The Black Madonna (9 page)

Something about the question caused Emma's eyes to leak more. “Twice.”

“What did she say?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Tell me, Emma.”

Her neck was so taut that Storm could watch her pulse. “They can't identify enough remains to bury.”

That silenced Storm for a time. “How can they be sure?”

“They tracked Harry into Hebron. The last time we spoke, he said he was on the trail of a master counterfeiter.” Emma blew her nose. “I could wring his neck for taking such risks.”

“But if they haven't actually found—”

“Let's not forget the mystery guests who demolished my last afternoon in Washington.”

Marbella's main theater was filling for the auction's second day. Storm and Emma occupied a pair of chairs at the back of the foyer. New arrivals broke and swirled about them like dark-suited fish avoiding some tragic shoal. Storm said, “If they haven't identified Harry it means he could still be alive.”

Emma gave her the look of a woman afraid to hope. “I've been trying to tell myself that very same thing for a day and a half.”

Storm needed both hands to pry herself out of the seat. “It's time for us to go be corporate.”

Emma rose in stages. “I'm not sure how much good I can be.”

“I can't handle this alone. Not now.” Storm gave her face another wipe, pushed back her hair, and said, “Let's do this so we can get out of here.”

Storm knew she looked a wreck and didn't care. The cloak of mourning was evident enough to silence all conversation as they passed through the crowd. The other attendees glanced over and then swiftly turned away, as though Mediterranean etiquette said it was impolite to watch two women fall apart.

The four men and one woman surrounding Aaron Rausch fled as though Storm and Emma's sorrow were contagious. Jacob Rausch's father, however, was made of sterner stuff. “My son will be most displeased to learn you are here, Ms. Syrrell.”

Storm ignored the rebuff and said, “This is Emma Webb.
Emma is a senior agent with Homeland Security. Emma, show the man your badge.”

The sight of Emma's leather case, combined with the women's stricken features, left the New York antiques trader very pliant indeed. He made no protest as Storm pulled him to the stairwell leading to the closed upper balcony. “What is the matter?”

“I can't tell you.” Not and keep hold of what control she had left.

Emma added, “Our current crisis does not directly affect you or your company.”

Though in his seventies, Aaron Rausch possessed a certain ravaged handsomeness. His hair was swept back into a mane of silver froth, his clothes impeccable. Where his son Jacob Rausch was New York slick, Aaron Rausch revealed a courtly eastern European veneer. “Forgive me, Ms. Syrrell, but if you can tell me nothing and you have a crisis that does not affect me, then why are we speaking?”

“I want to offer you a take-it-or-leave-it bargain.”

“Every deal contains a certain amount of what my son likes to call wiggle room.”

“Not this one.” Storm pulled from her purse Raphael Danton's list of the four items she was to acquire. She passed it over. “Not if you want to acquire any of these. I have been granted an unlimited budget and instructions to pay whatever is necessary to obtain them.”

He handed back the paper and tried for disinterest. “And your offer is?”

“My guess is, you're planning to bid on all four items,” Storm said. “Maybe you came with the same orders as I did. Buy them all for whatever it takes. So it's in the best interests of both our clients if we reach a compromise.”

“I'll take the first two.”

The items were listed in order of descending estimated value. “First and third or second and fourth, that's your choice.”

His gaze flickered over and back. “Second and fourth.”

“Done.” Storm stowed the sheet away. “See how easy that was?”

“Now if you ladies will—”

“Wait, Aaron, please. We're not done yet. I told you. My client
doesn't care
how much it costs. For all I know, he
wants
to bid you up, just to have the pleasure of winning no matter
what
you offer.”

“You're bluffing.”

“That's what your son thought and look where it got him. I want information, Aaron. That's why we're having this conversation. Tell me why this particular auction is so important.”

“I can't speak for you and your associate. But I represent genuine buyers who—”

Storm stepped forward, revealing how close she was to the edge. “I'm going to offer truth in exchange for truth. I have a new client, one so wealthy the price of the items I've been sent to acquire does not matter. I do not know my client's name. I am dealing with agents who take pleasure in mystery. I want to know what's going on.”

