The Black Madonna

by Davis Bunn

“First of all, she is not ‘that woman.’ She is my friend. Secondly, this is not some casual change of direction. I have been the victim of two attacks.”

  “Which is why I arranged—”

  “Emma Webb is a professional agent. She wanted to take personal charge of my safety. I know her and I trust her.”

  Sir Julius gave her a British version of sullen. “I thought your friend had been ordered back to Washington.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I can hardly be expected to recall every small detail.”

  “This is a vital bit of highly confidential information.”

  “Ms. Syrrell, I did not phone you to be interrogated. Now I really must insist—”

  “Emma Webb is remaining in place until she is certain that I am safe. She is handling security.”

  “Your attitude is most unreasonable.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. Do you want me to handle the bidding?”

  He made no effort to hide his discontent. “For the moment.”

  Storm shut her phone and sat staring through the side window of the taxi. The house was almost lost behind a line of willows.

  Eric asked quietly, “Are you certain you want to do this?”

  Storm responded by reaching for the taxi’s door.

  “Wait just a minute.” Eric Siegler rose from the taxi, scouted in all directions, then said, “All right.”

  “Are you coming?”

  He stared up at the house. “This is as close as I ever need to get to those people.”

  Storm walked up the tree-shaded walk. The house dated from the nineteenth century, with a gabled roof and miniature turrets at each end. Broad stairs shaped like an open fan rose to a door as forbidding as a Swiss safe, tall and bound by iron bands and studded with nails. She rang the bell.

  The young maid wore a uniform from the Victorian era, a black smock and crinoline apron and starched cap and lace-up shoes. “Ja, bitte?”

  “My name is Storm Syrrell. I am here with news about Raphael Danton.”

  The maid’s features constricted. “You will please to wait here.” She shut the door in Storm’s face.

  The door was opened a second time by a woman who resembled Raphael to an astonishing degree. “Yes?”

  “My name is Storm Syrrell. I have news of your son.”

  “Very well.” She crossed her arms beneath the single strand of pearls. “I’m listening.”

  “Perhaps it would be best if I came inside.”

  A masculine voice from within said, “Oh, let the woman in, Gilda.”

  The house felt as cold as a cave. Granite floors, peaked stone ceiling, barred windows, even the paintings were severe. Storm was led into a cheerless parlor. The stone floor was covered by a beige Berber carpet. The furniture was leather and as severe as the man standing by the unlit fire. “You bring word of Raphael. Say it.”

  “He’s been shot.”

  The woman sank onto the sofa. She turned and stared at the man, who said, “The last time, we learned of Raphael’s injuries from some reporter. He also said Raphael had been arrested for being a mercenary.” The man bit off each word like he was measuring a compound in the lab. “And plotting a coup.”

  “That time he was struck by a spear,” the woman softly added. “The reporter wanted a comment.”

  “Spear, gun, knife, bomb, Raphael has chosen his life and must accept the consequences.” The man wore a brown tweed jacket over a forest-green vest and matching tie. Trimmed sideburns extended down to where they almost met at his chin. He did not stand by the mantel so much as pose. “I suppose you’re here to tell me his injuries are more serious this time.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “It was inevitable. Simply a matter of time.” He glanced at his wife. “He was born with an overabundance of recklessness. He has sought this end his entire life.”

  The woman wiped at her face but did not speak.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Storm headed for the door.

  When they were back outside, the woman asked through the open door, “Where is he?”

  “Guy’s Hospital. That’s in London.”

  The woman started to speak, but the man called, “Gilda!”

  The woman lowered her gaze and shut the door.

  FORTY-THREE

  WHEN THE VEHICLE PULLED UP in front of the auction hall, Storm’s stand-in watched from the second SUV as Emma entered the building. Emma obtained passes from the front desk and entered the crowded chamber. Illuminated cases flanked the entry and marched down the side walls. Waiters drifted about bearing trays of mimosas.

