Book of Stolen Tales (13 page)

He glanced at the photo of Madison Terry emailed, the kind of professional portrait someone would use on a website. But he'd checked and Madison didn't have one. High-class clients knew where to find him, Shaheen guessed. A good-looking guy, strong jaw line, close beard. His Turkish background showed up in a faint Asian tilt to his cheekbones. He could pass for a westernized Iraqi, Shaheen thought.

Madison had been involved with stolen goods in the summer and within a few short months appeared to be again. That raised flags. Throw in the ties with Renwick and Iraq and Madison warranted a much closer look.

Shaheen powered off his laptop. The involvement of the Defense Threat Reduction Agency caused him some concern. Why not the biothreat infection specialists at Fort Detrick or disease experts in Atlanta? Shaheen hadn't asked Leonard Best about it because Best had assumed he knew. The DTRA's mandate focused on protecting U.S. forces from bio and chemical agents. It also included a proactive element. Countering threats by getting ahead of the curve in developing new forms of bio and chemical warfare. The involvement of the DTRA in the Loretti and Hill situation was entirely justified. Still, it caused a spark of suspicion in Shaheen's mind.

Army life had been rough all the way along. Not the risks—on good days he reveled in those. No matter how much other soldiers respected his work, a line had been drawn in the sand. Whether it was a blatant slur from a guy loaded on uppers and beer or the distance he felt from fellow soldiers, he knew many of the men he worked with didn't like his Arab origins. If he'd been born and raised here, maybe it would have been different.

Since the initial invasion, there'd been a delicate balance in Iraq. Both the south under the British and the north were still relatively calm. Conditions in the central regions were more volatile although under control despite regular flares of violence. But Shaheen knew the edge was tipping dangerously, like a heavy plate spun carelessly on one baby finger. If a deadly disease threw the troops into panic, the whole operation could crash.

He glanced out the window. Two teenagers dressed in designer gear sauntered arm-in-arm along the sidewalk. A homeless man shuffled along behind them, muttering to himself. He wore a thin T-shirt and shorts. Far too little for the cold edge of a windy November day. Instead of socks, he'd stuck his feet into clear plastic bags, secured around his ankles with rubber bands, and shoved them into a pair of dirty runners.

If the toxin spread here, it would affect everyone, rich or poor. And that prospect didn't bear thinking about.

Twelve

November 19, 2003

London

N
ew Scotland Yard occupied a mid-rise rectangle clad in stainless steel. It looked impenetrable. Shaheen figured that was the idea. The sign outside announcing its name had become a landmark because it revolved fourteen thousand times in a day. If so, that was the building's only distinction. It would have fit right into any industrial park or suburban commercial district. The former Whitehall headquarters, an old brick building of Gothic turrets and domes, seemed much better suited to Scotland Yard's mystique. He felt a vague twitch of disappointment.

A clerk directed him to a sparsely furnished waiting area, sternly functional with white walls and charcoal-gray upholstered seats to match the carpet. The only other occupant, a tallish man with dark hair and a close-cut beard, was smart looking, an expensive dresser, but held himself tensely. He nodded at Shaheen and then bent his head and flipped nervously through a magazine. No surprise given what Shaheen knew about his recent history. The prospect of a police interview had that effect on some people, even if they had nothing to fear from the law. And in Madison's case, he did have.

Shaheen caught Madison giving him the once-over and smiled to himself. With his stringy hair caught up in a ponytail, blatant gold ring, and chains, Shaheen figured he'd been pegged as a street-level drug informant. He liked subverting people's expectations. It caused discomfort and gave him a slight psychological edge.

Madison couldn't hide his surprise when the clerk returned to summon both of them. In the interview room, Shaheen flopped into a chair, took a cigarillo from his pocket, and fiddled with it, stopping just short of lighting up. The door swept open. In walked a prim, no-nonsense–looking woman with cropped blond hair, wearing a plain navy pantsuit.

“Thank you for coming,” she said to Madison. “I'm DCI Virginia Wilson, Homicide and Serious Crime Command. I gather you've met Lieutenant Shaheen?” Madison, unable to keep the astonishment off his face, swiveled around to eyeball Shaheen, who handed over his identification.

“Glad to meet you,” Madison said. “But why are U.S. Special Forces showing up here for a local robbery?”

Shaheen waved the unlit cigarillo he still held between his fingers. “Renwick spent time in Iraq. He's of interest to us, and the inspector”—he pointed the tip of the cigarillo toward Wilson—“has been obliging enough to let me sit in.”

Out of the corner of his eye Shaheen noticed a fleeting look of irritation on Wilson's face when he pointed toward her.

Madison turned to Wilson. “What does that have to do with—” Wilson put up her hand to silence him. “Did you have any dealings with Mr. Renwick prior to the recent auction you attended on his behalf?”

“As a matter of fact, I didn't even know his name until yesterday.”

Wilson raised her eyebrows. “How so?”

“I learned it from his solicitor, Arthur Newhouse, only yesterday.”

“That's rather unusual I should think,” Wilson said.

“You're absolutely certain you've never met Renwick?” Shaheen chimed in.

“That's what I just said,” Madison intoned icily.

Shaheen twirled the cigarillo in his fingers. “Funny. You and Renwick were both in Iraq last summer. Not exactly a prime vacation spot. You're sure you didn't cross paths—”

Madison cut him off. “How many times do I have to say it? The answer is no.”

“We've noted your response, Mr. Madison,” Wilson said. “Let's continue where we left off. Mr. Renwick wanted you to bid on the book without disclosing his name to the auction house—is that unusual?”

