Hidden Peril

by Irene Hannon

  They never had.

  Yet as she picked up a melting box of her favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream and blinked away the mist obscuring her vision, she faced the truth.

  Maybe she still needed them.

  13

  Nick Bradley was waiting for him by the door to the art museum, briefcase in hand.

  “Have you been here long?” Luke picked up his pace as he approached, ignoring the sudden vibration of his phone against his hip. He wasn’t late . . . but he suspected the FBI agent had beaten him by a fair margin.

  “I always arrive early. It’s been helpful on a number of occasions. Let’s go.”

  Luke followed him through the door, and a few minutes later they were being ushered into a book-lined office.

  A gray-haired man who appeared to be in his early to mid-sixties rose from behind the desk as they entered. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Yusef Bishara.”

  “Special Agent Nick Bradley.” Nick reached across the desk to take the hand the man extended and passed him a business card. “This is Detective Luke Carter from St. Louis County.”

  Luke shook the man’s hand and shared a card too.

  “Please . . . let us make ourselves comfortable.” Motioning toward a small conference table on the side of the room, Dr. Bishara emerged from behind his desk and joined them there. “May I offer you some coffee or water?”

  “I’m fine.” Nick looked his way, and Luke shook his head.

  “Then please tell me how may I help you?” He took a seat at the table.

  “We’re working on a case that appears to involve artifacts from the Middle East. Since you’re an expert in that field, we’re hoping you can authenticate the items and perhaps give us some idea of their history and value.”

  “I would be pleased to do my best.”

  Nick retrieved five small boxes from his briefcase and set them on the table. One by one, he lifted the lids to reveal the carved tubes, the necklace, and the earrings.

  Dr. Bishara leaned forward and examined each item in silence, hands folded on the polished wood in front of him. Then he stood. “A moment, please.”

  He crossed back to his desk, rummaged through a drawer, and returned with a jeweler’s loupe and a pair of gloves. After retaking his seat, he donned the gloves, picked up one of the cylinders, and examined it from every angle. He repeated the process with the other two cylinders, but left the jewelry in the boxes as he studied it.

  At last he leaned back and set the loupe down.

  “What do you think, Dr. Bishara?” Luke pulled a small notebook from his pocket.

  “You must understand I am not an authority on every object that comes out of the Middle East, though that region is my specialty. My primary interest is statuary and decorative objects.”

  “But you have broad knowledge of artifacts from that part of the world, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whatever you can tell us about these items will be helpful.” Luke clicked his pen into the ready position.

  “The necklace and earrings appear to be authentic. Based on style, they could be fourth to first century BC. Further examination would be warranted to verify that. Did all of these pieces come from the same place?”

  “Their origin is unknown.” Nick indicated the carved cylinders. “What about those?”

  “Do you know what they are?”

  “Cylinder seals?”

  “Ah.” The man offered a smile that seemed strained. “You’ve done your homework.”

  “Only enough to make an educated guess. We hoped you could tell us more.”

  “I will give you a topline, as my students used to call it during my university days. These types of seals were in use from about 3500 to 300 BC. One of their main functions was administrative—comparable to a notarized signature today. They could also be used to indicate ownership of an object.”

  “How did they work?” Luke surveyed the three cylinders again.

  “They were rolled over damp clay. You’ll notice the carving is intaglio—that is, the design is cut into the stone, so when it is rolled across a soft surface, the design is raised, not indented. The seals also functioned as amulets to protect the owner from harm. The hole running through the center allowed them to be strung and worn around the neck.”

  “Can you identify their country of origin?” Nick asked.

  Dr. Bishara picked up one of the seals that had a blue hue and examined the carvings again. “The general style and motifs suggest Syria, as does the use of lapis lazuli for the cylinder. That particular semiprecious stone was popular in that region.”

  “Do you believe they’re authentic?” Luke finished jotting a note.

  “Based on a very preliminary examination, yes. The hole running through the seals was always drilled from each end and did not often meet precisely in the center. That is true of these examples. Also, because seals were in daily use, you would expect to find some wear, most often around the edges of the drill hole. Again, these seals show such wear. In addition, I see traces of a chisel and the fine lines of a file. All of these characteristics suggest the pieces are genuine.”

  “What are they worth?” Now that they had confirmation on authenticity, Nick was cutting to the chase.

  “It would depend on provenance—that is, the verified and documented history of the object. Without that, it is difficult to know whether an artifact was removed from its resting place a hundred years ago or a few weeks ago. These days, given the large number of artifacts being looted from the Middle East, most museums in the US won’t buy objects that left their country of origin after 1970 unless they have proof of legal exportation.”

  “Why 1970?” Luke asked.

  “That is when the Unesco conventions on antiquities were put in place. They prohibit trade in illicitly exported cultural artifacts.”

