The Black Madonna (8 page)

As soon as the car halted, the agent in the passenger seat opened his door and stepped out and waited for a man from the other vehicle to walk over and settle in. The newcomer swiveled in his seat so that he faced her as straight as he could and said, “Agent Webb, I wonder if you perhaps recall our last meeting.”

Trying to see the man clearly was like looking through a translucent screen. She fought for enough air to say, “No.”

“Rubin Kleinmann. I had the honor of serving as Israeli ambassador to the United States. I have handed over the responsibility to my successor and am preparing to return to my country next week.”

“Th-the church,” she recalled, “Sean's funeral.”

“The funeral of my dear friend. Just so. May I say, Agent Webb, how deeply sorry I am for your loss.”

“You're certain?” Her swallow was a battleground trek. “Harry is . . .”

“There is no doubt. I am sorry. Agent Webb, you must please forgive me for speaking with you at such a distressing time. But the matter is most pressing. When did you last have communication with Mr. Bennett?”

She applied the now drenched handkerchief to her eyes. “Three days ago. Harry said something about driving to Hebron to check out a buy.”

“Mr. Bennett was assisting us in tracking down counterfeiters of ancient artifacts operating inside the West Bank. Did he tell you of this?”

“H-he said there was no danger.”

“Agent Webb, please, this is crucial. Did Harry say anything about who he was planning to meet?”

“Just that he thought he had found the source.”

“Did he mention Russians?”

“What?”

“Did Mr. Bennett make any suggestion that Russians were involved in this trade? In the past they were heavily involved in the Palestinian insurrections; of course you know that.”

“But all that stopped years ago.”

“Yes. So we assumed as well.”

“I-I don't understand. You're saying Harry got caught in West Bank crossfire?”

The priest spoke with the professional manner of one who had often dealt with the recently bereaved. “We have heard through sources that Harry Bennett was the target.”

“Harry had nothing to do with Russians.”

The former ambassador said, “When we first heard this rumor, we discounted it as well. Hebron has been the flashpoint for several intifadas. We assumed Mr. Bennett was simply the unintended victim of internecine conflict. But our sources have now
confirmed what the Vatican heard. We have checked very thoroughly. The attackers used a bomb in an attempt to mask their operations. And the Russians were most definitely involved.”

But her mind could not get past the possibility that this was all some grotesque mistake. “Harry has more lives than a dozen cats. Maybe he escaped.”

“I regret to tell you that we have received absolute confirmation of his demise.” The ambassador paused dutifully and then continued. “Agent Webb, please try to understand what has happened. We hired Harry Bennett thinking that the worst he might find was a counterfeiting organization that funneled money to insurgents. Instead, he seems to have uncovered an attempt by the Russians to reinsert themselves into our region. We know they have recently made overtures to Syria and Hezbollah in Lebanon. But this is the first time we've found evidence of their operations inside the West Bank.”

The priest said, “What is confusing to us, Agent Webb, is that the Palestinians themselves brought us this news. We have numerous projects within the community of Palestinian Christians, you see. An ally in Hebron came to our mission and reported that the Russians had been behind this. Why, our source did not know. But it
was
the Russians and their target
was
Mr. Bennett.”

The ambassador said, “Agent Webb, can you tell us what Storm Syrrell might be working on at this time?”

The day's tumult condensed to where it crimped her very soul. “Storm is in Europe.”

“Are you aware, Agent Webb, that Ms. Syrrell recently bid on and purchased a Russian oil from the postrevolutionary period?”

She blew her nose. “You're not making sense.”

“I agree this is most confusing. But please try to understand. At the same time that Mr. Bennett was tragically lost to us, Storm Syrrell arrived at an auction to bid on one particular item. The sale price was one million dollars. This is double what the painting should be worth. Possibly three times its value.”

Emma reached for her door. “I have to go.”

“Agent Webb, please hear us out. We fear that whatever killed Harry Bennett may also be targeting your friend Ms. Syrrell. There is the utmost urgency to our determining why the Russian government considered Mr. Bennett such a threat. We are concerned they might also go after Ms. Syrrell.”

Her door handle did not work. “Let me out of this car.”

The ambassador spoke to the agent behind the wheel. Instantly the man was moving. “Please, Agent Webb. Can you tell us—”

“Storm is supposed to search out something called the Amethyst Clock.”

The priest said, “But that is a myth.”

“Storm thinks so as well.”

“What is this?” asked the ambassador.

“It is nothing; is what it is.” Father Gregor appeared insulted by the news. “A legend that should have died centuries ago. A fable with no importance except that it represents a most tragic period in my nation's history.”

Emma was moving before the agent fully opened her door. The ambassador leaned over farther and offered her his card. “Please, Agent Webb. Call me if there is anything further you might think of.”

“Or need,” Father Gregor added, pressing a second card into her hand. “We are ready to serve you, madame. And please accept—”

Emma slammed her door on the condolences and fled.

But midway up the path, she found herself turning around and hurrying back to the car. Apparently the analytical portion of her brain still functioned, even when her heart was crushed and her life over. When the agent opened the rear door, she leaned down and asked the priest, “Why you?”

