The Black Madonna (15 page)

E
MMA WAS GLAD FOR THE
curtain separating her from the cockpit, because hearing Harry actually speak to her undid her entirely.

When she had recovered somewhat, Emma stepped into the cockpit and said, “Harry's told me not to come to the meet.”

“Which means he is in grave danger,” replied Raphael.

“Yes.”

“And you are still going.”

She nodded. “I left my guns in Washington.”

Raphael rose from the pilot's seat and stepped into the narrow galley. “There is a line of taxis outside the main terminal. Private limo drivers often wait by the arrivals hall café. They are triple the cost. But the limos are faster and the drivers speak better English.”

Raphael unlocked the galley's lower drawer, revealing piles of various currencies and documents. He hit a latch, and a hidden compartment slid out. Inside was a pistol with a polished barrel and black matte grip. “You know this?”

“A SIG Sauer. I don't recognize the vintage.”

“The SIG P210 originated in the late forties from Swiss army trials for a new military pistol.” He ratcheted the breech. “Short
recoil, all steel, locked breech. This is the nine-millimeter professional version. Its most remarkable feature is the slide rails machined on the inside of the frame. The entire gun, including the single-action trigger, is solid steel forgings and then hand fitted. The results are increased durability and accuracy. It is one of the world's most expensive mass-produced pistols.”

“Figures.” She accepted the pistol, tested the heft, felt her hand sing. She had met master swordsmen who could lift a blade and know instantly its power and vintage. For her, the thrill had always come from guns. “Fixed sights dovetailed to the frame.”

“They have been calibrated to three hundred meters. If you miss, Agent Webb, it is because you missed.”

“I hold an expert qualification in small arms.”

“Naturally.” He handed her three loaded clips. “It would be helpful if you could determine who is pestering your friend. And if the bomb attack is somehow linked to Storm's work for me.”

Emma slipped the gun into her purse, along with two extra clips. Then she showed him the stone gaze she reserved for special times like this. “I really appreciate the ride and the weapon, Raphael. But if you are part of Harry's problem, I will hunt you down. Ditto if you put Storm in harm's way. There is no place on earth you can hide.”

A look of sadness crossed his face. “I remember once speaking those very same words.”

S
TORM CARRIED THE FLAVOR OF
Raphael's breath all the way to London.

She took the express train from Heathrow to Paddington station, going second class with all the other normal people. From there she caught the Cotswold Express. She entered the passage between carriages and made a series of phone calls. She knew the unseen spooks might still be tracking her, and she didn't care. She left two messages for Emma and another three on Harry's phone. It felt better than good to know Harry was back from the dead.

Storm remained standing in the passage between carriages. With the windows down the compartment was windy and noisy. But once they cleared London's outskirts, the air was laden with all the scents of an English spring. The afternoon was fairly warm, but without the heavy dampness that burdened Florida in late May. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of the river Thames. The banks were draped with willows, the water dappled by sunshine and slow-moving craft.

Her final call was to Curtis Armitage-Goode, a British dealer and longtime ally. When he heard who was on the line, he responded
with equal parts joy and exasperation. “Well, all I can say is, finally. Where on earth have you been?”

“Surviving.”

“Have you managed to do so?”

“Barely. Which is why I'm calling.”

“What is that atrocious noise?”

“I'm on a train. Between compartments. The window's open.”

“Be so good as to have a conductor guide you to first class so we can carry on a civilized conversation.”

“I'm calling from here for a reason.” She cupped the receiver. “I need your help in tracking down two items.”

“Are they in England?”

“My source says yes.” She described the first piece.

Curtis pondered a moment. “I might have a lead on that. What's your offer?”

“Standard finder's fee. Two percent.”

“No, no. What is your ceiling?”

With anyone else, she would have played it cagey. Storm said carefully, “For this piece I would expect to pay a commensurate amount.”

“A client with deep pockets. How splendid for us both. Where can I reach you?”

“I'm headed to Cirencester for tomorrow's auction. After that, I'm yours.”

“You're in England? Why didn't you let me know you were coming?”

“First, because I didn't know myself until about five hours ago. Second, because you'd ask me questions I can't answer.”

“What is your second item?”

“The Amethyst Clock.”

“My dear Storm. A clock that stops time? Really.”

“My client insists that it exists and that it is here.”

“Do you actually hear what you are saying?”

“I will pay you five thousand pounds to make a search. Regardless of the outcome.”

“I wouldn't do it for fifty. I might as well cart my reputation to the embalmers.”

Storm's mouth tasted of the pyre. “Some of us don't have the luxury of a choice.”

“No. Quite.” Curtis cleared his throat. “I don't suppose it would harm matters if I made a few discreet inquiries. Needless to say, if I hear anything I'll be certain to pass it along.”

“Exclusively.”

“What other way is there? And do take care, Storm. An item that lethal is bound to attract the worst sorts. It would be a pity to lose you. There are so few good hearts who've managed to survive.”

TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO, CIRENCESTER
had been the capital of Rome's westernmost province in Britain. Most of the town dated from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when its wool market had brought in medieval riches. The auction took place in the main hall of the local college, a Jacobean manor of honeyed Cotswold stone. The hall was two hundred feet long and eighty wide, and tiled in Carrera marble. The domed ceiling was painted to resemble a verdant English sunrise. The sun's rays were fashioned from gold overlay and gleamed with divine promise.

