Gold of Kings (28 page)

H
ARRY SAW EMMA INTO A
taxi and headed off alone. He told her that he had something he had to get done, and he didn't want their time to be ended by a return to the gritty edge. Not that he didn't trust her or know she could handle things. Emma must have understood, or was simply too filled with the night to press. Because she kissed him again, a lingering good-bye that melted his words. He stood on the sidewalk a long time after the taxi pulled away, smelling her perfume and the scent of her hair, feeling her arms and her strength. Waiting until the sensations had dimmed enough for him to put them away. Tuck them into that carefully guarded compartment. The one that had stayed empty for far too long.

He drifted along a road that was little more than an alley yet bound on both sides by every variety of shop. The people were poor, the city was just one crumbling step above squalid, yet there were thousands of these little stores. He could outfit an expedition along this one road, all from shops smaller than a walk-in closet. He took his time, buying items that had often been useful in bygone days. A coil of lightweight rope, a pair of high-impact flashlights, a mountaineer's hammer, a knife with a carbon-steel blade, a Swiss-army pocket knife, a professional backpack to replace the cheap one he had bought in Larnaca, a box of energy bars, and just-add-water meals. He loitered and he dickered and he kept
shooting glances back behind him. Not because he expected to be followed. Because he needed to refocus. Be ready. For whatever. If not now, when the danger came. Because it would. Harry had no illusions about that. None whatever.

His destination was midway between the harbor and the castle, where his alley joined with a more upscale tourist avenue. The shop occupied two angles of the transition zone and had a banner that read
OMDURMAN CAFÉ, ULTRA HI-SPEED
. The windows were taped over with fly-blown posters of warriors in armor and women in fur bikinis, both wielding light sabers and watched over by bearded magicians.

The guy behind the counter had deep acne scars and an abdomen twice the size of his slumping shoulders, as though he had spent so long on his stool all his weight had shifted south and congealed. Harry leaned over the counter and shouted what he wanted against the roar of acid rock.

The guy didn't even blink. “You got money?”

Harry showed him a fifty. “One now, another when I get what I'm after.”

“I know just the man you want.”

“He's here?”

“Every night he has leave, he is here. Same time, same channel.”

“Go talk to the guy and see if he's interested in a little business.”

“He owes me big-time. He is interested.” The guy held out his hand. “You pay, Joe.”

“Sorry, Abdul. First you chat, then I hand you the bill.”

The guy shrugged and shifted his weight off the stool. He walked through the double row of computers and leaned over the corner station. He shouted into the ear of a gamer who didn't glance up from the screen.

The proprietor's gut jiggled as he returned up the central aisle. “The money. Now.”

Harry handed him the fifty. “What's his name?”

“Turgay.”

“You sure he speaks English?”

The proprietor was already settling his bulk back onto his stool. “You go talk, you see.”

Light from the street filtered through a second set of inward-facing
posters. Walking down the central aisle was like swimming through reddish soup. About half the computer terminals were in use. The players all wore headsets and chattered as fast as they typed. Nobody paid Harry any attention. They were lost in their worlds of swarming gremlins and universal war. The atmosphere buzzed with tension and fatigue. The computers were high-end, the flatscreens big as television panels. The walls were bare, the floor grimy. The only clock these players worried about was the one counting out their cash. This was definitely not a place where tourists came to check their e-mails.

The guy in the corner was the same as the others, only with shorter hair. “You Turgay?”

“Hang tight, my man. Be with you in a jiff.”

At least the proprietor had been right about the language. “You're stationed at the military compound outside Yayla?”

“Been there a thousand years. Or six months. Take your pick.” His fingers blurred over the keypad. “Can't talk now. Ten minutes max.”

Harry reached over and switched off the computer. “For five hundred bucks, my man, you will listen now.”

T
HE DRIVE FROM KYRENIA TO
the military base outside Yayla took just under two hours, a long time to cover forty-seven miles. The first half of the trip wasn't bad, a straight stretch following the cities along the coast—Kyrenia, Aylos, Elea, Incesu, Alsancuk, Karsiyaka. The North Cyprus coastline was a mixture of the sublime and the wretched. The two were so intertwined it was easy to miss one or the other entirely. The rocky shoreline sprouted more cranes than trees. Beyond the highway, where the coast began its rise to the staggeringly steep peaks, ancient villages nestled pearl-like in arid meadows. Out to sea, fishing boats dug furrows through the sun-splashed waters.

Just before Gecitkoy the road turned inward, narrowed, started to climb, then narrowed some more. They passed through a valley tight as a chasm, with a river flickering far below. The road was paved, but scarcely broader than a farm track. Though there was no traffic, Harry kept it in first gear.

Emma finally asked, “What are you doing?”

“Being careful.”

“You're going five miles an hour.”

Storm spoke from the backseat. “Slow is fine by me.”

“If you don't like heights, stop and let me drive.”

“Roll down your window.”

Emma did as he asked, but didn't like it. “The dust is worse than the heat up here.”

