Gold of Kings (15 page)

The Bentley flew forward at ninety-six miles an hour. Harry knew because of the laser display that had flashed into view when his speed hit eighty, shining the readout onto the fractured windshield like an auto cue.

The tan man flung himself to one side. The same instant, Harry spun the wheel. The car responded like it gripped the concrete with tigers' claws, turning so they slammed the passenger door into the gleaming new barrier.

Harry was already accelerating away when they hit. The barrier shrieked like a woman, or so it seemed to Harry. Perhaps it was just Storm giving off some highly justified steam. The bolts tore out of the barrier's lower segment. Harry fought the wheel and watched the lower rail fall off and bang noisily through the scaffolding.

Harry kept his foot on the pedal, steering away from the barrier. The tires gripped and spun and gripped again. He pulled the pistol free of his belt, thumbed the safety, extended his arm out wide, and blasted away. He couldn't see the shooter, but he found a target almost as good. A new Harley Softail leaned where the scaffolding met the highway. Harry took aim at the gas tank as the car shuddered and finally tore away from the crumpled barrier. The Harley went up with a very satisfying boom.

As they accelerated away, the steering wheel shimmied and bucked so badly Harry dropped the empty gun and took a two-handed grip. The smell of burning oil rose from under the crumpled hood. Harry kept his foot down solid against the floorboard long after they left the overpass and were out of range. Finally, as they pulled into the airport entrance, he managed to unlock his muscles.

He looked at the figure still crouched in the foot well. “You can get up now.”

H
ARRY'S CELL PHONE RANG JUST
as their flight was called. Emma said, “Sorry it's taken a while. I just got your messages.”

His voice sounded breathless to his own ears. Like he'd just run a hard mile. Or was still taking incoming fire. “I've been trying to reach you for an hour, girl.”

“Something came up. I hitched a ride to DC with Hakim's people. Where are you?”

“Boarding our flight to Reagan National.” Harry stepped from the line and waved Storm onto the plane. “Who is Hakim?”

“My contact with Interpol.”

Harry decided that had to wait. He gave Emma a swift rundown of the attack, then asked, “What happened to the agents guarding Storm?”

A tight sigh. “Dauer pulled them off.”

Harry started to ask why, then decided the more important question was, “You're still on our side, right?”

“I want to be. Very much.”

He felt a warm glow add itself to the already powerful mix. “That's got to count for something.”

“Where's the Bentley?”

“Airport short-term lot, second floor, east bay. Bring a wrecker.”

“How is Storm handling it?”

“She's got a lot of the old man in her. I thought for a while she was going to fall apart. But she's settled like a pro. She still gets the tremors every now and then. They come, she hangs tight, they go. Then she's right back into researching the treasure.”

“In other words, she's working on something that may already have resulted in three deaths and two further attacks. While the assailant is still at large.”

“Unless I hit him. Which I doubt. Yeah, that pretty much sums things up at this end.”

“You don't sound worried.”

Truth be told, Harry Bennett felt like the world had been etched with crystal clarity. He had almost forgotten the feeling, when all of life was brought to a higher state. Relearning the thrill, scenting treasure on the wind.

Strangely enough, he wanted to share that with Emma. But as he walked forward and handed his boarding pass to the attendant, all he said into the phone was, “Storm needs your help with something.”

Harry outlined what Storm had told him upon their arrival at the airport. Emma replied, “I'll see what I can do.”

“All anybody can ask.”

“I can't come to the funeral. Tell Storm I'm sorry. But I have to write a report and deliver it personally.”

Harry dropped into the seat next to Storm. “You've got more trouble with that guy Dauer?”

Storm looked up at the man's name.

Emma replied carefully, “I can't protect you anymore, Harry.”

“I hear you.”

“I may not even be able to protect myself.”

 

HARRY SHUT THE PHONE JUST
as the flight attendant started her preflight announcements. He used the time to study Storm. The lady was so much like the old man it took Harry's breath away. Ninety minutes after taking a heavy shelling, she was so intent upon her work that the air about her crackled with condensed power.

Sean's old Bible was open in her lap. He knew it was Sean's because the page was bordered by his cryptic writing. One passage had been circled, underlined, annotated. Harry leaned close enough to see that the page belonged to the book of Matthew. The handwriting had been done with such vehemence that the page had been ripped and taped back together. No surprise there. Nothing about Sean's life had been done in half measure.