  Emma slipped through the dealers and high-end buyers, up to the cluster of power by the auctioneer’s dais. She saw the flash of recognition within Aaron Rausch’s dark eyes. “Remember me?”

  “My dear Ms. Webb. However could I forget?” The old gentleman offered the suggestion of a courtly bow. “How very good to see you again.”

  “I have a message from Storm.”

  “Allow me to show you an item I find of particular interest.” He gestured toward the sidewall. “Is she here?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Is she safe?”

  “That’s what I want to speak with you about.” She felt eyes track them across the room. “Can we talk somewhere more private?”

  “If we leave the premises, people will notice.” He tapped the display case’s glass top. “I assume this is what we’ll be fighting over.”

  Emma saw a gold, jewel-encrusted box shaped like a cathedral, right down to tiny gold pillars lining what she assumed was the front. “What is it?”

  “A reliquary, eleventh century or earlier. It is reputed to hold a finger of Saint Peter himself.” Even his smile was courtly. “Most likely a chicken bone. That was the animal of choice in those days. Quite a number of miracles are linked to this item.”

  As Emma relayed Storm’s message, Rausch drew a small magnifying glass from his pocket and leaned closer to the glass. When she was done, Rausch remained bent over the reliquary. “So you have inserted a double for Ms. Syrrell, and you want my assistance in, shall we say, establishing her provenance.”

  “Storm needs to be elsewhere. We need to mask her movements from any potential watchers.”

  “Provenance is a vital word in my profession, Agent Webb. You are asking me to risk my good name for, if you will excuse me, something of questionable value.”

  Emma had come expecting this. She leaned in close and murmured, “Vladimir Abramov is not your client.”

  Aaron Rausch straightened slowly. His fingers trembled slightly as he slipped the magnifying glass into his vest pocket. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “But you already knew this, didn’t you.” She was close enough to see the perspiration bead his forehead. “Shall I name the man pulling your company’s strings?”

  “That will not be necessary.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is our firm in danger?”

  “Not if we are successful in pulling this off.”

  “You may tell Ms. Syrrell that I stand ready to assist you.”

  “Storm asked me to tell you that she is in your debt. I’ll add my own vote to that.”

  “I sincerely hope I shall have an opportunity to call upon you. And that you shall both be around to respond.” This time his bow was deeper. “Good day, Ms. Webb.”

  EMMA EXITED THE HALL AND signaled the security team. They alighted and fitted themselves around Storm’s stand-in. As Emma handed each team member a pass. The actress was slightly taller and a little heavier than Storm. But with the sunglasses and the dark head scarf and the agents blocking anyone from coming too close, she might pull it off. Maybe.

  They entered the main hall with Emma in the lead. Dealers scanned the assembled objects and clustered and spoke softly into phones with their hands cupped around the mouthpieces. The entire room froze as Aaron Rausch shouted, “You said nothing about that woman showing up here!”

  Emm
a ignored Rausch’s outburst. She turned to Storm’s stand-in and pointed to the room’s opposite side. “Item one hundred and forty-six.”

  The old gentleman rushed forward. “This is positively the worst abuse of dealer privilege I have ever seen!”

  A bespectacled gray-suited man set his auctioneer’s hammer on the podium and hurried over. “Is there a problem?”

  “A problem, did you say? A problem?” Aaron Rausch collided with the outstretched arm of the nearest guard and windmilled backward. “Take your hands off me!”

  Emma said, “Keep your distance and there will be no trouble.”

  “You speak to me about trouble?”

  The auctioneer inserted himself between Emma and Rausch. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Ms. Syrrell simply wishes to bid on one particular item.”

  Rausch yelled, “This woman has no more right to be here than my pet cat!”

  The auctioneer pointed at her guards. “And these people?”

  “At a recent auction in England,” Emma replied, “Ms. Syrrell was the victim of an attempted abduction.”

