She nodded, knowing where this was going, what he wanted, why she was here.
“I would very much like,” he said, “during that long, perilous journey across the desert, for someone to rob me.”
TWO
In the Jaguar, headed back down the winding streets, she said, “Not very inconspicuous, is it?”
“What?” Hicks said. “The car? Out here, trust me, nobody notices.”
“What else do you do for him when you’re not driving?”
“A little of everything. But if you’re thinking it’s one of those sugar-daddy situations, well, I wish. I have to work for a living. I keep a room there I use sometimes, but that’s it.”
“You have a title?”
“I guess you could call me his head of security.”
“He needs one?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
The road grew steep, and he downshifted, took the next turn easily. The road was lined with trees, high fences.
She nodded at the tattoo on his forearm. “Nice work. Where’d you get it?”
“Thanks. This one”—he turned his arm out, the muscles flexing beneath the skin—“was right here in the States. Down in San Pedro, out on the pier. I like yours, too.”
He gestured to her left hand, the Chinese character etched on the inside of her wrist, a faint white burn scar across it.
“It’s Chinese,” she said. “It means—”
“Perseverance. I know. It suits you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Just a guess. Where’d you get it?”
“Texas.”
“I bet there’s a story goes with it.”
“There is,” she said.
When she didn’t go on, he smiled, shook his head. She looked out through the windshield, headlights cutting through the darkness.
“So just what is it you’re in charge of securing?” she said.
“You’d be surprised. The house, of course, especially when he has events, exhibitions of his collection, whatever. I do the same at his other places, as needed. Occasionally I have to fly out, handle a situation at one of the warehouses or offices. It keeps me busy.”
“You do all that yourself?”
“I have people I use when I need them. A team. Guys I served with.”
“I guessed. What branch?”
He looked at her. “Corps all the way. First Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment. First over the berm, March 20, ’03.”
“The what?”
“The berm. That’s what we called the southern border of Iraq and Kuwait. We’d been waiting for days, going crazy in the heat, so it was a relief to get moving.”
“How long were you over there?”
“Two deployments. Rotated out in 2006, then eventually got a job stateside with a private security firm. Next thing I knew I was back over there as an independent contractor. Made a hell of a lot more money that time, though.”
The road straightened. Through the trees she could see the lights of the boulevard down there, traffic moving along at a crawl.
“It must have been dangerous,” she said.
“The more you learn, the less dangerous it is. And bits of wisdom get passed on, stuff you don’t learn in your training, or from a manual.”
“Like what?”
They came to a red light. He eased the car to a stop, rested his wrists on the steering wheel.
“Lots of things,” he said. “For example, we used to have a saying, ‘When the pin is out, Mr. Grenade is not your friend.’”
“Good advice.”
“Reason is, guys go to toss a grenade out of a moving vehicle, to break up an ambush, whatever, sometimes they pull the pin, pop the spoon right there in their lap. You need to have both hands out the window when you do that. Otherwise, you hit a bump, drop that baby inside your vehicle, and it’s good night, Irene.”
The light changed. They made a left, and then they were on a side road that fed onto Sunset. She’d given him the name of a hotel there. At the intersection, he made another left, and they merged into traffic.
“Listen,” he said. “I know you just got here, and you’re probably tired, jet lag and all. But since we’re going to be working together…”
“Who said that?”
“Well, since there’s a chance we’ll be working together, can I buy you a drink before you turn in? Someplace quiet?”
“Thanks anyway. Maybe another time.”
“You got it. No worries. This it up here on the right?”
“Yes,” she said.
He signaled, pulled into the breezeway of the hotel. The glass doors slid open, and a valet came out, a kid in his twenties with the blond good looks of a surfer.
Hicks parked, left the engine running. When they got out, she shook her head at the valet. Hicks got her bag from the trunk, shut the lid.
“I guess we’ll be talking,” he said. “If you need anything, call.”
She’d bought a disposable cell phone before she left New Jersey, had exchanged numbers with him. The one he’d given her would be a burner as well, she knew. Another precaution.
“I will,” she said, and took the bag.
“Do I call you Chris, Christine, what?”
“Doesn’t matter. Either’s fine.”
“Well, it was good meeting you.” He held out his hand.
She looked at it for an awkward moment, but he didn’t draw it back. She took it. His grip was warm and dry.
“You’ve got a good handshake,” he said. “Strong. I like that.”
She looked at him, but there was no sarcasm there.
“Get some rest,” he said, and got back behind the wheel.
She watched him drive off, the valet hovering a few feet away. When the car was out of sight, she turned to him.
“Can I have that taken to your room?” he said.
“No,” she said. “Just get me a cab.”
* * *
She gave the driver the name of the motel in Culver City where she had a reservation. It was in a residential area, bungalows and small houses, the motel set back from the road.
She checked in, carried her bag to the room. From the front desk operator, she got the number of a local rental agency, called and arranged to have a car delivered in the morning.
