by Davis Bunn
A diadem, or crown, made to commemorate the coronation of a new emperor. Because the crown was so tiny, it was probably made for a child. Ninth century.
There was a primeval air to the hall. But it was not a holy sensation. This was no church. The candles performed a macabre dance before treasures robbed of their sacred significance.
Kiril waited for her at the hallway’s end, the three guards still surrounding him. Kiril’s skin folded about his face and neck like a ghoulish cape.
“Enough,” Kiril said. “Your prize is this way. Come.”
FIFTY
THE CHILD’S SUITE WAS HALF Aladdin’s cave and half shrine. The bedroom was larger than Storm’s entire apartment. A turret formed the room’s northeast corner, a curved fairyland filled with stuffed animals and dolls. Hundreds and hundreds of dolls.
The room’s centerpiece was a pink four-poster bed topped by a pink canopy. On the bed’s other side was the largest antique dollhouse Storm had ever seen. It completely covered an oak refectory table.
The guards took up stations at the hallway door just inside the bedroom. A woman in a nurse’s uniform rose from a chair by the bed. She did not look in Kiril’s direction. She stepped into an alcove and left the room via a recessed door in the tower’s curved wall. The door clicked shut.
In the bed was a wraith, a ghost still encased in skin and bones. Her skull was covered in a grayish-white fuzz that left her head even more naked than if she had been completely bald. Only her eyes held life, two brilliant dark orbs that fastened upon her father as soon as he appeared. She did not even glance at Storm. Her father sank onto the bed beside his daughter, took up her hand, stroked her face, and crooned to her.
The room’s walls were plastered with icons. Dozens of them.
The Greek word eikon meant a likeness, image, or picture. In the eleventh century, after the defeat of iconoclasm and the split of the Roman and Eastern churches, artists began fashioning secondary frames around the icons known for having miracles associated with them. These frames were normally finished in silver and gold revetment, where every inch was meticulously embedded with patterns of holy ornamentation—crosses, diadems, faces, and so on. Every icon Storm could see bore such adornment.
The Black Madonna was on the wall directly opposite the bed. Storm felt herself drawn across the room. The force of the image was that strong. The table before the icon was blanketed by votive candles. In the flickering light, the icon’s eyes watched her approach. Storm had the vivid impression that the child in the icon smiled a welcome.
She leaned the copy against the wall, slipped around the table, and gingerly took down the original. Her hands tingled as though a current passed through her body. She replaced it with the counterfeit. Then she stepped back. She knew she should flee. But the art historian in her insisted upon one proper look.
In the room’s weak lighting it was difficult for Storm to identify differences between the two. Yet the original held a powerful sense of realness. The patina of smoke was deeper. The revetment, the gilded outer frame, was deeply marked in places. The scars beneath the woman’s right eye, where invaders had attacked the icon six centuries ago, gleamed with a soft luminosity. Storm felt the strength of heritage and history reach across the centuries. She stared at the original icon, and her mind was filled with the image of Tanya’s mother, walking sixteen hours to kneel and pray.
Her mind was then captured by an image of her own pilgrimage and how she had been held by such a grim desperation that to have released her prayer would have cost her every shred of control.
“You have what you came for,” Kiril Temerko said. “Take it and go.”
Storm turned back to where the Russian oligarch continued to stroke his child’s cheek. “The guard we left at the bottom of the stairs, was he responsible for stealing this icon and making the duplicate?”
The man on the bed gave no sign that he had heard her.
Storm went on, “My guess is, he won’t be all that happy watching me leave.”
Without lifting his gaze, Kiril spoke to the other guards. One motioned to Storm, a lifting of his chin. Come.
But as Storm hefted the icon, Kiril said, “Find me the Amethyst Clock. I will pay you whatever you want.”
“You don’t believe that it exists any more than I do.”
He did not look up from the child’s face. “What is belief? I buy what I need. I buy you. I buy the clock. I pay twenty million dollars.”
