The Black Madonna

by Davis Bunn

  Muriel stood with her hands clasped in front of her, not looking directly at Storm but keeping her in her field of vision at all times. Storm joined her beside the bed, surveyed the four dresses, and declared, “Wow.”

  “I think they are rather nice, given the short notice.”

  “They’re fab. Which one would you choose?”

  “Perhaps the green one here.”

  Muriel expertly helped Storm slip into the froth of emerald silk. The dress was fashioned as a twenties ball gown minus the train and ended just above her knees. The dress was gathered at two points, the left shoulder and the left hip, so that the hem flowed in an asymmetrical fashion. Storm stared at the strange apparition in the mirror and asked, “Is this Chanel?”

  Muriel tore the wrapping off a pair of patterned stockings. “Balenciaga.”

  “You had time to hit two shops?”

  “Seven. The shoes are from Ferragamo. Purse from Louis Vuitton. Jewelry from Cartier. And the gray shift is from Max Mara. But I see now it is too flashy. With your striking looks, it would be, well . . .”

  “Overkill?”

  “Quite.”

  Storm accepted heels of pale-green lizard skin, slipped them on, and rose to her feet. “Unless, of course, Raphael goes for overkill.”

  “Ms. Syrrell, I have served as Mr. Danton’s personal aide for three years and two months. Until today, I would have thought it impossible for Mr. Danton to be diverted away from an urgent meeting with Sir Julius.” Muriel joined her by the mirror. “If anyone on the planet needs less overkill than you do, I have yet to meet her.”

  “Will you do my makeup?”

  “Certainly, madame.”

  “My name is Storm.”

  “Sit on the vanity stool, please.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “You and Mr. Danton are already late. Sir Julius will be livid. He positively abhors being kept waiting, even by the queen.” Muriel brushed at Storm’s hair with strong professional strokes. “You will make your entrance and both gentlemen will instantly suffer from complete amnesia.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  EMMA LEFT THE HOTEL, CROSSED the street, walked down a pedestrian passage, and slipped into a Starbucks. She doubted the coffee here would be as good as Claridge’s. Certainly the paper cup did not measure up to their china. But the hotel was so much like her mother’s idea of heaven that Emma had felt surrounded by years of bitter dispute.

  She took a seat at the rearmost table and dialed Harry’s number. “How are you?”

  “Not bad, considering.” Harry breathed with a slight wheeze but sounded alert. “The docs are holding off on some chest thing until the antibiotics kick in. They spent a couple of hours picking Hebron bricks and mortar out of my face. They say it should heal clean now.”

  “Are you up to hearing what’s happened at this end?”

  “You kidding? I’m laying here staring at a wall, wishing I was there to keep you two out of trouble.”

  Emma gave him a quick rundown of the airport abduction and finished with, “Those were the six most terrifying minutes of my entire life.”

  “And I wasn’t there to protect you.” Harry huffed a tight cough. “Man, if I wasn’t already sick, that would just about do me in.”

  “I hate to tell you, sport, but even at your best you couldn’t have done much against that crew.” Emma related the events at the hotel. “I have been lied to by pros, Harry. And much as I don’t like saying it, I think Raphael Danton is telling us the truth.”

  She was half expecting him to argue, which in a twisted sort of way would have suited her just fine. Put a little distance between them, given her ammo for pushing him away. Instead, Harry said, “Claridge’s is one amazing place, isn’t it?”

  “Harry, did you hear anything I just said?”

  “Every word. And a lot that wasn’t spoken at all.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve spent a lot of time here flat on my back thinking about us. I know something is eating away at you inside. All I want to tell you is, I think I’m fighting the same old ghosts. There’s a lot I’ll probably never get right in this life. But I’ve been staring at the truth, Emma, and I know I can’t afford to be wrong about us. I trust you, lady. With my life. Whatever you want to give me, it’s enough. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  She was still sitting there, holding the silent phone to her ear, long after Harry hung up.

