Gold of Kings

by Davis Bunn

  Harry took a taxi to the church and retrieved his rental car. He followed Storm’s instructions across the southern causeway to the convention center, a new structure in a redone region of West Palm Beach. A huge marquee over the front entrance announced the annual art and treasures fair.

  The convention center was Palm Beach elegant, with plush carpeting and walls of glass overlooking the obligatory palms and oleander borders. Chandeliers hung from a pine ceiling stained to look like teak. The people spoke in polished tones that suggested they were born to handle treasure other people sweated over. Storm had left him a merchant’s badge at the front desk. A woman who managed to look casual in silk and pearls directed him down the proper aisle.

  When Harry found Storm, he said, “I’ll never complain again over paying you folks your cut.”

  Harry helped Storm unpack a variety of items from crates, all of which bore pink tags marked Vetted. In the terse manner of someone chewing over a lot more than the work at hand, Storm described the honor of being invited to join as one of only 212 exhibitors allowed to rent space. Other vendors passing their booth scouted the terrain like vultures hovering above an almost-dead body.

  When Storm went quiet, he said softly, “The loss just keeps on growing with each breath.”

  She gave him what Harry could only call a look straight from Sean. Layers of meaning, intent as a drill. Storm said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Harry let her draw him to the back of the booth, where a clever little corner held a trio of chairs and an Italian Renaissance secretary, for those moments of discreet negotiation. Like now.

  Harry was so touched by Storm trusting him it took a moment for her words to sink in. “Sean orders you to New York,” he summarized, “where he fires you in the back of a limo, then drops dead half an hour later. Then the day after you get back, this so-called lawyer you’ve never met waltzes into the shop.”

  “Less than an hour after I opened up.”

  “And takes you to a bank vault where you find his notebook?”

  Storm gave her head a tight shake. Not in denial. Tamping down on a sudden surge of grief. “Sean knew what was about to happen to him. He knew, and still he went on with it.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that very same thing.”

  “Why didn’t he just stop?”

  “It was important.”

  Her eyes glittered so bright it hurt Harry to meet her gaze. “More important than Syrrell’s?”

  Harry heard the real question, the one Sean’s granddaughter would never ask—more important than being there for her? He saw the yearning for what the old man had probably never offered: a kind word, an embrace, an affirmation. Harry said, “Let’s look at what we know. Sean cared for you enough to set you apart. You’ve got the tools and the space to operate. If you want to.”

  “What I want—”

  “Listen to what I’m saying. Getting angry with the old man now, when he’s gone, won’t get you any further than while he was alive.” Harry gave her time to blink, to breathe, to refocus. “Sean had something in his sights that was bigger to him than his company, than his life. What could that possibly have been?”

  A droll voice filled the empty moment. “Storm, finally. I’ve been looking all over.”

  Storm did not look up. “Curtis, now isn’t a good time.”

  “I won’t keep you long. It’s only the matter of that Grecian vase.” A foppish gentleman stepped into the booth. The gold insignia on his navy blazer caught the light as he pointed. “I have a buyer, you see.”

  “The price is the same as last week.”

  “Do be reasonable. I’m offering cash on the silver palaver, as it were. Take it while you can claim it as your own, that’s my advice. Next week, who knows, your money could well go straight into some banker’s purse.” He used his nose as a lofty pointer. “Shall we say a hundred and fifty thousand?”

  “My bottom price is two-ten.”

  “You are a tough nut. But I do want that for my client. Two hundred even, but only if you throw in that little stand.”

  “This happens to be a Napoleonic commode with its original ormolu facade. The price on that is eighty thousand.”

  “Oh, all right. Two-twenty for the both of them.”

  When Emma Webb appeared at the entrance, Storm reluctantly rose to her feet. “Two-fifty for the pair. Banker’s draft or cash. I’ll redtag it until tomorrow only. Don’t even think of arguing, Curtis. You’ll have to excuse us.”

