Nasim glanced up from his desk and a broad smile appeared on his wrinkled face. “Veronica, my child.” He rose to greet her.
Veronica smiled back. Once as handsome as his wife was beautiful, he was still an attractive man. Even more important, he was the best archaeological field worker in Turkey, with an instinct that was second to none. He knew everything, everyone and every deal that was worth knowing. Crossing the room, she met him halfway. He took her hands in his and kissed her cheek, then glanced past her. “You have brought a friend?”
“My partner, Dr. Simon Owens.”
“I have heard of you Dr. Owens,” Nasim said. “You did your thesis work in France, did you not?”
“Correct. On Colletré. The sites at Lake Paladru.”
Leaning back, he stage-whispered, “He is much better than Michael. Smarter.”
“Better-looking, too, from what I hear,” Simon replied, shaking Nasim’s hand.
Veronica held back a groan. Sometimes it seemed as if Nasim and his wife shared the same mind, but then maybe they did after forty years together, and their common goal seemed to be to get her, their surrogate daughter, married.
Nasim laughed and slapped Simon on the back. “A better sense of humor as well.”
He motioned them toward the chairs. “Sit. Sit. I am anxious to hear what brings you back to Turkey.”
Veronica sat in one of the two hard-backed chairs that faced the simple wooden desk and drew her unbound hair over her shoulder. Fidgeting with the loose strands, she decided to get to the crux of the matter. “A few months ago, Simon stumbled upon an artifact that proves my theory about myths. It’s led us here, and you’re the only person I trust in Istanbul.”
“The myth theory again,” Nasim muttered, sounding unconvinced.
“Yes.” Veronica glanced at Simon, but he waited, obviously allowing her to tell the tale. Reaching into her backpack, she pulled out the Tupperware container, opened it and set the codex on the desk. “We are looking for the real Midas Stone. As you know from mythology, it gives the user the ability to turn whatever he or she touches into gold.”
Nasim steepled his hands in front of his lips, unconvinced. “You have proof?”
“Simon brought me a mouse made of gold. We didn’t bring it, but I had Alyssa run tests on it, and it shows lungs, heart, bones, you name it. All solid gold and most definitely not made by smelting.” He perked up and she continued. “To keep it short, the codex here—” she laid a palm on the book “—tells about an artifact called the Eye of Artemis. It says that it’s the key to all that is gold, which we believe is the Midas Stone. But to get to the Eye, we need your help.” She took a deep breath and braced herself, knowing that with the next phrase, Nasim was going to slip from interested archaeologist to surrogate father. “It’s at Fakhir al-Ahmed’s mansion.”
Nasim frowned. “Fakhir? He is a dangerous man, Veronica, and not known for letting people into his house to take precious artifacts.”
Veronica leaned forward and reached across the desk, pleading. “I know. That is why I have come to you. There has to be a way in, and if there is, I know you are the man to show me the way.”
Nasim’s frown deepened into a scowl, and his black eyes grew hard. “It is too dangerous. Your father would never forgive me if something happened to you. I hate to think of what your mother would do.”
She sat back, hating that it came to this, but he’d given her little choice. “If you do not help me, be assured we will try to get the Eye, anyway.”
The small desk clock ticked away while Nasim regarded the pair. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, addressing Simon. “Even as a child, Veronica was known for getting others into trouble.”
“We’re a good match, so far,” Simon replied, laying his hand on her shoulder in a show of solidarity. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Fine. Better I should help than let you fail.” Anger at the blatant manipulation darkened his eyes, but Veronica knew it would not last long. He loved a good adventure, and soon the excitement would outweigh the worry. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he shouted for his wife.
Iamar opened the door. “What are you bellowing about?”
“Tell Veronica what you will be doing tomorrow night.”
“We have a dance demonstration.”
“Where?” Nasim asked.
“There is a party at the al-Ahmed mansion. He wants authentic dancing, and I am coordinating the performers as well as performing with my troupe.”
“Aw, damn,” Veronica muttered. She could see the gears turning in Nasim’s head. “No.”
Nasim laughed, knowing she had tracked his idea to the outcome. “Oh, yes.”
“Am I missing something?” Simon turned to Veronica, curiosity in his eyes.
“Yes, what is going on?” Iamar asked, standing behind Veronica, hands on her hips.
Nasim’s hands dropped to the tabletop, fingers inter-locked. The anger faded from his eyes, replaced by self-satisfaction. “Our daughter wishes to borrow an artifact from Fakhir al-Ahmend.”
Veronica heard Iamar’s sharp intake of breath.
“And has told me that she will do so with or without our help.”
“Nasim,” Iamar interrupted. “We cannot—”
He cut her off with a raised palm. “You know she will do it with or without our help.”
Behind Veronica, Iamar huffed in frustration.
Nasim continued, “The safest way to get her in is as a dancer.”
Veronica scrunched down in the seat. “I haven’t danced in a year. How about I go as a dresser? Help the girls prepare?”
“We already have one,” Iamar replied, coming around to sit on the edge of the desk, her green eyes flashing with fury. “If you need to get into the mansion, you will have to go as a dancer. At least I will be able to keep an eye on you to some extent.”
