The Black Madonna

by Davis Bunn

  “I’d take that as a sign,” Harry said. “No question.”

  “When I hear sirens, I drop his ID on your chest. In Hebron clinic, Palestinians get first beds and best treatment.” Wadi looked at Harry. “I am thinking much of this, sitting here in my prison.”

  Harry pressed on. “But making counterfeit artifacts, no matter how valuable, wouldn’t have this level of beast tracking you.”

  Emma added, “Not to mention that suddenly we’re getting alarm calls from all over the place. CIA, Homeland Security, some high-powered secondary buyers, Polish priests, invisible Russians, the works.”

  Ahmed said, “Polish priests do not find us here. This is somebody with many allies in Jordan.”

  “And much money,” Wadi said. “I hear the guards say I am worth half a million dollars alive.”

  “So here’s what I think happened,” Harry said, looking at Wadi. “You were approached by somebody who wanted you to do some work. Something that required a counterfeiter as talented as you. But like any decent smuggler, you saw a chance for even more profit. Somehow you got an idea who was behind this whole deal. And you threatened to go public. So they decided to take you out. The bomb was meant for you, and I got caught in the backdraft. How am I doing so far?”

  Emma said, “You should be working for Homeland.”

  “I’m happy with my own craft, thank you very much,” Harry replied.

  “Oh, sure,” Ahmed said. “Look where it brings you now.”

  Harry asked, “Who’s your artist, Wadi?”

  When the man remained crouched over the little stove, Ahmed supplied the answer. “His daughters. They live in Damascus with their mother. They are best I have ever seen.”

  “Which brings us to the million-dollar question,” Harry said. “Who did you manage to get so angry they’ve tracked you here to the back of beyond and caught us all up in the same net?”

  Ahmed struggled to rise. “This does not matter if we stay trapped here.”

  “It matters,” Harry said, watching Wadi Haddad avoid his gaze. “It matters a lot.”

  “First we escape,” Ahmed said. “Then we see what matters.”

  “I checked the door,” Emma said. “It’s bolted shut. And I heard guards talking on the ledge.”

  “Door. Guards. Hunh.” Ahmed stood unsteadily, cupping his badly bruised forehead with one hand and bracing himself against the cave wall with the other. He shuffled toward the rear of the cave. “I tell you before, my family control the oasis since this was Bedu kingdom.” Ahmed kicked a burlap sack holding dried beans. “We must move all this.”

  “Is just beans,” Wadi protested.

  “No, mate. It’s a back door, is what it is.” Harry turned and grinned at Emma. “I’m liking this guy more and more.”

  When the sacks were shifted and the sand scraped away from the floor, they peeled back a rattan mat to reveal an ancient trapdoor. Harry asked, “Where does this go?”

  “You see,” Ahmed replied. He motioned to Wadi, who heaved on the door. Below, all was dark. But a soft puff of wind promised freedom. “I go first.”

  “Maybe I should take it first, help you down,” Emma said.

  “American agents know footholds in secret tunnels?” Ahmed unfurled his headdress and tied it around the lantern’s metal base to keep it from scraping on the rocks. He slithered feet first into the tunnel and winced at the pain in his head. “You step where I step, breathe when I breathe.”

  “Hold it right there,” Emma said. She scrambled through her purse, came up with a small packet, which she tore open. She offered Ahmed a palm holding two pills. “Secret agents always carry Advil.”

  Ahmed grinned in Harry’s direction. “She have sister, this one?”

  “Sorry, mate. One of a kind.”

  “That’s very good. My wife, she is one jealous lady.” Ahmed swallowed the Advil dry. “My head is better already. Okay. We go.”

  THE TUNNEL WAS SCARCELY LARGE enough for Harry to maneuver through. The descent gradually grew both steeper and more claustrophobic. The lantern was a dim glow up ahead. At the steepest point, the tunnel was carved with niches that formed regular foot- and handholds. Harry descended the tunnel as he would a ladder. Though his ribs complained loudly, he could not stop grinning. A hundred or so bearded bandits above them with assault rifles on auto. A hundred miles between them and the nearest road sign. For company he had a smuggler, a counterfeiter, and a woman who had come halfway around the world to save his sorry hide. And there wasn’t a hope of ever getting paid for his troubles.

