The Black Madonna (26 page)

“Well, if you don't mind me saying, perhaps you'd be better off not inspecting this particular gift horse too closely. After all,
your company is surviving these perilous times because of this new buyer.”

But the dealer's words only added to her frustration. “We're missing the point.”

“Which is?”

Storm bent back over the magnifying glass. “I have no idea.”

S
TORM SPOTTED EMMA AS SOON
as the bellman tipped his hat and opened Claridge's brass Art Deco door. Emma was seated across the main foyer inside a formal gallery. Her table backed up to massive floral display. The pedestal was four feet across and supported a mountain of ivory-colored roses and lilies. Emma stared at nothing, her features tight with sunburned exhaustion.

A man's voice shouted, “Storm!”

Claridge's was not the sort of place where people normally yelled. Or ran, which Raphael Danton did, down the central staircase and across the marble-tiled foyer.

He met her beneath the main chandelier and swept her into an embrace. Storm caught sight of her own astonished reflection in a gilded mirror as he murmured, “I was so worried.”

Storm normally hated anything that tore life out of her control. She also loathed being the center of attention, unless she chose to put herself there. Yet here she was, clenched by a man handsome enough to slow foot traffic in the next area code. Every eye in the hotel was on them. And all she could think was, He's so tall.

Over Raphael's shoulder, Storm watched a young woman follow him down the formal staircase. She was some exotic mixture of Asian and Western bloodlines and as precisely made up as a geisha. If Storm spent a full year in front of the mirror with an army of pros to do the makeover, she would never approach this girl's elegance.

This stylish young woman gawked in openmouthed astonishment at Raphael.

Raphael broke off his embrace, touched Storm's face, started to speak, then noticed his watch. “We have to hurry.”

“Excuse me?”

“We're expected at the Athenaeum in less than an hour.” He glanced around. “Where is your luggage?”

“I left it with the man outside. Why?”

“You must change.”

She looked down at herself. The gray suit carried the rumpled stains of a hard day. “This is the nicest thing I've got with me. And you need to—”

“No, no, this won't do at all. Sir Julius is extremely formal.” Raphael spotted the hovering Asian woman.

And snapped his fingers.

The woman actually jumped. “Sir?”

Raphael said to Storm, “This is Muriel Lang. She is one of my personal—”

“Raphael.”

“Storm, it is vital—”

“Don't snap your fingers.”

It was hard to tell who was more shocked, the man or his aide.

Storm went on, “If you made a list of all the things that would send me straight through the roof, snapping your fingers at somebody would be at the tippy-top.”

He colored. Started to speak. Then clenched down hard on whatever it was he was about to say. The effort left him sounding a bit strangled. “Tippy-top?”

“Be glad I'm not armed.”

“Yes. Very well.” He turned to the woman. “Take Ms. Syrrell to Bond Street. Chanel, perhaps. You know what is required. And give my compliments to the manager at Cartier; ask him for the loan of—”

“Raphael.”

“Storm, please, it is vital—”

“We're not going anywhere.” Storm pointed to where Emma stood by her table. “We have to speak with my friend.”

“My dear, it simply is not—”

“Now, Raphael.” She already had him by the arm. “Your people in Athens will understand.”

“The Athenaeum,” he said, correcting her. “It's a club.”

“Swell. But we need to sit down and figure out what is going on.”

Muriel said, “Sir, if I might suggest, I could shop for the lady myself.”

Raphael allowed Storm to pull him toward the gallery. “Something elegant yet understated.”

“I understand. Madame, might I ask your shoe size?”

“Nine and a half.”

Raphael said, “Take the car. Bring back several selections. Don't forget Cartier. Hurry.”

Emma frowned at Raphael's hold on Storm's hand as they approached. Storm rounded the table and hugged her friend. “Are you okay?”

“I'm alive. So is Harry. The rest is detail.” Emma nodded a tight greeting to Raphael and said, “I need to ask you some questions.”

“We are late for a most urgent—” He caught sight of Storm's warning glance and sighed. “Perhaps we should sit down.”

Emma said, “I need to know who your client is.”

Raphael studied her carefully but showed none of the outrage Storm would have expected. “Such information is highly confidential.”

“This thing is moving too fast and has grown too big for you to play coy. Besides which, your client list is not legally protected. I know because I've checked. If it's necessary, I'll go to my British counterparts, explain the situation, and formally request that you be held in custody until it can be determined if any of your clients are actively involved in the financing or direct promotion of terrorism. But I'd prefer to deal with this over tea, wouldn't you?”

From the adjoining chamber, a violin trio began playing Gershwin. Raphael said simply, “I would rather like a cup of coffee.”

“Order it yourself.”

Storm said, “Emma.”

“What?”

“Raphael is not our enemy.”

“You sure about that? I'm trying to figure out what role he played in my abduction.”

Storm said, “What abduction?”

Emma said, “I'm waiting, Danton.”

Raphael signaled a passing waiter, ordered coffees, then asked, “How far will this information go?”

“I'm in the business of keeping secrets.”

“My client is Sir Julius Irving.”

Storm's own surprise was mirrored on Emma's face. “He's British?”