“I can’t help you,” Storm replied. “Sorry.”
“Fifty million.” The Russian’s voice carried no hope. No life. “A hundred.”
Storm watched the man stroke the child’s cheek. The girl’s eyes glittered in the half light as she stared at her father. Then the guard to her left touched her shoulder. Storm lifted the Madonna once more. She walked down the hallway, the treasures glittering in the candlelight as she passed. There was nothing for her here.
She blinked as she stepped onto the upper floor’s landing. The doors clicked shut behind her.
Then she saw the gun.
THE TALL GUARD STOOD AT the bottom of the stairs. He was a big-boned man with a fighter’s jaw and eyes of pale onyx. The two guards flanking Storm argued with him in Russian as they continued down the steps.
The icon was not especially heavy, but the frame was so broad she had to walk with her arms outstretched. The guards halted when the gun weaved over to include them. It was a very Russian sort of argument, a lot of hand waving and finger-pointing. But none of the other guards pulled their weapons, so Storm assumed the quarrel was going her way.
Storm settled the Madonna on the next step down. Her entire body ached. She could track the pains up from her feet, through her legs, the small of her back, her shoulders, her wrists, her fingers. Finally one of her guards walked down the stairs, plucked the gun from the other man’s grasp, and shoved him to one side. Storm lifted the icon and continued down the stairs. A rising wind buffeted the north-facing windows. The branches of one of the ornamental trees tapped against a ground-floor window.
The hostile guard said as she passed, “Sir Julius sends you his regards.”
THE WIND SMACKED HER WITH a cold, damp fist. The northern peaks clutched passing clouds and spun a blanket of gloom across the valley. From behind the gates, Emma called something, but her words were lost to the wind. Then she pointed, and Storm saw that another jet had landed on the private strip and was taxiing to where a police car waited.
The guards saw it too. One man reached out to pull her back into their angry huddle. But Storm lifted the icon higher and let it act like a sail, tugging her down the front steps.
The wind tried to rip the icon from her grasp, but she hung on grimly and was carried forward. Behind her, a guard yelled. Her feet traced a frantic beat across the graveled forecourt.
She heard the guards racing to catch up. They shouted back and forth, panicking as the police car started up the drive with its lights flashing.
Storm spotted the red knob set in the pillar beside the gates and struck it with her shoulder. Emma pried through the instant the gates parted and rushed over. “This it?”
“Yes.” She slipped through the gates.
“Can we go? The natives are growing restless.”
“One of the guards has been in Sir Julius’s pay.” Storm anchored the icon at her feet. “Things are about to get sticky.”
Sir Julius emerged from the rear seat before the police car came to a full stop. The wind rustled his thinning hair and fluttered his pant legs. “How dare you attempt to deceive me!”
“Looks to me like we succeeded.” Storm motioned to Emma. Together they lifted the icon and started down the lane toward the landing strip. Away from the police and the guards and the irate British nobleman.
“We’ll see about that!” He flapped one arm against the wind and the day. “Seize that item!”
Emma released the icon to Storm and stepped between them. “It’s not yours to take.”
<
br /> “Oh, and I suppose you’re going to stop me?” His sneer was strong enough to defy the wind. “The agent who has been dismissed from her agency for refusing a direct order to stay out of affairs that are none of her concern?”
Emma took the verbal blow without a blink of her eye. “That’s right,” she said. “I am.”
The peer’s hand was shaking so hard he twice missed drawing a letter from his inner pocket. “I have arrived with orders for these policemen to arrest you.”
Storm asked, “Are you going to arrest them as well?”
“What are you blathering . . .” Sir Julius turned.
Every tree lining the private lane sprouted an individual. There were more men than women. But the women were clearly as tough as the men.
Sir Julius demanded, “Where did they come from?”
“Poland,” Storm replied.
His laugh held a manic edge. “You think this rabble can halt Her Majesty’s government?”
“Absolutely,” Storm said.
