The Black Madonna

by Davis Bunn

“A client with deep pockets. How splendid for us both. Where can I reach you?”

  “I’m headed to Cirencester for tomorrow’s auction. After that, I’m yours.”

  “You’re in England? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

  “First, because I didn’t know myself until about five hours ago. Second, because you’d ask me questions I can’t answer.”

  “What is your second item?”

  “The Amethyst Clock.”

  “My dear Storm. A clock that stops time? Really.”

  “My client insists that it exists and that it is here.”

  “Do you actually hear what you are saying?”

  “I will pay you five thousand pounds to make a search. Regardless of the outcome.”

  “I wouldn’t do it for fifty. I might as well cart my reputation to the embalmers.”

  Storm’s mouth tasted of the pyre. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of a choice.”

  “No. Quite.” Curtis cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose it would harm matters if I made a few discreet inquiries. Needless to say, if I hear anything I’ll be certain to pass it along.”

  “Exclusively.”

  “What other way is there? And do take care, Storm. An item that lethal is bound to attract the worst sorts. It would be a pity to lose you. There are so few good hearts who’ve managed to survive.”

  TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO, CIRENCESTER had been the capital of Rome’s westernmost province in Britain. Most of the town dated from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, when its wool market had brought in medieval riches. The auction took place in the main hall of the local college, a Jacobean manor of honeyed Cotswold stone. The hall was two hundred feet long and eighty wide, and tiled in Carrera marble. The domed ceiling was painted to resemble a verdant English sunrise. The sun’s rays were fashioned from gold overlay and gleamed with divine promise.

  The hall was packed. The items on display were of jaw-dropping quality. Yet bidding was sparse, money tight. As Storm took her seat midway up the central aisle, the perspiring auctioneer announced, “Our next item is a necklace of eighteen-carat yellow gold laden with five emeralds totaling twenty-six carats.”

  As his lovely assistant paraded her way down the main aisle, the auctioneer went on. “We shall start the bidding for this one-of-a-kind piece at eleven thousand pounds. Anyone? Very well, then. I shall allow you to steal it for eight. Do I see an opening bid from the gentleman in the front there? No?”

  The auctioneer wiped his face with a rumpled handkerchief, then made a mess of stowing it. The cloth draped from his pocket like a white flag. “Give me five. Anything, ladies and gentlemen. I am open to any bid.”

  A voice from the row behind Storm called, “I’ll go three.”

  “I think I know where you’ve been doing your shopping, sir. At night with a brick.” He waved his hands with the urgency of a conductor. “Do I hear four? Come now, ladies and gentlemen, I am unable to proceed to sale with only one bid. Who will offer me four thousand for this very fine example—”

  “Three thousand, two hundred.”

  “For thirty-two hundred pounds I might as well melt it down and gild my coffin. Retail valuation of this necklace is set at fifty thousand pounds. Come now, who will give me four?” He searched desperately, shook his head, raised the clapper. “Going once, twice.” He slammed down the hammer. “Sold for thirty-two hundred.”

  The crowd murmured its own shock as the auctioneer muttered, “I’m slaving away up here selling hundred-pound notes for ten quid.”

  The next item was a contemporary sculpture of warring cubes. Storm’s attention drifted to the antique timepieces lining the wall closest to her. The clocks gave off a constant rain of metallic drumbeats, counting down the hours of another mystery-laden day.

  As the auctioneer began his next windup, a voice from behind Storm hissed, “This is outrageous!”

  The auctioneer halted his introduction of the next item, an oil from the Rubens school, and searched the hall.

  Jacob Rausch stalked over and loomed above Storm. “Is it your intention to poison the atmosphere of every event I attend?”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Jacob, this is a public auction.”

  He waved frantically for the attendant, who scurried over. “This woman is absolutely not permitted to bid on a single item. Her credit is void, her company bankrupt!”

  To her surprise, Storm found herself enjoying the attention. “Wrong on both counts.”

  The auctioneer used his mike to inquire, “Is there a problem?”

