"You let yourself in," Kimmer said for him. "And then you waited."
"Certainly." He mustered what must have been every casual atom in his body. "Certainly, I waited, so that I could ask if you needed anything."
Silly machoboy. How transparent could he be? Kimmer knew just what he'd thought he might provide—for a generous tip, no doubt.
She pushed herself away, moving fast enough to flip on the overhead light at the other side of the room before he'd done more than flounder to his feet. "I do need something," she said. "That little bedside lamp is broken, and I need it to be replaced."
Not what he'd had in mind, this young man with dark, bewitching eyes and a thick thatch of hair falling over his forehead, his jaw rough with affected stubble that served to hide the hint of scarring from old acne. Not that old—he can't be much more than twenty.
"But first," she said, "let's go take a walk. I want to see the antiquity."
~~~
She wished she'd thought to have her camera ready at that request, just to capture the look on his face.
"The Dwelling?" he blurted. "Tonight? The Etxea?"
The Dwelling. Her first hint of what they might be talking about, and it was no hint at all. It couldn't really be a house. Not and need this kind of security from theft.
"Yes, the Etxea," she said, finding herself cheered. In spite of the run, she wasn't ready for sleep. She'd been hoping to find an email message from Owen to chew on, but this was totally so much better.
She reached for her camera, slipping the war club out of her pack to tuck at the small of her back, hidden by the tank top. Not that she'd need it here, but—
Good thing she hadn't had it a few moments earlier, in fact. Jurdan wouldn't have gotten off quite so lightly for his presumptions.
He didn't look as though he thought he was getting off lightly now. "Señora Marina has retired for the evening," he said, looking at her with eyes that begged her to note his sensibility. "We should wait until tomorrow. Then I would be privileged to show you—"
Kimmer shrugged. "Never mind. I'll find it. I know it's around here somewhere." She looked down at herself in quick inspection, brushing at a damp spot where the shirt stuck to her sweating skin. A shower wouldn't be amiss. But that's not what this was about, this brush-up. This was about giving Jurdan a moment to say—
"Oh, no, Miss Kimberly. I would be pleased to show you that room."
She gestured to the door, a suggestion that he lead the way. He took it.
She had anticipated that their mysterious antiquity would be in an interior room with limited access, or perhaps a single third floor nook. When he led her downstairs, she quickly adjusted her thinking. Surely it wasn't on the first floor—and that meant down. Really down.
And down they went. To the kitchen—there again, modestly alarmed—to the wine cellar, and then—with a quick unhappy look around—Jurdan led her to a small, thick wooden door set in what looked to be solid stone. No longer did the structure look modernized and updated; Kimmer felt as though she had stepped back in time, facing this heavily locked door with its leafy carvings and generous sprinkling of the plump, twisting Basque cross.
"The lauburu," Jurdan said. "But do not make the mistake of thinking it is a Christian symbol."
"No," Kimmer murmured, and left her camera tucked in her waistband out of respect. The elements of mankind, as defined by a pagan world. She'd done her reading. "Christianity came late to this region, I believe."
Jurdan nodded, unlocking the door and tucking away the key. "It is good to know that you know." He picked up the candle lamp waiting in a tiny stone niche, removed the chimney, and used an all-too-modern disposable lighter at the wick. "Do you think," he said, "we might sometime discuss the manner of your fighting?"
She hadn't expected it. Jurdan needed to impress someone, did he? "Sure, we might do that," she agreed.
"It is a special discipline, then?"
She laughed. "Let's just say it runs in the family." She reached for the ancient iron latch of the door, but hesitated. Couldn't help it. Here she was, on the verge of playing Indiana Jones, and her partner snored the night away.
But she drove the wistful away. She'd seen the opportunity; she'd taken it. They might not gain all that much for it...but on a late evening with unexpected jet-lag jitters coursing through her veins, curiosity won out.