The police and the guards had gone silent. Their attention was gripped by the sight of the ragtag group moving toward them.
“What do they expect to do, shoot us down?” Sir Julius raised his voice. “Do you have any idea of the firestorm that would be unleashed?”
“No more of a firestorm than your trying to mask the theft of a national treasure,” Storm replied. “They are unarmed. They are taking the icon and they are leaving.”
“What utter rot.” Sir Julius turned to the police. “You there. Stop them.”
The police shouted something in Swiss German and started forward, hands on their holstered guns.
The approaching group unclenched slightly, revealing a man whose face was half melted away. He responded in their own tongue and lifted a leather badge case similar to the one Emma carried.
Emma moved back to where Storm kept the icon anchored against the wind. “He’s intel?”
Storm replied, “Swiss military.”
“You knew this since when, exactly?”
“I heard Eric use the satellite phone in the mountain hut. He called down and received permission for us to enter his country. He explained what he was doing and why.”
“And you didn’t tell me.” Emma swept the hair from her face. “Shame on you.”
A distant rhythmic popping overhead grew louder. Storm said, “Here they come.”
Sir Julius towered over the two women and the icon. “I will destroy you.”
“I’m sure you will try.” Storm waited while a helicopter settled onto the landing strip beside the jet. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an item to deliver to its rightful owner.”
She and Emma began walking toward the landing strip. Tanya stepped from the group and helped Emma and Storm anchor the icon against the raging wind. The rest of the group of Poles fell in around them. One of the men began singing. Several others joined in. Storm hummed along, though she did not know either the tune or the language. But it scarcely mattered, just as her prayers did not need to name a man or even her own need, for fear of shattering her hold on the day. She heard Emma begin to hum what sounded like an entirely different tune. Somehow their melodies blended well.
By the time they arrived at the point where the lane joined with the landing strip, Father Gregor and Antonin Tarka had alighted from the copter and moved toward them, their voices joining in the song. All of them were singing. Everyone.
FIFTY-ONE
AT THE SAINT MORITZ POLICE station they were met by a man in a gray uniform with a colorless expression. Eric snapped off a salute and said to the women, “I must go with him.”
“Will you be okay?” Emma asked.
Eric waited until the man had stepped away to reply, “There are some within my government who do not approve of Sir Julius’s actions. They dislike using Temerko and his ailing daughter as pawns. I am safe. What about you?”
“Hard to say.”
“You play the game, you pay the price, yes?” He must have understood the fear behind Emma’s tight features, for he added, “Your efforts have averted an international crisis. Sir Julius is of course livid over your blocking his plan to blackmail Temerko. But there must be cooler heads in both his government and your own. They will recognize what you have done as a service to international relations.”
“Let’s hope my boss agrees with you,” Emma said.
“I am certain of it.” Eric turned to Storm. “Raphael would be very proud of you.”
“Will be,” Emma said, correcting him. “Will be very proud.”
Storm hugged the man. “Assuming we all survive this, I just want you to know, whatever you need, wherever you need it.”
“I feel the same.” He saluted them. “An honor to serve with you both.”
The Swiss authorities took the two women to the Zurich airport. They were ushered through customs and taken to a room the size of an office cubicle. A stout woman in her late twenties stood by the steel door. She wore a dark blue uniform and a suspicious air. Storm found it easy to ignore her.
Storm sat on one side of a plastic table bolted to the wall. Emma sat across from her. High overhead, an air conditioner rattled quietly. Shadows creased Emma’s features, strong enough to defy the room’s fluorescent lighting. She stared at her hands, which cupped her phone.
Storm said, “Not checking your messages won’t make the bad stuff go away.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Storm reached across the table for Emma’s phone. Emma started to draw away, then sighed. That single breath released all her muscles. The hands and arms and shoulders and neck all went limp.
Storm turned on the phone. Dialed Emma’s voice mail. Listened.
Emma asked the tabletop, “How many messages?”