“Fine.” Feeling like a five-year-old girl, Veronica sank even lower. Could this get any worse?
“How about me?” Simon asked. “I can’t have her going in there alone.”
“Can you drum?” Iamar asked.
“No. I’m rhythm impaired, or so I’m told.”
She sighed. “Then you shall go as my assistant.”
“No,” Simon replied, pressing his lips together. “Too dangerous. If we were caught with you, you’d be implicated.”
Veronica turned to look at him in surprise. He’d shown the same consideration for Sylvia—not wanting her to be implicated in their activities. He wouldn’t explain himself, but he worried for others. It wasn’t much, but it was a good sign.
Iamar tapped a finger against her chin as she considered what to do. “As I said, there are many troupe members. It is doubtful the guards are aware of how many. I have an invitation for the dance. We shall make a copy.” She clapped her hands in front of her, pleased with the decision. “With the outfit I find for Veronica, there will be no way they will deny her entry.” She turned to Simon. “You shall go as Veronica’s assistant. Will that be acceptable?”
Veronica bit her lip. “I don’t know. It sounds half-baked.” Simon was right. She did not want to jeopardize her friends. But on the other hand, with Michael out there and her laptop in his possession, there wasn’t time to wait.
“There will be no better time,” Nasim replied, solidifying the decision for her. “We shall have to work fast.”
“Good enough,” Simon said, clapping his hands on his thighs. “What kind of dancing do you do?” He turned to Veronica. “Classical? Modern?”
Veronica answered the question in her thoughts even as Iamar spoke. “No. Oriental dancing, or what you call belly dancing.”
Chapter 11
Veronica stood in front of the full-length mirror and twirled twice, her deep red-and-gold petal skirt flaring out into a perfect circle while the motion made her coin-trimmed halter ring with a hundred tiny metallic chimes.
In the other room, Simon caught Nasim up on all that had happened to the
m.
She stopped and the material swirled around her ankles. With a frown, she tugged at the top, trying to cover her exposed abdomen until a hand slapped her away. “Leave it. I want to get this finished before you have to go back to the hotel.” Iamar knelt at her feet and tugged at the skirt, adjusting the way it rested on Veronica’s hips.
Impatiently, Veronica shifted. Were she and Simon insane to think this would work? With her long dark hair and dusky skin, she could pass for a local, but were looks enough?
She might be paranoid, but she felt something about her appearance looked, well, wrong. Maybe it was her eyes.
Finished, Iamar rose to her feet, fluid in movement thanks to her years as a dancer. “What do you think?”
Veronica twirled again, and the multilayered silk petals swirled and floated around her legs. She loved Lily and the occasional brush with death, but there was something about the exotic sensuality of belly dancing that appealed to her. She felt both excited and decadent despite her trepidations. “It’s beautiful. Just beautiful.”
Belly dancing also had the added benefit of being a great workout. No athlete had stronger abs, or more control over his or her individual muscles, than a professional belly dancer.
Behind her, Iamar brushed her dark hair until it fell into perfect waves down her back. “We should trim the ends. Perhaps henna your hands and feet. It’s popular with the dancers right now.”
Veronica considered it. Henna took weeks to wash out and while it might be popular, it was memorable. The last thing she needed was to be recognized. She touched Iamar’s hand. “Too hard to get rid of.”
“As you wish.” Iamar agreed, although Veronica heard the disappointment in her voice. “Then perhaps a belled ankle bracelet?”
Veronica nodded approval. “As long as I can take it off after the dance, sure.” The last thing she needed was to announce her presence as she sneaked through the mansion. She kicked the dancing slippers off and back into the closet.
Iamar handed her an ankle bracelet covered with tiny brass bells and a matching slave bracelet for her wrist. “Once we add makeup, no one will recognize you as anything but a dancer.” She sized up Veronica with her eyes, as if imagining the overall effect, then smiled in satisfaction. “What dance would you like to do? Is there one that you think Simon might prefer?”
Veronica gave Iamar a quick sideways glance. She knew what the older woman was trying to do—open up the “Simon topic” so she could pick Veronica’s brain.
It wasn’t going to happen.
She put on the slave bracelet, sliding the three finger rings over her index, middle and ring finger before snapping the main bracelet over her wrist. “Nice try, but I am not going to tell you a thing.”
Iamar’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? It was a simple question.”
“Umm-hmm.” Sure it was. She held back the humor that tried to escape. The last thing Iamar needed was encouragement.
Putting on the ankle bracelet, she straightened, taking a moment to tug at the halter top. “To answer your question, I thought a veil dance would be entertaining. Plus, it will distract people from my face, which we don’t want remembered.” She’d been dancing since she was seventeen and first met Iamar, but it had been a year since she’d performed. She’d play to her strengths, and she’d always danced well when veiled.
“What music?” Iamar asked.
“The first track of the Immortal Egypt CD, if you have it.”
Flipping through a book of music, Iamar put the CD in the player and the Saaidi rhythms of Upper Egypt filled the room. She handed Veronica a red-chiffon circle veil and headed for the door. “We should invite Simon and Nasim to watch. Give you a practice audience.”