  “There most certainly is!” Jacob Rausch’s hand came so close Storm felt the breeze through her hair. “This woman has no more business here than a parrot!”

  Storm said, “Your father thought differently.”

  His face grew redder still. “Aaron had no business making such a bargain with you.”

  “It saved both our clients a small fortune.” Storm turned toward the front and raised her voice. “I apologize for the gentleman’s lack of manners.”

  Rausch yelled, “I won’t stand for this!”

  “No problem.” Storm found exquisite pleasure in not needing to turn around. “The exit is back that way.”

  The prospect of a brewing battle had caused the auctioneer’s demeanor to undergo a remarkable change. “Might I inquire as to which item is of interest to these parties?”

  Storm did not need to check her catalogue. “Seventy-three.”

  “Would anyone object to my shifting the order of sale?”

  Jacob Rausch’s voice echoed through the lofty chamber. “I strenuously object to these entire proceedings!”

  “Duly noted, sir. Now perhaps you would be so good as to resume your seat? Thank you ever so.” He waved the attendant forward. “Lot seventy-three, a quite remarkable example of early Byzantine artwork known as a paten. What am I bid for this splendid item? Shall we start the bidding at twenty-five thousand pounds?”

  Storm raised her paddle.

  “Twenty-five thousand from the lady to my right.” The auctioneer motioned to his attendant, who started a slow parade down the central aisle. “Who will offer me thirty?”

  Storm fitted the phone’s Bluetooth into her ear and speed-dialed Raphael’s number.

  He answered instantly. “Yes?”

  “Jacob Rausch is here.”

  “Excellent.”

  “He threw a terrific fit when he spotted me.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it. Where are we?”

  Storm lifted her paddle in response to Rausch’s counterbid. “A hundred thousand, rising in twenty-five-thousand increments.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Pounds.” She lifted her paddle. “Do I have a ceiling?”

  “Quite the contrary.” Raphael Danton was clearly enjoying himself. “I want you to crush the man.”

  “This makes no sense whatsoever.”

  She was half expecting another cold rebuke. But Danton continued to surprise. “My orders are specific. It is not enough that we acquire the items. Where possible we are instructed to make the opposition suffer a most public defeat.”

  “So my deal with Rausch Senior—”

  “Did not go over at all well. My client wanted you fired. I convinced them it would be a serious error. With considerable difficulty, I might add.”

  She struggled to offer “Thank you.”

  Danton laughed. “Difficult words to say, are they not?”

  “Horrible.” But she was smiling. “Like pulling nails.”

  Rausch must have seen her good humor, because he almost shrieked the words “Two hundred thousand pounds!”

  “Did you hear Rausch’s bid?”

  “Yes. Go to five.”

  As Storm rose to her feet, she felt the audience’s silence, the light shift, the world refocus. The pleasure was so intense she did not even try to hide the shiver. “I offer five hundred thousand pounds.”

  The auctioneer sang an exultant chorus. “Five
hundred thousand pounds from the lovely lady to my right. Who will give me six?”

  Storm said into her phone, “We’re rising in hundred-thousand-pound increments.”

  “How is Rausch taking it?”

  She met a gaze of pure Manhattan venom. “Not at all well.”

  Danton laughed once more. “Let him bid twice more, then bump it to one-five.”

  “As your appointed agent, it is my duty to inform you that such a bid is about as sensible as looking for life on Pluto.”

  “Duly noted.”

  She lifted her paddle. “So idiotic you should have your client’s interior decorator design a padded cell.”

  Danton asked, “Having fun, Ms. Syrrell?”

  “I’m almost looking forward to having this done so I can remember what a good time I had. Hold on a second.”

  The auctioneer’s aide was slowly making her way down the central aisle. Storm lifted her hand, signaling to the auctioneer that she wanted time for a closer look. The entire hall held its breath.

  A paten was a sacramental plate designed to hold the holy wafers. The bone-white alabaster was carved as a six-sided flower. The design had been the seal of Byzantium’s emperors for over a hundred years, from the mid-fourth to the mid-fifth centuries. At the flower’s center was the image of Christ holding the Law, fashioned from what appeared to be early cloisonné enamel. The plate’s outer two inches were solid gold and rimmed with pearls the size of Storm’s thumbnail.