  No question about it. This was living large.

  Where the tunnel leveled off and began to widen, Ahmed cut off the lantern. Harry spotted a dim glow in the distance. The way the light flickered and cast ruddy shadows, he figured it for a campfire. Their footsteps were cushioned by sand as soft as confectioner’s sugar. The firelight caught tiny diamond-flickers in the walls, suggesting mica or quartz mixed with the sandstone. Then Ahmed hissed them to a halt and moved forward alone.

  Harry gingerly felt about his chest. The climb down had shifted something internal. Harry did not feel broken so much as permanently bruised. But the adrenaline surge was enough to push his discomfort aside. At least for now.

  At Ahmed’s signal, they slipped forward, silent as the firelight shadows. They emerged through just another tight crevice, one of millions that dotted the hillside. Their path was a ledge that snaked in and out of sight. In the distance, a dozen or so people gathered around a fire. Then they slipped around an edge and entered a new landscape, one illuminated only by a quarter moon. Below them the palms whispered soft warnings. The oasis waters were dark as blood.

  They descended another series of narrow steps, clinging to the rock face with desperate fingertips. When they finally reached ground level, Harry would have danced a jig if his body hadn’t been aching so badly. Wadi had no such impediment, however, and he flung his arms upward and mouthed a silent greeting to the stars.

  Which was when the guard rounded the corner.

  It was hard to say who was more astonished, the bandit or the escapees.

  Emma stepped forward and hammered the guy between the eyes.

  The guard’s eyes gave a little butterfly-flutter, but he refused to go down until she chopped him at the juncture of jaw and neck and ear.

  Ahmed caught the man and Wadi the gun. Both Arabs flashed Emma grins of approval and dragged the guard into a natural alcove. They lashed his hands with Emma’s kerchief, stuffed Wadi’s into his mouth, and used Ahmed’s belt for his legs.

  Ahmed kept the Suzukis between them and the group clustered by the fire. He led them into a side alcove, which held a single vehicle, one so massive it completely filled the chamber. When Harry realized what he was looking at, he huffed a quiet laugh.

  Ahmed murmured, “You know this?”

  “Never driven one,” Harry whispered. “But I’ve blown up my share.”

  Emma slipped up beside him. “What is it?”

  “Iraqi armored troop carrier,” Harry replied. “Russian make. First Gulf War vintage.”

  “We take it in exchange for saving driver and men.” Ahmed shook his head. “Until now, I am thinking we make very bad bargain.”

  Quietly Wadi opened the driver’s door, then he cursed softly. “No keys.”

  “Step aside.” Harry slipped into the driver’s seat, grunted as he eased himself over. And grunted again as he tugged out the wires beneath the steering column.

  Ahmed grinned at Emma. “Now I am understanding why you save this man.”

  “Harry has a degree from the university of serious trouble,” Emma replied.

  “Everybody who’s leaving on the Aqaba bus better climb on board.” Harry cleared the sheathing off the wires with his teeth, then said, “I’ll take a couple of those Advils now.”

  AS SOON AS HARRY FIRED the engine, the cavern was filled with the sound of angry men.

  He slammed the gearshift into first and eased off
the clutch. “Flight attendants, please cross-check doors.” The vehicle lurched forward. “Hands and feet and personal items out of the aisles.”

  The first guard jerked into view, trying to wave them to a halt and bring his gun around at the same time. Harry replied by aiming the truck at the man.

  A bullet whanged off the roof of the truck and another off the side window. His passengers flinched away in fear. But Harry knew from experience just how well the Russians built these suckers.

  A dozen or so shouting men formed up by the cave entrance. The problem was, if enough bullets were fired at the same point in the glass, there was a risk that the windshield might eventually give. Then he had an idea and shifted his aim to the right.

  Harry lined up behind the Suzuki pickup and hammered the rear bumper. “My sincere apologies.”

  In response, Ahmed laughed and shouted something that required no translation.

