“Sergei, you know I did all the background work myself. We have no evidence that Kate Strong knew anything about the phony provenances, much less that she was involved with Alternative Auctions.”
“The office in Istanbul has received an anonymous call that a Dr. Kate Strong is being held as a prisoner by a man named Anton Bunin. There cannot be many Dr. Kate Strongs in the world. What do you think of that?”
Thompson didn’t reply.
Sergei lowered his voice. “Don’t you think it suspicious that Dr. Kate Strong’s expertise is in Christian relics? Perhaps she is not a captive but a willing participant in the scheme.”
“I found absolutely no evidence that she is involved. Does the Istanbul office know anything about the anonymous caller?”
“The tip came in on a phone line, in English, and a woman only said that Kate Strong was being held prisoner. The call ended suddenly, so we have no name or location. We are analyzing the voice and the words used—that sort of thing. Istanbul will send the tape to the FBI.”
“The Charleston Police Department has a copy of my case file on Chalk, and on everyone who worked for Chalk, including Strong. I’ll make sure the FBI has all of it too. The FBI already is aware of Alternative Auctions.”
“Tell me a little more about this group.”
“Did you read my report?”
“Tell me anyway, Thompson. I have the time.”
Sergei was maddening. That today’s terrorists trafficked in art was incomprehensible to Sergei, or so he pretended. “Anton Bunin funds Alternative Auctions. He also is the CEO of a legitimate pharmaceutical group called New Institute of Biochemical Manufacturing. It’s a play off the name of his old employer, Institute of Ultra-Pure Biochemical Preparations. That was the Russian government division that handled the USSR’s research into biological warfare, also called the Biopreparat.”
When Sergei did not respond, Thompson continued. “Bunin hasn’t kept it a secret that he funds and supports Alternative Auctions. In an interview with a French newspaper, he says he founded the auction house in order to protect humanity’s treasures in the Middle East, by buying anything that the Islamists steal. Supposedly, he is going to safeguard these items until legitimate governments can return order to places like Iraq and Syria. In reality, he’s been using the millions he gets from selling the stolen items as leverage over the Islamists. He’s acting as a proxy to Russia’s government supporting groups that Russia’s government believes can create a single empire, much like the Ottoman Empire. Russia wants a more unified Middle East under Russia’s control. They’ve had that goal for over a hundred years.”
“What do you mean?” said Sergei.
“Remember, the Soviet Union, or the USSR—Union of Soviet Socialist Republics—whatever you want to call them, did not exist before 1922. Russia came into WWI supporting the Allies. In return for this support, the Brits promised that they would get control over Istanbul and other Middle Eastern territories. The Allies reneged on the deal, and the Soviet Union got nothing. US intelligence analysts believe that Russia is maneuvering to get the Middle East under its control, to right what they see as a hundred-year-old betrayal. And, of course, for the oil. Russia’s support of Syria is part of the objective and Bunin is helping the government by funding certain terrorist groups that allegedly further that goal.”
“How did you even get involved in the political aspect of this case? You were supposed to be helping the Americans get evidence to arrest people.”
“Sergei, I’m on a team with FBI agents. The Americans always want to understand motivation. They believe it helps their investigations.”
Sergei snorted, but said nothing.
Thompson said, “Bunin has also made some startling statements about the rights of Christians to worship at Hagia Sophia, the museum in Istanbul that was initially built as a cathedral.”
The first time Thompson had seen Hagia Sophia, he had stood motionless, rooted to the Roman-era square spanning the width of the building, imagining the immense golden-domed structure a thousand years before. The minarets wouldn’t have been there, of course, but pilgrims to Constantinople must have been struck dumb on seeing it for the first time. Thompson later read that, in the tenth century, a group from Russia had reported, “We knew not whether we were in Heaven or earth. For on earth there is no such splendor and beauty.” Thompson had felt a similar wave of awe standing in the square, motivated to move on only because one of the omnipresent rug sellers would not leave him alone.
