The Black Madonna

by Davis Bunn

  “You know what we know,” Emma said.

  “Oh, I doubt that in the extreme, Agent Webb.” He stalked toward the door. “Sir Julius can only protect you for so long.”

  THE TWO WOMEN DEPARTED SOON after the detective left, Tanya to meet with her superiors and Muriel to take care of urgent matters at the office. Storm expected Emma to come back at her with further reasons not to trust them. But Emma must have sensed her readiness to argue the point, for she merely pulled out her phone and said, “I need to check in with Tip.”

  Storm sat and listened to one side of the discussion. Finally Emma shut her phone and said, “Tip agrees that my abduction and release at Heathrow was Russian intel’s way of showing they’re not involved. Tip expected the CIA snoops would vanish like old smoke as soon as he reported the news of my abduction and release. Instead, he says they’re swarming around him like angry ants.”

  Storm sat and struggled to fit that into her mental puzzle. Emma appeared content to wait. The silence was broken by an announcement over the hospital speakers. A nurse passed by the glass portal, glanced inside, and kept moving. Her shoes squeaked on the hall’s linoleum floor. The elevator doors pinged open, then shut. Finally Storm turned and looked at her friend. “What if we’re missing the Russians’ real message?”

  “I don’t follow. They demonstrated that if they’d been the ones behind the Hebron bombing and the attacks in Jordan, Harry would be history.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Emma just pressed harder. “Ditto for your attempted abduction in Cirencester. Maybe even the missing icon. They meant for us to understand they had nothing to do with these events. They’re clean.”

  “But remember what Father Gregor told you back in Washington. His contacts in the West Bank insisted the Russians were involved in the Hebron attack.”

  “You’re saying the Russians hijacked me just to lie?”

  “Not exactly. What if everything we’re facing is all tied to one guy? What if this guy is so powerful the Russian government was forced to help him out?”

  Emma did not respond.

  “What if some people inside the Russian government don’t like being manipulated into this international situation? What if they orchestrated your abduction to pass this message on?”

  Emma nodded slowly. “They were specifically ordered not to say anything. Which they didn’t. Instead, they delivered a message that was just smoke.”

  “But the real message is, ‘Somebody is pulling our strings, and we don’t like it.’”

  “The reports we’re getting suggest the new Russian oligarchs hold that kind of power. They back Putin, Putin backs them.”

  “Antonin Tarka said pretty much the same thing.”

  “But we already know that Abramov guy, the one you bid against, is bankrupt. So he can’t be manipulating anybody.”

  “Forget him. Abramov was just a ruse.”

  “Which leads you back to square one, right?”

  Storm said, “Think back to what happened in Spain. I made a deal with Rausch. They took two of the auctioned treasures, we took two, and we saved each other a ton of money. To me, it was a logical move. But Raphael’s client was furious. He wanted me gone. Which means Raphael’s client wasn’t after the goods. He was after . . .”

  “He was after everything.”

  “No, Emma. When I was at the Cirencester auction, Raphael told me the client’s instructions were to crush the opponent. Publicly humiliate him.”

  “To what end?”

  “That’s what we need to figure out. That is the key to everything.”

  Emma said, “So what happens now?”

  “Food,” Storm said. “I’m starved.”

  THE HOSPITAL CAFETERIA WAS LOCATED in a wing that predated modern medicine. The lighting was so stark it embalmed the living. A boiler hissed sullenly behind the serving counter. Storm took a soup and a salad and some fruit, then walked to the room’s opposite side. Narrow windows revealed a cloudless sky. Storm set down her tray and stared at the windswept day. Across from her was another brownstone hospital wing. The wall clock above the window aimed at meaningless numbers. Such things as time belonged to an entirely different realm.

  Between bites, Storm told Emma about the dream. Emma listened in silence, then said, “Maybe it really was him.”

  “I want it to be real. So much. But what about when he said he had to go?”

  “Maybe he said you had to go, not him.”

