Athena's Secrets

by Donna Del Oro

“There’s another surveillance car, a secondary, right around the corner. They’ll move in position when the time is right. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and one of those cars will lead us straightaway to those Serbs.”

  “Max, Tony—he was planning to drug me and kidnap me. They know we know about the bugs. That we’ve been feeding them false information.”

  “So how do you know the blighter was planning to do this?”

  She knew her father hadn’t revealed his wife’s and daughter’s special powers to any of the security teams. As a reply, she shrugged and pointed to the diner.

  “He wanted to buy me coffee at the diner. Isn’t that how someone’s drugged? They go off with someone they trust, don’t pay attention to their drinks. Next thing they know, they wake up in some strange place. Tied up, at some sadist’s mercy.”

  Max looked at her pointedly. “You sure you don’t want a career at MI-5 or MI-6? You could also fit in with the FBI or CIA.” He laughed at her shocked reaction. “The FBI—you’d have to become a bloody American, God forbid.” He laughed heartily before sobering. “Well, miss, let’s get you home safe and sound. And the next time you go off with your mother on some mysterious errand, do have the courtesy to give me a hail and fare-thee-well.”

  His reassuring voice and solid presence—all in a day’s work, after all—made her teary-eyed. The evening still crackled with surprises. Her insides were no longer trembling, her hands were no longer shaking, and her voice sounded calm to her own ears.

  “Yes, Max. I promise. I won’t ditch you again.”

  “Whatever was that about, anyway? You and your mother going shopping with a friend? Who just happened to be driving an unmarked police detective’s car?”

  You can’t pull the wool over this guy. Mum should’ve known better. We have to tell Father what we’ve been doing to help Detective Palomino’s case.

  She wondered what Max would think, a British security officer, about her and her mother’s secret gift. Her father would die of shame! All the jesting directed at her father at Embassy meetings—would he ever live it down? Would his career, that he’d worked so hard at and sacrificed so much for over the years, survive such ridicule?

  Sorcerers in a proper English diplomat’s family? What, you say? Do they conjure up spirits as well? I daresay, I’ve never heard of anything more preposterous! We can’t tolerate such nonsense in the diplomatic service!

  “Sorry, Max, I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

  Max cast her a feral grin in the harsh lighting of the parking lot.

  “Blimey, what do you know, like everyone else in this bloody job, you’ve got a secret. Join the club, Athena. It goes with the territory.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Two weeks later, Athena found herself with Max again, this time as her driver. They’d just pulled up to Visions Gallery on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown, a block from the Ritz Carlton, and he’d dropped her off. If someone was watching her, they’d think he’d drive off and come back later to pick her up. However, she and Max had formed a plan, but it was up to her to carry it off.

  The gallery that Martin Larsen helped manage in this upscale neighborhood was modern, spacious, and well lit, in counterpoint to the gloom outside on the cloudy winter’s afternoon. A big gilded and framed sign on an easel promoted the event: “Genuine Pastiches of the World’s Greatest Painters.” Underneath the heading ran two columns of names, fourteen artists in all. She located Doctor White’s name and next to it, in parentheses, Paul Cezanne’s, indicating her specialty. All the other contemporary painters of pastiches were publicized in the same way, making the whole business idea look quite legitimate. That eased her skepticism more than a bit.

  Because she’d arrived two hours after the official starting time, the receiving line had scattered. Only Martin and his gallery partner, his uncle Lars, approached and greeted her. Martin called over his other partner, Mark Cochinelli, and introduced her. A flashback vision reminded her that this was Mark, of the M & M sheets.

  Mark was a dark handsome Italian, a contrast to Martin’s Viking looks. “This is Athena Butler, our potential Edouard Manet specialist,” Martin explained as a way of introducing her.

  Both men, Martin’s Uncle Lars and Martin’s partner-lover, Mark, appeared surprised.

  “So young?” Mark asked, smiling broadly and showing off dimples on both cheeks. Both men looked askance at Martin after shaking her hand and smiling effusively. There was doubt underlying their charm.

  “Ah yes,” assured Martin, “but I can spot talent when I see it. Why else would I endure those tedious hours modeling? One of the fastest ways to spot an up-and-coming painter is to model for an entire room of them.”