“So Alternative Auctions is helping fund certain terrorist groups by buying their stolen goods, getting experts to create phony provenances, and then auctioning the items to raise money. Sounds like small potatoes,” said Sergei.
Thompson took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. “The Islamists beheaded Palmyra’s museum director after they blew up most of the city. He refused to reveal the location of the archeological treasures of Palmyra. Alternative Auctions is fueling this type of barbaric activity by acting as the primary buyer of what the Islamists steal. I’m sorry you don’t think it’s worthy of your time.” He wanted to slam the phone down. If his own organization didn’t support his efforts, where could he go? Who would do the work? The Americans had several organizations that tried to stop the flow of stolen antiquities; maybe he could work for one of them.
Sergei spoke soothingly, “Thompson, I don’t mean that. I will read your report and send it to the proper recipients. Until we know more about the situation of Dr. Strong, you will stay in Charleston. Our headquarters has notified the FBI of this anonymous call.”
Thompson could hear Sergei take a drag from his cigarette. “Interpol Istanbul almost gave the tip to the U.S. Embassy in Istanbul, rather than the FBI. Let the local Americans chase their tails around the bazaar looking for a wayward wife.” At this, Sergei laughed so loud that Thompson moved the phone from his ear.
“Thompson, are you listening to me?”
“Sorry, the connection was bad for a minute. Please repeat.”
“I have another case that I’d like you to begin working. It’s even more of a wild goose chase than finding Kate Strong in Istanbul. Someone at the Vatican called our boss.”
“What? The Vatican called Director Petit?”
“Yes, yes, the Vatican. You know how difficult the Vatican can be to work with, my friend. They start where the buck stops, as the Americans like to say. They told Petit that a reliquary from the Convent of Corbie in France has gone missing, and they want us to get it back.”
Again, Sergei laughed, but this laugh sounded tubercular. Thompson moved his phone away again in an unconscious attempt to avoid infection. “An old French convent is being restored, and the altar was brought back to the Vatican for repair. The reliquary is somewhere in the altar, I suppose, or in this case, it is not.”
“Why would you want me to stay here when the items were stolen from a French convent?”
Sergei took another drag before responding. “Because the Vatican told Director Petit that the missing item had been taken to Charleston. Make sure you keep me updated.”
Thompson was barely listening to Sergei. Kate Strong kidnapped by Anton Bunin. Why?
Chapter 10
Amarintha Sims stared at the empty lot, trying to imagine a future in which she wasn’t dead. The brain tumor she had was slow growing, so her oncologist said, but so was an alligator. Both would kill you once they got to the right size. As a biologist, on leave from the Medical University because of the cancer, she knew too much about her situation to have false hope.
The property had been in her family since 1975, when her father, Charles Sims, had bought it from a Charleston estate. Her parents never had enough money to build a house, but they did pay the taxes on the lot, and the three of them had made many trips downtown from their farm in Summerville to check on their little piece of South of Broad property. Her f
ather would spread a blanket, her mother Fannie would unpack a picnic lunch, and the three of them would talk about the Charleston single house they would build one day. Her father had even put a rope swing on the large live oak that had stood guardian for over two hundred years on the northern corner. His death, when she was ten, in 1986, ended that dream for her mother, but Amarintha had never lost her desire to build a house one day on this little piece of property.
She had saved for twenty years, and the day after the bank approved her construction loan, her doctor showed her an MRI with an innocuous-looking dark spot in the back of her head. In the weeks since learning of her diagnosis, she had not had time to do anything but drag herself to radiation and chemotherapy. Both were finished now, thank God. How could she get this house completed before her steadily progressing tumor took her sight, her movement, and finally, her life?
Out of habit, she brushed her hair behind her ear, remembered there was no hair on her head, and turned the gesture into a scarf adjustment instead. She slid out of the car and made her way over to the woman and two men talking in front of the empty lot. The woman, Nudie Boyer-Henry, was the representative from the Board of Architectural Review, known as the BAR. She and Thompson Denton, an interior designer, were looking at blueprints; the third man, who she did not know, pointed to something on the page.