Harry's mind skipped across the electric sea of his thoughts. He knew what Sean would tell him. That maybe the reason their opponents, whoever they were, stayed on the hunt was not because of the treasure at all. The Turk, Selim, had told them straight out that Sean had been searching for the people attacking his company. Maybe all the enemy wanted was to chop off this last loose end, just in case Sean had told his granddaughter whatever he had managed to discover.

But Harry thought otherwise.

Sixteen years in the treasure business had left Harry certain that no mystery was buried alone. If the quest was simple, the treasure was already dug up and gone. Every major haul he had come across had required what the modern types called lateral thinking. Follow whatever thread was poking out, and just see where it led.

Hunting secrets buried under centuries of intrigue and storms and battle had also left Harry Bennett comfortable in trusting his gut. Sorting through the lies and the deception, searching for the one true nugget that led to the golden hoard, never forgetting why he was there in the first place. Any good treasure dog developed a sixth sense for what was real. And right now, this very minute, Harry was certain at the core of his being that they were closing in on the find of a lifetime.

And in some bizarre, convoluted way that only a treasure dog could happily live with, Harry Bennett was certain the quest for treasure was tied to Sean's investigation of a book that Harry had never bothered to open. Not once. Ever.

When the plane took off, Storm sighed her way out of the work. Harry watched her take a two-fisted hold and pull her hair back away from her face, tightening the skin until the bones stood out in stark angles. Just like old Sean. Harry shivered twice, once from seeing his best friend appear before his eyes, and again from how the old man had
trusted him with this very fine lady. Despite everything that should have blown them apart forever.

Storm said, “I need to run something by you. I'm hoping if I lay it out, it'll make things clear for me. Which they aren't. Yet.”

“Remember who you're talking to here. I never expect life to deliver me a straight path to treasure.”

He could see she was rocked by that last word. Which was good for another grin. The lady wasn't quite ready to say it yet. Just like old Sean. Wanting the whole package tied up in a neat little bow and set in his hands before he ever spoke the word aloud. Treasure.

Storm pulled out a sheaf of handwritten notes but didn't actually look at them while she gave him some background. Harry did his best to stow his grin away, back where he hid a little boy's pleasure over playing bang-bang with the bad guys and driving away in a gut-shot Bentley. He shook his head clear of that recollection and did his best to focus. He'd heard most of what she was saying before. But not with the fragrance of gold drifting in the air.

The original Solomon's Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BC, when the Judeans were taken into captivity. Building the Second Temple started seventy years later, when Zerubabbel brought a group of survivors back from Babylon. Then in 19 BC Herod the Great tore down that structure and rebuilt it from the ground up. Herod wanted the temple renamed after himself. But the priests were disgusted with Herod and his lifestyle and his loyalty to the Roman overlords. They continued to call it the Second Temple, using the excuse that the temple sacrifices went on unabated throughout this rebuilding process.

Seventy years later, the underground Jewish army revolted against Rome. They steadily pushed the Romans out of one province after another and finally retook Jerusalem in AD 66. Then the Roman general Vespasian landed sixty thousand Roman troops at Caesarea, and his son Titus brought two Africa legions to Joppa. Even with the new battalions, it took them eight years to defeat the Judean army. When Jerusalem finally fell, Titus ordered the entire city leveled and every male crucified. The Romans claimed the Second Temple caught fire by accident, but Judean accounts say that when the embers cooled the Romans returned and salted the earth.

Storm reached into her pocket and came up with a phone. She opened it to reveal a miniature keypad, then unfolded a color screen. “Titus returned to Rome in glory. They built the triumphant arch in his honor. Here's a drawing of the arch.”

“Now that is one cool phone.”

“Pay attention, Harry. This is important.” She explained the book with the fore-edged drawing. “The drawing is an exact duplicate of the arch. I checked online.” She drew up another photo and explained how the book had contained a second fore-edged illustration. “Only there isn't a second arch. I wondered if maybe one had been built somewhere in Israel and later destroyed. But there's no mention in any of the archeological findings.”

“So you've got a drawing that's maybe a thousand years old of an arch that doesn't exist?”

She took her time stowing her phone away. “You've heard of the digs at Qumran?”

“Sure. Where they found all those amphorae filled with old scrolls.”

