Which meant nobody outside the Met could see this medallion. It needed to be photographed and purchased, catalogued and kept very carefully for conservation outside of the public eye. And why should it go on display? It was, after all, one more late Ptolemaic medallion. The Met needed to keep this under their collective hats — a map to the Soma, a map to the greatest lost tomb of the ancient world!
Jerry's hands were sweating. And in the three to five years it would take to mount an expedition, he had to figure out how to be part of it.
"I'm sorry. Mrs. Segura isn't in." Stasi held the phone between shoulder and ear while she searched through the pile of schedules in front of her. "But I'd be happy to book your charter. You said week after next?"
"The twenty eighth," Bub Tyler said. "You're sure you can book it for me then?"
Stasi shuffled papers again. There was a passenger flight to Santa Fe that day, but they'd need the Frontiersman for that. She pulled out her pencil and licked the tip. Lewis could take the Frontiersman to Santa Fe and Mitch and Alma could take the Terrier to Omaha. Lewis would have the short flight in the smaller plane, and Alma and Mitch would have the long one with the big load. "Absolutely," she said. "Make sure you get your cargo over here on Friday if you want to go early Monday morning."
"That's Friday of Thanksgiving weekend," Tyler said. "You gonna be open? Cause I sure ain't."
"Wednesday then?" Stasi asked brightly. The clock on the wall said ten till noon. Alma and Lewis had taken the Frontiersman to Salt Lake City on the weekly passenger run. Monday was Santa Fe and Albuquerque, Wednesday Salt Lake, Friday Amarillo, three scheduled flights a week and charters anytime. They'd add Oklahoma City to the mix, or Wichita, except that Comanche Air already had that service, a thing Alma never stopped twitching about.
"That's awful early for a Monday flight, don't ya think?"
"When do you want to bring it over, Mr. Tyler?" Stasi asked, rolling her eyes at the wall. If not Wednesday and not Friday, did he think she'd make an extra day? Or would he be open on Thanksgiving Day or the weekend?
"Well, I guess Wednesday," he said. "I guess that'll do."
"Ok!" Stasi said cheerfully. "We'll weigh the pallets when you get here. I'll make sure Mr. Patterson is here to help you unload and weigh." And that would be a job itself, at least getting Patterson there sober.
"You all sure do charge a lot per pound."
"Mrs. Segura sets the rates," Stasi chirped. "You'll have to talk to her about that."
"I could talk to Mitchell Sorley about them," Tyler said. "Is he around?"
"No, I'm sorry! He's not," she said, crossing her fingers. Mitch would cave on the rates. He was such a sucker for a sob story about hard times. "Shall I have Mrs. Segura call you?"
"No, I guess you don't need to." Alma wouldn't cave. No point in even having that conversation.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked perkily.
"I reckon I'll need another charter next month, but I don't know for sure yet."
"Please let us know as soon as you can," Stasi said. "You know we've only got two cargo planes, and it's best to book ahead to get your preferred day. We value your business, Mr. Tyler."
He sounded a little less gruff. "Thank you, Miss Rostov."
A bit more warmth in her voice. "It's always a pleasure to talk to you, Mr. Tyler."
"Things sure have gotten more organized around there," he said.
"Why thank you, Mr. Tyler!" Stasi rolled her eyes again. Five till twelve. "We'll see you next week. Goodbye now."
He hung up and she spread the calendar page out, carefully writing in the charter and the note to have Joey Patterson load cargo on Wednesday, November 23, 1932. Joey worked by the hour, and he'd be glad of the work. He had two kids and another on the way.
Beyond the office door out in the hangar one of the Terrier's engines coughed to life, running rough. The bell on the door to the parking lot jangled and Stasi looked up.
Two men stood in the doorway, a third behind them leaning on the hood of a Model T, cigarette in hand. The man in front had a smart navy suit, graying hair beneath a navy fedora. He met her eyes knowingly. "Judy Denisov," he said. "Nice to see you again, baby."
Stasi sat up very straight, her voice perfectly even. "Albert Kirsch. Well, this is a surprise. I never thought I'd see you in Colorado Springs."
