The Black Madonna

by Davis Bunn

  “Maybe so. But if this Temerko has spent a ton on items tied to miracles, my guess is that he has a priest-confessor on call day and night. Can you reach Father Gregor?”

  “He is seated across my desk from me. Ms. Syrrell, I wish to share something with you. My definition of a professional is someone who can think coolly in the heat of battle.” Antonin Tarka gave that a beat, then said, “One of us will be in touch as soon as we have something to report.”

  THE SUN FROLICKED THROUGH THE city, flashing off windows and buildings and cars. The sidewalks were crowded. Many people walked with faces turned to the cloudless sky. Storm watched them through the van’s wire-mesh rear window and wished she held the power to rejoin them. To cut away this distance between herself and any hope of a normal life. To bring Raphael back to consciousness and give herself the chance to love a man who could actually respond.

  Emma must have caught a hint of her remorse, for she slid an arm around Storm’s shoulders. Drew her close. Did not speak. They remained like that, knit tight as shared sorrow, until Storm’s phone rang.

  Muriel reported, “Raphael’s jet has landed at City Airport. The pilot is Eric Siegler, Raphael’s former partner. Also, our security team just found listening devices in the hospital waiting room and attached to Raphael’s bed. Highly sophisticated. Not commercially available.”

  “You need to stay safe,” Storm said. “Is the security in place at the hospital?”

  “I am surrounded by hulking men.”

  “Stay by your phone.” Storm cut the connection and repeated to everyone in the van what Muriel had said.

  City Airport was located within shouting distance of London’s financial district. The economic crisis might have depleted the ranks, but private jets still outnumbered the commercial aircraft by a factor of ten to one. Raphael’s jet was visible from the parking lot, a tiny sparkling gem between two Boeings with crossed swords and Arabic lettering down their sides.

  The van stopped in front of the wire mesh gate. Mehan said, “I need to inform my superiors where you’re headed.”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  Mehan stared at her. “You’re asking me to let you sit on the tarmac and wait for word?”

  Storm met his gaze. “Exactly.”

  FORTY

  THE MAN WHO STEPPED DOWN from Raphael’s jet looked warped. Like a perfectly normal human being had been attacked by a force as strong as the sun. The left side of his face was nothing but scar tissue. Same for his neck and left arm where it emerged from his short-sleeved shirt.

  Only Emma was unaffected. She walked over, offered her hand, and said, “Emma Webb. Homeland Security.”

  “Eric Siegler.”

  Emma introduced the others, then said, “Raphael was your buddy?”

  “Is.” He looked at Storm. “Raphael is my friend.”

  Storm liked that so much she rushed over and took his hand in both of hers, seeking a link strong enough to keep her own hope alive. “Thank you.”

  “You look just like Raphael described,” he said.

  Up close the man’s scars were even worse. The bone above his left eye threatened to poke through the scar tissue. His left ear was a mockery. Storm asked, “He told you about me?”

  “Three times,” Eric replied. “Where are we going?”

  Mehan said, “An excellent question, that.”

  “As soon as we find out,” Storm replied, “I’ll let you know.”

  THEY WAITED IN RAPHAEL’S JET for three hours and twenty-seven minutes. Storm knew because of the two clocks set above the cockpit windshield. The clocks were separated by a compass. All three dials were rimmed in silver and burl. Storm watched the clocks tick together, counting down lost minutes in both London and New York.

  Through the bulbous windshield Storm watched Inspector Mehan pace back and forth in front of the jet. A police car was parked between the jet and the airport gates. The deportation van was gone. A uniformed officer was in the police car’s rear seat. The officer’s head was settled on the headrest. He appeared to be asleep. Mehan draped his overcoat and his yellow-beige jacket on the jet’s stairs. A dark stain of perspiration had formed between his shoulder blades.

  Waiting.