“How on earth could you expect me to tell you that?”

She clenched herself tight enough to stay calm as she said, “Because my best friend has been killed, and I'm worried it was because of something tied to this auction.”

“That is why Homeland Security is involved?”

Emma replied for her. “Maybe. We're not certain what the parameters are. Or the dangers.”

“You can't expect me to divulge confidential information.”

“Anything you can offer is more than I have right now.” Storm fished in her purse. “Do you have a tissue?”

“I'm sorry—”

“Here.” Emma slipped a fresh Kleenex into Storm's hand.

“Perhaps you ladies might care to sit down?”

“I'm okay here.”

“The auction. Well.” He shot his cuffs. Patted his silver-fox sideburns. Gathered his dignity. “This sale is under the auspices of the Spanish anticorruption judiciary. For the past ten years, the Costa del Sol has seen the biggest real estate boom in Europe's history. When the bubble burst, the authorities discovered an underlying web of African dictators and Russian mafia who had used the boom to launder money. Licenses were granted to construction projects that have overwhelmed local services and wrecked southern Spain's last remaining pristine wilderness. The auction yesterday was of assets seized from corrupt Spanish officials who were bribed huge amounts to look the other way.”

“And today?”

“Now it is the Russians' turn.” His gesture took in their location, Marbella's Teatro Municipale. “This theater is across the street from the bank used to store the seized assets. And other than the football stadium, it's the largest venue they could find. They are expecting a standing-room crowd. I must warn you, bidding will be fierce, regardless of what arrangement you and I—”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“The Africans. The worst of them was Nguema Mbasogo, president of Equatorial Guinea. Supposedly he and his minions hid almost a quarter of a billion dollars around this area. Then there's Sudanese oil money, Nigerian kidnappers, Zaire diamond merchants. This region has attracted a truly vile lot.”

Emma said, “Tell us about the Russians.”

“Their mobs operate throughout Europe, mostly prostitution and drugs.” He looked from one woman to the other. “Is that what this is about?”

“I told you, Aaron. I don't know. Is there any tie to the West Bank?”

The dealer showed surprise for the first time. “Not that I am aware of.”

The auctioneer chose that moment to walk across the stage, tap on the mike, and welcome the gathered throng in both Spanish and English. Aaron said, “I suggest you ladies find seats unless you prefer to stand all day.”

“Wait. What can you tell me about the Amethyst Clock?”

“Only that it is a legend with no credence whatsoever.” He stepped away. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

Emma waited for the dealer to make his way back to the center of the theater, shaking hands and giving a politician's wave as he went. “He knows something.”

Storm tracked Aaron's progress. “I think so too.”

“He tried to hide it. But when you mentioned the clock, he jerked like he'd been shot.”

STORM WOKE TO THE MELODY
of a foreign land drifting through her balcony doors. Sunlight frosted the lace curtains. She smelled fresh-baked bread. Out to sea, a boat chugged a deep-throated cadence while gulls sang in frantic harmony. The miniature chandelier dangling from the high ceiling gleamed a cheerful hello. For a few easy breaths, Storm felt as though she actually held the prospect of hope.

Then her cell phone rang. And as she reached to the side table, she saw Emma watching her from the other bed. There in the other woman's hollowed gaze was everything Storm had managed to forget. At least for a moment.

“Hello.”

“It's Aaron Rausch, Ms. Syrrell. I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“What time is it?”

“Just after seven. Don't tell me I woke you.”

“No.” She slipped her feet to the floor and tried to locate her business voice. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rausch?”

“I am downstairs. I was hoping we might have a word before the auction begins.”

“Give me fifteen minutes.” Storm shut the phone, turned to Emma, and asked, “How long have you been awake?”

“Wrong question.” Emma spoke to the ceiling. “To wake up implies having been asleep.”

“Rausch wants to meet.”

