Relic (Uncommon Enemies: An Iniquus Romantic Suspense Mystery Thriller Book 2)

by Fiona Quinn

  Andersson caught Finley’s attention. “I’ll take the arts side.” She cleared her throat and smoothed her hand over her trousers to remove a non-existent wrinkle. “Private collectors here in America, such as the Gilchrest family, are one aspect of the illicit market that we’ve discussed. We’re also seeing conflict antiquities show up in auction houses. Once the pieces move from terrorists to shipping to private homes, it’s hard to find the pieces again. However, they often resurface when, for example, Christie’s publicly displays a piece for auction.”

  “That seems like a hell of a gamble to put trafficked goods up for auction,” Thorn said.

  “It could take a business down if the seller hasn’t sufficiently laundered the piece. However, from the FBI’s point of view, it’s all but impossible to prove in a court of law that the artifact was freshly dug up. The more recently the piece was unearthed, the safer it is. There’s no prior history, probably not even a record that it exists, certainly no way that we can prove that it was acquired illegally.”

  “Are there industry standards to prevent the auction houses from selling black market goods? Guidelines? Why would they take such a risk?” Nutsbe moved from his computer station to sit in the circle with the others.

  “We talked about how lucrative it is for ISIS to steal and sell artifacts,” Andersson said. “But in the Western arts market, there is a far higher profit to be made from the sale and resale of illicit antiquities. Let me give you Cambodia as an example. When the government fought against the Khmer Rouge, thousands of art pieces were stolen. According to research, in a seven-year span, from 1998 to 2005, Sotheby’s sold more than three hundred of those pieces. To address this issue, AACP and other international art and museum organizations developed what they call red lists. The first was for Cambodia; but since then, they’ve also developed lists for Egypt, Peru, Afghanistan, and a handful of other countries. An emergency list was created in 2013 for Syria. The AACP was a powerful force behind that list and that list is one of the things that Nadia and Sophia are charged with maintaining. You could see how their positions would give them a unique opportunity to manipulate what can be sold and what is listed as hot, and therefore not saleable—or displayable, for that matter. From the arts side of the investigation, we don’t want these items in the mainstream, turning high profits and encouraging the continuing tide of illegal artifacts pouring into the country.”

  “My focus is on terror,” Finley said. “Stopping ISIS from getting its three-mil-a-day bankroll would go far in shutting them down. Traffickers are entrepreneurs. They know that to stay in business they must, A) maintain a supply chain of looted artifacts, and B) have a buyer who doesn’t give a flying flip about the piece’s origin. The traffickers also know that they have to stay ahead of the law. They shift their routes and methods, constantly evolving their tactics to avoid detection.

  “Bribery, fake documentation, finding different carrier systems, are all ways to get the artifacts out of the conflict area and into the US. And what makes it an even harder task to shut down the illicit sales is that the smugglers know at the end of the day, the punishments are basically a slap on the wrist. We told you in our last meeting that the Gilchrests are looking at a fine and the confiscation of the contested items. That’s it.

  “And that’s why we’re not trying to prove art theft. It’s not worth spending our limited resources. Since the Syrian pieces have a direct link to funding ISIS, we’re going for terror charges. Big headlines. Long prison sentences. We want to frighten anyone and everyone that we can pinpoint as having anything to do with the sale of these artifacts. Going back to the business model, we don’t see any way to shut down the supply side of the relationship. We have to go after the buyers, and those who are complicit in getting the items into the hands of the buyers.”

  “Okay, and so how do you read that directive in terms of Nadia and Sophia? Do you want them in a jail cell? Headlines reading: Eminent Archaeologists Jailed for Aiding ISIS? Or do you need them to supply information?” Titus asked.

  “Both. Either. We got Iniquus involved because we simply don’t have the manpower to determine their roles. Right now, we only know they have unique qualifications, unique access. What’s our end goal here? Well, we’re waiting to see what roles Nadia and Sophia are playing in these crimes.”