  The vehicle ahead of Harry jerked and shuddered against its own parking gear, sliding over the sand until it struck the second Suzuki. The half-track’s engine bellowed from the strain and kept on moving, pushing the two vehicles directly at the men who were frantically trying to take aim around the newly formed train.

  Harry decided the moment deserved a song. The only thing that came to mind was, “O Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Mercedes-Benz.”

  Bullets whanged and punched the metal and the glass. But as far as Harry could see in the scattered firelight and the manufactured mayhem, no fractures were developing.

  Ahmed showed Harry a smuggler’s grin. “Janis Joplin, yes? Very good tune. But you, my friend, cannot sing.”

  The Suzukis crawled sideways, herding the guards like metal sheepdogs. The first vehicle struck the cave’s entrance and began to accordion on top of the second. A spark must have caught the gas tank, or perhaps it was just the pressure of being compressed from behind. Whatever the reason, the pickup gave off a soft whuff and the cave mouth was a balloon of flame.

  Harry kept straight on, through the wall of flame and out into a hail of gunfire. He shouted, “Which way?”

  “Left! Left!”

  As the second Suzuki tumbled away, Harry shifted to a higher gear and aimed straight for the campfire. Ahmed gave another thoroughly Arabic yell as they cleared all four wheels over the fire circle, scattering people and blazing logs. Sparks showered the vehicle as Harry took aim for the night. As they climbed the long, sloping trail they had entered by, the half-track was clipped by a few parting shots. Someone wailed a furious farewell.

  Harry put the headlights on bright. Emma found the controls for the side-mounted searchlight and aimed it at the nonexistent road. Harry took the descent at a gut-wrenching crawl. He did not breathe again until the road leveled off.

  Then it was just the stars and the silver sand.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ANTONIN TARKA’S JET WAS READY and waiting when they arrived back at the Kraków airport. Storm would have liked to hang around for a few days. Kraków was the ancient capital of the Polish kingdom, and its medieval center had survived both the Nazis and the Soviets largely intact. But Tanya and the two men carried the single-minded focus of pros on the clock. Storm kept her desires to herself and boarded the jet.

  Once they were airborne, Storm said, “Back to my earlier question. Why would the Russians want to steal an icon and replace it with a copy that cost a fortune to produce? There needs to be a concrete reason for them to have gone to all that trouble.”

  “If it was the Russians at all,” Father Gregor added.

  “Do they have any special connection to this icon?” Storm asked.

  “They do not need one,” Antonin Tarka replied. “When I was ten years old, I watched Stalin’s soldiers murder my entire family. We lived in what is now the western Ukraine. I was on the run for six months, traveling only at night, stealing what food I could from farms, until I made it across the Czech border. I speak from brutal experience when I say the Russian mentality is unique. They live with a perpetual sense of being under threat from all sides. Their enemies surround them. Their inbred attitude is to strike first, to dominate, to oppress. In their twisted form of logic, they see this as their one true hope of survival.”

  “And the icon?”

  “The Black Madonna represents the heart of a people they have oppressed for centuries. But now our nation is on the rise. We have the largest economy in Eastern Europe. We are also one of the West’s strongest allies. The Black Madonna is a lever. Their hope is to draw us back into the fold.”

  Storm sensed that Father Gregor did not agree. But the priest frowned at his hands upon the tabletop and said merely, “We still have no concrete evidence that the Russian buyers are somehow connected to the icon’s disappearance.”

  “And yet I am certain it is so.”

  “For all our sakes,” the priest said, “I hope you are right. Time is fast running out.”

  Tarka nodded grave acceptance and said to Storm, “Beyond the West’s safe borders, beyond this generation’s comfort zone, there exists a different world. A world where many people do not have the luxury of schooling. One where words come with difficulty and reading is impossible. One where they hold to a faith, even though their leaders are quite willing to torture and maim and murder to extinguish religion. The people of this other world use something they can see and touch as a means to look beyond. Understand this, and you may fathom what a vital role the Black Madonna has played for my country.”

  Storm waited while Tanya laid out plates of sandwiches, then said, “There’s something else we need to discuss. The Amethyst Clock.”