  The auctioneer announced, “We are back to you at nine hundred thousand.”

  Storm replied, “One million, five hundred thousand pounds.”

  Even the auctioneer needed a moment to recover, which was hardly a surprise, since Storm had just doubled the day’s total take. Then he said, “Madame has raised the bid to one million five. Do I hear a counter?”

  Rausch shoved his chair into the gentleman seated behind him, who exclaimed, “I say, have a care there!”

  Rausch stalked toward the exit. As he passed Storm’s chair, he snarled, “You are about to discover what it means to have me for an enemy.”

  The auctioneer’s hammer smacked the podium. The audience applauded a drama strong enough to divert them from the day’s gloom. “Sold to the lady for one million, five hundred thousand pounds!”

  EIGHTEEN

  THE JORDANIAN LIMO DRIVER WAS only too pleased to have Emma’s company. His name was Saleem, and he stank of old cigarette smoke. “These days, too many arguments over payments. Too many poor tourists. My children, they starve.” But he smiled as he said it, and he drove with happy abandon.

  Emma replied, “Long as we make good time.”

  “For a pretty lady with money, we fly. Like golden . . . what you call it?”

  “Chariot.”

  “Yes. With wings.” Worry beads polished by years of nervous hands dangled from one wrist and caught the sunlight as he patted the wheel affectionately. “Good chariot. She fly for you, pretty lady.”

  The car was a black Mercedes of late seventies vintage, boxy and huge. But the air conditioner hummed and the wheels ate up the miles. The road north and then west started flat and was so empty that Saleem had little use for the horn. But such habits died hard. Saleem honked at everything they passed—donkey carts using the flattened earth alongside the asphalt, silent Bedouin communities, dusty children teasing a yapping dog. Saleem wore a shiny suit that bulged over his protruding belly and a starched collarless shirt. Beyond the windshield, heat shimmered and danced. Emma asked, “How long?”

  “Fifty kilometers, three hills, one town.” Saleem grinned. “For you, fifteen minutes.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Yes, I am thinking you are much serious lady.” Saleem’s eyes danced with the glee of driving a woman in too much of a hurry to dicker over his price. “We come there plenty soon. You like music?”

  “Whatever gets us there quickest.”

  He switched on the radio and found a station. “Most tourists, they come to Nebo, they take much time. They ask many questions. They want to know, did Moses do this, do that. I say, so sorry, he was gone when I got there.”

  “You’re a funny man.”

  Saleem pointed to the radio. “This is Oom Kalthoum. You know?”

  The woman did not sing so much as sob in cadence to the orchestra. “First time I ever heard her.”

  “She very famous. Egyptian. She asks, ‘Why my love go away?’” He made moon eyes. “You come to Nebo, pray for love?”

  “Something like that.”

  “No, I think it is another reason why you come.”

  Emma clutched her purse, comforted by the gun’s proximity. She wondered if she dared try Harry’s phone again. “I don’t like questions, Saleem. They slow things down.”

  “Don’t worry, pretty lady. I talk and drive all the time.”

  But he did not have the chance to pry further, for Emma’s phone rang. Storm asked, “Any word?”

  “Not much. Where are you?”

  “England. Somewhere intensely green. Tell me what you know.”

  “Harry’s walked into some serious trouble. He told me not to come.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think? I’m coming.”

  Storm hesitated, then asked, “Do you think Raphael is part of this?”

  Emma noticed how Saleem was taking a somber interest in her side of the conversation. “That is exactly the question I’ve been asking. My gut hasn’t decided. But he did give me something from his little drawer.”

  “Money?”

  “Something a lot louder. With three clips of little helpers.”

  “You’re armed, and you’re being overheard.”

  “Affirmative to both.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Call me, okay? The very instant.”

  When she hung up, Saleem showed her worried eyes. “I am driving into trouble?”

  “My trouble, Saleem, not yours.”