“I might as well tag along.” Emma tossed her covers aside. “I'm sure not doing any good here.”

Emma did not speak again until they were waiting for the elevator. “I can't get over everything I've done wrong.”

Storm started to say how this was probably a normal part of grief, but the look on her friend's face dissolved the words before they emerged.

Emma stared at the closed doors and said, “You know about my folks.”

“Yes.” Emma's father was a dentist, her mother a Washington socialite. They had disliked Harry Bennett almost as much as they did their daughter's profession. Harry had met them once and begged Emma never to make him go again.

The elevator pinged. The doors slid open to reveal a half-dozen faces. Emma did not move. Storm wasn't certain her friend saw them at all. They remained where they were.

When the doors shut again, Emma said, “I've known for months that Harry and I needed to move on. Stop loving each other from six thousand miles apart. Give our relationship a chance to grow. Then I'd circle back to what I grew up with. And find another good reason to let things stay like they were. Now it's all too late.”

Storm waited until Emma had regained control, then took hold of her friend's arm. “Maybe we should take the stairs.”

THE SIGHT OF THE TWO
women appearing together did not please the elderly dealer. “I was hoping to have a private moment with Ms. Syrrell.”

“Until we discover exactly what is behind all this,” Emma replied, “Storm and I are joined at the hip.”

Rausch inspected her carefully. “You think the death of your friend is tied to these items we're bidding on?”

“That's an excellent question, Mr. Rausch. Here's one back at you. Who precisely are you working for?”

To Storm's surprise, the dealer did not rebuke Emma for an improper query. Instead, he turned to Storm and said, “My son Jacob was most displeased to hear you were at the auction yesterday.”

“I'm so glad to hear it.”

“Last week I told him he was making a mistake, seeking to acquire your business. He assured me that you were on the verge of going under.” The gentleman looked as elegant as he had the previous evening, down to the silk handkerchief in his jacket pocket and the fresh rose in his lapel. “My son dislikes being proven wrong.”

“He wasn't wrong,” Storm replied. “I got a last-minute break.”

“Honesty. What an original approach.” He gestured to the sunlit café. “Might I offer you ladies a coffee?”

The stone terrace was rimmed by Venetian urns and iron latticework. Their table, shaded by a broad, square parasol, was set close enough to the edge for Storm to feel the Mediterranean's chill. Their waiter wore a dark suit and bow tie. The china was Limoges. Aaron Rausch saw to their needs with the elegant ease of a man born to spend two hundred dollars on a breakfast he did not want. “No doubt my son would disapprove of our meeting like this as well. Even so, I am tempted to offer my own share of honesty. But first, I need to ask you a question. Who are you representing?”

“I told you yesterday. I have no idea.” Storm hesitated, then admitted, “My deal came through Raphael Danton.”

“I know of him, though we have never met. He has risen to the top of a new industry that caters to the whims of the ultra-rich. Most of his competition, I suspect, will vanish with the rest
of the moneyed froth. But Danton is reputed to offer value for money, and his client list is legendary.” Aaron Rausch toasted her with his coffee. “I congratulate you on your eleventh-hour prize.”

“He hired me because I was desperate. I get the distinct impression that Danton likes his staff to live in a state of permanent terror.”

“Then he will be disappointed. You have far too much of your grandfather's nature ever to bend. You would shatter into a billion pieces first. Which is what I told my son.” Aaron Rausch made a process of folding his napkin. “Very well. The answer to your question is, I represent a new client, one for whom we have never worked before.”

“A Russian,” Emma said.

“An extremely rich, powerful, and ruthless Russian. And that is all I am legally able to tell you.”

Emma asked, “Does he have ties to the Russian secret service?”

“What an astonishing question. However could I know such a thing, since all I am hired to do is acquire artwork?”

“So he does.”

“Were I to hazard a guess, I would say anyone this powerful must certainly have connections at the highest level of Russian society. These days, the line between the government and the new corporate oligarchy is so blurred as to be nonexistent.”