The hall was packed. The items on display were of jaw-dropping quality. Yet bidding was sparse, money tight. As Storm took her seat midway up the central aisle, the perspiring auctioneer announced, “Our next item is a necklace of eighteen-carat yellow gold laden with five emeralds totaling twenty-six carats.”

As his lovely assistant paraded her way down the main aisle, the auctioneer went on. “We shall start the bidding for this one-of-a-kind piece at eleven thousand pounds. Anyone? Very well, then. I shall allow you to steal it for eight. Do I see an opening bid from the gentleman in the front there? No?”

The auctioneer wiped his face with a rumpled handkerchief, then made a mess of stowing it. The cloth draped from his pocket like a white flag. “Give me five. Anything, ladies and gentlemen. I am open to any bid.”

A voice from the row behind Storm called, “I'll go three.”

“I think I know where you've been doing your shopping, sir. At night with a brick.” He waved his hands with the urgency of a conductor. “Do I hear four? Come now, ladies and gentlemen, I am unable to proceed to sale with only one bid. Who will offer me four thousand for this very fine example—”

“Three thousand, two hundred.”

“For thirty-two hundred pounds I might as well melt it down and gild my coffin. Retail valuation of this necklace is set at fifty thousand pounds. Come now, who will give me four?” He searched desperately, shook his head, raised the clapper. “Going once, twice.” He slammed down the hammer. “Sold for thirty-two hundred.”

The crowd murmured its own shock as the auctioneer muttered, “I'm slaving away up here selling hundred-pound notes for ten quid.”

The next item was a contemporary sculpture of warring cubes. Storm's attention drifted to the antique timepieces lining the wall closest to her. The clocks gave off a constant rain of metallic drumbeats, counting down the hours of another mystery-laden day.

As the auctioneer began his next windup, a voice from behind Storm hissed, “This is
outrageous
!”

The auctioneer halted his introduction of the next item, an oil from the Rubens school, and searched the hall.

Jacob Rausch stalked over and loomed above Storm. “Is it your intention to poison the atmosphere of every event I attend?”

“In case you hadn't noticed, Jacob, this is a public auction.”

He waved frantically for the attendant, who scurried over.
“This woman is absolutely not permitted to bid on a single item. Her credit is void, her company bankrupt!”

To her surprise, Storm found herself enjoying the attention. “Wrong on both counts.”

The auctioneer used his mike to inquire, “Is there a problem?”

“There most certainly is!” Jacob Rausch's hand came so close Storm felt the breeze through her hair. “This woman has no more business here than a parrot!”

Storm said, “Your father thought differently.”

His face grew redder still. “Aaron had
no
business making such a bargain with you.”

“It saved both our clients a small fortune.” Storm turned toward the front and raised her voice. “I apologize for the gentleman's lack of manners.”

Rausch yelled, “I won't stand for this!”

“No problem.” Storm found exquisite pleasure in not needing to turn around. “The exit is back that way.”

The prospect of a brewing battle had caused the auctioneer's demeanor to undergo a remarkable change. “Might I inquire as to which item is of interest to these parties?”

Storm did not need to check her catalogue. “Seventy-three.”

“Would anyone object to my shifting the order of sale?”

Jacob Rausch's voice echoed through the lofty chamber. “I strenuously object to these entire proceedings!”

“Duly noted, sir. Now perhaps you would be so good as to resume your seat? Thank you ever so.” He waved the attendant forward. “Lot seventy-three, a quite remarkable example of early Byzantine artwork known as a paten. What am I bid for this splendid item? Shall we start the bidding at twenty-five thousand pounds?”

Storm raised her paddle.

“Twenty-five thousand from the lady to my right.” The auctioneer motioned to his attendant, who started a slow parade down the central aisle. “Who will offer me thirty?”

Storm fitted the phone's Bluetooth into her ear and speed-dialed Raphael's number.

He answered instantly. “Yes?”

“Jacob Rausch is here.”

“Excellent.”

“He threw a terrific fit when he spotted me.”

“I'm sorry I missed it. Where are we?”

Storm lifted her paddle in response to Rausch's counterbid. “A hundred thousand, rising in twenty-five-thousand increments.”

“Dollars?”

“Pounds.” She lifted her paddle. “Do I have a ceiling?”

“Quite the contrary.” Raphael Danton was clearly enjoying himself. “I want you to crush the man.”

“This makes no sense whatsoever.”

She was half expecting another cold rebuke. But Danton continued to surprise. “My orders are specific. It is not enough that we acquire the items. Where possible we are instructed to make the opposition suffer a most public defeat.”

“So my deal with Rausch Senior—”

“Did not go over at all well. My client wanted you fired. I convinced them it would be a serious error. With considerable difficulty, I might add.”

She struggled to offer “Thank you.”

Danton laughed. “Difficult words to say, are they not?”

“Horrible.” But she was smiling. “Like pulling nails.”

Rausch must have seen her good humor, because he almost shrieked the words “Two hundred thousand pounds!”

“Did you hear Rausch's bid?”

“Yes. Go to five.”

As Storm rose to her feet, she felt the audience's silence, the light shift, the world refocus. The pleasure was so intense she did not even try to hide the shiver. “I offer five hundred thousand pounds.”

The auctioneer sang an exultant chorus. “Five hundred
thousand pounds from the lovely lady to my right. Who will give me six?”

Storm said into her phone, “We're rising in hundred-thousand-pound increments.”

“How is Rausch taking it?”

She met a gaze of pure Manhattan venom. “Not at all well.”

Danton laughed once more. “Let him bid twice more, then bump it to one-five.”