The Black Madonna (11 page)

His eyes were slitted against light that stayed too bright even when the nurse drew the curtains. A fly settled on his forehead and tracked across his face. Harry was not bothered enough to shift and make it leave. People came and went. The light swung from east to west. The shadows changed shape. Then he must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew, he was back in the dream, fleeing through the Hebron night but always winding up trapped in that alley.

Only this time Harry stopped running.

He stood there in the dark, his chest pumping from the sheer bloody terror of knowing what came next. But waiting just the same.

Then it happened just like he knew it would. Boom. The blast carried the same roar he felt every time the injection wore off. He opened his eyes and lay there staring at the ceiling. For once, trying to hold on to the dream rather than push the fear away.

Finally Harry blinked and rubbed his eyes and made the slow, steady reach toward the side table. Then he realized the kid's mother was holding the water glass out to him. Harry nodded his thanks and took the glass, thinking that he must look like he was coming off a three-day drunk. She waited until he was done, then she took back the cup and walked to the table by the door and refilled it from the pitcher. She returned and offered it again. Harry shook his head, figuring he had a temporary pass to stare openly. The lady was too lovely to carry an expression that sad.

She spoke to him, and once again Harry was astonished at just how musical Arabic could sound. When Harry shook his head in response, she opened a voluminous purse and pulled out a pad and pen. Harry shook his head a second time. She stowed the items away, clearly embarrassed for him, assuming he could not read or write.

Moving in careful stages, Harry pushed away his bedcovers and slid his legs around so that his back was to the kid. The man
in the bed to Harry's left nodded a greeting. As did the guy beyond him. Their silent welcome to the fold helped Harry stow away his pain and shove himself to his feet.

He shuffled down the ward's central aisle, through the main doors, and across the corridor. The washroom was as old and decrepit and spotlessly clean as the rest of the place. The doctor was making his rounds when Harry shuffled back to his bed. Both the doctor and the nurse greeted him solemnly as he passed. As did the patient they were working on. And the family who were gathered around the patient's bed.

When it was Harry and the kid's turn, the nurse rolled over a trio of portable screens. The wheels squeaked and rattled across the uneven linoleum. The nurse fitted them about Harry and the kid's beds, as though his act had somehow bonded them in the best medical sense.

The doctor worked on the kid first. He peeled back the bandage to reveal a long diagonal scar with a line of neat stitches. There was quite a lot of seepage around the kid's wound, from getting tossed out of bed, Harry figured. The kid showed no distress, even when the doctor started probing. Probably thinking of the alternative.

The doctor gave the mother some serious instructions, which were gravely accepted. The doctor then turned to Harry and spoke. From the motions of the doctor's hands, Harry assumed that he was going to peel away the bandages on Harry's face and neck and shoulder. And that it was going to hurt.

With the bandages gone, the doctor's fingers felt cool through the latex gloves. He inspected Harry thoroughly, giving careful attention to his right cheek and ear and neck. The doctor moved farther down, going over the taped ribs and his bruised stomach. Then he spoke and gestured. Harry got the message that he wanted to leave the bandages off Harry's face and let the wounds breathe. He showed Harry a tube and
then applied the salve, talking all the while. The ointment felt soothing going on.

When the doctor placed the tube in Harry's bedside table drawer, he spotted the Palestinian ID.

He looked at Harry and then back to the parrot guy's photo. Harry caught his breath.

The doctor slipped the ID back inside and shut the drawer. He patted the top of the table. Nodded to Harry. And walked away.

Only then did Harry realize the woman and the kid had seen it all.

When the nurse started to move the screens away, the woman turned to her and said something. The nurse glanced at Harry and nodded, leaving the screens in place.

Harry waited until the doctor started talking to the guy in the next bed. Then he leaned toward the woman and spoke the first word he had uttered since the blast.

“Help.”

THE ARAB WOMAN REMAINED SEATED
on the side of her son's bed opposite from Harry. “You are British?”

“American.”

She pointed discreetly at the drawer to his side table. “You are not this man.”

“No.”

The woman's name was Miriam. Her injured son was Fareed. Miriam had waited until the lunch hour and the surrounding clamor to speak with him. The privacy screens remained an unexpected bonus. Harry had no idea how much Fareed understood, for the kid did not speak. He also did not miss a thing.

“Why are you hiding?” Miriam asked.

“To stay safe.”

“You think here is safe?” She glanced at her son. “You must be in very much danger.”

“Maybe.”

“You think but you do not know?”

Harry asked, “Do you know about the bomb that sent me here?”

“All Hebron knows.”

“How many people died in that blast?”

“Only one man.” She caught his flicker of surprise. “You were the, what is word?”

“Target.” Harry eased himself up a notch. “Maybe.”

Harry's lunch tray remained untouched on his side table. The nurse appeared and scolded Harry for not eating. Miriam resumed her silent vigil, hovering over her son. When the nurse departed, Harry asked, “What happened to your boy?”

Harry was not asking out of mere politeness. Clearly the woman understood, for she said, “My husband had no work. He, how you say, thieved.”

“Stole.”

“He is gone now.” She spoke the words as a whispered lament. “Fareed is all I have left.”

Harry voiced his guess: “The boy figured he should take up where his father left off.”

The woman sighed and said something that Harry figured was the Arabic equivalent of men. Then she said, “Tonight I must move my son.”

Harry understood. The boy couldn't lay here and risk having the police return tomorrow. “Can I come with you?”

“How can I refuse? We owe you too much. But to have you stay with us, we will know such dangers.”