She pulled the door open. Well-oiled hinges; nary a squeak. The candle flickered briefly at the air exchange even within its glass chimney. From within the room beyond, there came no gleam of precious metal, no glitter of gemstone. Just shadowed, hollowed spaces, hand-hewn rock reflecting dull darkness back at her. She ducked through the doorway and glanced up before straightening, not assuming on the head room.
She'd fit; so would Jurdan. Rio, not so much.
"There," Jurdan said, indicating a particular area of rock that to Kimmer's eyes looked pretty much like any other area of this tiny bolt-hole. He lifted the lamp, and an object formed abruptly in the shadows—a sphere, echoing the shape of the space around it.
Kimmer glanced at him, confirming her understanding. This is it. This lump. This is it.
To judge by the pride on his face, yes indeed.
She took the lamp from his hand, meeting no resistance. He watched, respectful of the antiquity—the Etxea—as details emerged in the light.
Such as they were. It was old...possibly older, literally, than dirt. On the whole, it looked more like a lump of clay splotted onto place—flattened on the bottom, rounded over the top. But it had a hole—an entrance, one might say—and Kimmer found no signs of the tool marks that had made it. Water, then. Water over time. She had an impulse to put her hand in the hole—it might barely fit—and squelched it. Not quite respectful.
The artifact's exterior had been carved and painted, lauburu and vines and curving, cris-crossing designs. The paint seemed an afterthought, and yet had still had time to fade and chip into near invisibility.
A rock. A rock with a hole and some lovingly applied decorations. The antiquity.
Kimmer cleared her throat, opened her mouth—and then caught sight of Jurdan's respectful, even awed, expression. She closed her mouth, took a breath, and tried again. Same question, different words...different tones. "The Doña has been discreet," she said. "I haven't been told what we have the privilege of protecting."
To judge by his surprise, perhaps she was supposed to have recognized it upon seeing it. He mastered himself, and said, "It is the dwelling of Mari." And then, helpfully, "It may even be the dwelling of Mari. The first. The oldest. It is said to lend protection to those who possess it. When Sabina de Arana Goiri founded the Basque Nationalist Party, this Dwelling was behind him. It is a great symbol to the Euskadi, Miss Kimberly—but it is also more. It is power."
Kimmer, never given to sentiment, looked at the rock. "Well," she muttered in English, "the Stone of Scone was a big fat hairy deal, too."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHAPTER 5
Morning didn't come kindly.
Here it was. Jet lag. Kimmer opened her eyes to a wash of light through the curtains and crawled out of bed. Her head ached, her mouth tasted dry and nasty, and a look in the mirror confirmed that even hair this short could dry totally askew if plunked on the pillow while sopping wet. A quiet knock on her door and an equally quiet voice informed her that breakfast would be available within moments.
She stuck her head under the faucet to fix her hair, washing her face at the same time. Brushing her teeth did little for the taste in her mouth, and there was nothing to be done about the unusual pallor of her face.
Jet lag, she decided, was even more obnoxious than she remembered.
She tapped lightly on Rio's door; he opened it almost instantly, peeking around—and then stepped back so she could enter as he tucked his shirt in his jeans, looking very touristy in a maroon loose weave pullover that set off his hair.
"Hey," he said, and grinned, not bothering to zip the jean
s before sweeping her up into an unexpected hug and topping it off with a loud sort of kiss.
"Wow," Kimmer said, staggering slightly as she stepped back. "Feeling better, then? Your back—?"
He frowned, finishing the zip, then shook his head. "Back's fine. It was that massage of yours. Last night...I dunno. I never used to have jet lag that badly, but I never used to travel on muscle relaxants, either. Rio Carlsen, superspy."
Kimmer couldn't help but smile. "My superspy," she reminded him as he reached for the door. "About that—we've got a car to get rid of. And I had a look at the mysterious antiquity last night. It's a rock."
Rio stopped short. "You saw it?"
"Saw it, did some research on it. Well, on the history and legends behind it." She shrugged. "Had the time, found a guide..."
He opened the door, then, but kept his voice low. "A guide?"
"Marina set one of the estate's young men on me," Kimmer said, and snorted. "Or rather, that's how he interpreted the situation. It's all straightened out now."