“Seventeen from Tip, four from Harry.”
“Leave our lad for the moment.” Emma’s voice sounded strangled. “Let’s face what Tip has to say.”
Storm listened to the first few messages, then cut the connection and sighed.
Emma swallowed hard. “Bad, huh?”
“How do I reach Tip?”
“Number two on the speed dial.”
The phone in America rang once, then Tip MacFarland barked, “You missed the D-Day landing, so you decided to set up your very own Normandy, is that it?”
“This is Storm Syrrell.”
“Why aren’t I speaking to Emma?”
“Because.” Storm hesitated, then decided the man deserved the truth. “She’s terrified.”
Emma turned and stared at the sidewall.
“The lady should be.”
“That’s very helpful, Tip.” Emma looked so small and frightened, Storm could not entirely keep the fury from her voice. “She’s done nothing wrong, and you know it.”
“She defied a direct order from the director’s office.”
“Because of the CIA’s maneuvers. Their aim was to let a Russian oligarch keep possession of a Polish national treasure. Which the Russian had stolen. But the Langley brigade and their pals in England didn’t care about that, or the uproar that threatened to engulf central Europe. All they wanted was a way to pull the Kremlin’s strings.” When Tip remained silent, she pressed, “Did they happen to mention how Emma helped restore the icon to its rightful place, an act that earned her the thanks of the Polish nation and the Catholic Church?”
Tip spoke slowly. “You’re telling me you have documented evidence you could take public.”
“I don’t make threats, Tip. Unlike some people.”
The growl softened a notch. “Let me speak to her.”
Emma did not reveal a thing as she accepted the phone and said, “Webb here.” She listened awhile, gave a soft yes, another, and then hung up. Emma stared at the phone in her hands and said, “I may have to lie low for a while. Drop a ways down the pay scale. Find a cave and pull a rock in behind me. Tip mentioned Tasmania.”
THEY TOOK THE BULLET TRAIN to Weisbaden. Storm had intended t
o travel straight back to London. But two things changed her mind. Harry revealed that he had undergone what sounded like fairly major surgery. Then there was the small item of marriage. As in, Emma and Harry. They both wanted Storm to witness the occasion. Harry had arranged for the ceremony to take place in the hospital chapel. Storm agreed to make a quick detour, then hurry to Raphael’s bedside.
Storm’s reunion with the wayward lad was made more poignant both by his weakened state and by Emma’s untrammeled joy. Emma sat in the chair by his bed, held his hands, and glowed. Storm stood where she could watch them both and yearned.
They overnighted in a hotel by the main gates of the air base. Storm did not sleep well. The next morning Emma appeared wearing the same dress and jacket she had last donned in Basel. The outfit was wrinkled and road-weary, but it did not matter. Emma’s face shone with a luminescence that left Storm wanting to weep—with joy for them, with worry over her own state, with relief and exhaustion.
While Emma went upstairs to check on Harry, Storm bought flowers from the hospital gift shop and followed the signs to the chapel. The chapel lighting was muted, the colors soothing, the seven pews empty. A single votive candle burned upon the altar. Storm set two bouquets to either side of the stone cross and wished it was in her power to accent the day further. Fireworks, perhaps, a hundred of their closest friends and an angelic choir and a twenty-one-gun salute. Because that was what her friend deserved.
Storm took a seat in the front pew and checked her watch. The time meant nothing. She opened her phone, speed-dialed Muriel, and spoke the question yet again. “How is he?”
“Raphael has had a bad night.”
The air was suddenly filled with glass shards, each breath a scarring experience. “What happened?”
“I have no idea.” Muriel tried for a professional air but achieved only a monotone flat as pounded iron. “I can’t see any change. But I met with the doctors. They say his vitals are not holding up as well as they had hoped. Whatever that means.”
Storm forced herself to swallow down the wail. She found herself speaking with the same dull flatness as Muriel. “Can I speak with Raphael?”