  Mark hung a loose, proprietary arm over Martin’s shoulder. “It bothers me to no end that he exposes himself in such a way. But…” He shrugged philosophically. “It’s true that he’s made several remarkable discoveries using that method. Our business is simply booming! Look around you!” The hand hanging over Martin’s shoulder made a flourishing swirl in the air.

  Martin jumped in as he seized a glass from a passing tray and handed it to her.

  “Mix and mingle, Athena, have some champagne, some tasty hors d’oeuvres. Oh, here’s my Gauguin specialist. His Tahitian Idyll is generating a lot of interest. So is Edith White’s The Card Players. We’ve just sold it. At a higher than expected price, I might add.”

  The three men moved on, and so did she, but she was waylaid as she headed for Doctor White, who was standing proudly beside her pastiche and answering questions from, Athena thought, a reporter for the Washington Post’s variety pages. A young man had stepped in front of her, blocking her progress.

  “Hello, Martin said I should meet you. I’m Dan Grantham. The Gauguin specialist.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  The young man, not much older than Athena, grinned down at her—yes, he was taller than she was—and extended his hand. Not so much handsome as cute, his wavy brown hair fell over his forehead, carelessly in a manner that matched his dress, which was faded blue jeans over which flapped a striped green-and-blue oxford-style shirt. He wore sockless loafers, apparently heedless of the wintry day outside. Intense green eyes fixed her with a slightly competitive stare, as though he were checking out a possible rival in the world of painting.

  “He said you’re a potential recruit. Manet?”

  “Yes, possibly. So you’re Paul Gauguin.” It seemed odd that they’d already taken on the monikers of the masters whom they were attempting to rip off. Rather, she reminded herself, imitate legally.

  They shook hands. He’s attracted to me, thinks I’m pretty. Likes my hair, face, figure, and even my height. And he’s curious to see what I can do, what kind of painter I am.

  All of a sudden, she was glad she’d taken extra care—all of fifteen minutes’ worth—with her makeup, having put on eyeliner and mascara, blush and lipstick. Her outfit was a little dressy, a glittery green and gold tunic over matching green velveteen leggings, three-inch black heels and a black-velvet clutch purse. She’d even worn gold hoop earrings and a gold-plated bangle to accessorize the ensemble. Her hair, brushed to a wavy sheen, drew away from her face and fell down her back in a plain hairdo.

  “I’m Athena Butler. And you’re…”

  “Like I said, Dan Grantham. I graduated from the Art Institute two years ago. Martin says you’re a student there. A junior.”

  She nodded, reluctant to show the full extent of her interest in this young man, doubtful that he was another Tony, but still gun-shy of making a serious mistake in judgment.

  “Third year, but I’ve studied art since the age of six. My parents indulged me with a few lessons, but mainly I taught myself.”

  He chuckled, and when a server passed by, grabbed her a flute of champagne.

  “Here, have a refill.” He smiled at her expression.

  This would be her second glass of champagne in less than ten minutes. Already, she was feeling a little bli
nkered, but the feeling was a nice change. Tension seemed to melt from her body.

  “I know how that is,” Dan went on, “I had the worst art teacher in high school, and my parents never took my interest in painting seriously. Said I needed to learn a practical skill like engineering, computer science or the like. I satisfied them by learning how to fly like my father, who’s an airline pilot. Took lessons in high school and did airplane mechanics, mostly prop jobs, while attending the Art Institute. Now I fly charters for a local commercial service, sightseeing flights around the D.C. area, that sort of thing, as a day job. The rest of the time, I paint. This is my first real paying art job.”

  She listened, intrigued by his friendly, outgoing personality, but wanting to touch him again to “see” how truthful this personal history really was. The moment arrived when an elderly woman and man needed to pass by them. She took his arm and steered him out of the way.

  He’s nervous. Wants to impress me, but he thinks he’s talking too much. Everything he’s saying so far is true. Thank heavens!

  “May we walk around, Dan? I’d like to see all of the pastiches.” He agreed heartily and, when they approached Doctor White’s painting of The Card Players, Athena pulled him aside, keeping him far out of earshot of White and the reporter.

