by Davis Bunn
The lawyer went utterly still.
“The jet will be supplied by a branch of the American government represented by this agent, who has taken considerable offense to your comment about stables. As, sir, did I. Your route to the American federal prison will be somewhat circuitous.” Hakim swiveled in his chair. “Did I say that correctly, circuitous?”
Emma said, “Works for me.”
“I have no direct experience in these matters, sir. But I understand the stopovers are in places that will make this prison seem like the Hotel du Cap.” He paused, then, “A name, good sir. Tell us who paid for your defense of this assassin, and we will let you go.”
AFTER ANOTHER FRUITLESS TWO HOURS, the colonel walked them personally back to the car baking in the forecourt. He spoke to Hakim, who translated, “He can only hold the advocate for thirty-six hours. The magistrate will arrive on schedule, establish that the advocate was within his rights to refuse our request, and that our evidence is not strong enough to extradite. I fear the colonel may be formally rebuked, but I hope that by claiming he acted upon my orders, he will not be brought up on charges.”
Emma offered the commandant her hand. “Sorry we couldn’t be of help, sir. In any case, I owe you. Big time.”
The colonel bowed over her hand and massacred the words, “I am fully recompensed, mademoiselle. Bonne chance.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
WHEN THE TAXI LEFT THE road running along the Bosphorus and the city rose up around them, Storm opened her phone and accessed her grandfather’s notebook. She heard Harry discuss their destination with the driver, but paid little attention. The taxi deposited them by a hillside manor whose interior courtyard was a graveyard for lost dreams. The palace’s former grandeur was now reduced to old bones. Harry led her to a corner table set upon the raised patio that ran around three sides of the courtyard. He settled into the chair next to hers. Concern creased Harry’s features. Funny how a guy showing he cared could bring that burning sensation to her eyes.
Harry asked, “Think maybe you should take a break?”
“Not yet.” She set the notes she had made in the taxi on the table before her, took a hard breath, and dialed the first number. Claudia had said Sean was planning a trip, first to Toronto, then here. Storm had found seven Toronto-based antique companies listed in Sean’s notebook. As each number was answered, she said she was working for a major client who wished to remain confidential, and then she asked for the name on Sean’s list. No one but the owner would do.
Storm hit pay dirt with the fifth call. The saleswoman’s response carried the quality of a well-trained lie, claiming the former owner had retired the previous winter and was no longer available to anyone, for any reason. He had no contact with the firm. The new managing director would be in shortly. Storm asked for his name but did not recognize it. She asked the saleswoman to spell it and wrote it on the side of her sheet.
She found a listing for the owner’s home number in Sean’s notebook. She dialed the number and once again came face-to-face with the living dead.
This time a stroke had felled his beloved wife. Very sudden. Storm drew a slow and jagged circle around the name as the man described how his wife had been his partner in the business and in life. She asked, “Who runs your business now?”
“My daughter’s second husband. I suppose I should call him a stepson. But I never have cared for him.”
“Your daughter divorced?”
“Just last year. If you ask me, this new fellow is all flash and fancy airs. But she wouldn’t listen to me. She never did.”
Storm checked the name given to her by the saleswoman. “His name is Victor Dupree?”
“That is correct. From Montreal. Why?”
“Just bringing my notes up to date,” Storm replied, underlining the name three times.
“The children loathe him. My granddaughter wants to come live with me.”
“Let her.”
“Her mother would never allow it.”
“Listen. This guy…”
“Yes?”
Storm rose from the table and stepped back into the patio’s deepest shadows. One pace for every carefully measured word. “Go to Victor. Tell him either he lets—What’s your granddaughter’s name?”
“Christina. She goes by Chrissy.”
“Either Chrissy comes to live with you, or you’ll retake control of the business. You could do that, couldn’t you?”
“He and my daughter made me sign over all rights.”
“But you could go to a lawyer and raise a stink. Meet with your daughter, just the two of you. Tell her the loneliness is getting to you. You miss the action.”