“Pardon me?”

“A Polish priest just happens to receive word about a bomb in the West Bank. Why?”

The priest shared a look with the ambassador, enough for Emma to know she had this one thing right.

Father Gregor said, “There is far more at stake than a good man's tragic demise.”

Not for me, Emma thought, and was forced to clear her face once more.

“No matter what Ms. Syrrell has told you, this crisis does not revolve around a mythical clock.” The priest's blurred image leaned in closer. “The Black Madonna. Remember this name. If you hear it mentioned, any fragment of information at all, you must contact me, Agent Webb. Immediately.”

H
ARRY BENNETT WATCHED THE LIGHT
fade. An hour earlier, when he had first awoken, the window across from his bed had framed a vision of purest gold. It was as fine a welcome-back as he could have ever imagined.

His brain felt fuzzy around the edges. Every motion had a tentative feel, as though he could rip the veil of drugs apart with one wrong move. Even shifting his gaze stretched his cocoon of safety.

Desert sunsets were slippery things. Back on the Herodium dig, the sun had dropped like a big red stone. Bang and gone in what felt like ten seconds. The Herodium crew usually stopped what they were doing and watched the western hills become a rim of burnished gold, then copper, then rust, then a simple silhouette against the stars. The heat faded more slowly. But by the time everybody had showered and gathered for dinner, the night winds carried a chill that would have seemed impossible a couple of hours earlier. Harry never thought he would look back on Herodium with fondness. But just then, being able to recall anything at all made for an extremely fine moment.

A nurse passed through the hall turning on the lights and shutting the windows. At least Harry thought she was a nurse. She wore a colored scarf over her dark hair and a tattered blue
surgeon's shirt over blue jeans and house slippers. She checked on several patients as she passed their beds. Harry's field of vision gradually expanded to where he could take in the long chamber where he lay. Beds lined both walls, and every one that Harry could see was occupied. The nurse shut the window against the night breeze, crossed the aisle, and spoke to the kid in the bed beside Harry. The nurse stroked the forehead of the silent boy, then she noticed that Harry's eyes were open.

She walked over and spoke to him. Harry thought for a moment that the drugs kept him from understanding. Then he realized she had addressed him in Arabic.

The nurse spoke again. Harry remained silent. It was not a conscious decision. He felt as though he needed to get his head fully around whatever it was that had landed him here. Wherever here was.

Then a pair of policemen appeared behind the nurse. They wore dark blue uniforms with Arabic lettering sewn in gold on their sleeves and above their shirt pockets. The nurse plucked a tattered ID from the white metal table beside Harry's bed and handed it to them. The policemen studied it, inspected the bandages covering Harry's forehead and cheek, then handed back the ID. As the nurse stowed it away, Harry recognized the ID as belonging to the parrot-faced guard he had last seen outside the alley.

Harry decided if the policemen and the nurse all thought he looked like that guy, he must be in as bad shape as he felt.

His thirst was so fierce Harry couldn't let the nurse go. So he slowly ungummed his mouth. The nurse got the message and lifted a cup and fitted the plastic straw into his mouth. Harry sucked and moaned and sucked until the straw hit air.

One of the cops spoke to him in Arabic. Harry followed the guy with his eyes but made no move to speak. Not yet, he decided. He had, after all, been wandering a Hebron street well after midnight in search of illicit gold. Which was bound to rank fairly low on the Palestinians' list of decent jobs.

Not to mention the fact that he was a professional salvager. Who just happened to be in Hebron secretly helping the Israelis track down counterfeiters.

The other cop chimed in with the first one. Harry followed the exchange with his eyes, thinking, Thanks just the same, but I think I'll sit this one out.

Then he made the mistake of trying to cough.

Harry had never imagined so many different parts of him could shriek all at once.

The problem was, now that he had started, he couldn't stop. And every cough only racked his poor body further, wrenching out more pain.

The nurse hustled the two cops away. Harry would have begged her for something to ease his situation, only just then he couldn't find the air to breathe, much less speak. Which turned out to be for the best. The nurse rushed back over, this time holding an old-timey glass syringe with metal loops like trigger guards for her fingers and an oversized ring for her thumb. Harry noticed all this because he watched the needle find his vein like a starving man inspecting a slab of prime rib.

The drug flooded his system like ice. He could actually feel it swoosh through his veins, a huge rush that just plucked him up and carried him away.

T
HE SPANISH AUCTION WAS PROVING
to be a rolling three-day circus. None of the first day's items had interested Storm. But there were worse places for a girl to have a day off than Marbella, even if she did share the old city with a million beer-swilling Brits. She did a little shopping, then retreated to poolside. But an early night did little to prepare her for Emma's surprise arrival with world-wrecking news.

“Are you sure he's gone?”

“As sure as I can be with nothing to go on.” Emma paused long enough to reapply her handkerchief. “Nobody can tell me a thing.”

Storm was making do with Kleenex. She had gone through the little packet in her purse and was now working on Emma's. The space around her chair was littered with damp white blotches. “Did you speak with the archeologist in charge?”