  “If any,” Thorn said before Brian could get his mouth open.

  Brian wondered if Thorn was as doubtful about this fishing expedition as he was.

  Finley shot a speculative look Thorn’s way. “You think they’re innocent?”

  “They’re passionate about their jobs. Both Sophia and Nadia light up when they talk about what they do. Are there questions? Sure. Do I think this bears further investigation? Absolutely. But I haven’t come to any conclusions yet.”

  “Our next step might help to make things clearer. We’ve set up a sting,” Andersson said.

  Okay good, Brian thought, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. Thorn struck the same pose.

  Brian had found the space between being a protector and an investigator an uncomfortable squeeze. It wasn’t an impossible task—when he was in Iraq he always knew that the people he depended on had no real loyalties to him and his team. People in crisis blew with the prevailing winds. If he was expedient in keeping them alive today, they might just as easily find the Taliban helped them survive the next day. He learned to be wary. Distrustful. To question. To arm himself with a healthy dose of skepticism. And to walk that tightrope. In the Middle East, losing your balance was life or death. And if he was honest with himself, and listened to that little voice he’d been pushing down, he’d admit that this task seemed equally perilous—though it was his heart, not his life, that was in danger.

  “We’ve recruited an AACP contact in Syria. We gave them two pieces that would appeal in particular to the Gilchrest family.”

  “Where did you get these pieces?” Nutsbe asked.

  “They were identified and acquired by our assets,” Andersson said. “Tracking units have been put on the pieces.”

  “Surely the traffickers aren’t that stupid, they’d do a sweep looking for that kind of thing. They’re bound to know they’re on your radar.”

  Andersson tipped her head toward Nutsbe. “He’s right. We’ve tried and failed to follow the routes by planting simple trackers on pieces. However, it’s not a fruitless effort even if the trackers are found. It forces the black marketers to change their trade routes. From our experience, though, we have a good chance of going undetected this time. It’s only on rare occasions that anyone checks. And we’re using a new technology that thwarts the basic tools for finding the GPS signal. We’re banking on the traffickers being rather low tech if they do a sweep.”

  “How does this lead back to Nadia and Sophia?” Brian asked.

  “Sunday night, information was sent separately to Nadia and Sophia about a unique piece that we’ve assigned to each woman—a marble slab for Sophia and a mosaic for Nadia—that would appeal specifically to the Gilchrest family. Immediately after the original message, the women were contacted and told that the information was sent to them by mistake and was being handled through other channels. Disregard. These pieces were designed to be too good to pass up. Now we wait and see which piece is taken.”

  “Or both,” Thorn said.

  Brian shrugged. “Or neither.”

  “We’ll have to keep tight tabs on their communications,” Nutsbe said. “We can do that if they’re talking at either of their houses or on any of their phones. But I see lots of holes in this plan. For example, Sophia could share information with Nadia, Nadia’s people could act, and Sophia would look culpable or vice versa. Or they could be sending information over the computer.”

  Finley edged forward, concern creasing his forehead. “Aren’t you watching their computers?”

  Thorn scratched his fingers along his brow. “The problem is, on their AACP computer system, they use a code developer, so every for
ty-five seconds or so a new code is produced and that’s the only code that can access their computers. No amount of hacking software can break in. If we could get to those computers while they’re working—”

  “A scenario that hasn’t presented itself in the short time we’ve been on the case,” Brian interjected.

  Nutsbe gave him a nod. “If we can get access, then we could plant spyware. The only other option we have right now is to put a keystroke capturing device on the computers, but since their computers don’t have a tower system, it would catch their attention. They’d know for sure someone was gaining access to their system and point the finger at Iniquus—”

  “And we’re in the women’s lives by invitation at this point. Imagine how swift that kick would come, giving us the boot out the door,” Thorn said.