  “He said what he said. And to back it up, he got up and left.”

  “Get a load of us, arguing over what a guy in a coma told you. While you were asleep.”

  Storm set down her spoon. “I’m in love with a man I may never speak with again.”

  “For what it’s worth, I understand you a lot better than I would ever want.”

  The confession was ragged enough to draw Storm back. “Why don’t you just call Harry and say you’ll marry him?”

  Emma pushed her tray away. “The corridors of Washington are littered with marriages that were doomed long before the rings were bought.”

  “Harry is different, and so are you.” Storm wished she could clear her head enough to offer something solid, but all she could think of was, “What do you want? I mean, really?”

  “Really?” Emma’s features twisted in a semblance of agony. “I want to smother the man with my love.”

  “Harry will not desert you, Emma.”

  “Who says I’m worried about . . .” She pointed across the chamber. “Here comes trouble.”

  Inspector Mehan was entering the cafeteria flanked by two uniformed officers. Mehan spotted them, signaled to the officers, and walked over. “Ms. Syrrell, Agent Webb, I’m ordered to take you both into custody.”

  Storm asked, “On what charges?”

  “No charges, miss. None required. You have all been deemed undesirable aliens in our fair land. Your visas are hereby revoked.” He searched the cafeteria, then turned to one of the officers and said, “Go check upstairs for the Polish lady.”

  By now all the cafeteria was watching as Emma snapped, “My agency will be lodging an official protest.”

  “They can do whatever they please, Agent Webb. In the meantime, your deportation orders take immediate effect.” He swept them up. “Move or be moved. That is your only choice at present.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THERE WERE NO SIRENS. NO guns. No shoving or physical abuse. They were hustled into a police van with polite efficiency and swept away. As Storm watched the hospital disappear through the wire mesh covering the rear window, she learned an important lesson about herself. She had noticed it before. Yet she had never identified it as a personal trait. Or perhaps she had, but was forced to relearn it with each new trial.

  The world was never clearer than when she faced impossible pressures. Her thoughts were never so precise as now, her emotions never farther removed. She was aware of her heart’s lament, the silent keen of anguish over leaving Raphael. Yet it did not overwhelm her. In fact, her ability to separate the immediate circumstances from her emotions was so complete she could observe her torment with the same distance she used to study Inspector Mehan.

  The detective was seated on the hard bench across from her. He had said nothing since refusing her entreaty to see Raphael one last time. He revealed a professional detachment, swaying in easy cadence to the van’s bumpy progress. There was nothing to suggest he was anything other than completely satisfied with the events. Yet Storm was certain the man was enraged.

  The police officers had fetched her purse from Raphael’s room. Storm pulled out the cell phone Tanya had supplied. “Is it all right if I make a couple of calls?”

  Mehan did not even glance over. “My orders say nothing about sequestering you from outside contact, miss.”

  She phoned Muriel and received the answering service. Storm related what had happened and asked Muriel to call back immediately. She then dialed Sir Julius’s number. The phone was answered
by a woman whose frosty edge matched that of her boss. “Sir Julius is unavailable.”

  “Could you please tell him that we are being deported?”

  The woman’s sniff was loud enough to be heard over the rattling van. “I doubt most sincerely, madame, that such matters will be of any interest whatsoever to his lordship.”

  Storm shut her phone and cradled it to her chest. She compressed her hands, as though trying to squeeze what she sensed but could not identify from the instrument.

  Emma was seated beside Storm. She made a call, spoke behind a cupped hand, slapped it shut, fumed, then said, “I can’t raise Tip.”

  Storm resisted the urge to tell Emma that she was focused on the wrong direction. The swirl of thoughts and images and ideas had not crystallized. Storm simply nodded.

  Tanya was seated between Storm and the rear doors. Her expression was pinched. Pale. Worried. She made two quick phone calls, then stowed her phone and stared out the rear windows with unblinking blindness.

  Storm’s phone rang. Muriel said, “I received your message.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Back in the hospital waiting room.”

