He dialed Murani’s phone number.
CARDINAL STEFANO MURANI’S QUARTERS
STATUS CIVITATIS VATICANAE
AUGUST 21, 2009
The knock on the door woke Cardinal Murani. Fatigue held him in its thrall. He felt like he’d been drugged. He still lay abed in pajamas. One of the heavy tomes he’d been studying lay in his lap.
“Cardinal Murani,” a young man’s voice called.
“Yes, Vincent,” Murani replied in a hoarse voice. Vincent was his personal valet. “Come in.”
Vincent opened the bedroom door and entered the bedroom. He was little more than five feet tall and thin as a rake. His bones stuck out at his elbows and forearms. As a result, his head looked too large for his body. He wore an ill-fitting dark suit and had his hair neatly parted.
“You weren’t at breakfast, Cardinal,” Vincent said. He didn’t look Murani in the eye. Vincent never looked anyone in the eye.
“I don’t feel well this morning,” Murani said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to have breakfast brought to you?”
“Yes. See to it.”
Vincent nodded and excused himself from the room.
Murani knew the young man didn’t believe him, but he also didn’t care. Vincent was the least of his concerns. The young man was his vassal, totally under his control. Vincent had seen Murani call in sick several times over the last few weeks.
Sitting up, Murani reached for the phone and called his personal secretary. He gave orders to cancel his appointments and the lunch he’d scheduled with one of the pope’s yes-men.
Clearing the day to work on the secrets hidden within the bell and cymbal felt good. He switched the television on and watched CNN. There was no mention of the dig at Cádiz, but Murani knew there would be in short order. The dig had taken over the news like the sudden death of some drug-addicted starlet.
He got up, intending to shower before breakfast, but his cell phone rang. He answered and recognized Gallardo’s voice at once.
“Things haven’t gone well,” Gallardo said without preamble. “We lost the package.”
Murani easily read between the lines. “What happened?”
“We followed the package to the state university here,” Gallardo said.
“Why did he—it—go there?”
“There was another package waiting. He got it.”
Murani’s heart thudded. Another package? “What was in the other package?”
“We don’t know.”
“How did he know the package was there?”
“We don’t know that either. But we do know we were followed. And we do know that the person who followed us is now there with the package. What we don’t know is why.”
Black anger stole over Murani. On the television, CNN had started spinning the story about Father Sebastian’s dig at Cádiz again. Murani knew time was working against him now. Every moment was precious.
“I don’t pay you not to know things,” Murani said coldly.
“I’m aware of that. But you don’t pay me well enough to take the risks I’m taking now.”
That declaration was a shot fired across Murani’s bows, and the cardinal knew it. This far into the search for the instruments, there wasn’t anyone else he could call in on such short notice, much less anyone of Gallardo’s caliber, and with his connections. He made himself breathe out and remain calm.
“Can you retrieve the packages?”
Gallardo was silent for a moment. Then he said, “For the right price, we can try.”
“Then do so,” Murani replied.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
AUGUST 21, 2009
Lourds sat braced in the passenger seat of the car as Natasha Safarov sped through traffic. She spoke quickly on her cell phone. Though he was fluent in Russian, she spoke so quickly and cryptically that he wasn’t certain exactly what the conversation was about.
Leslie and Gary sat quietly in the back. They’d had enough. Leslie had demanded to know what was going on and then asked to be taken to the British Consulate. Natasha had addressed the young woman only once. She’d told her that if she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, she would be taken to the nearest police station.
Leslie hadn’t said anything since.
After traveling for nearly an hour through traffic, passing through historic parts of Moscow that Lourds had often visited before as well as old residential areas he doubted a tourist had ever seen, Natasha pulled up in a small parking area behind a nondescript building.
Natasha switched off the engine and pocketed the keys. She opened the door and got out. Leaning down to the window, eyeball to eyeball with Lourds, she ordered, “Get out. All of you.”
With some concern, Lourds got out. His legs shook—aftershocks from the enforced stillness of the ride and the emotional letdown from the escape and the gun battle.
The building was six stories tall and looked like it had been constructed back in the 1950s. Its grim and forbidding appearance tied a knot in Lourds’s stomach.
“What are we doing here?” Leslie asked.
Natasha’s immediate irritation tightened her face. Lourds saw the emotion and felt certain the woman wasn’t going to answer.
But she gained control of herself.
Her expression once again emotionless, Natasha said, “It’s a hideout. You’ll be safe here. We need to talk. I want to see if we can sort this out before anyone else has to die. I’m sure you want the same thing.”
When Natasha gestured to the fire escape clinging to the building’s side, Lourds nodded and took the lead. The front-door entrance wasn’t an option. He put his foot on the first rung and started climbing. He knew that Leslie and Gary would follow.
Natasha stopped them on the fourth-floor landing. She used a key to let them inside the building, then directed Lourds to the third door on the left. Another key allowed them entrance into a small apartment.
The apartment consisted of a living room/dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. There was a shower but no bathtub. It wasn’t spacious and it didn’t look comfortable for the number of people in their group, but it felt safe.
