"I have a feeling that if I gave you the usual your-government-needs-you speech," said the agent, "it wouldn't work."
"It might. The truth would work even better."
O'Donnel's mouth turned up in a wry smile. "In this case, it's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. Your government needs you. And," he added swiftly, seeing a question taking shape on Lindsay's lips, "it's something I would rather not discuss here. If it helps you to make up your mind, your boss is with my boss right now. Want to call him?"
"Why didn't he simply call me?"
O'Donnel shrugged. "Guess he was too busy."
"Too busy to pick up the phone, so he sends an FBI agent to fetch me," muttered Lindsay. "That sounds like L. Stephen." She pulled her purse out of a drawer, locked her desk and stood up. "Your cab or mine?"
"Mine. It doesn't have a meter in it." He smiled again, deciding that Lindsay standing up was even better to look at than Lindsay sitting down. The sensual promise of her mouth was repeated in the curving line of breasts and waist and hips. "Having a car is one of the few perks of a civil servant."
"Is the car air conditioned?" she asked hopefully.
He gave her a pitying look. "You've never worked for the government, have you?"
"The government isn't terrifically interested in ancient Chinese bronzes," Lindsay pointed out, locking her office door after the agent had stepped through.
"It is now," O'Donnel muttered too softly for Lindsay to hear.
Lindsay walked next to O'Donnel through the museum's long, narrow hall. Beneath their feet was a rich Chinese silk carpet designed in the dragon moth that had begun in the Shang dynasty more than three thousand years ago and had continued into the modern age of the People's Republic of China. The passage of time, political dynasties and artistic styles had changed the appearance of the dragon, but not its ubiquitous presence. In some unknown, untouchable way, the dragon was China's soul, unchanging.
"Sherry," said Lindsay, pausing by an open office door and leaning inside, "I'll be out for a while. Could you pick up my phone?"
"Sure thing." Sherry looked at the man waiting next to Lindsay in the hall, wondering if he were a buyer, a seller or a knight in shining armor come to take Sherry away from the boredom and near-poverty of being a museum secretary. When the man looked away from her without so much as a hint of a sexual come-on, Sherry sighed and turned her attention back to Lindsay. "Will you be out long?"
Lindsay didn't know, but from the way O'Donnel shifted impatiently behind her, she assumed that his tolerance for chitchat had just run out. "I'll give you a call," promised Lindsay.
The instant the museum's mahogany door swung open, the outside air draped around Lindsay like wet fur. Immediately the teal-blue silk of her dress molded itself to her body. Even so, the cloth itself felt cool against her suddenly flushed skin. The weaving of silk had been invented and brought to perfection in the south of China, where the climate was even hotter and more humid than Washington's infamous summers.
As always, the rush of torrid, steamy air made memories stir deep within Lindsay a child waking in Hong Kong's smothering darkness and screaming, screaming. The nightmare was old, as were the memories of her mother saying Nothing is wrong, Lindsay. Go back to sleep. Forget what happened. Forget. Forget.
Grimly Lindsay turned her mind away from the past with all its irretrievable questions and regrets. And pleasures, too. Despite the nightmare, despite whatever she had finally forgotten, there was much that she loved of the past, and the past was China. She had missed it bitterly when she had been sent to the United States as a teenager. Although she had finally come to love her aunt, the summers spent in Hong Kong with her mother were rich with memories of laughter and voices and the seething humanity that was the Orient.
"This way," said O'Donnel, touching Lindsay's arm, startling her out of her thoughts.
In defiance of local parking regulations, O'Donnel's car was waiting at the curb. The car was American-made, neutral in color and had no visible auxiliary lights or siren. Even so, there was no ticket decorating the windshield. D.C. cops quickly learned how to read government license plates. Some cars would never be ticketed and towed away, even if they were parked right in the lap of the Lincoln Memorial.
As soon as O'Donnel pulled out in traffic for the short drive to the Hoover Building, Lindsay started asking the question that had been tickling her tongue since she had first seen the rich, gold-plated shield.
"Who lost some ancient Chinese bronzes?"