  “Can you stay there? I don’t want Raphael left alone.”

  “Of course. I will lodge an official protest—”

  “Never mind that. We’re going to be deported. We need to face that fact and move on. Can you find somebody who can do a check for bugs?”

  “You mean listening devices? Of course.”

  “Have them scan the waiting room. And Raphael’s room. As quickly as possible.”

  “I will get on this immediately.”

  “Until they arrive, you need to remain planted where you are. Don’t leave there for an instant. Give the nurses precise instructions that nobody other than you is allowed into Raphael’s room. And arrange for some security to camp out in the waiting area.”

  When Storm cut the connection, Inspector Mehan was watching her carefully. But it was Emma who asked, “You think our boy’s in danger?”

  “Maybe.” Storm met the inspector’s unblinking gaze and said, “You left the hospital waiting room and were gone, what, two hours?”

  Something flickered deep in the policeman’s gaze. Storm hoped it was approval. All he said was, “A bit longer.”

  “Then you returned with orders to deport us. Something happened in that period, and it wasn’t your idea. Something you don’t like.”

  Mehan replied, “I will do as I am ordered, miss. And so shall you.”

  Storm pressed. “Three principal suspects in a murder investigation being evicted from Britain. This can’t be a good idea.”

  “You were never suspects.”

  Emma demanded, “What kind of answer is that?”

  The inspector’s gaze did not waver. “The only kind I am permitted to offer.”

  Storm asked, “What happens when we arrive at Heathrow?”

  “We will of course follow standard procedure. You will proceed to a room rather like the one you just left at the hospital, only the furniture in this one will be rather more seedy and the door will only open from the outside. There I shall read you the riot act. After which you will be required to wait until your flight is announced.”

  Emma asked, “Where are you sending us?”

  “That is not the question,” Storm replied. “Is it?”

  The faint glimmer returned to the inspector’s gray gaze. He did not respond.

  “The question is, where do we need to go next? Your orders were to get us off British soil. We can choose our own destination.”

  Tanya turned from her inspection out the rear window. “You have an idea?”

  “Maybe. But first we need to settle something.” She turned to face Emma straight on. “I need you to accept that we can fully trust Muriel. And Tanya. Without reservation.”

  Emma glanced over Storm’s shoulder, then back again. “On what grounds am I supposed to accept such a totally unfounded premise?”

  “Let’s assume Muriel is not to be trusted. She’s a spy for Rausch. How do you see all that working out?”

  “How should I know? Maybe she wants to take over the business. She looks like a smart girl. She’s tired of working for the jerk. So she accepts an offer from Rausch’s buyer.”

  “But why, Emma? She helps shoot her own boss? Wouldn’t she be the first to come under suspicion?”

  Mehan said, “She most certainly was.”

  Emma glanced over, then back. She did not reply.

  “Why not just go off and set up her own shop?” Storm said. “You said it yourself. Raphael can be a major pain. How many of his employees and clients are there because of Muriel and the team she probably holds together?”

  “It was just a suggestion,” Emma replied. “She could be working for one big score.”

  “But what would be the motive behind Rausch’s client making such an offer to her?” Storm continued. “This mystery guy has spent a ton keeping his identity secret. All of a sudden he’d trust Raphael’s number two so much that he will rely on her to help him shoot her boss?”

  “Ms. Syrrell,” Mehan said, “has a point.”

  Emma gave a tight nod. “All right. I’ll go with you on this. Unless I have strong evidence to the contrary.” She shifted her gaze to the woman seated on Storm’s other side. “Which I sincerely hope I never do. For all our sakes.”

  “Great.” Storm turned to Tanya. “Call Antonin. Tell him we’re looking for a Russian so powerful he can order armies to war.”

  Tanya shrugged. “Russia has maybe a hundred such oligarchs. More. We need something to narrow the search.”