Still, Lourds knew that was probably an illusion.
“Sit,” Natasha told them.
“Are we under arrest?” Leslie challenged. She made no move to sit.
Lourds folded himself into a wingback chair and relinquished the floor. He’d suspected Leslie would show some resistance and didn’t intend to add to the confusion. Unless he had to.
And deciding which side to support would be tricky. He felt loyalties to Leslie, but Natasha might offer the best opportunity to decipher the puzzle of the cymbal and the bell.
She was clearly a cool head in a crisis.
The hard edges of the plastic case under his jacket pressed against his side. He was surprised Natasha hadn’t demanded possession of it so far.
“Would you like to be under arrest?” Natasha responded. “I can arrange it.”
Bulldog fierceness swelled onto Leslie’s face. “I’m a British citizen. You can’t frivolously cast aside my rights.”
“And you can’t just walk into my country, drag carnage behind you, and take something produced by a government employee—my sister,” Natasha retorted. “I’m quite certain your government wouldn’t condone your actions.”
Leslie wrapped her arms under her breasts and stuck her chin out. No signs of surrender there.
“Perhaps,” Lourds interjected as smoothly as he could, “we could all keep in mind the fact that no one wants us incarcerated at the moment.” He shot Natasha a glance to underscore what he meant by no one.
Natasha shrugged slightly. It was an unconscious body movement that not many might have noticed. Lourds had trained himself to watch for inaudible communications as well as verbal ones—it was a part of being a linguist. Often the most important parts of human communication weren’t spoken. Those little gestures—and the meta-messages they conveyed—were genera
lly the ones that crossed cultural barriers first, long before words.
“This is a safe house,” Natasha said. “We use this place and others like it to keep important prisoners safe. The Russian mob has a long reach.”
Leslie bridled at the word prisoners. Thankfully she didn’t voice her objections.
“The men who pursue you should not be able to find us here. We’ll have some time to work through things,” Natasha went on.
“That depends,” Gary said. “I mean, if your cop buddies know about this place and they see you’ve gone missing, they could come round here looking for you. And if they think we’ve kidnapped you, which might explain why you didn’t come back round there, they might come in guns blazing, mightn’t they? Makes sense, dude, doesn’t it?”
Despite the way it was phrased, Lourds had to admit it was an astute observation. Gary obviously had a fertile mind when it came to projecting scenarios.
“They won’t come here,” Natasha said. “Even they don’t know about this place.”
“Why not?” Leslie asked.
“Because I haven’t told them about it. I am a high-ranking officer. I pursue the most dangerous cases. I’m given a certain amount of . . . latitude . . . in my investigations.”
“I don’t suppose the police will come round later,” Leslie said. “When it’s more convenient?”
“Nothing about spiriting you people off the street is convenient,” Natasha said. “I killed a man back there. I don’t know what kind of impression you have about my country, but killing is frowned upon here as well as in your country. In fact, judging from the leniency in your court systems versus ours, I’d say America is much more lenient than Russian judges.” Her voice grew sharper.
“I’m not American,” Leslie said. “I’m British. It’s a civilized society compared to either Russia or America.”
“If we’re through with all the posturing,” Natasha said, “maybe we could get on to figuring out what we’re going to do next?”
“If I may,” Lourds stated quietly, “I’d like to suggest that we cooperate. For the moment, I think we can all agree that we have something to gain by learning more about our present predicament, and quite a lot to lose if we’re caught.”
The two women stared at each other. Leslie acquiesced first, with a short nod that Natasha finally echoed.
“Good.” Lourds took the plastic case from his jacket and popped it open to survey the micro flash drive inside. “Then first let’s all have a look at what Yuliya left.”
Lourds sat at the dinette table with his notebook computer open before him. The flash drive Yuliya had left was connected through a USB port.
“Copy the information from the flash drive to your computer.” Natasha stood behind him. He felt the heat of her body radiating against his back.
“Why?” Leslie sat on Lourds’s left so that she could see the screen.
“In case something happens to the flash drive.”
Although he was certain he knew what Natasha planned to do, Lourds did as the Russian suggested. As soon as the task bar showed complete, Natasha took the flash drive from the notebook computer and pocketed it.
“So much for trust,” Leslie commented bitterly.
“Trust goes only so far,” Natasha said without animosity. “It’s also not mutually exclusive of good sense. You have been robbed, yes? And followed? Having two copies is smart. Having them kept separate is smarter.”
Lourds declined to comment. He agreed with Natasha, but didn’t think saying so would improve matters between the two women. He fingered the mouse pad and brought up the directory he’d created for the flash drive’s contents.
One of the folders was marked OPEN FIRST in English. Lourds did so, knowing that the action would forestall any further argument on the part of the women. They were both too curious about what Yuliya had left to waste time arguing.
Gary had more important matters on his mind than the contents of the flash drive. After ascertaining the presence of a well-stocked pantry—small but effective—Gary had declared himself the cook of the group and set to the task. Judging by the aroma coming from the kitchen, the young man had a flair for his chosen contribution.
