He shook his head. “There would be no time to subject it to scientific analysis. Obviously, the thieves are not going to permit anything more than a quick examination done in a secret place and under the most stringent circumstances.”
“Then you would have to gamble on its appearance alone. But there are clues that help. A stone object made for a pharaoh will be of the finest material available to the ancients.
“The lapis lazuli that your god-kings preferred came from Afghanistan, where it’s been mined for thousands of years. It’s intensely sky blue and has just a slight dusting of tiny pyrite particles, what we call fool’s gold. I can tell by looking at the piece whether it’s of the quality used by royalty.”
“But a good forger would know to use the best Afghan lapis lazuli?”
“True, but there’s more to consider. Like the type of tools they used. Modern tools, even hand tools, make subtly different impressions than the stone, copper, and bronze tools that were used during the time of the pharaohs.
“The patina, the outer coating that appears over time on an object, also has to be examined because it can reveal the age of an object and where it’s been kept. Obviously, items kept sealed in a tomb have a different patina than those buried in the ground or exposed over the eons to the elements.”
“I’ve been told that forgers can duplicate the patina to appear aged.”
“They can try. Microscopic examination can usually show whether the tarnish has developed over thousands of years or was just put on recently. Now you’re going to tell me that there won’t be an opportunity to examine the piece under a microscope, right?”
“Unfortunately, that is the case.”
“Which brings the situation down to the most basic test of the authenticity of a piece of art: gut reaction—what it looks like … feels like.”
I realized he was already aware of everything I had told him. Any expert he spoke to could have pretty much told him the same thing.
“You already knew that it would come down to an opinion based upon a quick examination,” I said.
“Yes, I confess I did. The other experts I spoke to made the same conclusion. With so little time, complete reliance would have to be on the instincts of the person making the examination. As you pointed out, the gut reaction of what the expert sees and feels.
“Which is why I am particularly interested in hiring you. No one I spoke to had any actual field experience with antiquities as you did working at archaeological sites. And in this case, because the scarab has never had the intense scrutiny by experts that all the other Tut pieces have had, there is nothing to compare it with.”
I wanted to get across to him that if there was nothing to compare it with, and no time to take tests, there was no guarantee of success.
“Modern reproductions are often so good that it’s not uncommon for experts to come up with different opinions as to whether an object is genuine—and that’s after subjecting it to scientific tests. It’s not uncommon for pieces to be declared genuine and revealed to be a fraud years later,” I told him.
“I’m aware of that. Which is why I have come to you. Most art professionals learned their trade from books and working in museums. You have actually done fieldwork and that impressed me. Not only was the object stolen from a dig, but it’s been kept in seclusion over the years rather than being exposed to different environments.”
He paused and leaned toward me across the table. “I have great faith in my own powers of judging people and situations. My gut, as you put it, is telling me you would be the right person to take on a mystery that began nearly a century ago.”
And my gut right now was telling me to get up and walk away.
Not all the pieces were connecting, especially the ones about returning the scarab to Egypt in secret and the Egyptian government not being involved in either the attempt to return it or coming up with the money to ransom it.
Even though my gut was telling me to walk away, my brain was screaming that I needed the money and it was the only game in town at the moment.
“So you want me to authenticate the scarab before the ransom money changes hands,” I said.
“True.”
“And every other expert you talked to turned you down.”
He smiled and folded his hands together. “You’re right again. No one is eager to assist me.”
“Frankly, Mr. Kaseem, there are easier ways of making money than getting involved with a gang of art thieves. The scarab isn’t going to come with a stamp of approval on it proving that it came from Tut’s tomb. It’s not something you can glance at or even spend an hour examining and be sure it’s genuine.
“It’s almost impossible to authenticate a piece without having precise information about it and even then three experts may come up with three different opinions.”
He started to say something and I talked past him.
“The examination is going to take place in secret without the expert even knowing where they’re at. If it turns out it isn’t the real scarab, or the expert is unsure or needs more time to examine it, the person could likely get their throat slit. Sometimes the expert gets killed just because they saw too much even when an exchange is arranged.”
I didn’t add that the only person dumb enough to consider such a thing would have to be broke and desperate. Someone like me.
“I understand completely,” he said. “Even though I spoke to a number of experts in Europe, I did not attempt to retain any of them because they all expressed the same concerns you have. I came to New York because your name kept popping up as a person with unique qualifications.”
“What happened to the three names you got from the Met?” I threw back his lie with a smile.
“I lied, of course. In fact, some of the experts who mentioned you inferred that you had, shall we say, more than average experience with stolen artwork—from a unique angle, of course. Since you have dealt with thieves before and have been instrumental in returning historical treasures to their proper domains, I’m sure you are the right person who can help me.”
“Those experts who spoke of my unique relationship with looted artifacts probably forgot to mention that I was the one who went into the line of fire to return looted pieces while they did nothing.”