  HARRY HANDED THE PHONE TO the hovering nurse. He breathed as deep as the rising constriction allowed. “Thanks.”

  The nurse was a hard-bitten veteran of many battlefield hospitals. Even so, the light in her gaze made up for her gravelly voice. “I’ve met a lot of charmers in my time. You’d be amazed at how nice a fellow can be, flat on his back and staring at that final door.”

  Harry watched her slip the tourniquet up his arm and cinch it tight. “I can imagine.”

  “Lot of guys, they play macho until the moment the anesthetic shuts them down. Like they’ve got to prove they’re still in control.” She inserted the needle into his arm. “I thought that’s what you were up to, waiting for this lady to phone before we wheeled you upstairs.”

  Harry realized she was apologizing. “I just needed a chance to set the record straight,” he said.

  “You were doing more than that, sport. You were being honest. That’s a rare gift. I hope the lady appreciates that.”

  Harry watched her phone the operating room and say they were on their way. When she hung up, he pointed at the metal bedstand and said, “There’s a letter in there addressed to the lady. If something happens, would you mail it to her?”

  “You’re a tough old bird. You’ll do fine. But yes, in the unlikely event, I’ll be happy to help out.” She then called to the male orderly holding up the wall outside his door.

  As they wheeled his bed out of the room and down the hall, Harry said, “The lady deserves more than I could ever give her.”

  “I wouldn’t sell myself short, if I was you.”

  Harry felt his eyelids drifting south. “Wish I knew what to tell her.”

  She waited until they had him snug inside the elevator to pat his arm. “Trust your heart. From what I just heard, it’s working wonders so far.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  STORM’S SUITE IN CLARIDGE’S WAS on the British first floor, one level above the lobby. The lobby’s ceiling was two stories high. Storm walked along an open-sided balcony to arrive at the staircase. She watched Raphael pace the lobby below her, arguing into his cell phone. He had changed into a suit dark as a tuxedo, a starched white shirt, and a black silk tie. His cuff links caught the chandelier’s light as he waved his free arm in the air. His gaze drifted upward just as Storm started down the steps. The staircase was Georgian and shaped in a gradual curve. Raphael murmured a final word, stowed away his phone, and stood planted with treelike stillness by the bottom stair.

  If Storm had ever known a finer compliment than this man’s unblinking gaze, she could not recall it. Storm walked up to him and released a half-dozen thoughts all in one breath. “You look fabulous. I never knew black could look so good on a man. I want to pack Muriel up and take her home with me. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” She took a breath. “That didn’t come out in very good order, did it?”

  Raphael blinked once. “I have no idea.”

  They were bowed out the front door and into a waiting Rolls the color of old smoke. The driver took Storm’s coat, a silk Balenciaga that shifted tone through the simple act of being folded and settled on the front seat beside Raphael’s briefcase.

  Raphael turned so that he could face her full-on. “The Athenaeum, Roger.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “And, Roger?”

  “Yes, Mr. Danton.”

  “There is no need to hurry.”

  The driver shot Storm a tight smile in the rearview mirror. “As you say, sir.”

  Storm said, “In that case, co
uld we stop by Mount Street and let me pick up one of Sir Julius’s treasures?”

  “Why not?” Raphael lifted a glistening bottle from the silver ice bucket. “Champagne?”

  “Better not. I’m already flying.”

  He liked that enough to form dimples. “Do you mind if I have a glass?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Thank you. I’m celebrating, you see.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “I’m not exactly certain.” He popped the cork. “Does it matter?”

  Storm caught another flash of humor from the driver’s gaze. “Not a bit.”

  THE ATHENAEUM ANCHORED ONE CORNER of Pall Mall, the nexus of British political power. The structure was part Georgian palace, part Grecian temple. The entrance was reached by stairs broad enough to support a mounted honor guard. A liveried servant stood at attention beneath the Corinthian columns. He managed to bow a greeting and block the door in one smooth motion. Raphael Danton announced, “Sir Julius is expecting us.”