Rio shook his head, squinching one eye in skepticism. "By any chance did I sleep through a whole day?"
Kimmer grinned. "I got restless," she informed him, and led the way downstairs.
She followed her nose to breakfast, finding Marina in a shaded nook just outside the kitchen. The woman indicated that Kimmer and Rio should join her at a round table just big enough for the three of them.
Another, longer table sat mostly abandoned, a few bread baskets covered with cloth still in place, dirty dishes gathered into stacks but not yet removed. Kimmer sat to a breakfast of Basque tortillas—potato flatbread topped with spiced eggs and crumbled bacon—and politely refused the offered coffee, watching Rio take his with thanks for the young woman from the night before. Her smile in return, as she murmured a pleasant response, was very much a smile for Richard Haight, American Tourist of a Scandalous Nature.
Wrong, Kimmer thought at the young woman. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And, as an afterthought, a narrow-eyed little mine.
She might have thought it just a little too loudly. The young woman glanced her way, gave a startled second look, and left the room.
"I'm sorry I wasn't good dinner company yesterday," Rio was saying to Marina. "I've never been hit so hard by a little travel before."
Marina waved a hand of dismissal, a gracious and queenly gesture. "It is of no consequence," she said. "It gives us a chance to start this day with much purpose, don't you think?"
"We have some chores to deal with," Kimmer said, thinking of the car, "but we'd like to see the antiquity first." She glanced at Rio, making sure he'd picked up on it—she wasn't ready to let Marina know she'd gone wandering. Rio's gaze barely flickered her way, but it was enough. She did add, "I spoke to a young man named Jurdan yesterday evening. He mentioned the Etxea."
Marina's lips tightened. "He spoke out of turn."
And that's why I'm not telling you we made that little trip to the cellar last night. As gracious as Marina was, they'd have to work around her micromanagement style. "Oh," Kimmer said, as blithely as possible. "I had the impression he was involved in the existing security."
Marina had to accede that. "He's a good worker," she said. "A very nice young man." But he doesn't know his place.
Kimmer blinked at those unspoken words, as loud to her as verbalized sentiment through Marina's body language. Unexpected at that. Until she realized that Marina was, in fact, not only classist, but racist.
For Jurdan was Basque.
He believed in the importance of that hunk of rock lurking in the cellar; Marina was only doing her job.
She caught Rio's eye again, enough to let him know her radar was active. Not a serious issue, but definitely something to work around.
She was surprised at Rio's delayed response; he seemed briefly lost in himself. Not as profoundly as the evening before, just...not quite Rio.
Too bad she'd gotten spoiled with their usual instant rapport. Especially when her reaction to his lapse caught Marina's eye.
No biggie. Kimmer knew just how to distract her. "Jurdan aside," she said, "maybe you could tell us more about the Etxea."
At Marina's hesitation, Rio spoke up. Back again. "The more we know," he said, "the more effective we are."
Marina placed her napkin by the side of her plate, already done with her light meal. "You have to understand," she said, by way of careful introduction, "that the people of this area are...how should I say...more closely tied to their early beliefs than in other areas of Spain."
"If this culture didn't have unique aspects, it would have fit more neatly into the country all along," Kimmer said. "There would be no ETA, no Basajaun." Racist, all right. Distancing herself from the people amongst whom she lived—in an area to which she had so strongly laid claim the evening before.
But not working against this household. Not anything but fiercely devoted to the Doña. Kimmer watched for that; she found it readily enough.
"True." Marina's lips tightened; in the clear daylight, Kimmer could see that the expression was habitual enough to have left lines. Marina drew a settling breath, and Rio relaxed in his chair, nibbling on the remainder of his tortilla's crispy potato crust, now fully attentive.
Kimmer hated the little shimmer of relief that washed through her. This is Rio. You can count on him.
Marina visibly cast for words, then found her starting place. "There is a legend of a female divinity called Mari."
Kimmer had read as much the previous evening, but this was for Rio—and a chance for Kimmer to see how Marina dealt with the situation.