“Which is why I am here.” He leaned across the table, grabbing hold of my eyes with an intense gaze. “I have seen the scarab. I have even held it in the palm of my hand. I thought it was going to burn a hole in my flesh. It needs to be returned to my people, Miss Dupre. It won’t take much. We have the money. We—”
“I would need data—pictures, exact measurements—”
“We have all that waiting for you in England.”
I looked away and sighed, not from boredom but with a mixture of remorse and regret that I had to deal with thieves to pay the rent.
“A short hop over the Atlantic,” he said, reaching into an inside pocket and pulling out an envelope and laying it on the table. “Inside is a ticket to London and your first payment. Twenty thousand in cash. Another twenty when it’s returned to us.”
I stared at the envelope.
For sure, I’d gone to more dangerous places than merry ole England for less money.
“You’ll have to add another zero to your figure if I succeed in getting the scarab returned to you.”
“That is satisfactory.”
I reached across the table and took the envelope.
I didn’t know why, but my hands were sweaty, as if my body knew something I didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. After all, Britain was a civilized country. What could go wrong?
14
When we left the restaurant, Kaseem stepped into a cab waiting out front and I started walking toward the nearest subway. Even though I had the money for a taxi, I’d get home faster on the subway.
Kaseem told me contact had been made with the thieves but no examination of the scarab arranged. I was to check into a hotel in London and wait until he called me wi
th the details of the meeting.
I was already nervous about meeting with the gang. For sure the meet wasn’t going to take place at a London equivalent of the Russian Tea Room. Being searched—everywhere—and blindfolded and shoved into the trunk of a car for a ride to a dark and lonely place was not just the stuff of movies, but the way paying ransoms to recover artifacts commonly came down.
I couldn’t leave for England without getting a sitter for Morty—keeper or even guard was a more accurate description for what it took to handle him than “cat sitter.” He was a ten-pound feline who thought he was a four-hundred-pound tiger.
I called my friend Michelangelo and told him I needed “someone to take care of my pussy.” Being in the chips, I invited him for dinner at my favorite Little Italy dive.
I admit I was shameless in letting him think I was talking about sex, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do these days when even schoolkids are sexting.
I stopped at a bank on my way to the subway station.
I didn’t put the whole amount in my bank account, only a thousand of it; the rest was going home with me.
The last time I put a big chunk of money into the bank, the government got their greedy little hands on it. I still owed them money, not for back taxes but for the criminally insane penalties and interest they levy when you can’t pay all your taxes at once.
I wasn’t putting any more money into my account than necessary to meet current bills.
I also wasn’t going to hide my cash in the refrigerator. That was a stupid mistake not to be repeated again. Who would have guessed that the guy I picked to watch Morty for me on my last trip out of town would help himself to my cold cash in the freezer? He seemed like a nice guy who liked cats … I had even bought him his favorite bottle of rum.
No, this time the cash was going in a place where no one would ever think to look. The toilet tank. In a sealed plastic baggie.
What thief would think to look there?
I thought the idea was inspired.
* * *
I JUST MISSED THE train by seconds after I walked down the stairs of the subway station and zipped my MetroCard through the turnstile. The next one wasn’t due for another ten minutes.
I checked for any weird and crazy characters lounging about. I always did this when I was in a subway station. Call me paranoid, but if I saw any weirdos I’d get as far away from them as possible. I had already run into one crazy person today.
So far so good.
I picked a spot and waited, thinking about the good old days when I rarely rode the subway. It was a status thing to takes taxis or be picked up by a car and driver even if it took longer to get anywhere on the streets above. I had a good paying job then.
Back to reality here: at least I had picked up a new client and I was going to England and maybe even Egypt. That’s what I was thinking about when my eye suddenly caught sight of a woman staring at me.
I froze.
Oh shit—it was her.
I wasn’t 100 percent sure since she was dressed differently and there were thousands of women in the city with a similar age, build, and ethnic background. Other women with an alike appearance were in the station, but what keyed me on to her was that she had paused close to me, making the short hairs on the back of my neck fan.
I stood with my feet cemented to the ground debating what to do. I still hadn’t gotten a look at her face because I was avoiding staring at her. I could run for an exit in the small station without passing her.
Don’t panic, I told myself.
She wasn’t making a move toward me, probably because there were other people around. Of course, this was New York, a city famous for its refusal of the average citizen to come to the aid of crime victims. And the cops sometimes weren’t much more helpful. The woman could slice and dice me on the platform and people would simply step around the blood.
I heard the rumbling noise as a train was approaching the station. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. Train cars were smaller now, making it harder to avoid someone out to stab you. I sure as hell wasn’t going to get into the same subway car with her.
I started edging away, I hoped subtly, as if I were getting in position to board.