  Emma slipped past the departing dealer. The federal agent wore a suit the color of desert khaki, only in silk. The short skirt revealed shapely legs in matching tights. Heels, gold Rolex and choker, diamond studs. Everything distinctly feminine except the expression. And the metallic tint to her voice. “I need to speak privately with you.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Are you aware that Harry Bennett is a convicted felon?”

  Harry said, “There’s no such thing in the Barbados legal system as a felon. Besides which, I was framed.”

  “Oh. Excuse me. An innocent con. How novel.”

  Harry told Storm, “I’ll go walk the halls.”

  Storm stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Harry Bennett is here because my grandfather asked him to come. I’m still trying to work out exactly what role you play.”

  Emma said, “We have a suspicious death tied directly to Harry Bennett, not to mention the attack on you.”

  “Which Harry foiled. And don’t forget you only know about the London attack because he told you.”

  Harry said to Storm, “I forgot to ask. Did you call your aunt?”

  “Last night.”

  “Excuse me, I’m talking here,” Emma said. “My superiors are concerned Harry Bennett might be part of some plot.”

  “You’re suggesting Harry had something to do with my grandfather’s death? That’s insane.”

  “Not directly, no. He couldn’t have. We checked. Harry Bennett wasn’t in the country when Sean Syrrell died. But we don’t know who he works for. Or why precisely he’s here at all.”

  Storm crossed her arms. “Funny. I was just going to say the same thing about you.”

  Emma punched a hand into her purse and came out with a leather case. She flipped it open and held it out.

  Storm inspected it carefully. “At least you didn’t lie about your name.”

  “I told you. Everything I said was the truth.”

  Harry read off the badge. “Treasury?”

  “On temporary assignment to a Homeland Security task force. I also act as liaison between the task force and Interpol.”

  Harry asked, “Interpol was investigating Sean?”

  Storm said, “Sean was the most honest man I’ve ever known.”

  Harry said, “I’d give that a big ten four.”

  “Imagine my surprise when Sean Syrrell showed up in my law office, a setup that was supposedly top secret, and asked me to represent him.”

  Harry liked that one. “He broke your cover. That sounds like Sean.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Storm said, her gaze locked on Emma. “He knew there was nothing he could say to stop your investigation.”

  “Sean Syrrell showed up and said, ‘Do this in the case of my death,’” Emma said.

  Harry was nodding now. “Any warning he might have passed on would only have heightened your suspicions. But this…”

  Storm’s voice almost broke over the weight of saying, “He knew everything.”

  Harry asked, “What do you want from Storm?”

  “My superior would like to have a word.”

  “Your Interpol guy?”

  “No. Homeland Security.”

  “Not a chance,” Storm replied. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re a little busy around here.”

  “Fine. Give it half an hour and I’ll be back with a warrant.” Emma Webb stowed her badge back in her purse. “Now how do you want your eggs?”

  TWO BRID
GES SPANNED THE INTRACOASTAL Waterway connecting Palm Beach Island to the real world. Nobody who worked on PBI and lived on the mainland called them causeways. They were simply the roads to work, as in, take the south road because the north is jammed with the tourist brigade. A block east of the north bridge, the road divided and broadened and slowed where the frenetic tide of mainland energy met the barrier of serious wealth. A palm-lined park split the east and west lanes. The northern side facing the park held the Palm Beach equivalent of a strip mall—Kobe-beef burger joints and beach shops selling thousand-dollar thongs. Emma led Storm into the café and stopped at a table by the rear wall. “Storm Syrrell, Jack Dauer.”

  Dauer was the only guy in the place wearing a suit. When he waved Storm into a chair, the motion opened his jacket so his gun and his badge gleamed in the sunlight. Storm was fairly certain he did it on purpose. “Have a seat, Ms. Syrrell.”

  Emma asked, “Coffee?”

  “Cappuccino. Thanks.”