  “Which leaves the black market.” Luke doodled a dollar sign in the margin of his notebook.

  “Correct.”

  “Can you give us a ballpark estimate on the value of these items on the black market?” Nick motioned toward the objects on the table.

  A few beads of sweat popped out above the man’s upper lip.

  Curious.

  “The black market is not my area of expertise.”

  “I’m not suggesting it is.” Nick’s expression remained neutral, but unless Luke was reading him wrong, his colleague had noted the man’s sudden discomfiture too.

  “No. Of course not.” Bishara waved a hand in dismissal. “But for archeologists and those who value antiquities, that is a sore subject. As for value, I can tell you only what I have read in the journals and heard spoken of at conferences.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “The two pieces of jewelry together could sell in the legitimate market for upwards of $20,000.”

  Not the kind of number Luke had expected, given all the effort that had gone into this operation.

  Based on the quick look Nick shot him, the agent had the same thought.

  The real money had to be in the seals.

  Bishara’s next comment confirmed that. “The cylinder seals are another story. They are far rarer than scarabs, for example, which are about the same size. In the legitimate market, at auction, a seal in excellent condition—and with provenance—has brought in as much as $250,000. On the black market, the figure would be much lower, but if the right buyer was found you could see numbers in the $25,000 or more range.”

  So if four or five seals were sent to Kristin’s shop every quarter, the contraband operation was bringing in about half a million dollars each year.

  It wasn’t a huge sum in the big scheme of things—but it could fund a number of US terrorist cells . . . and with minimal effort, now that the system was in place.

  “This has been very helpful.” Nick began closing up the boxes.

  “May I ask if you are investigating a local black market operation?” Bishara discreetly thumbed off the sweat above his lip.

  �
��All I can say is we’re working on a situation that involves artifacts like these. I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.” Nick slid the boxes back into his briefcase and stood. “Detective Carter and I appreciate your assistance. It’s been invaluable.”

  Luke rose, as did Bishara.

  “If I can be of any other assistance, please do not hesitate to call upon me.” He extracted a card for each of them from his pocket.

  “Thank you.” Nick took the card and held out his hand.

  After a couple of seconds, the man took it.

  Luke leaned forward to shake hands as well.

  Bishara’s palms were sweaty.

  Also curious.

  Once in the corridor outside the man’s office, Nick checked his watch. “Let’s find a spot outside to regroup for a few minutes before we go our separate ways.”

  Luke remained silent until they emerged onto a sidewalk that led to the parking lot. “Why don’t we claim that shade?” He indicated a nearby tree.

  “Works for me.”

  As soon as they were under the shelter of the branches, Nick turned to him. “Interesting meeting.”

  “Very. On a number of fronts.”

  “Such as?”

  “We got confirmation that the artifacts are genuine, along with an estimate of value. But Bishara’s reaction to our black market questions raised a red flag for me.”

  “Likewise. What’s your take on why that discussion might make him uneasy?”

  “Giving him the benefit of the doubt . . . a visit from an FBI agent and police detective could unnerve anyone. Also, it’s obvious he has a passion for antiquities, and the widespread looting in Syria could be upsetting to someone who’s spent his entire life studying them, as he noted.”

  “True.” Nick shifted the briefcase from one hand to the other. “But absent benefit of the doubt—guilt or fear can also cause nervousness.”

  “Guilt or fear about what?”

  “I don’t know—but my gut tells me it bears investigation. Why don’t we each run some background on him and compare notes? Would two o’clock tomorrow work for you?”

  “Yes. In the meantime . . . what about those?” Luke nodded toward the briefcase.

  “We’ll keep them under wraps. Other than Bishara and Ms. Dane, no one outside of law enforcement knows we have the artifacts in our possession. That buys us a few days to do any necessary research and get all our people in place for surveillance and a takedown.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” No need to verify the location of their meeting. If the FBI got involved, gatherings were always on their turf.

  With a lift of his hand, Nick left the shade and headed toward his car.

  Luke veered the other direction.

  Pulling out his cell, he picked up his pace and scrolled through his missed calls—Kristin’s among them.

  Finger poised over her number, he hesitated. He’d promised her an update today.

  But there were better ways to deliver one than via phone.

  The meeting had not gone well.

  Fingers clenched at his sides, Yusef watched from the window of his office as the FBI agent and detective emerged from the shadows of the building and returned to their respective cars.

  He fumbled for his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  They’d picked up on his nervousness.

  The sweaty lip, the clammy palms. There had been nothing he could do to prevent that physiological reaction to danger after they mentioned black market antiquities sales.

  But he’d known the instant they’d set the seals and jewelry on the table that they’d intercepted Amir’s shipment.

  And Amir had no clue they were on to him, based on that heads-up message the man had sent him a few days ago to prepare for another rendezvous and sale.

  The two agents disappeared from view, and he slowly turned away from the window.