  The same idea that had whispered to her when she woke from Raphael’s dream returned now. “All the items I’ve bid on are tied to miracles,” Storm said. “Each of them is bound to events so huge the stories have endured for over a thousand years. Centuries of miraculous healings. Visions, holy men, powers and events beyond mortal men. Even the power to stop time.”

  Mehan said, “You’re suggesting our culprit is some religious wacko who’s moved in close to Russia’s new throne.”

  “No.” Only now was the concept fully formed, clarified by the confines of a police van drawing her ever farther from Raphael. “I think we’re after someone who has lost all earthly hope. He needs a miracle.”

  Tanya nodded slowly. “I like this. Very much.”

  “Tell Antonin to search for a Russian oligarch with a problem so serious he’s given up all connection to logic. Maybe somebody who’s cheated death before, and he’s looking to do it again. He wants his own personal stairway to heaven. Buy his way out of his latest problem.”

  Tanya swiveled around to face the rear window and hit the speed-dial button.

  Storm opened her own phone. She could feel Mehan’s gaze raking over her. When Muriel answered, Storm asked, “Anything?”

  “Two gentlemen in suits just stopped by. They took one look in Raphael’s room, spotted me, and left.”

  “Do you have access to the upper echelons of the British power structure?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “We need to know who Sir Julius Irving really is.”

  Mehan leaned forward.

  Storm went on, “Raphael was emphatic that Sir Julius held no connection to Russia. But he is the second buyer. Which means he has a hidden motive for fighting with Rausch’s client over these items. We need to find out who is backing his play and why.”

  “I will have my team get on this immediately.”

  “One other thing. Can you find us a plane?”

  “I can do better than that,” Muriel replied. “I can find you an ally. Where are you now?”

  She passed the question on to Mehan, who replied, “Just coming onto the A4. Thirty minutes from Heathrow in this traffic.”

  Muriel said, “Unless they carry heads of state, private planes are rarely granted landing privileges at Heathrow. Can you get to City Airport?”

  When she asked Mehan, he
said to the driver, “Turn us around and head for City.”

  The driver objected. “That airport has no facilities for detaining deportees, sir.”

  “Just do it.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  TANYA’S PHONE RANG JUST AS the police van reentered London’s stop-and-go traffic. She spoke briefly, then handed the phone to Storm. “The patriot has succeeded.”

  When Storm answered, Antonin Tarka said, “We have a name. Kiril Temerko. Does that mean anything?”

  Storm lowered the phone and repeated the name to Emma, who frowned. But Tanya leaned back against the van’s metal side and smiled at the ceiling. She said, “Is perfect.”

  Storm raised the phone and heard Antonin Tarka say, “Kiril Temerko is an intimate crony of Russia’s president. You have heard of Mikhail Khodorkovsky, perhaps?”

  Storm recalled the name. “The disgraced oil tycoon.”

  “Khodorkovsky backed Putin’s opponent in his last race for president. Khodorkovsky thought having a billion dollars in the bank was enough to protect him. He was wrong. History is filled with such stories, where princes mistakenly think they are as powerful as kings. When his company, Yukos, was broken up, Kiril Temerko was permitted to purchase the assets for pennies.”

  “So Temerko now owns Russia’s oil.”

  “Quite a considerable portion. Kiril Temerko also controls two-thirds of Russia’s natural gas fields. And more than half of western Europe’s gas comes from Russia.”

  More puzzle fragments swam together. “Is Temerko sick?”

  “His daughter. An only child. She has cancer of the bone marrow. Her chances are nonexistent.”

  Storm waited as the van took an overly tight corner, then she asked, “Now give me the bad news.”

  “You are quite correct. The next item is certainly not good.” Even so, the old man’s voice rang with optimism. “Kiril Temerko owns eleven houses. They are everywhere. His official residence is a private island in the Moskva River from which the Kremlin is visible. He owns another island, near Papua New Guinea. A penthouse in New York. A town house in Versailles. The list, as far as we are concerned, is endless. He employs a small army. He travels only by private jet and helicopter.”