  “Did you ever have Doctor White for painting class?”

  “Yeah, she’s the one who suggested my name to Martin. She knew I loved Gauguin, his subjects, colors, style.”

  They studied the professor’s rendition of Cezanne’s famous painting.

  “What do you think? Think it’s a good fake?” she asked him.

  Dan emptied his flute and set it down, obviously not planning to get plastered. She did the same, needing her wits about her for another reason. He leaned in close to her and touched her shoulder. His well-formed, masculine lips hovered inches over her face, so close that she could feel the brush of his champagne breath upon her cheek. She caught a whiff of citrusy cologne and delicious male musk and fought down a ripple of desire.

  “Don’t let Martin hear you call them fakes. He’s proud of this business of his, and I think he’s proud of the stable of talented painters he’s collected, too. He doesn’t call us forgerers, although that’s what we’d be, if our names weren’t on those paintings.”

  “Forgerers?” The word spoken so flippantly made her uneasy. Forgery was illegal, punishable by imprisonment. But by signing their own names under the falsified signatures of the Great Masters, these talented painters weren’t forgerers, but pastiche artists. Such a fine line, she decided. “So what do you think?” she repeated, indicating Professor White’s Cezanne.

  “Very good in composition and color. Can’t see the brushstrokes, so don’t know about that. I’d have to hold the original next to it to judge the accuracy of her shading. But it’s very close. It just sold, according to Martin, for fifty-five thousand dollars. My Gauguin’s on sale for forty-five. I think Martin should ask at least fifty for it.”

  “And we’re getting five-thousand per painting?” Ten percent for doing all of the work? It didn’t seem fair.

  “Who told you that? Martin?” Dan harrumphed softly. “I wouldn’t get my brushes wet for less than fifty percent. The gallery still makes out like a bandit. But they’ve got, y’know, overhead, provenance and publicity costs, patent fees. It’s a kind of consignment business, but they control the patents.”

  Her mouth open, she turned to stare at him. “Fifty percent? The painters get fifty percent of the sales price? You’re not joking, are you?”

  “Hell, no. I never joke about money.”

  Almost to prove his point, his cheeks turned a little ruddy. He was cute, she thought, and so tall. An image of Kas Skoros flashed into her mind, but she quashed it. He’d never called her, so why should she carry a torch for a man who didn’t care a fig in a fog about her?

  They walked around and looked at all thirty-one of the pastiches, painted by fourteen artists, stopping at several points to meet the painter and shake hands. Dan introduced Athena to them all, having met them before, evidently. She appeared to be the youngest recruit so far. If she passed the test.

  A big IF.

  As she toured the gallery and noted the prices of all the pastiches—about half already posted with SOLD tags—numbers tumbled through her mind. If all of them sold for the price of the Cezanne, or even close to it, Martin and his partner stood to gain one-point-five-million dollars, minus fifty percent. Most of the guests were obviously well-heeled, and she recognized several from appearances on TV news programs. These were the movers and shakers of the “powers that be inside The Beltway”, as her father called them. And there were proxies who represented multi-millionaires from all over the globe, not just American politicians and lobbyists. The art market must be very hot, she concluded.

  Athena ruminated over the numbers. Martin had quoted her five thousand for her Manet. Was he not expecting her to do an adequate job? Was the five thousand just a payoff for a tryout that he doubted would succeed? By the end of their rounds, Dan hovering by her side the entire time, Athena was boiling mad! And determined to show Martin a thing or two!

  She looked at her watch. Time to go. Although it was an hour before the exhibition was scheduled to close, she had agreed to Max’s plan. Without her father’s knowledge, for the tail on Tony that night had followed him to his apartment. Since then, as far as they knew—for Tony was now using burner phones, probably a new one every other day, that couldn’t be tracked—there was no apparent electronic evidence of his contact with the Serbian thugs. Unfortunately, the second surveillance car had lost the brown SUV in downtown traffic, so dead-end there. Between Tony and the Serbs, there had been no dead drops, no handoffs, no face-to-face communication. Tony was clever and well trained enough to conceal whatever he was doing. Max and his team were stymied and desperate to try something else, for they assumed that Athena was still being followed.

