, but Emma started nodding in time to her points.
A few minutes later, Muriel slipped in and fitted herself into the corner. Tanya followed soon after. Emma greeted them both with hard frowns. Neither gave any sign she noticed.
When Storm took a break, Emma asked point-blank, “Do you trust these ladies?”
“Yes.” She nodded a greeting to Tanya. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I bring the respect and sympathies of our friends,” Tanya replied. “We only heard this morning.”
“I should have called. But—”
“They say to tell you that I may remain here with you until we resolve the issue or it goes public. That is, if you find this acceptable.”
“I could think of nothing finer.”
Emma sighed. “Storm . . .”
“What, Emma?”
Emma stared at the linoleum by her shoes. Shook her head. Said nothing.
Storm looked from one woman to the next, then she said, “Maybe I should take it from the top. Start over. See if you can help me connect the dots.”
“I would like that,” Muriel said. “Very much.”
Emma sighed but did not speak. Storm got a firmer grip on Raphael’s hand and began anew. She found a greater sense of clarity in the retelling. No sudden bursts of illumination, but a clearer fix upon the bonds between the various elements.
Fifteen minutes into her second round, the ward nurse slipped past Emma and said, “There is a perfectly good reason for our one-visitor policy.”
“This is important,” Storm replied.
“Very,” Muriel said.
“Vital,” Tanya agreed.
The nurse took Raphael’s pulse. She checked the monitors. “Be that as it may, you should take your discussions into the waiting room.”
“We can’t,” Storm replied.
“Whyever not?”
“Because,” Muriel replied. “Raphael needs to hear this.”
“Does he now.” The nurse studied them in turn. “Well, in that case, I suppose you’d best bring in some extra chairs. Only do please unblock the doorway so we can keep watch on the patient.”
With the other women in place, Storm resumed her story. When she finished describing the attack in Cirencester she paused, wondering if she would be violating Tanya’s confidence if she continued. She looked the question at the Polish woman. In reply, Tanya spoke directly to Emma. “You are U.S. intel, correct?”
“Homeland Security.”
“Can you accept this information and not pass it on to anyone else?”
Emma bristled. “You’re singling me out?”
“I know all about lines of authority and official reports,” Tanya replied. “You and I, we speak the same language in different tongues. So yes, I am asking.”
Muriel asked Tanya, “Why are you trusting us at all?”
“Excuse me,” Emma said. “She is trusting us?”
Tanya pointed at Storm. “This woman has taken us far and paid the price. But we are still at a loss for answers an
d running out of time. I begged my superiors to let me return here because I think—no, I hope—she may have the answer. How, I do not know. Or why. But this is what I am hoping.” Tanya kept her gaze on Emma. “Keep the lid on what you are about to hear for two days. That is all I am asking for.”
Emma looked from one woman to the other, then said, “I’ll wait for your word before reporting in.”
“Everyone here must understand, this is highly confidential.” Tanya searched the three other faces and must have found what she sought, because she nodded at Storm. “You may tell them.”
Storm outlined what had happened at the Polish club, then recounted the trip to Poland and the missing Madonna.
She summarized their meeting with Sir Julius at the Athenaeum and then stopped. There was no need to say anything about the attack. The results were lying in the bed between them.
Emma broke the silence with, “I don’t get it.”
“I agree,” Muriel said.
“With all due respect,” Emma said to Tanya, “there’s no way your missing icon would have the U.S. intelligence community so interested. I mean, let’s be realistic. You could have the crown of thorns go missing and the CIA would just yawn.”
“Emma is right,” Storm said. “We’re all looking in the wrong direction.”
Emma asked Tanya, “Why two days?”
“People in my government have begun to whisper. Rumors are circulating. In two days, we go public with news of the theft. And then, everything changes.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
MURIEL LEFT TO CHECK ON Raphael’s business. Emma could not reach Harry, but she spoke with the military hospital nurse and hung up somewhat reassured. Tanya stationed herself in the waiting room and made several calls of her own. Storm felt swamped by waves of fatigue, which she took as a good sign. If she was going to track the attackers, she needed to rest well and return to full alert. Identify the enemy, hunt them down, and end this thing. Which meant giving in to her need for rest. Storm stretched out on the divan beside Raphael’s bed. She closed her eyes and was gone.
The dream arrived in a very subtle fashion. Storm dreamed that she opened her eyes to discover Raphael watching her. All she could think to say was, “Are you awake?”
“I should be asking you that.” He pointed to the chair beside his bed. “Come sit beside me.”
She did so and took his hand in both of hers. A current passed through her fingers, strong as breath and so vivid she felt her body begin to tremble. “Am I in love?”
“You want me to look into your heart and tell you?”
“Of course.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not? I want to love you and I want you to love me back.”
“Storm.”
“Where are your dimples? You’re smiling but your face isn’t creasing.”
“Listen to me, Storm.”
“I love how you say my name.”
“You need to finish the discussion you have started with your friends. You need to identify the answer.”
“I know. I will.”
“Do it now.”
But she didn’t want to talk about attackers and threats and trauma. She wanted to sit there and stare into that lovely face and be in love. “Can I kiss you?”
“Pay attention. This is important.”
“It sure is.”
“You know the answer. It’s right there waiting for you.”
“All right.”
He took a long breath and then softly sang the words, “And now I must go.”
“No. You can’t.”