A video window opened on the notebook computer. Yuliya Hapaev’s image blurred for a moment, then took center stage. She sat at her desk with the camera obviously propped before her. She wore a lab coat over a pink sweatshirt.
Natasha’s breath drew in sharply, but she didn’t say anything.
Lourds felt bad for the young woman, but at the moment it was all he could do to keep his own emotions in check. Yuliya had been a vibrant woman and a good mother. Knowing she was gone hurt him deeply. His eyes misted and he blinked them clear.
“Hello, Thomas.” Yuliya smiled.
Hello, Yuliya, Lourds thought to himself.
“If you have this little parcel, then I have to assume something has happened to me.” Yuliya shook her head and grinned again. “It sounds so silly saying that, but you and I both know I don’t mean something as outlandish as in a spy novel. I have to assume that something happened to me in a traffic accident.” She frowned. “Or perhaps I was mugged. Or my bosses shut me down.”
Lourds forced himself to watch her trying to muddle along, knowing she’d felt foolish trying to find the words. A lump formed in the back of his throat.
“This is only the third time I’ve made one of these little presentations,” Yuliya admitted. “We agreed to do this all those years ago over cognac while at the archeology retreat in France.” She smiled. “We were so serious about it when we were drunk.”
In spite of himself, in spite of the loss, Lourds smiled. They had met a handful of times before that encounter in France. But the friendship they shared had seemed to cement there.
“You probably considered the deal we made to be merely a lark,” Yuliya said. “A joke summoned up by too much to drink, good companionship, and the fact that we both love the same tawdry spy novels. But I hope you find this.” Seriousness hardened her face. She picked up the cymbal and held it for display. “My inquiry into the nature of this artifact has turned out to be quite interesting. I think it would be a shame if no one found out the truth of it.”
Especially since it led to her murderer, Lourds thought.
Yuliya put the cymbal aside. “I’ve been trying to reach you for a couple of days.” She smiled ruefully. “I have to assume you’re out on some junket the university has insisted on. Or perhaps you’re chasing some big find. A book from the Alexandrian library, hopefully. I know you’d like that. And I know nothing else would take you away from your students.” The image on the computer screen paused. “At any rate, I’ve arranged the files on here to show you what I’ve learned from the cymbal. Where it was found. How it was found. And what my conclusions are.”
Though he didn’t want to, Lourds checked the meter at the bottom of the video screen and saw that the presentation was almost finished. He wasn’t ready to just see Yuliya fade away. He had to restrain himself from pausing the video.
“I hope what I’ve put together helps,” the image of Yuliya said. “I hope you figure out the significance of the cymbal.” She smiled and shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps someone from my department will have all the answers before you find this. But most of all, I hope that I’m simply discussing this with you in a few days. Over a cognac. In front of the fireplace. And with my husband and children watching us and thinking we’re the most boring people on the planet.”
Lourds’s throat grew impossibly tight. He felt a tear at the corner of his eye. Unashamed, he let it fall.
The screen blanked.
______
No one talked after the video finished. There was too much pain and regret in the room. Leslie left Lourds and Natasha alone with their tears and regrets, but she didn’t leave the table.
Lourds shook away the ghosts of his friend and colleague.
He had a murderer to track and a mystery to solve. Moping did Yuliya
no good.
Taking out a yellow legal tablet, his favorite tool for free-form associating his thoughts, Lourds wrote down the architecture of Yuliya’s documents. He made note of the dates of their creation, then of their updates as Yuliya had discovered more information.
In that way he was able to retrace her thinking and her chain of logic.
“Is there anything you need?” Natasha asked after a while.
“No.” Lourds flipped through screens of text Yuliya had prepared on the cymbal. “I just need to get through this material.”
“All right.” Natasha fell silent again, but she never left his side, watching every keystroke.
Within the hour, Gary laid a feast upon the table around Lourds’s computer and tablet.
The young man hadn’t had any fresh vegetables to work with, but he’d still cobbled together a thick hearty stew from canned potatoes, carrots, beans, and corn. He’d put it together with some kind of beef stock. Panfried bread slathered in olive oil accompanied the big bowls of stew.
Drawn by the heavenly scent of food when he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day, Lourds pushed back from the computer. As soon as he did, though, he was hit by questions.
“Did Yuliya know who killed her?” Natasha asked.
“I don’t think so,” Lourds replied. “I found no mention of anyone stalking her in the text. She didn’t seem to be worried about anyone—just political issues over the artifact. The usual fears of any academic.”
“No collectors or antiques traffickers were mentioned in the papers?”
“Not that I’ve seen so far.”
“But it has to be someone from that world who took it,” Natasha insisted.
“Why?” Leslie asked.
“Because of the way they located the cymbal,” Natasha answered. She made notes in Cyrillic on her PDA. Lourds read enough of them to realize they were shorthand notes for herself that he couldn’t really make head or tail of.
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