“No audience.” Veronica caught her by the arm. She shook her head in exasperation. “You don’t give up, do you?”
Iamar tried to appear insulted, but her green eyes twinkled with mischief. “You are paranoid.”
Veronica scoffed and restarted the CD. With a flourish and a dramatic toss of her head, she whirled the six-yard chiffon scarf in front of her, smiling to discover that veil dancing seemed to be on par with bicycling—one simply had to get back on, or, in her case, swirl a veil.
Picking a dance that she had done before, she tried to lose herself in the music, smiling when an improvisational step succeeded and grimacing when she stumbled or made an obvious mistake.
When she finished the five-minute piece, she was breathing hard. “That wasn’t too bad,” she said, wiping the thin sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I need practice but should be ready—”
The sound of clapping interrupted her, and Veronica turned to see Simon leaning against the doorway. “It was perfect from what I could tell,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “I had no idea that you were so talented.”
Heat rushed through Veronica, and she knew she blushed from foot to forehead. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide her skimpy costume. “Has it ever occurred to you that sneaking up on someone might get you killed?”
He entered the room and picked up the veil from the floor. “What are you going to do? Beat me to death with this?”
She snatched it from him. “No. But strangulation comes to mind.”
He held up his hands in mock defeat.
“I will leave you two to work out your…plans,” Iamar said, exiting the other door, but not before Veronica saw the satisfaction in her expression.
Veronica ignored the thin excuse to leave her alone with her partner, but only because Iamar was right. “We do need to make a plan of some sort. Code words. Something.” Turning back to the mirror, she was glad to see her skin was no longer red with either exertion or embarrassment. “Unless, of course, you want to stand there and harass me the rest of the afternoon.”
“As much fun as that sounds, I’ll have to decline,” Simon said from behind her. “We have a day to prepare, and I don’t want us to get caught off guard like we did in the Vatican.”
“Give me a minute to change.” She turned and pushed him toward the door. She didn’t want to discuss it dressed like a cabaret showgirl.
“It doesn’t bother me if you stay in costume,” Simon replied, bracing his body against hers.
Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the room to breathe. It was hot and oppressive and, well, hot.
“You okay?” Simon asked, his attention on her mouth.
Veronica swallowed, unable to tear her gaze away from Simon’s eyes and the way they were devouring her. “Fine,” she whispered. “Just…uh…need to change. It’s…uh…hot in here. Don’t you think?”
“Sweltering,” he whispered back.
His thigh rested against hers, and she licked her lips, visualizing just how strong his legs were beneath his jeans. How they looked in Lycra shorts. In boxer-briefs.
Naked.
She held back a moan. This was bad. This was very, very bad. She had to get him out of the room before she ripped off his pants to see what he wore underneath. She licked her lips again. “Um, I really should change,” she said, tearing the words out of her throat. “I want you to go.”
She knew her remark was like cold water. Simon shook himself as if coming out of sleep. “Sure. Later.”
A second later he was out the door, nearly slamming it behind him.
Veronica carefully unhooked her slave bracelet, took it off and flung it on the bed.
Composing herself, she emerged five minutes later, dressed in her usual jeans and T-shirt to see Nasim and Simon engrossed in conversation over a small stack of papers. Nasim motioned her over. “Come. We received this from Rebecca.”
Veronica pulled up a chair. It was the map her assistant had sent before, but now it was blown up and printed into several sections. For a brief moment, she wondered how Rebecca found such detailed plans, but just as quickly, she decided she was probably better off not knowing. No doubt, it was illegal to a degree. Some things were better left unknown
When Simon was finished, the map measured four-by-four feet. He taped the pages together, then Simon laid the map on the rug. All three hunkered down to search for the room that contained the Eye.
It was toward the back of the mansion, away from the main ballroom. “It seems that money can buy everything,” Simon commented, pointing out the icon that the legend indicated was a pressure-sensitive alarm system keeping the art gallery safe from intruders. If any weight even a few ounces touched the floor, all hell would break loose.
Veronica leaned on her elbows, mentally cataloging the area. “Do you think he’ll have this section open to show off his collection?”
“My guess is yes,” Nasim replied. “Fakhir is a vain man, but he is also a paranoid one. If the private gallery is open, you can be assured that it will be heavily guarded.”
It didn’t look as if Simon would be able to do as she’d hoped—steal the Eye while she danced. Standing up, she paced the room while her mind whirled, exploring their now more-limited options.
For what felt like the millionth time, she wished there were another way besides infiltrating the mansion as a dancer. It would be best if they weren’t seen at all, but with the time limitation there was little choice. She stopped in her tracks and looked up. “What if we find a place to wait out until the party is over, steal the Eye and leave before daybreak?”
Simon gave a thoughtful nod, then scanned the map. “There’s a storage area not too far from the gallery. According to Rebecca’s map, it’s wired, but the security level is minor compared to the gallery. We should be able to disable it with the code-breaker.” His mouth turned down with concern. “If it still works.”
The Midas Trap Page 16