He removed his hand from hers. Storm didn’t want to let him go, but she was powerless to stop him. He sat up and slipped his legs from the bed’s other side. “Good-bye, Storm.”
“I won’t let you leave.” Only now she was the one trapped and he was moving. She tried to rise from the chair and follow him as he started from the room. She intended to scream the words, yet they came out a fragile whisper of woe. “Wait for me.”
As Raphael passed the nurses’ station, he turned and smiled at her once more. Then he was gone.
AS STORM CAME SLOWLY AWAKE, an idea drifted into her consciousness. She was fairly certain it was the same one that had come to her while she listened to the predatory dealer pitch his fake clock. Only now it carried a whisper of clarity.
Then she opened her eyes and the idea vanished. A nurse leaned over Raphael. Storm flashed back to the dream’s final image and started to lunge for the bed.
Then she realized the nurse was smiling.
“What is it?”
“I thought I saw him move,” the nurse replied. “There was a blip on the monitor, a slight change in his rhythms. I came in for a peek, and I thought he shifted. I’ve been waiting to see if he’ll do it again.”
Storm watched the nurse fit the stethoscope to her ears and give his chest a listen. When the sister straightened, she asked, “Anything?”
“Not yet. I will admit, I’ve had worse duties than watching this lad sleep.” The nurse made a notation in Raphael’s file, then said, “A police inspector is in talking with your friends. He wanted to wake you but I wouldn’t let him. He was most insistent.”
“I’m glad you refused.” Storm slipped into the bedside chair and took hold of Raphael’s hand. The idea that had come to her upon awakening was gone now. She sat there a minute, trying to draw it back. Then she said, “I dreamed we were talking.”
“Perhaps you were. You hear of some quite remarkable events in this unit.” The nurse gave her another moment, then quietly said, “You should go see to the inspector.”
Storm rose from her chair, looked down at Raphael, and whispered, “Was it you?”
The heart monitor beeped. The lung compressor sighed.
The nurse waited until Storm rounded the bed to ask, “Your young man told you something nice, did he?”
THE MAN QUESTIONING HER FRIENDS wore a tan suit with creases so deep that they looked ironed on. He was trim and compact, with the lean features of an aging runner. He watched her enter the room and said, “Storm Syrrell?”
“That’s right.”
“Inspector Mehan.” He offered her a card. “Scotland Yard.”
Emma said, “He is investigating the murders.”
Mehan rose to his feet. “I’d like to speak with Ms. Syrrell alone, please.”
Muriel said, “As her attorney, I cannot permit that.”
That brought them all around. Storm asked, “You’re a lawyer?”
“The proper term,” Muriel replied, “is solicitor.”
The inspector demanded, “Why should Ms. Syrrell require representation?”
“Why do you wish to speak with her alone?”
Storm held up her hand. “What do you mean by ‘murders’? Raphael is not dead.”
“Raphael’s driver was found stuffed in the trunk of the Rolls,” Emma said. “Along with the shooter. Both professional hits.”
Mehan looked pained. “Might I inquire how you obtained information related to confidential police inquiries?”
“Sir Julius stopped by.” Emma said to Storm, “He says you may call him at any time, for any reason.”
The detective liked this even less. “Precisely what connection does Sir Julius Irving have to this matter?”
Storm replied, “He is Raphael’s client. We were leaving a conference with him when Raphael was shot. He feels responsible for the attack.”
“Was Sir Julius the target?”
“No,” Emma replied. “Storm was.”
“You seem remarkably clear on the matter, Miss Webb. Especially for someone who was halfway across London when the attack occurred.”
“This was not the first attack,” Emma said. “What you should be asking is, who would be so well connected as to know in advance that the meeting with Sir Julius was taking place?”
Storm asked, “You’re saying the man who shot Raphael was left with the driver?”
&nbs
p; Emma said, “My guess is, the shooter was executed by his bosses for bungling the job. He brought everything into the open with two very public attacks. Both failed. His death was payback for a bad job.”
Tanya said, “This is my thinking also.”
The inspector asked Emma, “Might I inquire as to Homeland Security’s interest in this matter?”
Emma said carefully, “Storm is my closest friend. She was threatened. She called. I came.”
“So you are here strictly in an unofficial capacity.”
“I assumed so. Only my superiors are taking a very keen interest in this incident. Why, I do not know.”
Mehan turned his attention to Tanya. “And you, miss?”
“Also a friend.”
He continued to examine Tanya as he asked, “Is Raphael Danton tied to any intelligence service?”
“No,” Muriel said.
“Or any government operating in a clandestine manner within our borders?”
“Absolutely not,” Muriel replied.
Mehan met one hard gaze after another. He said carefully, “None of you at present are under investigation. I am merely here seeking your help.” He pulled out a notebook as rumpled as his suit. “Ms. Syrrell, be so good as to walk me through what happened at the Athenaeum, please.”
When Storm finished, Mehan asked, “Might I have a copy of Mr. Danton’s client list?”
Muriel laughed out loud.
“A judge may see fit to rule otherwise, Miss Lang.”
“Then I shall see you in court,” Muriel said. “We have tried to be helpful, and now you respond with a threat.”
“On the contrary,” replied Mehan. He rose to his feet and stuffed his notebook in his pocket. “You have only appeared helpful. We have agents of foreign governments operating clandestinely within our borders, hovering around events involving two murders and one attempted kidnapping. I would say you’ve offered me very little in the way of anything concrete.”