The woman turned toward me. She was sweating. It was warm in the subway station, but not uncomfortably hot enough to break out in a sweat.
She also looked tired, no, more than tired; she appeared fatigued, even wasted. Something was definitely wrong with the woman, but she didn’t look threatening, just appeared all worn-out, as if she had been struggling with life’s demons and not winning the war.
There was something else about her. A hint of hysteria from life or drugs, I didn’t know which.
I still wasn’t sure it was her and I didn’t want to make eye contact with her even if it wasn’t. I learned that lesson soon after I had arrived in New York for my first curator job.
I’d had the misfortune to make eye contact with a bag lady on the street who humiliated me by yelling for the whole world to hear, “Doesn’t a lady know she’s not supposed to pick a bugger out of her nose?” I wanted to crawl under the nearest manhole cover and hide.
After that I never made eye contact with crazies.
I edged farther away and my movement seemed to galvanize her into action.
She started toward me, rambling almost unintelligently. “It’s cursed … it’s taken my soul—it’ll take yours. Run! Get away now!”
The light of the oncoming subway train was in sight now and the noise began blocking out most of what the woman was rambling about as I backed away.
She got so close I put out my hand to hold her back, not to push her away but just to keep space between us.
Her rambling in English had now reverted to Arabic. With the noise and my limited understanding of Arabic, I wasn’t making out what she was saying.
I continued to back up and suddenly realized that I was still dangerously close to the edge of the platform.
The woman looked startled for a moment, looking past me, as if she had seen something that frightened her. She screamed and lunged at me. I put out my hands to stop her from hitting me and she veered and ran off the platform as the train roared in.
In a split second the train was there and she was gone.
People were screaming.
I was one of them.
15
“You didn’t know the woman? Never saw her before this morning? And she never tried to attack you at the subway station?”
It was the third time the subway cop asked me about the woman who ran in front of the train. The incident at my apartment hadn’t been entered into whatever the police used for a database and I had to fill him in on the letter opener attack first.
“She didn’t appear to be trying to attack me,” I said. “As I told you, she struck me as delusional. I don’t know what she was trying to do. She just kept jabbering about a curse—look, I don’t know. I seem to have had the bad luck to run into her.”
“Luck? She showed up at your apartment this morning and then again at a subway station halfway across the city?”
I was being evasive, of course. I had money in my pocket that was as vital to me as life support to someone in intensive care. If I told this cop that a man had given me twenty thousand dollars this morning and there had to be a connection between him and this crazy woman, he would take the money, at least the nineteen thousand I had in my pocket.
I had taken Kaseem’s word that he didn’t know anything about the woman but having her show up after I left him at the restaurant was too much. She might have followed me and she never mentioned Kaseem.
Being broke made me easily persuadable and seemed to have gotten to the point of it making me brain-dead stupid.
If I gave the cop a reason to arrest or search me, he’d also find the money and it would end up wherever the nation’s largest police force stuck cash evidence so it was lost forever.
The subway cop didn’t exactly insti
ll me with confidence, either, as to his ability or my own ability to sweet-talk my way out of anything. He seemed to have that pit bull mentality that sinks teeth into an idea and never lets go. Right now he was clamped on to the notion that the woman and I had a history.
I didn’t blame him, but it wasn’t true.
Detective Gerdy may have been a regular cop, but subway cop was how I’d come to think of him after a hurry-up-and-wait bureaucratic routine that had taken hours.
I felt horrible for the poor woman who ran in front of the train, but now I wished I hadn’t identified myself at the scene as a witness because four hours later I was in a police interview room that smelled of stale cigarettes and the trans fat from greasy French fries and spicy buffalo wings. Trans fats were outlawed in the city and smoking wasn’t allowed in public buildings, but the smell had probably added a coating on the chipped paint over the decades.
A patina of killer fat and cigarette smoke that a few thousand years from now some art appraiser would examine to see if the grimy table in the room was a real artifact.
I sat on a grimy chair across the grimy table from the subway cop and tried to sound credible. I was tired and exasperated.
“Officer, I’ve already told you three times that I didn’t know the woman.” I gave him a smile. “Look, I’m hungry, tired, traumatized, and have a cat that’s probably shredding my couch because I haven’t gotten home to feed him dinner and I’m too humane to declaw him even though he’s keeping me in the poorhouse buying furniture. Can we wrap this up soon?”
“I’m moving on it as fast as I can. A woman is dead. We have to cover all the bases.”
From the looks of him it was going to take a while.
His belly hanging over his belt with a shirt spreading apart where one button was missing, sports jacket too tight and so far out of fashion the polyester finish would have been a fashion statement on a stud, slacks wrinkled and faded at the knees, shoes scuffed—he looked like a guy who life had left behind and who couldn’t run fast enough to catch up.
The Curse Page 6