“Just get me out of here.”

“And do what? Leave you on the Hebron street for another bomb?”

Harry shook his head. “Where will you hide Fareed?”

A shudder coursed through her. “I must find some way to get him to my family in Jordan. He will be safe there. The hospitals are better. He can heal. Grow strong. Escape.”

Harry leaned over as far as his ribs allowed. “Maybe I can help make that happen.”

M
IDWAY THROUGH THE MORNING AUCTION
, Storm slipped into the theater lobby to check her messages. She found three from Raphael Danton. They started off irate and grew fiercer. Storm stepped onto the pillared front portico and placed the call.

Raphael Danton answered with, “I expect my charges to be
immediately
available. Around the clock.”

“Let's get one thing straight. I am not now and never will be your
charge.
”

“Did it ever occur to you, Ms. Syrrell, that your attitude is the reason why your firm is on the verge of bankruptcy?”

“No, but I do wonder if you intentionally hunt for the hottest button to push.”

They both took time out to exchange a few tight breaths. Finally Danton said, “You continue to amaze me.”

“Was that why you felt it so vital to call three times and foam at the mouth?”

He laughed out loud. Maybe because the sound was so unexpected, Storm actually shivered. Danton asked, “Why did you only purchase two of the auctioned items, instead of all four?”

“I made an arrangement with Aaron Rausch. He took two, I took the other two. I assume your client is going to continue to bid against Rausch's client. If you were to go to the wall this time, what happens next? Unless your client has completely unlimited pockets and his opponent is a total dodo, the opponent is going to realize what's going on. And he's going to start bidding on things he doesn't want, just to watch your client climb the ladder to nowhere.”

Danton mulled that over, then demanded, “Where are you now?”

“Standing outside Marbella's municipal theater.”

“I'm coming to meet with you. Be at the private gate of Málaga airport this afternoon at three. Danton out.”

STORM RETURNED TO HER SEAT
. She had no need to sit through another day of sales. But she was here, and this was her world, and trends were sometimes clearest when observed from the trenches. Besides which, she needed time to seethe and think.

The theater's stage was jammed with new items. The main gallery held over a thousand people, and almost every seat was taken. The interior was neo-Gothic, with gilded cherubs adorning the upper tiers, red velvet walls, and massive chandeliers. The treasures on display revealed the private lives of some powerful and secretive people. Storm did not bother to pretend at bidding. She had established her cred the previous day. She watched the drama and she thought.

Prices were off by as much as half the previous year's highs. But interest remained keen and bidding was fierce. When the auctioneer broke for lunch, they had managed to work through only a third of the day's wares.

Storm and Emma wound their way through Marbella's cobblestone streets to a small café. Outdoor tables faced a small plaza with the requisite fountain and crumbling facades. They
ordered salads and coffee and juice, then watched the street theater. When Emma had finished eating, she said, “Okay if I walk through something with you?”

“Shoot.”

“We've got a Russian buyer represented by your friend Aaron Rausch.”

“Rausch is not my friend.”

“Seemed to me he was making overtures in that direction. Anyway, Rausch's buyer has an enemy.”

“Whoever is hiding behind Raphael Danton.”

“Either this new guy has a thing for the exact same line of old goods, or he loathes the Russian so much he searches out whatever Rausch's guy is after. And then Danton's guy outbids him.”

Storm agreed. “It has to be revenge. You didn't see the painting I bought in Florida. There can't possibly be two guys crazy enough to pay a million dollars for that oil. Not in this market.”

“In that case, we need to know what Rausch's guy did to earn this level of payback.”

“And how we are tied into it.” Storm nodded slowly. “And why they went after Harry.”

“So let's make some guesses,” said Emma. “Rausch's buyer learns about this guy who's spoiling his game. He traces the purchases through you and the Swiss cutout. And he attacks.”

“There are two problems with this,” Storm said.

“I didn't say it was perfect.”

“Number one, why go after Harry and not us?”

“I'm guessing it has to be the Amethyst Clock,” Emma said. “Harry was hunting counterfeiters. You said yourself this clock can't exist. Which means they had to find somebody to make one up.”

“That still leaves problem number two. The timing. Harry could never have been dug out overnight. The Israelis took him because Harry Bennett has never worked for anybody but Harry Bennett. He is the ultimate treasure dog.”

Emma struggled to repress the grief that flayed her features. Then she said, “Even so, they tracked him down.”

“More or less the same day Danton sends me after that oil.” Storm shook her head. “We're missing something here. Something big enough to destroy us both.”

THE HOSPITAL WARD TOOK THE
afternoon siesta seriously. Miriam left with most of the other visitors. Harry waited until the loudest sounds were snores from neighboring beds. He swung his feet to the floor and rose to a seated position. The drawer to his little metal table squeaked as he pulled it open. There beside the parrot guy's ID was Miriam's phone.

Harry picked up the phone and nodded to Fareed. The kid watched him with an old man's ability to offer trust and suspicion in one unblinking gaze.

The trek to the end of the outer hallway left Harry trembling hard. He breathed eternal gratitude at the sight of an empty bench beside the exit. Harry eased himself down, and when his strength finally returned, he opened the cell phone.

Harry had to smile at how just dialing Emma's number was enough to cause his heart to zing.

The phone rang a half-dozen times, then Emma's voice told him to leave a message. No soft hello, no identification as to who she was. Just a cold, professional tone and a few words shot out like verbal bullets. Even so, Harry found himself unable to respond.