The Curse (12 page)

I got silence for a moment before he answered.

“She may have overheard a discussion I had and misinterpreted what I was saying.”

“Which was?”

“I was telling an associate that you were once … inadvertently involved in the theft of a national treasure.”

I restrained myself from blowing him off over the phone. Unfortunately, I had been involved—
inadvertently
—in an infamous incident in which a national treasure of Iraq had been looted.

“What did you say that made Fatima think I could be involved in the theft of the scarab?” I asked.

“My associate had suggested that because of your background, you might have knowledge of the scarab incident.”

“What? That I was one of the thieves?”

“Please understand, it was a call in which we were bouncing back and forth different theories and strategies. I had no idea that Fatima would misinterpret what was being said. Obviously, if I thought you were in any way connected with or knew anything about the theft, I would not have hired you to authenticate it.”

I had to admit that the woman, out of her mind from grief and guilt, could have been suspicious of me after hearing me described as some sort of international art thief.

“What exactly did Fatima say to you before she jumped in front of the train?” he asked.

“She mumbled some stuff about curses.”

I was deliberately vague because I didn't want him to know how little I really knew. And I didn't want to tell him I was literally on the run from the police because it would give him leverage over me. I was stuck in the deal because he could open doors for me to get answers, but I also wanted to get a bonus. I figured I was going to need it if I had to hire an attorney when I got back to New York.

“I regret you had to witness the tragic end to her life,” he said. “You may, of course, keep the retainer I gave you and return home. However, I wish you would consider continuing with our arrangement. I don't want to sound melodramatic, but I'm sure poor Fatima would rest better if the scarab was recovered.”

I had no intention of walking away from the deal. I needed the money now more than ever. But I had to grit my teeth to keep from telling Kaseem that at this point I was more interested in getting information that would clear me with the subway cop than him getting back the scarab. And I still wasn't completely convinced that Fatima would have reacted so violently when she heard I might be involved in the theft.

Wouldn't she have demanded that I give back the scarab rather than trying to stab me to death?

I shook my head in disgust. I didn't know what had been going on in that crazy woman's mind.

“If you are willing to continue on,” he said, “I will have the next payment for you tomorrow.”

“I want twice what you promised me. And I want it today, not tomorrow.”

“I'm not in Britain. I flew back to Paris to take care of another matter. I'll cross over and meet with you tomorrow afternoon with your payment, double as you have asked. You have earned it many times over. In the meantime, I've arranged for you to have the opportunity to examine some pictures and a reproduction of the scarab at the Radcliff museum.”

I listened quietly as he told me I was to meet an art dealer in Salisbury at the train station.

After I hung up, my jaws were tight. I was looking for answers and didn't like the ones I had gotten from Kaseem. Worse, I had the feeling that I was being led around by the nose.

Money, money, money
. That's what it was all about. Like a dog chasing its tail, I had to run after the money in what was becoming a vicious circle.

22

The taxi ride from Heathrow to Waterloo Station took me through a damp, gray, overcast London, with threatening storm clouds that fed my own sense of dread that my feet were sinking deeper into a morass. It was too bad, because London was on my short list of favorite large cities.

I followed Kaseem's instructions, catching a train to Salisbury, where he said I would be met by the Radcliff woman's art consultant. I'd been on the rail line before because stunning relics of antiquity were on its route—Stonehenge and the Roman ruins at Bath.

I laid my bag on the table with seats facing each other in the hopes that people would think all the seats were occupied. I wasn't in the mood for any companion.

I hurried to the lounge car to get a cup of coffee to help my jet lag, hoping my bag would still be there when I returned to my seat.

When I got back, I checked my smartphone for messages. There was nothing from Michelangelo; only two calls from bill collectors. I ignored those. I planned to send each of them something from my cash hoard when I got home.

A man sat down across from me and I looked up and did a double take when I realized he was staring at me … not a polite stare but that look a cop gives you when he's wondering what you're up to.

He had a southern Mediterranean olive complexion similar to Kaseem's, but that didn't necessarily make him Egyptian because like everywhere else, Britain was multiracial.

“Say something,” I said, “so I'll know if you're a British or an Egyptian cop.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is there a sign around my neck that identifies me as a policeman?”

Definitely Egyptian, though he had a British accent underlying his native one, a not uncommon trait for people who learned their English from a Brit.

“It's your eyes. You're trying to look into my head instead of my clothes. At the moment I'd much rather meet a man putting the make on a woman than a cop out for information I don't have.”

The smile on his face broke up the stern look of officialdom.

Good-looking, maybe late thirties, tall, well built, with a few specks of gray in his black hair, he was wearing a stylish black leather jacket, gray slacks, and sunglasses. The boot sticking out into the aisle looked like handcrafted Italian leather.

I didn't know what the dress code was for Egyptian policemen, but his clothes showed more good taste than expense. The tip-off was his watch when he reached out to shake my hand.

The watch wasn't flashy and had a simple black band rather than the heavy Rolexlike creations that could tell you the time in Timbuktu and the weather on Mars.

“Rafi al Din,” he said. “My apologies. I didn't mean to stare at you as if you were a piece of incriminating evidence. And I confess that I am intrigued by what is hidden in your mind and under your clothes.”

Ah, a cop with a sense of humor. And sex appeal. With my luck, he was another Michelangelo who hid his artistic nature behind beer, hot dogs, and sports bars.

“Let me guess, you're an Egyptian policeman and you want to talk to me about scarabs?”

“Amazing. You're psychic. Does your crystal ball tell you how soon we will become lovers?”

I liked this man. So far.