"She was a powerful being." Marina rearranged her napkin. Just so. "She lived in caves that reached to the very center of the earth, and she could take any form—most often that of a beautiful woman, a most beautiful woman at that. She traveled in the form of a fireball, across the mountain peaks. The elder Euskadi...they showed their esteem by placing representations of Mari's home on their highest mountain peak."
"The Dwelling," said Rio, reaching for his coffee.
Brief surprise opened her features. "Just so. Ours is thought to be the very oldest of these representations—perhaps the first. There are superstitions attached to it—that it offers its owner certain powers, certain guarantees of success in venture. Goiri—" she started, and then hesitated.
Sabina de Arana Goiri. The founder of the Basque Nationalist Party, who had found it most useful, as a talisman. Not likely something of which Marina approved.
The woman regained her stride. "However, it also has historical importance in this region; over a century ago it was owned by the founder of the Basque National Party, although few knew of it. Only those who have been keeping the Dwelling."
"The Doña's family," Kimmer surmised.
Marina nodded. "Now it is time for it to take its place in history. But in the process of making arrangements, a whisper of its presence has escaped, and now we must protect it. There are many who think they would benefit from possessing it."
"Sure," Rio said. "Everyone from grave diggers to politicos...and that's not counting the average joe who might buy into its reputation."
Kimmer forked up the last of her spicy tortilla. She again found herself surprised by an unexpected sense of urgency—the need to get up and do something. Rio gave her a glance and pushed back what remained of his own meal, taking one last gulp of coffee.
Marina stood. "Shall we see it, then?"
Kimmer bit down on the lurking smart remark—this was what they'd come for, after all—and let Rio precede her in Marina's wake. She'd already seen it, after all. Seen it, had eventually brought herself to take photos, and had her own ideas of the best security options.
And in truth, it wasn't a huge challenge. Hardly worth an overseas flight for an out-of-town agency. Then again, Owen had probably known that. He had his own reasons for inserting a couple of temporary eyes and ears.
Not worth fussing about, any of it. She just wished she knew why she was.
&n
bsp; "You're quiet," Rio murmured, taking their trek into the kitchen with aplomb, giving the cook—aptly referred to entirely as Jefa—and the serving assistant a friendly wave.
Kimmer eyed the young woman and replied in low tones. "Something's working on my subconscious. I haven't decided what it is."
"That would explain the jumpy."
Of course he'd noticed it. Even having slept through most of it. She shook her head, barely perceptible. "I'm not so sure."
But she was saved from having to explain the inexplicable by their arrival in the cellar, and by Rio's impressed reaction to the ancient wooden door—and by the need to add her own reaction to it, since Marina knew nothing of her visit here the night before.
She channeled her edgy into eager, and crowded in close to Rio. He exuded warmth in this chilly underground space; she wished she'd thought to steal his jacket of many zippers before coming down here.
Eager turned back into edgy as they admired the Etxea itself; she left Rio asking questions and went to prowl the cellar. Nothing profound here: wine, potatoes, odd boxes of supplies...a corner of jumbled farm and kitchen implements that looked almost as old as the Etxea.
When she returned to the old cave room, she found Marina securing the door behind her, and Rio giving his thoughtful attention to the narrow stairs—he threw Kimmer a glance in question.
"It's the only entrance," Kimmer confirmed, interpreting that query easily enough. "Otherwise this place is tight. I think we can create a solid layered perimeter without drastic changes."
Rio nodded. "A simple security pad at the kitchen door, so the staff can come down to the cellar for supplies. And we'll set up a perimeter line."
"So little?" Marina said.
"We're reviewing your staff," Rio said. "Our understanding is that this is for a short time only. Our best option is to keep this simple and easy to control—and not to draw attention with whatever we do." He was all casual confidence, everything she'd needed from him the night before.
As well he should be—he'd spent enough of his CIA field time circumventing foreign security. He knew what worked—and what didn't—in the field.
Making the Rules Page 5
