Last Breath (5 page)

His eyes had strayed to the courtyard, and to the flash of white that moved to the corner table. He'd recognized the hat, white and flowing like the dress she'd worn the day they'd almost met. Smiling, he'd put down his coffee cup and leaned over the railing.

“Please be you,” he'd said aloud. “Take off that silly hat so I can see if it's you.”

The hat remained on her head, so he grabbed his sunglasses and headed for the door. On his way across the lobby, he ran into a Jordanian he'd once worked with, one of his old field contacts. Trapped, he'd chatted politely, even while he watched a swoop of white move from the courtyard to the gate and disappear beyond the Villa's outer wall.

He'd caught Magda's eye, and from the gleam he saw there, he knew that the woman in white was the woman he'd sought, and he knew, too, that she would be back.

“You win, Magda,” he'd said as she passed by on her way to the kitchen. “What time is dinner?”

“The corner table in the courtyard at seven-thirty. Perhaps you will have company.” She poked him in the ribs. “Then again, perhaps not.”

She was already there at the table when he arrived, sipping water with a slice of lemon, looking as fresh as a flower after a gentle rain. She'd looked up at him with eyes the color of cornflowers when he approached the table, and all he could think of to say was a most unoriginal “Hi.”

She'd extended a hand to him, and he'd smiled as he took it. Her appearance was very feminine and soft, despite her casual attire—khakis and a cotton shirt—and total lack of makeup. Her hands were hands that worked in the field, tough and calloused, the nails short and devoid of polish and she was deeply tanned from months in the desert. Images of every other woman he'd ever known flashed through his brain, but none were like her. She appeared to face the world without thought of fashion or embellishment, or even—he couldn't help but notice—a professional haircut. Hers looked as if she'd cut it herself.

Later, he'd been hard-pressed to recall much of the conversation, except that they'd talked about their families. He'd been surprised to learn that she, too, had lost a brother, but other than that, for the most part, he only remembered her eyes and the sound of her laughter.

Fifteen minutes into dinner, he'd been trying to think of a way to make the evening last beyond the meal when they'd been interrupted. A message had been left for him at the front desk: a meeting he'd expected to attend the following day had been moved forward and would take place in one hour. He'd have to leave the Villa immediately in order to make it on time. There was no question that he'd keep the appointment; it was the reason he was in North Africa. He'd had to make his apologies to Daria and cut their evening short.

He'd given her his card before he left, and asked her to call him when she was back in the States, or when she was planning on coming back to the Villa.

“Call that number and leave a message, it will get to me,” he'd told her. “Anytime. Day or night. I'll get the message.”

It had been with great reluctance that he'd left her there at the table, alone, on a beautiful Moroccan night.

He'd really expected that in order to see her again, he'd have to travel back to the Villa. But wonder of wonders, here she was, almost in his own backyard, just a little over an hour away. That she'd kept the card all these months, that she'd called him when she needed help, satisfied him deeply.

She remembered me, and she called.

He couldn't remember the last time anything had pleased him more.

FIVE

D
aria stood by the window in Louise's office and watched the sleek sports car park in the first visitor's spot. Even before the door opened, she knew who was behind the wheel. The car looked like the man—sleek and dark, sexy and dangerous.

He stepped out and looked around the campus as if to get his bearings, one arm leaning on the top of the car. He wore dark glasses and a shirt open at the neck, well-fitting jeans, and had a light-colored sport jacket slung over one shoulder.

He looks like a government agent,
she thought as she stared shamelessly.
Or a spy.

“…wondering if you'd had a chance to look through those journals of your great-grandfather's,” Louise was saying.

“Oh. Yes.” Daria reluctantly turned from the window. “I did. Almost all of them, actually. It was quite fascinating, almost like being there.”

“That's what I thought, too, when I read them. I was thinking if once we get the exhibit open, perhaps your family might give approval to have them published. In the hands of the right publisher, we might have a bestselling series.”

“Well, the reading is certainly interesting enough, I agree. I don't know who you would have to get permission from, though.” Daria frowned. “I don't know who actually owns them. It may be the university. If they were part of his estate, and the estate was left to the school…”

“We can have that looked into. I'd still want the blessing of the McGowan family even if Howe does legally own them. Maybe we could include a forward from you,” she said thoughtfully. “The bridge between one generation and another. Perhaps your father would want to contribute, as well.”

Louise was about to say something else when there was a knock on the half-opened door.

“Dr. Burnette?” The tall man filled the doorway. “I'm Connor Shields.”

Louise walked to the door to greet him.

“Yes, I'm Louise Burnette. Please, come in, Agent Shields. We've been waiting for you.”

“Good to meet you.” Connor shook her hand and smiled, then looked beyond her.

“And you know Dr. McGowan,” Louise stepped aside as Daria made her way across the office.

“Daria, it's good to see you again.” Connor took her hand and held it warmly between both of his.