  What to do now?

  He wandered back to his desk and sat, surveying the familiar surroundings that had been his life for the past nine years.

  A life that would have been perfect if only Touma had listened to him.

  But pragmatic arguments were impotent in the face of idealism. He’d been young once too—and deaf to practical counsel.

  And now it was too late for practicalities.

  Now it was a matter of survival.

  From the bottom drawer of his desk, he withdrew the photograph of the smiling young man who had brightened his world for thirty-four years.

  No one could have been blessed with a better son.

  No one.

  Touma was brave, selfless, caring, committed, passionate—and willing to sacrifice everything for the principles in which he believed.

  And he had done just that.

  Only his life had been spared . . . but at a steep price.

  One Touma himself would never have paid.

  But how could a father not do everything in his power to protect the son he cherished?

  Yusef placed the photo gently back in the drawer, where it had been for the past two years. Seeing it every day was too painful a reminder of their separation. Penny had noticed it was gone from his credenza, of course, but with her usual discretion, she’d never pressed him after he’d given her the it’s-a-long-story brush-off.

  He closed the drawer, picked up the two business cards the law enforcement men had left, and set them side by side on his desk.

  Learning to pay attention to nuances would be part of their training. The fact they’d noticed his nervousness shouldn’t be a surprise.

  The question was, would they follow up by running background on him?

  And if they did, would they find anything incriminating?

  He tapped one of the cards.

  Unlikely.

  He’d covered his tracks.

  However . . . if they decided to put a tail on him, he was doomed. They’d follow him to the next pickup site, wherever that might be—and watch him walk away with illegal artifacts stuffed into yet another super-sized coffee cup.

  Maybe the very artifacts they’d laid on the table today.

  But if he refused to participate, Amir would follow through on his threat—and Touma would die.

  He set his elbows on the desk and dropped his head into his hands.

  Oh, God, what am I to do?

  He waited, but no answer boomed from the heavens. Nor did a voice whisper in the recesses of his heart.

  It never did.

  The response to his countless pleas for guidance had been resounding silence. If the Lord was sending him messages, they weren’t getting through.

  Yet who else could he turn to for assistance?

  Only God could help him at this point.

  He lifted his head and looked out the window, at the clear blue sky spanning the heavens. All he could do was pray again tonight—and hope when morning dawned, the path before him would be clear.

  If it wasn’t . . . he was in serious trouble.

  Because now that the FBI and police were onto Amir’s scheme, they’d launch an aggressive investigation.

  Fast.

  And he needed to be ready to counter it with a plan of his own.

  14

  As Luke straightened his tie and leaned forward to press Kristin’s bell, her front door swung open.

  He yanked his hand back and stared at Colin.

  “I saw you coming up the walk as I passed by the window. Did Kristin call you?” His colleague frowned at him.

  “She returned my call—but I was heading into a meeting and it rolled to voicemail.” A muted conversation between a man and a woman was taking place somewhere in the recesses of the condo. “Is Rick here too?”

  “Yeah.”

  An alert began to beep in his mind.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Colin, who are you . . .” Kristin’s voice trailed off as she came into view, Rick behind her. “Luke! I didn’t expect to see you today.” But I’m glad you’re h
ere.

  She didn’t have to say those words for him to hear the unspoken message her tone and expression conveyed.

  Based on her pallor, trembling fingers, and the subtle glaze in her red-rimmed eyes that was typical of fading shock, trauma had apparently tainted her life again.

  Shouldering past Colin, he strode across the foyer and took her cold hand. “What’s going on?”

  She gripped his fingers like she’d never let go. “My dad called. My mom . . . she’s . . . there was a car accident. She’s in a c-coma.”

  His gut clenched.

  Could this woman ever catch a break?

  Ignoring her two buddies—and all the rules he’d set for himself about keeping his distance until the candle situation was resolved—he wrapped his arms around her, cradling her head with one hand and stroking her back with the other.

  She held on tight, burying her face against his chest.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rick skirt past them and move toward the door. A muffled rumble of voices followed, but he couldn’t pick up the gist of the conversation.

  Didn’t matter.

  Whether her buddies liked his presence or not . . . whether they thought he was butting in or not . . . he was staying.

  “Uh . . . Kristin?” That from Rick.

  Swiping at the moisture on her cheeks, she eased back and peeked around him. “Yes?”

  “As long as you have company, Colin and I are going to take off.”

  She looked up at him, and Luke’s throat tightened at the silent appeal in her eyes. “Are you staying for a while?”

  That hadn’t been his plan—but no way was he leaving her alone to deal with this new crisis. “Yes.”

  “I appreciate you guys coming over so fast.” She crossed to Colin and Rick and gave each of them a fierce hug. “You’re the best.”

  “I think we have some competition on that front.” Colin sized him up over Kristin’s shoulder as he returned her embrace.