“Sir Julius Irving is a corporate solicitor who has risen to the pinnacle of British establishment. Knight of the British Empire, member of the Queen's Privy Council. He is related to the Earl of Gloucester, but as youngest son to the youngest son. According to one source, Sir Julius inherited all of the aspirations and none of the means. His fortune is his own.”

“What are his connections to the Russian government?”

“None whatsoever that I have been able to determine. Sir Julius is fabulously wealthy. What is more, it is legitimate wealth. When all this started, I checked. Thoroughly. He holds interests
in a number of Britain's oldest companies, a string of castle hotels in Scotland, several distilleries.”

Storm asked, “Why is he bidding against Rausch's client?”

“That is a mystery for which I do not have an answer. Six weeks ago, the PA to Sir Julius contacted me. I was carefully vetted. I had no idea why. You must understand, most of my clients belong to the newest class of the wealthy. What I offer is not merely the power to acquire but also an understanding of how to be wealthy on an international scale. This goes far beyond where to shop. It amounts to a complete cultural makeover. That is why I am successful. But people like Sir Julius rarely use my services. They have family estates, private secretaries, butlers. They are conservative in their habits and established in their routines.”

Raphael's calm candor did little to defuse Emma's ire. “None of this explains what happened to Storm. Or Harry. Or me. Or why we're attracting the attention of multiple intel divisions.”

“I quite agree.”

Storm asked Emma again, “You were abducted?”

“This afternoon.” Emma related the events in terse bullets.

When she was finished, Danton said, “This was intended as a message. Russian intelligence has demonstrated to you in the clearest terms possible that if they had been behind Storm's kidnapping, she would not be alive.”

“My boss in Washington said the same thing.” Emma studied him, then went on. “I have been instructed to share some intel with you. In strictest confidence. We have identified Rausch's client as one Vladimir Abramov.”

Danton showed genuine surprise. “That is utterly impossible.”

Emma said, “What are you talking about?”

“Vladimir Abramov is bankrupt.”

“He is the buyer, Danton. We know that for certain.”

“And I am telling you the man does not have ten cents to his name.”

Emma said decisively, “So you know something Homeland Security doesn't?”

“About the new Russian billionaires, perhaps. And about Vladimir Abramov, apparently so.”

“Homeland has done a careful rundown on the guy. He owns the majority share of Russia's largest aluminum producer.”

“But over the past ten days the value of his holdings has effectively evaporated. In exchange for making Vladimir's debts vanish, the Russian government is quietly in the process of eating his assets whole.” Danton held up his hand. “Please, Agent Webb. On this I am absolutely certain. One of my Russian clients is on the verge of collapse because of Abramov's unpaid debts. He is in Moscow as we speak, begging for crumbs.”

Storm said, “So we have a British lord with no ties to the Russians, bidding against a Russian with no money. Does that make sense to you?”

“Not in the least.” Danton rose to his feet. “Which is why I am taking you to meet Sir Julius yourself. But we must hurry. The man positively despises being kept waiting.”

THE SUITE RAPHAEL DANTON HAD
booked for Storm was as intimate as an Art Deco teacup. The mirror frames were hand-embossed with the image of a slender woman in a flowing gown. The bed's headboard was inlaid with the design of two ballroom dancers ready to waltz her into sleep. The glass shower and the closet doors held etchings of similar figures. More were printed on the silk divan in the parlor. Storm wanted to stretch out and enjoy the place for a month. But Raphael's elegant young assistant laid out dresses on Storm's bed and pressed her with silent urgency.

Muriel stood with her hands clasped in front of her, not looking directly at Storm but keeping her in her field of vision at all times. Storm joined her beside the bed, surveyed the four dresses, and declared, “Wow.”

“I think they are rather nice, given the short notice.”

“They're fab. Which one would you choose?”

“Perhaps the green one here.”

Muriel expertly helped Storm slip into the froth of emerald silk. The dress was fashioned as a twenties ball gown minus the train and ended just above her knees. The dress was gathered at two points, the left shoulder and the left hip, so that the hem flowed in an asymmetrical fashion. Storm stared at the strange apparition in the mirror and asked, “Is this Chanel?”

Muriel tore the wrapping off a pair of patterned stockings. “Balenciaga.”

“You had time to hit two shops?”

“Seven. The shoes are from Ferragamo. Purse from Louis Vuitton. Jewelry from Cartier. And the gray shift is from Max Mara. But I see now it is too flashy. With your striking looks, it would be, well . . .”

“Overkill?”

“Quite.”

Storm accepted heels of pale-green lizard skin, slipped them on, and rose to her feet. “Unless, of course, Raphael goes for overkill.”

“Ms. Syrrell, I have served as Mr. Danton's personal aide for three years and two months. Until today, I would have thought it impossible for Mr. Danton to be diverted away from an urgent meeting with Sir Julius.” Muriel joined her by the mirror. “If anyone on the planet needs less overkill than you do, I have yet to meet her.”

“Will you do my makeup?”

“Certainly, madame.”

“My name is Storm.”

“Sit on the vanity stool, please.”

“How much time do we have?”

“You and Mr. Danton are already late. Sir Julius will be livid. He positively abhors being kept waiting, even by the queen.” Muriel brushed at Storm's hair with strong professional strokes. “You will make your entrance and both gentlemen will instantly suffer from complete amnesia.”