  “Certainly, sir. Your name, if you please?”

  “Raphael Danton.”

  They were ushered through brass doors twenty feet high. A pair of guards flanked a reception desk that Storm would have been happy to place in her shop’s front window. The doorman announced, “Mr. Danton and guest for Sir Julius.”

  “If you would be so kind as to sign the register, sir? Might I have a look in your bag, madame?” When Storm opened the drawstring and showed him the sacramental plate, the man’s eyes widened. He turned to his aide, a young man with a soldier’s brush cut and white gloves. “Show our guests to the main library.”

  The interior stairs were thirty feet wide and flanked by more columns. Midway up, a Grecian statue saluted visitors from a recessed alcove. The entire establishment was meant to intimidate. But that evening Storm was immune. She liked the way Raphael looked up close. Which was surprising. Given what she knew of his background, she would have expected to find traces of hard living and too many close calls. “Who are you really? I’m only asking because the last time I was in London I met this other guy.”

  “Oh, him.” Raphael shrugged. “He died in Africa.”

  “And that makes you who, exactly?”

  He showed dimples once more. “I have no idea.”

  THE LIBRARY ROOM WAS FORTY feet long and almost as high. A circular staircase rose to a brass-railed balcony that ran around the walls. Every shelf was crammed with books. Storm would have stopped and gawked if not for the man seated at the oval table at the room’s center.

  Sir Julius Irving possessed a patrician’s beak and a Roman scowl. He lifted his attention from the magnifying glass he had been using to study an ancient text and glared. “Really, Danton. This is utterly unacceptable.”

  Storm had years of experience with the kind of man who blasted his ire across formal chambers. Her grandfather had been a master at the craft. Storm disengaged from Raphael and crossed the library alone. “Sir Julius, my name is Storm Syrrell. And I am the reason why we are late tonight.”

  “Storm—”

  “No, Raphael. I will not let you take the blame. Sir Julius, may I?” Storm knew the best way to handle such a menace was speed. She unfolded the plate’s display and set it atop what appeared to be a tome of eighteenth-century maps. She drew the paten from the sack, set it into the display, and stepped back with, “I wanted to personally deliver your most recent acquisition.”

  The room’s principal illumination came from a massive brass chandelier directly overhead. Torchlight might have had a stronger effect, but the present atmosphere would do in a pinch. Especially when Sir Julius said, “Most impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But you should have accomplished your duties and arrived at the appointed hour.”

  “I’m sorry. But that simply was not possible.”

  Sir Julius wore his pinstriped suit like robes of imperial power. He surveyed her coldly for a moment, then reaimed his ire across the room. “In that case, Danton, you should have instructed your staff person to retrieve this item on her own while you arrived here on time.”

  Storm replied, “I asked him to accompany me, Sir Julius.”

  “That simply will not do. I despise tardiness, young lady, as Danton well knows.”

  “Just the same, Sir Julius, I was attacked two days ago while acquiring this item.”

  He lifted the magnifying glass and inspected the paten’s rim. “Attacked how?”

  Raphael replied, “There was an attempted abduction.”

  Storm watched the gentleman lean in closer to the plate and decided he already knew about the abduction. He asked, “And where is my second treasure?”

  “In the safe of the dealer who helped me track it down.”

  He set down the glass and declared, “The rim is not original to the paten.”

  “It was a common practice for icons and other holy articles to which miracles had been attributed to be given further decorations,” Storm replied. “Many considered it an act of veneration. My estimate is that the border was added around the tenth century.”

