by Ron Benrey
Nigel searched his mind. Had he bollixed up his schedule for the day? Had he stupidly forgotten a meeting with five other people?
Giselle steered the tea trolley toward the service elevator.
Nigel made for the stairs—the fastest way to his office—and climbed them two at a time.
Flick was waiting for him in the third-floor lobby area.
“What’s going on?” he asked breathlessly.
“James Bond wants to see you.”
“Who?”
“A Brit spy. He showed up this morning and said he was from”—she looked at a slip of paper—“Em-Eye-Five.”
“MI5! That’s Britain’s Security Service. Criminy! What does an MI5 spook want with me?”
“With us. His name is Nicholas Mitchell. He flashed his ID card to Margo McKendrick at the Welcome Centre kiosk. She couldn’t find you, so she called me down to chat with him. He asked to see”—Flick began to count on her fingers—“the head of the museum, the person in charge of security, the person responsible for the exhibits on display, and the people who show visitors around the museum.” She added, “He does look a lot like James Bond.”
“You’ve got the organizations mixed up. The fictional James Bond works for MI6, our Secret Intelligence Service. MI5 is our domestic security agency, a lot like your Federal Bureau of Investigation. MI5 does counterintelligence work inside Britain.”
“The spook, as you call him, didn’t explain the difference. Anyway, he’s in your office discussing the pros and cons of the museum’s burglar alarm with Conan Davies and our two docents.”
Nigel peered around his doorframe. Conan Davies, perched against a windowsill, his long legs stretched out in front of him, was holding forth about biometric access control devices. The man listening attentively to Conan looked like many of the other young English civil servants Nigel had met over the years. Medium height. Cheerful face. Uncontrolled shock of ash-blond hair. Gray-pinstriped three-piece suit. Blue shirt. Maroon-striped school tie. Nigel guessed his age to be thirty.
Mirabelle Hubbard and Trevor Dangerfield, the museum’s two docents, sat together on his sofa looking like an old married couple. In some ways they were closer: The pair had worked together at the museum since it opened in 1962. Mirabelle was a rosy-cheeked widow in her midseventies, with elaborately coiffed gray hair. She had been Nathanial Swithin’s secretary throughout his long stint as director. Trevor, closer to eighty, still resembled the tall, wiry, former Royal Marines sergeant who had been hired as the museum’s first security guard.
Nigel took a deep breath and strode into the office. Flick moved around him and performed the introductions. “Agent Nicholas Mitchell, may I present Nigel Owen, the acting director of the museum.” She turned to Nigel. “Agent Mitchell has requested that we call him Nicholas.”
Nigel shook Nicholas’s hand.
He doesn’t look anything like James Bond. He’s much too short.
Giselle rolled the tea trolley into the office and vanished discreetly. Nigel sat down behind his desk, Nicholas and Flick each took a visitor’s chair, Conan returned to his windowsill. Mirabelle moved to the cart and began to pour.
“First, let me thank you for seeing me without an appointment,” Nicholas said. “I suspect you are curious as to why an agent from MI5 has come to see you.”
Nigel smiled. “The question did cross my mind.”
“I am part of a task force that is investigating the smuggling of missing artifacts from the Iraqi National Museum in Baghdad.”
“I read of that program,” Conan said. “It’s a joint effort with the Yanks.”
Nicholas nodded. “As you know, the museum was looted about the time that Baghdad fell in April 2003. Thousands of artifacts from the Sumerian, Babylonian, Assyrian, and Islamic cultures disappeared.”
“I thought that the Americans retrieved most of the artifacts,” Nigel said.
“Most but not all. Regrettably, hundreds of worthwhile pieces are still missing, including a few irreplaceable masterpieces. We believe these items were smuggled out of Iraq to Asia and Europe. It’s probable that some have made their way to England.”
Mirabelle gave Nicholas and Flick cups of tea and Nigel a cup of coffee. She had placed two biscuits on each saucer.
“Retrieving antiques seems more like a job for Scotland Yard than MI5,” Conan said to Nicholas.
“We’re involved because it is likely that the moneys earned by selling the antiquities will be used to finance terrorism.”