  “I don’t know if our budget will stretch that far.” Dauer watched Emma step to the counter. “These prices, man, I haven’t seen anything like this place since I chased down a suspect in Istanbul. You know Istanbul, Ms. Syrrell?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? Your grandfather did a lot of business around the Med.” Jack Dauer was so lean as to suggest all human kindness had been leeched away. He tapped a large class ring on the back of the empty chair beside him as he inspected her. When Emma Webb returned, he said, “So you don’t know about your grandfather’s Istanbul dealings. What portion of his illegal activities did you handle?”

  Storm sipped from her cup and licked the froth from her upper lip. She remained caught between her conversation with Harry and the thought that all this, even the guy seated across from her, worked off a script of her grandfather’s making. “If you thought I actually knew about unlawful activities, we’d be having this conversation in your offices.”

  The guy had a lizard’s way of flicking his gaze. Hard and totally without emotions of any kind. Over to Emma, back to her. “Sean Syrrell was under investigation by our offices for a variety of matters. We’re not sure about you yet.”

  Storm met his gaze. “Just exactly which division of which government sent you here?”

  “My badge says FBI, Ms. Syrrell. But Agent Webb and I are part of a multiagency taskforce.”

  “Investigating what?”

  Emma slipped into the seat across from Storm. “We’re looking for clarification on several points. Why is Syrrell’s almost the only high-end dealer to handle salvaged treasure?”

  “Is that what you’re investigating? Stolen treasure?”

  Dauer snapped, “Answer her question, Ms. Syrrell.”

  “Most houses have become increasingly specialized in order to survive. Sean chose salvaged treasure as one of Syrrell’s main lines.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Ten years ago, maybe more. Sean had a passion for sunken treasure. He collected old maps and early records from past generations of salvagers. He fed them to a select group of treasure hunters.”

  Dauer said, “One of whom was this convicted felon, what’s his name?”

  Emma Webb replied, “Harry Bennett.”

  “Harry Bennett is a good man,” Storm said.

  “Misplaced loyalty can be a dangerous thing, Ms. Syrrell. What can you tell me about your grandfather’s latest acquisitions?”

  “I have no idea. Sean was very tight with his sources. It was one of Syrrell’s trademarks. Sean built a reputation for total confidentiality. A wealthy family suddenly facing hard times often prefers to unload items without anybody knowing. If they entered the open market, people would talk. Sean was one of a few dealers able to arrange a major sale without word leaking out.”

  “Secret seller to secret buyer,” Dauer sneered.

  “Sometimes. Why are you asking me all this?”

  Emma lifted a file from her shoulder bag. She glanced at her boss. Jack Dauer glowered in response. She set the file on the table between them. “I want you to look at something.”

  She opened the file, revealing a photograph taken of a man stepping from a limo. “Do you know this person?”

  The man had the aquiline features and sleek bearing of a Mediterranean prince. “I have no idea who he is.”

  “You’ve never seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “Does the name Selim Arkut mean anything to you?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Dauer snorted. “You expect her to tell you the truth?”

  Emma continued, “Could you check your records and see what items have originated from him?”

  “I just told you. The only record of sources was kept in Sean’s head. Payments for items on commission almost always went through attorneys. Everyone working for Syrrell’s had strict instructions never to look further than that.”

  Dauer said, “Looks like we’ll just have to hold you responsible for the stolen artifacts in your possession, Ms. Syrrell.”

  “You do that.” Storm gathered up her purse. “In the meantime, could I get a lift back to the exhibition?”

  EMMA WEBB DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING until she pulled up in front of the Palm Beach convention center. When a car jockey reached for her door, she badged him. “Five minutes.”

  Emma took a curbside spot between a Bentley and a Maybach. She left the motor running for the AC and said, “The tests came back on the juice that guy tried to spray you with. A compound the Chinese use for rat poison. Not for sale in this country. The interesting thing about this, it’s harmful only if ingested. Otherwise, nada. You can bathe in the stuff and be okay, long as you don’t swallow or breathe. But inhale one whiff, we’re talking massive liver failure, kidneys shut down, lungs clog up, bang and gone.”