“Thank you for coming right away, Connor.” Daria cleared her throat. “Especially since it's Sunday.”

“When I said anytime,” he lowered his voice, “I meant
anytime.
”

“I…we appreciate it.” A flush crept up from beneath Daria's collar to her cheeks.

“Let's have a seat, shall we?” Louise gestured toward the chairs near the window.

Connor let go of Daria's hand, and waited until both women sat before seating himself.

He is very well-mannered, for an American,
Daria recalled Magda saying, and the hint of a smile crossed her lips.

“Daria explained your situation on the phone,” Connor told Louise. “Frankly, I have to admit I'm having a hard time understanding how such valuable objects could have been kept here all these years, yet no one bothered to check on them.”

“It isn't so unusual, Connor.” Daria touched his arm. “There are many, many museums that have locked rooms with locked crates that haven't seen the light of day in fifty or a hundred years. New objects are acquired and the older acquisitions are moved farther back into the storage area—often a basement or warehouse. Curators are hired and fired, and sometimes their records are misplaced. Acquisitions are often forgotten over time.”

“And here at Howe,” Louise added, “in the last fifty years, dinosaurs became more popular than ancient cultures. As I mentioned to Daria, the last curator's interests lay in the area of American natural history. Professor McGowan's finds, along with those of another archaeologist who led an expedition about the same time, were locked away and pretty much forgotten as other items were acquired and put on display.”

“What reminded you?” Connor asked.

“For the past few years, the financial picture here at the university has become increasingly grim. We have been considering different means of raising cash, and recently someone suggested selling off what few liquid assets we have.” She smiled wryly. “It didn't take long to make a list of those. We have some land we could sell, but there isn't enough to make a dent in the budget. And this isn't really a high-rent district out here, as you may have noticed.”

“The town looks all right,” Connor noted.

“The town is
all right,
and that's about it. We're surrounded by farms, many of them Amish, and the price per acre is pretty low.”

“So what you're saying is that selling off land wasn't the solution,” he said.

“Right.” Louise nodded. “And then someone started talking about selling off artwork—the university does have quite a nice collection of American primitive paintings—so we went around to the various buildings to take stock of what we had. On my way back home that night, I came past the museum, and it jogged my memory.”

“I'd have thought it would have occurred to someone sooner than that.”

“Agent Shields, no one has seen that collection in almost one hundred years. There was no official catalog we could refer to, because Professor McGowan died before his find was ever put on display.”

“But if there was no catalog, why are you so sure something is missing?” he asked.

“He made an inventory when he first returned to the States,” Daria told him. “He described everything in every crate in great detail. Some items he'd even sketched. Every crate was numbered, so we know exactly what should be in each one. He was in the process of designing his exhibits when he died, and his inventory reflects that. Louise—Dr. Burnette—and I have gone through the crates several times, double-checking and searching for the missing items. They are not in the vault.”

“Where else have you looked?” Connor asked.

“We've searched the basement,” Daria told him, “and last night, I started going through the house where I'm staying here on campus, where my great-grandparents lived. I thought perhaps there might be something there.”

“I'm guessing you didn't find anything,” Connor said.

“Only some letters he wrote to my great-grandmother from the dig. Unfortunately, romantic as they are, there's nothing that's going to help us figure out what happened to the missing artifacts.”

“What about other buildings throughout the university?” Connor said, thinking aloud. “I'm assuming you've scoured the other houses, the science building, offices, storerooms?”

“Actually, I'm working on that this afternoon, along with the lone member of our archaeology staff who is on campus for the summer. Daria and I believe that the only items that might still be on campus and might have gone unnoticed would be pottery. Jars, vases, that sort of thing. Certainly any of the gold or jeweled items wouldn't be sitting out unnoticed on a shelf.”

“Good point. Has anyone searched the museum?” he asked.

“Only Dr. Burnette and I.”

“That's good, then. I'm assuming no one knows what's there, including members of your staff. I suggest we keep it that way for a while.” He stood. “Daria, why don't we start by showing me the vault?”

“Yes, I'd like you to see the museum.” Daria stood as well. “And I want to show you the inventory. I've entered everything onto my computer—crate by crate, item by item. We can stop at the house and I'll run a copy off for you.”

“I have it, Daria,” Louise told her as she rose. “I'll make a copy for Agent Shields.”

Louise left the room.

“Thanks again for coming, Connor,” Daria said. “I didn't know what else to do.”

“Well, you know, this isn't really something I'd normally handle. The FBI has a dedicated team of experts in this field—art theft, cultural theft, that sort of thing.”

“That's what Agent Mancini told me, but I was so uncertain what to do. I thought you…well, you said to call you, anytime.”

“And I'm glad you did. I really am. I'm just saying that if there has been a major theft, it's in your best interests to have the best in the field working on the case. Our people specialize in this type of thing.”