Now that he had Lindsay safely in tow, O'Donnel didn't need to rely on charm, Irish or otherwise. "I'm not free to say any more than I already have, Miss Danner."
"Mr. O'Donnel."
He turned and looked at her quickly, surprised by the self-possession he heard beneath her soft tone. "Yes?"
"If Mr. White isn't on the other end of this drive, you might as well take me back to the museum right now. I won't work with people who lie to me, no matter how pretty their badges are.
O'Donnel's mouth moved in an unwilling smile. "He's there, Miss Danner."
Nothing more was said during the short drive, nor as O'Donnel led Lindsay through the blank-walled, air-conditioned corridors of the Hoover Building. He handed a laminated plastic visitor's badge to Lindsay, which she clipped onto the wrap-front of her dress. O'Donnel clipped his own ID card to his coat pocket and said nothing of interest until he closed an office door behind her.
"Here she is, Steve. You didn't tell me she was a tiger."
"Sharpened her pretty little claws on you, did she?" asked L. Stephen White. "Do you good, boy." Without looking up from the photographs he had been sifting through, White said, "Naughty baby, Lindsay. And from such well-behaved missionary stock, too."
Five months of proximity had accustomed Lindsay to her employer's manner, but she hadn't learned to enjoy it. She doubted that she would ever learn to enjoy being treated like a backward third-grader by the distinguished L. Stephen White. She knew that there was nothing personal in his treatment. He acted toward everyone like that, man and woman alike. It was the result of being raised by parents with more money and less compassion than Fort Knox.
"Was there something you wanted?" asked Lindsay.
White glanced up, looked her over from softly curling chin-length hair to high-heeled sandals, and murmured, "Yes, baby, there most definitely is."
"Then it better be in my job description," shot back Lindsay, impatient with her employer's relentless supply of sexual innuendos.
O'Donnel snickered. "Go get 'em, tiger. If you need any help filing a harassment case, I'll be glad to lend a hand."
"Down, boy," said White, standing and stretching. "Lindsay and I get along just fine, don't we, baby?''
"Especially when I'm not three days behind in my work because of an unscheduled trip to Canada," Lindsay agreed tartly.
"You're cranky. You had lunch yet?" asked White.
"Yes."
"Must be your period, then," he said, yawning.
Lindsay turned and started back toward the hall door.
"They'll arrest you," taunted White.
Lindsay ignored him and opened the door.
"Ah, hell, Lindsay. You know I'm just kidding. Sit down and drink some coffee."
Lindsay looked over her shoulder at her boss. He was tall, dark, very wealthy, twice-divorced and considered handsome by women who lacked the desire or brains to look beyond his surface. His father and grandfather had been avid collectors of Oriental objects d'art. White was an avid collector of weekend affairs. There were days when Lindsay seriously considered becoming one of his two-day stands simply to end the relentless pressure. She had no doubt that once he had bedded her, he would lose interest in her. Again, it was nothing personal. It was simply the way L. Stephen White was with women. Like many collectors, whatever he hadn't yet acquired had far more allure than all the pieces that had been bagged, tagged and file
d under Yesterday.
"Cream or sugar?" O'Donnel asked quietly.
Lindsay's indigo eyes measured him and saw only a desire to defuse the situation. "Yes, please," she said. "Both."
"Coming up." O'Donnel vanished into an adjoining room.
"How was Canada?" asked White. "See anything good?"
Lindsay thought she heard more than the usual amount of interest in the latter question. "Beautiful. No."
"In that order?"
Lindsay nodded.
"Hell," sighed White. "My father's all over me like a rash about the hole we have in our Warring States and early Han bronze collections."
"Then why did you send me to look at an early Chou collection?" she asked.
"Not close, huh?"
"You missed it by several centuries," said Lindsay dryly. She was accustomed to the fact that the director of the Museum of the Asias was militantly uninterested in ancient Chinese bronzes. That was why she had been hired to placate the grandfather to whom Chinese bronzes represented all that was sublime in art. It was unusual, however, for White to miss the mark so widely.