  “I’ve got to go, Dan.” She realized that he wanted to walk her out. “No need to escort me. Somebody’s going to pick me up in a few minutes.”

  He wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she allowed him to accompany her as far as the front door of the gallery.

  “Please stay. You should be there when your painting sells. It looked like you had two potential buyers.”

  “You trying to get rid of me, Athena?” He grinned at her. “If it’s not your boyfriend who’s picking you up, I’d like to see you again.”

  “It’s not my boyfriend.” She smiled warmly up at him. Then something else crowded her mind, and she tried to make a fast exit. She had to stick to Max’s plan.

  Dan followed her out the door and onto the sidewalk in front. At six o’clock, dusk had fallen to darkness. Although the street was well lit, the sky looked like a giant kettle lid had blotted out the stars. And the cold, despite her wool coat, settled into her bones. She looked squarely at her new friend who hadn’t bothered to pick up his jacket when he followed her outside. She liked him and wanted to see him again but how could she explain what might happen in the next few minutes?

  “You really need to go back, Dan. Some potential buyer might want to meet you.”

  Half of his mouth turned up in what she had found to be an irrepressible, sly grin. Now, the grin caused her real fear. He wasn’t taking her gentle brushoff seriously.

  “I’d like to see you off first, make sure you’re not just blowing me off.”

  Athena glanced up and down the street. Too late! There it was, that brown SUV, pulling out from the curb on the opposite side. In terror, she watched it make a screeching U turn a little past the gallery. When it halted in front of them, four men wearing black hoods—balaclavas—jumped out.

  They pointed pistols at her and Dan, aimed at their heads.

  Chapter Nineteen

  What happened next was like a movie tape on fast-forward: Shouts rang out. Some in English, some in a language Athena didn’t understand.

  “Get in the car! You,
not him!”

  “If he moves, shoot the fucker!”

  “What’s going on—” Dan yelled.

  “No, don’t hurt him!” Athena turned to shove Dan away from her.

  “Get her inside! Now!” A hand grabbed her and thrust her against the side of the open car door. Dan tried to seize her.

  She screamed at him, “No!” The thug trying to push her into the car took aim at Dan but was whipped around violently. He lurched onto the sidewalk, blood and brain matter pooling under his head. Dan fell over on his back. The hooded thugs looked up and around. A sniper’s bullet had come from out of the darkness. More shouts, this time with renewed urgency and fear!

  Brakes screeched. A black Range Rover halted in front, its front bucking down, then back up. It reminded Athena of a motorboat in rough currents. Another one pulled up behind, nearly ramming the Serbians’ SUV. Men jumped out and yelled at the would-be kidnappers. These men wore navy blue windbreakers with white letters: FBI. More shots were fired.

  Athena felt a stab in her left arm. Like a needle jammed in hard. A streak of fire shot up and down her arm. She lost her balance and swayed a little. The two Serbs left standing dropped their pistols, held up their arms, clasped their hands behind their heads. The beginning of a thought formed but broke away. She felt herself pitching forward onto the sidewalk as blackness closed in.

  She drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. Felt her head cushioned on Dan’s blue-jeaned lap. Saw a fragment of Max’s angry face. Then she was lifted up on a…bed? Gurney…siren going, reminding her of the police klaxons in Europe, two-toned squeal…moving fast…ambulance rocking a little…a surge of nausea made her moan aloud, then a prick on her right arm…blackness closing in again.

  When she awoke hours later—many hours later, she was told afterward—all she heard was buzzing. Voices from far away filtered in. Thank God! She wasn’t dead! Relieved, she ventured to open her eyes even as both leaked tears of joy. Everything was in shades of white around her. The trappings of a hospital room registered in her mind. There was another person, no, several in the room. She could hear her mother’s voice, high-pitched, close to hysteria, then her father’s—hard-edged, stifling raw emotion. Another one, brittle and angry—Max! He’d stopped the kidnapping, captured the Serbian thugs—she wanted to shout, hurrah! She thought of Dan…her new friend and fellow artist. Was he okay? Oh God, if anything happened to him—it’d be her fault!