  Emma hovered by the cockpit’s entrance but did not speak. Storm felt a mounting pressure, an ache like she was being repeatedly struck just below her rib cage, the blows timed to each tick of the dual second hands.

  Storm’s phone finally rang, and Father Gregor announced, “I have news.”

  As Tanya crowded into the cockpit portal beside Emma, Storm said, “Just a moment. I want us all to hear.” She keyed on the speaker and set the phone beside the engine controls. “Go ahead.”

  “The Vatican has made enormous strides in building bridges to the Orthodox community. We have a thousand years of wounds to overcome. But we are progressing. A new ally agreed to check for us to see if Kiril Temerko has a personal priest. I apologize for the delay in responding. But with the man’s residences spread all over the globe, this has taken quite some time.”

  Tanya called softly to the inspector, who vaulted up the jetway and crammed himself in behind her. Father Gregor went on, “A high-ranking Orthodox bishop was flown from Saint Petersburg to Switzerland recently to perform their version of last rites for his daughter.”

  Eric Siegler demanded, “Switzerland? You’re certain?”

  Tanya said, “Antonin’s list includes a villa in the Engadine Valley.”

  Father Gregor said, “The bishop described landing between a village and a lake.”

  Eric nodded. “He landed at the Saint Moritz airport.”

  Storm asked, “You know the region?”

  Eric’s smile was a twisted affair. The muscles on the burned side of his face did not move at all. “Raphael and I commanded troops on the Italian border.”

  Father Gregor went on, “The priest described a palace set on a hill in the middle of the valley. The palace was surrounded by a high fence. In the far distance he could see a towering wall of ice.”

  “A glacier tongue. Which means it was probably east of the city.” Eric pulled out a clipboard holding an international flight plan and began writing. “Saint Moritz has an excellent airport. I have used it many times.”

  Emma lifted her buzzing phone. “It’s Tip.”

  Emma slipped to the rear of the plane. Mehan accompanied Eric to the control tower where the pilot filed his international flight plan. Storm watched planes land and take off. Raphael seemed to grow more distant with each tick of the clocks. She had never hated waiting so much as now.

  When Emma returned to the cockpit, her expression was grim. “Tip has ordered me back to Washington.”

  “You can’t go.” When Emma did not respond, Storm raised her voice. “I need you here, Emma.”

  Emma sighed her way into the empty pilot’s seat. “If I stay, it’s the end of my career.”

  “Think about the timing,” Storm pleaded. “The inspector interviewed us in the waiting room. He left. You and I talked. Two hours later, we’re deported. Now Tip is locking you up tight. Why?”

  Emma tapped her phone against the engine controls and did not reply.

  “Whoever bugged Raphael’s hospital room and overheard our conversations decided we were getting too close,” Storm said. “They’re covering something up. Something bigger than just the identity of Rausch’s client.”

  Emma had still not responded when Eric returned to the jet. Eric took one look at her face and asked, “What’s happened?”

  Emma stared at the sunlit runway and did not reply.

  Storm was about to plead once more when her phone buzzed. Muriel reported, “I’ve had considerable difficulty finding anyone who was willing to speak about Sir Julius. I finally obtained the information after calling a source who owes Raphael his reputation. He insisted we speak over a secure line. You understand?”

  “The man is scared.”

  “Terrified. According to this one source,
Sir Julius is the British intelligence agency’s representative on the Queen’s Privy Council.”

  Storm thanked her and rang off. When she repeated the news, Emma recalled, “The listening devices in the hospital were special government issue.”

  Tanya asked, “Do you suggest British intel is involved in the murders at the Athenaeum?”

  Storm shook her head. “That’s not the question we need to be asking.”

  Emma said, “We need to understand why British intelligence would be so keen to acquire these religious artifacts.”

  “They don’t care about the items,” Storm said. “They want a lever to use against Temerko.”

  “All right.” Emma rose from the pilot’s seat. “I’ll give you two days and not one second more.”