"I bet not," he said, glancing around the tiny office with its cheap furniture and door to the hangar. "Nice place you've got here. Never thought you'd go straight, kid. You had some talent." He spoke to the other man behind him but his eyes didn't leave Stasi. "Met her doing two bit deals in Tijuana. But then she moved up in the world. Why aren't you in Hollywood, Judy?"
"Oh you know." Stasi shrugged. "This and that. It got a little too warm, if you know what I mean." She tried not to glance toward the shop door. Mitch would never hear her over the Terrier's engine, not if he was standing anywhere close to it. Which he would be.
"She was pretty slick," Kirsch said. "Golden fingers on that kid. Got your fingers burned?"
"Something like that." Stasi got up and saw his hand go casually to his breast pocket. Ok. Packing a heater. That changed the score. "You Joes just happened to be in town and you missed me?"
"Got a job for you," Kirsch said. "Some good money in it. You interested?"
Stasi tossed her head, coming around the desk and perching on it. "Depends. How much is it, and what's the deal?"
"It's a pretty classy job. Needs your special golden touch." Kirsch pulled out a silver cigarette case. "It's a big commission for a collector. Ever heard of the Metropolitan Museum of Art? In New York City?"
Stasi snorted. "What, you want me to steal some big statue? That's not my kind of heist. Some eight hundred pound marble thing I can just stick in my combinations?"
Kirsch shook his head, lighting the cigarette with a flick. "Nah."
Out in the hangar the engine revved. Three till twelve. Surely Mitch would knock off for lunch any minute. And he'd wonder why there were customers in the office and come over to see. Surely. Any minute now.
Kirsch spread his hands about four inches. "It's an object about this size. Bronze, but it's pretty small. The Met's just acquired it. My customer would like to acquire it instead."
Stasi's voice was hard. "What does it do?"
"By itself? Nothing." Albert Kirsch gave her an urbane smile. "So it's not going to go wild on you and start spitting flames or making your skin turn black, if that's what you were worried about."
"Then why me?" she asked. "New York's a big city. There are lots of people who know the Met a lot better than I do."
Kirch's smile widened. "But not a lot who know the man better. This tablet's not on display yet. It's being readied for conservation by an expert in Hellenistic syncretism, Dr. Jerry Ballard. It will be somewhere in the private offices, and we need somebody who can find out where it is and get to it. That would be you, baby."
The engine revved again. What in the hell was Mitch doing? Avoiding her because of the movie thing last night? Or just overcautious — they'd all been extra careful about maintenance since Rayburn's crash.
Stasi shook her head. "That's way too dangerous. Ballard hates me. He caught me with my hand in the pie one time too many and he'd never trust me as far as he could throw me."
"I thought you were best buddies from what the papers said. Engaged, I believe?" Kirsch took a draw from the cigarette. "In Florida?"
"That was before he got wise to me," Stasi said. "If you've seen those papers, you know that was back in March. March to November is a long time. No way, no how I can get Ballard to trust me. I sail into New York saying I want to see his special toys that aren't on display at the Met yet, and he'll call the cops before I can say boo." She got up from the desk and went over and held the outside door open. "I'm not your girl, Kirsch. I'd get caught in a second, and that's not worth any amount of money."
He got up. "Suit yourself, toots." He looked around the office a
gain scornfully. "It's a waste of talent. How long are you going to spend in this hillbilly town?"
"Until I get a better offer," Stasi said. "One that doesn't include a ticket to the big house." She gestured to the open door. "It's been fun catching up. But I've got to get back to work."
Kirsch went out, followed by the other guy, then stopped and turned. "By the way, Pelley wanted to know if you were still doing any medium work. He's got a couple of contacts he wants you to make."
"I already told Pelley I can't," Stasi said. God, would Mitch ever leave off with that engine?
"Those guys are dead, aren't they?" Kirsch asked.