  “But not heart failure.”

  Emma looked over. “Ms. Syrrell, dead is dead.”

  “I was talking about Sean. Of course, if the attacker had one killer perfume, he could have others.”

  Emma did not say anything.

  “What about that guy in London who died in Harry’s arms?”

  “We’re working on that. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you kept a close watch on Harry Bennett.”

  “No problem, seeing as he’s sleeping in my living room.” Storm climbed from the car. “Will you call me if you learn anything?”

  “Ms. Syrrell, letting that con get close to you is a seriously bad idea. We ran a check. His juvie records are sealed. Which means he’s been in trouble before.”

  “But nothing from then until this recent problem, right?”

  “He joined the navy on his eighteenth birthday. My guess is the court ordered him to choose between that and hard time.”

  Storm leaned on the windowsill. “Sean trusted him. I trust him. And you should too.”

  The wraparound shades created a copper sheath to Emma’s face. “He’s a con. You don’t know cons. I do. They will say anything to get what they want. To a con, words are just another lever.”

  “What was that comment Dauer made about Sean’s operations in Istanbul?” When Emma shook her head, Storm pressed, “I’ve answered everything you wanted. Tell me, please.”

  Emma remained where she was, parked between two thrones of chrome and power. “We don’t actually know for certain that your grandfather was doing business in Istanbul.”

  “Then why—”

  “The trail went cold there. Jack was fishing.” Emma slapped the car into gear. “You’re sure you’ve never been?”

  “No.” Storm waited for the car to pull away to add, “I’ve never been anywhere.”

  TEN

  THE AFTERNOON PASSED IN AGONIZING sluggishness. The aisles filled with an assortment of South Florida’s snobs. Waiters circulated with canapés and champagne. A trio played show tunes in the hall’s far end. Harry watched helplessly as Storm endured three hours of polite torture. A number of patrons stopped by to offer condolences. Others enquired
over the future of Syrrell’s and departed with snide humor in their eyes. Harry could not tell which hurt Storm more. The stench of failure, and Sean’s absence, hung over their booth.

  When it was over, Harry drove them back over the causeway and followed Storm’s terse directions to her gym, where she told him she was going to work out and then run to the apartment. She looked as if she was waiting for him to argue. Harry recognized a good head of steam when he saw one, and didn’t even bother to tell her to take care. He bought a Starbucks coffee, found himself a comfortable spot of shade, and practiced the art of waiting. Forty minutes later Storm came out wearing a sleeveless T and shorts of a very interesting length. She glared in his direction, then set off running. Harry tossed his coffee and dogged her in the car.

  He parked in front of the apartment, then walked down Worth Avenue to the sandwich shop. When he returned he heard the shower running. Harry left Storm’s sandwich on the kitchen counter and took his own meal down to the waterfront. The yacht club started where Worth Avenue bent to join the river road. Harry seated himself on the first empty bench and watched the waters flame through another tropical display. A couple of the moored boats were interesting—steel hulls, originally designed as oceangoing tugs, refitted as pleasure craft but retaining their ability to handle heavy seas. Harry had nothing but scorn for most of the other vessels. Overpowered palaces with silly lines, designed to cushion their owners against any hint of real life. Harry had long ago split the world into two classes: natives who worked for a living and the breed who lived to buy the flavor of the month. People like Sean, who could handle big numbers and stay focused on life’s important issues, were rare indeed.

  Harry returned to the apartment to find Storm seated on a counter stool, dressed in a white terry cloth robe, her hair done up in a towel. She was still pink from her run and the shower. The sandwich wrapper was open. Storm stared at the untouched meal as he entered and locked the door and walked over and sat down beside her. Up close he could smell the shampoo she had used. Storm looked about twelve years old. And so very sad.