  Father Gregor said, “It is a fable. A lie.”

  “Even so, the people we’re up against think it is real. And they’re hunting it.”

  Antonin Tarka said, “You have heard the story of Catherine the Great, yes? Her rule was one of Poland’s darkest hours, a Russian czarina who saw our land as too rich and our army as too threatening. So she gathered her cousins, the emperor from Vienna and the Kaiser from Berlin, and over a very fine meal they carved our nation into three segments and swallowed it whole.” Tarka looked at his friend. “During that harsh era, legends sprang from soil watered by the blood of patriots. Fables of impossible powers. Hope from mythical realms.”

  Father Gregor said, “There is a difference between faith grounded in God and fables fed by human misery.”

  Tarka said, “But that does not change what Ms. Syrrell has correctly pointed out. Someone has a reason to believe the clock exists and has the power to stop time.”

  Storm corrected him, “Someone wants to believe this so badly, they are willing to suspend disbelief.”

  Both men were watching her now. “What are you saying?”

  “Does that sound like the Russians to you?”

  DAYLIGHT HAD DIMMED TO A slate-gray smudge on the western horizon by the time they landed at City Airport in London. The day had taken its toll on Antonin Tarka. The man’s features had turned cavernous, and the jet’s narrow metal stairs were hard going for him. Father Gregor helped him as much as he could, and Tanya hovered one step down, there to catch him if he fell. Antonin Tarka fussily tried to shoo both of them away, but they took no notice.

  Once in the taxi, Tarka said, “I would urge you to remain at the Ognisko, Ms. Syrrell. We will be better able to ensure your safety.”

  The prospect of returning to her drafty room in the club was utterly unappealing. But so was the threat of being abducted. “Are you sure I can’t tell my friends what is happening?”

  “The more people who know, the greater our risk,” Antonin Tarka replied.

  “Particularly this Raphael Danton,” Father Gregor said. “We must ask that you tell him nothing.”

  “Why?”

  “Danton was once a soldier of fortune in Africa, yes?”

  “He had personal reasons for joining the fight.”

  “But he was paid for combat. A mercenary.” Tarka’s face was a graven image in the passing stre
etlights. “If he will offer his life for coin, what would he do with our secret?”

  “On this matter, we must insist,” Father Gregor said in agreement. “Do not trust Danton with anything.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  HARRY DITCHED THE TROOP CARRIER in a highway truck stop outside Aqaba. Ahmed bought caps, sweatshirts, long drawstring pants, sunglasses, and a disposable phone from the shop. Emma did not wait for his explanation that the Western woman needed to disappear. She smudged her face with road dust, tucked her hair into the cap, slipped on the shades, and pulled the bulky sweatshirt over her head.

  They bribed a trucker to carry them through Aqaba and farther south. The road to Haql and the Saudi border paralleled the silent gulf. They descended from the truck just as the eastern sky showed the first faint hint of dawn.

  Their destination was a cluster of fishing dhows. Nets dried on makeshift lean-tos. The rocky beach stunk of fish. Ahmed led them to a wooden vessel perhaps twenty-five feet in length. As they flipped the dhow, two scruffy teens scrambled from one of the lean-tos, holding vintage Enfields at the ready. When they saw who it was, they waved a sleepy greeting and retreated. A smuggler departing with the night’s final shadows was clearly nothing new.

  As Ahmed and Wadi prepared the dhow for departure, Emma used the cell phone to coordinate with the U.S. embassy in Amman. Harry listened to Emma obtain bargaining power over Wadi Haddad and arrange their extraction from the Gulf. Every time she glanced his way, he smiled encouragement and did his best to hide his growing discomfort. It felt to him like something important inside his chest had decided now was a good time to call it quits.

  The two Arabs pulled the vessel out through blood-warm water. Emma went back to shore for a pair of oars while Ahmed stepped the mast and lashed it into place with hemp rope. Emma and Wadi began rowing while Harry played like ballast. A light breeze pushed away the morning mist and revealed an Egyptian borderland of desert sands and ochre cliffs, while the Saudi coast diminished to a yellow smear on the eastern horizon.