by Davis Bunn
Harry’s plan was simple in the extreme. Pull the sleds across the eighty miles to Turkey. Hug the shoreline until they found a truly desolate spot. Which Harry figured wouldn’t be all that tough. The Anatolian coast was rugged, wild, and vastly underpopulated. All he needed was a place that would stay unnoticed for the two days it would take him to hire a larger vessel and return. Then he would put off for some isolated stretch of sea and wait for a seaplane with a trusted pilot.
Once they were beyond the rocks, they were under way. Harry was tempted to shout his plans across to the ladies. Suggest they work on a map and mark the spot with an X. But neither Storm nor Emma appeared much in the mood for laughs.
Not that he could blame them.
What Harry had not counted on was the tempest. The wind built to gale force. The rain felt a degree or so above freezing and struck them like ice bullets. They throttled back to one-third power. The sleds were so heavy they acted like sea anchors, dragging and tugging and fighting the waves. Their forward progress was slow and jerky. The Jet Ski motors weren’t made for this kind of going, waves lashed and constantly yanked backward by the sleds’ weight. Harry’s greatest worry, even larger than the very real prospect of hypothermia, was that one of the Jet Skis would lose power. If a sled sank there was no way he could mark the place. But there was also no way for them to turn around. Other than Cyprus, if they ran with the wind the next nearest landfall was Lebanon, the last place on earth Harry wanted to land with a boatload of gold.
Every time the rain let up enough for him to get a decent look, the ladies were shivering harder. But stopping was no good. There was no place for them to take cover. Even if he lashed the two Jet Skis together, the waves could swamp them. His only hope was for a break in the weather. Until then, they had to just keep going.
Out of nowhere, a ghost ship appeared ahead of them. At least, that was how it first seemed to Harry—a vague shadow etched in the rain and lashing wind. He figured it for a fishing boat. But then he saw the superstructure and was gripped by an old familiar dread. It was a patrol vessel. Of which country scarcely mattered.
He shouted, “Scramble left!”
Then a megaphone blasted through the storm, loud and clear enough for the man’s voice to carry a familiar accent. “We have you in our sights, Mr. Bennett. Heave to.”
FIFTY-ONE
THE VESSEL REMAINED BROADSIDE TO the storm, granting the winch operator calm seas off her lee side. Harry stayed on deck until both sleds and then the Jet Skis were safely on board. He watched the armed guards stow his treasure in the aft hold, lock the portal, then post a guard. Harry stayed well away from both the soldiers and the women. He needed time to seal his emotions in tight. And to scope out the situation, which Harry decided looked somewhere between grim and hopeless.
Hakim Sundera had brought an entire army. The ship was about 150 feet long, heavy at the beam, steady even in these seas. A pair of inflatable pursuit vessels were lashed to the aft holds. The foredeck held a pair of cannons on swivel bases. Harry spotted the NATO shield on some of the foul-weather gear. The soldiers were pros. They treated Harry as both a guest and a suspect, keeping two armed men between him and the treasure at all times.
When he entered the pilot’s cabin, Hakim Sundera greeted him with a towel and a steaming mug. Harry ignored both. He stepped over to where Emma cowered in the corner. She looked so miserable he wanted to crush her to his chest and say he’d do his best to make it all better. Which, given the circumstances, was not going to happen.
He had no choice but to face the facts. The treasure had been his for all of about three hours.
Harry said to Emma, “You gave me your word.”
Storm replied softly, “She kept it.”
He gaped. “You sold us out? You?”
“It was the only way to save you. Hakim located the prison where you were being held. He arranged for me to borrow that truck.” Storm bore the look of having already been whipped bloody. She watched him in utter submission, her fractured gaze saying she had already called herself everything he could come up with and more. “But I had to agree to this.”
When he started to turn away, Storm gripped his arm. “Sean didn’t sacrifice his life to this for you to make a killing!”
Her fingers felt like a branding iron on his skin. “Let go of my arm.”