"Yes," Stasi said shortly. "For about a hundred years! I told Pelley and I'm telling you, I can't haul in somebody who's been dead that long unless they want me to. Most souls don't stay disincarnate that long. I can't summon some guy who was shot in 1815 unless he's a disembodied spirit. There's nothing I can do if he's not."
"If he's some guy walking around Los Angeles these days," Kirsch said.
"Or Hong Kong!" Stasi said. "And I'd need a talisman or something with a direct connection at the very least, something that used to belong to the guy maybe. I can't just pull this stuff out of my hat." She shrugged. "Besides, I don't know what good it would do if I could summon them, unless these guys left buried treasure or something."
Kirsch took a long, leisurely draw, blowing smoke into the cold air. "Mr. Pelley has reasons you can't even imagine. I don't expect you'd understand if I told you. But this world is changing, Judy. Things are happening that you can't even comprehend. There's a new order arising, a flood coming that is going to sweep all this away." He gestured with the cigarette to the airfield, the hangar and parking lot, the town beyond. "There will be a time when it would be very good for you to have Mr. Pelley's gratitude, given your Slavic background. That's all I'm saying. It would be a good thing to have made yourself useful."
"I'll keep that in mind," Stasi said. "Ta-ta and all that."
"It's your funeral," Kirsch said pleasantly, grinding out his cigarette and getting in the car, his man following.
After they drove away she went back inside, locking the outside door and sitting down at the desk. She lit a cigarette with hands that absolutely did not shake. She only jumped about a mile when Mitch opened the door from the hangar, dropping her ash on her skirt and leaping up to brush it off before it burned the rayon.
"You ok?" Mitch asked. He was wearing oily coveralls, though he'd stopped and washed his hands.
"Yes," Stasi said swiftly. She put out her cigarette in the ashtray. "Just having a quick smoke."
"Oh." He looked vaguely awkward, and Stasi remembered about the movie thing last night. "I was thinking about getting some lunch," he said. "I wondered if you wanted to go over to the diner with me."
"Ah." The change of gear was momentarily stunning, her mind still on Kirsch and Pelley. "I don't know."
Mitch's face hardened. "I guess you'd rather not have lunch together. Ok."
"No, I mean…." Stasi flailed around. She reached under her desk and pulled out a paper bag. "I mean I brought lunch. And I brought too much lunch." She knew she was babbling as she opened the bag and pulled out wax paper wrapped packets. "Somehow I got two roast beef sandwiches. One with horseradish and one without with Swiss on both. And I brought all this potato salad and I somehow brought this cake…. I haven't any idea what to do with it all!"
"Oh." His expression changed completely, that mischievous grin that slid sneakily around the corners of his mouth. "That's a big problem. Maybe I could help with that. One with horseradish and one without?"
"Somehow. By accident." She handed him the one without.
He gestured to the calendar spread out on the desk. "We should move that."
"I'd rather eat in the hangar," Stasi said quickly.
"Ok." Mitch blinked. "If you like."
"I do," Stasi said. "There's too much smoke in here."
They ate out by the Terrier, Stasi sitting on the unfolded cabin steps and Mitch cross-legged on the concrete in front of her, the disassembled engine cowling at his elbow.
"I'm sorry I was a pain about the jewel thief," Mitch said.
It took her a moment to remember that he meant the one in the movie. He didn't know about any others. And there was no reason to tell him. After all, nothing had happened. She'd said no. Some guys asked her and she said no. That was all. "Oh, that," Stasi said. She picked up her sandwich. "It's just a movie."
"Yeah." Mitch looked sheepish. "I've kind of got a bad temper. It's not my best quality."
"Darling, I've got a temper too," Stasi said, leaning back comfortably against the Terrier. "I don't mind someone who will snap back. It keeps me from bullying you."
He laughed. "Is that what you do? Bully guys and push them around?"
"Absolutely. Can you imagine me married to Lewis? The poor sweetheart would never get two words in edgewise and he'd never make another decision for the rest of his life. I'd fasten his suspenders for him in the morning."
"And that would be a terrible fate," Mitch said.
"Well, maybe not the suspenders fastening, but the pushing around. I don't mind a bit of spirited argument as long as there's kissing and making up." She stopped, her eyes on his face. "Metaphorical kissing, that is."