“I do, you know. At the time, with the loss it seemed the right thing to do. Now I wander about this old place like a ghost.”
“Tell that to your daughter. Suggest having Chrissy live with you is the only alternative worth discussing. Soon as she has a chat with her Victor, she’ll come around.”
A pause, then, “You sound very definite.”
“Let’s just say I have some extremely serious suspicions. If I’m right, you need to get Chrissy out of that house.”
“What about Daniel?”
“He’s your grandson? How old is he?”
“Sixteen. Chrissy is four years younger.”
“The boy’s probably lost in teenage land. Worry about the girl.”
“You won’t recall, but we met once. It was soon after you started in the company. Your grandfather pointed you out. Of course I had heard about the problem between Sean and your father. Sean confessed that he had not wanted to bring you in. But he saw a certain spark in you. Something very rare.”
“He never told me that.”
“No, Sean wouldn’t. But he always had an eye for hidden treasure.”
“EMMA, IT’S HARRY.”
“Where are you?”
“Old-town Istanbul. Standing in the street outside a villa they’ve turned into a restaurant. Safe. What about you?”
“Checking into a hotel in Cannes.”
“Must be nice.”
“We’ve just spent the day in a prison so bad it would have made your place in Barbados look like a Four Seasons.”
Here he was, joking about his felony count with a cop. “Don’t bet on it.”
“Where’s Storm?”
“Corner table, hunched over this little phone that opens into a computer, wired into the Web.” He decided there was no need to add how Storm looked, which was pretty much undone. “You doing okay?”
“To be honest, I’m a little shook up.”
“Yeah, prison will do that. Emma, we’ve found something that can’t wait.”
But Harry barely got started, relating what Mehmet Ozman had told them, before Emma stopped him with “I need to get Hakim in on this.”
“Emma—”
“Hold it right there, Harry. This could be important.” Thirty seconds later she came back on the line. “Hakim and I are going upstairs to his room; we’ll call you back.”
“I’ve got a new number.” They had stopped by a phone shop and equipped him with one that reached Europe-wide. He read her the number, then asked, “Are you coming down?”
She responded with public formality. “That depends on other people. But I hope so.”
“It’ll be good to see you, Emma.”
“Roger that. We’re headed for the elevators now. We’ll be back to you soon.”
Harry passed back through the manor’s ancient entryway. The portal was large enough for a carriage drawn by six matching steeds to have once pranced through. The villa stood on the Golden Hind, the sequence of hills that had once made up the heart of Constantinople. It had been built by the first minister to Suleiman the Magnificent and was flanked on one side by the Aga Sophia mosque and on the other by the Topkapi Palace stables. The restaurant sprawled about what had once been a formal courtyard. The stonework was flecked with lichen and the wall paintings were reduced to mere shadows. The central
fountain’s stone sculpture was worn down to nubs and the courtyard’s mosaic was pitted and almost lost to weeds. Even the waiters seemed drawn from a bygone era, ancient crones who drifted about and did not speak even when taking orders.
Storm did not merely occupy the restaurant’s corner table. She had staked her flag and claimed the space as her own. She sat hunched over the little phone, open now to the larger screen, and tapped on the keypad. She’d made sheets of notes on the pad Harry had bought at a bookshop next to the phone store. A map and tourist guide to Cyprus lay open on the chair to the right. Another chair to her left held a tulip glass of tea and an untouched sandwich. Harry didn’t care whether she ate. They had stuffed their faces with Mehmet. Harry had ordered the food because he wanted her to know he was there and concerned.
It was hard for a woman as vibrantly alive as Storm to appear wraithlike. But when they’d left the palace and headed back into Istanbul, she had grown as ethereal as smoke. Just drifting on the seat next to him. Lost to the certainty that her aunt and oldest friend was doing business with the people who had murdered Sean.
Harry walked up to her table and said, “Emma wants to get me and Hakim on the phone.”