  He examined her with the same calculating chill he had applied to the plate, then pushed his chair back from the table. Only when he rose to his feet did Storm realize the man was almost seven feet tall. “Allow me to show you out.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MORE THAN FIFTY OF OUR club’s members have won the Nobel Prize, at least one in every category. Makes for a rather nice fillip for future generations, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Sir Julius walked with a marked stoop, which granted him a false sense of vulnerability. This was magnified by his diffident manner of speech. But one look into his ice-blade gaze left Storm certain Sir Julius would send a man to the gallows or a nation to war without pause or a backward glance.

  Their progress was tracked by the same footman who had led them upstairs. Only now he carried the velvet sack in his white-gloved grip. Sir Julius halted before the staircase and said, “It was here that Charles Dickens finally made up his rather violent quarrel with Thackeray. They had not spoken for more than twelve years, but Thackeray was dying, and Dickens did not want to have his former closest friend carry their argument to his grave. I’ve always found that rather touching.”

  Storm sensed this running commentary was his way of keeping her from asking any questions. She broke in with, “Do you have any idea who is behind the attacks against me?”

  He peered at her with the same displeasure he might have shown a wayward serf. “Your question, young lady, is unreservedly incorrect. What you should be doing is reporting on who dares bid against me.”

  “We have a name.”

  “Then be so good as to tell me.”

  “Vladimir Abramov.”

  Sir Julius possessed the ability to frown with his entire being. “Has he not recently suffered a setback?”

  “The man is bankrupt,” Raphael said. “Completely.”

  “Then what you are telling me makes no sense whatsoever.”

  Storm nodded. “I agree.”

  “This is not acceptable. If you wish to remain in my employ, I expect you to deliver not merely the merchandise but the opposition.” His farewell was a brushing gesture of those long arthritic fingers, shooing them away. “You may be in touch when you have something of value to offer.”

  They were shepherded downstairs and ushered with polite firmness out the front doors. They exited the building to discover a light rain had settled upon the city.

  Raphael peered through the gloom. “I don’t see our car.”

  The footman stopped in the process of shutting the club’s front door and said, “They’re quite strict about stopping here, sir. I saw him make a circuit not long back.”

  As Raphael took out his phone, Storm walked to the top stair and watched the passing traffic. He joined her and said, “My driver is not answering.”

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “You did very well ins
ide.” He studied her. “To be honest, I’m surprised you don’t seem more angry.”

  Storm sniffed. “My grandfather on a bad day would have fried Sir Julius hard as he liked his eggs.”

  “The first time he shooed me off I was livid for a week.”

  “He’s paying the bills, Raphael. Big ones. He can treat us any way he wants, and he’s enough of a snob to enjoy it. That’s his problem.”

  “Now you’re stealing my best lines.”

  “If you keep making dimples at me I can’t concentrate.”

  “Sorry. How’s that?”

  She wanted to kiss him. Just hurl herself into his arms and kiss him so hard it bruised both their lips. But at that moment a car sliced through the wet night and halted by the curb. Raphael said, “Let’s talk on the way to dinner.”

  Storm sighed over lost opportunities. “We’re going to dinner?”

  “I made us reservations at Cipriani.” He halted at the first stair. “Is that all right?”

  “Yes, Raphael. It’s fine.”

  “You look disturbed. I should have asked. Is that it?”

  “No . . . well, yes, okay. A girl likes to know if she’s going on a date. But that’s . . .” Suddenly Storm was glad the footman had slipped back inside, leaving them alone with the night. “I wanted to kiss you.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “Never mind.”

  “I’ve never seen you blush.” He closed the distance between them. “Or look more beautiful.”

  WHEN RAPHAEL FINALLY RELEASED HER, Storm carried the feel of his arms into the night. As they left the alcove and began to descend the steps, the rain felt marvelous on her face, a veil soft as his scent.

  Raphael asked, “Why isn’t Bernard out of the car?”

  Storm pretended she needed his arm to manage the slick stone stairs. “Who?”

  “Our driver. He should be up here with your coat and my umbrella.”

  “He might get wet.”

  “He might . . . that was a joke.”

  “A bad one.”

  “No, no, it was actually quite . . .”