"Yeah. Metaphorical." There was a hungry expression in his eyes that had nothing to do with roast beef, like a dog standing outside a butcher shop looking at everything he can't ever have.
"Purely metaphorical," she said for want of anything better to say. Suspenders? Marriage? The lack of related safe subjects was appalling. "Cake?" She lifted up the packet.
"Sure," he said. "Cake is good. I like cake." He didn't look away from her face, his expression unchanged.
"You like my cake." And there she went again, a mouth that just wouldn't stop.
"Yeah."
For some reason this was utterly flustering.
"What kind of cake is it?"
"Chocolate. Cherry. Chocolate with cherry." Oh God could she quit blathering! "With icing." She opened the wax paper to display two slices of cake, five thin layers with alternating filling of chocolate ganache and sour cherry, layer after layer, iced in dark chocolate buttercream.
"That's…." Mitch looked as though he had momentarily been stunned into cake ecstasy.
"I made it for dinner tonight but someone took a slice in the middle of the night last night," Stasi said grumpily. "So we might as well have some for lunch."
"It looks…." He made a dive for it, fork at the ready.
"Jump right in," Stasi said.
It was awfully good if she did say so herself, she thought, eating her slice contemplatively. Better if she'd been able to get almond paste, but there was none to be had. She'd had to ask the grocer to special order. She supposed she could buy an enormous bag of almonds and grind them herself. That was what her father had always done, but buying the paste ready-made was so much more convenient.
"Where did you learn to bake like this?" The tone in his voice was utterly casual, but it didn't fool her for a moment.
"At the knee of my dear nurse, a glorious old woman who took care of me at the dacha when my parents were in St. Petersburg," Stasi said. "Her name was Baba Yaga."
Mitch almost choked, buttercream all over the corner of his mouth. "She lived in a little house on stilts?"
"How did you guess?" Stasi beamed. "That was before I spent a terrible year on the Black Sea when I was betrothed."
Mitch nodded with an almost completely serious expression. "This was before you were kidnapped by a Turkish prince?"
"After, darling," she said. "But it was before the time I was attacked by ravening wolves."
"When they chased your reindeer all the way to the chalet," Mitch said seriously. "And you hit them with a wheel of Raclette until they went away."
"While wearing little après ski boots and a furry hat," Stasi agreed.
"And what else went with this ensembl
e?"
"Nothing else, darling," Stasi said. "Just the boots, the furry hat, and the wheel of Raclette."
He burst out laughing, that dabble of chocolate still right where it had been. "Ok, that's a picture. But it's a little…."
"Cheesy?"
She almost completely forgot about Kirsch. She almost could. After all, it hadn't come to anything and it wasn't going to. He was full of his usual hot air, one more pointless conspirator with grandiose plans. She'd seen enough of them in the last eighteen years. Nothing was going to happen.
And if it did, some part of her whispered, at least she would have had this first.
The Monday before Thanksgiving seemed an odd time for a sponsor's party, but it had been long enough since Jerry had attended one that he thought he was probably in no position to comment. That had been the year he'd been demobbed, and then he'd been in no shape to enjoy it — thirteen years ago, anyway, and a different sort of occasion altogether. He'd been trying to put his life back together, still limping on a mangled foot that refused to heal, and it had been one of the parties celebrating the foundation of the Oriental Institute. He'd been on the verge of being named a scholar there, had a teaching job and the promise of a place on Breastead's next big project, and he'd been determined to make it happen, no matter what he had to do to keep himself going. But the foot had festered again, and finally had to be amputated, and there had been no way he could take care of himself alone in Chicago. Gil and Alma had come for him, taken him home to Colorado Springs, and he thought he'd come to terms with everything he'd lost. But with Gil dead, there wasn't so much to hold him there, and his share of the money from the Great Passenger Derby had bought him a little breathing room. He could afford to take this job for Edward Hutcheson, even though it would just about pay his expenses if he was careful. He could afford to try to get himself back in the game.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 73