Storm looked up, but Harry had the impression she didn’t really see him at all. He went on, “He’ll want to take this to the next level. Which means either we trust him, or I insist that only Emma handles your names.”
She had the list ready for him. It covered two pages. “You decide. I’ll e-mail the names and addresses as soon as you say.”
“Storm, you still can’t be sure Claudia is in cahoots—”
“Don’t. Please. This is too much to be a coincidence. Claudia is in this up to her eyeballs.”
“Okay, yes, she’s negotiating the sale of the company, and they’ve offered her a job. But that doesn’t mean—”
“She said it herself. This company is her life. If she’s blind to what’s going on it’s because she wants to stay blind.”
Harry set his hand on her shoulder. Left it there until his phone rang. Then he walked back across the courtyard before opening the phone. “I’m here.”
“Harry, I’d like to introduce Hakim Sundera,” Emma said.
“Very nice to speak with you at last, Mr. Bennett.”
Harry said, “I’ve got to know if we can have a total trust between us. I’m not just talking about facts related to whatever you’re after. I’m talking about treasure. Because I’m pretty sure it’s out there.” Harry passed through the portals and parked himself on the alley’s opposite wall, where the shadows hid him but he still had a clear view of Storm. “This stage of the game, you normally shut everybody out who’s not absolutely essential. Not bring in a new player.”
Emma took her time responding. “I’ve brought in Hakim because I think he is just that. Essential.”
“Mr. Bennett, I assure you—”
“I go by Harry.”
“Harry. Nothing you tell me will be passed further. Nothing will be put in any report. Not until your search is over, or you give me permission.”
Emma said, “I trust Hakim enough to place my professional career in his hands.”
“I guess that works.” Harry sketched out their meeting with Mehmet Ozman at the palace hotel. Then waited. Making it a test, see how far this guy could take it.
“Let us for the moment refer to our attacker as Leon. Counting Sean, our foes have possibly eliminated three different antiques dealers. And you think each shop has become a front.”
“And they form a pattern.”
“They identify a prey. They attack. But they do not take over. They replace the original owner with a puppet. Someone who has the name but lets them direct matters according to a hidden agenda. Harry, could you please tell me why Ms. Syrrell is not part of this conversation?”
But Emma had already made the connection. “The relative who’s handling the sale of Syrrell’s.”
“Storm’s aunt Claudia. She and Storm were superclose. The evidence points at Claudia either knowing, which Storm doubts, or letting herself be used by Sean’s murderers. Storm is cut to pieces.”
Hakim asked, “When did Storm receive news of the company’s sale?”
“First at the Palm Beach exhibition, then again at Sean’s funeral. Claudia told Storm both times she doesn’t know who the buyer is, only the lawyers handling the transaction. Claudia claims it’s either sell the company or go bankrupt.”
Hakim said, “It is good that Ms. Syrrell trusts you, Harry. Very good for her to have a trusted ally at the moment when she is weakest. Emma, perhaps we should tell Harry what has happened at our end.”
Emma related the international alert for a man with no name, the prison, Leon, the escape, their confrontation with the French lawyer. “Hakim pushed hard as he could. But the attorney didn’t give. Not a peep.”
Hakim said, “The commandant can only hold the advocate for thirty-six hours. The morning after tomorrow, the magistrate will arrive on his regular rounds. The advocate will be the first case on his docket. Anything else and the commandant would be open to charges. He has a letter signed by Interpol, formally requesting that the advocate be held for extradition. But in thirty-six and one-half hours, the advocate walks free.”
Harry mashed the phone to his ear, as though the compression would make the man easier to read. Try as he might, he couldn’t detect any hint of gold fever. That was what treasure dogs called getting close to the score. Gold fever bit like acid into a crew’s nerves. Guys who had been friends for life suddenly turned on one another like coyotes over a kill. Harry liked this guy’s formal diction, the precise way he laid things out. Harry said, “The enemy is bound to know we know. Speed is everything.”