“All but one of the Qumran scrolls were on vellum. That lone scroll had a list etched into copper. They've been arguing about this Copper Scroll for years. The thinking is, the scroll contained a list of the treasures inside the Second Temple. But none of the Copper Scroll treasures were among those taken by the Romans. And no one has ever been able to explain how these other treasures might have escaped from Jerusalem before the Romans broke the siege.”

Storm took another two-fisted hold on her hair and tugged fiercely. Like if she pulled hard enough she could draw the world into tighter focus. “You remember what the bishop was holding in the Dürer painting?”

Harry shut his eyes and recalled the night. Or tried to. From where he sat, that particular event seemed years away. The image that remained far clearer was how his former best friend had reappeared when Storm had pulled her features taut. Strong, vibrant, and singularly intent. “A panel, right?”

“It's called a triptych.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a velvet pouch. As she untied the leather drawstring, she described hearing from Claudia about her father's theft of Sean's treasures. And as a
child finding the triptych hidden at the base of a safe she wasn't supposed to know about. And realizing the instant she laid eyes upon the canvas that it was the exact same item. “See how the edge is serrated into little steps and lined with gold? I've never seen another one like this.”

The panels were ivory, so stained with age they had turned the color of toffee. “I don't get it. Sean hunted down a painting because he wanted to confirm something about a stolen triptych?”

Storm stroked the panel's exterior as she spoke. Harry doubted she was even aware of her actions. “Sean was looking for what he had lost. His son stole the panels. Sean hoped the painting would show what the panels revealed. But the panels in the painting were indistinct. The only way I knew it was this one was because of how the two outer panels were framed in gold and carved so they would fit together neatly.”

She opened the two outer panels. “This is what Sean was hoping to find.”

Harry felt the image take grip of his gut and clench down so hard he could scarcely manage, “Oh man oh man oh man.”

He felt Storm shiver against his arm. “It's real. Isn't it. The treasure.”

The central panel showed an exact replica of the image Harry had last seen in the Guildhall vault. A headland or promontory with waves crashing down. Harry traced his finger along the outer edge and felt the current zing up and explode in his brain.

Storm said, “Selim claimed Dürer's letters spoke of painting the Bishop of Cyprus.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Treasure dogs have hunted over Cyprus for a thousand years and more. This headland doesn't exist.”

“What does that mean?”

“That we'll just have to look harder.”

Storm had him hold the triptych so she could shoot it with that fancy camera phone of hers. Which was more difficult than it sounded, since Harry's hands had developed a pretty severe case of palsy. She stowed the triptych back in the pouch and the pouch back in her purse. Then she brought out Sean's tattered Bible and pulled an envelope from the back flap.

She studied him a long moment, and then handed it over. “Here.”

Harry looked from her face to the envelope and back again. “This is from Sean?”

“Read it,” Storm said. “He talks about you.”

T
HE OLD-TOWN ALEXANDRIA CHURCH JUST
down from Syrrell's headquarters was three-quarters full. The pianist who played as they entered was a student on a Juilliard scholarship funded by Sean Syrrell. The first Storm knew of this was when the pastor informed the congregation. Beside her in the front pew, Claudia's eyes widened in mutual surprise. Which was typical of Sean. He had kept nothing hidden quite so well as his good deeds.

Storm found considerable comfort from Harry's presence one row back. He had not said much since reading Sean's letter. Which had suited Storm fine. They had checked into an airport hotel, showered and changed, and taken a taxi straight to the church. Claudia had already been seated when Storm entered. Her aunt had not spoken as Storm slipped into the pew, just gripped her hand with the one not holding her tissue. She held it still.

Storm had debated showing Harry the letter. Only now, in the church's subdued atmosphere, was she sure she had done the right thing. When they stood for the first hymn, Storm glanced back. Harry stared at the coffin with a cavernous expression. She was getting to know this man. Down deep, below the strength and the pirate's grin, was someone as lonely as she.

Beside her, Claudia wept softly. During the tribute and the choir's songs, Storm's mind turned repeatedly to Harry Bennett and Sean's letter. She did not wonder about her lack of physical attraction for Harry. Her record in the male-female department was abysmal. She'd pretty much given up after realizing the last three men she'd almost convinced herself she cared about were all bottom-feeders. What gave her that special buzz was knowing she could trust Harry. A man this strong and worldly considered her a friend. An ally in this, their mutual mission. Of course she had shown him the letter.