  “No, no, this is my car, so is my trouble.” As they entered the desert town of Madaba, Saleem slipped his worry beads off his wrist and began clicking them through his fingers. “My babies, they starve.”

  “Just get me to Nebo. I’ll take care of things. You can stay in the car all safe and sound.” As they approached the town’s central market, a storefront window display caught Emma’s eye. “Stop the car, please.”

  Saleem pulled into a parking space. “You are policewoman?”

  “United States federal agent.”

  He rocked in his seat. “This very much bad.”

  Either she calmed the man down, or as soon as she stepped from the car, he was going to scoot. No question. And there was the small matter of getting away with Harry afterward. “I want you to listen very carefully. My entire life is dedicated to protecting the innocent.”

  “Innocent. Yes. Is me.” Saleem’s worry beads clattered loudly. “Your friend, he not hurt my country?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Who is after him?”

  “I’m not sure. But I think maybe Russians are involved.”

  Saleem moaned. “Very, very terrible.”

  “Yes.” Emma pointed at the department store’s window display. “I need one of those.”

  Saleem had trouble focusing. “You wish to buy thob’ob?”

  “Whatever. Will you help me?”

  As they left the car and crossed the noisy street, Saleem asked, “Your friend, what he do?”

  “He’s a scavenger.”

  Saleem squinted over the unfamiliar word. “He smuggles?”

  “Sometimes. He hunts for treasure.”

  “Why you not say so? Smuggling good business. My uncle, my brother, my cousin. All smuggle.” The thought brightened him visibly. “I think your friend make very much money to worry Russians.”

  Emma caught the message loud and clear. “Help us get out of this mess, Saleem, and we’ll be happy to share the w
ealth.”

  His smile revealed terrible teeth. “My babies, they thank you.”

  INSIDE THE DEPARTMENT STORE, SALEEM took it upon himself to act as Emma’s personal ambassador. Saleem explained to Emma that none of the salesladies had ever dressed a Western woman in traditional Jordanian garb. They were delighted.

  Saleem named each item as Emma was kitted out. Her travel-weary suit was traded for a thob aswad, a bluish-black voluminous dress with broad sleeves and deep, pointed lapels. Beneath this she donned a pair of sirwa’al, capacious long pants that covered all but the tips of her shoes. A woolen ishdad was belted over the thob. Then came the bisht abayeh, a mantle of the same blue-black silk, chased about the edges with silver thread. The senior saleslady showed her how to cross the scarf’s leading edges beneath her chin, then drape the ends over her shoulders so that they hung down the back. The salesladies jabbered delightedly as they guided Emma toward the mirror.

  The woman who stared back at her was utterly unrecognizable.

  Her driver beamed at the result. “The ladies, they say you do much honor, dressing like pilgrim for Fasaliyyeh. That is our word for Moses church.”

  “Thanks, Saleem.” Emma pointed at a rack of oversized sunglasses, the moon-shaped globes a throwback to nineties bling. “What do you call those?”

  Saleem shrugged. “Ray-Bans.”

  “I’ll take a pair.”

  Saleem insisted upon carrying the bag holding her former outfit. But midway back to the car he said, “No, no, is not correct.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You walk like soldier. Bam, bam, your feet, they . . . how you say?”

  “March.”

  “Yes. Too long step. Too strong.” Despite his evident nerves, Saleem enjoyed himself, reshaping the Western agent into a proper Arab. “Small steps. Like lady. Yes, is better. And chin too high. Good, yes. Now you are . . . what is word?”

  “A wimp.”

  “Proper. Yes, is proper. Good.” He bowed her into the backseat. “Maybe tonight I kiss my babies.”

  THE FINAL TEN KILOMETERS FROM Madaba to Nebo were over a series of increasingly steep switchbacks. Their destination was clear enough, a yellow mount rising well above its neighbors. The church was of ancient Orthodox design, a low structure with a rounded top and deep-set windows, fashioned from the hill’s own stone. Saleem pulled into the massive parking lot and halted beneath a trio of desert pines. He sat staring forward, his fingers busy with the worry beads.