  FORTY-ONE

  ALL STORM SAW OF SAINT Moritz was a concrete landing strip and a lake surrounded by early summer green. To the north a road curved around a hillock and merged with a cluster of roofs. A windsock shivered in a snow-laden breeze. Directly ahead of them, two police cars blocked the airport exit.

  Eric taxied over to where a dark-gloved policeman waved them to a halt. Eric powered down the plane, lowered the stairs, and said, “Everybody stay close.”

  The wind was brisk and spiced by the surrounding ice-capped peaks. As Storm’s feet touched ground, her phone rang. “This is Storm.”

  The woman’s frosty tone had not altered one iota since their last conversation. “Hold, please, for Sir Julius Irving.”

  A series of clicks, then, “My dear Ms. Syrrell, how and where are you?”

  “Your secretary did not seem to think that was of any interest whatsoever.”

  “Ah, yes. A most unfortunate misunderstanding, that. I failed to leave word with her of the situation. I was rather shaken by events.”

  As far as apologies went, it barely shook the needle. “I understand.”

  “Most kind. Now then. I am calling to ask if you could bid on my behalf.”

  “You’re interested in acquiring another piece?”

  “My dear young lady, you didn’t think that simply because your employer met with this accident—”

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  “No. Quite. I misspoke. But simply because Mr. Danton is temporarily laid up does not mean we can cease in our quest.”

  “I thought . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I only learned of this particular article an hour ago. The auction begins tomorrow morning at Basel’s international convention hall and runs for three days. I have already inquired as to security. You will be most well taken care of. Now then. Where are you?”

  “Saint Moritz.”

  “How timely.”

  Storm stared at the mountains that walled her in. “As I have not dealt with you directly before, I will require the funds in advance.”

  “Inform my assistant what is required. The transfer will be made within the hour. Ms. Syrrell, I want this item. Whatever the price.”

  As Storm recited her bank details to the frosty secretary, she watched Eric turn his back on the police and walk toward them. When she hung up, he announced, “We are being refused permission to disembark.”

  “Did they tell you why?”

  “One of their officers served with me and Raphael. He says the orders came from security headquarters in Bern. He knows nothing else. I must give them our next destination.”

  “Can you take us to Basel?”

  “That should not be a problem. They do not order us from Switzerland, just from Saint Moritz.”

  When Eric returned to speak with the police, Emma asked, “Does this mean your thinking is off course?”

  Storm watched the sunlight crystallize into plans as solid as the surrounding peaks. “No. Nothing’s changed.”

  “You’re saying Sir Julius ordering you to Basel is a good thing?”

  “It’s better than that,” Storm replied. “It’s perfect.”

  STORM SPENT THE FLIGHT OUTLINING her plans. Eric connected her with Muriel over the plane’s radio system, so she only needed to go through the ideas once. When she finished, Emma said, “I’m glad I agreed to stay.”

  Tanya said, “This is a good plan. It has great promise.”

  Emma said, “I wish my directives from HQ were this clear.”

  “I quite agree,” Muriel said. “I will ring off now. Everything you requested will be ready upon your arrival.”

  They descended through nighttime clouds and landed in heavy rain. When they exited airport security, they were met by a tall, angular man in a severe gray suit. “Storm Syrrell?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Klaus. I was sent by Muriel.” When he gestured toward the entrance, he revealed an earpiece and clear cord running into his jacket. “I have cars.”

  Four more men waited by a pair of dark Range Rovers with tinted windows. They wore earpieces and rain-spotted overcoats. Two more men sat behind the wheels. They were all huge. Muriel had done her work well.

  Emma said, “Money can’t buy you love, but it sure does a bang-up job with security.”

  When they piled inside, Storm asked Klaus, “Do you have the items Muriel asked you to acquire?”

  “Five cryptophones, yes?”

  “Tanya is not coming with us,” Storm said, “so we need to find a quiet place and take care of this now.”