She only held on more fiercely. “It’s been staring me in the face all along, but I only saw it last night. There were never two quests, Harry. They were always one and the same. That was why Sean wouldn’t let go.”
This time, when he jerked away, she released her hold. But her fractured voice and eyes held him fast. Storm said, “Sean was a man of treasure and a man of faith, and this quest took just such a man. Remember what I said that night in Kyrenia? I want to hold to his legacy. All of it, Harry. My grandfather was murdered by people who’d take these sacred relics and use them as just another weapon. If you put them on the market, they would become just another prize. Sean was after something much greater here!”
Harry turned and fled the pilot’s station, chased by Storm’s words: “Sean trusted us to do the same!”
HARRY SHOWERED AND SHAVED IN the crew’s quarters. Hakim found him in the general mess, dressed in trainee sweats and chowing on meat loaf, potatoes, and regulation navy ketchup gravy.
Hakim recharged Harry’s mug and slipped into the booth beside him. And waited.
Harry asked, “How did you track us?”
“I instructed Storm to phone a certain number, one that tied her to an ultra-secret GPS service. The service is used by intelligence agents on clandestine missions. It acts as a homing beacon, precise to half a meter.” Hakim Sundera was not so much small as intensely compact. Even his gaze carried a tensile strength. “You must not condemn Storm, Harry. She is an extremely wise woman who made the right choice at a harrowing time. If she had not agreed to my terms, you would be most extremely dead by now.”
Harry shoved his plate aside.
“Shall I tell you what is already in the process of happening?”
“As in, to my treasure?”
“A Professor Morgenthal at Georgetown University, whom I believe you have met, is making arrangements on your behalf. I cannot be involved in these negotiations, as officially I am not here. But I understand Professor Morgenthal is proving a very tough bargainer. Your treasure is to become the centerpiece of the renovated UN headquarters in New York. This renovation will not be completed for another six years. In the meantime, the treasure will be on exhibition at several major museums. To take part, the museums must come up with a substantial payment. In cash. Which you will all share. Your and Ms. Syrrell’s names will feature prominently. Ms. Webb has refused the honor, for reasons I am sure—”
“It’s my treasure.”
Hakim sighed. “I will share a secret with you, Harry. Between friends. Once my role in all this is discovered, there are many among my own people who will call me a traitor. To give up this Jewish treasure is to relinquish a major bargaining tool. Which is why, I am certain, your attackers remained on your trail. The Israelis will work through the international courts and eventually their claims will be accepted. In the meantime, I chose the United Nations, a bastion of peace and not war, as the holder and the arbiter.”
Hakim leaned over the table, closing the distance between them. “What Storm told you is the utter and brilliant truth, Harry. This find will become one of the beacons by which this century will be remembered. It may well prove the fulcrum through which lasting peace in the Middle East is finally established. Do you truly believe that such artifacts should ever appear on the open market? This is more than treasure, Harry. This is hope. Even I, an Arab and a Muslim, can recognize this. And so should you.”
Harry slid from the booth and stood. “I’d be grateful if you’d drop me at your next port of call.”
FIFTY-TWO
THREE DAYS LATER, STORM UNLOCKED the doors to the shop in Palm Beach. She set down her
bags and walked through the empty rooms, turning on all the lights as she went. Emma shut the front door, set down her case, and stood watching her. “Where it all started,” Emma said.
Storm stepped behind the front room’s main counter and asked, “Can I help you?”
“Absolutely,” Emma replied. “I need a new heart. Mine is broken.”
“We’re a little low on stock right now. But I’ll see what I can do. Soon as I pick up one for myself.”
Emma walked to the dusty front window. “If I keep telling myself it would never have worked between me and Harry, do you think there’s a chance I might someday believe it?”
Storm slowly wiped the countertop, clearing a tight circle of dust. “How long can you stay?”
“Long as it takes to know you’re safe.”
“Any word on Claudia?”