Harry didn't answer because he was too busy listening.

“Let's get a move on here. Pedal to the metal.”

Harry thought he'd heard something. He slowed further.

She crossed her arms and huffed, “I met a driver in France. We need to get him down here to give you some lessons.”

“Quiet.” There it was again. The rumble, the thud, the high-pitched squeal.

Harry slammed the car into a tiny pocket carved from the cliff face. There was nothing to suggest it was meant for cars. The road had no markings at all. Emma's door shredded as the rock bit into the metal.

“Harry—”

Fifty feet ahead of them, a truck bellowed around the hairpin bend. The massive locomotive carried a full load of building stones. The brakes of all four wheels smoldered. It thundered past, shaking the earth, shrieking with metallic pain. Then it was gone. The day returned to hot emptiness.

Storm said, “You go just as slow as you want.”

Emma's voice shook. “How did you know?”

“I didn't.” He had no interest in saying anything more. He needed to focus on the next bend. But he also knew Emma was seriously spooked, the professional who had just made a bad call. “I've been on a hundred roads like this. You haven't. It's that simple.”

The road climbed through one series of peaks after another, finally leveling off as it entered a vast highland plateau. The road broadened and Harry accelerated around slow-moving farm traffic. They passed stone-walled groves of olives and fruit trees. Many of the carts they passed were pulled by donkeys. A young woman in country Muslim black used a staff to halt traffic as her goats crossed the road. A mile or so to either side, the flatland gave over to rising slopes covered with vineyards.

The Turkish army compound reminded Harry of a Soviet depot he had come across in Mozambique, only neater. The Soviets had been gone for five years, which was why Harry had been inside at all. The Soviets had brought money to the ruling faction and trouble to everybody else. When the Soviets left, their puppet regime fell. The new Mo
zambique government had been desperate for hard currency, even if it meant issuing an offshore salvage license to a treasure dog. They had even given Harry use of the Soviet compound, a weed-infested and derelict station two miles from the port. Following a pair of severe earthquakes and a recent typhoon, Mozambique had been desperate for dry warehouses and solid buildings. Yet the compound's forty walled acres of paved roads, empty barracks, assembly halls, machine shops, even a generator plant, had all stood empty. That was how much they had loathed their so-called benefactors.

The Turkish compound was military neat. Even the street curbs were whitewashed. Ditto the rocks lining the guardhouse walk, the rifle-range target supports, the metal stanchions supporting the razor wire fence. The entrance was flanked by eight flagpoles, a massive red banner with gold printing, and a billboard bearing the image of an impossibly brave soldier. Harry pulled into the visitor's lot and parked so that a tall bronze statue shaded their spot. “Our man's not out front like he promised.”

Emma got out and studied her damaged door. “I'm beginning to believe in the paranormal.”

But Harry didn't want to go back there again. He asked across the hood, “Something you said back at the DC airport, how you trusted Storm before you met her. I've been wondering about that.”

Emma turned in a slow circle, studying the terrain, before replying, “I'd been with the task force about two months. Still finding my way, learning to duck whenever Jack Dauer took aim. There's a long learning curve in the agency business. You fight for an assignment to somebody who knows the business. If they like you, and if they're not superpossessive of their knowledge, they mentor you. In return, you schlep coffee. So there I was, two months into my first operation outside the Washington zoo. One morning this evidence just lands in our lap. All packaged and tied up with a nice blue bow. And I'm not kidding. The evidence arrived in a Venetian water-stained box.”

Storm opened her door. “I love how you two are suddenly talking like I've disappeared.”

Emma said, “You don't want me telling him about it?”

Storm turned away. “Whatever.”

She watched Storm walk away, then continued, “There was this
dealer by the name of Duksejian operating out of Manhattan. He'd buy a midlevel not too expensive Impressionist. Storm caught him doing it with Chagall. But not a
major
Chagall. We're talking in the range of five hundred grand.”

“Is that all.”

“When a museum-quality Chagall goes for six to eight mil, five hundred thou is not big bucks. Anyway, he'd buy the item at public auction. And like a lot of dealers, he'd hold it a while. Maybe in his home, maybe in the office at his shop. Set it where people could see it. It was for sale but not for sale. He was attached to it. He treasured it. Then after a while, he let the people who'd admired it know he was ready to let it go. Usually when he'd found another favorite piece. It happens all the time.”

A pair of roach coaches stood across the street from the main entrance. Off-duty soldiers loitered beneath their awnings, eating the Turkish version of fast food. The smell of roasting lamb drifted in the heat. Farther along the dusty block stood a single café. Two trucks painted military green trundled past. A dog barked in the distance. Harry asked, “This is a crime?”

“Remember, Jack Dauer was setting up a task force to look at fraud inside the art world. And he had targeted Syrrell's as a major suspect. So what happens but Sean's granddaughter hands us this box of evidence. Related to a fraud we knew nothing about. One that implicated this Manhattan dealer, who as far as we knew was squeaky clean.”