  “Ah.” The auctioneer’s gaze took on a tightly avaricious gleam. “I recall hearing something about that incident.”

  “Then you also heard how Mr. Rausch’s son threatened Ms. Syrrell after she won their battle over a particular piece.”

  “Slander! I’ll sue you for every cent you own!”

  The auctioneer asked, “Does Ms. Syrrell represent a bona fide buyer?”

  Rausch yelled, “She’s nothing but a cheap trickster and a charlatan!”

  “She absolutely has a buyer.” Emma offered the auctioneer Sir Julius’s card. “You can call this number to confirm.”

  “In that case, I shall expect all participants at this event to maintain proper decorum.” The auctioneer adjusted his chin so as to look down upon Aaron Rausch. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  Emma moved to where the woman posing as Storm leaned over the case. “The item does not actually come up for auction until the day after tomorrow. Do you wish to remain any longer?”

  In response, the woman straightened and headed for the exit. The guards surrounded her more tightly than ever. As they passed through the main doors, Aaron Rausch shouted, “Outrageous!”

  From her position by the exit, Emma cast the old man a look of pure gratitude. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  EMMA AND TANYA REJOINED ERIC and Storm at the airport. After they took off and climbed to cruising altitude, Tanya stepped forward and confirmed that all the arrangements were being made according to Storm’s plan. Storm knew she should be asking questions and making preparations. But afternoon sunlight glinted off peaks rising like ice-clad islands from a frothy sea, and all Storm could think was, This is Raphael’s home.

  She asked Eric, “Will you tell me about Raphael?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  Eric occupied the left seat, which meant she could watch emotions flicker across the mobile side of his face. “Raphael blamed himself for Valerie’s death.”

  “Valerie was his wife?”

  “Yes. She was pregnant. She wanted to return to Switzerland for the delivery. Raphael agreed but refused to travel with her. We had a contract, a big-game hunter flying in from Bavaria. Valerie refused to leave without him. Three nights after we left on safari, the rebels attacked.”

  “Poor Raphael.”

  “Raphael buried his laughter with Valerie. His smile. His heart. After it was over, Raphael and I fought against those who took everything from him. When I was injured, I went home to Switzerland. Raphael moved to London. He got rich. He met you.” He glanced over. “Now you know everything.”

  Storm stared out at the endless horizons and thought about all that lay ahead. “Do you believe in miracles?”

  “Absolutely not.” Eric turned so that she could see both sides of his face. “Until I heard Raphael speak about you.”

  THE WEATHER CLEARED AS they entered Italian airspace. Eric chattered with the Milan controllers and aimed south. The storm clouds had filtered away, revealing minty green plains. In the distance Milan’s earthbound cloud glowed an ugly shade of yellowish gray. Eric held to his course for about fifteen minutes. Then he spoke with the control tower again, announced a change in course, and banked the plane north.

  Eric said, “Italy’s air traffic controllers are notorious for avoiding paperwork. My flight plan says Rome. They might report our altered course. Someday.”

  Eric began descending as they reentered the Italian Alps. The surrounding peaks looked razor sharp and far too close. Eric pushed the nose down. From this perspective, the mountains appeared to cage the valley, hemming in tightly on all sides. A single road formed a tiny dark snake far below. As the village grew in front of them, Storm said, “It looks so quiet.”

  “The Livigno Valley missed the twentieth century entirely. Both world wars, the fascists, Mussolini—for the people here it was all nothing but rumors. There are only two roads in and out. The one into Switzerland crosses the Narrow Pass. The road into Italy crosses the Foscagno Pass. Both are above seven thousand feet. Avalanches close the valley off several times each winter. There is no industry. The mountains are too steep for ski resorts. Also there was the matter of Livigno’s unsavory reputation. Livigno has been a smugglers’ haven for centuries.” The undamaged side of his face smiled at her. “Which makes the place perfect for us.”