  Brian was glad to sit back and have Thorn and Nutsbe poke holes in the plan. He was mindful that if he protested too vigorously, his loyalties might be called into question, especially since Lynx had picked up on the emotional complexity of his situation. Of course, he knew his loyalties weren’t in question. Duty first. Period. “On Sophia’s end, I have external cameras set up. She has four monitors up. Three making a U-shape, one set apart that looks like the place Nadia typically works. The lighting and angles make capturing a clear picture of any of the screens difficult.

  “On Nadia’s end, I have spyware on the laptop she used at their presentation. It looks like a bunch of PowerPoint presentations and nothing more. There’s a complete search history in place. It’s mostly Google searches that pertain to people in their field, hotels, conferences, airlines. She uses her phone for her day-to-day stuff—email, social media, web searches.”

  Finley looked like he’d licked a lemon. “I highly suggest you find a way to get that software loaded onto the AACP computers then.” He pointed from Brian to Thorn. “And remember, this sting is already in play.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Brian

  Thursday p.m.

  The four of them sat in front of the computers as Sophia manipulated the images, changing the coloration and the depth of saturation until she was satisfied.

  Brian and Thorn each had a thumb drive ready, all they needed was two minutes alone with a computer window open, and they’d get the spyware in place. So far, they’d been unsuccessful at clearing the room.

  The women were sharply focused. Anxious. The atmosphere in the office felt like the war room when a case was at a tipping point. Something made this feel like a mission. A low-level hum of danger vibrated the air. They weren’t talking. They pointed things out to each other and nodded. Their fingers flew, and they typed in Arabic. Brian was sure that both women wished their security would clear out. He wished he knew what was happening.

  Brian had been in the room when Sophia had booted up the computer. He’d hoped to see where she hid the PIN generator. Then he’d simply come in when she was asleep that night and do what needed to be done. She had faced the left-hand screen, mumbled under her breath, and typed rapidly. Brian had given Nutsbe a heads up, and he in turn had gone over that video again and again trying to figure out how she was getting the number—they had been in the room well beyond the forty-five seconds that a number was active—but he saw nothing that even remotely resembled the PIN generator. If Brian didn’t get the flash drive in at some point today, he’d come back and give the room a hard shake. She had to have it somewhere on her desk. Maybe there was something under the lip of the desk, and she dropped the device into her lap.

  The Florida room door rattled, and a man’s voice called out, “Joe, come let me in.”

  “Sounds like Mr. Rochester,” Brian said, tipping his head to ask if he should open the door.

  Sophia pushed her chair back, her gaze lingering on the screen, obviously frustrated to be pulled away from her task. “I’ve got it.” She pushed through the door and pulled it solidly closed behind her. “Mr. Rochester, you’re looking for Joe? I saw him earlier, playing next door. Let’s go get him home. It’s almost time for dinner.”

  “That boy’s supposed to be grounded. Why the heck isn’t he in his room? Who are you? Why are you in my house?”

  “I’m the babysitter. Let’s go find out why Joe’s being naughty and bring him home.” Her voice faded as they left the house. Brian slid the curtain back and watched as Sophia guided the elderly gentleman back across the yard.

  Thorn got up and moved toward the arch that separated the kitchen from the office. “Nadia, do you think Sophia would mind if I made some coffee? I’m headed for an afternoon slump.”

  Nadia glanced away from her screen. “She doesn’t drink coffee, no stimulants to up her anxiety levels.”

  “Tea? Does she drink tea?”

  Nadia quickly typed something, then, with poorly veiled exasperation, moved to the kitchen to help Thorn. Brian slid his thumb drive into Sophia’s computer and watched the light blaze red; this thing was about as subtle as Rudolph’s nose. Nadia moved back into the office almost as soon as he pulled his hand away.

  Brian swung around and planted his hips on the desktop, blocking its view. “Nadia, Sophia had a good night last night. The house was quiet. She said she was groggy this morning from the meds, but otherwise felt all right. You know her as well as anyone, what do you think we should do to continue this progress?”