Conan grunted, apparently satisfied by the answer.
Nicholas pushed a thick document bound with green plastic covers across Nigel’s desk. “Here is a catalog of the still-missing items. I brought this copy for you and your staff.”
Nigel flipped through a few of the pages, looking at photographs and descriptions of an engraved stone slab, a pitcher-like vessel made of clay, a small carved marble head of a man, a small statue of a bearded man praying, a carved stone bowl inlaid with shell mosaics, a burial helmet made of gold, and a golden dagger—also for ceremonial use. All were more than four thousand years old.
He slid the catalog to Flick. She browsed for a moment and then said, “With respect, Nicholas, including us on your list of museums doesn’t make much sense. Unless the Baghdad museum had Ishtar’s teapot on display, we are not likely to acquire any purloined artifacts. Our mission as a museum does not extend into Babylonian daggers and Sumerian statues.”
“Neither does our acquisitions budget,” Nigel said. “I can assure you that our funds to buy antiquities are fully committed.” He exchanged a half smile with Flick. “These objects must cost the earth.”
“Millions upon millions,” Nicholas said. “However, a reputable museum would never buy any of these items. And not even a dubious institution would put them on display. They are too well known”—he spoke to Flick—“too hot, as you Americans might say. However…” Nicholas opened the catalog to the photograph of the dagger. “If you are a wealthy but unscrupulous collector and someone offers you a natty golden dagger that looks like this one, how would you verify that it is real? After all, you don’t want to spend millions on a fake stolen relic.”
“I see where you are going with this,” Conan said. “Everyone knows that museums are careful when they purchase antiquities. We often call in experts to authenticate an artifact.”
“Precisely. Our unscrupulous dagger collector might well get it into his head to visit his local museum and chat up the docents.” Nicholas switched to a put-on London accent. ‘I was wondering, Mirabelle, if you might know the name of the chap who told the museum that the solid-gold teaspoon on display was worth all the lolly you paid for it.’ ”
Nigel gestured with a biscuit. “I can imagine that question being asked at the Victoria and Albert, but we are a small, specialized museum.”
Mirabelle jumped in. “Oh sir, it happens a lot.”
“It does?”
“I wish I had a bob for every harebrained question I hear,” Trevor agreed. “It’s all because of that barmy antiques show on the telly. Half the ladies in Tunbridge Wells think they have an attic full of valuables. Some visitors even bring their jumble with them, expecting that our curators do on-the-spot valuations.”
“How do you respond when asked?” Nicholas said.
“I usually point them to Mrs. McAndrews’s antique shop in the High Street. She is one of our trustees; I might as well send the appraising business her way.”
“Well, from now on please ask what kind of antique they want valued. If the explanation sounds at all suspicious—or if someone describes a piece that Abraham or Sarah might have purchased in ancient Ur—please call me at once.”
Nicholas handed out business cards.
Nigel stood up. “Thank you for bringing the problem to our attention. We certainly will cooperate in every way we can.”
“I appreciate that, Nigel,” Nicholas said, giving a quick grin. “However, I’m not quite finished.”
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br /> Nigel sat down. “Carry on then.”
“As you doubtless know, several museums in Europe have been exploited to store stolen antiquities.”
Nigel did not know, but he had no intentions of adding to his embarrassment by making a public admission of ignorance. He replied with an ambiguous nod.
Nicholas continued. “Any museum that has storerooms or an archive is potentially vulnerable.”
“We have both,” Conan admitted.
“For the scheme to work, the thief must have a confederate working inside the museum, ideally one of the curators. The partner in crime simply creates a false accession record and places the stolen artifact in the museum’s vault.”
“Why go to the trouble of doing that?” Mirabelle asked.
“Where better to store a stolen artifact than inside a museum? You have an elaborate security system, proper storage conditions, and none of the legal requirements of a bank’s safe-deposit box.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Mirabelle said. “At the end of the day, what has the thief accomplished?”
“The best way to answer your question is with a hypothetical example. Imagine that a shifty individual in Tunbridge Wells did manage to acquire Ishtar’s teapot.”