Nudie had referred Amarintha to Thompson, claiming that he was writing a book about building modern houses in historical areas, and suggesting that he would act as Amarintha’s representative to the BAR if she allowed him to document the entire building process for his book. Amarintha decided to attend a BAR meeting to see for herself how it operated. The meeting had occurred in Charleston’s City Hall under a life-size painting of George Washington standing on the shores of Mount Pleasant, the steeple of St. Phillip and the rest of the Charleston skyline faintly visible in the distant.
This particular session included a debate on the virtues of the “shadow line” of 5/8 inch Hardiplank versus the “shadow line” of 3/8 inch Hardiplank. Amarintha had raised her hand and asked why it mattered, at which point a lecture had commenced on the virtues of dimensional cement as an exterior siding that looked like wood, but wasn’t. Since it was Charleston, a quintessential Southern city, the lecture had not been directed at her alone, so the speaker educated all attendees for fifteen
minutes on the topic, some of them directing exasperated looks at her.
As the ten-foot tall George Washington looked down on the assembled group sitting in small antique cane chairs that appeared to be moments away from collapsing, Amarintha thought that George likely felt as embarrassed as she did. The faint white horse painted behind him, added after the painting had been approved by the city, had its tail up, seemingly ready to drop manure on the City of Charleston skyline, just visible under its rump. Perhaps the city, in 1792, had failed to pay what the artist viewed as an acceptable fee. Why someone had not painted over the horse in the intervening years she did not know.
Escaping the meeting, she had called Thompson and agreed with his proposal to represent her project at future BAR meetings. Amarintha was positive that Mrs. Henry would be relieved to have someone to confer with who appreciated the difference in the shadow line between 5/8 and 3/8 inch cement siding.
Her house would be a traditional Charleston single: three stories stacked on each other, with the requisite side porches, outside shutters, and standing seam metal roof. It would look as old as the neighboring homes, albeit with insulated windows and modern baths. Based on what she understood of the specified stucco thickness and depth of concrete foundation, it would survive another Hurricane Hugo and then some. If Ava and Fannie didn’t want to live in the house, they could sell it. Real estate agents had many buyers who wanted to live in a house in the historical district that did not cost eight-hundred dollars a month to keep cool.
As she walked over, the three people standing in front of her small patch of ground turned to greet her.
“Hello, Amarintha. How are you today?” said Nudie.
Nudie Henry had her ebony hair coiled into a twist and stood holding a hat that likely cost more than Amarintha’s entire outfit. Amarintha wanted to brush the yellow pine pollen off Ms. Henry’s hair, but decided that it added a colorful touch otherwise missing from the woman’s funereal ensemble—black linen dress, black hat, and black sandals.
Thompson Denton, in contrast, was dressed like a safari guide in khakis that had an astonishing number of pockets. With his wavy chestnut hair and tanned skin, he was a much handsomer version of Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen, a look accentuated by his military-looking sunglasses.
“Hey there, Amarintha. I’ve been talking to Ms. Henry and Jack Strong here about your house.” Thompson grinned at her and gestured to the third member of the group.
Once Amarintha had agreed on the phone to Thompson’s involvement, they had spent a few hours in a local restaurant reviewing the plans so that Thompson could create specifications that the prospective builders could use for their bids. Although the results were satisfactory, Amarintha did not believe interior designer was his first profession, although he gave her no information to the contrary. He was strangely, and unexpectedly, attractive to her. She did not date, ever, and it had been a long time since she had been tempted to do so.
Amarintha held out her hand to the second man. “Hello, I’m Amarintha Sims. I’m assuming you are Jack Strong. You come highly recommended.”