  Klaus spoke to the driver. They pulled away from the terminal and halted by the airport exit. Klaus reached into the luggage hold and passed out white plastic bags. Tanya opened hers and said, “I know this equipment.”

  Klaus said, “It is the latest model and uses ten-digit algorithms. It has no black box, which means it would be easily broken by experts.”

  Storm said, “I’m hoping the experts won’t have a reason to suspect anything.”

  “Then these phones should be satisfactory. They work like regular phones. Turn on here, dial here.” Klaus handed out note cards with five hand-printed telephone numbers.

  When they had made note of the names belonging to each phone, Storm said, “Circle back to the airport.”

  When they pulled up in front of the terminal, Storm got out of the SUV with Tanya. The Polish agent studied her a long moment, then said, “What your friend said on the plane was correct. You would be excellent at my job.”

  “Sorry,” Storm replied. “I don’t have the nerves.”

  As they pulled away, Emma said, “You sure could have fooled me.”

  FORTY-TWO

  THE BASEL MUNICIPAL AIRPORT WAS in a trination enclave surrounded by the Rhein River. The hotel was in the same international free-trade zone as the small airport and the convention center, where the auction was slated to begin the next morning. Their two SUVs pulled up to the hotel entrance and Emma watched the security team move into action. Storm rose from the first vehicle, her hair wrapped in a dark scarf and her face lost behind large sunglasses. The security surrounded Storm and marched her inside. The team had obviously alerted the hotel, because a dark-suited manager was on hand to escort them directly to the elevators.

  After Emma checked them in, she stopped by the hotel shops, then went upstairs. She and Storm ate a room-service meal and strategized until exhaustion set in.

  The next morning, Emma arrived downstairs fifteen minutes early. She wore a new dress of café au lait silk with a matching jacket. She ordered an espresso from a passing waitress and seated herself in an alcove that granted a semblance of privacy. When the coffee arrived, she switched her phone back on. She scrolled through a sheath of increasingly irate messages from Tip and decided nothing would be gained by making that call. Her time on the firing line would come soon enough.

  Instead she phoned Harry and found some comfort in how improved the man sounded. If only the same could have been said for her own conflicted heart. Then Emma spotted the men entering the hotel’s doors. She said her farewells, stowed her emotions with her phone, and rose to greet the approaching trio. />
  They were led by a gray-haired man with a hunter’s thousand-yard stare. “Agent Webb?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Randolf Barnes. May I see some ID?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  He traded his leather portfolio for hers. “We were sent by Sir Julius—”

  “Your services are not required.”

  He hesitated in the act of handing back her badge. “Pardon me?”

  “We decided,” Emma said, “to handle Storm’s security ourselves.”

  “But . . .” He glanced at his partners. “Sir Julius specifically ordered—”

  “Sir Julius Irving is not responsible for Storm’s safety,” Emma replied. “I am.”

  “This is most irregular.”

  “So is our friend getting shot on the steps of his club.” The elevator doors pinged and four agents exited, surrounding a woman masked by dark sunglasses and a scarf. Emma said, “I have to go.”

  The four security men were so tall as to dwarf the woman at their center. As they marched in tandem across the lobby, Emma gave the woman a careful inspection. The actress Muriel had hired to play Storm would do fine, so long as no one came too close. As they approached the exit, two SUVs pulled up and the drivers jumped out, a tightly choreographed dance of tension and risk.

  “Ms. Syrrell, a moment please.” The British security agent started forward. “Sir Julius wishes to have a word—”

  Emma inserted herself between the British agent and Storm’s stand-in. “Sir Julius has Storm’s number. He can call her any time he likes.”

  “THIS IS UTTERLY OUTRAGEOUS!”

  For once, Sir Julius and his ire left Storm unfazed. “I’m sorry. But Emma Webb felt it was best to handle the security issue herself.”

  “I went to a great deal of trouble to arrange the highest-quality service. What possible good could arise from that woman countermanding my orders?”