“Dauer must have loved it.”

“We're talking low-altitude orbit. Which only gets worse when he realizes the fraud is real and he's been upstaged. Storm's evidence revealed how Duksejian used his contacts in Eastern Europe to find talented artists. There are a lot of gifted people over there, and except for a tight handful, most artists are starving. Duksejian offered to sponsor them as immigrants into America. But for a price.”

“They worked off their voyage as forgers.”

“As
his
forgers. Duksejian was very careful. He hired only artists who didn't speak a word of English. He shacked them in a tiny Florida town just north of the Everglades. He had an experienced forger he'd hired from prison to act as instructor. The deal was, they painted an even dozen forgeries. Then they were given papers. But not for the
United States. For Argentina. He set them up in Buenos Aires with a small apartment and enough cash to keep them quiet.”

“This guy was smart.”

“When the story broke, dealers fanned the air with their certificates of authenticity. Turns out, Duksejian took the
original
work, which he owned, to European experts who were only too happy to offer provenance. Which he copied as meticulously as the artwork.”

Harry watched Storm's reluctant approach. “I don't get it. Dauer gets this gift-wrapped and still treats Storm like a suspect?”

“Dauer thinks Sean Syrrell caught wind that he was being investigated and had Storm work this up to take the heat off.”

Harry asked Storm, “How did you discover this forger?”

“I'm good at my job.” There was a note of tight defiance in her answer. “The provenance was too perfect. You expect a second-tier painting, even from somebody this well-known, to have a few holes. I started checking, and things began unraveling. Then the same Chagall came up for auction in Yokohama, identical to the painting in our front window. And Chagall was never known for doing multiple versions. Which meant one had to be a fake. To my surprise, it turned out both were. When I showed Sean what I'd learned, he told me to tell you guys.”

“He had Dauer's name?”

“Name, address, the works. Sean reimbursed the defrauded museum almost a million dollars from his own pocket. Five months later, we discovered that some silver plate we had handled was stolen. Sean made good on that one too. It pretty much wiped him out.”

Harry straightened. “Here comes our man.”

Emma turned and inspected the man hustling across the compound. “Are you sure about this guy?”

Harry could see the soldier's sweat from fifty feet. “Absolutely not.”

 

THE MAN HARRY HAD LAST
seen in the Kyrenia Internet café wore an officer's uniform that was lighter weight and better tailored than the sentries'. Turgay saluted the guard, waited for the barrier to lift, then hustled over. “You have the money?”

Harry riffled through the five hundred dollars. “You have our passes?”

“I must have it now.” The guy smelled of fear.

“The deal's the same as yesterday. One hundred now. The rest when we're done.”

“How do I know you will pay?”

“What's got you sweating, Turgay?”

“Inside the fence I am Lieutenant Sayed. Come now.” But when both ladies started forward, he held up his hand. “Two, only two.”

“Two, three, ten, what's the difference?”

Emma said, “I'll hang out here.” When Harry started to object, she said, “May be good to keep us a back door outside the reach of the goons.”

Turgay's forehead creased. “What is she saying?”

“Nothing. Let's roll.”

Past the barrier, Turgay said, “The commandant wishes to see you. He will have questions. You have answers?”

“Absolutely.” Harry asked Storm, “You have your Smithsonian ID?”

“In my purse.”

“Get it out. Okay, Lieutenant. We're ready.”

“My money.” When Harry slipped him the top bill, he said, “They must be very good, your answers.”

 

THE COMMANDANT WAS A SKINNY
weasel who started lying before he opened his mouth. His smile was a lie framed by a Mussolini-era moustache. The guy's uniform was another lie, and the medals on his chest only made the lie worse. Harry knew soldiers. This man was not one. He was a bureaucrat who specialized in not staying bought.

Turgay translated, “The commandant wishes you good welcome.”

“Great. We don't want to take up his precious time.”

“The commandant invites you for tea. It is coming.”

The commandant's handshake was too cold to be wet. He spoke in a brittle singsong, his eyes never still. “The commandant asks for your passports.”

Harry fished his out of his pocket. “Give the guy your Smithsonian ID.” To Turgay, “Make sure the commandant understands the lady here is a famous archeologist.”

The commandant and the lieutenant both departed. The office
stank of stale cigarette smoke. A window AC rattled busily but produced no coolness that Harry could detect. Storm rubbed the hand the commandant had shaken down her pant leg. “Ick.”

An aide brought in a tray holding two tulip glasses of tea. His hand trembled slightly as he deposited the glasses on the table between their chairs. Harry sighed an echo to the word his brain kept shouting:
trouble.
“How much money do you have on you?”

“Six, seven hundred.”

“Let me have it.”

She reached into her purse. “We already paid the lieutenant to get us in.”

Harry took the money and set all but two bills in the middle of the commandant's desk. He weighted it down with an ashtray made from the casing to an armor-piercing shell. “Take a look around. We are as
in
as we ever need to be.”