“It's giving me a warning not to trust a tall, dark, and handsome man who suddenly appears at my table. Perhaps I've developed a sense of heightened awareness over the years because police officers seem to take an unhealthy interest in my life.”

“Perhaps it's because, as you say in your country, where there's smoke, there's fire.”

“Apparently the smoke gets in their eyes and they confuse me for the guilty party. The fact that I am not housed in a supermax with serial killers and people who eat people seems to offend their twisted view of an orderly world.”

He started to say something and I threw up my hands in frustration. “Okay. Enough clever sparring. Who are you? What do you want? And would you mind getting lost?”

“I am sad to admit that in some ways I am already lost. But I have a card which reminds me who I am.”

He gave me a business card, English on one side, Arabic on the other. The English side confirmed his name was Rafi al Din and that he was an inspector with the Supreme Council of Antiquities. It showed a Cairo address.

The SCA was the Egyptian government unit in charge of its antiquity sites and artifacts.

“Very impressive,” I said, “a card you could stop at any print shop and have knocked out in five minutes. Do you have anything that looks a little more official? A badge? Gun?”

“Of course.”

He showed me a picture ID with him in a fancy military-looking police uniform. I couldn't read Arabic, but I was impressed with the official appearance of the uniform. He looked as sexy in his uniform as he did in the leather jacket.

“Is your job as an inspector similar to the British version of a police official—a cop that investigates antiquity thefts?”

“Yes. I have a few questions to—”

I cut him off. “Before we get to your questions, how did you know I was in Britain, on this train? Better yet, why have you bothered to find out I'm even on the planet?”

I met his eyes, waiting for answers.

He leaned back and gave me a quizzical stare. “Are you always this aggressive with policemen?”

I smiled, as sweet as I could, in spite of being a long way from home, running from the police, and suffering from jet lag.

“Only the ones who are thousands of miles outside of their jurisdiction.”

He shrugged. “I could, of course, request assistance from Britain's Art Theft division…”

“Why don't you do that? And in the meantime, go find another seat. The one you're on is reserved for a human being.”

He held up his hands. “I surrender.”

“Too late, I don't take prisoners. And I've been threatened by the best, so please try to be civil.”

We stared at each other, me exasperated and ready to erupt, him trying to figure out how to approach without getting bitten.

Never able to stand silence, I spoke first.

“Look, you obviously want to ask me some questions, I have a few myself. We can either trade or we can talk about the weather. So let's start with why you're tracking me.”

“That should be obvious. Fatima Sari. She was on a watch list we share with Interpol and the FBI. You went on the same list after the incident in the subway station. When you bought a ticket for London in New York, that information was conveyed to me and I got on a plane in Cairo.”

I nodded. “And within seconds of calling to reserve a train seat after I got into the taxi at Heathrow, the reservation hit the wonderful World Wide Web and you bought a ticket to Salisbury.”

“We live in a connected world.”

“Isn't that wonderful—this digital age bringing us all closer together?”

“Like your shadow.”

“A monkey on my back is more like it,” I said.

That got a chuckle from him. He had nice teeth, very white. And nice lips, full and inviting.

“I'm sorry I put you through so much trouble,” I said. “Next time just give me a call and I'll tell you who I'm going to murder next.”

23

I immediately regretted making a joke about the woman's death.

“Okay, you didn't need to come all this way to talk to me,” I said. “Anything I have to say to you could have been done by a short text message that said, ‘I know nothing.' So why don't you go back to Cairo and save your department all the money you're spending on a wild-goose chase.”

“This is a serious matter, Miss Dupre,” he said brusquely.

“To you, not me. Whatever poor Ms. Sari, you, the Egyptian government, or the ghosts of avenging pharaohs have going, I'm not a part of it.”

“Why did you meet with Fatima in New York?”

“I didn't
meet
with her. If you have been in contact with the New York police, you already know as much about it as I do. She knocked on my door and tried to stab me, then threw herself in front of a subway train while babbling about something. I don't have the faintest notion as to why she chose me other than that it must have been a case of mistaken identity.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Mistaken identity? She had your business card on her.”

“I wasn't referring to the fact that she didn't know who I was, but that she was wrong about what she thought I was involved in.”

“What did she think you were involved in?”

“If you want to play games, please find someone else to do it with.”

He held up his hands again, this time palms forward to ward off an attack. “Okay, you're right, we know that she was involved with an attempt to return a national treasure to my country. But what was she babbling about?”

“I don't know. She spoke a few words in English and then reverted to Arabic. Something about a curse.” I gave him a blunt look. “But I'm sure you already know the answer to that. If you don't, use some of that wonderful electronic gadgetry that you're using to keep track of my every move and e-mail the New York cop in charge of the investigation.”

“This is your idea of exchanging information? I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot. I have already admitted that attempting to intimidate you with official authority isn't the best way to win cooperation.”

“Oh, no, I intimidate just fine. I just don't know anything. And I've discovered that while lying to a policeman just gets their adrenaline up, they hate it when you really don't know anything.”

“Please do me a favor and tell me what you do know—and don't assume I know everything already.”

I leaned forward and tried to look sincere. Now I wanted the man to go away. “Okay, this is the truth and the whole truth. I opened my apartment door and a woman I never saw before tried to stab me. She never told me why and I don't know why.

“A few hours later I was standing in a subway station. A woman I had never seen before until she tried to stab me came toward me talking irrationally about a curse. Why she approached me and had my card on her, I honestly don't know. I had been consulted and retained by someone else about the scarab. I assume that was how she knew about me.” I leaned forward and gave him a tight grin. “Satisfied?”