Mirabelle began to laugh. “Sorry, sir, but I can’t picture a stony idol pouring tea.”
Nigel glanced at Nicholas. The MI5 agent seemed perfectly content to play along with Mirabelle’s joke.
“I do understand,” Nicholas said. “How about King Tut’s teacup?”
“That might work,” Mirabelle said. “Ask Trevor. He’s an old Egyptian hand.”
“Well, now…” Trevor stroked his chin. “I believe that Tutankhamen reigned in the fourteenth century BC.”
“Which would make him even older than you.”
Trevor threw a crumpled napkin at Mirabelle. “There is a painting in the Grand Hall that shows tea being discovered in China about fourteen hundred years before King Tut lived. So it is possible, one could even say probable, that caravans carried tea from China to Egypt.” He smiled at Nicholas. “Press on with your example.”
“Good!” Nicholas lifted his teacup to eye level. “If I had stolen King Tut’s teacup, I would be consumed with worry. What if my house burned down? Or what if one of my bent friends wanted to steal it from me?”
“Now I understand,” Mirabelle said. “You want to hide it in the museum.”
“Exactly! So I convince Felicity Adams to stash my cup in a bin full of other teacups that are not on display. King Tut’s teacup becomes one more unseen item in the museum’s collection.”
Conan raised a hand. “I see a hitch. All our antiquities are numbered and entered into our computer. We do a thorough inventory every year; I might discover the extra item.”
“Your accessions are computerized?”
“One of the virtues of being a rather small museum. Many of our larger cousins are still making the transition from accession ledgers to computer databases. We did it four years ago.”
“I suppose,” Flick said, “an easy way around that problem is simply to give the teacup its own official accession number.”
Conan countered, “But then anyone browsing through our catalog would find ‘King Tut’s Teacup’ listed among the other crockery.”
“Not if I entered it in the database as ‘Sam the Scribe’s Teacup.’ ”
“Well done!” Nicholas clapped. “By giving the stolen antiquity a false identity, one can hide it in plain sight, much like Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘Purloined Letter.’ ”
Trevor shook his head. “And here I thought a museum was a peaceful, crime-free zone.”
“Quite the contrary,” Conan said. “Even a small museum like ours is a treasure house. Valuable antiquities attract inventive thieves.”
“And also the occasional murderer,” Nicholas added.
“Really?” Mirabelle half-shouted.
“Alas, yes. There have been killings in museums related to antiquity theft.”
Nigel winced. Of all the gratuitous comments an MI5 man might have made, Nicholas had accidentally chosen the one most likely to goose Felicity Adams into high gear. Nigel glanced warily at Flick and waited for her to say something illogical.
Much to his relief, Flick didn’t say anything. Instead, she stood up and carried her teacup to the tea trolley.
Nicholas spoke to Nigel. “On behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, let me thank you for sharing your valuable time. I’ll be off.”
Flick spun around. “Before you go, Nicholas, why not take a quick tour of the museum and our archives? We don’t open to the public until noon, so this is an ideal time.”
Nigel was caught off guard. Why give a spook a guided tour? He quickly recovered. “Yes, please do,” he said heartily. “In fact, I will join you.”
Nicholas smiled at them. “I’d like a tour very much.”
Nigel followed Flick and Nicholas out of his office. When he reached the door, he looked back and saw Mirabelle serving more tea and biscuits to Trevor and Conan.
Give tea fanciers an inch and they have a tea party.
As Nigel expected she would, Flick followed the itinerary she had once described as her “Fifty-Cent Visiting Fireman Tour” of the museum. It began on the third floor with a quick walk through the Hawker Library and a longer visit to the Conservation Laboratory. One of the cats came over to investigate. She sniffed Nicholas’s shoe, then ran away.
She must think he smells like James Bond, Nigel thought. He passed a pleasant few seconds pondering why the arch villain in several of the movies owned a cat, but James himself did not.
Nicholas dutifully examined the microscopes, the fume hood, the drying chamber, and the photographic documentation station with its lights and digital camera.
“We photograph everything placed on display from lots of different angles,” Flick explained. “Should an antiquity ever be damaged, the restorers will have a set of photographs to work from.”