“Same response as yesterday. The lady has vanished. Soon as I hear anything different, you’ll know.”
They had spent two days in Washington, where Emma had been feted as the returning hero. Hakim’s investigation had yielded four more shops Boucaud had taken over. Hakim had given Emma the details, then departed. Leaving Emma to accept all the credit as hers. International arrest warrants had been issued for one Yves Boucaud, others for a shadow known as Leon.
Storm had spent hours with the lawyers. Nobody knew precisely what to do about Syrrell’s. Ownership was now held by an offshore corporation that suddenly had ceased to exist.
And Claudia was nowhere to be found.
And Jack Dauer had been invited to resign.
The FBI had egg all over their faces. Treasury was doing backflips. Emma was up for a major promotion, possibly being assigned her own task force.
Emma asked the window, “Decided what you’re going to do?”
“This shop is mine if I want it. The title is now in my name, and I have eight months still paid up on the lease.”
“You want it.”
“I thought I did. But now…”
“Bite the bullet, Storm.”
“I betrayed Harry and destroyed his dream. Now I’m supposed to use the blood money to make my own dreams real?”
Emma gave that the silence it deserved. Storm walked to the kitchen tucked beneath the stairwell, next to her downstairs office, and put on coffee. As she stood watching the pot brew, she said, “I was right, though. What I did and what I said. Sean combined the best of what he was, his faith and his passion for art treasure, and from this came his gift. It didn’t make him perfect, but it made him a great man. There are a lot worse things for a girl to do with her life than follow her grandfather’s example.”
From the front room, she heard Emma say, “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“Harry’s the last of several men I’ve argued with who weren’t actually there.” She poured two cups and brought them back. “I’m out of milk.”
“Black is fine.” Emma accepted her cup. “Washington is asking again.”
Storm sipped her cup. She preferred her coffee adorned with steamed milk and brown sugar and a sprinkle of chocolate if any was being offered. But the bitter brew suited the moment.
“They really want you there, Storm.”
Their recovery of treasure dating from the Second Temple had created an international furor. The official unveiling was to take place in three days at the Smithsonian. The president and the UN secretary-general and the Israeli prime minister were all slated to speak.
Emma said, “You can’t believe from how high these requests are coming.”
“They want me so bad, fine. Find Harry.”
“We’re trying. Believe me.”
“Tell them to try harder.”
“He’s vanished, Storm. We’re talking completely off the map. It’s like he stepped off the boat and melted into the storm.”
The cup rattled against her teeth. “He can’t be gone.”
They shared the quiet with the dust and the shadows and the empty rooms. Emma asked, “You hungry?”
“I suppose I should be.”
“I’ll go grab us a couple of sandwiches. You want anything special?”
Storm waved the hand not holding the cup. Whatever.
After Emma departed, Storm remained where she was, staring out the front window. Through her entire adult life, her one goal had been to exceed her grandfather’s expectations. Which was doubly tough, since almost nothing had satisfied the old man, and now he was gone from her forever. Just like Harry. She cradled her empty cup and tried to breathe around the rock of sorrow in her chest. She and men were such a losing proposition.
She picked up her suitcases and walked through the back room. She decoded the rear door’s electronic lock and started up the stairs, thinking no further than how nice it would feel to shower off the trip.
When Sean had refitted the shop, he had effectively designed a shell within a shell. The shop was sheathed in steel plate and bulletproof glass. The stairs leading up to the apartment were narrow and claustrophobic, with reinforced doors at both ends. The upstairs door would not open until the other sighed shut on its pneumatic hinge. The upstairs door faced directly into the living room, across from the kitchen and her bedroom entrance. Storm opened the door to the same empty space, with one impossible difference.
On the room’s one remaining item of furniture, the lumpy sofa where Harry had slept, sprawled her aunt. Her hands and ankles and mouth were taped. Her eyes were closed. Her face looked lumpish, pale, utterly removed from Claudia’s customary elegance.