"Nothing else, uh, turned up?" he asked.
This time Lindsay was certain she heard more than casual curiosity. "No. Were you expecting something?"
O'Donnel came back through the connecting door, carrying two mugs of coffee. Lindsay murmured her thanks and looked at the mug curiously. It was thick, cream-colored and emblazoned with the FBI seal in gold and deep blue. She looked up as another man came into the room, a man who needed neither badge nor seal to mark him. From the short steel-gray hair to the wing-tipped shoes, the man fairly shouted FBI.
"That was quick, Brad. Did you get him?" asked White, looking up from his coffee. Despite the first-name familiarity, there was respect in White's voice as he spoke to the older man.
The man shook his head. "Still busy. I'll give it a few more minutes and then send a car for him."
"Bradford Stone, Lindsay Danner," said O'Donnel, completing the introductions with admirable economy.
Suddenly White's familiarity with O'Donnel and his boss made sense to Lindsay.
"Mr. Stone," said Lindsay, holding out her hand. "Jason White has mentioned you many times."
"Still telling Korean war stories, I'll bet," Stone said, smiling and shaking her hand firmly.
"More than one Oriental art collection began then," said Lindsay. "The spoils of war."
Stone smiled enigmatically and changed the subject. "Have Terry and Steve told you why you're here?'
"No."
"Please sit down, Miss Danner," Stone said politely. "Or is it Ms.?"
"Whichever you prefer."
"Well, then. Miss Danner, I understand you're an expert on old Chinese bronzes."
"Er, yes," murmured Lindsay. She sipped the potent coffee. Like the rest of the FBI setting, it was masculine and utterly lacking in finesse.
"I also understand that you have an uncanny talent for telling forgeries from the real McCoy."
Lindsay blinked and wondered if now was the time for modesty. "Any expert " she began carefully.
"Don't get coy on me, Lindsay," interrupted White, cutting across her cautious words. "You know damn well that's why I hired you. You kept old Jason from making a fool of himself over that half-baked bronze pot."
"Actually," Lindsay said, smiling slightly, "that 'pot' was a kuei and it was quite thoroughly 'baked'. One of the best frauds I've ever seen."
"But still a fraud," said Stone, watching her closely.
"Yes."
"How long did it take you to find out?"
"Oh, I knew the second I looked at it," said Lindsay. "It took me several days to prove it, though. Jason didn't want to take no for his answer. He loved that kuei."
"But you knew," said Stone. "Instantly."
Lindsay wondered at the satisfaction in Stone's voice, but refused to evade or ignore the implicit question. "Yes."
"How?"
Lindsay looked at the three men who were watching her intently and wondered how she could explain the inexplicable. Besides violence and fear, one of her most vivid childhood memories was of standing in front of a Hong Kong shop window and knowing that something was wrong with one of the old bronze ti vessels on display. She had stood and stared until her mother had taken her by the hand and led her back to their quarters behind the shabby Christian church. She had been eleven years old, exposed since babyhood to the bits and pieces of the ritual grave furnishings that her father and uncle had collected around Xi'an. Though the intent of the ritual vessels was unabashedly pagan, both of the Danner men had been fascinated by the art itself. And so had Lindsay.
"I grew up with Chinese art," said Lindsay finally.
"So did the Chinese," Stone responded. "Can they tell fraud at a glance?"
Another memory surfaced, that of the owner's amazement when she had marched into his shop and asked him what was wrong with the ti. Only years later did she realize that the vessel had been a clumsy fraud, the first of many that she would see. But there were other frauds, far more subtle and expert. Those, too, she came to recognize for what they were. Lies.
"Some people are born with the ability to discriminate perfectly among musical notes," Lindsay said finally. "Others are born with the ability to create extraordinary paintings or poems that ravish the soul." She shrugged. "My ability is much more mundane. All art experts have it to some extent. They will run tests as confirmation, but they depend on their instincts and experience to form their opinions."
Stone looked at Lindsay for a long moment, as though judging her, using his own instinct for lawlessness and fraud. "Whatever is said here will go no farther than this room. Agreed?"