She opened her bag atop the bureau but didn’t unpack. If she didn’t like what she heard tomorrow, she’d leave immediately, catch the next flight east.
She showered and changed, feeling the fatigue now, the displacement of long-distance travel. She was too tired to leave the room, scout around for a place to eat. There was a folder on the desk with menus from local takeout places. She’d order in, rest, sleep. Tomorrow, she’d listen to the rest of what they had to say. And then she’d decide.
* * *
Hicks laid out the photos in front of her. They were 8-by-10 color prints of a large statue, a winged bull with a man’s head and a square beard. It seemed to be emerging from a wall, half-freed from the stone. A piece was broken cleanly off the top, and other spots were cracked and chipped.
“Assyrian,” Cota said from across the table. “Seven twenty-one BC.”
They were in the big room on the third floor, the French doors closed, a pair of ceiling fans turning slowly in the shadows above. Hicks sat to her left.
“How much does it weigh?” she said.
“Five hundred pounds,” Cota said. “Give or take. It’s called a lamassu. A mythical creature, sort of the Assyrian version of a sphinx. It was built to guard the throne room of Sargon II, in Dar-Sharrukin.”
“Where’s that?” she said.
“Northern Iraq,” Hicks said. “Near Mosul. At least that’s what it is now.”
“This one will give you a sense of scale,” Cota said.
In the next photo, the statue rested on a large wooden pallet, half covered by a canvas tarp. A dark-skinned man in green fatigues stood beside it. The top of the statue was even with his shoulder.
“There’s another one like it, much larger, at the University of Chicago,” Cota said. “In their Oriental Institute. And a third at the British Museum in London. This one is the smallest of the lot, and has sustained more damage than the others, as you can see. Who knows what might have happened to it eventually, if I hadn’t brought it here?”
Hicks took more photos from a tan folder, set them out. There were pictures of the statue from different angles, all taken in the same high-ceilinged warehouse space.
“You take these for potential buyers?” she said.
“For the serious ones,” Cota said. “If it got to that stage, yes.”
The seventh photo was of a different piece, half the size of the first. A section of wall depicting two robed figures with elaborate headdresses and the same square beards.
“From the same excavation,” Cota said.
The last three photos were of the bust of a man’s head. Wide staring eyes, curved beard, the neck ending in a jagged edge where it had been broken from a larger statue. There was a wooden ruler on the canvas next to it for scale. The height was a little over seven inches.
“Don’t let the size deceive you,” Cota said. “That’s one of the most valuable pieces that’s ever crossed my hands. It’s from the Third Dynasty of Ur. 2000 BC.”
She looked through the photos again. “I don’t know anything about this type of stuff.”
“You don’t need to. I just wanted you to get a sense of what we’re talking about.”
“Just these three?”
“That’s it,” Hicks said.
“These other two could be moved easily enough, but that one…” She touched the photo of the winged bull.
“It’s actually in three segments,” Cota said. “That’s how we had it transported over here, by ship. We reassembled it once it arrived, for photographic purposes. It has to be crated and moved as three separate units, though.”
“Who’s the man in the photo?”
“His name is Hashemi Rafsan. He was my expert in those matters.”
“Military?”
“He was,” Hicks said. “Iraqi Army, Republican Guard, until he saw us come tear-assing across the desert.”
“A pragmatist above all else,” Cota said. “He was very useful to me.”
“He was my point man over there,” Hicks said. “To help decide what was worth the risk, what wasn’t. He’d worked at the National Museum in Baghdad before the war.”
“He know about all these? What you were bringing over?”
“He did,” Hicks said.
“Where is he now?”
“Regrettably, he’s no longer with us,” Cota said.
“How’s that?”
“It’s still a dangerous place over there,” Hicks said. “Even now.”
She lined up the photos in two rows. Hicks sat back, crossed his arms, watching her.
“When is all this supposed to happen?” she said.
“One month,” Cota said. “That’s the timetable we agreed on. If it’s going to take more time, I have to let them know. They won’t be happy, though, and I’d like to avoid giving any impression of reluctance. Would four weeks be sufficient time?”
“It might be,” she said. “Let it ride for now. Don’t tell them any different.” She looked at the first picture again. “Five hundred pounds.”
“It had to be taken by boat down the Tigris,” Cota said. “Then by rail to the port of Umm Qasr. As I said, there was considerable expense involved.”
“And I’d guess considerably more if you have to pay the freight all the way back to where you got it.”
“One of their stipulations,” Cota said. He rested his cane in his lap. “As I said, a dilemma. And an expensive one.”
“Your new buyer, how do you get the pieces to him?”
Cota looked at Hicks. “Randall?”
“We haven’t worked out all the details yet,” Hicks said. “But I think a simple detour works best. The truck carrying the items is supposed to go to Long Beach, where a rep from the Iraqi government will meet it at the port, sign off on the contents, supervise the shipping. However, our real buyer will be waiting at another port with his own ship, a hundred miles away.”