The man shook her hand, nodded, and said, “Yes, I’m working with Thompson on another project, and of course, all the builders know Nudie. She wants to make sure the integrity of the house is solid.”
Amarintha turned her head to the BAR woman, who continued to tap her expensive sandal. “Integrity? I assume that is another word for whether the neighbors will like it or not.”
Nudie’s expression was severe, and even though Amarintha was still smiling, she took offense. Fortunately, the woman’s phone rang, “Please excuse me,” she said, and moved away from them to answer.
“So, Mr. Strong, have you built on the peninsula before?” He was bald, but by choice, not nature, with a worker’s tan and sea green eyes. He was very tall, probably six and a half feet. He wore a wedding ring, and she assumed the rugged, worn Ford truck parked twenty feet away belonged to the builder. She had met a few other builders, all of whom drove fancy vehicles. This old paint-splattered truck lifted her spirits. Perhaps, she could work with this one.
“Yes, but please call me Jack.”
“Ok, Jack.” A sudden image of the Farmer’s Market a few months ago came to her. “Hey, wait a minute. I just figured out who you are. You’re Sara’s father. It’s nice to meet you again. I’m Ava’s mother.”
The builder looked at her blankly. He finally spoke. “Oh, right.”
The two of them shuffled for a few moments, with Strong looking away, and Amarintha remembered his personal circumstances. The death of his wife’s boss had been front-page news a month before. Ava then told her mother that Kate Strong had disappeared the exact same day, and no one knew where she was. The Strong’s daughter Sara was a close friend of Ava’s, and Amarintha had not even called the girl after learning about Kate. A wave of shame went through her. A month of cancer treatments definitely had burned out pieces of her memory as well as her normal solicitude.
“Jack, please, I look very different from when we met.” Amarintha tried to laugh, not wanting him to be uncomfortable. “What a nice coincidence. I never knew what business you were in.”
Clearly embarrassed, Strong scratched his head. He handed her a binder. “Here is a complete portfolio on what I’ve done. It has references you can call.”
“Did Thompson or Nudie tell you I have only four months to build this home?” asked Amarintha.
Nudie put her hand over her phone and shouted from where she still stood, “I have told Amarintha that time frame is simply impos
sible.” Mrs. Henry was indignant now, striding back over to the other three, her faux accent cracking. “The BAR needs to be involved every step of the way, and we just cannot see how this house, with the restrictions on parking, materials, and everything else, could be finished in that time.”
“I’ve worked with tight time frames before, and, if you give me the job, I can finish it in four months,” said Jack. “One question though: Do we need to follow the approved plans and dig out piers as deep as what is on the plans? That’s pretty unusual for Charleston, and if we could avoid it, that would save some time.”
The BAR lady squeezed a sound from her throat that could have indicated derision or laughter. “You would have to resubmit to the Board if you change anything on these plans.”
“How long would that take?”
“A month or more.”
“That’s impossible. I can’t wait.” Amarintha turned to Jack. “When could you start?”
The builder rubbed his head, looked at Mrs. Henry, and said, “Five days.”
Five days. Amarintha looked at him, and said, “Send me the final estimate tomorrow, and I’ll let you know by the end of the day.”
Thompson had been studying the surrounding houses with baffling intensity. He finally spoke. “I’ve got some color samples for us to review.” He whisked out a fan of paint chips from a gigantic leather bag. Dressed in his safari get-up, holding the paint samples, and cradling the big bag, Thompson looked like a jungle guide-turned-magician, trying to distract his clients from an anaconda on the trail.
Amarintha put her hand to her temple, again forgetting she had no hair. This time she adjusted her sunglasses. “Thompson, I want the stucco to be beige, the trim white, and the shutters black. Do you need anything else from me today?”
Nudie murmured a goodbye, as did Thompson and Jack Strong. Amarintha walked back to the car, determined to exude energy and confidence. Mrs. Henry had already brought two couples to the job site “because of—well, my dear, because of your situation.”
The Huguenot Thief Page 7