Hakim asked, “Do you or Ms. Syrrell have any idea what we should do now?”
Harry found himself liking this guy more with each turn. “That is the absolute first time I’ve ever heard a cop asking a civvie for advice.”
“We at Interpol are specialists in liaising, Harry. We seek to aid others at reaching their prize of a solid arrest and a successful conviction. Why should it be any different with you? Of course I ask your advice.”
“I can see why Emma likes you, sir.”
“Please, call me Hakim.”
“Storm has prepared a list of all the dealers in her grandfather’s book. She’ll pass it on, but only if you won’t delegate the job. This is top-secret stuff. You need to contact them and see who else has been attacked. Once you’ve made the calls, we want your word the list will be destroyed and you’ll pass on just the dealers who are part of this daisy chain.”
Emma said, “I’ll do it.”
Hakim said, “No. I want you to join them. Tomorrow. I will do this, Harry. And then I will personally destroy Ms. Syrrell’s list.”
Harry steeled himself against the sudden flutter at gut level. Getting the quivers over a cop joining their crew, that was definitely one for the books. “There’s something else. Before the accident that killed his wife and daughter Mehmet Ozman had been on his way to Paris to see a guy. Yves Boucaud.” Harry spelled it out. “The deal was powerful enough to drag Mehmet away from his family while they were on vacation. Storm thinks it might be worth checking this guy out, see if there’s a link.”
“Harry, I really must speak with Ms. Syrrell directly. I have several urgent questions.”
“I’ll pass it on.”
There was a pause, like the world needed to take a very difficult breath. Hakim said, “Emma, perhaps you should tell him what you have just learned.”
“I’ve had a call from a contact with the Palm Beach police. Richard Ellis was shot and killed last night. They’re putting it down to a robbery gone bad.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“We passed on what we suspect. But without evidence that ties these events together in a fashion the prosecutor can follow, we’re just shouting into the wind.”
Harry grimaced over the loss of a man he wishe
d he had come to know better. One more connection to his late best friend gone for good. Leaving him to carry the news to Storm.
Hakim gave them a moment for shared remorse, then asked, “Is there anything else you need?”
“Absolutely,” Harry replied. “A gun and a way out of town.”
TWENTY-NINE
EMMA SAT ON HER HOTEL room’s narrow balcony. Actually, two of the chair’s legs were inside the French doors, so she had room to put her feet on the railing and stretch her legs out fully. Her room faced south. Somewhere out there, the Riviera beckoned. All she could see was a postage-stamp garden, a miniature pool, the hotel parking lot, and red-tiled roofs marching down the hillside. Emma had napped and showered and eaten a meal with Hakim. Hakim had suggested they sit at one of the sidewalk tables so they could enjoy the air. The food had been nice. Then Hakim received two phone calls. Now the meal sat in Emma’s stomach like a lump of French concrete.
A copy of the International Herald Tribune lay by her feet open but unread. Emma had bought it at a newsstand down the road, something to fill the wait. But her eyes skipped over the words, searching for a headline that existed only in her brain.
The house across the street had louvered shutters painted red to match the barrel-tile roof. A parrot sat on a swing inside a gilded cage and squawked words in French. The smell of green peppers frying in olive oil drifted in the still air. There was a knock on her door. Emma rose from her chair, shut the balcony doors, and crossed the room.
Hakim stood in the hallway. “We are ready.”
She followed him into the room next to hers. The bed had been pushed to one side, making room for three chairs pulled around the desk. “This is Remy. He is half French and half Californian.”
The slender young man had spiked dark hair and nervous hands. He did not look up from the array of electronic equipment. The laptop’s screen showed a pair of audio readouts. He picked up a headset connected to the computer and spoke into the mike. “Test, test, one, two.” The volume level jerked the readout into the red zone. Remy tapped a couple of keys, repeated the test, and said, “Okay, we’re good to go.”