They traveled to the second floor, where Flick seemed to take longer than usual gushing about her favorites in the Tea in the Americas Room and delivering her “Did-you-know-that-tea-is-good-for-you?” lecture in the Tea and Health Gallery.
Does anybody drink tea because it’s a health food? Nigel felt moved to ask, but he promptly quelled the temptation. Inviting Flick to embellish her presentation would merely extend his agony.
He felt his cell phone vibrate on his hip.
“Nigel Owen.”
“Can you come down to the ground floor, sir?” Margo McKendrick said. “There’s been a—an incident with the dog. As I understand the problem, he caught a squirrel in the greenhouse and is now in the tearoom eating it for breakfast.”
Nigel interrupted Flick’s lengthy discussion of the power of fluoride-rich tea to prevent caries in teeth. “Is it standard operating procedure for a Shiba Inu to kill and eat squirrels?”
“ ’Fraid so,” Flick replied. “Apparently they have a powerful instinct to hunt rodents. Why do you ask?”
“You carry on with the tour. I have a clean-up chore to supervise.”
Nigel left feeling invigorated. Dealing with a half-eaten squirrel seemed far less boring than following Flick Adams around the museum.
Flick made a snap decision. Cha-Cha had given her a few unexpected minutes alone with Nicholas Mitchell—an opportunity she would be silly to ignore. If she worked quickly, she could steer their conversation in the direction she wanted. With luck, she might gain enough information about British law enforcement to kick-start a real investigation into Elspeth Hawker’s murder.
She would have to bypass the local police, somehow reach higher-ups in British law enforcement who would be willing to listen to her ideas—who wouldn’t automatically accept Sir Simon Clowes’s diagnosis as gospel.
I need a name. A person to call.
As she guided Nicholas down the staircase to the first floor, Flick said, “I don’t know much about MI5, I’m afraid.”
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nbsp; “We have been responsible for British internal security since 1909.”
“Nigel told me that MI5 is roughly equivalent to America’s FBI.”
“We do many of the same things, but there are major differences. Our principal duty is to defend against covert threats to the United Kingdom, including espionage, terrorism, and proliferation of weapons of mass destruction. About ten years ago our charter was expanded to include serious crime—drugs, smuggling—”
“Antiquities theft,” Flick said with a smile. “And the occasional related murder.”
“Yes, but MI5 is not a police department. We investigate serious crime in close consultation with other law-enforcement agencies.” Nicholas stopped. “Let me tell you something that many Brits don’t realize. MI5 doesn’t have the power to arrest people. We have to call in a local plod to do the actual arresting.”
“Plod?”
“Rozzer. Old Bill. Bobby. Copper.”
“A policeman, you mean?”
Nicholas seemed puzzled at Flick’s response. “Didn’t your mum ever read to you from one of Enid Blyton’s books?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“No wonder you haven’t heard of Britain’s most famous policeman, the redoubtable Police Constable Plod of Toy Town. A strict but fair local copper who is a great friend to little, wooden Noddy and is absolutely wizard at tracking down and arresting robbers.” He laughed. “Of course, the local plod I work with most often is a female plainclothes officer from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. She looks nothing like PC Plod.”
Flick led Nicholas into the Tea Processing Salon.
“What is the purpose of that peculiar-looking apparatus?” he asked.
“It’s a CTC—a cut, tear, and curl machine—typically used to process tea leaves that are destined for tea bags. It can transform the whole top of a tea plant, stems, twigs, and all, into small pieces.”
“What if I don’t want stems and twigs in my cuppa?”
“The alternative is the traditional ‘orthodox’ method. It’s a simple five-step manufacturing process.” Flick pointed at a wall-mounted exhibit. “First, you handpick the topmost leaves and buds on the tea plant. Second, you allow the leaves to wither. Third, you squeeze them between metal rollers to blend the naturally occurring chemicals. Four, you let the rolled leaves oxidize in the open air for a while. Finally, you heat the leaves to stop further oxidation and dehydrate them. Voila! Tea the way it’s been made for thousands of years.”