The blow to her head came out of nowhere. The pain was so sharp it shattered her vision. Storm went down hard.
FIFTY-THREE
STORM AWOKE TO A SOUND from her childhood. She breathed the same sweet cloying odor that had permeated every room in their house. She sat with her eyes closed. Coming to terms with everything she had gotten wrong.
Her father collected pipes. Hundreds of them. His favorite traveling pipe was a hand-blown bong. The base was shaped like a yellow tulip. Her father liked to fill it with ice. The sound of sucking smoke through the melting ice was almost musical. Storm would have known that sound anywhere.
“You might as well open your eyes. I know you’re awake.”
Her first sight was of him standing by the open freezer door, unscrewing the bong’s top so he could drop in more crushed ice.
The things a girl remembered about home.
Claudia said, “Are you all right?”
Storm’s mouth felt gummed shut. Nodding threatened to dislodge the top of her skull.
Her father slammed the freezer door. “Oh, come on. Leon didn’t hit you that hard.”
They were seated in Storm’s kitchen alcove on a pair of metal folding chairs. The chairs were set up to face the rear window. The shade was drawn tight and nailed to the counter. A laptop sat open on the counter beneath the window. Storm’s wrists were tied to the chair’s rear legs. Her ankles were taped to the front legs. More tape bound her waist. She glanced over. Claudia was lashed the same way. Tape ran around the crossties running between the chair’s front and rear legs, and this was nailed into the floor.
Storm managed, “I’m so sorry.”
Claudia’s eyes filled. Her hair, normally so perfectly coiffed, was matted and mashed flat. “For what? I’m the one who didn’t believe you and your threats.”
“I thought it was you.”
Her father choked over his smoke. “Her? My perfect little sister? Do something wrong?” He laughed wildly.
Claudia snapped, “This is your daughter.”
Joseph Syrrell’s pupils were tight pinholes, his hands never still. Meth, Storm decided. He’d started mixing and matching his highs about the time she left home. Her father snapped, “Way wrong. I lost this girl the day she went to work for that man.” He spat the words, his face constricted by the effort of releasing a genuine emotion for once. He rounded on Storm. “You just wouldn’t leave the thing alone. This was supposed to be my time. My shop. Take ba
ck everything the old man stole from me.”
Claudia said, “You’re the only thief in this room.”
“Oh. Right. Ask Storm why she stopped by my house the other day.” He flicked the lighter, toked hard, and grinned around the mouthpiece. Blew out a long stream of smoke. “Cute move, by the way. Using the siren to spook me.”
“The triptych was Sean’s.”
“Like I care.”
“Whatever Boucaud has promised you, it’s a lie. The whole deal has gone south. The authorities—”
“Save it.” He set down the pipe and started tapping on the laptop’s keyboard. His bulk blocked the screen from view. After a moment, he asked, “Can you see okay?”
“If you will move aside, I’ll tell you.”
The voice froze Storm’s gut.
The face on the laptop screen smiled directly at her. “Storm Syrrell. We meet at last.”
FIFTY-FOUR
EMMA LEFT THE DELI BOUNCING the sandwich bag off her leg. The afternoon light bathed an almost empty Palm Beach Island. Humidity now replaced tourists in this off-season town. Her fatigue was as heavy a burden as the heat. The past few days had been like living inside a fireworks display. So many explosions coming so fast, the clamor had been deafening. News of the discovery had broken before their flight landed. They had been met at Dulles by a barrage of mikes and lights and cameras and shouted questions. Emma had suspected Hakim had been behind the leak, but he was nowhere to be found.
Emma’s reports on Boucaud and the art market scandal had brought turmoil to the halls of power. Emma had been pulled into one conference after another—Treasury, Homeland Security, a Senate subcommittee, even one meeting with senior White House staffers. Foiling an attempt to use the international art and treasures market to finance global terrorism was a major coup. Everyone wanted to be seen as taking part in the triumph.