She bowed her head at the pastor's request but did not hear the prayer. Instead, she felt so close to Sean she heard him speak the words he had written for her. Two paragraphs from a man whose normal correspondence was a single sentence long.

AFTER THE GRAVESIDE SERVICE, CLAUDIA
waited for the crowd to give them a private space and said, “We need to talk.”

Storm had been about to say the same thing. “All right.”

“Ride with me.” When Harry approached, she added, “Alone, Storm.”

Inside the limo, Claudia demanded quietly, “Who
is
that man?”

“I told you at the exhibition. Harry Bennett was one of Sean's closest friends. Sean asked him to contact me. He's saved my life.”

Claudia leaned forward and asked the driver, “Can you turn on your radio or something?”

“Sure thing, Ms. Syrrell.”

Claudia grimaced as she unwound the charcoal grey scarf from around her neck, as though easing out of a noose. “What is this I've heard of you handling a Dürer?”

“It's true.”

“Why did I need to learn about this from another dealer?”

“I've tried to contact you daily. It's not the sort of news I'm going to leave on a voice mail. While we're on that subject, why haven't you called me back?”

“I haven't slept, I haven't eaten. That's how busy it's been. How was the exhibition?”

“Frantic. Let's back up. You're so busy you don't even call when I leave a message warning you might be in danger of being killed?”

“We've had this discussion before. Sean died of a heart attack.”

“Interesting how you're the only one to believe that.”

“Keep your voice down. I want you to tell me about this painting.”

“First I need to ask you something.”

“You're
negotiating
with me?”

“You're the one who's been out of touch.”

Claudia sighed. “So ask.”

“Tell me what Sean planned to do after New York.”

Claudia turned and stared out the window. Sunshine adorned old-town Alexandria with a springtime glow. “The last three times Sean and I talked, we argued. That last one in New York was the worst. It had been building for weeks. He was planning a trip to Istanbul. Via Toronto. Which makes no sense at all. We needed him
here
. Keeping us afloat. Things were
desperate
. I said he should send you. Close the Palm Beach office and use you as our roving emissary.”

“What did he say?”

“That timing was everything. Whatever that meant.” Claudia dabbed her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief. “I've always considered myself a pretty calm sort of person. But Daddy could drive me up the wall with one look.”

“Don't sell Syrrell's, Claudia. Please.”

Her aunt had clearly been waiting for that. “Storm, there is nothing left to
keep.
”

The limo driver pulled up in front of Syrrell's headquarters. Storm declared, “Then there is no painting to discuss.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That's exactly what I'd like to know. As in, how far would you go to protect your own job?”

“Excuse me. I am protecting Syrrell's.”

“Have you been aware of any threat against you since all this started?”

“Other than my life's work being on the line?” Claudia shoved her door open, blind to how she almost knocked over the limo driver. “Where do you get off taking that insinuating tone with me?”

Storm watched her aunt drill a hole through the well-wishers and disappear inside Syrrell's. When Harry opened her door, she said, “Claudia hasn't been attacked.”

Harry said, “It doesn't mean what you're worried about. Not if the treasure was the target, and Claudia isn't connected. You're the one with the cash and the notebooks and the quest.”

Storm found enough comfort in that to rise from the limo. Harry went on, “Emma called. It's all set up. Two hours.”

“Great.” Storm asked the limo driver, “How long are you booked for?”

“Open-ended, Ms. Syrrell.”

“Pull down to the end of the block and wait, please. I need you to take us downtown.” She started up the walk. “Come on, Harry. Let's get this over with.”

 

SYRRELL'S OCCUPIED A FEDERALIST HOME
on South Union Street, just up from what had been the Revolutionary War harbor. The house was
erected between 1745 and 1760 by one of the Colonial government's principal financiers. It was Georgian in design, square and stalwart, built of local stone and fired brick. The rear garden still contained boxwoods planted over 250 years ago.

The main floor and principal showrooms were so jammed Storm felt no room for memories, save one. Directly opposite the entry, occupying a high alcove, was the same item that had greeted Storm the first time she had stepped through those doors. The jeweled cabinet had been built in the early sixteenth century for Pope Sixtus V. It stood thirteen feet and was shaped like a baroque chapel. The nineteen drawers and doll-sized compartments were hidden behind mosaic panels of alabaster and semiprecious stones. An etching of that cabinet formed the company logo. The thought that the cabinet and the house that contained it would soon be sold drove her through the crowd, past the velvet-rope barrier, and up the main stairs.