Lindsay hesitated. "So long as I don't have to actually lie about it. Frankly, I'm a terrible liar."
"If anybody asks you questions, refer them to me."
"All right."
Stone looked away from Lindsay. "Thanks for your help, Steve. I'll call Terry if I need either of you.''
O'Donnel took White's arm and headed for the hallway. "C'mon Steve. One of our agents just busted a porn ring. He's got a file full of evidence that's guaranteed to make you go blind."
The door shut firmly behind the two men.
"The FBI finds itself in the position of needing some immediate, reliable and very discreet advice on ancient Chinese bronzes," Stone said bluntly. "Normally our own resources are enough to cover anything that comes up from counterfeit Paul Revere silver to fake Old Masters. In this case, though " He made an impatient gesture. "Our labs won't have access to the bronzes. If there are bronzes."
Lindsay took an unobtrusive sip of coffee. She knew that Stone was irritated at having to reveal anything to an outsider. That simply wasn't Bureau policy. Even so, his elliptical approach to the subject told her that whatever was at stake was very important.
"Yet," continued Stone, "with or without recourse to our labs, it is absolutely imperative that we know whether or not the bronzes are fraudulent."
Lindsay wanted to shout What bronzes? but instead took another sip of the lethal coffee. Though she was a naturally spontaneous person, being a buyer, seller and appraiser of art had taught her the value of a poker face and silence.
"No comment?" prodded Stone.
"I'm sorry. Is one required?" Lindsay asked politely.
Stone made a sound that could have been a muffled laugh or a grunt. "You don't give away much, do you?"
"Neither do you, sir." She smiled. "We'd be a lethal bridge team."
Unwillingly Stone smiled in return. He fiddled with a pen, brushed it aside and said, "There are some bronzes down the hall. I want your opinion of them."
"Certainly." Lindsay set aside her coffee and stood with barely concealed eagerness.
The phone rang.
Stone picked it up, listened for a moment. "He what? Who the hell does he think he is?" Pause. "They're here? Judas H. Priest!"
>
The receiver slammed back into the cradle.
"Sit down, please, Miss Danner," said Stone in a tight voice. "Someone will bring you more coffee. There's been a slight problem with the, er, exhibit."
Stone was out the door and down the hall before Lindsay could say a word. Not that Stone would have listened if she had managed to say anything. He was focused on the problem waiting for him down the hall. He had been against this assignment from the first moment he had heard of it. Nothing had happened since to change his mind.
Without bothering to conceal his irritation, Stone yanked open a door, stepped through and forcefully pulled the door shut behind him. "All right, Terry. What in hell is going on."
It was a demand, not a question. Before O'Donnel could respond, an interior door opened. An old Chinese man entered, accompanied by a large, solidly built male Caucasian who moved like a commando.
"Mr. Stone," said O'Donnel quickly, "this is Mr. Chen Yi and his, er "
"Fishing buddy," supplied Catlin. He looked at the older FBI agent. He had worked with men like Stone before, respected their strengths and knew their weaknesses. Part warrior, part bureaucrat, part prima donna, part team player. Shrewd, hard and more than a little vain. A good soldier and a lousy guerrilla.
Chen Yi held out his hand in the accepted Western manner, clasped Stone's hand briefly and said, "It is an honor."
Stone's pale blue eyes fastened on Yi's impassive face as they shook hands. "The honor is mine," said Stone. Then he added bluntly, "The State Department told me to expect several Chinese. Nothing was said about an American."
"A small misunderstanding," murmured Yi. "My comrades were delayed in Los Angeles by illness. Something in the water, I fear."
Catlin wondered whether the "something in the water" had been added by Chen Yi rather than the Greater Los Angeles Metropolitan Water District. It was what Catlin would have done if he had reason to distrust his comrades or they had reason to distrust him.
"I came ahead alone to prepare the way," continued Yi, his voice breathy and yet staccato, giving a sense of pressure or urgency to everything he said. "Mr. Catlin was gracious enough to agree to advise me on the intricacies of your American customs and government."
Tell Me No Lies Page 3