  “Honestly? I think she needs to get the hell out of dodge. This neighborhood is full of freaks. Old men rattling her door at all hours of the day and night. Bikini-clad nut jobs following her through the grocery store, hissing at her.”

  Brian blinked. What? “Hissing?”

  “Hissing. It got to the point where Sophia eats only freeze-dried foods and foods she can have mailed or carried out to her car with curbside delivery.”

  “You’re talking about Marla?” he asked, hoping to god he’d get a chance to pull out the thumb drive before Sophia got back. “Why do you think she’s stalking Sophia?”

  “Marla? Of course, Marla. And why? I’d just be guessing, but I read a book called The Sociopath Who Lived Next Door, and the conclusion I came to is that a sociopath has to have a target. Others see how that target is treated and will do anything not to have that level of crazy pointed toward them. Having a victim allows a sociopath to exercise control over a whole group.

  “When Marla moved in, Sophia had just been in the car crash that injured her mother-in-law. Sophia moved here to take care of her. Jane Campbell was in terrible shape and was completely dependent on Sophia. The accident was just another horrible event in a long list of horrible events that Sophia’s gone through. She reeks of vulnerability. I think Marla picked Sophia because she’s an easy mark.” Nadia paused and considered him. “I have to thank you for telling Sophia that she’s being stalked by that mad cow. Sophia turns a deaf ear to anything I say to her on the subject. As a matter of fact—”

  Sophia opened the door to the Florida room. Her face was white and her eyes were wide. “I don’t know what to do,” she gasped out. “Mr. Rochester got violent. I asked if I should call the police, and Joe yelled for me to just get out and go home.” She looked at Brian. “Do you think I should call the police? When Hunter got like that…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do,” she told the floorboards.

  Thorn had been listening from his spot leaning against the kitchen counter. He righted himself. “I’ll go see if he needs help. Is one of the doors open?”

  “Yes, I left the front door unlocked so the police could get in. But Joe said not to call. The expense can be enormous if he’s taken to the hospital. It’s a lot to weigh. But Mr. Rochester was punching Joe.” She watched Thorn jog out her front door. “This is terrible,” she gasped. She exhaled forcibly. A shallow breath in, a deeper breath out. One hand held to her forehead, the other clenched to her stomach. Her eyes were wild with anxiety.

  “Sophia, sit down,” Nadia said, pulling a chair around. “Thorn’s got this. Mr. Rochester is an old man—he’s weak. Joe can protect himse
lf. Mr. Rochester’s not an athlete like Hunter was. He’s not strong like Hunter was. This isn’t you and Hunter, Sophia,” Nadia said raising her voice, becoming stern. “This is not Hunter. You and the kids are safe.”

  Sophia collapsed into the chair with her head in her hands. Her glistening black waves formed a barrier to their scrutiny.

  Brian wanted to crouch by her side, to get her a drink of water, to find something warm to wrap around her shivering frame, but his body was hiding the damned thumb drive.

  Sophia looked up. “Brian, can you go see if Thorn needs help? Please? Adrenaline and anger can make people incredibly strong.”

  Before Brian could answer, Lana opened the front door, holding the hands of two young boys. “Hey ho!”

  Sophia immediately pulled herself together and scurried over. “Is everything okay?” She picked up the younger of the two. The boy was like a doll, with his mother’s huge ebony eyes and pink cheeks; his black hair a mop of curls. He tucked his head under Sophia’s chin.

  “My kids are in the car.” Lana glanced over her shoulder out the door to where her minivan was parked in front of the mailbox. “The boys wanted mama, so I thought I’d bring them by for a quick hug. We’re heading out for an ice cream.”

  “With sprinkles,” Turner stipulated. Two dimpled cheeks showcased a happy grin. He held out a piece of orange construction paper to his mom.

  Sophia squatted, balancing Chance on her hip. Opening the three-year-old’s masterpiece with one hand, she took a moment to appreciate Turner’s picture. “Oh, sweetie, look how beautiful. I love all the colors. Can you tell me about this?”