The house's middle floor contained the company offices, and the top floor held Sean's apartment. What had been the family parlor was now used for conferences and as a private showroom. Claudia's and Sean's offices occupied the two rear corner rooms. Storm entered Sean's office, padded across the antique Isfahan carpet, and stepped behind his desk. She could still smell the old man.

Harry pointed at the Steinway that dominated the room's other side. “I never knew he had a piano in here. He always met me, you know, outside. Usually down in Palm Beach, a couple of times in the Carib, never here.” He took in the oiled paneling, the crystal chandelier, the shadows where Sean's few favorite paintings had once hung. “Nice.”

“Sean only played after the shop closed and everybody went home.”

“Everybody but you.”

She opened the top right drawer, pulled out his calendar, and turned to the previous week. “This is very strange.”

Harry crossed the room.

She pointed to the one appointment on the day after his expected return from New York, with a Professor Morgenthal at Georgetown University. “That's his handwriting.”

“So?”

“You know how secretive he was. Appointments Sean made were scrawled so nobody else could read them.” Storm turned to other weeks. “Look at the difference between meetings scheduled by others and those he put in himself. Booking just one appointment makes no sense. Sean's days were crammed.”

Harry pondered that. “Let's say he went to New York knowing he wasn't coming back.”

Storm swallowed hard.

“But he sets out this one appointment, clear as day. Why?”

Storm turned and left the room.

Her own office had originally been the house pantry. In the eighteenth century, the pantry had contained items often used in barter when money was not available—tobacco, sugar, molasses, and liquor. The single narrow window was crossbarred, and the door was bound with iron. Before Storm's arrival it had been used as a storeroom for treasures in transit—those sold and not yet shipped, or going for outside analysis, or awaiting final provenance. Storm slipped behind her desk, gave the Potomac's sparkling waters a glance, and switched on her computer. Sean had arranged for her to maintain status as a postgrad with access to the Georgetown University system. She logged in and told Harry, “This shouldn't take long.”

But Harry's attention was snagged by a photo on the wall. “Get a load of this.”

The frame held the cover of the first catalogue Storm had put together. A lovely young woman held a chain that wound around her otherwise naked form, the chain so long she was modestly cloaked. The chain was 14 kt. gold and studded with doubloons. Storm asked, “Yours?”

“Old East Indian trader we found off Sumatra.” Harry tapped the glass. “Sailors made chains of all their prize money because the Crown classed any valuable worn on the body as personal jewelry and wasn't taxed.”

“I remember Sean telling me that. He didn't say it was your find.”

“No. He wouldn't.”

Storm printed two recent articles by Professor Morgenthal, one of which contained a picture. She then drew the phone from her pocket and plugged it into the computer's USB port. She scrolled through her
stored photographs, selected four, and printed them as well. “Okay. I've got what I need.”

Harry followed her down the stairs. “I'm never much for funerals and even less for glad-handing. I'll be waiting for you on the front porch.”

Storm did not argue. As she entered the front room, Claudia glared at her, then turned away. Storm moved slowly through the crush, greeting those she genuinely cared for and enduring the rest. Hearing other people speak of Sean with the ancient exasperation of true friends pierced deep. Storm took her time, allowing the crowd to shift her about, drawing her along, until she entered the rear showroom and found the person she had been seeking.

The solitary name in Sean's calendar, the woman Storm had been researching upstairs, had positioned herself by the back window. From there she could survey all three main rooms. Evelyn Morgenthal was an angry stump of a woman. She responded to someone's comment with a terse whip, not taking her eyes off Storm's approach. “My condolences, Ms. Syrrell.”

“We need to talk, Professor Morgenthal.”

Dark eyes held a fiercely intelligent light and no welcome whatsoever. “Your grandfather was a singular man, Ms. Syrrell. Unique. I doubt seriously the relationship we held is transferable.”

“We have evidence that Sean was murdered.”

The woman possessed a slight lilt to her words, a foreign tongue learned as a child and heavily overlaid with her Americanization. “Never did I consider Sean's death a simple act of fate.”

“Did it ever occur to you that the appointment my grandfather made with you was intended for me all along?”

The professor rewarded Storm with a sharp nod of approval. “My office. Three hours.”