“Where?”
“San Diego.”
“That’s a long haul.”
“But the hard part will be over. My thought is we intercept the truck after it leaves the warehouse, somewhere out in the desert. Then we tie up the personnel, drive off with the goods. Once we do the handover to the buyer, it’s his problem. Hopefully, by the time anyone figures out what’s happened, his ship will have sailed.”
“A truck hijacked while returning stolen goods under duress,” she says. “Hard coincidence to buy, isn’t it?”
“A chance we have to take,” Cota said. “My options are limited.”
“You could go through with it,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Give them back.”
“I think not.” He looked at Hicks, who nodded, got up and left the room.
“How many people traveling with this circus?” she said.
“Five men. But as I said, they’re all my employees, or ones I’ve subcontracted.”
“Any of them in on this?” If the answer was yes, she’d be on a plane home tonight.
“They don’t need to be,” he said. “They’re always under strict instructions not to resist if there’s an issue. And with the little I pay them, I doubt that interfering with armed bandits will enter into their thinking. It wouldn’t be worth it.”
“Let’s hope they remember that.”
“I wouldn’t be overly concerned. And having them there is to our advantage. They’ll tell their stories afterward, and quite truthfully. The convoy was stopped, the truck taken, and that was that.”
She looked at the photos again.
“Should I consider your interest piqued?” he said.
“Lots of logistics.”
“That I would leave up to you. Hicks will be at your service. Others, too, if you need them. His associates.”
“What’s the personnel breakdown on the convoy?”
“A single truck, two cars. One leading, one following. There will be a driver and a guard in both of the cars. But only a driver in the truck.”
“Armed?”
“The guards, yes.”
“Will they have radios?”
“To communicate between the vehicles? No.”
“But cell phones, I’m sure, all of them.”
“I would expect so.”
“That’s a problem.”
“Again, I bow to your expertise in those matters.”
Hicks came back in carrying a legal-sized manila envelope. He put it on the table, sat back down. On a lower floor a cuckoo clock began to chime. Nine P.M.
“At least five people to be dealt with,” she said. “So you’d need a three-person team going in. Four would be better. Easier to manage the variables.”
“If that’s what you suggest,” Cota said.
“How will the truck be packed?” she said. “Lots of padding, I would expect. Crates?”
“Big ones,” Hicks said. “With foam rubber padding, and sandbags to keep them from shifting in transit.”
“Locks?”
“Nothing special,” he said. “Oversized padlock on the rear door, crossbar, standard for that type of truck. A sledgehammer and a pry bar would do the trick.”
“Or we could procure an extra key,” Cota said. “Much less effort.”
“No,” she said. “It has to look like what it is. A robbery. A key says inside job.”
“Ah,” Cota said.
“Still,” she said, “I’m a little surprised. Items like these, shouldn’t there be more security involved? Armored car, maybe? More vehicles, at least. This sounds bare bones.”
“Randall, would you care to explain?”
She turned to Hicks.
“It’s a little different in the antiquitie
s world,” he said. “We do this kind of thing all the time. Transporting, I mean. The object is to keep it as low profile as you can. The more security you have, the more people know you’re moving something valuable. Instead, you do it simple and quick, attract as little attention as possible.”
“These things will be insured, I’m guessing?”
“Of course,” Cota said.
“Will the insurance company want to send someone along for the ride, keep an eye out?”
“They haven’t before,” Cota said. “No reason to think they’d insist upon it this time. If they did, they’d have notified me already.”
She nodded at the envelope. “What’s that?”
“I thought,” Cota said, “since you came all the way out here at your own expense, the least I could do was reimburse you. Whether we move forward, or you walk out of here tonight and we never meet again. Either way, I want you to keep that.”
He slid the envelope closer to her.
“How much is in there?” she said.
“Five thousand,” Cota said. “Cash, of course. Just a gesture.”
“No thanks,” she said. She slid it back toward him. “If I decide to help you out, then we’ll talk about money. And it’ll be a lot more than five thousand.”
“Of course,” Cota said. “But I insist you take that in the meantime, as a gesture of good faith.”
“She doesn’t want any obligations,” Hicks said. “She wants to be able to walk away without any strings attached, any debts.” He looked at her. “Am I right?”
“Something like that.”
Cota sat back. “As you wish.”
“As long as we’re talking money,” she said, “how much are these things worth?”
“On the open market,” Cota said, “who knows? On one level, they’re priceless. Let’s just say what I’m taking for them is quite a bit less than their actual value, which is considerable.”
“As is the risk.”
“Fair enough. When you say it might require a four-person team, you’re including yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Then here would be my proposition. Two hundred thousand cash to you, a hundred thousand to whoever you bring in. Half when they sign on, half when it’s done. Would you consider that equitable?”
The Devil’s Share Page 2