“And what do you specialize in, Connor?” she asked.

He appeared to welcome Louise's return to the room, as if Daria's question was one he hadn't really wanted to answer.

“Here you go, Agent Shields.” Louise handed over a thick stack of paper in a brown folder. “The inventory Daria made and we both doubled-checked.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at it briefly before tucking it under his arm. To Daria, he said, “Ready when you are.”

“Then let's get started.” Daria gathered her bag and headed for the door. “I have my phone, if you need me, Louise. And you know where to find us.”

“Let's take the shortcut,” Daria said when they'd stepped outside into the oppressive heat of the afternoon. Overhead the sky was hazy, the sun a blur behind the clouds, the air heavy with humidity. “At least there will be some shade.”

“I'm all for shade,” he agreed. “But I'd think you'd be used to the heat, feel right at home, all the time you spend in the desert.”

“Desert heat is one thing, this humidity is something else.” She pulled dark glasses from her bag and slipped them on.

“Right, dry heat, and all that. Though frankly, when it gets to be a hundred or more degrees, it's just plain hot.”

“True.”

She rounded the side of the building and he followed her.

“We'll stop at McGowan House and pick up a few bottles of water,” she said. “We'll need them.”

“McGowan House, eh?” He smiled. “You've been here less than a week, and already they've named a building after you?”

Daria laughed. “The university uses the house my great-grandparents lived in as a guesthouse. Louise very kindly offered to let me stay there while I'm at Howe.” She took a key from the pocket of her shorts. “It's the white building straight ahead.”

They followed a crumbling brick path to the back of the house.

“This will just take me a second. Come on in.”

“I'll wait.”

She jogged up the back steps and unlocked the door. “Want anything besides water? I might have some pretzels.”

“Just the water, thanks.” He stood with his hands on his hips overlooking the gardens behind the house, where hydrangeas top-heavy with blooms fought a wild tangle of roses for space.

True to her word, Daria was back in a flash, the water bottles held against her body. She handed two to Connor.

“Great. They're cold. Thanks,” he said.

“So,” he said after taking a long drink from one of the bottles and replacing the cap. “Tell me about Shandihar. I have to admit I'd never heard of it. All I know is what you've told me, that it was a city in southern Turkey and was found by Alistair McGowan in 1908.”

“What exactly would you like to know?” She began to walk.

“Who were its people? What was its culture?” He followed along the path.

“At first, it was little more than a crossroads on the Silk Road, populated by merchants from all over the region. Greeks, Turks, Mesopotamians, nomads. Shandihar was quite the melting pot, with religions and superstitions and cultures blending over time. As the years passed, the society became matriarchal, with the import of the goddess Ereshkigal from Mesopotamia, who somehow came to prominence. My great-grandfather's journals mention several temples dedicated to her, and writings that indicated that the priestesses who served her pretty much ran the city. Travelers passing through had to pay tribute—essentially, a toll—to come into the city.”

“They couldn't have gone around it?”

“The walls of the city offered safety after dark,” she explained. “Beyond the walls, at night, anything could happen. There were tales of wild animals that hunted at night and that were most fond of human flesh and blood. And of course, there were bandits.”

“So, in other words, it was worth paying the toll to be able to sleep safely.”

“I'm sure that was the idea. In addition to the tolls, the merchants who did business in the marketplace had to bring tribute to the temples twice each year. If you wanted to spend the next life in heaven, you paid up. The more you gave, the better your chances of a happy afterlife.”

“What did the priestesses do to keep everyone in line? Surely there were some who didn't want to cough up their share.”

“These ladies were pretty shrewd. Here's the thing about Ereshkigal. She was the goddess of the underworld. The place where you do not want to spend your afterlife.” Daria smiled, pleased by his interest. “When you died, you had to face the goddess at the junction between heaven and hell. If you wanted to get into heaven, you had to bring offerings to the goddess.”

“They had to bribe their way into heaven?”

“Exactly. You were to appear at that gateway with something in each hand. Then you would tell the goddess all your good deeds, so she could judge your worthiness.”

“So far, so good. You bring the bribe, you brag a little.” Connor nodded. “Everyone can come up with something good that they did over the course of their lifetime. So where's the incentive to pay the tribute?”

“Those who refused to pay were brought before the priestesses, who would pass sentence on the offender.”

“I have a feeling the punishment may not have fit the crime.”

“One or both hands were cut off,” she told him. “If you really pissed them off, they'd have your tongue cut out as well.”

“Ouch. Why not just kill them?”

“It made more of a statement. Everyone knew you were marked for the underworld, and no one would assist you because you were the walking dead. It was just a matter of time before you starved to death or died of thirst, since no one was permitted to help you. And once you died, you'd go straight to the underworld, because when you showed up at the gate, you'd have no gifts for the goddess and because you had no tongue, you couldn't tell her about all the good things you'd done. So off you went, right into the pit.”