  But her idea of walking into Switzerland, with Eric to guide them past the police, no longer seemed such a great one. She swallowed, trying to force down the dread. “I guess.”

  “I told you. Raphael and I commanded troops along Italy’s border with the Engadine for two years. I have hiked all over these mountains. They are my friends.” He banked the jet through a steep turn. “It’s a good plan.”

  The airport was a single north-south landing strip. Eric did a flyover. The airport came and went in the blink of an eye. Storm asked, “Can you land on that?”

  Eric banked a second time, leveled off, and dropped like a stone. “Theoretically.”

  The plane met the runway extremely hard. Eric stood on the brakes and powered the engines into reverse thrust. The entire plane shuddered and the tires smoked. They halted so close to the end all Storm could see was snow-flecked grass and two astonished sheep.

  From the back, Emma said, “Something tells me I’m glad I missed that one.”

  AS THEY DESCENDED FROM the plane, Father Gregor greeted each with solemn intensity. He turned to Storm last and said, “My nation thanks you, Ms. Syrrell. Even those who will never have reason to know your name.”

  The steep-sided mountains framed the priest in stone and ice. “Now that I’m here, all I can think of are ways for this to go wrong.”

  “Which is why you do not go alone.”

  “Maybe we should wait and—”

  “There is no time. The pressure on us to release the news is growing with each passing hour. Antonin and I both agree. It is a splendid plan.” He waved them toward a Fiat people mover. “Come. Your team awaits.”

  Emma asked, “What team would that be?”

  Father Gregor smiled. “Come and see.”

  THEY DROVE THROUGH THE VILLAGE of Livigno and continued north. The narrow road ran along a ridge that dropped to Gallo Lake. The lake was four miles wide and so long both ends were lost to the afternoon shadows. Every time Storm lifted her gaze from the lake’s steel waters, the mountains loomed high and tight. Watching.

  Storm squinted out the front windshield. “They look so high.”

  “They are,” Eric said.

  “And steep.”

  “Extremely.”

  Emma said, “You’re quite the salesman.”

  “You don’t have to come,” he replied.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I was speaking for both of you.”

  Emma glanced at Storm. “So was I.”
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  Their destination was a twelfth-century monastery. The cloister and its surrounding pasture overlooked both the road and the lake. The meadow extended north into its own miniature valley, over which the mountains brooded. In the distance, sheep grazed between the patches of snow. The view was exquisitely peaceful. So long as Storm kept herself from looking up.

  They arrived just as dinner was being served. The medieval hall was jammed. One long table held the monks, while another held nineteen civilians. All but Antonin looked both young and extremely fit.

  Antonin Tarka limped over, leaning heavily upon his cane. He waved to the people lining the second table and said, “My associates insisted upon sending you some help.”

  “But—”

  “Whether you like it or not, Ms. Syrrell. My associates have insisted on this escort.”

  Emma protested. “They’re worrying over a fake.”

  “You must be Agent Webb.” Antonin Tarka inspected her carefully. “The answer, Ms. Webb, is that they are worrying over my nation’s heritage.”

  Storm asked, “Who are they?”

  “They are no one. They are not here. They do not exist. As for the fake Madonna, these people have brought it with them, and I can assure you that it is perfectly safe.” Antonin Tarka waved them to seats at the table’s center. “Your places await.”

  As they took their seats along the refectory table, Father Gregor stepped to an ancient wooden podium set by two tall stained-glass windows. The instant he began speaking, the hall became silent, tense. Storm took a long moment to inspect the group. They were about two-thirds male. The women were hard as the men. Young, taut, intent.

  The priest led them in prayer, then took the seat on Storm’s other side and observed, “I have seen starched linen altar cloths with more color than your face.”

  Storm waited as a server placed a bowl of stew in front of her. “I don’t like heights.”

  Antonin Tarka said, “Then don’t go.”

  Storm forced herself to take a bite. Swallowed. Tasted nothing. “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  Storm took another bite. She did not speak.