“Far from it. It could even be considered customary, especially for higher-priced items, when a buyer's represented by an agent. But for a dealer not to know his client's identity is uncommon. He offered a substantial commission so I accepted the terms.”

“You're claiming the book was stolen from you at around 11:45
P.M.
—correct?” Wilson asked.

“That's right. As I said in my report, a man walked up to me outside my hotel, introduced himself, and tried to put me offmy guard by starting a conversation. Then he made a grab for my case. We tussled. The case came open and the box fell, spilling the book onto the sidewalk. I bent to get it and he hit me with his cane, snatched the book, and took off.” Madison touched his temple with his hand. “I've got the bruises to prove it. I chased him and almost reached him when a car nearly ran me over. He got in and they drove away. Any luck tracking him down?”

“We have alerts out. But no, not at present.”

Wilson paused to look at the file she'd carried in with her and read out Alessio's description. “A bit of time has gone by, and you've had a chance to think about it. Do you have anything to add about your assailant? You said the name he gave was Gian Alessio Abbattutis and you referred to him as Alessio for short—correct? Did he have an accent? Any additional distinguishing characteristics?”

“I can only tell you he spoke in a kind of antiquated formal way. I don't think English was his native language.”

“And you never met this … Alessio either, prior to him robbing you?” Wilson scrutinized him as she said this.

At the second mention of Alessio's name, Madison looked ill at ease. “Definitely not.”

“No sight of him since?”

“He got what he wanted. He's hardly going to seek me out again.”

“We're pursuing the stolen book, and it appears to be tied to the burglary at Charles Renwick's shop through the same suspect.” Wilson ran her finger down the page in front of her. “There's a major discrepancy in your account, Mr. Madison. The auction house claims you received a complete book from them, the entire Italian anthology. On the other hand you state it was only one volume, the first in the series. How do you explain that?”

Madison's discomfort seemed to ease as the conversation moved off alessio and back to the book. “There's a simple answer to that. I looked at the item and photographed every page. I record every object as a matter of course with each commission I have. Sherrods didn't record it. Their mistake.”

Wilson caught Madison off guard with her next question. “You've told us Alessio accosted you on the street, on your way back from the auction. How could you possibly have had time to take photographs?”

Shaheen expected Madison to stumble but he kept his cool. “I didn't leave the auction house until after ten that evening and hadn't eaten anything since lunch. I stopped off at a restaurant and took the photos there.”

“Where?”

“A place across from the Ritz Club casino. Don't remember the name.”

“In Mayfair? Why not somewhere closer to the auction house?”

“It was just a couple of tube stops. I like the bar at the Ritz but it was too crowded.”

Wilson raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “A gambling man, are you?”

Madison gave her a grim smile. “You could say that. I certainly seem to attract risky ventures.” He eyed Shaheen. “I'd still like to know why the military's here.”

Wilson ignored this and checked her file again. “Our records show your involvement in the theft of an Iraqi antiquity not long ago. Somewhat of an odd coincidence, isn't it?”

“If you're going to do a background check make sure it's accurate,” Madison said testily. “You're referring to an engraving someone stole from my brother. In my business you can't escape stolen items. You need to be constantly on the alert. A lot of antiquities we dealers see have dubious provenance. That's common enough. The American authorities were quite thankful for my help. They're still holding the engraving as evidence for the trial of the thieves.”

“And getting back to the book, you had no knowledge it was illegitimate when you won it at auction?” she shot back.

“Of course not. Who'd risk their client's hard-earned money that way? One mistake like that and your reputation is history.”

Madison's sturdy self-defense didn't appear to impress her. “You have to admit, Mr. Madison, the circumstances are questionable. You were in possession of a rare book and now it's conveniently disappeared. You were formerly involved with the theft of an antiquity and lives were lost. Both you and the missing Mr. Renwick were in Iraq last August.”

She was purposely trying to rile Madison, hoping he'd make some slip, Shaheen decided. He liked her style.

“It's been anything but convenient, believe me,” Madison fumed. “Interpol didn't identify the book's owner. Can you give me any further information on who it is?”

“That's not for public consumption, as you likely already know,” she said. “It's my task to learn what happened to Mr. Renwick and find the book.” She glanced over at Shaheen. “Would you care to ask anything, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, thanks. Can you describe the book?”

“Physically you mean?”

“No. That's in the report you faxed in. What was it about?”

“A collection of seventeenth-century Italian folk tales,” Madison replied. “Quite rare. The Interpol report doesn't give much information, but neither did Sherrods' listing.”

“I don't know anything about book auctions, yet that strikes me as odd,” Shaheen said.

Madison sat back and relaxed a little, visibly glad to be asked his professional opinion. “It is unusual. The more information provided about an object, the more likely it will garner interest and command a higher price. But I was told the vendor wanted it that way. And now, knowing it was stolen, I can see why. A detailed description might have alerted the real owner sooner than it did.”

“Why would Sherrods go along with that?”

“Prominent auction houses like Christie's or Sotheby's have more latitude to turn stuff down. Sherrods is smaller and hungrier. If it means getting a sale they'll go along with what the vendor wants. And they made a nice buck off the commission anyway. They did their job and cleared its provenance beforehand. It was just a timing thing. The Interpol alert came out only hours before the actual auction began.”

“Do you know why Renwick wanted it?”

“He had a theory that some of the tales had origins in real events. Thought one of them might be connected to some disease he picked up in the Near East when he was a child—”